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Agatha had learned, over her long, long life, that most things lay beyond her control. Almost everything, in fact. Her relationship with her mother. The death of her son. Herself. So often, she felt like a prisoner in her own body—a soul without power over its vessel. Without any way to control it. It was pathetic.
What kind of witch could not control her own magic?
In time, she learned to harness her spells, to tame her abilities. But her succubus power was different—far harder to control. When she was young, whenever it activated, it left her in a haze of confusion and panic. All she could do was stand there, frozen, as the witch who intended her harm slowly withered, life draining from her body. Agatha felt herself grow stronger with every passing second, and yet, at the same time, she was terrified.
Centuries passed, and she managed to restrain it, with practice—and with an endless supply of rivals who sought her downfall that she experimented on.
By now, she could keep it in check, but only if her mind was clear, only if she truly concentrated. But none of that mattered when Alice’s magic hit her.
Fresh from wrenching herself free of her mother’s cruel possession, Agatha realized, in horror, that she was already absorbing Alice’s power. She tried to pull back, to focus, but her mind was clouded. Her mother’s voice echoed through her thoughts, those cruel, familiar words she always pretended didn’t hurt.
And in that moment—one terrible moment—she lost control. Alice was dying, and it was by her own hand.
Then, through the haze, she heard a voice, the one that haunted her every day. Her son’s voice.
“Mamma, stop!”
And she did. She would do anything for him. Overcome anything for him. Even the impossible.
Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. He was there—truly there, his presence filling the room.
It was the closest she’d been to him in centuries. And the first thing he saw after all this time? Her, acting like the monster she was.
Killing another witch.
Doing the very thing he hated.
Just because she was too weak.
Teen looked at her with the same piercing gaze her son had given her when he first understood what she was doing. When he first realized she was killing other witches. That look could shatter her in seconds. She hated how much he reminded her of him.
She looked down to see Alice lay there lifeless, like many witches she drained before.
She had to get out, and she did—though not before catching Rio’s apologetic look as if to say she couldn’t follow, that she had to put her job first.
It always had to come first.
But Teen followed.
He echoed the voices that had haunted her mind for centuries. She could see the pain in his eyes as he blamed her for Alice’s death, as he finally saw her true self: a monster.
She tried to pretend she didn’t care, to let him think she was unaffected. But painfully, she did.
When she told him she couldn’t control it, his answer was cold, cutting: “Yes, you could have.”
And he was right.
If she had been stronger, if she hadn’t become this pathetic version of herself, she could have stopped. But without her magic, she was the same frightened girl who couldn’t control her powers or her life.
She loathed this feeling.
And she loathed him for making her feel it again.
So she hid behind her armor, lashing out, wanting to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her.
And that’s how she ended up here—drowning in the mud.
As she clawed her way out of the mud, it struck her—mocking the Scarlet Witch's son right after the traumatic loss of his friend hadn’t been her brightest idea.
Finally pulling herself free, she collapsed against a rock, trying to steady her breaths, but they wouldn’t stabilize.
Tears burned at the edges of her eyes, threatening to escape, but she forced them back.
That would be too much.
She gasped for air, breath after breath, but it felt like she couldn’t breathe at all. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the voices in her mind only grew louder, haunting her like ghosts.
“You were born evil, I ought to have killed you the moment you left my body.”
“Please, I can be good!”
“Please let him live! Please, my love!”
“No… no… I want more time! I want more time!”
Her body was trembling now, each breath slipping further from her grasp, her heartbeat a relentless drum of pain. She clutched at her chest, desperate to make it stop, to ease that piercing ache. And still, the tears spilled over, beyond her control.
Her mind was betraying her.
Her body was betraying her.
She needed to let it out.
To release that excruciating pain and reclaim some sense of control over the chaos within. Every ounce of it, buried deep, clawing to break free.
Her mind raced back to the only thing that had ever helped her—centuries ago when she was young, weak, and consumed by grief.
With a desperate urgency, she grabbed the knife she’d hidden so carefully, the same blade she’d brought for protection.
She rolled up her sleeve, exposing her scarred arm, but she didn’t let herself linger on it. She just needed to feel it again, to breathe.
“One more time,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Just… one more time.”
She pressed the cold metal to her skin, harder and harder, until she closed her eyes, exhaling as the blade slid across.
For a fleeting moment, she felt that familiar, temporary relief. Opening her eyes, she watched the white line transform into crimson.
But it wasn’t enough.
She wanted more.
She needed more.
Again. And again. Each slice a second of respite from the tears and voices haunting her mind.
She would do anything to drown the pain, even just for a moment.
A voice broke through the silence, familiar and gentle, calling her name with a quiet intensity she hadn’t heard in centuries.
“Agatha?… What are you doing?”
She looked up, struggling to catch her breath, meeting Rio’s horrified gaze. She hadn’t seen Rio look this shaken in ages.
Agatha glanced down, unable to bear that worried expression, and saw the raw, angry red lines on her arm. The pain that once felt grounding now seemed to sting deeper under Rio’s scrutiny.
Quickly, she set the knife down, pulling her wounded arm close to her chest to hide it, as blood continued to trickle. She wiped her tears away with a rough hand, masking herself with a thin, practiced smile.
Rio knelt before her, pain and concern etched deeply on her face, her gaze unwavering as she looked straight into Agatha’s eyes. She could see Rio’s eyes flicker down to her mouth, catching the hollow, crooked smile. It hurt to see that Rio knew her well enough to see through her defenses. Agatha looked away, forcing out a laugh—a hard, bitter sound that clashed with the fresh tear stains on her cheeks.
Rio reached out, gently taking her uninjured hand. “I… I thought you’d stopped,” she whispered, her own eyes wet.
Agatha laughed again, a forced, empty laugh that seemed to echo with pain. “What can I say?” she replied with a hint of defiance. “Old habits die hard.”
Agatha expected Rio to recoil, to look at her with disgust or even hatred. But Rio’s expression remained steady, still carrying that unbearable look of concern and pain.
Agatha despised it.
She didn’t deserve that look—as if she were some wounded creature needing rescue.
They held each other’s gaze, both reading the other’s silent thoughts. Agatha’s arm throbbed, the sting sharpening as blood trickled from her fresh cuts, yet it was Rio’s unyielding gaze she couldn’t bear.
“Don’t you dare,” Agatha shook her head, her tone piercing and her smile brittle. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”
Rio reached out, softly wrapping her fingers around Agatha’s wounded hand, though Agatha resisted. Rio’s eyes flicked to the myriad of cuts on Agatha’s arm—some fresh, others faded and scarred. A single tear slipped down Rio’s cheek.
Pathetic, Agatha thought, furious at herself.
She was pathetic enough to make Death herself cry.
With the stinging pain a dull reminder, she laughed coldly, “Don’t worry, love. I’m just adding to the collection. Isn’t this what you wanted? To see me bleed? Well... I’ve saved you the trouble.”
Rio winced, her pain unmistakable. Agatha’s words were meant to wound, and they did, yet Rio stayed.
She looked down at Agatha’s bleeding arm and whispered, “Please.” The word was soft but insistent.
Agatha knew instantly what she meant.
Rio wanted to heal her, to take the pain away.
For a split second, Agatha’s smile wavered before she laughed harder. “Honey, doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” Her voice was biting. “Do you think I earned these scars by taking the easy way out?”
Rio held her hand tighter, drawing it closer. “Please,” she repeated, barely more than a whisper.
Agatha laughed, feigning delight at Rio’s pain. “You know, there are many, many things I’ve learned from my own flesh and blood,” she began, pulling her arm free and glancing down at the fresh cuts as she chuckled darkly, “literally.”
She traced a finger through the blood, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. “And one of those things? I can’t stand the sight of you, and I wish I’d never met you.”
Rio saw through her words, recognizing Agatha’s desperation to hurt, to drive her away. But instead, she took Agatha’s arm once more, bringing it gently toward her lips. Slowly, Rio pressed a soft kiss to each wound, her tenderness cutting deeper than any pain could.
“What are you doing?” Agatha’s voice faltered as she attempted to pull away, her mocking smile fading entirely.
With each kiss, the wounds healed, and the pain dulled, leaving Agatha defenseless against the warmth and care seeping through her.
“Stop that. Now,” she demanded, but Rio’s hold was soft yet unbreakable.
“Please, let me help you, my love,” Rio whispered between kisses, her words tender but resolute. “I just want to take this pain away.”
Each touch made Agatha’s skin prickle, her voice reduced to a frantic, whispered, “Don’t.”
She fought harder, jerking her arm back, even as her defenses weakened with every gentle touch.
“I don’t want you to touch me,” she spat, anger flashing in her eyes. “I hate you.”
Rio’s kisses stilled for a moment, and she looked up, her gaze soft but pained. Agatha felt a flicker of hope that this torture might stop, that she’d be left with her precious, familiar hurt.
But instead, Rio nodded, her voice no more than a murmur as she said, “I don’t care, my love.” Her gaze fell back to Agatha’s wounded arm, still marred by blood and scars. “I only want to free you from your pain.”
Then she continued, each kiss a quiet defiance, each touch dissolving Agatha’s carefully kept agony. The panic inside Agatha swelled.
She couldn’t bear the feeling of that softness, not because she hated Rio, but because she believed she didn’t deserve it.
That she deserved nothing but the pain she clung to, the one thing she could still control.
And yet, Rio was taking it away from her—erasing the one thing she knew how to hold on to.
“I hate you!” Agatha repeated, her voice breaking, desperation swelling as Rio kissed the last cut, leaving her raw and stripped of her pain.
Rio’s fingers grazed over Agatha’s scars, each touch as delicate as it was relentless, like a balm that burned. Agatha could feel herself unraveling. She didn’t deserve this, not the gentleness or the forgiveness.
“Can you stop that?” she pleaded, eyes filling with tears. “Stop touching me like that. I don’t want your touch!”
Rio looked up, her own eyes damp with unshed tears, and held Agatha’s gaze. “You deserve it, my love,” she said softly, as if answering the voice in Agatha’s mind.
“Don’t.” Agatha shook her head, finally pulling her hand free from Rio’s grasp, retreating just a bit.
But Rio wouldn’t let her go far. She leaned closer, her eyes never leaving Agatha’s, and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, each word slow and certain, like a vow. “Alice’s death wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t control it, and that’s okay. You are not weak.”
“Shut up,” Agatha demanded, even as Rio’s forehead pressed gently against hers, her hand cupping her chin. Rio could feel Agatha’s trembling breaths, the grief she tried so hard to hide under a mask of bitterness. She remembered all the nights she’d held Agatha, protecting her from the shadows her mother had planted in her mind.
“You’re safe now,” Rio murmured, caressing her cheek with a tenderness that Agatha almost feared. “She can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Of course she can’t,” Agatha responded with a bitter smile. “I killed her, remember? But hey, she’s a dedicated spirit—came back just for another round.” She laughed darkly, as if each word was a shield she could hide behind.
“She was wrong about you,” Rio said softly, her voice unyielding. She felt Agatha relax, if only slightly, into her touch, her tremors beginning to ease. “You’re not evil, and you don’t deserve to carry her words with you.”
“Yeah, right,” Agatha muttered, forcing a smile that barely concealed her pain.
“He thinks so too,” Rio whispered, avoiding his name, knowing the mention would break her.
“Don’t you dare.” Agatha jerked back, fire and anguish warring in her eyes. “Don’t you dare mention him after what you did!”
The accusation hit Rio like a knife to the heart. Blaming her for Nicky’s death was a wound that went deeper than any spell, any curse. But in that moment, Rio knew she had to put aside her own pain, to be there for Agatha. This wasn’t the time for explanations or defences.
“He loves you, Agatha,” she murmured, her voice steady and warm, eyes meeting Agatha’s with quiet strength. “He knows what’s in your heart. He knows you are good. And so do I.”
Agatha froze, a tremor passing through her. She and Rio rarely spoke of Nicky. Every time he came up, she could feel the surge of resentment for Rio taking him away from her.
But now, those words—simple, needed, true—cut through her defenses, speaking to something raw and aching inside her.
She wiped her tears roughly, hating how weak she must look, hating how much she wanted to believe Rio.
With a shuddering breath, Agatha broke down, covering her face with her hands. Rio drew her in gently, arms encircling her as if to shield her from the storm within.
“He saw me,” Agatha choked out, her voice barely a whisper between her sobs. “He saw me kill another witch. After all these centuries, and that’s the first thing he sees…”
“Nicky watches over you, Agatha,” Rio said softly, holding her closer, her words steady as a heartbeat. “He stopped you because he knows you’re strong enough to control it. He believes in you.”
Agatha took a shaky breath, leaning deeper into Rio’s embrace, as if seeking a sanctuary she’d lost long ago. “Is he…” Her voice faltered. “Is he loved?”
Rio’s smile was a soft, steady light in the darkness. “Yes my love. He is very loved. Our son is very loved. His mother loves him more than anything, and he knows his mamma does too—even if she’s not there with him.”
Agatha’s voice dropped to a whisper, the faintest flicker of hope in her tone. “Good… good.”
In the quiet that settled around them, wrapped in each other’s arms, both of them knew these fragile moments of peace wouldn’t last.
But for now, both of them have felt what they hadn’t felt in a long time, how it’s like to feel truly loved.