Chapter Text
Scratchy
(Holland Lop - Rabbit)
Before Scratchy ever met Agatha Harkness, he lived in the cold belly of the French Alpes with his first witch, Odette de Fey– a creature as ancient as she was power-hungry. She was a hag, hollowed by her thirst for power. Her skin clung to her bones like wet paper, and her fingers trembled with spells half-formed from forbidden tomes. A Solar Witch– claimed to draw her magic from the sun, yet she had not seen its light in decades. She made her home in a jagged cave where snow never fully melted, and warmth was a myth. She spent her days with her back curled like Quasimodo over a rusted book of bindings– one that once belonged to the rare Spirit Witches.
But for all her hunger, Odette had no love for the world, nor for the familiar born tethered to her soul. Scratchy, thin as a whisper and twice as silent, was that familiar, a white caramel spotted Holland Lop. Odette was not the one who named him though– he was mainly called Le lapin! Or Le compagnon! when she needed something from him. Though even that acknowledgement was rare as the sun. Their bond was weak because of it– he only existed out of necessity. That meant, no food, no nests, and zero affection. As far as the witch was concerned, he was disposable as dirt. He drank melted snow, nibbled on bugs, slept in crevices above her head so her wayward spells could not reach him. He never called it living, never called it surviving, because in the end, whatever bond was there was the only thing keeping his painful existence alive. And so his hatred festered and boiled like a disease, taking over his body, wishing he could sever the bond that he was born to.
Familiars are born from an ancient magic, one the Mother shaped herself. Each witch is born or destined to have one or more familiars. Souls entwined, a mirror of each other like the Janus coin… except maybe they were more twins than opposites. Scratchy wasn’t sure. He was just a rabbit. All he knew is that when he took his first breath, he was beside a baby. But later he learned that familiars understood what their witches spoke, some even replied in the same tongue. But almost all could feel what their witches felt, emotions engulfing them, attuning them with the soul they were bonded too. But Spirit Witches, things are different. He had learned that no familiar was ever born to one due to how strong their succubus powers were. Some believed Spirit Witches fed off familiars the moment they were born, turning to them nothing. Scratchy didn’t know that at the time though, he didn’t know until finally the bond chaining him to the half-dead hag snapped.
💜🐰💜
The rabbit was dozing in the highest slab of stone in the cave, tucked under another, when something stirred– something new. His hackles raised, his ears twitching, rising in alertness as his whiskers trembled. This was not just any presence, not a human, not prey… not Odette. He crept down, paws silent on the stone, toward the gaping hole of the cave that opened like a mouth in the mountain side. Odette’s ‘door.’ If you could call it that. It was a trap though, where hikers and skiers alike fell through, dead the moment they hit the stone before them.
Oui, Odette était cannibale.
She boiled their bones for broth, slowly cooked the meat and used the teeth and eyes as if they were vegetables…
But this wasn’t food, this was something else– a ball of violet light hurtling down like a comet– illuminating the tunnel leaving a singed trail that sparked raw magic. The rabbit’s breath caught and felt himself press into the ground, flattening his ears as he backed away. And when the magic touched down, it exploded. In rays of purple, it lashed out like a fire that had a heartbeat, latching on crinkled parchment, wrapped itself around leather binded books, and waxed candles melted, turned to ash, and then to nothing. Yet, the fire didn’t touch him, nor did it touch her .
Odette turned, half bald, blind in one eye, her lips cracked like a lava bed, and he was pretty sure the witch only had her molars which she filed like fangs. She was already half-dead, a dress hanging off of her three-times too big.
But the fire of wine engulfed she who stood before Odette. The rabbit could barely make out the woman, her iris glowing with magic, skin smoother, and possibly pale like the moon. Her hair was made of the purple flames, lashing down to her waist as she cackled before the older witch. And on this witch’s chest was a locket holding the symbol of three women together : the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Her magic was as loud as thunder around them, shaking the very spirits and ley lines. The rabbit had never seen anything like her before– grant it, he never was able to leave, but he had read enough books over his witch’s shoulder to know that this witch was no Solar Witch, no Lunar Witch– not even a Green Witch. She smelled something like death and life all molded into one.
“ Non ! Sortez !” Odette growled as she backed up from the witch before her. (No! Get out!)
The witch chuckled, and then a different language the rabbit couldn’t yet understand left her, “Not without what I came here for, Odette de Fey. You have the last Spirit Witch grimoire.”
The familiar and Odette both stared at her, their eyebrows creased as the intruder groaned in annoyance before growling in a horrible, almost incomprehensible accent, “ Je ne parle pas français ! But– je… need-uh– oh fuck this.”
Odette didn’t have time to react, neither did the rabbit as the violet grew to lavender before blinding him. Then, something in him snapped– the tether. The bond had ended in that flash, and so did Odette, crumbled and withered– dried like a mummy whose life was long gone. And the rabbit, all he could do was stare up at the hole he had longed to climb– to one day see the sun– feel it on his fur, munch on dandelions he had never tasted before, run through fields… but maybe that wasn’t for him.
Long chestnut hair blocked the sky as he felt his body being lifted off the ground. Hands, softer than his own fur, held him with something he had never experienced before. For once, he wasn’t squirming to get away, shaking as all of his instincts screamed– no, his body relaxed, his heart beating, and beating… slower and slower… until he assumed it stopped.
Perhaps for a moment it did.
He had lived on nothing but Odette life’s force and magic. So, when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t expecting to be held in pale arms, smothered in the scent of lavender, starlight, and life. He blinked once, his nose twitched as something was petting him, smoothing his fur back. A strong heartbeat faded in, growing steadily louder and louder– a steady canter underneath him. His body vibrated with each methodological hum of a song. Slowly turning his head, he blinked in awe of his surroundings.
He was being held in a real bed– one made of purple blankets. Surrounding the bed were shelves upon shelves of books, and a giant black box hung on the wall in front of them, light reflecting off the screen, casting a golden shadow into the room, because behind him was a window… a window and the sun. The rabbit sprang out of the arms, finding the blankets beneath him, sinking, cocooning him in warmth. His heart was fluttering, everything radiating in joy– that he couldn’t help it. He honked, and then honked again when he turned on the bed to find a large windowpane, black dividers steadying the large thing, but beyond it was something golden– something that made his eyes squint…
…the sun.
His little rabbit heart skipped again– another honk in wonder as he scrambled. Golden light, honey light kissed everything in sight, but he didn’t care for his surroundings. The light was gentle, warm even– and would rather die than to never feel it again. He bounded to the window, ignoring the way his legs buckled with each step. The bed was sat against the wall with the window, so with ease his tiny paw stepped onto a wooden ledge. But instead of green– instead of wild, open fields covered in dandelions– it was nothing but grey. Tin cans moved along them and buildings, tall, but nothing like the mountains, surrounded him in every direction. But his heart didn’t stop beating– he wasn’t disappointed, not entirely, because there was sun. The air… at least where he was, was laced with bergamot, lavender, and that strange magic he had smelled before he died…
Behind him, the humming had softened into a voice– well, a laugh. It was sweet, gentle– away from the cackle in the cave. For a moment the rabbit couldn’t turn. He was rooted in his spot– this had to be some type of heaven… well, he would have preferred green grassy fields, those dandelions, a stream, the mountains in the back… he guessed this would do. He turned then, slowly– casually, before stopping to itch his ear.
The voice laughed again, soft and low, “You made it, sweetheart.”
The rabbit froze. That wasn’t French… but he could understand it like it was.
“For a moment, I didn’t know if you would survive the first tether breaking, and the other forming. But I couldn’t leave you there,” the voice was quiet, as gentle as rain, guiding him to fully look at the witch.
Her hair was chestnut, curled in a mess that was almost purposeful, but it was the strand of pure white that caught his attention. It was at the front part of head, tucked behind her ear as if that mark meant nothing. But it meant everything in the witch community. It was a mark of a Spirit Witch– a Spirit Witch whom he was now bound to. When their eyes locked, he studied Tiffany blue, finding the Spirit Witch’s soul in seconds. It was purple like her magic, wild and furious at the world… but it was also tender, emotional, caring… and… the rabbit looked deeper, his own body twitching as he saw all her pain and hurt buried at the bottom. It was fragile, shoved into too many small boxes where the rest barely had room to breathe. She was in her early twenties, young– so young for a witch as powerful as she was. He came closer, allowing her to pick him up and bury her face into his fur with nothing but tenderness, and if he could cry like humans did… he would have at that moment.
The rabbit was laid down on a pillow next to her as the witch smiled at him, “I’m Agatha. Agatha Harkness. And, I’m going to name you Scratchy. Welcome home, hun.”
💜🐰💜
The bond between them grew with each day, with each cuddle, with each gentle pat on the head– when Agatha would take him to a place called “Central Park” or maybe it was “perk.” Scratchy never knew because he loved laying with Agatha and watching the magic box with funny little characters inside– like Phoebe Buffay. He eventually got his own bed, his own toys, and even his own snack cupboard. He learned quickly though that the living room was mainly his space. Her bedroom? He only went in on bad days, when cuddles on the couch weren’t enough, and those blue eyes screamed with pain that made his own heart crack.
As their bond grew, so did Scratchy’s understanding of her emotions. He quickly learned that Agatha Harkness wore a mask of happiness– one that barely wavered, and only came off the moment she stepped through the door and into the kitchen. It wasn’t a mask when her best friend, Wanda, was around. The mask would be off… most of the time. If Agatha wasn’t out with her, they were in the apartment, studying magic– mainly ley lines, and trading different herbs, potions, and sometimes even clothes. There were too many nights, in Scratchy’s opinion, where Wanda barged in for a date emergency and Agatha would be dressing her in either the options that Wanda brought or whatever Agatha wanted. But Wanda was a great friend, always looking for a way to make Agatha smile, always looking for something to do– his only beef with the redhead? Her fuck-ass familar– Sparky: some time of Yorkie-Jack Russel mutt.
But for Agatha, it was when the conversations drifted to her love life. The mask came back on– strong and heavy. Smiles that looked so real, but Scratchy saw her eyes, saw a pain he still had yet to decipher.
Over the years, he came to realize it was from her past– one of neglect and abuse, and who better than an abused, neglected bunny to understand. Scratchy learned to show Agatha how much he was grateful, how much he came to care, even love, the witch. He brought her the herbs she asked for, sometimes even shoes when she was running late for work, or would thump at things he knew would make her happy. On the days that were bad, she calmed the moment he sat on her chest and purred, a simple chatter where the vibrations and weight of him seemed to ease her broken heart.
But they had their arguments too– especially when Agatha would disappear for a day or two, and come back reeking of being overpowered with magic. Practically vibrating with it– he stomped at her until she apologized. If she was late getting his lunch or dinner, he started chewing her shoes out of spite. If a stranger came in and stayed too long, Scratchy would pee in their shoes.
He eventually got used to her schedule, fitted in as if he was hers all along. Agatha never woke up early on weekends. In fact, Scratchy wouldn’t show his face until the witch had coffee. He learned that she was an FBI agent– well, the coroner for the FBI. And she learned that to cover her kills. So, yeah, he went from one killer to the next, but Agatha had a method. She never killed unless they deserved it. Witches who abused their kin, cheated in relationships, or just simply annoyed her. Plus, she was a Spirit Witch, and well, harnessing the ley lines was dangerous enough. A kill– siphoning their magic and life force was quicker, easier, and well… she knew how to cover up a body from humans.
Part of that succubus power was the need for sex. You know the saying “fuck like rabbits?” Scratchy met his match. So, he was used to the parade of endless women. He could smell it the moment the door opened– too much tequila, cigarette smoke, and the stumbling of heels, and Agatha leading it the whole time. He hid under her altar table where Agatha finally cloaked it with a spell so he didn’t have to hear anything.
But Scratchy loved his life– loved the moments where Agatha shared her magic with him, where he helped her with spells, potions, and the worship of Hecate. He loved sitting on his bed in the window seat soaking up the sun, eating a bowl full of dandelions, and loved Thursdays nights– the night before the weekend where she ordered food and shared it with him. Sometimes Wanda would join, and Agatha would keep him away from the yappy chaotic mutt. He liked the nights on the weekend to himself when Agatha would go out to bars or clubs and wouldn’t come back until late at night– well, it wasn’t fun if she had a body for that night.
However, in the end, it would always be the rabbit and the covenless Spirit Witch. Him and Agatha… coven two… forever…
Or that was what he thought.
💜🐰💜
It was almost ten years since Agatha rescued him and he became familiar when everything started to change. He didn’t really notice it at first, how one weekend in the beginning of August, Agatha didn’t come back home with someone. Instead, the next morning, she was up early getting ready and humming to herself. Scratchy didn’t think anything of it– just figured maybe it was work or maybe Wanda. He didn’t pry when Agatha was constantly on her phone, smiling and giggling like a toddler– he just chalked it up to her new friends Agatha had told him about one night when she was talking to him– ranting about some woman named Jennifer and her insufferably sweet girlfriend, Alice. Jennifer was a Potions Witch and Alice a Protections Witch. Agatha had ranted about Jen’s dumb familiar, a spix’s macaw named Sapphire which shrieked every time she came close. Apparently, the bureau let her have the macaw in the office. At least Alice couldn’t bring Argus in– a literal black wolf. In truth, Agatha liked them, just wouldn’t admit it.
But then started the phone calls, the ones where she would shut her bedroom door so Scratchy couldn’t hear. Once more, he just tallied it to work. Maybe it was a difficult case, or she was tracking a different witch to kill. But no, because one day Agatha came home smelling of something else… someone else.
💜🐰💜
It was late for a Sunday night when the door clicked open. Scratchy was laying sprawled out on the couch waiting for her. He stretched, yawning as his back cracked, the candles in front him flickering over the small living room. The television was playing nonsense, kept on to keep him company since he hated silence. It was six-thirty, the first of September. The Craft was already playing with Hallmark popups telling him that the next movie was Hocus Pocus. He loved that movie, despite the stereotypes, it was fun, funny– and he thought it was funny when Agatha’s eyes never looked at Sarah Sanderson’s face, but rather just lower. Heels clicked from the hall, keys being thrown in the dish that sat up on the counter before he heard her heels being kicked off before the soft pad of bare feet made their way down the hardwood and onto white carpet.
Scratchy peeked up, watching as Agatha, in a purple strapless boho dress– one where the dress was bunched up to flow elegantly if she twirled– her hair was half down and this time… she didn’t hide the white streak. Around her shoulders was something new too– a forest green blazer that definitely was not hers. Agatha wore blazers– but not green. He was pretty sure if you opened up her closet it was all dark blues, purples, and blacks- with a few white button-ups. He didn’t move, just twitched his nose, picking up something, but first something else was seizing him… a new emotion from Agatha. It made his heart flutter and it made him want to hop around, twist in the air…
Qu’est-ce que c’est ? Il y a du nouveau, his nose twitched as he lifted his head. (What is this? There is something new.)
His witch’s face was illuminated by her phone again, her thumbs flying over the device before she set it down. Scratchy was lifted off the couch, his body pressed into her chest as she laid down on the couch, her cheeks pink and a smile on her face he didn’t know how to name.
He shifted in her hold, placing his front paws on her collarbones, searching for the sign of pain– of panic, or some hurt he could help her with, but all he saw was… hope? That was dangerous, Scratchy decided. It was unnatural– not something meant for them when they had each other. His nose twitched and that’s when it hit hard. He recoiled, his body flattening, his whiskers shivering as if he had been slapped. The smell consumed his witch, it wasn’t the lavender and bergamot he was used to– this… this smelled like the earth. This smelled like fresh dirt– not the mildew dirt of the cave, but something from a nearby field– or maybe a fresh forest full of pines thicker than that of the Black Forest in Germany. The scent also frightened him… because why was the stench of decay also wrapping around it.
Scratchy thumped, once and hard, his food hitting down on bone, making the witch jolt, “ Eugh , Scratchy? What was that for?”
He did it again, right into her ribs. He didn’t like this smell. It was wrong. It didn’t belong in their lives.
Agatha sat up, grabbing him by his scruff, “Are you mad because I came home late tonight?”
The witch moved him, sitting him on the black cushion next to her. He thumped again before staring at the blazer, his ears pinning. He grunted once, looking up expectantly before bounding forward and nipping at the blazer. Then he was in the air, magic filling their home as Agatha’s eyes glowed purple.
“Scratchy, no, that’s not yours,” his witch growled, setting him as gently as possible on the ground.
The moment his paws touched, Scratchy bolted under the couch, grunting and thumping at her. The blazer smelled wrong… it smelled of an ancient power. It smelled as if Death was on their door step.
💜🐰💜
Scratchy avoided his witch for the rest of the week, well, he lasted until Wednesday. She came home early, the soft smile still there, but this time when she turned on Hocus Pocus , Scratchy jumped into her lap, purring as a hand ran through her fur. He pretended to not notice how much her phone was buzzing, how immediately, she picked it up, snorting once or twice, or a pleased hum leaving her mouth.
They were halfway through the film, when his witch spoke, “Scratchy, sweetheart?”
He lifted his head, turning on her thighs as his ears lifted up in alert.
“I want you to meet someone tomorrow– someone special–”
Scratchy thumped once, hissed– something that had never left his lips before and bounded under the altar so he wouldn’t have to listen. If he couldn’t hear her, then it wouldn’t happen. Always, always, Scratchy gave approval if someone came into the space to meet him. His witch would never spring someone onto him. He denied Alice from coming in, denied Lilia, even denied Wanda’s new husband– why would he want to meet a human man? He didn’t mind if they came in for her, but when they did, Agatha would shut her bedroom door for him to have that space. That was always the way it was. And Agatha didn’t need to be near someone who had the scent of decay on them.
Agatha didn’t bring it up again. In fact, they carried on the rest of the night like it never happened, and when it was time for bed, he curled up on his rightful spot– on the pillow next to Agatha’s in bed.
The next day, Scratchy got his energy out by playing with his enchanted toys, chewing on a few dandelions that Agatha left out before eating his lunch of hay, lettuce, and some pellets. After lunch, he lounged in the sun, his legs twitching in pure delight as the rays heated up his round belly. He really had it all now. Sunlight, the best lettuce and pellets and hay, a bed, and even this thing called a litter box, so it never smelled. He had a witch that loved him, a witch where he would spend the next how many centuries they had left together– just him and Agatha… Agatha who was now home?
There was a jiggle of the lock, that familiar jangle of metal of keychains clinking together, before the door was pushed open. She was home early! His heart fluttered as he got up, running a few times in a few circles to release the energy before hopping towards the door. He honked, delighted as he realized it was Thursday, their night. His favorite night. He hoped that they could watch Merlin together or maybe that new show on Paramount– with the high school soccer team getting stranded in the wilderness. Just as he approached the threshold, the temperature dropped, the shadows around him receded, and Scratchy… he felt his own heart in his throat. His body started quaking, not understanding what was near– the magic was powerful, overwhelming, smothering any trace of his spirit witch.
Scratchy crept closer, staying low to the floor as his ears twisted, listening to the extra set of footsteps. Two pairs of shoes hit the mat before his witch was going to the fridge, but the other set was quieter, light on their feet as they stepped into his home.
“Where would you like this, cariño ?” the voice was smooth as wine with a slight rasp, but even the tone carried something Scratchy didn’t understand.
She was obviously another witch, but what was the word ‘ cariño’ ? It wasn’t English nor was it French which Scratchy quickly learned Agatha was shit at.
“You can set it there for now, sweetheart.”
Scratchy growled low in his throat. He was called ‘sweetheart,’ he was the only one who could be called that. Thursday nights were their nights– away from the world, without interruption (unless work), but never for mere interloppers. Something in him broke too– it was more than just anger though, more than just hurt. It festered deep in his bunny chest, bubbling and boiling. He forced himself to not thump as his ears pinned, his mind racing as fast as his heart. Whoever this was– he would find a way to end them– to scare this witch away from his own. To–
“Oh, hola señor,” a voice hummed from above him with green socks in front of his face.
Scratchy bolted, his legs carrying him faster before he could even see who the stranger was. He launched himself under the couch, bristling at the light laughter from the witch.
“Scratchy,” Agatha called after him as he only had the view of her feet coming towards the couch.
There was a ping of glass against the coffee table before legs in black FBI sweatpants were kneeling down. His witch didn’t look under, but a hand was laid against the carpet in means to coax him out. Scratchy’s ears pinned as he stared at it, magic coursing through him– their bond singing loudly in his ears.
“Scratchy, please come out. Come meet Rio.”
Oh, donc l’intruse a un nom, he thumped in response. (Oh, so the intruder has a name.)
Agatha sighed, a deep breath that carried even under the couch, and even that smelled wrong. It was infected with earth, with pine, with a fresh river that turned to a marsh of boiled blood and skinned crocodiles.
Agatha snapped her fingers, “Come here. Be a good boy for me please, Scratchy. She’s a Green Witch– you’ll like her.”
If Scratchy could laugh, he would. There was no way that witch was Green. From what he knew, Green magic was all about life, the beginnings– why did this one smell like death’s personification?
An awkward laugh came from behind Agatha, “I should probably mention, other witch’s familiars don’t usually like me.”
Ah, bon ? he shook his head, still backing completely under the couch. (oh, really?)
Then, the couch creaked with added weight, making Scratchy scramble out of the way, flattening his body as Rio joined his witch there. He bounded out, thumping once before making his way to Agatha’s room. He dove onto her bed, his chest heaving with panic of prey being stalked in the night– unsure where or when the predator would strike– but the inevitable made his ribcage too small for his pounding heart. Yet, this was almost worse– something he couldn’t stop– some type of divine power that circled in the dark, creeping and not in means of stalking, but rather in means of vines, slithering on the ground wrap around the prey’s ankles, slowly make their way up, until they were engulfed. Agatha was covered in the scent, and the ivy would never let go, just tangling itself tighter until it bared its thorns and left her in pieces.
He had yet to learn how to shut the door. He wasn’t as powerful as other familiars to their witches as they only bonded not even ten years ago, and Agatha’s magic was so powerful. But, he buried himself deep in the blankets, but a rabbit knew how to listen– even without the bond.
There was the clink of glasses before a steady laugh echoed and Agatha snorted. Agatha never snorted, not in front of anyone– not even Wanda. She did it in front of him though, and now, she was doing it in front of this bitch? The television clicked, Netflix’s opening sounding off the beginning of the end as the couch shifted, bodies moved against bodies.
“Previously on ‘Wynonna Earp,” the television began, Agatha humming along to the theme song like it was just another Thursday night…
Like Scratchy wasn’t betrayed.
Familiars were supposed to at least know when something was right– to know when other witches around their own had good intentions. They were supposed to feel when there was danger– when their witch would be harmed before it happened, especially if it was death. And Scratchy, though his nose twitched, his ears were alert, and he couldn’t stop the way his fur puffed up in distress. He knew there was something about this supposed Green Witch… something he couldn’t place his paw on. And because he didn’t know, the safest thing to do was to get rid of her.
💜🐰💜
It became a habit. Every Thursday night, Rio would come home with Agatha. They would cook together, study spells together, cuddle, and watch some weird ass show called, Wynonna Earp, which Scratchy secretly liked. And when Rio would leave late, he watched as they would kiss goodnight.
But it was only on Thursdays. But he was sure during the weekends they had date nights. Agatha was always getting dressed nicely to go out, and when she came back, she was alone but smitten. For once, her soul was bright and happy– the boxes no longer holding her down– but Scratchy wasn’t ready for this witch to hurt his own. As long as it stayed the way it was… maybe Agatha would grow bored of her.
It was another Thursday and Scratchy was already buried in Agatha’s blankets in her room. He didn’t move when he heard the door, and didn’t bother to greet them. He never showed his face when Rio came. There wasn’t a point because she was just a phase… a phase, a shiny new toy that Agatha would eventually get rid of… hopefully.
He huffed, burying his face deep into his witch’s scent, but something was different. Not the scent, but rather the emotions he felt off of Agatha. She was nervous, excited… and there was somewhere where her heart would swoop… something like love. The rabbit perked up at that. He had never felt this off of his witch– nothing this strong. It was like he was being entombed in an avalanche, slowly suffocating on the realization. He turned towards the bedroom door, listening out to the kitchen.
There was a wet sound, soft but there, smacking together before a low moan rang out. He listened to the ruffle of clothes, light thuds echoing off the wood floor.
A laugh followed before Agatha hummed, “Take me to bed, pretty boy.”
Oh.
Oh, putain.
Scratchy needed to move. He went, but suddenly he was caught– the blankets were thick, traitors as they wrapped around him like a constrictor. His claws snagged on the knit throw, a blanket wrapped around him like his leg was caught in a hunter’s snare. Scratchy threw himself, trying to break free, but the blankets grew tighter, as if struggling more really was about to be own doom. The lights were gone, the constrictor over his head as he tried to thump, tried to hop– to throw himself out of bed. He hissed under his breath as he tried to gather Agatha’s magic, to weakly use it to expel him out of the blankets. But Spirit Witch magic was near impossible for familiars to use, at least to Scratchy.
Footsteps grew closer, just one but they weighted as if they were carrying precious cargo. With them was a pleased hum, one that Agatha had always made when taking her conquests to bed– it preceded the low murmur of Rio’s voice, spoken in a tone so velvety smooth that he found himself thrashing more. He squirmed, kicked, writhed, but the blanket won, and he was about to lose his dignity.
The bed dipped with an extra weight. He froze. Another dip joined before there was a gasp, a soft sucking sound, and then the sound of a zipper being undone. There was a slow exhale before he was crushed. Someone was on him, squeezing him as if he crawled into a tunnel that was too small and was now collapsing. He squeaked in alarm, his legs kicking in panic, before there was screaming. His paws pounded up on the person until they were off. Light blinded him as the top blanket was ripped up off. Scratchy was still tangled, still trying to get off his back when his eyes met dark brown ones, ones laced with the green of the earth. They were calm, assessing– as if both witches didn’t just scream. The gaze wasn’t unkind, but the weight was ancestral. The woman had an unnatural beauty to her, tanned skin, eyes that felt like they could read his soul– full lips, raven black hair and definitely Agatha’s type too. To whatever luck was left, she was still in her Calvin Klein grey sports bra and Snoopy boxers… and Agatha still found her attractive?
Before either of them could move, it hit him. This was about to become real . Agatha and Rio would be bonded… bonded in a different way, and not permanently… Well, in a way they would linger for each other, their hearts would belong, and the achiness of love wavering off of Agatha in heat waves… told him that this would seal it. Rio wasn’t just a body for her to quench her succubus side. This was horrifyingly real and tender.
He twisted, sheathing his claws as he finally freed himself, and with everything he could muster, his backlegs propelled him into Rio, hitting her in the stomach. The bitch didn’t even flinch, just blinked like he was a horse fly coming to terrorize her. He didn’t stop there. He scratched and scratched until red was there before he lunged himself into the protection of his witch’s arms.
“Scratchy, what the fuck–”
Her arms caught him with ease, like it instinct, like for once it was back to normal, but it was far from it. He burrowed into her skin, his heart hammering, ears flat, as his huffs were hot against her. Scratchy wanted to gag– he could still feel his skin on his paws, on his claws, and worse she didn’t even react when tiny, tiny beads of blood bloomed. Agatha held him, her arms warm, tender, like being cradled by fire that only burned those who weren’t welcome. He clung to her collar, shivering from the sheer weight of it all… what was about to happen… the rawness, the lust… the love. That word made him gag. Agatha was his to love. She was his. She didn’t do relationships, didn’t trust other people. It was going to be him and her, forever.
“I– did he,” Rio stumbled over her words for a moment, her eyes wide, staring at him like he was the intruder. “I think he just attacked me.”
Yet, she wasn’t angry, not upset, just shocked.
“He’s… territorial,” Agatha hesitated, her voice still breathless, but calmer, her head clear as her magic cradled him as well. “He has never liked other people, especially other witches.”
Va te faire foutre, he growled, his throat grating with the words he knew best.
Rio scratched the back of her head, sitting back down where she straddled Agatha’s waist. He thumped once, a warning to get the fuck off. She didn’t listen, just stared down at him before looking up at his witch.
“I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
Agatha scoffed while Scratchy nodded in agreement. At least she said something right for once. Every conversation between the two made him want to chew off his own ears. It was either sweet, in their own bullying kind of way or dirty and gross. And he be damned before he allowed them to actually fuck.
Scratchy felt his eyes go wide as gravity shifted and then the room changed. Within seconds, he was placed on the couch with a blanket placed next to him before the bedroom shut with a bang that tolled the beginning of the war.
D’accord, Agatha. Ce sera de ta faute. C’est ce que tu m’as fait faire, he growled at them. (Okay, Agatha. This will be your fault. This is what you made me do.)
His eyes narrowed as he heard them, soft whispers in the nights, murmurs that fell into gasps, and muffled moans. Agatha could have Rio tonight, but he would make sure by tomorrow when she left in the morning, she would never want to come back. Agatha didn’t need Rio, didn’t need a human to hurt her. She had Scratchy, and Scratchy wasn’t about to let a witch take his own away. He didn’t live for decades in a cave to be a house pet. He was a familiar. He was going to show Agatha the real Rio fucking whatever-her-last-name.
Scratchy leapt to the floor, chittering as he hopped into the kitchen where clothes littered the floor. He scowled seeing two FBI jackets on the ground. He rolled his eyes. Of course, Agatha was fucking a co-worker. He rifled through it, his nose shuffling, moving until he turned to Rio’s pants. They were like Agatha’s for when she was in the office, but the smell made his stomach turn. It was doused in Green craft, but worse– death claimed it. He could feel it now, ice cold hands gripping his spine as he found her pockets– nails digging into the fabric until it ripped to reveal Rio’s wallet and badge. He flipped the badge open with his nose, staring at Rio’s profile, the lack of smile– just pure apathy that made his lip curl. Her last name was Vidal… Special Agent Rio Vidal.
He tore at it with his teeth, ignoring the way it fought against him, digging into his gums as his teeth only left marks in it. He pulled the card from the sleeve, disappointment radiating through him as he realized he could not destroy it. So hiding it would have to do. He hopped across the apartment, heading straight for the bookshelf, flinching as a moan tore through the wall.
“Fuck– yes Rio! Augh ! Augh ! Harder, that’s it– fuck. Such a good boy.”
Scratchy shook his head, flopping his ears around in hopes to get it out of his head. The thumping of the bed hitting the wall continued as he drowned it out with his task. He slid the ID in between the very bottom books, two already collecting dust, and the best part, they were on Green craft– just something that was oddly in Agatha’s collection– something she would never pick up. Because Rio Vidal would be gone come morning. But he still had a few more things to do tonight.
His teeth chewed holes into her clothes, fighting through the way his eyes watered from her strength, being careful not to swallow any of the fabric. He might actually die if anything of Rio’s was in his mouth too long. So his claws came next, tearing through what he could before he found Rio’s wallet again. He drooled on the leather, ripped a bunch of twenties until they were confetti and even scratched the numbers off her credit card. And his grand finale was peeing in her Doc Martens.
Scratchy was woken up sometime past noon, but not by choice. He didn’t sleep until they did. They kept at it all fucking night and Scratchy saw the sun rise before he crept out from underneath the altar table hearing Agatha snoring lightly. He was curled in the blanket that she left on the couch when suddenly the warmth was missing and the bond between them felt as if it was on fire. He blinked open, slowly taking in the fact that magic was suspending him in the air and bright blue eyes were staring at him angrily.
“Scratchy, Scratchy– wake up,” the voice was cold.
That was one thing that horrified him about Agatha. Agatha never had to yell. Odette would yell all the time, it got to the point where he could drown it all it, but his witch now… all she had to do was look at her with this stare that felt as if she was judging your very soul and you were done for… it was the current look Scratchy as receiving. Before she could open her mouth again, Scratchy squirmed, fought against the magic, trying to plop to the ground. His eyelids were still heavy, his body barely listening to him, as if he was strapped in a life jacket when he wanted to drown. The blues were like lazers, piercing straight to his lungs and casually poking holes through them, waiting for them to fully collapse. But the worst of it? Agatha let him struggle, let himself dig until he was long buried under the weight of his own sins. The rabbit hung in the air, turning slowly like one of those vertical rotisseries at a gyro place, waiting to be dissected– to be taken apart.
Agatha’s voice was flat, “Are you done?”
His nose twitched and he blinked once.
“Where is it?”
Où est quoi? Scratchy pinned his ears back. (Where is what?)
His witch rolled her eyes at him as if he knew what he said, “Where is Rio’s badge? Why is her money chewed up and why are her clothes and credit card scratched up?”
Scratchy just blinked at her.
Then, movement flashed beside him, a shadow lurking, but he couldn’t turn his head to see what it was. He let out a low growl, the shadow forming into Rio. She floated around the couch wearing nothing but Agatha’s satin robe. Her hair was brushed though and a mug of coffee was wavering steam in her hands. She looked domesticated. She looked like she belonged, and rancour dug its claws deeper into Scratchy as he growled again. How dare she stay. How dare she not leave Agatha the moment she saw her badge missing and her things ripped to shreds. No. She just stayed– using her squatters’ rights.
“Did he tell you?” she asked, her voice still hoarse with sleep, but the anger was there, just underneath a layer of dirt.
Agatha shook her head, “Unfortunately, we can’t communicate like that. If I put you down, will you show me?”
Non, Scratchy bared his little bunny teeth, and infuriatingly, it made Agatha laugh.
She shook her head, “Goddess, you’re so cute.”
Rio’s eyes narrowed sharply at him, her knuckles whiten around the mug, “Agatha, he destroyed my stuff just because we fucked. My clothes are ruined, my credit card is fucked which is whatever, but my badge? He committed a federal crime.”
“He’s a rabbit, my love,” Agatha started, but Scratchy screamed– literally screamed.
The high pitch rattled the windows, the glass vase sitting on the glass coffee table, and even the glass statue of Hecate on the altar. Agatha’s magic dropped him and the wind was ripped from him– his very breath taken as if crushed by a boulder at those two small words. He stared up at his witch as both witches were blinking and recovering from it, Rio’s eyes wide as Agatha rubbed her ears.
Rio recovered faster, “Has he ever done that before?”
His witch shook her head, “No, I have never heard that.”
Scratchy tried sucking the air back into his lungs, but he couldn’t as the witches shared a look. Then, an arm was tugging Rio into Agatha’s side, and she went without protest, fitting in like she always meant to be there. And through the tether, all Scratchy could feel was undying devotion towards this Green Witch.
“He’s throwing a tantrum,” Rio shook her head. “And how am I supposed to tell Natasha that a fucking bunny stole my badge on Monday?”
A flash of panic zapped Scratchy in the chest from Agatha, “You tell her, the whole bureau will know.”
Rio turned her head, her eyes softening before pressing a kiss to her cheek, “Then I’ll tell them that Kyon ate it.”
Agatha raised an eyebrow, her body turning away from Scratchy who still sat on the couch, still unable to process the two words from her mouth. His heart was in his ears, drums beating so loud it made him tremble.
“Kyon?”
Rio nodded with a smirk playing at her lips, “My dog familiar– he was like Scratchy. I rescued him and we just bonded.”
“So you named him ‘Kyon’?” Agatha snorted, shaking her head. “And what did you name your birth familiar?”
Rio smiled for real at that, “Victoria– she has class. She’s elegant, very particular with who she likes and who she doesn’t. But, she will love you.”
Agatha tilted her head, a rare soft smile blooming her features, “Then why are you so hesitant about us meeting?”
There was a beat of silence and Scratchy chose that time to slink off. He slowly slid his body off the catch, needing to hurl or something. The love radiating from Agatha for Rio was overpowering. He just needed a place to think, somewhere he could figure out how to get the Green Witch to never come back. Before he could touch the ground, he was in the air again, suspended high where his witch brought him back to eye level.
“And where do you think you’re going?” a nail tapped underneath his chin. “No dandelions today and when I come back, we are going to have a long conversation, mister.”
Scratchy’s heart plummeted as his eyes grew wide.
No dandelions?
It was a fate worse than death to not taste the delicacy he had every day the moment he was in Agatha’s arms. And now, because of this Green Bitch, they were being taken away from him. His ears fell, drooping and hanging low as his eyes bored into blue, pleading and begging not to do this to him. He needed their sweetness, the safety they brought him. He didn’t deserve this. It was unfair, unjust– he was Agatha’s familiar, he was her good boy– not the interlopper, the intruder– the fucking parasite. With that, he grew limp in the magic’s hold, his nose twitching in little sniffles as he reached up to rub his eyes with his paws. Arms encased around him, magic leaving him as curled into the familiar scent of his witch. The lavender soothed him ever so slightly as he buried his face into a soft neck.
Agatha sighed, her hand combing into his fur, “Okay, sweetheart, just a couple dandelions–”
“Agatha!” Rio growled from behind him. “How is this a punishment?”
“Just look at him, my love–”
Oh, putain de merde. Ce mot encore, Scratchy thought, before smirking to himself.
He decided to start shivering, pressing closer into his witch who shushed him gently, kissing him softly. There was another scoff behind him, Rio bristling to his delight.
“When you’re done cuddling the wicked, mi amor, I’ll be stealing your clothes so we can stop at my place before I take you to your surprise.”
Arms tightened around him, another scoff leaving Agatha’s lips, but didn’t release him, both of them listening as Rio rifled through her closet before coming out in Agatha’s sweatpants and a purple flannel. When she turned towards her Docs, Scratchy hid his smirk, burying himself in his witch’s arms, trying to act as if he wasn’t watching, as if he wasn’t listening for the scream that was leaving Rio’s lips.
Scratchy : 1
Rio : 0
💜🐰💜