The house was quiet when the three of you slipped in through the back door, the scent of metal and sweat still clinging to the air. Agatha tugged her gloves off with her teeth, dropping them carelessly onto the counter. “That went well,” she muttered, her voice dripping with casual satisfaction.

Rio followed, kicking off her boots with practiced ease. She came up behind you, her hands brushing your waist as she leaned in close. “You’re a fucking saint, you know that? What would we do without you, baby?” she murmured, her lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You’d probably get caught,” you replied, your tone light but pointed.

Agatha laughed, a deep, throaty sound as she stepped closer. Her fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at her. “And we can’t have that, can we?” she purred, her eyes gleaming with something predatory. “You’re our little savior. Our perfect girl.”

Heat flushed through you at her words, your heart skipping a beat. Agatha always knew how to play you. Rio chuckled, her hands sliding down to your hips. “She loves it when you say shit like that,” she said, her voice amused.

You wanted to deny it, to hold onto some semblance of control, but then Agatha’s hand slipped to your neck, her thumb pressing lightly against your pulse, and Rio’s lips found the curve of your jaw. Your knees felt like they might give out, and any retort you had died in your throat.

“You did so well tonight,” Agatha whispered, her voice softer now, her words deliberate and heavy with intent. “We’re so proud of you. Let us take care of you now, yeah?”

Their praise washed over you, filling you with a strange mix of pride and shame, as you let them guide you to the couch. You shouldn’t enjoy it as much as you did. You shouldn’t crave their approval, their touch, their smiles. But gods, you did. Because this? This was your twisted, fucked-up version of love. And you’d do anything to keep it.