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The funeral parlor was steeped in sadness, contrasting with the suffocating heat of emotions enveloping Agatha. Impeccably dressed, she stood motionless, her feet steady in high heels that upheld her elegant posture, even if it bore the marks of grief. The black dress, somber and fitted, covered half her skin yet subtly revealed her curves. Her hair, wild and unruly, cascaded over her shoulders, while her eyes, clouded with sorrow, remained fixed on her mother’s lifeless body.
Evanora Harkness had played a significant role in the lives of many people, but she could hardly be described as a good mother. Her personality was defined by coldness and an unpleasant demeanor—traits that were even more evident in her relationship with her daughter. Despite this, her social standing and wealth seemed to wield a powerful influence, perhaps explaining why so many mourned her death that day. But Agatha knew a truth that escaped most: behind the façade of respect and prestige, her mother was a stern, distant figure, incapable, in many ways, of offering the love and care a child might expect.
And yet, here she was. Back in the hole of a town she had sworn never to look back on after leaving. Twenty years had passed, marked by a failed marriage and countless futile attempts to have a child.
What remained of it all? Agatha sincerely didn’t know.
Perhaps, deep down, she had hoped that time would grant her the chance to become the woman her mother always dreamed of: perfect, strong, and unshakable. But that never happened. Now, at 47 years old, all that remained were divorce papers and countless checks from her mother’s fortune.
The surprise came when social services notified her that the entire inheritance had been left to her. Despite being an only child, Agatha had never imagined her mother cared enough to name her as the rightful heir. In her perspective, she had never done anything to earn her mother’s approval over the years.
Perhaps marrying Ralph had been the greatest satisfaction Evanora could extract from her lesbian daughter.
“Sinner.” That was what her mother called her when she discovered, at 16, that her daughter liked girls. Despite the fervent repulsion of that time, Agatha eventually believed her mother’s manipulative words, which assured her it was “just a phase.” A phase that, however, stretched across most of her life. Her marriage was marked by infidelity because Agatha could never love a man.
Women had always been her true preference.
The last time Agatha spoke to her mother was to share the news that she and Ralph were divorcing. Naturally, this didn’t make Evanora happy—but Agatha wasn’t happy either. For the first time, she thought she might finally be free. And then… her mother died. It felt like yet another punishment. Agatha was too old now for beatings; instead of hurting her physically, Evanora chose to punish her by dying out of disappointment in her own daughter.
“Mother, Ralph is leaving. I thought you should know. It wasn’t an easy decision, but there’s no point in staying together anymore. I thought I’d finally have the courage to pursue my happiness, even though I know you may not understand.”
The line went dead.
The next events in Agatha’s life were marked by strip clubs, drug abuse, excessive alcohol consumption, and mental breakdowns. Ralph insisted she come home, but she didn’t. Agatha thought she might die if she let a man touch her again. She couldn’t bear the idea of being near him—or any man. The mere thought of being touched again by a male figure made her body shudder, as though something deep within her would shatter forever.
It’s no exaggeration to say that when she receives the news of her mother’s death, the scene is entirely out of context. Her hair is messy, with strands sticking to her forehead as though untouched by a comb for days. Her face shows clear signs of exhaustion: deep dark circles and the expression of someone who hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. The only clothing on her body is a wrinkled silk robe, poorly adjusted, with half of her left nipple peeking out.
Around her, the hotel room where she’s staying is a mess: clothes strewn across the floor and empty wine bottles on the side table. On the bed, two girls are sound asleep; Agatha isn’t sure how they ended up there—probably the result of the last night she spent at a local bar.
“Agatha, I don’t know how to say this, but I need you to come back to Westview.” Lilia’s voice on the other end of the line was like an alarm to her mind, still clouded by exhaustion and a hangover. She stared at the phone, holding it with trembling hands, her body frozen as though the comprehension of what she had just heard was suspended in the air around her.
Mrs. Calderu was one of the few people Agatha kept in contact with from her hometown, if not the only one. She was a good friend; despite being a bit nosy and overly concerned, Agatha hadn’t pushed away her former teacher as she had with most people who tried to enter her life.
“Lilia, do you know what time it is?” Agatha grumbled, rubbing her eyes.
“It’s about your mother…”
“What does she want? Did she talk to you about my marriage? Because if that’s the case, I’ve already made it clear that Ralph and I—”
“She’s dead, Agatha. Your mother is dead.”
There’s no response to that, just a reaction that paralyzes Agatha for a few minutes. She can still hear Lilia breathing on the other end of the line, a dramatic pause as her words sink in. That morning, Agatha vomited everything from the day before—the coffee, the lunch—even though her diet had been far from ideal. Her head throbbed with an unbearable, pulsating pain; there were no tears. Instead, she punched the wall until her fingers bled, needing them bandaged. She felt this might be some kind of cruel game of Evanora’s—a punishment... Fuck... It wasn’t fair. Now that she had finally freed herself, her mother still had another card up her sleeve, waiting patiently to die and condemn Agatha even further to her own hell.
Evanora Harkness never loses a fight, not even in death.
She returns to Westview, vowing to spit on that old corpse out of sheer rage, even knowing it's just a construct of her subconscious. Agatha is going to cry desperately, like the scared little girl she truly is, as she has been for the past few days. Walking past the church where she prayed and kneeled as a teenager, hoping to be 'cured,' brings back terrible memories of all the Catholic guilt she has felt—or still feels—just for trying to be herself over the years.
Jen, her only friend in New York and also her boss, wouldn’t leave her alone until she took a few weeks off to deal with the mess her life had become. It was either that or being dragged to therapy—and honestly, Agatha already had too much trauma to let anyone inside her head again. Pretending to love Ralph, who adored brunches and book clubs, was no longer sustainable.
She hated most of those people.
Agatha could make an endless list of all the citizens of Westview who were as insufferable as her mother. The top of that list had no competition, but in second place would undoubtedly be Wanda Maximoff, who had the audacity to offer her condolences—not without first flaunting her 'perfect life': husband, two kids, and a dog that—please—no one cared about. Every word Wanda spoke seemed carefully calculated to irritate her, but the sad smile was the final blow. Agatha could almost hear Evanora's voice praising Wanda as the ideal woman she would never be.
Mrs. Hart—or Sharon, whatever—Agatha never cared enough to decide—was crying hysterically in one of the pews, with a performance so exaggerated it bordered on theatrical. Agatha swore that if she continued this ridiculous display, she would poison her with the cheap grape juice being served at the reception.
The cherry on top was Wanda’s son, Billy—of course, Wanda’s son—desperately trying to feel included. He moved awkwardly through the room, offering comforting words to Evanora’s old friends. All those old gossiping crones, reeking of aftershave lotion. Agatha hated every one of them.
When one of them dared to ask about Ralph, more interested in gossip than in Agatha's visibly worn-out state, she felt her blood boil. Her head was still spinning from the hangover, her stomach churning from the vodka she'd downed just to face this circus of familiar, unwanted faces. The audacity of the woman made Agatha briefly consider that she might just add one more person to the list of funeral arrangements if no one intervened.
"I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you, Agatha, losing your mother and being here without your husband," the older woman said, her voice dragging like nails on a chalkboard. "We all need a shoulder to cry on. That’s why a man is so important in a woman’s life."
"Ralph and I are divorced," Agatha managed, mustering her courage from the depths of her chest. Each word escaped almost as a controlled sigh. "And I don’t think a man by my side would make any difference."
"We didn’t know that happened, especially since your mother spoke so proudly of your marriage," the woman paused dramatically before continuing. "This must really be so hard for you."
Agatha forced a cold, calculated smile, one that signaled the conversation should end right there. She had no idea what time it was, but it was probably still too early to escape this traumatizing experience and drown herself in alcohol and self-pity in her room.
"Evanora was a wonderful woman," the woman pressed on, ignoring Agatha’s clear discomfort. "She may have been a bit strict with you, but she loved you so much. We know your childhood wasn’t easy, but she only wanted the best for you. She was a mother to be admired, an inspiration to us all."
The woman’s words were like shards of glass grinding inside Agatha. Anger pulsed in her temples. She wanted to scream, to shout that this 'wonderful woman' had broken her in ways they couldn’t begin to understand. Instead, she took a deep breath, swallowing the lump rising in her throat, and let her icy smile remain plastered across her face.
She was about to turn away and escape the conversation when her arm was grabbed. Mrs. Crellin? Was that the name of this detestable old figure with diner-waitress lipstick gripping her arm as if the discussion wasn’t over? Agatha stood still, feet rooted to the floor, her forehead metaphorically screaming for help.
"Know that we’re here... for anything you need," the woman drawled with exaggerated sympathy. "Divorce isn’t easy. Especially after being together with Ralph for so long, such a lovely couple. Your mother showed me postcards, photos of you two together... I can’t imagine the pain in your heart, Agatha. Losing your mother and your husband—it must be too much for one person to bear."
"Ralph isn’t dead," Agatha snapped, though part of her almost wished he was. "Not yet... and we barely had sex. Sure, the sex was awful, but there was no love either. Isn’t that what you want to know? Since you’re so interested in my life?" Her irritation was evident, her voice sharp. "He left because I cheated. I had sex with other people, mostly women, and I don’t regret it."
The moment those words escaped her mouth, the entire room seemed to freeze in time. The constant murmur that had filled the space disappeared, as if everyone present had simultaneously held their breath. Every face slowly turned toward Agatha, eyes wide with surprise, whispers beginning to ripple through the air. Mrs. Crellin, still holding her arm, loosened her grip, finally letting go. Her eyes widened, blinking repeatedly as if trying to process what had just been said. A slight tremor ran through her hands, her mouth opening as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Evanora’s old friends huddled together, whispering furiously, their heads inclining in synchronized judgment. The muffled clink of glasses being set down echoed through the space as some people tried—and failed miserably—to mask the tension.
Billy, who had been consoling a guest, froze mid-step, a tray of cookies in his hands, as still as a statue.
Agatha, however, stood firm, feeling the weight of their gazes pinned on her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, adrenaline and frustration burning inside her. She felt exposed, as if she were naked in a public square. Yet, at the same time, there was a bitter satisfaction in seeing the horrified expressions around her.
"Well," she finally said, breaking the silence like a knife through taut fabric. "I guess that ends our conversation, doesn’t it?"
Without waiting for an answer, Agatha turned and began to walk away, feeling their eyes on her back. She needed air, water—anything to make her forget or at least wash away the bitter taste of vodka on her lips. She felt so pathetic she almost wanted to laugh at herself. Her Valentino bag slipped from her shoulder, but despite the internal turmoil, her appearance remained composed. Well, except for the traces of tears—nothing too dramatic.
Coming out as a lesbian at her mother’s funeral had not been part of the plan. At least now, one of the priests present would stop insisting on having a conversation with her.
"I have to say, even after all these years, you still manage to surprise me."
It was the voice that made her turn around, her hands braced against the bathroom sink as she desperately dried her tears, wiping her arms as if trying to erase the disgusting touch of that old woman from her skin.
Rio Vidal, her ex-girlfriend, stood before her. No bangs or braces. She looked older—just like Agatha. Her eyes were the same, brimming with curiosity and emotion. Let’s just say she hadn’t chosen the best outfit for the occasion: slacks and a casual business shirt. Yet, somehow, it made her unbearably attractive, leaving Agatha’s skin burning with a mixture of surprise, shock, and longing.
Agatha's day was already awful, and dealing with exes wasn’t in her plans—but Rio… Rio was always an exception.
She always had this effect on Agatha, as if she were the only one capable of breaking through the hardness she tried so hard to maintain. Even after everything that had happened, after all that had gone wrong, Rio still managed to make her heart race in a way no one else ever could.
"You look…" Agatha can't find the words. Her eyes first trace Rio's face, then slowly wander downward, taking her in as though trying to memorize every detail. Her hair, now longer, and the more mature air she carries as she shifts her weight and drags her feet lightly on the bathroom floor. "Different."
"So do you," Rio replies with a soft smile, though her eyes shine with something more. "New York’s done you good."
"Rio, I-I…" Agatha swallows hard, feeling her chest tighten. She wants to say how sorry she is for leaving. For not being able to stand up to Evanora. For convincing herself she was straight and leaving Rio to deal with all the gossip, the hate, and the insults alone. The pain of regret burns within her, the shame searing her throat. Agatha tries, but the words slip away, as though an invisible weight presses against her, keeping her from fully opening up. She looks at Rio, who stands there, resolute, her eyes fixed on her. "I-"
She doesn’t know what else to say or how to apologize for running away, for being too much of a coward to face her homophobic mother, who is now dead, lying in an open casket in the room next door. The silence between them stretches, heavy, broken only by the distant murmur of the ceremony outside. It’s… ironic, to say the least. The weight of Evanora’s death is replaced by Rio’s presence, which, unlike the grief of losing someone, brings a storm of emotions Agatha doesn’t know how to handle.
"You don’t have to say anything. Seriously, Agatha. We don’t need to do this right now," Rio says softly. "I’m sure you’re already dealing with a lot, and I’m not here to make it worse."
"Thank you." Agatha breathes deeply, trying to control the lump in her throat.
They fall silent until Agatha finishes drying her hands and manages a steady breath. Her gaze explores Rio completely, almost as a way to escape. Every detail of Rio distracts her, pulling her away for a moment from the chaos within herself. There’s a shine in Agatha’s eyes, something vulnerable that Rio notices, as if all her defenses have finally fallen—as if she never had any against this woman. That familiar, old look makes Agatha feel helplessly drawn to her. Then Rio breaks the silence, asking:
"Can I hug you?"
Agatha doesn’t know how to respond. She finds herself leaning against the sink, her fingers trembling, and, unintentionally, a look of pity crosses her face as her eyes meet Rio’s. The weight of words clogs her throat, but what unsettles her most is the intensity of Rio’s gaze, which seems to disarm her in ways she didn’t expect. Without an answer, Agatha feels her lungs tighten, as if there isn’t enough air, but then comes Rio’s closeness—and that’s what undoes her.
Without thinking, Agatha lets her fingers brush against her ex-girlfriend's arms, and for a moment, she feels relief, as if she could let herself go. Rio is there, and that’s all she needs. She feels the weight of everything she’s carried for the past few years gently lift, as if, for a brief second, she’s safe again. In Rio’s arms, she feels a deep calm, as though Rio herself is the answer to every unspoken question Agatha has.
The hug is tight, as if both are trying to convey something far greater than words—a piece of comfort, longing, shared pain. Agatha feels Rio’s warmth, the familiar scent of her perfume, and it’s as though time rewinds. For an instant, Agatha allows herself to believe she’s still sixteen, lying in Rio’s bed, the smell of Lilia’s cooking wafting through the house, laughter echoing in the room. Agatha’s shoulders tremble, and Rio tightens the hug, using her strength to hold Agatha together, as if preventing her from falling apart. Rio’s touch is firm yet gentle; Agatha feels her nose brush against Rio’s blouse, a gesture both unsettling and intimately familiar.
The sensation surrounds her, and for a moment, Agatha forgets everything.
"She’s dead," Agatha says almost pleadingly, still clinging to Rio’s body. Her voice is low, hoarse, as if the words are smothered by the weight of the situation. "She was a bitch. I guess she still is—death doesn’t exactly make someone a good person."
"I think we both know how horrible she could be when she wanted to be," Rio replies, her voice tinged with a bitter lightness. "But… she was still your mother."
"Do you hate her?" Agatha asks, releasing the hug but keeping her hands on Rio’s waist. It’s a question she knows the answer to but feels compelled to ask, as if to remind herself of the bitter truth about her mother and escape the grief her death brings.
"For what she did to you?" Rio pauses, her gaze distant as if searching for the right words. "Yes."
"And do you hate me?" The question comes out direct, without hesitation. Agatha stares at Rio as though the answer will define who she becomes from this moment on.
"I could never." Rio responds with a sincerity that seems to lift some of the weight pressing against Agatha’s chest.
It’s okay, Agatha thinks.
She can relax a little because Rio is too good to hold grudges after everything she’s been through.
“I hated you for a while,” Agatha murmurs, her voice softer, as if she’s confessing something deeply personal. She lowers her head, almost as though judging herself. “I hated you for not coming after me when I was the one who left. When I found out you were engaged and when you didn’t come to my wedding. And... I spent a long time finding reasons to hate you... I think.”
“I’m sorry... for not going to your wedding,” Rio responds softly, with pauses. “You know that... it wouldn’t have been easy for me.”
“Who cares now?” Agatha says. “I’m a recently divorced woman whose only relative that hated me is dead.” She laughs humorlessly, a dry, almost ironic chuckle. “I wish that had sounded funny.”
Hated.
No loved.
“You don’t seem that bad to me,” Rio says with a slight smile before adding, “If you want to know... you’re still the best thing at the party.”
“Party.” Agatha repeats, for some reason feeling a slight relief. It’s as if Rio is the only one who can still make her laugh with her dark humor. Jokes about a dead mother in a bathroom shouldn’t be so good, yet here they were, laughing at something so tragic.
“Thanks, you don’t look so bad yourself.” Agatha responds, her eyes running over Rio, and suddenly she feels something warm spreading through her chest. “Seriously, Rio... you look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Agatha.” Rio smiles, and for a moment, everything feels a bit lighter, as if that instant was the only thing that mattered.
The silence between them is almost deafening. No one says anything, but Agatha’s hands are still on Rio’s waist, firm, her fingers brushing against her pants. And well, they are close. Too close to ignore what’s in the air, a pulsing magnetism, something they both know has never fully dissipated.
When Agatha finally moves, it’s as if time awakens. She tilts her head, letting her warm breath mingle with Rio’s, each exhale heavy with hesitation and repressed desire. The closeness is unbearable and inevitable, like a taut string about to snap.
And then everything explodes.
Agatha’s hands are decisive as they grab Rio’s shirt, pulling her forcefully into a kiss that doesn’t ask for permission but demands surrender. It’s urgent, ravenous, as if years of longing, frustration, and regret are poured into that moment. Rio’s response is immediate. Her lips meet Agatha’s with the same intensity, the same desperation. The muffled sounds of murmurs and labored breathing fill the space, as Agatha’s hands tighten their grip on the fabric, pulling her closer, as if any space between them was unbearable.
Rio’s fingers slide down Agatha’s back, holding her tightly, as if she could slip away at any moment. Her nails dig into the thin barrier of fabric, pulling her into even more intimate contact. And for a brief moment, Rio feels like she’s kissing Agatha Harkness again behind a cathedral, back when things were both simpler and infinitely more complicated.
Rio could hardly believe the taste she still felt on Agatha’s lips. It was familiar, but now with an added intensity, perhaps from the tears that had earlier streaked her skin.
Still, she doesn’t hesitate.
Her movements are voracious, her mouth exploring every corner, sucking, nibbling, and kissing with a passion that makes both their bodies tremble.
Rio's hands glide across Agatha's bare back as if trying to memorize every curve, every line of that warm skin. Agatha's moans echo through the bathroom, growing louder and more intense until the lack of breath forces them apart. Their eyes meet, panting, and Agatha's hands now hold Rio's face tightly, as if afraid she might leave.
Agatha's fingers trace Rio's swollen lips, still warm and damp. "Touch me…" she whispers, her voice heavy with need. "Make me forget… please."
And Rio obeys without hesitation, doing exactly what Agatha desires. With a hungry look, she wastes no time. Her fingers skillfully slip beneath Agatha's black dress, drawing a sweet gasp from her as she feels the firm touch on her thigh. With precision, Rio guides Agatha's body, gently turning her around and pressing her hands against the cold sink.
In the mirror, Agatha watches the scene with fiery fascination. The reflection shows Rio's fingers tangling in her hair, pulling with a mix of desire and urgency, her warm lips exploring Agatha's exposed neck. Rio's nimble hands travel along Agatha's waistline until they reach exactly where she wants them.
Rio can’t resist, delicately sliding Agatha's damp panties aside. Her movements are precise, almost reverent, as her palm firmly massages her, applying just the right amount of pressure. Agatha arches her back, her body immediately responding, and a low moan escapes her lips as Rio begins teasing her clit with gentle, rhythmic strokes, making every part of her want to scream.
Each touch draws uncontrolled gasps from Agatha, who instinctively grips the edge of the sink for support. Her head tilts slightly forward, her eyes closed as the sensations consume her entire body.
“F-fuck…” Agatha moaned softly, her husky voice reverberating through the small bathroom. The hot breath from her mouth mingled with the bittersweet taste of vodka lingering on her lips.
Rio gave her little time to breathe, her mouth exploring every corner of Agatha’s exposed skin, her teeth grazing lightly against her neck. When Rio’s fingers finally slid inside her, Agatha arched involuntarily, a drawn-out moan escaping her lips with no care for who might hear.
It was raw, primal, a nearly animalistic desire that made Agatha's chest burn and her breathing falter. Her nails dug into the marble of the sink, her knuckles whitening as her body instinctively rolled, seeking more. Seeking Rio's fingers to fill her completely.
" Huh , yes, right there. F-fuck ... harder." she moaned, her voice dripping with urgency.
And then Agatha was doing it again. Being a terrible person, having sex at her mother’s funeral.
She moved desperately against Rio's fingers, each thrust robbing her of a piece of her sanity as her pussy throbbed around her first, and perhaps only, love.
For a brief moment, her mind wandered. Did Rio take off her wedding ring before doing this? Before being inside her.
But they didn’t talk. Words weren’t necessary when Rio held her firmly against that grotesque excuse for a bathroom, her steady hand dictating a wild rhythm. Agatha's dress was wrinkled, and her panties slipped between her wet thighs.
Rio leaned in, her warm lips brushing against Agatha's ear, and whispered, hoarse: “You look so beautiful like this, so fucking mine.”
It’s a lie. Agatha isn’t hers, and Rio isn’t hers either.
Not anymore.
Agatha didn’t respond; she couldn’t. Her lips parted, a moan caught in her throat as Rio’s rhythm pushed her toward an abyss she knew she shouldn’t reach. The tears she had held back throughout the funeral finally escaped, burning her cheeks, mingling with the guilt weighing as heavily as the pleasure within her.
Rio noticed, of course. She always did. But instead of hesitating, she dove even deeper into the moment, her fingers sliding further inside. "Are you going to cum for me?" Rio whispered, her voice low and dripping with possession.
Agatha trembled, her body giving all the answers she refused to say. Rio smirked, cruel and delicious, before leaning down to murmur against Agatha’s ear, her breath hot and taunting:
“Are you still my good girl?”
“Y-yes.”
“After all this time, did you think about me? Hm? When you were with him, did you touch yourself thinking about me, Agatha? Did you imagine it was me filling you all along?”
“Fuck, yes!” Agatha finally came, leaving Rio’s hands drenched.
The words hit like a blow, a shock that coursed through Agatha’s body like fire. A dragged-out moan escaped her lips as she ground against Rio’s hand, surrendering to the moment, unable to cling to any shred of control or sanity.
Agatha collapsed against the marble, her breathing heavy as her body trembled uncontrollably. Rio’s words echoed in her mind, mingling with the chaos of pleasure and the guilt consuming her like a slow poison.
She should hate herself for this— and she did.
With automatic movements, Agatha adjusted her wrinkled dress, pulling her damp panties back into place. The soaked fabric was an annoyance against her skin but enough to restore some sense of control.
As she tried to compose herself, reality returned: a funeral was happening outside. A funeral she should be honoring, not desecrating.
Her mother’s funeral.
Rio, on the other hand, seemed indifferent. Calmly, she approached the sink, turning on the faucet to wash her hands, her movements slow and deliberate. The sound of running water was deafening in the uncomfortable silence between them. Agatha caught a glimpse of the wedding ring still shining on Rio’s finger.
Neither of them said anything.
“Are you okay?” Rio finally broke the tension, her voice softer than Agatha expected.
“Thank you.” The word came out lifeless, more as gratitude than a response. Agatha grabbed her purse, and with a sorrowful glance, she left the bathroom, leaving Rio behind with the sound of the faucet.