Billy: "And that's my dad and that's my dad and that's my mom and that's my mom and that's my ghost mentor, who's also sort of my mom and that's her wife, death, who wants me dead-"
why are ghosts always person-sized in the movies? they donât have bodies anymore. one of âem should have figured out how to work that shit. one of them could be ⊠her đł
Summary: Youâre scared and alone, running through an endless forest with no idea how you got there. You know youâre being followed. You know Agatha is hot on your trail, but what you donât know, is what she will do when she finds you.
A/n: THIS IS A DARK FIC. The themes of it can be triggering and will not appeal to some. Read at your own risk, and please avoid if you believe anything in the warnings will negatively affect you.
In the darkness of the witching hour, you find yourself hurling through an endless forest. The trees are barren of lifeâcorpses after winter stripped them of their leaves and, with it, their colour. Branches wack against one another as though theyâre trying to huddle together to stave off the cold and preserve what life force remains at the core of their brittle roots. The sound carries. It crackles and follows your every step.Â
From the very start, you knew this was a battle you couldn't win. But your defiance, your refusal to accept defeat, fuels your relentless pursuit of freedom. You race through the darkness, ignoring the pain of broken twigs and shrubbery alike as they cut at the underside of your feet, each step a declaration of your unyielding rebellion.
Youâre cold, shivering and praying for a miracle in nothing but a slip, its fabric sheer and virgin white, providing no comfort against the brittle bite of clouded mist. The air is thick and wet, sticking to the growing sweat on your forehead as you race against the unseen presence of powerful magic. Your lungs, straining to steal air, make a desperate plea in the silent forest. But the air is too damp to replenish the dwindling fuel left in your chest, and every breath remains a fight with no reward, a constant reminder that the struggle you now face may very well reap the same futile fate.Â
You know sheâll find you if she hasnât already. The chase excites herâwatching her prey struggle as each step leads them further into her nest and closer to their death. It wonât be quick and no less painful. Agatha will make sure her eyes are the ones that haunt you in your grave.Â
Scattered burrows concealed by darkness leave the earth uneven. Caution is not something time affords you, and so you are left at the mercy of the woodlands, at the divots that seek to knock you off kilter, at the tree roots that jut out of tarmac mud, angry and unruly, cruel to use their network to ensure your pace is broken by constant stumbling.Â
Is this it? Is this how it ends? Only an hour ago, you were in bed, sleeping sweetly, blissfully unaware of how unencumbered your life had been. The TV is likely still on, reruns playing in the silence of a bedroom that may never see its occupant again. The candle on your bedside table is probably burnt down to its wick, the last dying embers of its flame flickering behind its glass prison. What you would do for some light now.Â
Despite the sweat marking your forehead, the constant burn of your hamstrings and exertion keeping your blood hot, you bristle against the unnatural frost marking the air. It's sharp and travels up your nose like a vine, stabbing its thorns into your head till all you know is the constant ringing of a migraine. Between the cold and adrenaline, the goosebumps raised on your skin stay with you during your every move. Itâs a comfortâa reminder that you are still alive and human, and your body is still fighting.Â
But it's all for nothing.Â
Pessimism is one thing. Rationalism is another. Logic tells you Agatha is closing in, and your best option is to hide, but your head is ringing, and you canât make out right from wrong or left from right, so instead, you keep forward. Condensation has bruised the forest soil, forcing it into a slippery, sponge-like substance that gathers in clumps above your ankles. It weighs you down and makes navigating through uneven terrain unmanageable. You slip and slide, forcing your eyes ahead, below, anywhere but behind you, too scared you'll see the lurking figure that marks your end like a bad omen.Â
A bird flies overhead, a sign of life in the desolate forest, an allying companion trying to flee. Hope. You avert your eyes upward, tuning your ears to the sound of fluttering wings and calls to freedom. Youâre choking on the stench of death and moisture by the time you see a clearing. The moonâs silvery light is untouched by the forest there, peeking out from beyond tangled treetops and illuminating the dirt path to sanctified land.Â
Stupidly, you freeze, awestruck by the sight. Your body betrays you for only a fraction of a second before rebooting with the intent to sprint. But itâs too late. Youâve made a mistake, and the unforgiving woodland closes in. The open walkway is drowning in darkness as branches twist, shift and interlink. It doesnât matter that youâre running faster than you have your whole life; the exit is sealed like a vault when you make it to the end of the forest tunnel.
The last embers of hope are snubbed out from beneath you, burying themselves in the hollow pools of earth your collapsing knees create. You can feel her, smell the sandalwood clinging to her skin, but there is no adrenaline left, no fight left in you to get up, to cower, to beg. Instead, you stare at the tiny cracks between branches and freedom, biting your tongue when something blunt and heavy hits the side of your head.
âPoor thing,â Agatha cooes, crouching beside you to gently pull sticky, bloodied hair off your face. Her wicked, toothy smile is the last thing you see before unconsciousness swarms you.Â
Everything that happens next comes to you in flashes. You register the bindings over your wrists and ankles, aware that no manufactured material can offer this phantom sensation, leaving magic the only culprit. The murky brown landscape around you spins, transforming into more of the same as youâre dragged forward, feet hovering above the ground. You can see Agatha. Sheâs about a yard away, one hand to the side, trailing ever so slightly behind with a bright cord of purple connecting your restraints to the emerging tendrils of magic gleaming off her fingers.Â
Your blood is molten copper, tangy and hot on your tongue. The metallic zing that lingers over your tastebuds keeps you present for the rebinding of your limbs. Your back presses against rough bark, sap oozing through the thin cotton of your slip, and you shiver against the cold, sickly substance as it sticks to your back. An incantation is whispered into the breeze, and roots peeking out from the dirt below take on a life of their own. They wind over your body till your arms are forced behind you, around the large sycamore tree, and your ankles are spread shoulder-width apart and held close to the base of the trunk.Â
A single swing of Agathaâs finger and your slip is torn clean down the middle, falling to each side of your shoulders and exposing the entire length of your body. An angry red line marks the travel of magic from your sternum to your sex, inked in red droplets. What had you expected? To be gently undressed and appraised for your naked form. No, that wasn't how this would happen. This wasnât about you or for you.Â
Agatha hums quietly, looking you up and down as her fingers dip into the scarlet liquid pouring from your wound. Around you is more of the same: dirt paths littered with fallen leaves, tree carcases disfigured, withering away to winter, and beyond the horizon, peeking through branches, is the moon. Its light does not shine down on the woodlands. This place is unworthy of anything that could contribute to the sustenance of life. It is a no man's land, and anyone unfortunate enough to wander through its endless trails will surely discover the resting place for their last breaths.Â
âYouâre quiet,â the brunette remarks, looking away from the gauged flesh of your stomach to your face, which she inspects speculatively. Her fingers remain focused on painting your stomach red.Â
You stare at her blankly, giving nothing away. If Agathaâs goal is to revel in your fear, she will find not a lick of fright from your trained features. The pain is more challenging to mask, especially when a sharp fingernail digs into your cut, tearing the flesh anew, intent to never let it clot. You make no sound, clenching your teeth together, flaring your nostrils and forcing yourself to breathe steadily through the pain.Â
Agatha tuts and, always one for the dramatics, has a sizable pout on her face, feigning upset, âYouâre no fun.âÂ
When you remain silent, Agathaâs mock sadness shifts into something darker, curious and unexpected. Her usual victims must have all begged, cowered and cried. Alternatively, they may have responded with anger, relying on brute strength that could only take them so far in the face of the unnatural. In the end, they all gave her the same. They all showed her how fragile and fickle the human mind is. They allowed her to penetrate their defences in one way or another, letting her sink her claws into their foundations and find what lies beneath bravado and tearsâfear. But anyone given too much of the same gets bored.
âThere is no one but us here. What good would screaming do?â You ask, levelled and calm. Itâs tricky to tame the tremors of your jaw and the chattering of your teeth, but allowing them to disrupt your question's pace and timbre would paint a less-than-idyllic picture of your already declining resolve.Â
Her grin is one of triumph, and whilst the song it sings is laden with satisfaction, you can see the underlying relief trickle through the harsh bite of her smile, intrigue burning brighter behind her coral-blue eyes.Â
âIt speaks,â she announces to an invisible crowd, arms wide and spread. âAnd youâre right, sweetpea. Screaming wouldnât do you any good.âÂ
In the following silence, you allow yourself to take Agatha in fully. Her plum slacks are clipped at her ankles, revealing only the tips of her black boots. A navy blue overcoat is draped over her white blouse, freshly pressed and framing her figure perfectly as it sinches her waist and falls seamlessly down her body. Her hair, wavy yet tame, is loose, falling over her breasts in layers of chestnut brown streaked with shades of dark caramel.Â
Time will always know Agathaâs name. Her murderous ways are etched into the fabric of history, tales of her unique powers passed down from coven to coven, witch to witch, and for you, mother to daughter. But one thing history has failed to highlight is the beauty of her treachery. She basks in her reputation like a conqueror holding their crown, surveying fallen bodies and foreseeing their gluttonous future in the reflections of pooled blood. The power suits her, even if she fails to wear it humbly.Â
Thereâs a pleased look on her face when you meet her eyes, and she says, âOgle away.âÂ
You scoff, looking anywhere but at the witch and willing the cold to taper the heat emanating from your cheeks. The sound of leaves being mercilessly crushed under Agathaâs boot is crisp. The clean crunch sounds once, twice, and you stiffen, hating how your feet beg to scurry and hide. Youâre better than the fear and the cowardice urges, but at the end of the day, youâre only human, and your body acts without the restraints of your mind in perilous situations. You reign in the jitters, force your limbs to remain still, and your face stoic.Â
Sheâs close. Her breath is tickling your face ever so gently, her finger and thumb pinching your chin to force your gaze forward, and itâs increasingly becoming more challenging to ignore the electric sensations that are zapping about in your stomach. It was a stump of wood that knocked you out, magic that tethered you to Agatha as she dragged you through the forest and the vines that are now what keep you bound. Leaving this, the first time youâve felt Agathaâs touch.Â
âI quite enjoy the attention.â Agatha grins, staring directly into your eyes, keen to sink her nails into the steel armour that holds your tears at bay.Â
Itâs odd. Where her fingers should be imbued with murderous intent, they are far from roughspun on your skin. Her grip is harsh, but her thumb is feather light as it grazes the underside of your lip, and her finger soft as it brushes the length of your jaw, catching wisps of sodden hair soaked with sweat, blood and condensation. It sends another jolt of something sharp and hot down your spine.
âDonât,â you whisper through a shaky breath.
Thereâs no reason the older woman should heed your command, and there are no consequences if she doesnât. Sheâs in control and knows itâis unafraid to show it.Â
The shivers are back with revenge, but it isnât the cold or fear that fuels them; itâs the weight of a palm resting against your stomach, warm and heavy as it meanders over your ribs. With no preamble, her hand comes to lay over your breast, and her fingers tighten around the globe of flesh, squeezing before they move down to circle your hardened nipple.Â
âStop,â you whisper, miserably aware of how your voice is weakened by lust and holds no authority.Â
It shouldnât feel good. You know it shouldnât. But your body disagrees, chest arching forward into the heated touch of Agatha, and much to your chagrin, thereâs a trapped moan tickling the sides of your throat that you vehemently fight to keep at bay.Â
Your refusal to submit only makes this more fun for her, and your submission would guarantee your imminent demise, so youâre left walking a tightrope, fine-tuning your responses in a waking effort to remain alive. Itâs that awareness, that constant cycle of methodical thoughts, that helps you realise a moment too late youâve chosen the wrong course of action.Â
âI said stop,â you shout, slamming your head forward to collide with Agathaâs nose.Â
The older womanâs smile corrodes with anger, momentary but fierce as fire and hotter than the blazing end of a poker stick. When you blink away your fears, the fury is gone, but its effects are lasting. Agatha grabs you by your throat, cutting off your airways with her powerful grip, and slams your head back with a quick shove that has you seeing stars.Â
âThat wasnât nice.â Something is alarming about her smile. Itâs plastic and appears false, but beneath its exterior, thereâs some sort of maniacal truth to it, like sheâs overjoyed by the prospect of seeing you dazed at her hand, which isnât hard to believe.Â
With a drawn-down motion of her free hand, another cut marks your flesh, and pain overwhelms your senses. It's blinding and oddly familiarâsomething you can hold onto like a crutch to keep you planted in the present. You bite down the weak urge to vocalise your suffering, swallowing down a strained cry that feels much too similar to sandpaper.Â
If Agatha is unhappy with your lack of response, she doesn't show it. In fact, not even a second is spent surveying you or her work before sheâs three fingers knuckle deep inside your cunt, stretching you out over and over as she pumps with both speed and vigour.Â
âTell me to stop,â she growls. âI dare you.âÂ
You mutter a quick, âOh fuck,â under your breath and try to focus on the blood trickling down your stomach and dripping onto Agathaâs wrist instead of the way sheâs playing your body like a fiddle. Itâs all-consuming; the pleasure swarms you from every angle, turning your legs to jelly, leaving you at the mercy of the vines that hold you up and Agatha, who keeps you upright with her unrelenting grip over your neck.Â
âCome on, pet. Tell me how much you hate this, and Iâll stop.âÂ
The wet sounds emanating from your sex seek out the deep-rooted shame that lives in the pit of your stomach. Itâs the realisation that some sadistic part of you enjoys this that hits you like a ton of bricks, and you want to deny it; deny Agatha the victory points, but your mind and body are bending to her will with the curl of her fingers and another gush of arousal.Â
âYou like this, donât you?â Agatha purrs, her hot breath clammy as she bites down on your earlobe. âYour cunt was practically begging for my fingers.âÂ
All hopes of refuting her statement are stolen by the myriad of kisses and bites Agatha trails down your neck, halt over your pulse point, where she takes the beating flesh between her teeth and marks you with a bruising imprint of her savage affections. At a loss for words, the only thing you can focus on is the maintenance of your restricted airflow. The pace at which Agatha is overturning your body makes it hard to sustain a regular breathing pattern, but you force the minimal oxygen into your lungs and heave it out through crackled gurgles.Â
Slender fingers carry you to the edge till all you feel is the pent-up pressure in your abdomen, overpowering the anguish and anger directed towards Agatha.Â
The distraction lasts for a brief second.Â
Your release is not what floods your body. Instead, there is only searing, blistering pain. Agathaâs fingers, previously nestled within the walls of your pulsing cunt, now lay over your fresh wound, skating through the dark oozing red liquid, pressing into your abused flesh.
Itâs one too many times youâve had to hold in your agony, and this time, you canât control your blood-curdling scream. Itâs not directed at Agatha. Instead, you fling your eyes up to the sky, begging it to produce a single star bright enough to peek through the twisted branches above.Â
There is nothing but darkness and gloom and no break from the constant torrent of flooding stimulation as Agatha drops to her knees. The image should have you feeling superior, yet all you feel is the steady thrum of nerves and residual pain, ghastly aware that the older woman is probably the most in control out of the two of you. Even if the way sheâs staring at your slickened pussy can only be described as crazed.Â
When the first swipe of her tongue glides through your slit, something breaks in you. Your crippling hold on your restraint wavers, and the foundations begin to crack. You know you can hold on, but for how long, you are no longer sure about. Your body is betraying once again, hips cantering forward to push Agatha further into your sex, moaning through your clenched jaw and humiliatingly writhing as pleasure floods every nerve ending in you.Â
Agatha buries herself into you, tongue fucking your pussy with scornful ease till youâre hanging on the precipice of another orgasm. Then, she stops again, pulling back with a smug smile and rising to her feet to say, âGod, youâre needy.âÂ
You want to cry, and you want to scream and shout and demand she touch you again. But you canât. You canât because thatâs precisely what the older witch wants. She wants you pliant and pleading, easy to manipulate in the palm of her hand until she tires of your compliance and gifts you to death.Â
It doesnât make sense. Nothing does anymore. Not until Agatha is back inside you, pulsing her fingers in and out so fast you can barely breathe, hitting spots deep inside you that havenât been touched in years. Youâre screaming, and youâre yelling and screaming and screaming from the ever-mounting pleasure that feels like it will never reach its peak, and the painâbiting, sharp and constant as your muscles tense over and over again, and your limbs wrestle to be free. The presence of your blood is everywhere, shooting through veins, racing in your ears and dribbling down your stomach. Itâs heaven and hell, ecstasy and delusion, breathing and drowning all at once. Itâs too much. Itâs not enough.Â
Your fight against the vines keeping you restrained doesnât go unnoticed by Agatha. Sheâs dipping her eyes to and from your face to your wrists, trying to figure out something beyond your grasp. The witch maintains her grip around your neck, crushing your wide pipes, and oxygen deprivation is beginning to take effect, but itâs not so all-consuming that you fail to feel the pressure ease around one of your wrists.Â
Itâs a risk on her part and an opportunity on yours. You can feel the warm allure of your magic dance over your fingertips and the chance to strike with a closed fist and brute force.Â
You do neither.Â
The trees are becoming blurred, the ground beneath you clouds and your pain a lullaby to your mind's erratic pleas to resist. For once, everything is silent, and in some kind of moronic fucked up sense of gratitude, you move your hand up and curl your fingers over Agathaâs, strengthing her grip over your throat. You can feel your pulse beat between both your fingers, see the pleased smile Agatha is wearing, and hear the beauty in your unrestrained moans of pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, dying like this - after this - wouldnât be so bad.Â
âI need,â you stammer, removing your hand from Agathaâs, placing it on the back of her neck and pulling her forward. Itâs bubbling inside you againâthe ardent need to cum. It lives in your muscles that are tension-bruised and exhausted. âI need to-â
âOh, sweetie,â she coos before her lips come crashing down on yours in a demanding kiss thatâs all teeth and tongue.Â
The roots wound around your body remain the only thing keeping you up, and at Agathaâs behest, they disappear, burying themselves back within the earth, where they belong, leaving the push of her body against yours the only thing that keeps you upright. She takes her role in earnest, removing her hold on your neck to hoist your legs over her hips and keep you steady, continuing to drive deeper into you at this new angle.Â
Bark has all but torn through the thin material of your slip, and in an effort to move away from the brittle sting of microscopic splinters, you tangle your arms around Agathaâs neck and lean forward, burying your moans and whimpers into her shoulder. The position would not be far from intimate if it werenât for the way your body bounces over the fingers fucking into you and the force at which they do so.Â
The presence of a thumb is featherlight over your clit, teasing you with its potential. And, of course, nothing comes free. Not when tiny remnants of your dignity remain intact that need removing. You let free a whine, and when that doesnât work, a meek âplease,â and instantly, the older womanâs touch becomes crushing. Sheâs rubbing quick, consistent circles over the bundle of nerves, fueling the engine that carries and dishes out sparks of pure, unadulterated heat down your spine, filtering through your veins and capillaries till it reaches your head and manifests into burning need.Â
Youâre being pushed back into the harsh surface of the sycamore tree, yet you canât find it in yourself to care, not when Agathaâs hand is back over your breast, her mouth on your neck, and youâre on the cusp of a long-awaited orgasm.Â
There is no interruption to your peak this time and Agatha revels in every second of it alongside you. She pulls back to watch like youâre a performer, and sheâs waited a lifetime to secure a ticket to this show. Every jut of your hips, shake of your jaw and cry from your mouth is reflected back at you in her spangled eyes, drinking you in a breath of fresh air.
Youâre so taken by the pull of euphoria you donât register the heated touch over your breastbone. You can hear your skin sizzling and see the scorched initials of her name when you glance down. Still, all you seem to feel is your never-ending orgasm as the stimulation continues, throwing you headfirst into another release and even then, Agatha doesnât stop. Sheâs consumed with the sight of your bliss, hungry to live in it forever as she keeps fucking into you with her fingers, circling your oversensitive clit till it stings, and youâve got tears swimming in your eyes.Â
Youâre unsure how long it goes on for, how long she pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you. Youâre dipping in and out of consciousness, and with the emergence of every new blacked-out spot obscuring your vision, youâre dimly aware the forest around you is beginning to take on a new life.
Branches are illuminated by the balmy glow of the emerging sun, and the frost coating their exterior thaws under its warmth, turning thin layers of ice into water droplets. Dirt paths littered in corpse leaves are no longer a muddy brown. Now, they are canvases splattered in the tawny colours of autumn. The smattered shades of honey and marigolds are a welcome sight as Agatha pushes your legs off her and leaves you to stand alone, breathless and weak. Dignity was something you lost between the baring of your skin and branding of your flesh, so you allow your knees to buckle beneath you and welcome the soft embrace of dirt. It is kinder to you than bark.Â
âWhat will you do with me?â you ask, keeping your eyes levelled with the changed woodlands. Conviction bleeds through your demand, even if the silent wracking in your chest and the crack of your voice slightly diminishes it.Â
âCome,â Agatha beckons.Â
You fail to stop a full-bodied shiver from tearing through your body. Its shadow echoes in the clattering of your bones as you look up to see the older woman hovering above you. Sheâs staring, scrutinising you before coming to a hasty decision. She removes her jacket and crouches down so sheâs at eye level, and your straining neck thanks her with a quiet crack. Then, satin material is over you and Agathaâs body heat - still embedded into its lining - sinks through the cold outer layer of your bare skin.Â
âNow,â she begins with a quirked brow, slapping her knees as she rises, âup you get.âÂ
You cringe at the crippling pain that shoots up your legs, but youâve swallowed your discomfort for too long now to show yourself incapable of doing something so simple as standing.Â
âI donât understand.â
Agatha smiles, delicately tracing a finger over your heart, along marred skin marked âA.Hâ, âYou belong to me now, pet.â
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