So, I wanted somewhere to dump all of the visuals and imagery I had in mind whilst writing LCM chapter 55 ✨🎥🪄 and considering Tumblr now seems to flag almost every other one of my posts (including my original attempt at posting said visuals here), I created a thread on the cursed bird app.
If you haven’t already, you can follow me there too.
Surprise shawty? This past two months of my life have been so insanely busy and left me with zero time to write. BUT! I just moved cities, new better paying job with less hours, pretty house, new car. WE'RE SO UP AND SO BACK!
You get another anonymous email telling you to ask Agatha about the darkhold. Cue three hours of spiraling through government files, historical photos, and the realization that your girlfriend is 352 years old and a literal witch.
"You can transmute elements? That's—that's nuclear-level energy manipulation."
Was going to turn this into a two chapter storyline where reader freaks out and hides from Agatha but it felt so off character that I rewrote the entire thing to feel more like reader and less like me :)
TW: Professor/Student Relationship, slight deception, age gap (lmao), supernatural elements, morally grey character
8k words - previous chapter - masterlist
Beside you, Agatha stirs. Her arm tightens around your waist for a moment before she stretches, the movement languid and unselfconscious.
She studies you for a beat too long, and you see the exact moment awareness sharpens in her gaze. But she doesn't ask. Instead, she leans in and kisses your shoulder, then slides out of bed with the easy grace of someone completely comfortable in her own skin.
You watch as she crosses the room naked, utterly unashamed, the morning light painting her in gold and shadow. She finds your robe draped over the chair and shrugs it on without bothering to tie it closed, then glances back at you with a small smile.
"Coffee?"
"Please."
You follow her to the kitchen a few minutes later, t-shirt thrown over your head and find her at the counter beside the overpriced coffee maker you splurged on last semester. She's tied the robe now, but loosely, and her hair is still wild. She looks domestic and dangerous all at once, and your chest aches with something you can't name.
Ask her about the Darkhold.
The words echo in your head as she hands you a mug, her fingers brushing yours.
"You're quiet," she observes, leaning against the counter.
"Just waking up," you lie.
She doesn't believe you. You can see it in the way her eyes narrow slightly, the way she tilts her head. But she lets it go, taking a sip of her own coffee and watching you over the rim of her mug.
The silence stretches between you, no longer comfortable.
At the lab, you try to focus. You really do.
But your mind keeps circling back to the email, to those words that have lodged themselves in your brain like splinters. The Darkhold. How old she really is. She's lying to you.
You're supposed to be running spectroscopy on the latest batch of samples, but you've had to restart the calibration twice because you keep losing track of what you're doing. The numbers on the screen blur together, meaningless.
"You're distracted."
Agatha's voice makes you jump. You hadn't heard her approach, but she's standing right behind you now, close enough that you can smell her perfume and your laundry detergent still clinging to her hair.
"I'm fine," you say automatically.
"You've been staring at that screen for ten minutes without moving."
You glance at the monitor. She's right. The calibration sequence finished ages ago, and you didn't even notice.
"I'm just—"
"Tired?" She moves around to face you, and there's something searching in her expression. Something almost worried, though she'd never admit it. "Distracted? Thinking about something else?"
Ask her how old she really is.
"I have a lot on my mind," you manage.
She's quiet for a long moment, just watching you. Then she reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so tender it makes your throat tight.
"You have another final to study for," she says finally. "Go home."
"It's noon."
"Go home." Her voice is firm, brooking no argument. "You're not doing yourself any favors here. Go study. Rest. I'll see you later."
You want to protest. Want to stay here where everything is familiar and safe and makes sense. But she's already turning away, dismissing you with the same authority she uses on undergrads who've overstayed their welcome in the lab.
So you go.
Your apartment feels too quiet when you let yourself in.
You drop your bag by the door and stand there for a moment, staring at nothing. Then you pull out your phone and read the email again.
Ask her about the Darkhold.
You don't even know what that is.
Your laptop is on the coffee table where you left it yesterday. You sink onto the couch and open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
This is ridiculous. You're a scientist. You don't believe in conspiracy theories or anonymous warnings from strangers. You believe in evidence, in data, in things that can be measured and tested and proven.
But you're also a scientist who's been living in some kind of freak fantasy world where you're fucking your doctorate mentor and have university permission. Whose life has become centered someone else's lifelong research project about collagen breakdown and cortical tissue.
So you type: Darkhold.
The results loaded instantly.
The first page wasn't fan theories or folklore. It was CNN. BBC. The New York Times.
WANDA MAXIMOFF AND THE WESTVIEW ANOMALY: WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT THE DARKHOLD
Your stomach dropped.
You clicked the first link with shaking hands. The article was from two years ago, written in the careful, measured tone of journalists trying to report on something that defied explanation. Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, one of the Avengers, had used an ancient grimoire called the Darkhold to create an entire false reality in Westview, New Jersey. Thousands of people held hostage in their own minds. The artifact had been confirmed by multiple government agencies as real, dangerous, and now destroyed.
Except.
Except the article mentioned that the Darkhold had changed hands multiple times throughout history. That it corrupted anyone who used it. That its previous owners were being investigated.
You kept scrolling.
A declassified SHIELD document, partially redacted, listing known magical artifacts and their threat levels. The Darkhold was classified as "Omega-level threat: reality manipulation, consciousness alteration, temporal distortion." There was a footnote about "historical custodians" and a reference number that led nowhere.
An academic paper from the Journal of Paranormal Studies. A real, peer-reviewed publication that had emerged after the Battle of New York made the existence of other realms and magic undeniable. The paper analyzed the Darkhold's linguistic structure, its apparent sentience, the way it adapted to each user. The author cited interviews with "survivors of Darkhold exposure" and included a bibliography that made your hands shake harder.
You opened a new tab. Typed: Darkhold previous owners
The results were sparse but specific. A blog post from someone claiming to have worked in SHIELD archives before the organization fell. They listed names, dates, locations. Most were redacted or uncertain, but one name appeared three times across different centuries:
Agatha Harkness
No.
You clicked through to a historical records database. The kind used by genealogists and researchers, cross-referenced with government archives that had been declassified after the Sokovia Accords made enhanced individuals a matter of public record.
There were photos.
A daguerreotype from 1863: a woman in period dress standing beside a covered wagon, her face partially obscured but her posture unmistakable. The caption read: Agatha Harkness, Salem witch, documented traveling through Colorado Territory.
A newspaper clipping from 1924: Local Woman Consulted in Mysterious Death: Agatha Harkness, scholar of ancient texts, assists police investigation. The photo was grainy but clear enough. Same face. Same dark hair. Same sharp eyes.
A government file from 1984, partially redacted: Subject: Harkness, Agatha. Status: Enhanced Individual. Class 4 Magical Practitioner. Known associations: [REDACTED]. Last confirmed location: [REDACTED]. The photo attached was a standard government ID shot.
It was her.
It was Agatha.
Your Agatha, who made you coffee in the mornings and kissed you breathless in her office and loved you enough to put her entire career on the line in front of the Yale board.
Your Agatha, who appeared in photographs spanning over 150 years without aging a day.
Your books sat unopened on the coffee table. You hadn't eaten, hadn't moved. Your neck ached from hunching over your laptop, but you couldn't stop. This wasn't conspiracy theories or fantasy. This was documented. Verified. Real.
Magic was real. The Avengers had proven it. Wanda Maximoff had proven it. Thor was a god. Doctor Strange manipulated reality. The world had spent the last decade coming to terms with the fact that everything they thought they knew about physics and chemistry and biology was incomplete.
And your girlfriend's name was in government files about the most dangerous magical artifact ever documented.
You were three pages deep into a declassified SWORD report about "Enhanced Individuals of Historical Significance" when you realized you'd been reading for over an hour.
This was insane. You were supposed to be studying, resting like she told you to, and you were reading government documents that confirmed she was, what? A witch? Centuries old? Connected to an artifact that had enslaved an entire town?
You should stop.
You kept reading.
The Darkhold corrupts anyone who uses it. It promises power but delivers only destruction. Those who seek it are changed by it, their lives extended, their humanity eroded, their souls marked by its influence.
Your stomach turned.
Their lives extended.
You should ask her how old she really is.
The math was right there in the historical records. If the 1863 photo was real, and it was in a fucking government database, then Agatha was at least 180 years old. Probably older. The Salem reference suggested much, much older.
But that was impossible. Except it wasn't. Not anymore. Not in a world where Thor was over a thousand years old and Captain America had been frozen for seventy years and Wanda Maximoff could rewrite reality itself.
Agatha had told you she'd been teaching for fifteen years, that she'd done her postdoc in the early 2000s. The math worked out for a normal academic career. But what if that was just the most recent version? What if she'd had dozens of careers, dozens of lives, always moving on before people noticed she didn't age?
You sat up straighter, your heart hammering.
The photos in her office. You'd noticed them before, of course. Agatha at various conferences and field sites, always professional, always composed. But you'd never looked closely at the dates. Never paid attention to the details.
What if—
You're still staring at your laptop screen when your phone rings.
Agatha's name lights up the display, and for a moment you just look at it, heart hammering.
You could ignore it. Could pretend you're asleep, or in the shower, or anywhere but here with your laptop full of evidence that she's been lying to you about everything.
But you answer.
"Hey." Your voice sounds almost normal.
"Hey." There's a pause, and you can hear something in the silence, worry? "How's the studying going?"
"Fine. Good."
Another pause. You can picture her on the other end, in her office probably, frowning at the phone like it's personally offended her.
"Come over," she says finally. "I'll cook, and we can work through whatever you're studying. It'll be more productive than you staring at textbooks alone."
You should say no. Should make an excuse, buy yourself time to process what you've found, to figure out what questions to ask and how to ask them.
But part of you yearns for the grounding of her presence, for the stability in her touch, so you hear yourself say, "Okay. What time?"
"Now?" There's relief in her voice, subtle but unmistakable. "I'm leaving the lab in twenty minutes."
"I'll be there in an hour."
When you hang up, you sit there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then you close your laptop and go to change clothes.
Agatha's house smells like garlic and wine when she lets you in.
She's in jeans and a soft sweater that makes her look soft in a way she rarely does any place else. She kisses you hello, and you let yourself sink into it for just a moment before pulling back.
"Something smells amazing," you say.
"It's just lasagna. It needs another hour, but I thought we could go over your notes while it cooks." She takes your bag and sets it by the couch, then gestures toward the kitchen. "Wine?"
"Please."
You follow her, watching as she pours two glasses of red. Her movements are easy, practiced, and you find yourself wondering how many times she's done this. How many students she's cooked for, how many people she's seduced with wine and French cooking and that smile that makes you forget every rational thought.
How many of them learned the truth?
"You're doing it again," she says, handing you a glass.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking too hard." She touches your cheek, and you have to fight not to flinch. "Whatever's bothering you, we can talk about it. You know that, right?"
Ask her about the Darkhold.
"I know," you lie.
Her phone rings before she can press further. She glances at the screen and frowns.
"It's the lab. I should—"
"Take it," you say quickly. "I'll just... start looking over my notes."
She studies you for another moment, then nods and steps away, phone to her ear. "This is Dr. Harkness."
You hear her voice fade as she walks toward her office, and then the door clicks, not all the way, just enough for privacy.
You're alone in her living room.
Your bag is right there, your textbooks and notes visible through the open zipper. You should pull them out, spread them across the coffee table, actually study like you said you would.
Instead, you stand up and look around.
You've been here before, of course. Multiple times. But you've never really looked. Never paid attention to the details, the things that don't quite fit.
There's a bookshelf against the far wall, and you drift toward it like you're being pulled. Most of the books are what you'd expect, academic texts, scientific journals, a few novels. But there are others, older ones, with cracked leather spines and no titles visible.
You pull one out carefully. The cover is worn smooth, the pages yellowed and brittle. The text inside is in Latin, dense and handwritten, and you can't read most of it. But there are diagrams; complex symbols and geometric patterns that make your eyes hurt if you look at them too long.
You put it back and pull out another. This one is in English, but the language is archaic, full of thee's and thou's. The title page reads: A Treatise on the Manipulation of Elemental Forces, by A. Harkness, 1687.
Your hands are numb as you slide it back into place.
There are more. A journal with entries dated from the 1800s, written in Agatha's handwriting, you'd recognize it anywhere. A photograph in a silver frame, black and white and faded, showing a woman who looks exactly like Agatha standing in front of a building you don't recognize. The date on the back: 1923.
On the mantle, there's a small wooden box. You open it before you can stop yourself.
Inside is a collection of things that don't belong together. A locket with a portrait of a child. A military medal from World War I. A driver's license from 1965 with Agatha's face and a different name. Letters tied with ribbon, the paper so old it's almost transparent.
Evidence. All of it evidence.
She's not lying about what she can do. She's lying about what she is.
You hear her voice from the office, sharp with concern: "How much did they spill? Is anyone hurt?"
You close the box carefully and put it back exactly where it was. Then you return to the couch, pull out your textbook, and open it to a random page.
Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure she'll hear it when she comes back.
The office door opens a moment later, and Agatha emerges looking frustrated.
"Lab emergency," she says. "One of the undergrads knocked over a whole rack of samples. No one's hurt, but it's going to take them hours to clean up and redo the prep work." She runs a hand through her hair, then seems to notice you for the first time. Really notice you.
Her expression shifts. Becomes careful.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But your voice cracks on the word.
She crosses the room slowly, like she's approaching something wild that might bolt. When she reaches the couch, she doesn't sit down. Just stands there, looking down at you with an expression you can't read.
"You found something," she says quietly. It's not a question.
You want to deny it. Want to lie the way she's been lying to you. But you can't make the words come.
"Come with me." Agatha said instead.
"What—"
"Outside. Now."
She didn't wait for you to agree, just headed for the back door. You followed because you didn't know what else to do.
The backyard was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen windows behind you. Agatha led you to a wooden bench near the back fence, partially hidden by an overgrown lilac bush. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and growing things. The smell invading your nervous system and helping you breath easier.
She sat down and patted the space beside her. You sat, leaving a careful inch of space between you.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. You could feel Agatha's presence beside you: solid, patient.
"Tell me what's going on," she said finally. "Please."
The darkness made it easier somehow. You didn't have to look at her. Didn't have to see the worry in her eyes or the tension in her shoulders.
"I got an email," you said quietly. "This morning. Before you woke up."
Agatha didn't respond, just waited.
"It said—" Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard and tried again. "It said I should ask you about the Darkhold. And how old you really are."
You felt Agatha go very still beside you.
"So I googled it," you continued, the words coming faster now. "The Darkhold. And it's not—it's not fiction. It's real. It was real. Wanda Maximoff used it in Westview. SHIELD has files on it. SWORD classified it as an Omega-level threat. And your name—your name is in those files, Agatha. Multiple times. Across different centuries."
Your hands were shaking. You pressed them against your thighs, felt the sweat on them.
"I found photos," you said. "Government databases. Historical records. A daguerreotype from 1863. A newspaper clipping from 1924. A SHIELD file from 1984. And it's you. It's your face. Exactly the same. Not aged. Not different. The same."
The words were tumbling out now, uncontrolled.
"I did the math. If the 1984 photo is real, and it is, it's in a government database, it's verified, then you'd be at least sixty-five years old now. But you're not. You don't look sixty-five. You don't move like sixty-five. And if the 1863 photo is real, then you're—" Your voice broke. "You're over 180 years old. At least. Probably older."
You finally turned to look at her. Her face was shadowed in the darkness, unreadable.
"I don't understand," you said, and you could hear the desperation in your own voice. "I don't understand how this is possible. The math doesn't work. The science doesn't work. You're in photos from 1863. You're listed in SWORD files as a person of interest in the Westview incident. You're connected to the Darkhold. And you never—you never told me."
The betrayal hit you all at once, sharp and devastating.
"You let me fall in love with you," you said, your voice breaking. "You let me trust you. You said you trusted me completely. But you didn't trust me enough to tell me the truth. You didn't trust me enough to tell me that you're—what? A witch? Centuries old? Connected to one of the most dangerous artifacts in documented history?"
Tears were streaming down your face now. You didn't bother wiping them away.
"I know this sounds insane," you said. "I know I sound insane. But I spent three hours uncontrollably reading government documents and historical records and SHIELD files, and it's all real. It's all verified. And I don't—I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to reconcile the person I love with the person in those files. I don't know if I even know you at all."
Your voice dropped to a whisper. "How old are you really?"
Agatha was quiet for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and careful.
"Three hundred and fifty-two years old," she said. "Give or take a few years. I stopped counting precisely sometime in the early 1900s."
The confirmation should have shocked you. Instead, it just made everything feel more real. More impossible.
You swallowed the lump confirmation had conjured before asking, "And the Darkhold?"
"I had it," Agatha said quietly. "For a time. I used it. I studied it. I was—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I was corrupted by it. Changed by it. And then Wanda took it from me in Westview."
You closed your eyes. "The SWORD files said you were uncooperative but not hostile."
"I wasn't interested in helping them understand something they couldn't possibly comprehend," Agatha said. "But I wasn't a threat to them either. Not anymore."
"Not anymore," you repeated. "Meaning you were before."
Agatha didn't deny it.
You opened your eyes and looked at her. Really looked at her. In the darkness, you could just make out the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she was holding herself. Like she was afraid one wrong move would send you running.
"Do you want to know why I studied chemistry?" she asked suddenly. "Specifically paleo-chemistry?"
The question caught you off guard. "What?"
"You asked me once why I chose this field," Agatha said. "Why someone with my background and credentials would focus on something so specific. Do you remember what I told you?"
You did. She'd said something about being fascinated by the way organic materials broke down over time. The way information could be preserved or lost depending on environmental conditions.
"I lied," Agatha said softly. "Or—not lied, exactly. But I didn't tell you the whole truth."
She turned to face you fully, and even in the darkness you could see the vulnerability in her eyes.
"I needed to understand what corruption looks like at a molecular level," she said. "How something breaks down over centuries. How exposure to certain forces, magical forces or not, changes the fundamental structure of organic matter. Whether those changes are reversible. Whether they're progressive."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Whether I'm breaking down."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as the full weight of it settled into your lungs. Five hundred years of slow decay, of feeling herself deteriorate at a molecular level, of wondering if there was anything left of her that was still human.
"The Darkhold corrupts," Agatha continued. "That's what it does. It promises power and knowledge and delivers both, but it takes something in return. It changes you. Marks you. And I needed to know—" she swallowed, "I needed to understand if that corruption was permanent. If it was progressive. If I was going to keep deteriorating until there was nothing left of who I used to be."
She reached for your hand, hesitant, like she wasn't sure you'd let her touch you. You didn't pull away.
"Every extraction protocol I've developed," she said. "Every method for isolating proteins from degraded samples. Every technique for identifying molecular changes in ancient organic matter. It's all been research into my own decay. My own potential corruption. I've been studying myself for decades, trying to understand what I've become."
Her hand was warm in yours, solid and real.
"I wanted to tell you," she said, and there was genuine anguish in her voice. "God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning. But I needed to be sure—"
She trailed off, clearly struggling.
"Sure of what?" you prompted, gentleness finding your tone.
"That you wouldn't run," Agatha said simply. "That you wouldn't look at me the way people have looked at me for centuries when they found out what I was. That you wouldn't see me as a threat or a monster or something to be feared."
She squeezed your hand.
"I'm terrified," she admitted. "I'm terrified that now that you know the truth, you'll leave. And I can't—" Her voice broke. "I can't lose you. I know I should have told you sooner. I know I should have been honest from the start. But I was selfish. I wanted to be normal with you. I wanted to be just Agatha, your advisor, your mentor, your—"
"My girlfriend," you finished quietly.
"Yes," Agatha said. "Your girlfriend. Not Agatha Harkness, centuries-old witch. Not Agatha Harkness, former Darkhold user. Not Agatha Harkness, person of interest in an Omega-level threat investigation. Just Agatha. Just the person who loves you."
The vulnerability in her voice was devastating. This wasn't the confident, commanding professor you'd fallen for. This wasn't the dominant presence who'd taken control in her office and made you feel safe and wanted. This was someone who had lived for centuries and found something worth protecting. Someone who was genuinely afraid of losing it.
You looked down at your joined hands. Hers was steady. Yours was still shaking.
"I'm still angry," you said quietly. "I'm still hurt that you didn't trust me enough to tell me."
"I know," Agatha said.
"And I'm still—I'm still trying to process all of this. The magic. The age. The Darkhold. It's a lot."
"I know," Agatha said again.
"But I—" You took a shaky breath. "I just—I need to understand. I need to see. I need to get it."
Agatha was quiet for a moment. Then she stood, still holding your hand, and pulled you gently to your feet.
"Come with me," she said. "I want to show you something. I want you to see. Then you can decide."
She led you back inside, but instead of returning to the living room, she guided you down a hallway you'd never noticed before. It was narrow and dim, the walls lined with closed doors. You'd been to Agatha's house dozens of times, but you'd never been down this hallway. Never even seen it.
At the end of the hall was a door that looked older than the others. The wood was dark and heavy, the handle tarnished brass. Agatha stopped in front of it and turned to face you.
"This is all of it," she said quietly. "This is all of me. Everything I've been hiding. Everything I've been afraid to show you. You need to see it to understand."
Her hand was on the doorknob, but she didn't turn it yet. She was giving you a chance to back out. To say no. To walk away.
You didn't.
"Show me," you said.
Agatha nodded once, then opened the door.
Beyond it, stairs descended into darkness.
The air changed immediately as you stepped through the doorway. Cooler. Denser. The kind of cold that came from earth and stone, from spaces that hadn't seen sunlight in decades. Maybe centuries.
Agatha went first, her hand still holding yours, guiding you down the narrow wooden stairs. Each step creaked under your weight, the sound swallowed by the darkness below. You could smell it now, earth, yes, but something else. Something mineral. Like the air in a cave system, or the sharp metallic tang you got when working with certain compounds in the lab. Limestone? Iron oxide? Your brain was already cataloging, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar through the familiar.
The stairs were steep and uneven, clearly original to the house. This part hadn't been renovated with the rest of Agatha's carefully curated home. This was old. Untouched. Preserved.
At the bottom, Agatha reached for something on the wall. A click, and then light flooded the space.
You stopped breathing.
The cellar was larger than you'd expected, maybe twenty feet across, with a low ceiling supported by thick wooden beams. The floor was packed earth, and the walls were stone. But it wasn't the architecture that made your heart stop.
It was the sigils.
They covered every surface. The walls, the beams, even parts of the floor. Intricate markings that glowed faintly with purple light, pulsing like they had their own heartbeat. They weren't painted. They looked carved, etched directly into the stone and wood, filled with something that caught the light and held it.
You stepped forward without thinking, your hand slipping from Agatha's as you moved toward the nearest wall.
"What are these?" Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
Up close, the sigils were even more complex. They weren't random symbols or mystical scribbles. There was structure here. Pattern. You traced one with your finger, not quite touching the stone, following the lines as they curved and intersected. It reminded you of something, molecular diagrams, maybe, or the way crystalline structures formed under specific conditions. There was symmetry, but not perfect symmetry. Intentional asymmetry, like the chirality of organic molecules.
"Are they—is this a language?" you asked, moving to the next marking. "Or a mathematical sequence?"
Agatha came to stand beside you, close enough that you could feel her warmth against the cellar's chill.
"Both," she said quietly. "And neither. They're sigils. Protective wards, mostly. Some are for containment. Some are for... other things."
You turned to look at her. "Containment of what?"
"Magic." Agatha's hand came up to trace a different sigil, one that spiraled outward in a Fibonacci sequence. "My magic, specifically. When I work down here, when I'm doing something that requires... precision... I need to make sure it doesn't bleed out into the rest of the house. Into the neighborhood. These keep it contained."
Your mind was racing. "So they're functional. Not decorative."
"Very functional."
You moved along the wall, your eyes cataloging each marking. There had to be hundreds of them, maybe thousands, layered over each other in some places, standing alone in others. The purple glow was faint but consistent, like bioluminescence in deep-sea organisms. Except this wasn't biological.
"It's so orderly," you said, more to yourself than to Agatha. "So calculated. It's not random. There's a system here. A logic."
"There has to be," Agatha said. "Magic without structure is just chaos. Destruction. These sigils are like... equations. Each one serves a specific purpose, follows specific rules. Change one line, one curve, and the whole thing fails. Or worse."
You stopped at a particularly complex sigil that covered nearly three feet of wall space. It was beautiful in the way chemical structures were beautiful, elegant, efficient, purposeful. You could see how each element connected to the next, how the pattern built on itself.
"It's almost like code," you murmured. "Like programming. If-then statements. Conditional logic."
"Exactly like that." There was something in Agatha's voice, relief, maybe. Like she'd been hoping you'd see it this way. "Magic is just another system. Another set of laws. They're not the laws you learned in school, but they're laws nonetheless."
You turned to look at the rest of the cellar. Now that your eyes had adjusted, you could see more. Shelves lined one wall, filled with objects you couldn't immediately identify. Some looked ancient, clay vessels, metal implements with unfamiliar shapes. Others were distinctly modern: glass beakers, graduated cylinders, a small centrifuge that looked like it belonged in your lab.
"You work down here," you said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
Agatha was quiet for a moment. "Research. Experimentation. Trying to understand how magic interacts with matter at a molecular level. Trying to understand what it's doing to me."
You wanted to ask more, but something else caught your eye. Another set of shelves, these ones lined with photographs in simple frames.
Agatha followed your gaze. "Go ahead," she said softly. "Look at them."
Your legs felt unsteady as you crossed the cellar. The photographs were arranged chronologically, you realized. Oldest on the left, newest on the right.
You picked up the first one with shaking hands.
The photograph was sepia-toned, the kind that came from early wet plate collodion processes. The woman in it stood in front of a large stone building, wearing a dark Victorian dress with a high collar and fitted bodice. Her hair was pulled back severely, her expression serious.
It was Agatha.
Not someone who looked like Agatha. Not a relative or ancestor. Agatha. The same face. The same eyes. The same slight asymmetry in her features that you'd memorized over months of staring at her across lab benches and dinner tables.
You turned the frame over. Written on the back in faded ink: Salem, Massachusetts. 1863.
Your hands were shaking harder now. You did the math automatically, the way you always did. 2026 minus 1863. One hundred and sixty-two years.
You set the photograph down carefully and picked up the next one.
1890s, based on the clothing and photographic style. Agatha standing in front of a different building, this one with a sign in what looked like German. She was wearing a long coat and a hat, her expression slightly less severe. But her face, her face was exactly the same.
You moved through them chronologically, your scientific mind cataloging every detail. 1920s: Agatha in a laboratory, surrounded by equipment that looked primitive by modern standards but cutting-edge for the era. 1950s: Agatha at what looked like an archaeological dig site, dirt on her clothes, a trowel in her hand. 1980s: Agatha in a classroom, standing at a chalkboard covered in chemical formulas. 2000s: Agatha in a lab that looked almost identical to the one you worked in now.
Each photograph showed the same woman. Not similar. Not close. Identical.
You found a particularly bright sigil and picked up the 1863 photograph again. Under the light and squinted eyes, you could see every detail. The bone structure of her face. The exact placement of her features. The small scar above her left eyebrow that you'd kissed a hundred times.
You picked up a photograph from the 1980s and held them side by side.
"This is impossible," you whispered. "Facial structure doesn't not change like this. Bone density decreases with age. Collagen breaks down. Skin loses elasticity. Even with the best genetics, even with perfect health, there should be changes. Subtle changes. But there's nothing. Not even—"
You looked closer, comparing the area around her eyes in both photographs.
"Not true crow's feet," you said. "Not bone density loss. Not skin texture changes. Nothing."
You set both photographs down and picked up two more, these from 1920 and 2010. Ninety years apart. You held them up to the light, looking for any sign of difference. Any evidence of aging.
There was none.
"Your face," you said, your voice barely audible. "It's exactly the same. Not just similar. Not well-preserved. Exactly. The. Same."
You turned to look at Agatha, who was standing very still, watching you process this. Giving your brain the space and time to work through the reasoning, try to find the thread you desperately wanted. The thread she's been looking for.
"How is this possible?" you asked. "How is any of this possible?"
Agatha opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, something changed in the air. The purple glow from the sigils brightened slightly, and you felt it. A shift in pressure, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
Agatha's hands began to glow.
You froze, watching as purple light pooled in her palms, soft and controlled. It moved like liquid, flowing between her fingers, but it didn't drip. It didn't dissipate. It just... was.
Your fear was there, yes. But stronger than the fear was something else.
Curiosity.
You stepped closer, drawn by the same instinct that had made you fall in love with chemistry in the first place. The need to understand. To observe. To know.
"What am I looking at?" you asked.
Agatha held her hands up, letting you see clearly. The purple energy moved through her fingers like it was following some kind of physical law. It flowed from her palms up to her fingertips, then back down, then out again in gentle waves.
"My magic," Agatha said simply. "This is what I am."
You watched the pattern of movement. It wasn't random. There was structure here, just like with the sigils. Flow. Direction. Purpose.
"It's almost like..." you trailed off, trying to find the right comparison. "Like bioluminescence? But conscious. Directed. How are you controlling it?"
"Will," Agatha said, her eyes watching you as the purple softly shone on your face. "Intention. I think about what I want it to do, and it responds. It's like flexing a muscle. Or solving an equation. I know the rules, so I know how to manipulate the variables."
Your mind was already trying to apply physics to what you were seeing. "So it's energy. Measurable energy. That means it could theoretically be quantified. Studied. If it's real, if I can see it and measure it, then there should be laws governing it. Conservation of energy. Thermodynamic principles."
You stopped yourself, realizing how ridiculous you sounded, then because stopping was never your strong suit.
"No, really," you said, looking up at Agatha. "If it's real, if it exists in our physical universe, then it has to follow some kind of rules. Even if they're not the rules I learned in school."
Agatha's expression was complicated, terrified, yes, but also something else. Amusement? Relief?
"You're not wrong," she said quietly. "Magic does follow rules. Very specific rules. I've spent centuries trying to understand them."
You stared at the purple light in her hands. It was beautiful. Mesmerizing. And absolutely, undeniably real.
"Can I—" you started, then stopped.
Agatha understood. She held out one hand, palm up, the purple energy swirling gently across her skin.
"Go ahead," she said softly.
You reached out tentatively, your hand shaking. When your fingertips brushed against the purple light, you gasped.
It was warm. Not hot, but distinctly warm, like touching sun-heated stone. There was actual heat generation. Which meant energy transfer.
"It's not just visual," you said, your voice filled with wonder. "There's actual energy output. Thermal energy. That means it's following thermodynamic principles. Heat generation requires energy input, which means you're converting something, your will, your intention, whatever— into measurable physical energy."
The purple light wrapped around your fingers gently, and you felt it. Not just the warmth, but something else. A kind of presence. Like the energy was aware of you. Responding to you.
"It's incredible," you whispered.
You looked up at Agatha, your eyes wide, your mind reeling with implications and questions and the sheer impossibility of what you were experiencing.
"You're real," you said. "All of this is real."
Agatha nodded slowly. The purple light faded from her hands, leaving only the faint glow of the sigils on the walls.
"I'm real," she confirmed. "I'm three hundred and fifty-two years old. I have magic. I studied chemistry because I wanted to understand decay at a molecular level. I wanted to know if I was... breaking. If there was anything left of who I used to be. And I wanted to understand the things I've done. The people I've hurt. The decisions I've made."
You were silent, your mind trying to process everything at once. The photographs. The sigils. The magic. The centuries of life contained in the woman standing in front of you.
"Why me?" you finally asked. "Why did you choose to be honest me? Show me all of this?"
Agatha stepped closer, close enough that you could see the fear in her eyes. The vulnerability.
"Because you're brilliant," she said. "Because you see things clearly, even when they don't make sense. Because you ask questions instead of running away. Because you look at an unsolvable problem that could hurt you choose to figure it out. And because I love you. And I couldn't keep hiding from someone I love."
You felt tears on your face, hot against your cold cheeks.
"I don't know how to process this," you admitted.
"I know." Agatha's hand came up to cup your face, her thumb brushing away a tear. "Take your time. Look around. Ask questions. Touch things. Study them. Use your scientist brain to make sense of it, because I think you need to. I think that's the only way you'll believe it, really believe it."
She stepped back, giving you space. Giving you permission.
"Everything in this cellar is yours to examine," she said quietly. "Nothing is off-limits. Ask me anything. I'll answer honestly."
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand and took a shaky breath. Then you turned back to the walls.
The sigils were calling to you, their purple glow, their intricate patterns, their impossible existence. You moved closer to the nearest one, a complex spiral that covered nearly two feet of stone. Up close, you could see how deeply it was carved, how the grooves caught the light.
"Can I touch it?" you asked.
"Yes."
You pressed your fingertips against the stone, tracing the carved lines. They were warm, warmer than the surrounding wall. The purple glow brightened slightly under your touch, then faded back to its baseline luminescence.
"It's responding to me," you said, wonder creeping into your voice.
"It's responding to intent," Agatha corrected gently. "You're curious, not hostile. It recognizes that."
"How old is this one?" you asked, finger running over a sigil with smoother edges, worn.
"That one's about two hundred years old. I carved it when I first bought this house."
"And it still works? The magic doesn't degrade?"
"Not if it's maintained properly. Magic is like any other system. It requires upkeep. I renew the sigils every few decades. Reinforce the ones that see heavy use."
You moved to another sigil, this one more geometric. "What does this one do?"
"Containment. Specifically for transmutation work. When I'm converting one element to another, the energy release can be... significant. This keeps it localized."
Your head snapped toward her, eyes a little wide. "You can transmute elements? That's—that's nuclear-level energy manipulation. That should require—"
"Massive amounts of energy, yes. Which is why I need the containment sigils." Agatha's expression was carefully neutral, watching you process this.
You turned back to the wall, your mind racing through implications. If magic could manipulate matter at the atomic level, if it could convert elements, then it was operating on principles that made nuclear physics look simple.
Something moved you to the shelves. The equipment was a strange mix of eras and purposes. Ancient clay vessels sat next to modern beakers. A leather-bound grimoire with pages that looked like vellum rested beside a stack of contemporary research journals. Strange metal instruments you couldn't identify shared space with a centrifuge that looked like it came from your own lab.
You picked up one of the metal instruments, a circular device with rotating rings covered in symbols.
"What is this?"
"An astrolabe. Modified for magical calculations. It helps me determine optimal timing for certain workings based on celestial alignments."
You turned it over in your hands, watching how the rings moved. There was logic here. Mathematical precision. It wasn't random mysticism, it was a tool with a specific function.
You looked up at her. "Show me again. Your magic."
Agatha hesitated, then held out her hands. The purple light bloomed in her palms, swirling and flowing like liquid energy.
This time, you didn't just watch. You stepped closer, studying the movement patterns. The way the light flowed from her palms to her fingertips and back again.
You reached out slowly, and when your fingers made contact with the purple energy, you focused on the sensation. Warmth, yes. But also a kind of pressure. Not physical pressure, something else. Like the energy was pushing back against your touch, maintaining its form.
"It has surface tension," you said, amazed. "Like a liquid. But it's not a liquid. What is it?"
"Honestly? I don't know. I've been trying to classify it for centuries. It behaves like energy. It can do work, generate heat, create force. But it also behaves like matter, it has form, it can be contained, it responds to physical barriers. It's both and neither."
You moved your hand through the purple light, watching how it parted around your fingers and then flowed back together. "Is there heat generation? Measurable heat?"
"Yes. I've tested it. The temperature increase is proportional to the amount of magic I'm channeling."
"So it follows thermodynamic principles. Energy input creates heat output. That means it's real. Measurable. Observable." Your voice was rising with excitement now, the scientist in you fully engaged. "If it's real, if it exists in our physical universe, then it has to follow rules. Maybe not the rules I learned, but rules nonetheless."
"That's what I believe," Agatha said softly. "That's what I've been trying to figure out and prove."
You pulled your hand back and looked at her. Really looked at her. At the woman who'd just revealed three and a half centuries of life, who'd shown you magic and photographs and impossible truths, who was standing in her cellar looking terrified that you'd run.
"This violates everything I know," you said. "Every principle of physics and chemistry and biology I've ever learned. My entire education, my entire understanding of how the universe works, it's all saying this is impossible."
Agatha's expression crumpled slightly, fear winning out.
"But I can feel it," you continued. "I can see it. I can measure it. And if I can measure it, then it's real. And if it's real, then my understanding of the universe was just, incomplete. Not wrong. Incomplete."
You stepped closer to her, close enough to see the hope beginning to replace the fear in her eyes.
"You're asking me to expand my worldview," you said. "To accept that there are systems and laws I don't understand yet. That's not actually that hard. That's just... science. Real science. Observing something that doesn't fit your model and adjusting your model instead of denying the observation."
"You're not running," Agatha whispered.
"No." You reached up to cup her face, mirroring the gesture she'd made earlier. "I'm not running. You were honest with me. You showed me everything, even though you were terrified. You trusted me with the truth. How could I run from that?"
"Most people would."
"I'm not most people." You smiled, watching Agatha's eyes growing glassier with every second. "I'm a scientist who just discovered that magic is real and measurable and follows rules I don't understand yet. Do you know how exciting that is? Do you know how many questions I have?"
Agatha laughed, the sound breaking with relief. "I can imagine."
"I'm going to want to study this," you warned her. "I'm going to want to run experiments. Test hypotheses. Figure out the rules. I'm going to be insufferable about it."
"I'm counting on it."
You looked around the cellar one more time. At the sigils glowing on the walls. At the photographs spanning more than a century and a half. At the equipment scattered across the shelves. At the evidence of three hundred and fifty-two years of life, of magic, of secrets kept and now revealed.
Your scientific mind was still screaming that this was impossible. But your heart, the part of you that loved Agatha, that had chosen her, that had trusted her, knew it was true.
All of it was true.
And somehow, impossibly, that made you love her more.
Not despite the magic. Not despite the centuries. Not despite the impossibility.
Because of her courage in showing you. Because of her trust in your ability to understand. Because she'd looked at you and decided you were worth the risk of honesty.
"Thank you," you said quietly. "For trusting me with this."
Agatha pulled you into her arms, holding you tight against her chest. You could feel her heartbeat, steady, real, alive after three and a half centuries.
"Thank you for staying," she whispered into your hair.
You stayed like that for a long moment, surrounded by magic and science and impossible truths, choosing each other in the face of everything that said you shouldn't.
And it felt like the most logical decision you'd ever made.
So I've made a start on my fics for @aaa22kisses and submitted my first one today! Here's what to expect (sorry I haven't thought of titles for two of them yet! 🙈)
Day 5: Bridge of Nose/Fondness
Lilia Calderu & Werewolf Reader 🐺 (H&C, fluff, SFW) (WIP)
Day 8: Throat/Desire
'Love Bite' Agatha Harkness x Vampire Reader 🧛🏻♀️ (smut, NSFW) (WIP)
Day 9: Nape of Neck/Attachment
'House Rules' Lilia Calderu x Girlfriend Reader 🧼 (flirty, fluff, SFW) (COMPLETE)
Day 18: Hip/Restriction
Agatha Harkness x Witch Reader 🧙🏻♀️ (angst, smut, NSFW) (WIP)
Sorry for disappearing yet again. Life has been crazy hectic, but I've been itching to finally, finally get this next chapter finished. It's been a labour of love that's taken me months. Good news is that a good chunk of chapter 56 is already written, so I promise I won't keep you waiting half as long for the next one.
Everyone say thank you to @agathaspett for helping put together the visuals for this chapter, and to @grilledcheeseandguavajelly for being the best beta a gal could ask for. 🖤
Please check the new tags, enjoy (yet another) playlist, and I hope this makes up for the big bad director's absence.
On with the show...
✨ 🎥 🪄
…everything.
That’s the first thing you see when your eyes crack open the next morning.
Because Tuesday arrives in soft, tender, merciful blue.
Not the bright white of Malibu, or the colourless nothing of the void, or the grey of every morning you woke up alone.
It’s all blue. Blue glow from somewhere you can’t place yet. Blue eyes that find yours before you’re fully awake.
She stayed.
You stir in the sheets, reaching on instinct for the woman you dreamed of all night. For the woman your body has reached for every morning for 10 days and never once found. For the arm that was draped over your waist when you fell asleep and the heartbeat your ear was pressed to when you begged her to stay.
But she’s not there.
Not like that, at least.
Instead, you soon realise Agatha is sat up in your bed, propped against your pillows at your headboard, with your Mitski tee still on her body and her oversized reading glasses perched on the end of her perfect nose. She’s bathed in the blue glow of her laptop, busying herself in the dark with whatever directors busy themselves with when the rest of the world is still asleep.
And even in your sleepy stupor, you catch the exact moment her eyes flick from you then back to the screen. Quick enough to be casual. Not quick enough to fool a girl who’s spent months studying every micro-expression on that beautiful face.
She was watching you.
“Agatha?” you murmur groggily, blinking away the remnants of sleep.
“Morning you,” she whispers.
But that gorgeous, sleep-rasped morning voice of hers that you adore? It isn’t there, because it sounds like she’s been up for hours.
And she looks it, too.
She has that far-too-awake look you recognise from the last time you spent the night together. When she wouldn’t sleep—couldn’t sleep—because of you, and you’d woken up gasping in her giant four-poster bed and found blues already waiting for you in the dark.
The night she’d watched you sleep because she was terrified you’d sleepwalk into her secrets again, before she showed you the sunrise that’s been living on her home screen ever since.
You were trapped in the body of a wolf. An old curse. In the day you were a beast and in the night a witch again . You first met Agatha because you came to kill Evenora. Agatha’s mother cursed you to the body of a wolf as punishment. Where will fate take you from there?
Story Previous Chapters Here | Werewolf AU Masterlist | AO3 | My Stories MasterList | Tip Jar💰| Agatha + Reader List | Alpha/Omega Verse MasterList
Warning: WOLF GORE / Blo0dy / Vi0lence / Nicky Grief / Found Family / Kidnapp*ng / Mind Control / Hallucinations / RioxRxAgatha / Wolf Curse / Killing / Eating People / WOLF BITES / AgathaRioxCursed Reader /MDNI Body morphing / Werewolf AU / G0re / short chapter update sorry guys 1k / Reader g!p/ 18+
‘YOU LET HER OUT OF THE BASEMENT? SERIOUSLY, THE WEREWOLF IS IN THE HOUSE NOW? YOU FUCKED YOUR SITUATIONSHIP, AND NOW SHE’S GOING TO EAT US!’ Jen screamed at your wives in Bohners' kitchen. Which had no privacy, and even if they’d left the house, you’d never be able to stop the ringing in your ears from the potions witch.
Agatha’s cursing back wasn’t much better.
You felt like a rat in a cage, inside the house - outside the captive basement.
You missed the woods. A half lie, you didn’t miss a life hallucinating Rio, Nicky, and Agatha. But you certainly didn’t miss 20th-century modern homes.
‘Jen do you need a reminder of who got you all that magic back?’ Agatha threatened from the kitchen, purple magic swirling in the air.
You missed the many hours ago of bliss. Where you’d slept in between the witches so peacefully, why did it seem among witches that hours were so confusing, night you were human. Day a monster once more, how many hours had it been? How many days had you been in that basement?
‘Call her a werewolf again, and I’ll teach you what kind of Hell I can make just for you.’ Rio threatened back.
Alice's eyebrows shot up at that one.
‘Stop it. The fact remains; This isn’t safe for anyone.’ Lilia countered.
How you longed to be back upstairs; they’d been fighting for so long you were sure nothing was being solved. The bed was soft too. Happy at last, tail wagging even. But the witches came knocking, and well - your honeymoon was over.
In the living room you grew increasingly concerned.
Alice and the boy full of magic watched you, scared you’d kill them, scared you’d run.
You hated that he reminded you of your lost son. Hated that he reeked of chaos magic. The mere idea that this child was supposed to change you back was preposterous.
Alice chewed on her bottom lip, and you bit your tongue so hard blood gushed. You couldn’t lose control. Not here.
Your skin felt like a million maggots crawling. You hated being inside, the confinement yes, but the smells of bleach and fabric softener. The lights so plastic, so manmade. The only comfort was the scent of Rio and Agatha. They were close, they were your true home.
Your eyes darted to the windows, the doors; you couldn’t leave - you’d kill the whole town outside. But you were damned in here too; you’d kill the coven just as quick.
The buzz of electricity set your teeth on edge. You despised any cage.
It was a sickness to be this way.
In human form, wearing men's jeans and another Bohner T-shirt of some graphic. It was a tongue and lips; whatever it was, it was scratchy, plastic fibers and - and god you needed out.
‘WE PROMISED TO HELP - NOT GET EATEN!’
‘Jen calm down, we just need our plan-‘ the old ‘fortune teller’ attempted only to be talked over again.
You close your eyes as tight as possible, toes curling on the hardwood; it wasn’t your paws.
You try so hard to ignore the scent of the adolescent. He swallowed, and you could smell him - the blood pumping, sweat dripping down his shoulder.
You could so easily bite down and his body would break, a meal in moments. The blood list made you clench your fists.
You twist away from the boy, gazing at anything to distract you. Thats when you see it - staring blankly at the painting above the fireplace.
“God Bohner has the worst art taste. Are they eating that animal?” Billy naively asked awkwardly - needing to fill the void.
You stopped breathing as you stared deeply into the painting. Mesmerized with more than the two young witches could possibly understand l.
The painting didn’t belong to the man whose clothes you were wearing.
You were a story told for centuries. In books, paintings and songs.
“Cheery little drawing isn’t it?” Alice murmured over your shoulder as you stared at the printing of the oil painting you knew too well.
“Frans Snyders' painting of Wolves Devouring a Horse.” You said and suddenly felt very far away from Rio and Agatha.
“The blood looks uh, really bloody,” Alice whispers, uncomfortable.
“Kinda dramatic, right?” Billy laughs, and there’s something a little pitiful about the noise.
You stare into the wolf's eyes.
“No, actually. That’s exactly how it looks. A hunt, the devouring of an innocent animal by a beast. Hot on blood lust, gone all thought of right and wrong. Only a deep need being realized, the breaking of the pimply skin. Flesh pulled and torn from muscle, as bone crunches like twigs. Snapping over and over as heat rises out of the open cavity. The underbelly swelling and bursting. There is nothing more primal, nothing more disappointing.” You muse not remembering that you are speaking with your outside voice now.
“We gotta get you out more,” Alice says to you, but your eyes focus on the eyes of the dying horse. The red on his white fur contrasting the rest of the pallet.
“Didn’t take you for an art girlie.” Billy tried to joke; you didn’t move a single muscle.
“I can’t stay here. Put me back down in the basement.” You panicked, the painting telling you too much about yourself.
Memories, folklore, stories of a beast so disgusting it would eat an infant out of its mother's stomach.
You're walking backwards, anxious pup that you were towards the basement.
Rio came around the corner and you dodged her, heading for the basement door when you stopped -
Then yelped like a hound with a smacked nose.
“Does she normally do that?” Alice questioned, and you twisted over your shoulder to see….your tail? Being stepped on by Rio.
“No, no, no,-“ you panicked. It’s happening; you are losing control. You can’t change back - You’re a monster who’s always going to be this way!
“Sweet paws, it’s daylight saving time. It’s okay, breathe.” Death tells you, and you can’t believe how you'd forgotten such an obvious thing.
Your skin breaks open around your fingers; you look down to see fur sprouting out.
Daylight saving time, right.
But now you are in a normal house - your shoulder breaks apart, and you bump into one of the walls. The wood breaks and the tail under Death's foot grows two feet in length.
“Get Billy out of here!” You shout and your knees break open; you fall to the ground.
The turning is never kind, but you’d break this home and everyone in it soon enough.
Alice grabs him by the front of his shirt and just about throws him out the door. The other two are taking entirely too long to run are watching in horror.
“Shows over!” Agatha shouts at them, in that salty sense of humor she has.
Jen and Calderu are hand in hand, running for the door.
But as the last of your human skin, muscle, and fat fall to the floor.
You let out a roar deep and carnal enough that it makes the whole house shake.
“Moving moving!” Lilia is chanting as she gets outside.
Your nails break the wooden floor; your mind clouds. It’s not your fault; you resemble that stupid painting. Lust for carnage that could never be satiated.
Agatha and Rio both try to speak. But it was too late, you’d gone too long without a the outdoors, without the chase…without a new meal.
You no longer had control.
The front door was open.
It’s was time to eat.
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Mommy Agatha who punishes you by forcing you to wear nipple clamps. Sometimes it’s only for 5 minutes, if your a really bad girl she make you wear them for 1 hour. You’ll beg every time.
“Mommy please I’m so so sorry mommy” you beg on your knees pulling at her trousers. She looks down and pets your head “hon you should have thought about that before you where such a naughty girl”
