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It happens quick as a whip, faster than Agatha can blink.
But the moment after—she’d swear it’s in slow-motion.
One moment they’re standing there, swirls of magic shocked deep purple and flowing into Agatha’s body as all the other colors fade away, and the next…
Agatha hears it happen before she sees it.
From several feet behind her, Rio makes a soft noise of surprise. It’s so quiet that Agatha shouldn’t be able to hear it over the crackling of magic, the rush of wind, the dying screams of the witches at her feet, and the roar in her ears as it all comes crashing into her.
But she’s always been specially tuned to Rio.
Agatha turns and—this is the part she’ll remember, that feels like time slowed down—she sees Rio standing there, between the tree line and the broken dirt path, feet softly sunken into the mossy ground, and Rio’s eyes are wider than Agatha has ever seen them.
Usually she catches Rio’s gaze under shadowed lids, always unable to quite reach below the shine and see what Rio is really thinking. The heavy green sparkle that covers Rio’s eyelids does double duty to hide the miniscule movements of her eyes, smoothing any hints that might give it away if Agatha looks too closely. Never mind that Rio’s deep brown eyes carry millennia of knowledge, memories, good and bad alike, behind them. It’s easy enough to get lost in them, anyway. But this time, the whites of her eyes are like a shock against her skin, eerily clear even in the shifting shadows in the air.
It’s at that moment Agatha knows something is very, very wrong.
Only a heartbeat later, a stain of black spreads across her stomach like spilled paint pouring out, too quick, uneven, blotting her normally exposed ribs with shadow.
Agatha feels like the ground has dropped out beneath her.
It’s this one, centuries-long breath that seems to freeze them both in place. Time stops. The winds don’t whistle, the leaves stop falling. Nothing moves a molecule.
Except that black stain.
As the world speeds up again and the noise thunders back into her ears, Agatha whispers, “No,” and watches Rio fall to the ground, as easy as draped fabric melting to a puddle.
*
Agatha has never been sloppy.
Messy, maybe, but never sloppy.
Her resolution is absolute. She finishes what she starts. Tonight, she’d invited a circle of witches to the woods to begin their journey onto the famed witches’ road, only to turn the invitation into a death sentence. Just like every other time.
And just like every other time, Rio had appeared, like Agatha knew she would, once the corpses were scattered across crushed sticks and prickling brush. The dance they’d been engaging in, decade through decade, the sick game—Agatha wasn’t under any delusions that this was healthy—they played without ever crowning a clear winner. It wasn’t really about the win, anyway.
So how did she get sloppy?
When Rio falls, Agatha hears another noise, a sizzling puff from the pinwheel of bodies, and to her horror she realizes that one of them is not yet dead. Agatha had siphoned it all from them, as always, and hadn’t bothered to check if she had truly wrung every last drop.
She never missed.
Except this time, one of the witches—must’ve been a particularly stubborn one, which Agatha would almost admire under other circumstances—had just enough juice left to point one last hurrah in the general direction of Agatha—
—and it soared right past her, straight into Rio.
Agatha stalks toward the witch lying on the ground, the witch’s fingers trembling with the effort of using her powers one last time. Even as the light is fading from the witch’s eyes, Agatha is filled with incomprehensible rage.
No one hurts Rio except for her.
A knife—not Rio’s massive curved dagger, but a pathetic attempt at a weapon that one of the dead witches had stashed away in her skirts—lies on the ground near a boot. Agatha seizes the knife and slashes it across the last witch’s throat without a moment’s hesitation.
The witch’s eyes widen with the last molecules of life force they have left. She tries to bring her hand to her throat and quell the gurgling blood, but before she reaches it, her arm drops to the ground as the final, final breath leaves her.
The forest falls quiet.
Agatha’s own breath is deafening to her ears, her chest heaving and her blood-splattered hand shaking as she lets the knife fall from her hand. She pushes her hair out of her face in a panic as she spins around—Rio. Where is Rio.
The green witch practically blends into the forest floor. When Agatha’s gaze manages to land upon her collapsed form, Agatha nearly trips over the bodies trying to get to Rio. She falls to her knees beside Rio, her fingers trembling as she raises a hand to brush Rio’s hair from her face, her other hand hovering up and down Rio’s body uselessly as she tries to source the injury.
Rio looks so…human.
Agatha knows that the beautiful face, with her huge brown eyes and pursed lips and high cheekbones, is just a mask that Rio wears for her. She knows Rio’s true face, the skeletal features of Death that leave nothing to the imagination, because she’s seen it for herself—once, when the mask slipped, and Rio didn’t know she was watching. Agatha has never brought it up. It’s one of the many, many things they don’t say to each other.
A human face was meant to offer a more familiar form to those meeting their end, something of a recognizable comfort instead of the eerie, wicked teeth and hollows where her cheeks and nose should be. It could be anything, anyone, but this specific face, well—this one she wears for Agatha.
The unintended side effect now is that Rio has never looked more human, more fragile, than she does right now.
Agatha smooths Rio’s hair from her forehead, revealing smudges of dirt on her pale skin. “Good news, my love,” Agatha murmurs, trying to steady the traitorous quiver in her voice. “I killed the witch that did this to you.”
Rio coughs, restless, and a cold terror pierces Agatha’s heart. “You killed all the witches,” she reminds Agatha, her voice raspy.
“Well yes, but this one I did the old-fashioned way.” Agatha plasters a smile across her face and prays it looks believable. “Anyway, it’s just a scratch, no?” Her voice doesn’t crack, but her shaking hands betray her as she dares touch Rio’s waist. Agatha can’t let on that she is terrified, that the thought of something taking Rio away from her is too much to bear even for a second. That a world without Rio in it is too dark, too empty for Agatha to imagine.
Rio’s skin is cold, which isn’t necessarily unusual, but it’s coated in a clammy chill that is. “This is old magic,” Rio says as she indicates her wound. She closes her eyes and winces. “That wasn’t your run-of-the-mill prey, Agatha.”
Agatha scoffs. “Tell me how to patch you up so we can move on to the good part.”
“You can’t.”
“Should I put pressure on it? That’s what they do when a farmer accidentally stabs himself in the leg, or whatever.”
“Agatha,” Rio murmurs, her body tensing as she curls to her side, “You can’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Agatha becomes aware that desperation is seeping into her voice, that she can’t hide the thin line of it underneath her words, but she ignores it. “You’re Death. You can’t die.” She takes the hem of her skirt and rips off a somewhat-clean strip of it, enough to wrap around Rio as a makeshift bandage for now.
“Like I said.” Rio collapses onto her back again. “Old magic.”
“Rio, stop.” Agatha presses a hand to the top of Rio’s thigh, needing to ground herself even as she tells herself it’s to comfort Rio. “Just heal yourself,” she says pathetically, even though her heart knows that if that were possible, Rio would’ve already done it. “Or tell me what…” she gestures around emphatically, “…plants to gather and I’ll cook up a healing potion. You’re a green witch, use it. Stop wasting time.”
“Agatha.” Rio struggles to sit up, only making it to leaning on her elbows behind her. “I need to tell you—”
“I swear to god, if you’re going to start spouting deathbed epithets, I’ll kill you myself.”
“I know this spell,” Rio pushes out. Her head falls back between her shoulders, exposing the long column of her throat. “I haven’t seen it for a very long time,” she half-mumbles, “but I know it well, and it’s already too late.”
“No, it’s not.” Agatha pats Rio’s thigh briskly.
“Agatha—”
“For fuck’s sake, you can’t die! You can’t leave me here—” She stops with a gasp, the tears suddenly pressing behind her eyes and choking her throat. “I won’t let you die,” she mutters. With that, she stands, brushes the worst of the soil from her skirt, and slides her arms under Rio’s shoulders and the crook of her knees, scooping her up.
Rio cries out at the sudden jostle. It’s instinctual, the sound; it’s pure pain, Rio unable to stop it, and the knowledge of that nearly sends Agatha to her knees again, desperation heavy in her heart. Rio’s arms come up to wrap around Agatha’s shoulders. Agatha can feel the cold sweat on Rio’s skin.
With Rio folded in her arms, Agatha marches off toward their cabin, the latest stop in their tour of east coast villages.
*
It gets worse.
Agatha kicks open the cabin door and strides inside. She sets Rio down as gently as she can on the couch since it’s the closest piece of furniture. Rio lets out a quiet hiss of pain that Agatha pretends she doesn’t hear. Immediately, Agatha strikes up a fire in the small stove, then lets herself out the back door with a bang, carrying a bucket that clatters at her side.
As she walks as fast her boots will carry her while being careful not to trip over any stray brush or logs—she’s useless to Rio if she breaks her own ankle out here—thoughts race through Agatha’s mind, none of them pleasant. There’s anger, to be sure; at that fucking witch for hurting Rio, of course, but even more so at herself, knowing that she could’ve prevented all of this if she’d just been more careful. More precise. More something. At the end of the day, it’s Agatha’s fault that Rio is lying on the couch bleeding. Nothing will change that.
Fear settles ice-cold in her bones. She grips her stomach and wills herself not to throw up. The chill of the night air helps, but it also makes her teeth chatter as she hauls a bucket of water from the well, splashing it all over her sleeves and skirt.
At the cabin, Agatha slams the back door closed. “Rio,” she calls. Setting the water on the stove to get warm, she comes back to the living room. “Rio. Hey.” Her gaze lands on Rio, who is flat on her back on the couch, one leg hanging off, her eyes closed. For a split-second, Agatha stares at her.
“Rio, goddamnit.”
Agatha kneels beside her and shakes her arm, admittedly a little rough, and Rio suddenly chokes awake, coughing, her eyes darting side-to-side.
“What the fuck was that for,” Rio croaks.
“Had to make sure you weren’t dead yet.” Agatha’s hand falls on Rio’s hip. “We need to clean that wound.”
“Agatha.” Rio seems to summon all her strength to grab Agatha’s wrist where she starts to lift Rio’s shirt. Her huge brown eyes bore into Agatha’s. Her lips tremble. “Leave it. Please.”
“Like hell,” Agatha mutters. She tugs Rio’s intricately woven green jacket from her shoulders, peeling it carefully off of one arm, then the other. Rio is left in the brown woolen top she wears underneath. Agatha unhooks the center straps that attach to her belt.
As carefully as she can, Agatha unties her shoddy ripped-skirt bandage from Rio’s stomach and lets it fall away. She has to stifle a gasp.
The wound that had been pouring black blood has spiderwebbed outward in black veins. When Agatha looks closer, she can see the veins aren’t just under Rio’s skin—they’re carving themselves into her, like crevices, with fresh blood seeping up from the newly freed skin. The seeping curves rise and fall with the staggered sound of Rio’s breath.
“Fuck,” Agatha whispers.
“I told you,” Rio groans. “This is a parasite spell. It will—" she coughs, “—it will spread through my body by tomorrow. Agatha.” She reaches for Agatha again, who catches her hand in mid-air. She squeezes lightly until they lock eyes. “It’s not a pretty way to go.” Her voice breaks. “I don’t want you to see that.”
“Stop!” Agatha drops Rio’s hand. She sits back on her heels, her hands shaking as they fall into her lap. “Jesus, how can you just be fine with this? Why aren’t you fighting?!” She knows her voice is trembling, but she doesn’t have the strength to stop it.
“I’m not exactly unfamiliar with death,” Rio says dryly.
“And I’m not a healer, but I’ll be damned if you let some two-bit witch from the backwoods do you in,” Agatha snaps.
“There’s nothing to be done.”
“There has to be!” Agatha stands, backing away from Rio angrily. “Fight back, for fuck’s sake!”
“I’m going to die,” Rio says in almost a bored tone.
“You can’t die!” Agatha’s voice raises until it cracks on the last word. She becomes suddenly aware of tears streaking her cheeks and quickly wipes them away, leaving more dirt behind.
Rio opens her mouth to respond. She searches Agatha’s face and whatever she finds there makes her close her mouth again instead of saying anything. For a moment, they stare at each other, until Rio turns her head back toward the ceiling and closes her eyes, her jaw clenched tight.
Agatha drops to her knees again beside the couch. She grabs the washcloth, all business again, and dunks it in the warm water, then wrings it out. “This might sting.”
The howl Rio lets out when Agatha touches the washcloth to the wound is unholy, unlike any sound Agatha has ever heard, human, animal, or otherwise. She tries to arch up and away from Agatha’s touch, even as Agatha presses her arm firmly onto Rio’s thighs to keep her down. “I know,” she murmurs, even though she doesn’t. She can’t know what kind of pain would make Death herself scream, and she doesn’t want to ever find out. “I know, baby.” It’s so quiet that the words are lost under Rio’s cries.
Agatha digs Rio’s knife out from her holster and holds it to Rio’s mouth. Sweat drips from Rio’s temple, lips trembling as she bites down on the blade.
It takes a few strokes of the washcloth to clean the dirt from the wound and the rest of Rio’s stomach. Every time the water touches one of the cuts leading out from the wound, Rio screams into the knife, trying to alleviate the pain. She screams until her voice is gone and there’s nothing but hoarse cries left. She turns toward the edge of the couch and lets the knife fall from her mouth, clattering to the floor.
Agatha gets a mortar and pestle and grinds up the few herbs she knows have healing properties. She’s not a green witch and she’s certainly not a potions witch, but she’s picked up a few things over the years and she can’t just sit by and do nothing. The herbs make a sickly green paste that Agatha paints on the wounds. It’s only a quick brush before Rio falls silent and Agatha realizes she’s passed out from the pain. Agatha takes advantage of the time to cover as much of the wound can, then wraps it again with clean fabric bandages. Even as she does, she sees the cuts have blossomed out in jagged lines from under the bandage, further than before, making their way down to Rio’s hip and nearly all the way across her stomach to the other side.
Agatha sits back on her heels. She drops the washcloths into the bucket, not caring as the water sloshes on the floor, and stares at her hands. They’re covered in green paste and black blood and dirty water. She closes her eyes, takes several deep breaths, and opens her eyes again only to realize she’s still shaking. The cabin is quiet, littered only with the gentle sounds that are normally a comfort at night—wind rustling the trees, an owl hooting far away, the crackling fire, the steadiness of Rio’s breathing. But tonight, it feels cacophonous, like the whole world is bearing down on her at once. Agatha is struck with the old familiar feeling she carried around when she was younger and had never quite shrugged off completely—the feeling that the world is so unfair.
She presses her hands to her face and lets the sobs come freely, the sounds deep and desperate and unfamiliar in the quiet nightscape.
*
It’s still dark when Agatha blinks awake. Her neck and back and knees and everywhere ache horribly from the position she fell asleep in—kneeling next to Rio, head propped on her elbow on the edge of the couch. She isn’t sure how long she’s been asleep, but the fire has dimmed considerably in the stove, so it’s been at least a few hours. Agatha shakes her head and rubs her eyes, trying to clear her mind.
She glances over at Rio and covers her mouth in horror.
The black crevice cuts have spread across her entire body and under her clothes, peeking out from her pant legs along her ankles, all the way up to her shoulders. The blood seems to pulse in time with Rio’s breathing. Her skin has turned a sickly shade of purple, flushed and sweating. The lines have creeped up her neck, reaching toward her jaw, and the closer the cuts are to the central wound, the deeper they appear.
Like she’s falling apart. In pieces.
Agatha struggles to her feet. Her breath comes harshly, a terror unlike any she’s ever known spreading throughout her body like the black magic on Rio’s, nearly making her fall to her knees.
Rio stirs. She slowly forces her eyes open and looks around, a panicked look descending on her face until her gaze reaches Agatha.
Agatha sits beside Rio on the edge of the couch and forces a smile. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” Rio’s voice sounds so unlike her, jagged and cracked.
Agatha presses a cold washcloth to Rio’s forehead. Rio whines softly, her eyes fluttering closed. Agatha’s heart pinches.
“You said you’d seen this spell before,” Agatha says, her mind searching for an answer to land on. “What else do you know about it? Anything that could help us?”
Rio starts to shake her head, then lets out a hiss of pain. “It was a long time ago,” she says. “This kind of magic is…” She takes a deep breath to continue. “It’s the kind of magic you don’t talk about. The kind that’s supposed to be left alone. How a fucking apothecary witch from the village even knows that spell, let alone can use it, is beyond me.”
“It was meant for me,” Agatha says without thinking. She closes her eyes briefly and lets that sit with her. “It was supposed to be me.”
Rio doesn’t say anything. They both know Agatha is right. Agatha wouldn’t appreciate pithy responses or denials that it was her fault. Instead, Rio finds Agatha’s fingers and gently interlocks them with her own, gritting her teeth through the pain of moving.
“Goddamnit. What use are your healing powers if you can’t use them on yourself?” Agatha growls.
“Something about balance in the universe,” Rio sighs. It ends with a cracked sound, almost like a laugh.
Something digs at the corner of Agatha’s mind. A grain of an idea, a seedling reaching toward the sun.
“You can’t heal yourself,” she says slowly. “But you can heal me.”
“Are you hurt?” Concern passes over Rio’s face. Agatha chooses to ignore the stab in her heart at the idea that Rio, even in this state, would be worried about Agatha.
“No, but…I could be.” Agatha clutches Rio’s hand. She places her other hand between Rio and the couch to lean over Rio. “You said it’s a parasite spell, right? Then give it to me.”
“What?” Rio coughs, a shattered-glass sound from deep in her chest.
“Give me the parasite. Let me take your power.” The idea is taking root, desperation mixed with sudden, crazy hope. “It’s all magic, isn’t it? If you blast me with your power, the parasite should transfer to me, too.”
Rio’s eyes, unfocused and wandering, take a moment to land back on Agatha’s face. “You can’t take my power,” she says slowly. “You’ll die. You know that.”
“I can control it,” Agatha says. “I can stop it when the parasite spell is complete.”
“Even if you could,” Rio croaks, “You’d still be dying.”
“But you can heal me,” Agatha murmurs. She cups Rio’s cheek, the only part of her she can see that isn’t covered in the wound. Rio moans softly and leans into the touch. “Rio. Please.”
Rio’s lips part, cracking with blood. Tears have formed at the corners of her eyes. Agatha feels more than sees Rio shake her head no. “I’m not giving you this,” she whispers. “Not a chance in hell.” The tears spill down her cheeks, leaving clean tracks against her flushed skin.
“I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
“Agatha!” Rio’s voice is stronger than it’s been all night, sudden and harsh, and the energy is sapped out of her as soon as she barks it. “Have you listened to anything I've said? This isn’t like…before.” Agatha knows what she means—the pain they inflict on one another for fun, the cuts and bruises and brokenness that they share. The way they’ve taken pain for granted, the way they hurt each other without a second thought, in every possible way. The way they heal so easily, even as they shatter each other, only to smooth over the old wounds with new ones.
Suddenly, all of that seems far too real.
Rio’s voice cracks softly when she says, “I would never do this to you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Rio.” Agatha grips Rio’s jaw. “I’m done arguing about it. We don’t have much time.” She can see the tendrils of black blood creeping further up Rio’s neck, reaching toward her lips. There’s so little skin left untouched.
“Agatha—”
“Rio.” Agatha stops her with a finger to her lips. She leans closer, pressing her forehead to Rio’s. Like this, she can feel the rattling within Rio’s body every time she takes moves.
Agatha takes a deep breath. She still has one more ace in her sleeve, a last desperate attempt to force Rio into this plan.
“If you love me, you will do this for me,” Agatha whispers.
“Don’t you dare—”
“You heard me.” Agatha closes her eyes briefly to keep the tears from falling. She swallows stubbornly. She has to be strong or Rio will seize on what she thinks is uncertainty.
Agatha’s never been more certain of anything in her entire life.
“So do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you love me?” Agatha pulls back just enough to meet Rio’s eyes. She brushes Rio’s hair from her sweaty forehead. The sun is beginning to rise, casting the cabin in early-morning, near-dark light, the flaming orange of the first rays hitting the windows.
Rio closes her eyes. “Don’t make me do this.” There’s the beginning of a sob in her chest.
Agatha’s lip trembles. She bites down on it, hard enough to draw blood. She feels like she’s teetering on a knife’s edge. Fear slices her at every angle. Something deep inside taunts her, tells her she was overconfident, she hedged her bets too far, and that even if it could save her life, Rio doesn’t love her. It feels like a million minutes pass in the span of a breath. She’s waiting forever. She’s wrong. She’s—
“You know I do, you fucking idiot,” Rio manages.
Agatha tries to make her sigh of relief really, really subtle.
“You know, if those are the last words you ever say to me, you’re gonna feel terrible.” Agatha smiles and stands up. “So I better not die, right? Now fucking do it.”
Agatha braces herself as Rio shakily raises her hands. Rio squeezes her eyes closed, trying to summon every ounce of strength.
The magic hits Agatha, and she falls.
*
The pain is unlike anything she’s ever known.
It sears through every atom of her—every drop of blood, every inch of skin, down to the striations in her bones and the woven threads of muscle. It feels like dying. It feels like soaring. It’s at once too much and not enough.
Underneath the pain, there’s something else—power.
Desperate to reach her.
When Agatha opens her eyes, she’s in another world. She’s spinning away, but not all at once. Pieces of her are detaching themselves from her body, like they’ve been sliced off clean, the blood flowing freely, swirling around her like tendrils of smoke. Everything is red and black and green and—
--purple.
*
Agatha wakes to nothing at all.
No. Not nothing. White.
Sunlight, full white in the window. There are shadows moving. Shapes. Something moves over her. From far, far away, there’s a voice.
The voice gets closer. The shadows block the light.
In fuzzy focus, Rio’s face becomes clear.
Somewhere inside her, Agatha can read the look on Rio’s face as one of terror and desperation, but she can’t quite muster the reaction.
While she’s waiting for the sounds to become clearer, Agatha takes quick stock of her body. It feels…like nothing.
Nothing hurts.
She blinks several times and finally, finally she can hear Rio’s voice.
Rio, solid above her, blocking out the light.
“Agatha.” Her name in Rio’s mouth.
Agatha leans up and kisses Rio as hard as she can.
Rio’s hands fly up to clutch at Agatha’s face. The kisses are breathless, desperate, Rio’s fingers in her hair, tugging at all the tangles and smoothing down her neck. Agatha sinks into Rio’s mouth, pushing her down until Rio’s back hits the floor. Rio’s hands are everywhere. The stark contrast to the pain that had seized her body before is enough to make Agatha want to cry.
And she is crying, she realizes, as she tastes salt on Rio’s lips. Or maybe Rio is, or the both of them. Agatha brings her hands up to clutch at Rio’s face, her thumbs smoothing over the top of Rio’s cheekbones, their mouths only separating for half-second breaths before they’re kissing again. Agatha’s body rocks over Rio. She presses her core to Rio, needing to feel her underneath, solid and real and alive.
Agatha’s hands drop to Rio’s bare stomach, wandering over her abs, her sides, her chest, her arms, searching for remnants of the spell. Rio’s skin is smooth, unbroken, no sign of cuts or magic wounds. Agatha covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob.
“Hey,” Rio whispers. She tangles her hands in Agatha’s hair on either side of her head. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Agatha shakes her head. The consciousness of her body fully coming back to herself is settling in, and with it, the realization that Rio isn’t dead, Rio isn’t in pain, Rio is here and warm and she—she loves Agatha.
It’s too fucking much.
Agatha buries her face in Rio’s neck, pressing her skin to the warm curve under Rio’s jaw, desperate to be sure that she’s breathing. She pulls at Rio’s shirt, yanking it over her head and pressing her face down between Rio’s breasts, kissing along the center, mapping it with her mouth, relishing in every inch of skin she finds that isn’t wounded. Rio groans as Agatha moves to Rio’s chest and takes a nipple in her mouth, her hand coming up to cover the other, as her free hand moves down Rio’s side. Everywhere she tastes, she looks for blood or broken skin, but finds nothing—only the smooth curves she could map in her sleep at this point, her hands melding to Rio’s body like they were meant to be there.
Rio’s hands press at the back of Agatha’s head, urging her on as Agatha’s tongue teases her nipple. “Fuck,” Rio moans.
It takes a moment for Agatha to realize that Rio’s tugging at her shirt. She rips it off before connecting their lips again, bare-chested as she leans into Rio. She wants to get rid of her skirt, too, but she can’t bear to take any more time away from Rio’s body.
Agatha traces shapes across Rio’s skin with her tongue as she delves down further, landing at the top of Rio’s pants and unbuttoning them quickly, pulling them hard off her legs. She takes Rio’s underwear with them so Rio is completely bare beneath her. Agatha scoots down to settle between Rio’s legs, kissing the inside of her thighs, hands spread on her stomach, when Rio says, “Wait.”
Agatha stops and looks up. She knows she must look just like she feels—hair wild, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.
“Come here,” Rio whispers. “I want to be close to you.”
Agatha feels something clutch at her heart, deep and knowing.
She mouths her way back up Rio’s body until they’re kissing again, one hand braced beside Rio’s head on the rug, the other sliding down until it reaches the hot wetness between Rio’s legs.
“Ahh.” Rio cranes her neck when Agatha’s fingers first touch her, her eyes briefly fluttering closed.
Agatha presses her cheek to Rio’s, murmuring in her ear. “Fuck, baby.” Her breath is hot on Rio’s skin and sends a shudder through Rio’s whole body as her fingers start to explore. Rio is so fucking wet. It feels like a century has passed since they’ve touched, like the battle and the injury and the spell took years from them, and Agatha is starved for Rio’s body.
Agatha’s hands know Rio’s body innately, her fingers doing practiced movements and touching spots she knows make Rio crazy. She can’t stop kissing her. Her tongue connects with Rio’s as her fingers rub deftly. Rio’s moans into her mouth are making her dizzy. Agatha kisses the corner of Rio’s mouth, her cheeks, her nose, her jawline, everything, everywhere, leaning her forehead against Rio’s as they both close their eyes. Her touch becomes more intense as Rio’s hips rock with her fingers.
“Look at me,” Rio whispers.
Agatha pulls away from her neck just enough to see Rio’s face fully.
Rio’s hands come up to press against Agatha’s cheeks, holding her there as her fingers move faster, harder, and Rio clutches at her. Agatha stares down at Rio’s brown eyes locked on her blue ones, their gazes never leaving each other, Rio moaning into Agatha’s lips, breathing her air. Agatha briefly dips a finger inside Rio, thrusting a few times as Rio’s mouth drops open, before returning to her clit. Rio’s eyes close only briefly as her body grows restless. She forces them open again to look into Agatha’s gaze. Agatha can feel the tension mounting under Rio’s skin, the wild tremble of her muscles, her moans growing breathier until Agatha rubs hard at her clit, fingers dipping inside her again, and Rio cries out, clutching at Agatha’s shoulders and craning her neck back, her whole body tensing up before releasing. Her hips thrash as she comes and Agatha holds her through it, slowly softening her touch, her fingers spreading over Rio’s center and gently carrying her down.
Rio’s chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, her legs kicking out, her hands coming up to Agatha’s face and pulling her in for a searing kiss. Agatha catches her breath, too, panting as she presses her forehead to Rio’s collarbone, settling down on her elbow next to Rio’s head so their bodies are pressed together fully.
Agatha kisses Rio’s neck, nipping at it gently. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
Rio raises a single eyebrow. “On the sex?” she says between breaths.
“That too, but.” Agatha kisses her fully again. “On my genius plan working.”
Rio covers her eyes with a groan before peeking at Agatha. “That was the worst fucking plan I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Agatha’s mouth drops. “Are you kidding me? It was inspired. And most importantly, it worked.”
Rio captures her lips with hers in another kiss. “It almost killed us both,” she murmurs. She pushes locks of hair out of Agatha’s face, tucking them behind her ear to no avail. Rio’s smiling, but Agatha can see where the smile ends—the memory of what they went through is still fresh on her mind, darkening her eyes, residual pain still lingering, if not physically. “You—” Rio stops, takes a breath. “You didn’t see—” She stops again. Agatha watches Rio’s expression as it flickers through reliving the memory of herself taking on Rio’s power. Herself dying.
Almost.
Agatha reaches up and smooths Rio’s forehead above her eyebrows, getting rid of the worried creases there. “I told you I could do it,” she says with far more confidence than she feels. “And look at us now. Not a scratch.” Her voice lilts, musical and carefree, but her heart pounds with what’s underneath. She runs her finger down Rio’s face to catch at her bottom lip. Rio’s mouth falls open, her tongue curling around the tip of Agatha’s finger. Agatha feels another pulse of desire waver through her, centering between her legs. “Now, why don’t you reward me for my brilliance?”
Rio tilts her chin up, waiting for Agatha to lean down and kiss her. When she does, Rio wraps her arms around Agatha’s neck, tangling in her hair before locking behind her head. Rio breaks the kiss to whisper, “Carry me.”
Agatha raises her eyebrows.
“C’mon, you did it before. All chivalrous-like.” Rio’s smile is innocent as she pets Agatha’s hair.
“That was a one-time deal,” Agatha grumbles.
Rio’s smile grows confident. “No, it wasn’t,” she whispers, biting Agatha’s bottom lip and then soothing it with her tongue.
Agatha scoops Rio into her arms again, because really, what’s the use denying the way Rio has her wrapped around her finger? Besides, she’d really rather fuck Rio on a bed, instead of the scratchy bearskin rug they’re currently on. That’s what she tells herself, anyway, as she carries Rio to their bedroom.
This time, when Agatha sets her down, it’s not at all gentle. She climbs atop Rio, but her knees get tangled up in the fabric of her skirt, and she nearly screams in frustration. Less than a second later, her skirt is gone, flown halfway across the room and bunched up in the corner.
Agatha’s mouth drops. Rio lays back on the bed, spreading her arms wide with a self-satisfied smile. “Easier to magic them off, don’t you think?” She knows she’s gained an upper hand now, and she’s not going to let Agatha forget it. “These, however…” Rio hooks her fingers into the top of Agatha’s underwear. “I’ll take these off myself,” she whispers into Agatha’s ear, her breath hot and sending an involuntary shiver through Agatha. From there, Rio dips to Agatha’s neck, the curve of her jaw, biting and kissing her way down as she maneuvers the underwear off and it joins the pile in the corner.
Rio’s hands rub up Agatha’s arms, grabbing hold and trying to smoothly flip them so Agatha is underneath, but Agatha shakes her head. “Stay there,” she murmurs, and sits up so her legs are bracketing Rio’s thighs. Rio raises a single eyebrow, but doesn’t protest, a smile appearing on her face.
Their centers are nearly touching as Rio sits up on one elbow, giving her better reach to Agatha, and she slides her hand down between them. At her first touch of Agatha’s cunt, Rio’s lips part. “Fucking hell,” Rio whispers, sliding her fingers between Agatha’s folds and curling her hand to stroke. Agatha’s head dips as she leans back and holds herself up with one hand clutching Rio’s leg, the other smoothing up and down Rio’s arm.
Rio knows what Agatha likes, and after touching her, knows she’s more than ready, so she wastes no time sinking two fingers into Agatha, who groans and rocks her hips. Rio’s thumb comes up to gently circle her clit as her fingers work inside Agatha. She bites her lip as she looks up at Agatha through her eyelashes, and when Agatha meets her eyes, she groans again. Her hips rock harder, leaning forward now to brace herself on Rio’s hip. She might feel guilty under different circumstances, using Rio like this for her pleasure alone, but the electricity of arousal is too powerful thrumming under her skin. Agatha’s hands slide up her own body to clutch at her breasts, her hips rocking exactly how she wants them, head thrown back, hair flowing and wild. As her thrusts grow more intense, her cries fill the room. She’d swear to whatever god there might be that Rio has the ability to read her mind, because just when she needs it, Rio thumbs at her clit, alternating between pressure and quick strokes.
Agatha can feel the sweat dripping down her back, the powerful rush of her orgasm just barely out of reach. She grasps Rio’s wrist messily, feeling the cords of her muscles as Rio works her hand, adding a third finger as Agatha’s hips fall out of rhythm, focused only on falling over the edge.
And then it hits. The pleasure spreads quick outward from her cunt, shaking her thighs and pulsing through her body. Agatha grips Rio’s wrist tightly and screams as Rio relentlessly fucks her through the orgasm, plunging deeper and hitting the spot inside her that makes Agatha lose her mind. She rides Rio’s hand for as long as she can, slowing only when all of the tension has finally fallen away.
Agatha collapses on top of Rio. Her back is cooling with sweat, her hair even more out of control than it usually is, but Rio smooths her hands up and down Agatha’s shoulder blades, kissing her cheek here and there.
When Agatha finally finds the strength to lift her head, she finds Rio smiling up at her. It’s one of Rio’s rarest smiles—the softest one, the one that no one in history has seen except for Agatha Harkness.
“I’m glad your stupid plan worked,” Rio whispers.
“Thank you,” Agatha says. “And…”
She stops, suddenly realizing she hadn’t meant to start that next sentence.
“And what?” Rio chides gently. She traces Agatha’s cheekbones with her thumbs. Instead of answering, Agatha kisses her.
Rio knows a distraction when she sees one, and while she lets the kiss go on for a moment, she pulls back and eyes Agatha with a “And what?”
“And you love me,” Agatha forces out, a wry smile playing on her lips as tears threaten to spill over again. She shakes her head—at the absurdity of it, the wild and precious moments they continue to steal with one another.
A knowing smile crosses Rio’s face. She closes her eyes and sighs. “Against my better fucking judgement.”
“And…” Fuck it, Agatha thinks. Might as well jump off the whole cliff, not just with one foot. “And I love you,” she admits.
That soft smile again.
Agatha slides off of Rio to curl into her side, resting her head on Rio’s chest, lulling her with its steady rise and fall. Rio’s fingers slowly brush through Agatha’s hair, so gently that Agatha is grateful Rio can’t see her face when tears prick at the edges of her eyes.
Deep inside, in her heart of hearts, Agatha wishes desperately that there was magic to freeze this moment and let them live in it forever.
***