So, @erisenyo sent me an ask about Sokka/Hahn for the prompt of 'first kill' and boy did that make my brain sparkle like a disco ball. The idea of an AU in which Sokka and Hahn team up and hunt down Zhao for what he did to the moon spirit (and subsequentially leading to Yue's death) really held so much potential.
So here it is, the aftermath of their first kill, for @atlararepairmonth (with more to come later).
Tags: slow burn, possessive Agatha, power imbalance, academic tension, grief and magic, dark academia, angst and fluff, smut, fingering, spit, cunnilingus, tags to be updated.
Synopsis: A guarded PhD student is assigned to the mysterious and powerful Professor Agatha Harkness. In their candlelit meetings, secrets unravel, and a slow-burning tension grows between teacher and pupil—where knowledge, desire, and possession intertwine in a dark dance of magic and longing.
Chapter Twelve: Corpus et Sigillum
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You can barely form words, but when she growls against your soaked skin, you feel it rumble through your whole body:
“You’re mine.”
The words are ragged, half-moan, half-command. Her lips seal around your clit, sucking, pulling, until you cry out. Your hands grab at her hair, not to stop her—never that—but to hold onto something as your body trembles beneath her.
“Say it,” she pants against you, fingers moving harder, her mouth devouring you. “Say who you belong to.”
Your head tips back, mouth falling open, gasping, moaning through the unbearable, perfect waves of pleasure. “You—Agatha—” The sound is a broken plea.
She moans into you, the vibration almost too much, and when you scream her name again, she pulls back just enough to drag in a breath. Her eyes are wild, flushed cheeks gleaming with sweat and lust.
“I’m not letting anyone else touch you. Ever. You hear me?” Her voice is low, guttural, as her fingers drive into you again, harder, curling in that spot that makes your whole body spasm. “Only me. Only me.”
The words hit harder than the thrust of her hand. Your body jerks, your thighs clamping around her shoulders as her tongue finds your clit again, sucking with obscene, wet sounds.
You writhe, cry, plead—each moan a surrender she pulls from you with ruthless precision. Her pace builds, faster, merciless, until she can barely breathe against you, so lost in the taste of you that she’s gasping between licks, drunk on it.
“You’re mine,” she repeats, harsher this time, as if she needs you to feel it as deeply as she does.
And when your release rips through you—shaking, shuddering, breaking—you scream her name into the night, her fingers and tongue coaxing every wave of pleasure until you’re trembling, boneless, spent in her hold.
Agatha doesn’t give you space to recover. The moment your climax leaves you limp and trembling, she’s crawling up your body with that predatory grace, bare, flushed, and glistening, she straddles your hips, her skin hot against yours, her breasts brushing your chest as she leans down.
Her chin is still slick from you, lips parted, eyes burning. “You thought I was finished?” she growls, voice husky and wrecked. Her hand fists in your hair, tugging until your throat arches beautifully for her. She bites down on the tender skin there, hard enough to make you gasp, and laughs darkly against your pulse. “Oh no, sweet girl. I’ve barely begun.”
Her free hand slides down your chest, nails scratching lightly before she seizes your breast, squeezing hard, rolling your nipple between her fingers until your back arches. You whimper, but it only makes her smirk. “So sensitive… so perfect for me,” she moans, leaning down to catch your nipple in her mouth. Her teeth graze, then bite, sharp enough to sting. She sucks hard, tongue flicking, and when your desperate cry slips out, Agatha moans right against your skin.
“You like that?” she pants, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, lips wet, chin gleaming. “You like me marking what’s mine?”
One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat, while the other palms your breast, pinching until your body jerks. She hums at the reaction, then lowers her head to wrap her lips around your nipple, biting and sucking until the sting and wet heat make your voice crack on a moan.
“Gods, listen to you,” she groans, releasing your breast with a final sharp nip. “So desperate when I touch you. So fucking perfect.”
Her hips grind against your thigh, the slick heat of her arousal smearing across your skin. She moans without restraint, head tipping back, lips parted, eyes fluttering as the sensation overtakes her. For a fleeting second, her dominance falters, pleasure unraveling her control—but then her gaze snaps back to you, molten and unyielding.
“Look at me,” she demands, voice sharp as her hips roll again. “Don’t you dare look away.”
Her hand trails down your body, nails scraping lightly, until her fingers press firmly between your thighs. The wetness waiting for her makes her groan, deep and guttural, like the sound surprises even her. “Fuck,” she mutters, half to herself, half to you. “Already dripping for me again.”
Then her fingers thrust inside you in one deliberate, claiming movement—two sinking deep, curling just right. Her thumb circles your clit with ruthless precision, pulling a cry from your lips as your hips buck up against her hand.
She smirks, lips brushing yours but denying you the kiss. “You’ll take it,” she growls, her pace quickening, her dominance returning full-force. “You’ll take everything I give you.”
Her words reverberate through you, striking somewhere deeper than your body, something raw and trembling in your chest. Mine. The syllable alone has you tightening around her fingers, your breath shattering in shallow gasps as her thumb circles mercilessly over your clit.
Your thighs try to clamp around her wrist, but she holds steady, unyielding. The way she moves inside you—firm, purposeful, curling into the spot that makes you cry out every time—feels like she’s mapping you, like she’s learning you with terrifying precision. Every thrust is a demand. Every drag of her thumb is a command.
And you obey, helpless.
The heat inside you is unbearable, a molten pressure that builds with every flick of her wrist, every thrust of her fingers. You can’t stop yourself from whining her name, from begging without words, your body jerking up into her touch as though she controls every nerve ending you have.
She leans down, lips at your ear, her breath hot, voice low and rough:
“Come for me. Right here. On my hand. Show me you belong to me.”
Your entire body arches, breaks, splinters. The orgasm rips through you so violently you almost sob, your voice catching on her name as your hips buck against her hand. White heat spreads from your center to every limb, your pulse a roaring tide in your ears.
You’re aware of nothing but her—her hand moving you through it, her weight holding you down, her voice whispering filth and praise in equal measure. Your thighs shake, your nails dig into her back, and still she doesn’t let up, prolonging every aftershock until you’re gasping, shivering, clinging to her like you might dissolve if she let go.
Only when your body finally begins to still does she ease her pace. Her fingers slip free, wet and glistening, and she brings them slowly to her lips.
You’re too dazed to do more than watch as she sucks them clean, her eyes never leaving yours. Dark. Smoldering. Possessive.
Your hands twitch upward, instinctive—you want to touch her, to ease her, to return the overwhelming pleasure she just gave you. But the moment your fingers brush her waist, her hand snaps around your wrist, pinning it hard into the mattress.
Her eyes burn into yours, molten and commanding.
“No,” she growls, hips rolling with another desperate grind against you. “You stay right there. You don’t move unless I tell you.”
The sharpness of her voice makes your breath catch. Your body still aches from your release, but the sight of her above you—dark hair tumbling wild around her face, lips parted, robe long discarded on the bed, her chest flushed and heaving—pulls a fresh wave of heat into your core.
“Please,” you whisper, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for—permission, freedom, the right to touch her.
Her hips roll harder, dragging her clit against the firm plane of your stomach, her moan breaking through her teeth. She leans down, her other hand bracing the bed by your head, her hair brushing across your face as she pants against your lips.
She catches your fingers first, dragging them to her lips with deliberate intent.
She leans down, brushing her lips against your fingers, teasing each one with a slow, deliberate lick. Warm, wet, deliberate, she tastes you—tracing each digit with her tongue, letting you feel every inch of her mouth. Your chest rises and falls too fast; your breath catches in your throat as shivers run from your spine to your core.
She hums softly around your fingers, pulling them slightly into her mouth, letting the wet pressure swirl against your skin. Her lips wrap around your index finger, sucking it slowly, teasing it with the tip of her tongue. You gasp at the sensation, your fingers trembling, and she hums again, the vibration rolling straight into your chest.
“Do you like that?” she rasps, dragging your middle finger between her lips now, sucking and licking with an almost cruel patience. The heat of her mouth, the wetness, the soft, guttural moans she can’t contain—everything about it makes your knees weak.
She alternates, dragging one finger out, then the other, swirling her tongue over them, biting lightly at the tips, and humming against your palm. The combination of control and hunger makes your core tighten involuntarily, heart hammering, pulse racing.
Her dark eyes meet yours, molten and commanding. “You taste so good,” she breathes, voice rough, dragging your fingers further in as if she can’t get enough. The thought of her claiming you like this, taking every inch of your touch into her mouth, ignites something deep and raw inside you.
Her dark eyes never leave yours as she leans down, hips hovering just above your stomach. Slowly, deliberately, she guides your hand beneath her, pressing those three fingers right against her soaked, trembling entrance.
“Don’t move,” she growls, voice low and dangerous, gripping your wrist to keep you pinned. “Not a single twitch. You stay right here while I take what I want.”
She presses down onto your three fingers, hips rolling deliberately, wet heat wrapping around your digits as she rides you. Each movement makes her gasp softly, tilting her head back, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.
“Oh… you make me feel so good,” she moans, one hand bracing herself on the bed beside you while the other drifts to cup her own breast, fingers kneading the sensitive peak. Your chest tightens at the sight—her flushed skin, the way she leans into your hand, how utterly alive she looks.
Your fingers tremble beneath her, slick with her heat, and your own thighs ache with the desperate need pooling between them. You want to touch her more, to help her, to feel her fully, but her hand on your wrist keeps you pinned. Every roll of her hips, every shiver of pleasure through her body, makes your own need spike, twisting deep and sharp in your stomach.
“You… you feel so… perfect,” she breathes, voice low and trembling, brushing her fingers across her own slick folds, adding subtle friction as she rides you. Her moans grow louder, rich and warm, vibrating through your chest. You whimper, tilting your head up to meet her gaze, wanting her, needing her, desperate for more of her, and you can’t hide the shiver that runs through you.
She tips her head back again, hair spilling over her shoulders, lips parting in a soft gasp. “So… so good… you make me feel so… good,” she murmurs repeatedly, hand still teasing her breast, hips rolling with quiet insistence.
Pinned beneath her, you feel the pull of her walls around your fingers, the pulsing, the subtle shivers, the intimate warmth radiating from her body. You ache to feel her fully, heat pooling thick between your thighs, heart hammering as you press your lips to her shoulder, nuzzle into her neck, trying to give some of yourself back to her, desperate to be claimed, to be needed.
Your whimpers grow louder, trembling and needy, and suddenly Agatha’s dark eyes snap open, locking onto yours. The intensity of her gaze pins you, and your chest tightens even more under the heat of it.
“Oh, pet.” she breathes, low and ragged, her own arousal spilling freely as her hands move to cup her breasts, teasing, squeezing, fingers kneading the sensitive peaks. Her moans fill the room, rich and intoxicating, vibrating straight into your chest.
You whimper again, desperate, needy, body arching instinctively toward her. “Please… let me…” you murmur, barely audible, voice trembling with want and submission, eyes glued to hers.
Her moans grow louder at your words, feral and raw, and a wicked smile curls her lips. “You want it?” she rasps, voice thick with need. Her fingers brush over her own slick folds, fingertips teasing, as she grinds slightly over your fingers, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles.
“Yes… please…” you gasp again, heat pooling between your thighs, fingers still trapped beneath her as she rides you. The mix of her moans, her pressing warmth, and her hands exploring herself sends a shiver racing through you.
She drags fingers through her wetness again, slick and glistening, before pressing them against your lips. “Suck.” she commands, hips grinding slightly, letting your trapped three fingers feel every tremor of her arousal beneath her.
You take them into your mouth eagerly, lips and tongue sliding over her slick, tasting her fully. She moans immediately, low and feral, pressing down harder on your fingers as she rocks her hips, shivering with need. “Yes… just like that… god, you’re so dirty… so perfect,” she rasps, nails digging into the sheets, chest heaving as she rides your fingers with hungry, deliberate rhythm.
Her other hand cups her breast, squeezing, kneading, rolling her nipple between her fingers as she tips her head back, hair falling across her shoulders. “Oh… feel me… taste all of me… every bit… mine, all mine,” she groans, voice thick with lust. Every suck of her fingers from your mouth makes her shiver, grinding harder, hips pressing down with more urgency.
“You’re making me lose control… filthy girl, taking me like this…” she moans, body trembling, lips parted in raw need. She rolls her hips over your trapped fingers, grinding slightly, shivering with every touch, voice breaking between ragged moans.
Your lips are slick around her fingers, trembling, needy, and a thin line of drool drips down your chin, glistening in the dim light. Agatha notices immediately, a low, guttural moan escaping her lips.
Leaning down, she drags her tongue along the side of your face, tasting every trace of your saliva, every bit of her own slick mixed with yours. Her teeth graze your skin lightly as she licks along your jaw and lips, messy, intimate, and hot.
Her hips press harder against your trapped fingers, grinding slowly, deliberately, while one hand kneads her own breast and the other drifts along her slick folds. Each movement, each wet, messy touch sends sparks of heat through you, body trembling beneath her, completely undone.
“Mmm… you taste so good,” she groans, tilting her head back, hair spilling around her shoulders, lips parting in ragged moans. Each lick of her tongue over your face, each press of her hips, makes your heat spike, leaving you quivering, heart hammering, utterly captivated.
Her hips press down harder against your trapped fingers, grinding with more insistence, and your face is almost buried between the swell of her breasts. The warmth and weight of her chest brushes lightly against your cheeks, nipples teasing your lips as she rocks with deliberate rhythm.
“Mmm… can I… can I?” you breath, voice shaky with need, eyes fluttering as you lean closer.
“Yes,” she gasps, voice trembling, heat pooling thick between your thighs. Without hesitation, your lips find her soft, flushed peaks, sucking and teasing, tasting the slick skin. She shivers violently, head tipping back, moans spilling out in ragged bursts.
Her hips roll over your fingers harder, pressing down with deliberate, insistent movements. Each suck and nibble from you draws her closer to the edge, the gasps and moans spilling freely, messy and raw, vibrating straight into your chest.
“Ah… yes… that’s it,” she moans, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Just like that… don’t stop.”
Her movements become frantic, hips bucking, pressing down on your fingers, riding every inch of you with deliberate, consuming force. Every gasp, every tremor, every whimper from her vibrates through your body, making you arch, press closer, desperate to feel more, taste more.
“Ah… yes! Oh—fuck…” her voice shatters into raw, ragged moans, head tipping back, hair spilling across her shoulders. She shivers violently, slick pressing hotly against your face and fingers, and then her walls tighten sharply around you, pulsing, shuddering as she rides her climax through your fingers.
You feel her tremble above you, her moans flooding the room, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes closed, utterly undone. Every press of her hips, every pulse around your fingers, every ragged gasp sends a shock of heat through your own body, leaving you trembling and needy beneath her.
When her climax finally ebbs, she collapses lightly against you, forehead brushing yours, breath heavy, body slick and quivering. Even as she pants, shuddering from the aftershocks, her dark eyes flutter open, glinting with molten heat and feral satisfaction, watching you with something both tender and claiming.
Just as your fingers begin to slide free, Agatha’s dark eyes snap up to yours, sharp and hungry. With a sudden, almost possessive movement, she catches your hand, pressing her lips over your slickened fingers and sucking them into her mouth. Her tongue slides along each digit, tasting herself on you, moaning low and guttural as she revels in the sensation.
Your fingers slip gently from Agatha’s grasp, but instead of pulling away completely, you guide them to your own mouth, tasting the slick she left behind. The heat, the salt, the faint sweetness—it’s intoxicating, sending a shiver through you.
Agatha’s dark eyes widen, pupils dilated, a low moan escaping her throat. “Ah… you’re… gods…” she breathes, voice husky, watching as you slowly, deliberately suck her slick from your fingers. The sight and the taste drive a fresh surge of heat through her, and she tilts her head back slightly, lips parting, chest rising and falling faster.
Unable to resist, you lean forward, pressing your lips to hers, tasting her fully, hands threading into her dark hair. She hums immediately against you, low and needy, tugging lightly at your hair, tipping her head to deepen the kiss. Her moans are soft but insistent, ragged with desire and lingering fire, and you respond in kind, lips moving urgently against hers.
Your bodies press together, warmth radiating, the aftershocks of your shared intensity still lingering between you. Every brush of lips, every gasp, every subtle shiver keeps the connection taut, messy, and deliciously intimate.
Slowly, carefully, she settles onto you, body warm and heavy, pressed against yours. Her head tilts, dark hair brushing across your collarbone, and she nuzzles into the hollow of your neck, letting out a soft, satisfied sigh.
You inhale the faint scent of her, heart hammering as her lips press to your skin, warm and damp from her earlier exertions. Your fingers weave into the strands of her hair, gently stroking, feeling the subtle tremors that still ripple through her body.
“Mmm… you’re so… soft,” she murmurs into your neck, voice low, husky with lingering need. She presses a little closer, letting her chest mold to yours, and you feel the rise and fall of her breathing against your skin.
You run a hand along her back, tracing curves and planes, and she hums again, tilting her head slightly to press a lingering kiss against your shoulder. The warmth, the closeness, the quiet intimacy of it all makes your chest swell with something tender and raw.
“You feel so good like this,” you whisper, voice soft, brushing your lips over the top of her head. Her dark eyes flick open briefly, meeting yours with a small, almost shy smile, before she nuzzles back into your neck, letting herself be held, letting herself come down from the intensity of what you just shared.
Her chest rises and falls against yours, each breath warm, slow, grounding. You nuzzle your face into the top of her head, inhaling the faint scent of her hair, lingering heat, and sweat. “I’ve… never felt anything like this,” you whisper, voice soft, trembling, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of her neck. She presses a little closer, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
Agatha lifts her head slightly to look at you, dark eyes glinting, still hazy with desire. She smiles, small and almost shy, then nuzzles back into your neck. “You’re… sweet,” she murmurs, brushing her nose along your collarbone, letting the closeness linger. “I… I like this… being close to you like this.”
You gently trace circles along her back, fingertips teasing lightly over the sensitive skin behind her ears. She shivers, and a soft moan slips past her lips, low and intimate, vibrating through your chest. You press your lips to her temple, leaving a soft kiss, and she responds by tilting her head slightly, giving you more access, more closeness.
Her hands rest lightly on your sides, tentative at first, then beginning to wander slowly, brushing over your hips, tracing lines down your arms, exploring with quiet curiosity. You feel her heat, her lingering need, and your own body hums in response, a quiet ache of desire mingled with tenderness.
You shift slightly, tugging the soft sheets around the two of you, cocooning your bodies together. The fabric falls in gentle folds over Agatha’s curves, over your own, warm and comforting against the lingering heat of your skin. Her head rests still against your chest, dark hair spilling over your shoulder, and her steady breathing hums against you like a quiet rhythm you could get lost in forever.
You press your lips lightly to the crown of her head, holding her close, and for a moment, the room is utterly silent except for your mingled breaths and the soft rustle of the sheets. The world outside ceases to exist, leaving only the two of you, pressed together, tangled in warmth and quiet intimacy.
As you stroke her back lightly, tracing patterns through the soft curve of her shoulder, your mind wanders, as it often does after moments like this. Amid the heat, the lingering need, and the quiet closeness, a small, fleeting memory surfaces—the paper on the bedside table.
Your eyes flick toward the bedside table again, and there it is—the paper. Only part of it is visible, tucked just behind the lamp, as if Agatha had intentionally left it out of reach, hidden from view. Your heart picks up at the subtle secrecy, a tug of curiosity threading through the warm haze of the afterglow.
You trace it with your eyes, but you don’t move. Agatha isn’t fully asleep yet; her head rests against your chest, dark hair brushing your collarbone, breathing still uneven from the intensity of moments before. The thought of disturbing this quiet intimacy, of reaching for something she had seemingly kept from you, holds you firmly in place.
Instead, your fingers drift along the curve of her back again, brushing over the lingering warmth of her skin, feeling her small shivers and sighs. You wonder briefly why she’d hidden it, what she didn’t want you to see—but the questions swirl gently, unimportant compared to the molten closeness pressing you together.
Her soft, half-conscious murmurs, the weight of her body leaning into yours, the lingering heat—all of it pulls your attention away from the secret paper. It teases your mind, just at the edge of awareness, but you let it stay there, suspended, while your hands and lips remain tethered to her, holding her close.
“Mm,” she hums, pressing a slow kiss to your collarbone before straightening just enough to look down at you. “As tempting as it is to let you keep me wrapped up here…” Her fingers tighten around your hip, firm, reminding you who’s deciding. “…we’re a mess, darling. Get up.”
You blink at her, still half-dreaming in the afterglow, but the way she tilts her head — a quiet authority in the movement — makes your pulse quicken. “But—”
“No buts,” she cuts in smoothly, her lips brushing your ear now, voice husky and low. “You don’t want me to carry you, do you?” There’s no bite in it, but the edge of a promise lingers in her tone, enough to make your body stir.
You swallow, heat blooming again in your chest, and shake your head. “No…?”
“Good girl.” The words are softer than before, almost tender, but the effect is the same — a ripple of heat that makes your breath catch. She smirks faintly, noticing, before sliding off you, her robe pooling further down the bed as she rises. She stretches languidly, like a cat, then reaches back to take your wrist.
“Come on,” she murmurs, tugging you up with her. “I want to see you under the water. Every inch of you.”
She reaches for her robe draped on the bed, doesn’t bother tying it, and slips it around her shoulders like a queen putting on her crown. Then, with a flick of her darkened fingers, she gestures toward the door.
“Shower. My room,” she says, voice low but unyielding. “Don’t dawdle.”
You nod automatically, body already stirring to obey, but as she walks out — bare feet whispering against the floorboards, robe trailing behind — your eyes catch on the bedside table.
Silence folds around you.
And then, inevitably, your gaze drifts.
The paper sits there, unbothered, on the table beside the bed. You can’t help it — the second Agatha’s out of sight, your pulse pulls toward it.
And now, alone, you can’t stop yourself.
You reach for it with a slow hand, almost reverent, as though the act of lifting it is already a trespass. The fold resists, then gives, the edges soft from being opened and closed too many times.
Your hands unfold the paper with careful hesitation, as if it might burn through your fingertips.
The handwriting is dense, slanted, impatient — Agatha’s hand, you’re sure — but interwoven between the sigils are words you can barely recognize. Not Latin exactly, not Greek, but fragments that almost resemble both, twisted into something other. The letters pull and warp as you stare, forming sounds in your head that vanish the moment you try to hold them.
You mouth one silently. It tastes wrong in your throat.
And the sigils — they dominate the page, black ink scored deep as if she had pressed the nib too hard. Some curl like vines around the text, some sharp as broken glass. You can’t look at them for long without a faint pressure building behind your eyes. Yet you know instinctively: these matter more than the words. The words frame them, but the sigils are the heart.
One symbol, especially — a spiral cut through with jagged lines — seems almost to quiver when your gaze lingers. The air feels denser.
Your thumb hovers above it, drawn despite yourself. The paper is warmer there, as though it remembers a hand more powerful than yours.
Your eyes trace the spiral again, and an odd pulse hums at the back of your skull. You’ve never seen anything like this before. And yet… there’s something. A tug, faint and stubborn, like a thread brushing against a part of yourself you don’t know exists.
A flicker of sensation drifts through you — warmth pressed against warmth, a laugh that feels almost familiar, a hand on yours that could have belonged to a stranger, or someone you never met. Shapes curl and twist under your gaze, and a shiver travels down your spine, like a memory refusing to settle.
It’s fleeting, impossible to grasp, slipping before you can hold it. A face, a voice, a glance — gone. All that remains is a pulse of recognition, a quiet ache, as though something ancient is brushing past your mind and leaving a trace.
You clutch the paper tighter, fingers trembling, unsure if your chest races from the remnants of Agatha’s touch or from whatever this is — this uncanny, half-remembered sensation that feels like it belongs to another life.
A low, teasing drawl curls from the hallway.
“Don’t make me wait, darling,” Agatha murmurs, her voice soft but commanding, curling around every nerve.
“Yes… coming,” you reply, voice steady but breath slightly uneven. At the same time, your fingers slide the paper into the drawer, pressing it beneath other items so it’s out of sight, hidden from view.
Heart still racing, you rise from the bed, shaking off the lingering warmth of the sheets.
You pause outside her master bedroom, hesitant. The door is slightly ajar, and through the gap, you catch a glimpse of her bathroom. Warm light spills from sconces above a large vanity, casting golden reflections across the polished marble floor. Steam curls gently from the open shower, winding around the room in lazy tendrils.
Her bedroom is equally striking, even in the dim glow. Dark wood floors gleam beneath scattered rugs in muted purples and greys, furniture heavy and elegant but softened with worn velvet and throws. A low, wide bed dominates the space, its covers still rumpled from the night before, and the windows are draped in thick curtains that swallow the evening light, leaving only soft shadows and the faintest shimmer of moonlight on the walls.
Through the open door, you see her — waiting. Agatha stands under the warm, amber glow of the bathroom lights, the shower running but paused, steam curling lazily around her. Her naked body is framed by the polished marble of the floor and the deep, clawfoot tub tucked into the corner, and the wide mirrors above the vanity catch the glint of her wet skin.
The bathroom itself is luxurious, intimate — dark wood accents, brass fixtures, and scented candles flickering faintly along the edge of the tub. The tiles are smooth, cool to the eye but softened by the steam, and a plush mat lies ready at her feet, absorbing the water droplets that drip from her hair and shoulders. Every detail feels deliberate, as if the space itself is attuned to her presence.
Agatha’s gaze meets yours, steady and knowing. Her hair is damp, slicked back from her face, and her eyes hold that mixture of heat and command that has left you trembling more than once. She shifts slightly, the water catching along the curve of her shoulders, her hips, the swell of her chest. The pause, the waiting, the sheer confidence in her stance — it draws you in, every step toward her a mix of hesitation and anticipation.
Agatha leans slightly against the edge of the vanity, one hand resting on the smooth marble, the other idly tracing droplets of water along her arm. Her gaze holds yours, sharp and teasing, and she tilts her head just enough to let the faintest smirk curve her lips.
“Well?” she murmurs, voice low and teasing, “You’re staring. Cat got your tongue, darling?”
You take a hesitant step closer, trying to ground yourself, and she catches the flicker of your expression. Her smirk softens, just a fraction, replaced by a keen, almost playful concern.
“Wait,” she says, stepping a little closer, eyes narrowing as she studies you. “You… you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay?”
Your chest tightens. The warmth of her presence, the sight of her naked, confident, waiting for you, is almost too much. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out immediately. The paper tucked away in the drawer, the strange pull of the sigils — your mind is still half elsewhere, caught between curiosity and desire.
Agatha tilts her head again, that teasing gleam returning to her eyes. “Hm. You’re pale, trembling.” She reaches a hand toward you, letting her fingers brush lightly against your arm. “Come closer. Tell me what you’re thinking… if you can.”
Agatha steps closer, the warmth of her naked body radiating into the space between you. She reaches out, gently tugging you by the shoulders and guiding you toward the edge of the vanity. With deliberate care, she tucks you in closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“You’re shivering,” she murmurs, her lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“I… I’m fine,” you whisper, trying to steady your racing heart. “Just… a little cold.”
Her eyes glint, a mixture of amusement and something softer, and she tilts her head, letting the faintest smirk curve her lips. “Is that so?”
Before you can respond, her hand slides to yours, warm and insistent, and she guides you toward the bathroom. The steam curls around her like a silken veil, the golden glow of the lights catching droplets along her skin.
Without breaking eye contact, she steps into the shower, and you follow. Water cascades over both of you, warm and intimate, and for a moment, everything else — the paper, the sigils, the strange pull of curiosity in your mind — falls away. You’re left with the heat, the closeness, and Agatha’s quiet, commanding presence that holds you steady even as it ignites every nerve.
The water streams down over both of you, warm and heavy, drumming softly against the tiles and cascading across your skin. Steam curls around the edges of the glass, fogging the mirror and swallowing the corners of the bathroom in a soft, hazy glow.
Agatha presses behind you, chest against back, her arms wrapping around your waist, fingers brushing along your stomach and hips. The warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her body against yours, makes you forget the cold you’d mentioned moments before. Instead, every shiver that runs through you feels electric, fueled by her closeness.
“You’re tense,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Her voice is low, teasing, but underneath it lies a warmth that makes your knees weaken. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”
You press back against her chest, letting the warm water cascade over both of you, and finally manage to speak, voice low and breathless.
“Well… you took care of me more than enough,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly so your lips brush against the nape of her neck.
Agatha hums softly, a slow, approving sound that vibrates through you. Her hands pause for just a heartbeat, then trail along your sides, lingering along your ribs and hips. “Is that so?” she murmurs, voice teasing but threaded with softness.
Her hands travel slowly, deliberately, gliding along your sides, tracing the curves of your ribs, brushing your shoulders. You lean back into her, eyes closing, letting yourself melt against the warmth of her. The water slicks your skin together, amplifying every touch, every brush of her fingers.
Then she tilts her head down, lips brushing along your shoulder, down the side of your neck. You gasp, leaning into her, and the sound makes her smile against your skin. “Mmm… you’re so soft,” she murmurs. Her hands slide lower, pressing against your hips, nudging you closer, keeping you grounded even as your pulse races.
Your own hands reach up instinctively, tangled in her hair, feeling the damp strands slip through your fingers. You tilt your head, brushing your lips along the nape of her neck, feeling the curve of her jaw, tasting the warmth of her skin. A low, contented hum escapes her throat, vibrating through you.
She leans in closer, chest pressing harder against your back, lips skimming along your shoulder again. “Do you like this?” she asks, voice husky and teasing. “Do you like how close I am?”
“Yes,” you murmur, voice trembling slightly. “So close…”
Agatha chuckles softly, then, almost imperceptibly, her grip tightens, pulling you back just a little, guiding you against the warm tiles. Her hands brush up your sides, over your stomach, lingering along your ribs.
You shiver, warmth coiling through you, and even in the softness of the moment, there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of desire in her touch — deliberate, insistent, but gentle. “I… I like being close to you,” you admit, fingers threading through the damp strands of her hair, tilting your face into her neck.
Agatha smiles against your skin, a slow, knowing curve of her lips, and hums again. “Good girl,” she murmurs, voice soft, yet firm, letting you feel the pull of her presence, the subtle reclaiming of dominance, the intimacy of being fully, wholly hers.
Your mind flutters back to the paper, the strange sigils, the faint sense of familiarity that prickled at the edges of your memory. The curiosity still lingers, whispering in the back of your thoughts, but it’s already starting to be drowned out by the warmth of Agatha behind you, the steady pressure of her hands on your waist, the heat of her chest against yours.
“You’re quiet,” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, but with a softness that makes your pulse race. “Lost in thought?”
“Maybe,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly, letting your lips brush her shoulder. “Just… thinking about something.”
She hums, a sound vibrating against your skin, and her fingers trace the curve of your hips, pressing you just a little closer. “Mm… well, I hope it’s not keeping you from feeling how good this is,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “From feeling me… feeling yourself with me.”
A shiver runs through you. You try to focus on the remnants of the vision, the sigils, the pull of the paper, but her presence is overwhelming — every nerve alive, every inch of your skin alert to her touch, her warmth, the teasing brush of her lips against your shoulder.
“Relax for me,” she murmurs, soft yet firm, thumb brushing along your side. “Just let me hold you… let me make you feel.”
You tilt your head back into her, letting yourself melt against her body, breath catching. Even as a flicker of curiosity about the paper remains, it’s being slowly eclipsed by the heat, the intimacy, and the possessive softness of Agatha holding you. You realize with a gasp that you’re losing yourself to her — to the sensation, to the closeness, to the quiet dominance that keeps you trembling in all the right ways.
Her hands roam deliberately, circling your waist, brushing along your sides, holding you close. Every shiver, every gasp, every soft moan you can’t suppress is met with a low, approving hum from her chest. You try to steady yourself, but the more she touches you, the more your focus slips, the sigils and visions fading under the overwhelming pull of her presence.
“See?” she murmurs, lips brushing along your shoulder again, voice warm and teasing. “You belong right here… right now.”
another niche scenario/headcanon(?) is hla being in winter
the thought stemmed from how warmly dressed hla eli feels compared to his hl2 autumn outfit, and then the dense, gray fog of the menu and outside gary's hideout… thirty seven after six... that feeling
shelves of snow spilling off the vault during the emergency backup sequence, or a distinct lack thereof. any physical indication of how recent these combine structures are. the fires after the vault crashes down melting it away. seeing the indents a strider left behind when hooking the vault's cables to a substation. antlions being relatively quiet/without active thumpers until all the vault commotion wakes their nest
the falloff you'd see by the overhang above gary's mural. maybe a tarp or two pinned to protect the paint from said elements. having alyx push them away with her arm because it's vr. some more exploration into how vorts deal with harsher weather, like gary's boiling pots being a need for heat maybe?
no water interactivity because it's all iced over! combine grunts slipping on ice. unless they break out special gear for such reasons
mixing of the citizen outfit and pre-combine clothes is from citizens trying to stay alive through the winter, layers, old and unregulated jackets and headwear they probably aren't allowed to be wearing. old blankets draped over themselves?
olga manually clearing snow off the road or sidewalk like her broom would be so mean
resistance needing more power in the winter, like what you'd get from a combine mini-reactor
warmly dressed alyx, warm hahn. younger alyx wearing something else in general. reliance on her backpack because a closed jacket gets in the way of her utility belt
(can't decide if it's fun for gman to have an extra layer just for the occasion or he looks exactly the same. he's stood next to a radiator LOL)
what if this covering was instead russell's attempt to insulate his windows??
would tethering items with the gravity gloves be tough if they're buried under a barrier of snow? would it still get through?
xen flora generating heat and humidity? attracts headcrabs inside?
Maybe we should see their canon story in the context of a princess who is forced into a political, arranged engagement with a guy she doesn't love and who she knows is kind of a jerk, who has mixed feelings, at best, over this situation, and then, as a reaction, proceeds to become infatuated with a somewhat funny, foreign and exotic guy who shows up out of nowhere and who she barely knows. Maybe it's not a coincidence that the guy she shows romantic interest in is the outsider with zero knowledge of her circumstances and zero understanding of why she has to marry Hahn.
And for Sokka's side, maybe we should pay attention to the fact that he's an emotionally immature boy with near zero experience with women who sees one sight of a pretty girl, decides based on that alone "she's the one for me," lies about his background in an attempt to romance her, brushes aside her concerns and her attempts to end the emotional affair between them, and persistently and consistently shows zero understanding of the social and cultural context surrounding Yue and her decisions, just like he shows zero understanding of or respect for her sense of duty.
I don't mean to criticize Yue or Sokka here, but they're both acting like idiotic teens who barely know each other and are more in love with the idea of each other than with the actual person they're supposedly infatuated with. I think this is good writing and makes them very real and realistic characters, but I also think this means that, had Yue survived, Sokka and Princess Yue would not have had a stable or long-lasting relationship even with Yue's betrothed Hahn, the alleged obstacle between them, dead and gone. It probably would have fallen apart shockingly quickly.
P.S. One thing I love about "The Serpent's Pass" is that it shows that Sokka completely misunderstood how and why Yue died.
