myharkness

[myharkness]

She is like a cat in the dark and then she is to darkness

Emily Prentiss x reader

Nota do autor : If you’ve made it this far, this might be exactly what you needed – without wanting to sound pretentious. Read at your own risk. Comments are always welcome.

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You could feel it—the eyes always burning into your back with every step you took. Whether you fixed your hair, yawned... It was strange, unsettling. Anyone would be on edge having the attention—albeit unintentional—of the woman who'd stirred up the most conflicting emotions in your entire life.

Emily fucking Prentiss. In full command of herself, she walked like the floor wasn’t worthy of her steps. The archetype of supreme power that made you tremble from head to toe, leaving only one coherent thought in your mind: complete obedience. Of course, S/N, always eager to help, the first to volunteer, constantly showing up in Garcia’s not-so-secret lair. Not that you didn’t dare go out on the field with the team—you’d been with the BAU for just over five months.

But ever since the last case—where the profile you drafted about the suspect, which no one had noticed, led to a quicker capture—you never forgot the words Ms. Prentiss had whispered, secretly, for no one else to hear: “Good girl.” And she looked at you like she could see your soul.

Fuck. For someone driven by validation, those words—almost immoral in their intimacy—completely rewired your brain chemistry.

The team had just returned from a case in Texas, after investigating a local drug trafficking ring. It was messy—seemed like the whole town knew the names, but no one was willing to risk their life over it. That’s exactly why the BAU gets called in.

Some think profilers are nothing but charlatans, but the craft lies exactly in reading between the lines, beyond what anyone’s willing to show. And that—ah, that only comes with practice and study. It’s the kind of job where each experience sharpens your skill even more.

Your mind was foggy. Now it was impossible not to associate the success of the case with the anticipation of looks, gestures, words that subtly confirmed just how well you’d done. The last time you craved something that badly was during your Psychology grad school, in a particular class where the professor—who radiated the energy of someone who’d cradle you and make you confess your darkest secrets—explained how gratification is tied to positive reinforcement within behavioral patterns. As if we’re propelled by pleasant stimuli following desirable behavior, increasing the likelihood of repeating it. That was exactly how you felt about your boss.

— Agents, her strong, commanding voice cuts through your thoughts.

— I know you’re all tired and just want to get out of here as soon as possible, but we still have work to do. I expect your reports on my desk before you leave. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.

She turns, and her silver hair moves with the subtle breeze in the hallway. You’d give anything to feel it between your fingers… To see it fall over her face while she’s on top of you…

— You heard your girl, S/N. Get to it, chérie... unless you plan to sleep here tonight, Garcia teases with a grin.

— She’s not my girl, Penelope, you mumble, the flush on your cheeks betraying you.

— Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart. Good luck with the paperwork.

And that’s your cue to bury your head into the desk, tuning everything else out, wishing you were anywhere else—anywhere but here.

time skip.

The floor was eerily quiet. The cold overhead lights cast elongated shadows across the empty corridors, and the sound of your steps echoed like you were trespassing a sacred place. It was past nine p.m.—everyone had already left.

Everyone except her.

The email notification still blinked on your screen: “S/N, when you finish, come to my office.” That was it. No period, no context. But it was enough. You couldn’t possibly ignore anything that came from her.

You took a deep breath before knocking on the half-open door.

— Ma’am? — you noticed she always swallowed hard when you called her that, but you couldn’t resist the way that innocent little word tasted on your tongue.

She was seated at her desk, blazer draped over the chair, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her once-flawless hair now fell more freely around her face—a softer look, yet still dangerously commanding. SHIT, that’s not even what made you hold your breath. It was those damn buttons—meticulously undone—offering a reserved glimpse, just enough to make you crave more, like a taste of life’s elixir you now couldn’t live without.

She raised her eyes from the report and gave a nod with her chin.

— Come in. Lock the door, please.

You walked toward your noose, slowly, never breaking eye contact. The kind of eye contact even madmen wouldn’t dare break.

Standing in front of her desk, you stopped.

She exhaled and stretched her fingers, looking at you as if she knew something you didn’t—as if she could truly read you from the inside out. And you wouldn’t doubt it.

— Sit down, she said, not loudly, but with enough firmness to make you obey without question.

The chair creaked softly as you sat. Your hands rested, restless, in your lap, and your heart beat far too loudly for a room so quiet. She didn’t speak. Just watched you for a time long enough to make you wonder if you were being tested.

— You know what intrigues me about you, agent? — her voice finally broke the silence, low, almost casual. A mischievous smile teased her lips. — That constant need to always be seeking something. That hunger, that... craving for... — she ran a hand through her hair with a resigned sound — Validation. You try to hide it, but... not very well, really.

You swallowed hard. Couldn’t hold her gaze for more than two seconds. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.

— But you know what? That’s also what makes you good. Maybe too good.

She smirked, and something in you melted—fear or desire, hard to tell. The room felt smaller now. Warmer. More suffocating.

— You should know that no one hides anything for long around here. And honestly, it’s almost admirable that you thought I wouldn’t notice your little inclination. I just needed time... to assess whether I was lucky enough to have your need for approval aimed at me.

— Tell me something: do you have issues with your mother... or is it just this thinly veiled urge to give up control? Be honest, doll. I can sniff out a lie from miles away.

The world stopped. Your breath was uneven, and a cold shiver sliced through your soul. It was the sensation of being questioned about things never spoken—not even to yourself. Truths buried deep in your subconscious, the stone in your shoe that keeps you from walking into the glory of the desire your body craves, cries for, needs.

It teetered on the edge of a panic attack, but it wasn’t one. You felt yourself slipping into subspace, being pulled by something invisible and inevitable. Your insides burned—on open flame. And your underwear was hopelessly ruined.

She, noticing your silence, your lack of reaction—as if the chaos inside hadn’t just been unleashed—just observed. You couldn’t tell if she realized the mess she’d made of you. She stood, carrying that arrogant energy that made your knees weak. Walked until she stood in front of you and grabbed your chin—not forcefully, a gentle touch, but devastating to your sanity.

— Doll... — you leaned in almost instinctively at her touch.

— Hmm... you murmured.

— E-mi-ly...

There it was.

— That’s what I’m talking about, she grinned wickedly, like she’d already won. — You melt in my hands, babygirl.

She gripped your hair, hard.

— Kneel for me, sweetheart. Would you do that?

— I’d do anything for you, Emily. — Your voice carried something pure, irrational, beyond the limits of acceptable desire and submission for someone.

And then you did it.

You knelt.

Accepted your rightful place—where you’d always belonged. Beneath her.

Bent to her will.

To Emily Prentiss.

If this was hell... then whatever came next would be child’s play to you.

Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night

And wouldn't you love to love her?

Takes to the sky like a bird in flight

And who will be her lover?

All your life you've never seen

Woman taken by the wind

Religion may be the refuge of the weak—the presence of a God influencing every decision made by us, mere mortals. His omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient existence. That's exactly how I felt about Emily. Maybe I am weak? Or maybe it’s just a different perspective—the one where we’re self-aware enough to recognize what we need and go after it with every ounce of strength running through our blood. I wanted her, now and forever.

[myharkness]

14 from hydrangea and the “you should wear the red one tonight” where em’s painfully jealous that r is going but wants her to be happy, and r literally is only going bc em is avoiding making a move bc its “unprofessional”

I love it when they're down bad idiots >_< part of the 800 celebration!

Tags: jealous emily, idiots in love, reader gets all up in emily's face lol, uc emily

Word count: 0.7k

She just had to be here for this, didn’t she? Hip against the doorframe like she owns your damn house, arms crossed against her bruised heart as she watches you style your hair and muse over the multiple outfits you’d laid on your bed, indecision creasing your brow in a frown. Even half-ready, still dressed in your home clothes, you twist her stomach into nauseous knots. Emily digs her nails deep into her arm, trying to look away from the purse of your lips.

“You should wear the red one tonight.” She says when your silence lingers too long.

Your eyes flick up to hers, narrowing the slightest bit. 

What the fuck is she doing again? 

Emily clears her throat, “You look good in red.”

“You think?” You say, not bothering to hide the flatness of your tone. It pokes at her skin, razor sharp, drawing blood the same color of the fabric spread out over your sheets.

She hates this. She hates the glare in your eyes, the bitter poison on your tongue. Emily’s not fooling anyone. You both know what you’re doing; this endless game of cat and mouse, pushing and pulling—it’s gotten predictable. 

You’re her best friend. Her subordinate. Fire and gasoline, continually reignited and doused with water. 

She can’t control the flame now.

“Pretty enough for a guy from corporate,” you drawl, your voice dark with scorn. “But not for an ambassador’s daughter, right?”

Her heart jumps to her throat.

“It’s not that.”

“Not that, huh?” You scoff. “You can’t even give me a better excuse?” 

Emily’s neck heats, her shoulders pressing flat against the doorframe as you lessen the useless space she’d put between you. She holds her breath as you crowd against her, palpable anger and your familiar perfume heavy in her bloodstream. “What is it then, Emily? It can’t be work, can it?” Your volume drops. Her ears strain for your whisper. “I’ve seen you cozying up with Laura from the B team. Work didn’t seem too important then.”

Laura wasn’t anything. She was just stressed, overworked, tired of seeing nothing but a hopeless dead end when her eyes met yours. It was just a few hours, hardly a night; she left before the sun came up. What she did with her she couldn’t do with you.

“You’re a coward.”

Emily flinches. It doesn’t matter that you say it softly, the words caressing her skin. They lodge into her chest like a bullet.

“Be braver than me.” She wets her lips, already unraveling between your body and the wall. It never takes much with you. “Please.”

“So you can shut me down again?”

“I won’t. I won’t.” She breathes, her hand finding the nape of your neck. Your skin is fever-hot. “I can’t do this anymore. Seeing you like this, getting ready for someone else—” her head jerks, “it’s killing me.”

You’re unfazed as you press your hand to the wall behind her head. “And when you’re not seeing me like this?” You murmur. “What then? You’ll come back to your senses? Be the sensible Unit Chief who won’t stoop down low enough to fuck her subordinate?”

The words ring in her ears.

“Don’t, stop. You’re more than that.” There’s not enough air. Too much you. “You’re not just some fling I can forget about. People will talk.”

“You’ve never cared.”

“I do when it comes to you.” She slides her hand up, cups your cheek. “Baby, I’m just—”

“If you say you’re just trying to protect me, I swear to god, I’ll dropkick your ass.”

Emily’s smile is faint. Her hand finds the curve of your waist, her palm molding to its shape. “I love you.” She says softly.

You go still.

“I love you, and you’re right, I’m a coward. But”—she runs her tongue over her lip—“I’m trying to be brave. So I’ll kiss you. Okay?”

Your mouth opens, moves, but no sound comes out. Emily can feel the fast pace of your heart under her thumb, drumming through your warm skin. Her own heart picks up as your hand slides down to her shoulder, then up to the line of her jaw, your pupils blown. You clear your throat.

“Okay.” 

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco@jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz

[myharkness]

Billiards !NSFW!

Avenger!Agatha Harkness x Fem!Avenger!reader

word count: 6,447

Content warnings: MDNI; jealous Agatha, established relationship, top!Dom!Agatha, bottom!Bratty!reader, ROUGH SMUT, heavy on the breeding kink, choking, magic strap, spit kink, bondage, squirting, controlled orgasm, dacryphilia (crying kink), tummy bulge, size kink, mommy kink, degradation kink, praise kink, impact play, mild intoxication, minimal use of 'y/n', soft Agatha at the end, AU nobody's dead

Summary: Agatha's birthday had never been a huge affair--until she became an Avenger. Now, she's celebrating at the biggest party ever thrown for her, and it's all thanks to you. But what happens when Tony makes a bet with you that he and Agatha can beat you and Nat at a heated game of billiards?

A/N: So I received a request for a breeding kink oneshot and then my tumblr was all fucked up and I had to delete the original post, so I lost the anon message. So, if you're the anon, here you go<3 I think this is the filthiest smut i've ever written BY FAR and also the longest oneshot I've written.  

I'm absolutely going to be making Avenger!Agatha a more frequent addition to my masterlist, so if you have any other ideas lmk! I have a little post here from a while ago about Agatha being an Avenger, so I'll probably be pulling more ideas from there!

And a huge shout out to the hotties of the Keeping Up With the Lesbihahns server! Thank you for being amazing human beings<3

The speakers vibrate with the bass of the song that blares from them. 

Across the room, Agatha laughs loudly and snorts before taking a sip of her drink–a ranch water on ice, garnished with a lime. You had been worried when she became an Avenger, not knowing how well she’d fit in, but now, after almost a year, you silently scold yourself. It took a bit of time for her to adjust, but she fits in perfectly, and in your one-hundred-sixteen years of knowing her, you had never seen her so happy.

Now, she celebrates her 353rd birthday at Avengers Tower. After everything you had been through together, from arguments that ended in you leaving, to finding her again and walking the Witches’ Road just a couple years ago, you never saw a future like this with her. But here you are, admiring her from the bar and blushing when she winks after catching you staring.

Having been out before the party, you never got a chance to see her after this morning, and you make your way over slowly. With a drink in hand, you weave through the maze of guests, stopping every so often to say hello and thank them and catch up. In fact, by the time you get to her, your drink is over halfway gone. 

“Hi,” she says, turning away from her previous conversation with that sly smirk that she seems to always have just for you. 

Her arm goes around your waist and you peck her on the lips, “Happy birthday! I feel like I haven’t seen you all day…”

“Mm, not true,” she says, taking a sip of  her drink and tightening her grip on you before she lowers her voice. “You saw me this morning and as I recall, it was quite pleasant.”

“Agatha Harkness!” you gasp, faltering into light laughter. “What is the matter with you?”

“There she is! The birthday girl!”

Just a bit away, Tony has his arms out wide, clearly in the beginning stages of inebriation. Agatha groans into her drink as he heads straight for you.

“Just sent Peter home and Wanda sent her kid with him too,” he says, drinking from glass. “I don’t know why I keep letting them attend these things.”

“What happened this time?” you ask.

Tony huffs, “Well, it’s getting late, and he and Billy tried to learn how to bartend…and subsequently dropped a $300 bottle of vodka.”

Your eyes widen and you smile when you see Natasha walking over. “Hey! Did you hear that Peter and Billy broke a $300 bottle of vodka?”

“Hear?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow and scoffing. “I watched it happen. Slipped right out of Parker’s small hands and landed right on the floor. Looked like he was about to shit bricks.”

Looking behind her, you notice that the billiards table is deserted and turn your head to look up at Agatha. “Would you care for a friendly game of pool, my love?”

“Friendly?” she says. “With how competitive you and I are? Nothing we play is ever ‘friendly’…but yes. I would love to.”

“Want to play?” you ask Tony and Nat. “Or are you too chicken from the last time Agatha kicked your ass, Tony?”

“Alright, fine,” he relents. “But let’s switch it up. Harkness, you’re with me.” At the table, he looks at you and Nat, clearly thinking. “Let’s make a wager. I bet a hundred bucks Harkness and I will kick your asses.”

Nat’s eyes widen and she scoffs, “Alright. You’re on.”

Beginning the game, Tony removes all but two of the balls from the table and you line them up on the head string. You retrieve the cues and hand one to Agatha to begin the lag, but she stops short.

“Wait,” she says, giving you a pointed look. “I know how you play. We need a referee.”

Nat glances around, holding tightly to her drink. The room is crowded and loud, but she manages to wave someone down. “Hey, Rogers!” she calls. “Come be our ref for the lag! This one here likes to cheat.”

Your jaw drops. “I do not like to cheat! Agatha is being dramatic!”

“Not what I remember from the last time we played Monopoly,” she mutters into her drink.

“I didn’t cheat,” you hiss. “You just kept landing on ‘Go to Jail’. And on top of that, you made a very bad investment by buying Park Place and Boardwalk! Everyone knows you don’t go for those! They’re a trap.”

“Alright, enough bickering,” Tony huffs. “But, Steve,” he adds, eyeing you, “keep an eye on her–actually, you know what? Keep an eye on both of them. Harkness cheats just as much.”

You down the rest of your drink, feeling it warm your insides. “I can’t do this without another drink, I’ll be back.” You see Agatha’s empty glass, asking if she wants another, and when she says yes, you dash, getting yourself an extra strong margarita and Agatha another ranch water, both with top-shelf tequila.

You hurry back with both drinks in hand, and when Agatha sees, she smiles as you hand her drink over. “There she is! What took you so long, hon? Planning out your cheating strategy?”

Before she can take her drink, you take it back and take a big sip. You look down and notice that a large lipstick stain has been left. You hum, shrugging your shoulders and giving her a coy smile, “Oops.”

Agatha purses her lips, but there’s an amused glint in her eyes and she takes a swig of her drink.

Setting your drinks aside, you stand to Agatha’s right, both of you lining your cues up with your respective lag balls. Steve stands close to the table with Tony and Nat, eyeing your cues carefully. And when you have them lined up, he starts to count down, “Alright, on three. One, two, three!”

With a light grip on your cue, you hit the ball softly, sending it to the footboard of the table. Agatha’s ball rolls next to yours, hitting the foot cushion just before yours. The five of you watch the two balls roll, your anxiety racing as Agatha’s hits the head cushion first and rolls back toward the head string, stopping a couple inches short. Your ball hits the cushion and rolls, just stopping short of Agatha’s lag ball.

You and Nat cheer, high fiving as Agatha groans. You give her a whiney pout with your best puppy eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Are you a sore loser?”

You can see Agatha trying not to smile and she just manages to suppress it, “Not at all,” she scoffs. “That was just the lag. Set up the other cue balls and take your shot so that Stark and I can win a hundred bucks from each of you.”

“You’re very confident tonight,” you laugh.

“Stop teasing,” she huffs. “It’s my birthday.”

“Are we placing bets now?” Steve asks casually, his hand in his pocket as he sips his drink. 

“A hundred dollars buy-in,” Tony responds. “You want in?”

“My bet is on these two,” Steve says, pointing to you and Nat.

“Oh, come on!” Tony scoffs. “Y/N is crap at billiards. The last time we played, she sent a ball off the table and Agatha ended up taking over!”

You giggle beside Agatha and Steve shrugs. “I dunno, I just got a feeling.” 

Nat removes the triangle and lines up her cue with the ball, aiming for the red 3 at the tip of the triangle. You stay by Agatha’s side, eyeing her from the side. “I better not hear any incantations from that mouth of yours,” you mumble.

“My lips are sealed,” she mutters back.

You hum, “They weren’t this morning.” And you can see her turn toward you and open her mouth in rebuttal, but Nat gets the 9 ball in on her first turn and you cheer. “Awesome, we’re stripes!” you smile, completely ignoring Agatha.

You step up with your cue, leaving Agatha with Tony and Steve. Lining up the cue with the white ball and aiming for the 14 ball, Nat leans over you.

Her left hand comes to your back and her right hand to yours, adjusting the position of the cue. “If you hold it like this,” she says, her voice low, “you’ll get a lot more control.”

You look across the table to where Agatha stands. She holds her drink tightly and her lips are puckered as you make eye contact. And when you grin, you watch her tongue poke the inside of her cheek. You’ve known her long enough now, that you know exactly what’s going on in her head.

You glance back at Nat and thank her for the advice before shooting the ball. The cue ball hits the 14 almost perfectly into the pocket and Nat replaces you with her turn. When you step back you look at Agatha and raise your eyebrows, shrugging your shoulders and grinning. You receive a slow shake of her head and a slight chuckle.

Nat misses her shot and Agatha steps up to take her place, eyeing the 3 ball and shooting it in the closest pocket. Tony takes his place now and lands the 7 ball in the pocket, letting Agatha take her turn again. 

As she lines her cue up with the ball, aiming for the 5 ball, Wanda enters the sidelines and is followed by two others–Thor and Loki. Wanda stands beside Nat who asks her if she wants in on the bet–to which Wanda agrees, placing a hundred on Agatha and Tony.

“I’ve seen how Y/N plays,” Wanda says. “My bet is on them.”

Nat purses her lips and sighs, looking you up and down from behind. “I dunno. She’s getting pretty good.”

Across the table, as you watch her with admiration, Agatha can see everything happening and her mind starts to cloud. She takes a deep breath and shoots, only to end up scratching the cue ball in the pocket across from it. “Dammit!”

“I’ll place a hundred on them,” Thor says, pointing at you and Nat.

Loki–who is clearly drunk–looks between the two teams, “I’ll place a hundred on Stark and Harkness.”

 You step up to the table and aim the cue ball for the 13, managing to ricochet it off a cushion and land it in the pocket. “You’re up, Romanov,” you say, eyeing Agatha with a sense of pride.

“Well, shit,” Wanda sighs. “Maybe I should’ve placed my money on you two.”

When Nat walks past you, her hand brushes against your waist. Agatha watches on, her nostrils flaring, but still remaining civil–but, God, is it hard when she’s watching you with Nat.

Nat manages to get the 10 ball into a pocket. Only the 12, 11, and 15 balls are left, and you manage to knock the 11 ball into the pocket fairly easily.

With a prideful grin, Natasha steps up again, looking between the 12, 15, and 8 balls. Three more. As she gears up to hit the 12 ball, Bruce and Clint have joined, watching intently.

Tony looks miserable, and his third drink is definitely hitting him, because when you miss your next shot at the 15 ball, he loses his balance briefly before stepping up.

“You haven’t won just yet,” he sighs, and knocks the 2 ball into a pocket. 

Agatha’s up again and she leans down, lining up the cue and carefully knocking the 6 ball into a pocket. Tony’s back up and once again successfully hits the 4 ball into a pocket, and when Agatha gets the 1 ball in, tensions rise.

There are three object balls on the pool table.

The 5 ball, the 15 ball, and the 8 ball.

They could easily win. If Tony gets the 5 ball in, all he has to do is knock the 8 ball into the pocket. Neither of them are in the most difficult positions, but being three, almost four, fairly strong drinks in, they could be at the edge of a pocket and he’d still miss.

Your heart races, and you can feel your face flush from the alcohol. Tony lines up his cue with the cue ball and…

He misses.

“Shit!” Agatha groans.

The ones who placed their bets on Tony and Agatha are looking sheepish now, and when Nat walks up to the table, she lines her cue up, draws it back, and shoots.

And the 15 ball goes right in.

Cheers from both sides erupt, some good, some bad. Murmurs bounce around, predictions shared, and you slowly walk up, cue stick in hand.

“You hustled us, didn’t you?” Tony sighs, rubbing his face tiredly.

You lean down to line your stick up with the cue ball. Your eyes go to Agatha and then you look directly at Tony with a shit-eating grin, “Yes, yes I did.”

You draw the stick back, focus on the cue ball, take a deep breath, and strike. The 8 ball rolls quickly…right into the back left pocket.

Tony’s head falls back while Agatha tries not to look so frustrated. As the other members of the team whoop or jeer (with Steve boasting that he knew it and was the first one to place a bet on you), Nat hugs you and Agatha struggles just a bit more to hide her emotions.

She chugs the rest of her drink and you mosey over with a sway in your hips and a smile on your lips. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Why don’t we get you another drink.”

You set the cue stick down on the table while the rest of the gathering either sits down or disperses to other conversations. Taking Agatha’s hand and your empty glass, you follow her to the bar. What follows is a third drink–her fourth–and then retiring to the wildly expensive sofas with your fourth drink around midnight.

Leaning against Agatha in your tipsy haze, you watch as the party guests slowly file out. You both nurse your drinks, talking quietly and soon having the other team members sitting down with you.

You all talk and laugh, sharing stories and adding in quips here and there. When your drink is finished and Agatha’s abandoned hers, you’re pulled even tighter into her side. You subtly look up and notice where her eye line is immediately–you knew it from the second you went to make your shot and Nat came up behind you. Agatha’s jealousy only got worse after that, and her eyes are narrowed at Nat, who seems completely oblivious to it.

Smiling, you know exactly how this will end. You kiss Agatha’s shoulder and then the hand that holds you close. Looking around, you see that there are very few guests left and most of them are at the bar. The music is quieter now, and the rest of the team is thoroughly immersed and distracted by a drunken game of gin rummy.

You lean in close to her ear and lower your voice, “I’m feeling a little…tired, do you want to go upstairs with me?”

Agatha says nothing and stands up, leans down to get her glass, knocks back the rest of her drink, and then takes your hand.

You giggle to yourself as you both rush off to the elevator. “Slow down,” you laugh. “I think I’ve crossed the threshold between tipsy and drunk.”

Once in the elevator, you’re pushed against the wall before you can press the button to your floor. Agatha presses it herself, huffing into your mouth. 

“I couldn’t stand watching her touch you like that,” she mutters, breathing heavily as her fingers thread through your hair. “Touching what’s mine…”

You kiss her and pull back, your noses pressing against each other. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re jealous.”

“Shut up,” she seethes, and kisses you hard. “God, I fucking love you.”

The doors on your floor open and you’re pushed out of the elevator. Agatha presses you against the wall, hovering over you as she devours your disheveled look–lipstick smudged, hair frizzy, it drives her crazy and she crashes into you again.

You both stumble to the door, refusing to let go of each other. When the door opens, it’s shut quickly after, with you slammed against it and Agatha’s hands slip under your shirt. You gasp when you feel her nails scrape down your torso, hands grasping her waist tightly as she maneuvers you around.

You’re both breathing heavily, faces flushed and lipstick ruined as her lips suck marks into your neck. “Wait, wait, wait,” you pant, your mind dazed. “Makeup–we should probably take off our makeup.” You slip from her grasp and toss her a look over your shoulder, “And then you can lay your claim on me…”

A fire flickers behind her eyes and she follows you into the ensuite bathroom. Through your intoxicated haze, you messily remove each other’s makeup, uncontrollably giggling as she tries to lay endless kisses on you.

“You taste like makeup wipes,” she hums, laughing and kissing you as the two of you stagger out of the bathroom and toward the bed.

“Mm, so do you, but don’t worry,” you breathe. “That’ll change soon.”

“You know…” she huffs. “I was thoroughly enjoying my birthday…” Her hand comes up to your chin, tilting your head back to look her in the eyes. “Especially the view from behind when you’d shoot during pool…” She takes a deep breath in, “Oh, I loved that…You know I loved that…Until that slut had her hands all over you…”

You glance down at her lips and then back up at her eyes, your hands running over her hips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, feigning innocence.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Agatha chuckles darkly. She readjusts her hold on your chin to fully grip your jaw now, fingers digging into your cheeks. She towers over you, making you feel impossibly small as you crane your neck to look up at her. “You’re a big girl.” Her voice is low and gravelly, and it makes your knees weak. “You’re smarter than that. So, tell me, why did you let it happen, baby?”

You choose your next words carefully. You could deny the whole thing again, but you know you can do better, so instead, you say, “Because…I know how you are when you’re jealous…and I know how much it gets you worked up…and I want nothing more than for you to fuck me until I’m crying.”

The look in her eyes visibly changes to something darker. Her lips curl into a wicked smile, “God, you’re such a fucking slut…” Her eyes skim down your body and back up before she leans in close. “Get on your knees.”

“No.” The words tumble from your lips with no hesitation.

“I’m going to tell you one more time…and I’d think very carefully about how you'll respond,” she warns you. With each word, she gets closer to your lips. “Now…get…on…your knees.”

You look her in the eyes defiantly one more time before dropping to your knees slowly.

“Good,” she mutters. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

Agatha crosses the room to the walk-in closet where she remains inside for a short amount of time. When the door opens again, she stands there in nothing but a black lace bra, a satin robe, and…there it is.

She grins as she watches the expression on your face change to something that looks like you’re masking excitement. But it’s hard. It’s so fucking difficult, because every time she puts that strap on–the double ended one, the designated strap that means there’ll be magic involved–you can’t help but squirm.

“Someone’s excited,” she drawls, creeping closer. The mix of alcohol and lust makes your heart race as she gets nearer and nearer to you, before finally standing tall over you. Her hand comes to your hair, stroking it softly, and you can’t help but admire how she looks in this lighting–the dim glow of the bedroom lamps, the floor-to-ceiling windows that cast the white light of New York City into the room, the shadows on the left side of her face seem to sharpen all of her features.

The features that turn hard and dark as she scowls at you. 

“Suck,” she commands, her fingers twisting into your hair and jerking your head forward.

You look up at Agatha with wide eyes and lean forward. Slowly taking the strap in your hand, you can feel the light hum of magic and judging by her facial reaction, she can feel every brush of your fingers on the fake cock.

Your head feels light and airy as you take it in your mouth. She huffs, letting out a breathy laugh, “That’s it, baby. Suck Mommy’s cock like the good little slut you are.”

Her fingers tighten in your hair and start pushing your head forward. You feel tears flood your eyes and drool drip from your lip as you begin to choke on the fake dick. Above you, Agatha wears a wicked smile as she looks down. When the tears fall from your eyes, rolling down your flushed cheeks, she reaches down with one hand and wipes them away. “Aww, the poor baby,” she pouts. “Can’t even wrap your hand all the way around Mommy’s cock because it’s so big.”

She pulls your head back roughly and drops you like a rag doll. “Get on the bed.” You stand up and walk slowly over, only moving quicker when she comes up behind you and slaps your ass. “Faster,” she spits. 

She practically manhandles you when you get onto the bed, maneuvering you to the middle and giving you no chance to breathe before her lips are on yours again.  Her hand grips your jaw tightly, “You suck Mommy’s cock so well, you know that?”

“I do know that,” you say matter-of-factly.

“Someone’s full of herself tonight,” she says smugly. “You’re such a brat.”

You sigh as Agatha leans down to kiss you, “You love it.”

She hums against your lips. “I’d never admit it,” she mutters. 

“Who’s the brat now, Mommy?” you tease.

She pulls back and tightens her grip on your face. “Someone needs to fix that filthy mouth of yours,” she growls. “You don’t get to speak to me that way. Do you understand?”

Heat rushes straight to your core and you squirm beneath her, trying to hold back a drunken giggle.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing right now,” she says, shaking her head. “Things are only going to get much worse…but that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You bite the inside of your lip, knowing that the look you give her when you do it drives her up the walls. Nodding your head, you let out a little, “Mhm.”

“You’re such a slut,” she sighs, shaking her head lightly. “Do you remember your safe word?” she asks, and when you say yes, she leans down, smiling softly. “Good…I love you.”

“I love you too,” you mutter back, receiving the softest kiss of the night so far.

When she sits back, all the warmth that was in her eyes when she kissed you has dissipated. “Now…what to do with you…” Her hands roam your body as she begins to slowly strip you of your black dress and pantyhose. “You’ve been such a brat all a week…teasing me during training–you know how I get when you wear those leggings.” Her voice, though syrupy sweet, is laced with venom. “And your hands when I was driving us home from dinner…” She clicks her tongue, “distracted driving…so dangerous. And now, on my birthday, letting Nat put her hands on you just so you’d get me wound up…” She raises her voice and the sweetness in her voice has gone. “Oh…you’ve been…Such. A bad. Girl…”

Agatha’s hands pull your legs apart roughly, fingers coming down to rub the gusset of your underwear. “Hmm…and look how worked up you’re getting from it.” She moves it aside and drags a finger up and down your slit. “So wet for me, baby. Did choking on Mommy’s cock really get you this turned on?”

The tip of her finger teases your entrance and goes back up to circle your clit. You let out a shuddering breath. “Yes,” you breathe

She hums. “So fucking filthy.” And without warning she tears your lace underwear, discarding them on the bed.

“Agatha!” you gasp. “Those were expensive!”

She shrugs nonchalantly and rubs the inside of your thighs, “Don’t worry about it, toots.” She leans down and kisses your torso, trailing them down to your thighs. “I’ll get you a new pair. I’ll get you ten new pairs. And each one will be sexier than the last.”

She dips her head and licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. She circles the tip of it over your clit before inching it down to your entrance and keeping it there as your head spins with pleasure. She moves it in and out, collecting every last drop of your arousal.

Agatha sits up and leans over you, her hand coming up to grab your jaw again. “Open your mouth.” You obey and she lets a slow string of her spit and your arousal drip into your mouth. “Good girls swallow,” she says, and you do exactly that. She smiles, but it’s condescending on every level. “There she is…What do you say?”

“That you no longer taste like makeup wipes,” you say with a mischievous look and anticipating the reaction that would come after.

Her eyes are the darkest you’ve seen them, but you don’t dwell on it for much longer because the slap that comes to your face is quick and sharp. Her hand grabs your jaw again and squeezes your cheeks hard enough that your lips pucker. “I give you exactly what you want, and you don’t even have the decency to say ‘thank you’.” She looks over your face and sneers. “You really are enjoying this, hm? I wonder how much you’d enjoy it if I edged you to the point of insanity.”

She laughs at the look of fear in your eyes when you realize she’s serious. Her hands grab your wrists and cross them, holding them over your head.

“Keep your hands there,” Agatha mutters dangerously. “Or I’ll tie them up.”

The words “Yes, mommy” are on the tip of your tongue, but instead, you push her to the edge, hands wriggling in her grasp. “If I were you, I’d tie them up.” Your eyes become soft and pleading. “You just fuck me so well, Mommy, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay still.”

Your words have a clear effect on her because she closes her eyes momentarily and steadies her breathing. She climbs off the bed, goes back to the walk-in closet, and returns with your favorite vibrator and the black satin restraints that you use more than you care to admit.

So much so, that you had six hooks installed–four in discrete areas of the bottom of the headboard and footboard, and two on either side of the bed frame, tucked underneath and out of sight. 

And after Agatha removes your bra, she utilizes them quickly. Your hands are tied together tightly above your head and she stands beside the bed, looking over you and thinking. “Hmm…Should I tie your legs up too? Completely bound while I fuck you, but never let you cum.”

Silently, she answers her own question and takes four more restraints, tying two to your ankles and the other two to your thighs. You couldn’t lie, you weren’t expecting it to go this far, but, god, you’re not complaining. Her fingers glide through your folds before landing a hard slap on your pussy.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me now?” she asks, face hovering over yours. 

“Maybe…” you sigh. 

“Maybe?” she repeats. “Well, hopefully, by the time you’re begging to cum, you’ll change your answer.”

She reaches for the vibrator, looking down at you like a predator with its prey. “I’m going to have so much fun with this,” she groans, turning the vibrator on to its lowest setting and pressing to your clit. As your back arches and your jaw drops, two fingers are slipped inside you easily.

Her fingers curl and speed up quickly, the sound of your wetness and your moans filling the room. You don’t think you’ve ever had an orgasm approach so quickly. 

“Agatha! I need–!” You choke on your words as you struggle against the restraints.

She stops her motions and the vibrator entirely, running her hands over spread thighs. “Still having fun?” she says, patronizing you.

You huff, keeping on your facade that’s quickly fading, “Yes, I am, actually.”

Agatha sees right through you, of course, and after giving you a few minutes to settle down, she turns the vibrator back on. She repeats this routine until you lose track in counting and you’re sobbing.

“You wanna cum?” she asks, pouting. When you nod your head and let out a strangled cry, she removes the vibrator and her fingers. “Oh, poor baby…I thought this is what you wanted, though?”

Your chest is heaving and tears blur your vision. You choke on your sobs through the most pleasurable pain you’ve ever experienced. “Mommy, please! Please, please, please!” you sob.

“Bad girls don’t get to cum,” she says, her hand wrapping around your throat. “You know that. So, I’ll ask you again. Are you going to be a good girl?”

You whimper beneath her, the tip of her strap grazing your clit as the pressure inside becomes unbearable. “Yes!” you say finally. “Yes, I’ll be good! I promise!”

“Will you use your manners?” she asks. “Say please and thank you? And take everything that I give you, and do everything I tell you?”

“Yes, Mommy!” you say, arching your back into her. “I’ll do anything, I promise! Please!”

Agatha hums and kisses you, trailing her lips to your cheeks and licking the tears from them. She sits back and slips her fingers back into your cunt with ease before turning the vibrator back on. You moan loudly, verging on a scream as your orgasm comes hurtling toward you. You cry and beg and plead for Agatha to let you cum, and finally, those words leave her mouth.

“Cum for Mommy, baby,” she tells you. “That’s it! Good girl!”

“Thank you!” you cry. “Thank you!”

Your body shakes and you scream as you gush all over her hand. She throws the vibrator aside, fucking you through your orgasm as you sob. “There she is! Good girl! Look at you!”

When you go limp, she leans over you, opening your mouth and sticking her middle and pointer fingers inside. You close your lips around them immediately, moaning at the taste of yourself. Agatha presses her fingers on your tongue, pushing them back far and fucking your mouth until you choke. When she pulls them out, spit following, she grabs your face hard and kisses you even harder. 

It all happens quickly. She sits up, not giving you a moment to recover, releases your legs from their bounds, throws her robe on the floor, and takes a pillow from behind you and places it under your hips. Her hands come under your knees, gripping your thighs and pushing them wide open. 

A loud moan escapes your throat as she slowly thrusts into you. “It’s too big!” you cry. “Agatha–”

“Ah, ah,” she tuts. “No complaining.” She softens her voice, comforting you with a hand over your stomach. “I know, baby. It’s bigger than usual, but you can take it.” When her hand presses down, she gasps and pulls it away. “Oh, look at that…so fucking big, you can see it peeking through…”

The feeling of magic buzzes through you faintly as she pulls out and pushes back in. Agatha’s head falls back and her eyes close as you clench around her. “Fuck, your pussy feels so fucking good.” 

Your arms strain against their restraints, desperate to get your hands on her as her hips speed up. The sound of skin slapping against skin reverberates around the room and she leans in close with her hand on your throat, squeezing lightly. You’re gasping into each other’s mouths, and just as you’re about to beg her to untie your hands, she reaches up and pulls the tail end of the ribbon.

Your hands claw at Agatha’s back, holding onto her tightly as you tremble beneath her. “Fuck, I want you to cum inside me,” you gasp. “Please!”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she huffs following it with a breathy chuckle. “You want me to fuck you so good that you end up pregnant. How fucking amazing would that be? Knowing I did that. You’d look so fucking beautiful, baby.” Her thrusts grow messier as she continues and you’re beginning to teeter on the brink of bliss. “Carrying our child, everybody–even that slut downstairs–knowing you’re taken–that you’re mine.”

You let out a strangled gasp and your hand slaps over your mouth, only for her to remove it and lace her fingers with yours. “Don’t cover your mouth, baby,” she says. “I want to hear everything. So, tell me, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” you seethe, your teeth clenching as you look up at her desperately. “Fuck, yes, I would! Cum inside me! I want to carry your baby, and I want everyone to know who I belong to! I’m yours! I’m fucking yours, Agatha! I love you so fucking much!”

“Then let’s fucking do it,” she breathes. “Let’s have a baby and let everyone know who you belong to.” She can see you struggling to hold on, to hold off finishing before her. But she forces you to look at her, and with a crazed, heated look in her eyes, she says, “Cum. Now. Cum for me.”

“Fuck! Thank you, Mommy!” you sob, shaking violently underneath her as you start to finish. You can feel her throb inside you and as you just get over the peak of your orgasm, you feel the warmth of her own spread through you. 

Agatha goes limp on top of you, a comforting weight as she presses soft kisses to your shoulder and neck. You’re both out of breath, but still, she kisses you on the lips tenderly and trails them from your cheeks to your ear.

“I love you,” she says softly. She sits up, pulling out slowly and removing the strap. After tossing it on the floor, she rests on top of you again, leaning on her elbow and supporting her head with her hand. “Thank you for a wonderful birthday,” she mutters, kissing you again. “But if that bitch ever touches you again, she’ll be a sacrifice at our next coven meeting.”

Agatha ends her threat with a boop to your nose, a smile, and then a kiss on your lips. You giggle into it, smiling against her lips, “Come on, let’s go take a bath.”

After helping each other out of bed, Agatha wraps her robe around herself and guides you to the bathroom with a hand on your back. As you prepare the bath, she cleans herself up and retrieves the towels, placing them on the towel warmer that you insisted your room have. 

She comes up behind you and wraps her arms around your waist, lips brushing your ear. “I’m going to put some pants on and sneak downstairs to the kitchen to get us some wine and snacks. Would you like anything specific?”

“Oh, good,” you muse. “My drunken haze is starting to wear off, and I cannot have that.” You turn your head, giggling, “No, hon. It’s your birthday. Whatever you want is fine with me.”

“Well, technically it’s not my birthday anymore,” she mutters. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“Go get the wine,” you say.

When she returns with the wine, two glasses, and crackers underneath her arm, she sighs. “Everyone’s gone and Gin Rummy lies abandoned on the coffee table.”

“Surprise, surprise,” you hum, taking the opened bottle from her hand and pouring yourself a glass. “Probably at Taco Bell. Now get in while it’s still hot.”

These are your favorite nights. The quiet ones. The ones spent in a hot bath and Agatha’s arms, with a glass of wine and snacks. Sure, you enjoyed the nights out and the parties, but these–when it's just the two of you–are your favorite.

You lean into Agatha’s touch, back against her chest as she wraps her arms around you. “Mm, don’t forget you owe me a hundred dollars.”

Her lips dip to the meeting place of your shoulder and neck, leaving soft kisses. “I think I just gave you something worth a lot more than a hundred dollars.”

You laugh at her response and turn partially in her arms to give her a proper kiss. “You’re right. Plenty of people would pay for that.”

She giggles into your neck, hands roaming your body in the water. Everything’s quiet and peaceful, perfect, but one question lingers in your mind.

“Agatha?” you say quietly. 

“Hm?”

“Um…” You try to think of the phrasing, not trying to sound too eager. “Were you serious when you said ‘let’s have a baby’?”

You feel her arms tighten and lips press to your neck. Her voice is quiet, “Do you want me to be serious?”

“I–Well–We’re not even married.” You try to reason, but it’s not with her. It’s with yourself, and your voice is tight, “But…Maybe…?”

“Remember when we had that tea party with Morgan a few months ago?” Agatha asks, and you nod. “That whole time I couldn’t stop looking at you–that silly tiara and those clip-on earrings, every time you made her laugh, played along and talked to her stuffed animals…” She sighs, “I just couldn’t stop thinking about how good of a mother you would make.”

You turn your head and look at her, trying to keep your tears at bay. “Really?”

She kisses you softly. “Really. You know, up until that day, I didn’t think I could love you any more than I already did. But when you sat down at that pink table with her, and you put on that ridiculous tiara, I was proven very wrong.” 

Her thumb wipes away a stray tear on your cheek as you sniffle, and she smiles softly when she says her next words, the arm around your waist tightening. “So, let’s get married, and we’ll see what the future has in store for us.”

[myharkness]

profesor wandanat x reader is so yummy 18+ under cut

Professor!Wanda who makes you sit in the front row from the very start, ignoring the way you blush

Professor!Natasha who doesn't care where you sit, as long as she can see you and you can see her.

They're both fond of calling you to office hours, especially Natasha, who has thicker walls and an office that's more hidden.

If you ever fail a test, neither of them will hesitate to bend you over their desk and spank your ass so hard you can't sit for a week.

"If you needed help studying then you should've asked," Wanda hissed in your ear, her front pressed against your back, "I'm dissapointed, you're supposed to be our smart girl."

But the aftercare that followed was the most amazing ever, filled with soft kisses peppered all over your face and words of reasurance.

"There's always next time. And we'll help you study, with certain...motivations of course."

Late nights at their house on the weekend, curled up on the couch as you study.

It starts innocent, until the two enter with wine glasses in their hands and sandwich you on the couch.

Wanda plucks the book out of your hands, despite your soft, whiney protest.

"Let's play a game, hm?" She hums, voice deceptively kind.

Wanda flips through the pages of the textbook as Natasha pulls you into her lap and you gasp as you feel the buldge of a strap.

The older red head shushes you when you squirm and try to turn around so you're straddling her.

"That's the reward," Natasha whispers in your ear, "Now focus on your studies. Pretend I'm not even here."

That instruction became increasingly harder as her hands wander along your thighs and up your shirt.

Wanda asks you questions, giving you a firm look when you stammer through an answer.

Then Natasha's hands dip below the waistband of your sweatpants and trace over your wet panties.

A low laugh echoes in your ear, "Our sweet girl is getting off on this."

All Wanda does is scoff and roll her eyes like she already knew that, which she probably did

The questions continue and so do Natasha's wandering touches until she's slowly fingering you into a fuzzy headspace.

Stammering through another answer you whimper softly, grinding on Natasha's fingers.

"Five more questions baby," Wanda chides softly, tapping your cheek to get your focus.

Those are the five hardest questions of your life, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain when Natasha touches your clit.

And her touches only get more and more pleasurable the longer you take to answer.

"Need to come," you whine at some point, squirming.

"Not until you're done," Natasha murmurs, stilling her fingers inside you for a moment, "Finish up."

Somehow, honestly you have no idea with how hazy your brain was, you manage to finish.

Then you get fucked into the mattress hard before Wanda eats you out until you can't breath anymore.

[myharkness]

Teasing

Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Wc: 2.6k

Warnings: pure smut, mommy kink, scissoring, let me know if i should add more

Summary: Agatha was teasing you relentlessly for weeks, what happens when it affects her too??

A/N: this was made a looong time ago when i was drunk so sorry for any mistakes, and its all because i couldnt stop thinking about Agatha after reading LCM @lunargrrrl 🙂‍↕️...

Anyways enjoy this and pls dont be mad i disappeared for god knows how long from tumblr

You thought Agatha was joking at first. That it's just some stupid words. But the stupid words turned into weeks of her teasing you, without her needy hands fucking you. Oh my sweet baby, you tested my limits today. Let's see if you will still act this way if i don't touch you at all. Her words bounced around your head, echoing endlessly.

At the time you've thought that it was just empty promises, nothing more than a simple tease. Oh you were so, so wrong. You haven't caught the serious tone, or the glint of her eyes when she uttered these words. Agatha was keen on making her words come true.

It's close to three weeks since she have fucked you. Maybe bratting out to her wasn't a good idea after all. You've spent three grueling weeks without her touch, without her mouth on your body and it started to bother you. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact that Agatha has been teasing you relentlessly everyday. The torturing varied depending on her mood. Sometimes it was her hand lingering for longer than it should when she moved past you in the kitchen, the other time it was her playfully slapping your ass when you were standing in the bathroom brushing your teeth. Either way it is too much for you to handle, your skin burning with her every touch.

But it started to affect her too. She was getting more handsy with each passing day. You could see it was breaking her as much as it did you. During the three weeks you had to endure, you could sometimes hear her ragged breath as she was muttering your name, touching herself to the thought of you. It was pure torture, listening to her, yet you knew that touching her was off limits as Agatha was set on making you as miserable as possible.

The witch was doing alright until one day, Agatha just snapped. She found you in your shared living room, playing games and talking with friends. She tugged your headset off and looked at you with a dangerous sparkle in your eyes.

“Hi sweetheart, are you busy?”

“Yes Aggie, sorry I'm playing with my friends.”

This should've been enough to keep her away, right? Turns out it was not nearly enough. She slowly came around the couch that you were sitting on. Her smirk widening as she sank to her knees before you.

“I think you should be busy with something else baby.”

If you weren't paying much attention to Agatha, then now you were. Her nimble fingers were undoing your jeans and her eyes were fixated on your centre. Agatha's every move was calculated, almost as if she was planning this all along.

“You think you can focus on your game while i fuck you sweetheart?”

You held your breath when you heard the words that left her mouth. She was eyeing you up and down, her gaze wandering all over your body and concentrating on what she wanted the most.

While you were busy cursing at the game, Agatha took off your pants gently, kissing on the now uncovered expanse of your thighs. You muted yourself to talk to the witch.

“Agatha, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I've decided that it's enough. I wanna fuck you. Hard.”

“No Agatha. I'm busy.”

The witch raised her brows in surprise. You were denying her?

“I know my love, but don't you want this too?”

The question hung in the air for a while, until you were ready to respond to her. She was eagerly waiting for your answer. Expecting a simple yes or a nod. But you haven't done any of that. Instead you focused on your game, craving for the victory royale you were so close to.

As her question lingered, it remained unanswered. Agatha started to nudge your bare thighs, kissing every now and then to grab your attention. But it didn't work on you. Your eyes were completely fixated on the screen of your shared TV not daring to look away for even a second.

“Baby, please… I want you so bad right now. Won't you do mommy a favour?”

Your cheeks flushed pink at the honorific that came out of Agatha's mouth, but you were still unwilling to succumb to her. She tried everything she could think of, kissing your thighs, playing with your biceps and yet it failed.

Annoyed you looked at witch's desperate state

“You went without touching me for almost three weeks. I’m sure you can go a few hours longer.”

If looks could kill, then you would be a dead man. Agatha stared daggers at you, but you didn't spare her even a glance. Annoyed at your antics she decided to take matters into her own hands. With your pants already off, Agatha took pleasure in touching you through your, now soaked, underwear.

“C'mon baby I know you want it as much as I do, hmm?”

Just as she thought that her pleas went unheard, you put your headset aside and leaned down to whisper.

“You've been teasing me for too long, you gotta beg for it now sugar”

Agatha's smirk was immediately wiped off of her face. Her eyes now full of yearning.

Witch’s hands trembled beside your body. Her mind was fighting the urge to beg you to give into her needs. It was a long battle that she lost. Her voice slightly trembled when she asked you.

“Please baby, I just wanna taste you. Wanna taste your pretty cunt.”

“Agatha I'm still playing-”

She cuts you off with a kiss, not letting you finish your sentence, kissing your lips with a newfound fire. You furiously drop your headset on the table in front of you. Agatha's hands are now wandering all over your body, as if she has never touched you before. You push her away quickly, shutting your console off, your gaze now solely focused on the mess of a girlfriend you had on your knees in front of you. Feeling annoyed at her actions, you grab her chin and force her to look at you.

“I thought all of the agonising teasing was just to break me… did you snap too Agatha?”

Agatha's voice faltered, unable to produce any coherent sound. Her mind was wilding with all the possibilities this interaction unlocked. You were never dominant in bed with her. Maybe, once in a blue moon, you made some demands. But you were never acting like that. It awoke something in the witch's mind. And she needed to get more of that.

“Oh my, did the all mighty Agatha Harkness go all submissive on me? Tell me baby, does this turn you on?”

Agatha was dumbfounded, reeling in the feeling of you being so dominant with her. Every fiber of her being radiated with a sudden urge to submit to you. To beg for your touch. Yet she didn't say anything.

You let go of her face and started to slowly undress yourself. As your pants were long gone, you started to unbutton your shirt slowly. The witch was having none of it, your buttons went flying as the older woman practically tore your shirt off.

“You're so eager, Aggie. Beg for it baby, beg for what you want so bad.”

Agatha's eyes sparkled wildly as she raked her brain for any sensible response. She tried hard, yet her only response was a low whine with a few words.

“Please baby, I fucking need you.”

“You have to do better than that to make me forgive you for all the teasing.”

Her mind blanked and suddenly all she could say was please, please, please.

“Fuck baby I need you, please-”

Agatha moved closer to you, her cunt covered by her attire started to grind on your boot. She was now mindlessly searching for pleasure, yet you moved yourself away from her.

“You beg so pretty for me, I think you deserve a treat, don't you think?”

“Yes- yes baby, yes I do.”

With that you pulled her in closer, her cunt already against your foot, rutting feverishly, chasing her high. You let her enjoy the moment but then you pulled her up, sitting her on your lap.

“Will you be a good girl for your baby and do what I say?”

The witch was so lost in it that she could only nod. After getting that response from her you started to undress her. Clothes went flying all across the living room. Poor woman's panties landed on the coffee table while the rest was discarded on the floor.

“You got so worked up from teasing me that you couldn't wait. You even let me take control, that's so brave of you honey”

You helped move on your lap, grinding her hard just how she likes it. The whimpers that came out of her mouth were like honey to your ears.

“Stop fucking playing with me and fuck me already…”

Agatha was impatient now. Her clit against your thigh was nothing compared to what your fingers could do. She imagined herself bent over the couch with you slamming your digits inside her, without giving her a single break.

“I'm done playing- a-ah- the submissive o-one. Fuck mommy properly. Put your fingers i-in me-”

And who were you to deny her? You enjoyed the switch of the dynamic. Usually you were the one begging, but now, seeing Agatha on your lap, grinding sloppily, fueled something inside you. Now you were as desperate as the woman in front of you. Flipping your position, you put her underneath you, her face pressed into the beige pillows that adorned your couch.

Your hands traveled on the expanse of her bare back, making Agatha shiver against your touch. She was unusually quiet, but that was until your fingers grazed the entrance of her needy hole that was now dripping with need.

“Fuck- Put it in me- now”

You tease her cunt for a little bit, gathering her wetness, when you entered her without warning. The moan that got stuck in her throat made you painfully aware of the wetness that was slowly seeping through your underwear. Instead of putting your other hand on your girlfriend's body you slipped it inside your purple underwear.

“A-ah- sweetheart- more. I need more-”

Attacking her neck you entered another finger into her, stretching Agatha out. She was now bouncing on your hand. You left purple bruises along her neck and her back. The witch was now moaning under you, getting what she wanted. The fingers were not feeling good enough on your cunt, so you urged your girlfriend off of the couch.

“Get off right now- I need you to eat me out.”

“And I thought I was the needy one”

Quickly you shut her up with a kiss. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, swallowing eachothers moans. You broke it off and pushed Agatha down to her knees. She obeyed without protest and with a swipe of your panties to the side, she started to eat you out.

Her tongue felt hot on your cunt. Licking and reaching all the good spots. After the weeks of teasing and celibate, you already felt like cumming.

“Mommy- fuck- your mouth feels so good on me-”

“You taste so good sweetheart, I could stay between your thighs forever.”

You only nodded, pulling Agatha closer, practically suffocating her. But she didn't mind. For all she cared she could pass out and still be happy that she made you feel good.

Agatha's orgasm was long forgotten as she focused solely on you. She frantically grabbed your thighs, desperate to make you come undone on her face. The slight tremble in your legs gave away what's about to happen. You were close. Painfully so.

“Agatha please- I'm close-”

“Come on baby give it to me… Soak my face.”

And that's what you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, making you shake uncontrollably. Agatha's smirk widened between your thighs. Her hands left your body to wipe the remnants of her juices from her face.

“Fuck- Agatha..”

You throw your head back, closing your eyes for a second.

“It was supposed to be the other way around. Come here it's your turn now”

“You don't have t-”

“Oh but I do, you were so close, weren't you Aggie?”

You mumbled the words near her ear as you put her back on the couch. The older woman wanted to protest, putting her hand on your shoulders in a last attempt to change your mind. It didn't work. You swiftly put the witch's hands above her head and got to work your way down her body.

“Sorry for being so selfish earlier-”

You said between kisses that you were now leaving on her neck

“-but it was not my fault that I was so worked up.”

Agatha's arousal was ever apparent, her juices leaking onto the couch. She was squirming, itching for more. So you delivered. You moved your feverish kisses down to her breasts, paying your utmost attention to her pebbled nipples.

“A-ah- baby they are sensitive-”

Agatha whined and it only earned a feral smirk from you. Every sound she made under your ministrations spurred you on further. She looked so ethereal underneath you. Wild hair splayed on the cushions, pale skin glowing with sweat and remnants of your own orgasm. It's truly a sight to see.

You got stuck in your own head, never stopping the sucking and biting on Agatha's boobs. You snapped out of it after one particularly hard suck made your girlfriend moan loudly.

“Fucking touch me properly or I'm going to explode-”

Agatha was getting impatient. Her hips rutted upwards looking for any type of friction to get herself off, with no effect.

You didn't say anything, instead you pressed your pussy against hers. The older woman's eyes rolled back into her skull, the pleasure taking over her senses.

“Is this enough for you mommy? Or do I need to continue playing with your tits too?”

Agatha was at loss for words. Every coherent thought left her body a long time ago. Now the only thing she could focus on is how good you felt on top of her. She was never one to come quickly, but with your pussy on hers and your mouth working miracles on her chest, she was sure she wouldn't last long.

You on the other hand weren't that far from another orgasm. Even if you just came down from one, the overwhelming feeling of Agatha's body made the coil in your abdomen tighten again, threatening to snap.

“You feel so good Aggie… wanna come with you.”

“Yes- fuck yes- I wanna come with you too-”

With that you rutted your hips into her with newfound power. Your juices mixing together, the movements making squelching sounds that echoed through the room making you hungry for her release.

Agatha's thighs started to twitch, she was getting so close. And so were you, your hips stuttering, losing their rhythm as both of your orgasms approached quickly.

“Fuck- Aggie- come with me, please-”

Your girlfriend didn't respond, instead she let out a near pornographic moan as she came, pushing you over the edge. You collapsed on top of her, snuggling into her and leaving small kisses on her neck.

“Honey- Shit- that was so good. I don't think I've ever came this hard”

Agatha says, chuckling a little bit.

“If I knew that teasing you would bring results like that I would've started earlier.”

You playfully hit her on her shoulder as Agatha is laughing, her voice full of amusement. Nuzzling even closer to her, you muttered near her ear.

“Don't you EVER tease me like that ever again or I'll fuck the shit out of you befor that even happens.”

“Oh don't threaten me with a good time, baby.”

Defeated, you don't say anything else to your girlfriend. Closing your eyes, you dozed off, while Agatha mindlessly drew patterns in your lower back.

[myharkness]

Rio: You need to be more careful! Agatha, who was dragged into Rio's issue: Careful? CAREFUL?! I'LL CAREFULLY WRAP MY HANDS AROUND YOUR THROAT-

[myharkness]

being silly with wanda one evening because you’re kinda tired so you start calling yourself a baby and ball up against her in bed, but instead of playing around wanda starts babying you, petting the back of your head and cooing, “you’re feeling all little, huh?”

and it takes you by surprise and you look up to her and just nod silently

and she cups your cheek looking down at you so softly, asking quietly, “do you want mommy to baby you? you do, right?”

you’ve never done anything like this before, and at first you were really just joking, but when you flush and look away, wanda pulls you against her warm body and starts cooing at you and rubbing your back while your nuzzle your face in her chest

“good girl… you’re so sleepy, y/n. it must feel so nice to have mommy taking care of you…” she’s whispering softly while you just nod and whimper just the tiniest bit

and after a few silent n sleepy moments wanda pulls away a little, bringing her shirt down. at first you just touch her like you normally do, until you notice wanda’s carefully bringing your lips to her breast. you latch onto her and listen to her soft moans and sighs above you, praising you for being so smart and gentle with your lips

[myharkness]

Her baby

Natasha Romanoff x F!reader

Authors note : since so many people liked 'in a meeting' I decided to make a one-shot like it. Heavy on smut so warning.

Summary : She was innocent at first, sending you flowers and coffee to your office every morning. But she soon turned possessive, dark and dominant when she saw someone flirting with what's hers. Warning : g!p Natasha, Smut : spanking, gagging, fingering, breeding kink if you squint, Natasha being an absolute daddy.

The sweet smile on her face soon died out, the glowing in her cheeks soon faded and the look in her eyes turned cold. The flowers stopped and so did the coffee, you didn't understand why so you went to her office to ask.

She had been cold to you ever since the Halloween part 2 weeks ago. you wore an outfit that only consisted a short red skirt a tight red shirt, your leather jacket and devil horns. The whole outfit made people gawk over you, they stared you down the whole night fantasizing about taking you home but no one did.

Once guy got the courage to speak to you and you danced with him but stopped when you had enough teasing, you kept pushing your ass into his boner but moved away when he started getting to close. Natasha watched the whole thing, if you weren't her assistant she would fuck you then and there.

In fact, she would fuck you in her office ever day and make you hers. you were hers, you just didn't know it yet.

A soft knock pulled her away from her paperwork, she opened the door in an annoyed tone but relaxed when she saw you, "What?" She asked, You wanted to come in and she let you, "Be quick."

"Have I done anything to you?" You asked, she sighed and sat down in her chair opposite you.

She gestured to the door and you closed it for her, "How long have you worked here, Y/n?" The way she said your name made you nervous, as if she was marking her territory.

"3 Years." You said quietly, She hummed and nodded.

"3 years." She slowly rested back in her chair and her bulge in her pants were now visible, "My eye's are up here Detka." You let out a whimper, you had no idea where it came from but it made her clench her jaw.

She looked at how you eyed up the bulge in her pants, she smirked and tapped her lap. You moved towards her slowly, "Miss Romanoff." You gulped as she stood up.

She purred, "Yes darling." Her body pinned you against her and the wooden desk, Her nicknames made your cunt throb around nothing. You wanted her, no, you needed her to fix your issue.

"please."

That was it for her, her lips were on yours in a hot and heated kiss. You grabbed her by the back of the head and pulled her into you more, She grabbed your waist and her strong hands lifted you onto her desk. She stood between your legs and pulled away from the kiss so she could attack your neck with her lips.

Your hands travelled down her body, over her boobs and down to her lower stomach, You unbuckled her belt and unzipped her slacks to let them fall down but she moved away before they fell. You whined as she moved away from you, you felt cold without her body near you. "Such a desperate baby, hm?" She cooed, you nodded.

"Please use me, please." She lifted your shirt off your body along with your bra, your skirt and underwear soon followed so you were naked and bare Infront of her.

She smirked and pulled her belt from around her pants, "Come here." She sat onto the chair and she grabbed your hand, You were pushed onto your knees then over he lap. Your ass was perfectly in view for her. "You let someone dry hump you at the party." her tone was cold and possessive.

You whimpered, "But that was week-" She slapped your ass with something hard which made you moan but also hiss in pain, She rubbed her hand over where it hurt and soothed you.

"Try again."

"It was weeks ago." Another hit, You whimpered.

"Try again."

"I'm sorry miss Romanoff." You choked out, the tears kept falling but you'd never been so turned on. You were basically dripping for her and she loved watching you fall apart, She hit you again with her belt. She had hit you over 10 times and nothing was enough.

"TRY AGAIN." She yelled, You nodded.

"I'm sorry for letting some guy hump me, I'm all yours." You could sense her lift her hand up, "I'm yours daddy." You told her, She dropped the belt.

You thought she was done but she plunged two fingers into your mouth, "Suck them." She told you, she ordered you to do it and you did it. She praised you as she made you choke and gag on her fingers, "Good baby."

She took her fingers away and teased your folds with the same hand, "So wet for me, just from me spanking you." She chuckled and without a warning her fingers entered your cunt. It felt so good but so bad, She was your boss but she was also your boss.

It didn't take you long to cum as you haven't been touched ever, you were still a virgin. You were so pure for her, so innocent. She bent you over her desk and felt her dick line up with your entrance, "Gonna fuck you so good." She muttered in your ear as she pulled you by your hair, She entered you slowly and you whimpered in pleasure and pain.

Her thrusts were soft at first, allowing you to get use to her size, "Daddy." You whimpered as she sped up. But it only lasted so long, her hips sped up and her thrusts got rougher.

She was only focussed on cumming inside of you, "Daddy's gon' fill you up, make you pregnant with my pups. would you like that?" Before you could answer she slapped your ass, "Only I can touch you, understand? Your mine." she grunted as you squeezed around her dick, "You like that? being called mine?" You nodded as she held onto your waist to go faster.

You whimpered and moaned, not caring that you were still at work where people could hear you. Her grunts, her moans and her dick made it impossible to keep sain. You wanted to submit to her, let her take you.

"Such a stupid girl." she kept degrading you, "Stupid bunny." That nickname, that did it. You submitted to her and let her take you, let her take over you and use you.

You had multiple orgasms before she finally calmed down and sat back in her seat to admire her cum dripping out of you, and your legs shaking. She pulled you to sit on her lap and your head immediately fell onto her shoulder, "Daddy's got you baby, it's okay." She was so soft now, allowing you to relax in her arms. "My baby." Her baby.

[myharkness]

Anyone else feel like their mutuals are way out of their league? Like they follow you back and you’re just like

[myharkness]

The psychology of love (Part 11)

Studying for the exam becomes your priority with the promise of Agatha's reward hanging over you

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: masturbation

The entire way back to your dorm, you can still taste the fruit on Agatha’s breath, can still smell her perfume, can still feel her hand on your hip sliding up, up, up…

“Fuck,” you say out loud when you stop at a red light. 

How are you ever going to be able to move on from that? You think the phantom vibrations might never go away—and you’re not sure you ever want to forget what they feel like. 

The look on her face as she was leaning in to kiss you for the first time flashes in your head and you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. Agatha had been struggling, fighting to restrain herself. You had told her that it was okay to wait—you even pretended that you could. 

But Agatha couldn’t. 

You are a good girl. I just don’t think I can. Fuck—

A searing heat tears through you and the throbbing in your clit only gets worse. 

It does things to you, knowing that she was the one to break. That she wanted you so bad she threw all caution to the wind. 

So much for delaying gratification, you think with a smirk. 

Either way, you think you’re going to end up with the bigger reward in the end. 

If you do really well on your test on Friday, I’ll make sure to give you a really good reward.

What could it be? Even the thoughts of the options have your mouth salivating. Does she mean sex? Although, you frown, would she really stake that on how you do on her exam? 

But once you consider everything else she’s done—the way she’s been conditioning you—it doesn’t seem so far-fetched. 

You need to do well on it and make her proud, even without the promise of a reward hanging over you. It would be rather embarrassing if the student she was actively taking a risk on—not to mention that she’s helping you plan for the future—got a bad grade in her class. 

Studying can wait until later though, because the ache inside you is screaming to be relieved. 

Your same parking space from earlier is miraculously still open and you park before quickly running up to your room, which is thankfully empty. 

The nightstand drawer squeaks when you open it and your fingers close around the vial of perfume. Hands trembling and breath heavy, you perch on the side of your bed, thumb tracing over the cursive lettering spelling Black Opium. You imagine Agatha getting out of bed—out of the lavender bed sheets from the picture she sent you—and walking over to her vanity before daintily spraying it on her wrists and then rubbing on her neck. Maybe, one day, you’ll get to watch her do that. 

Maybe, she’ll even let you spritz it on her. 

Does she know the effect it has on you? 

How just the smell of it is enough to get you wet now? 

You can picture the smug grin on her face if she ever does become aware of that and yet, you get the urge to text it to her just to see what she says. She’s been rewarding you for honesty. Although, she might not be so keen on you telling her that while she’s still at the mixer, especially after her light scolding for the pictures you sent earlier. 

Do you think that’s what a good girl would’ve done?

So instead, because the heat between your legs is becoming consuming, you get up onto your bed and lay on propped pillows. Your fingers slide your dress up toward your hips slowly so you can feel the warmth against your thighs. If you close your eyes, it becomes Agatha’s fingers inching closer and closer to where you most need her. 

Once the fabric is hiked up, you run the perfume bottle over your underwear and gasp. You are absolutely drenched, just from kissing your professor. The wetness sticks to your folds and it’s cold against your skin but you can also feel the heat radiating from your center. 

You slide the vial up to rest against your clit and the pressure has you grinding your hips up against the glass. It sends delicious tingles up your spine and you can’t even be mad about how quickly you’re going to come right now. 

Your hips roll against the perfume a few more times before you need more—you place the bottle right next to your nose so you can smell the faint coffee, vanilla, and spice, and then your hand delves into your underwear. Your folds are hot and wet and swollen and you bite your lip to stifle the noise that slips out of you. 

Agatha’s tongue stroking against yours. Her thigh between yours, pushing up just slightly. Her hand on your back. 

Wetness seeps out of you as you rub your clit and your walls clench around nothing. 

The look on her face when you said her name. When she finally gave in. Your hand in her hair. 

You fill yourself quickly with two fingers and your cunt bares down on them. Curling them roughly inside you, you let out a small moan. Your palm hits your clit roughly with each thrust. 

Her praises. Her conditioning you to be her good girl. 

The sound of your wetness fills the air and you inhale deeply, the Black Opium filling your nostrils. Agatha’s here, smirking at you, wanting to shape you just for her. You want her to, you need her to—

You let her. 

The gasp the tears itself out of you surprises you and your eyes shoot open as you fall over the edge, pleasure exploding through your body, and you frantically keep grinding your hips against your hand to keep the feeling going. 

It takes longer than usual for you to come down from your high and you feel a little light-headed. Your fingers are soaked and you take them into your mouth, imagining it’s Agatha making you clean yourself off for her. 

You can almost hear her voice purring, That’s my good girl. 

——

Agatha posts the study guide early Sunday afternoon and you head to the campus library, eager to open it and get a head start. You’re rather methodical when it comes to studying: you like to fill out the guide and then hand-write flashcards based on that and study those every day. And considering you already feel like you’re struggling with the biology section, the earlier you can start on this, the better. 

The nook from Thursday seems to be calling your name, a siren song if you’ve ever heard one, and you fall into the same chair you rocked against until you came only a few days ago. It takes you a minute for the daze in your mind to clear up but the history still lingers over you. 

You pull out your laptop and Personality Psychology notebook and click on the attachment Agatha sent out before making a copy. It’s a four page document, which makes you groan and almost pick up your phone to procrastinate, but you resign and begin to work. 

The questions about Trait theory are easy: define personality, reliability and validity, projective tests versus objective tests, and more like that. It doesn’t take you long to fill in that half, but when you get to the Biological approach, you get stressed. 

With a hand on your forehead, you flip through the pages of notes you took from Wednesday and yesterday, heart sinking lower and lower. Agatha talks pretty fast and there was a lot written on the slides so you had to write really quickly, which more often than not, scribbling down the text in a half-cursive, half-print script that is almost impossible to read. You spend a good three minutes trying to decipher if one word is slap or sheep before finally determining that it must be sleep, simply because the other two don’t make sense in this context. 

And you apparently forgot to write down a single thing about the brain hemispheres, which she asks about. 

Chewing on your lip, you stare at your screen, feeling defeated. You scroll down, hoping there’s some toward the bottom that you’ll be able to fill in, but she hasn’t even talked about that stuff yet. 

You’re about to live in her office for the next week. 

But then an idea sparks in your head. You know you probably shouldn’t, but your fingers are already typing the message out. Plus it’ll be a way to talk to Agatha for the first time since yesterday. 

What’s the difference between the left and right hemispheres in the brain? 

You’ve barely set your phone down before it starts buzzing and you almost fall out of the chair. 

Agatha is calling you. 

Raising your phone to your ear, you hit the green button. “Hello?” you breathe, afraid to speak too loud. 

“You really want that reward, don’t you, honey?” she husks and you feel a twinge of heat in your stomach. Before you can stammer out an answer, she continues. “The left side is involved in language, reasoning, and organizational abilities. The right side is involved in visual perception, spatial skills, and intuition.” 

You stop writing after the first few words, having completely forgotten what she said. “Can you repeat all of that slowly?” 

Agatha chuckles. “Where are you?” 

“Um, I’m—” your voice drops to a whisper, “I’m in the library.” 

She hums in amusement. “Not ruining any more chairs, I hope?” Your breath catches and your professor laughs again. You duck your head down like she can see you but there’s no denying the fresh wave of arousal that rushes over you. It’s becoming a slight problem how easy she gets to you, but you wouldn’t dream of changing it. 

“No, of course not,” you say sheepishly. You want to suggestively retort that you could be, but you think better of it. 

Agatha is silent for a moment and you pull your phone away briefly to make sure she hasn’t disconnected the call. But then she starts speaking again. “I’ll be there in ten.” 

“Wait—what?” you choke and you can almost hear her smirk through the call. 

“It seems like you’re having trouble and I just want to help my student succeed,” she coos. 

You finally regain your footing. “Or you just want me to do well so you can reward me.” 

She doesn’t dignify your quip with an answer, only says, “Be out front,” and hangs up. You stare at your phone like it will magically give you the answer to what is happening, but your screensaver of you, Nat, and Wanda last Halloween just stares back at you. 

It takes you down to the last minute to pack up, mostly because it seems so surreal that Agatha is actually coming here to pick you up. Where is she taking you? To another restaurant? To a different library? 

To her house? 

The thought makes you falter—maybe she’s not actually coming to help you study. The memory of the kiss flashes in front of your eyes again. Does she just want a repeat of yesterday? 

Or maybe more? 

You make it outside on shaky legs, fingers fiddling with the strap of your tote bag. You keep checking your phone, half expecting Agatha to text and say that she was just joking. 

But after another minute, the black Range Rover that you know too well pulls around the bend and stops right in front of you. You swallow roughly and you step forward, still feeling a bit blown away that this is actually happening. 

You open the car door and slide in, closing it behind you, and then turning to face her. She’s wearing an oversized black sweater and a pair of jeans, hair loose, long, and wavy. The sleeves of her sweater are pushed up her forearms and the veins running from her fingers up her wrist make you lightheaded. 

Heart pounding, you buckle your seatbelt and clutch your bag in your lap. “Hi,” you rasp, looking from her blue eyes down to her pink lips that quirk up. The thought of leaning in to kiss her crosses your mind before you realize that might be incredibly stupid. 

What if she regrets the whole thing, says it was just a momentary lapse in judgement? 

She’s here, isn’t she? 

Agatha puts the car into drive and lightly presses on the gas, pulling out of the lot. “Enjoying your weekend?” 

You shrug. “Yeah. Yesterday was a lot better than today though. At least so far.” She glances at you and you can see the darkness starting to swallow up her eyes. It makes you shiver. “How was the rest of the mixer?”

“Hm,” she thinks and you twist the straps of your tote around your fingers, “I have to say it wasn’t as fun once you left.” 

Feeling emboldened and falling back into your bratty streak now that things feel comfortable again, you smirk. “Maybe you should’ve come with me then.” 

She shoots you a look and your smirk morphs into a perfect, innocent smile. Agatha shakes her head with faux exasperation and pulls into the parking lot of a coffee shop that’s only a few minutes from campus. There’s barely any other cars out front and you figure it’s because it’s a Sunday afternoon. Everything around campus is usually dead this time of the week. Although, you still can’t help but feel a little disappointed that she didn’t take you to her house, no matter how far-fetched that thought was in the first place.

You open the car door, step out, and follow Agatha into the shop. The chilly air makes you cross your arms, your short-sleeve shirt doing little to protect you from the air-conditioning. 

“Do you want anything?�� she asks and you scan the menu before shaking your head. 

“I’m okay, thank you.” 

Agatha smirks at your manners and points you to a table with four chairs against the window. You sit down and she sets her phone and keys down on the spot next to you. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to get a coffee,” she says and while she does that, you pull out your notebook and laptop again. 

You tap your fingers against the table while you wait, but it’s only a minute before she comes back with a small cup of coffee and a piece of pound cake on a plate. She slides the plate over to you and you look up at her in surprise. 

But before you can say something, she waves you off, sits down, and leans over to look at your computer screen. 

“Can you check the ones I’ve already filled out just to make sure they’re right?”

Agatha gives you a knowing smile and tilts your laptop to face her. “Really taking this seriously, aren’t you?” she hums and you take a big bite of pound cake while you shrug coyly. She huffs out a laugh and scrolls up the beginning, murmuring your responses under her breath while she reads them. It’s endearing to watch her, how her eyes scan from line to line and she mouths the words to herself. Her lips curl up and you know she can feel you staring, but you don’t care. 

She turns the laptop back to you once she gets as far as you did and she looks pleased. A pleasant warmth grows inside you. 

“It’s looking really good,” she says and your cheeks heat up too. Agatha must know what her praise does to you. And then she nods to the keyboard and recites what she said earlier about the right and left hemispheres. You type it, finding it much easier now that she’s slowing down and waiting for you, rather than just throwing the definitions at you. 

You fill in a few more things and as you’re trying to make out your notes again, you ask, “So, what does a weekend for Professor Harkness look like? Other than, of course, helping your students study for an exam.” You’ll feel a little guilty if she actually did have something going on, but a bit triumphant that she’s once again proving that you are special. 

Take that, Rio. 

“Not much. Just some grocery shopping and working on research. A bit of reading,” she says and you glance over at her. Instead of watching you type, she’s staring at your face and her eyes dart away when you catch her. 

“Reading anything good?” You peer harder at a word on a page in your notebook while she thinks. 

“Just a book by Freud. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. We’ll probably talk about it once we get to the Psychodynamic approach in class next.” 

You hum and type something about the amygdala. “I’m not sure if I was expecting a twentieth century book about psychology to be your definition of ‘a bit of reading’ but—” you look at her again and your muscles relax, “it’s very you.” You can see Agatha now, curled up in bed with the DSM-V just to learn a bit more. The thought makes you long to see her in that kind of space. 

Agatha purses her lips into an unconvinced smile. “Thank you, I think. What about you? What else do you get up to during the weekend?” 

Masturbating with the perfume bottle yesterday flashes in your mind and your cheeks heat up. “Not much. I just try to get ahead on school work or watch television. My roommate, her girlfriend, and I will usually hang out and do something.” 

“That sounds like a good way to relax,” she says and you nod and answer the next question. 

Agatha reaches over to point at something on your screen, maybe a typo or just to pull your attention to something, but in the process, accidentally knocks over her cup of coffee. 

If it hadn’t been sitting there for a while and adequately cooled off, it certainly would’ve burned you when the cup falls over and spills all over the edge of the table and onto your shirt. You gasp and jump up, your chair screeching against the tile. 

“Oh, fuck—” Agatha says, running over to the napkin dispenser on the counter. She comes back with maybe twenty napkins and you stand there, still slightly in shock, as she pads your soaked shirt. The napkins do very little and you know the coffee’s going to leave a stain. Agatha accepts this too and meets your eyes with a sigh. “I’m so sorry.” 

You wave the apology off and pull the fabric away from your body so it doesn't cling to your skin. “Don’t worry about it,” you say. 

But she doesn’t accept it and takes your hand before dragging you to the bathroom. It’s a single, and she locks the door behind you. Your breath catches—you’re alone with her now. 

She turns on the sink and looks at you through the reflection of the mirror and you know what she wants. 

“If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you could’ve just asked,” you rasp and she chuckles before she bites her lip as you reach down to grab the hem of your shirt. You move in slow motion, pulling it up and over your head, and then you’re standing in the bathroom in a green bra and shorts with your professor. 

Who looks like she’s imagining bending you over the sink right now and having her way with you. 

Not that you’d be opposed in the slightest. 

You hold out your sopping wet shirt to her and Agatha turns around to take it, her fingers brushing against yours. She can’t stop her eyes from darting down to your cleavage, to your breasts, to your stomach. You take a step closer to her as if daring her to do something about it. 

Agatha runs your shirt under the water for a few minutes while you desperately try not to stare at her fingers kneading the fabric. You keep imagining them on your skin, tracing patterns, moving down, down, down to where you most need them. Your cunt aches already from almost nothing and you can’t stop thinking about her lips on yours yesterday. 

When she looks up to meet your eyes in the mirror again, you realize with a jolt that you’re standing almost right behind her now. She turns again to face you and you’re so close to her…

“This is the best I could do,” she says quietly, holding your shirt out between you. There’s still a faint brown mark but it’s much better than it was. “I can take it home and wash it for you. I know the dorm laundry room is a dire place.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. It feels like if either of you speaks too loudly, the moment will be ruined.

Her eyes roam your face, looking for any sign of hesitation or reluctance because you both know what’s about to happen again. 

You’re not sure who leans in first, but it doesn't matter because Agatha’s lips are on yours again and you finally feel like you can breathe again. Like now that you know what it’s like to kiss her, you need her to survive. 

It starts out slow, much like yesterday where the timidity and nerves had taken over, but this time, you’re both just exploring each other. She tastes like the coffee that’s now staining your shirt—the irony is fitting, really—and she lets out a small sound when you sweep your tongue against her lips and then into her open mouth. 

Her hands find your waist and then her fingers are against your bare stomach and you gasp—suddenly so sensitive and her touch goes straight to your cunt. She chuckles darkly against your lips and grips you tighter to pull you closer. Your own hands stroke up and down her biceps, feeling the soft polyester of her sweater, before curling into it. 

“I can’t—” you breathe, feeling dizzy, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

Agatha pulls back just a smidge, just enough for you to see her grin. “Good,” she husks, and then claims your lips with hers again. Her conditioning is working, or maybe it’s just you being obsessive. 

Her kisses get more possessive, more forceful, and she nips at your bottom lip while her hands slide up the expanse of your chest again. Her thumb strokes over your nipple through your bra and you let out a moan. 

“Got to be quiet, honey,” she murmurs and trails her mouth down, planting open-mouthed kisses against your chin. Her eyes flick up to watch you bite your bottom lip and she purrs, “Good girl.” 

Heat flares up in your stomach and you instinctively rock your hips, eliciting another chuckle from her. 

“Please, please,” you beg, your fingers digging in harder to her arms. 

Agatha answers by sinking her teeth into your neck and then soothing the spot with her tongue. You hope there’s a mark tomorrow—you think about walking into class sporting the bruise that your professor gave you and it only makes you wetter. Your nerves are on fire as she nips at you again and then drags her lips down your neck to your bare shoulder. One of your hands buries itself in her hair. 

Her tongue traces against your bra strap and you’re both hot and cold at the same time, the sensations making you feel like you’re out of your body. It’s too much, yet simultaneously not enough, and when she mouths at your nipple over your bra, you let out a strangled groan—too loud.

In an instant, Agatha steps back and you’re left wet and burning and panting. “I’ll be quiet,” you say frantically and she gives you a wry smirk. 

She reaches out a hand and ghosts her thumb over your swollen lips. She comes closer like she can’t help it, leans in, and chastely kisses you before tugging on your bottom lip with her teeth. Heat flares up again, brighter and hotter than ever, and your arousal is making your head swim. 

“You need to learn how to follow directions and you have some more studying to do,” she says and other than the gravel tone in her voice and the flush in her cheeks, Agatha seems almost entirely unaffected. Meanwhile, when you look in the mirror, you look very much like a mess. Hair messy, skin and chest splotched with red, pupils blown wide. It makes your breath catch. 

Agatha’s stain on you. 

She seems to be caught up in it too, looking approvingly at the obvious desire painted on your face, and for a second, you think she might give in. 

And then she reaches down and takes off her black sweater, revealing a lilac button-down vest. The neck dips down low enough to have your mouth watering and you can see the edges of her gray bra. Her shoulders are bare and you can feel her skin on your fingertips from touching her yesterday. 

Agatha must know what you’re thinking because her lips curl as she holds out her sweater to you. You take it with trembling hands and put it on, becoming enveloped in her. Her perfume engulfs your senses and your clit aches. 

She sees the shifting and squeezing of your thighs and her eyes light up with a teasing gleam. “Need a moment, honey?”

You can only imagine the look on her face if you said yes, even though your body is screaming at you. Would she stay—would she watch? Offer to help? 

Most likely not, you decide. Agatha would just leave you in here and go back out, probably counting how long it took you to get yourself off. You’d have to wait a few extra minutes so you don’t seem too desperate. 

“I’m okay,” you rasp and she chuckles like she knows it isn’t true. But she doesn’t question it; she only advises you to splash some water on your face. 

The cold water sobers you up just slightly and your reflection in the mirror looks more like you, rather than someone ravaged by lust. But when Agatha unlocks and opens the door, you feel as if all the employees and the two people sitting at a table somehow know what you did. You’re wearing Agatha’s sweater, your hair is still mussed up, and your lips are rather swollen.

But your professor doesn’t seem fazed at all, her head stands tall as she struts back to your table and sits down in the same chair from earlier as if her tongue wasn’t in your mouth five minutes ago. One day, you vow, you’ll make her lose her composure, more than you already have. You want to see her visibly affected and not able to hide it or cover it up. 

Agatha discards her spilled coffee cup and points at your computer screen again. “We’ll be talking about neurotransmitters tomorrow but I can give you a brief overview now if you want.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you agree, but when she launches into it, you find it almost impossible to pay attention. Her hands are waving in the air and you’re finding it hard to pull your focus from her fingers that were on your body, on your hips, on your breasts, and you can’t stop from imagining them elsewhere. 

She says something about dopamine and the suggestion in her voice makes it sound pointed, but then she pauses with a frown. Your eyes have been following her hands and she’s finally just noticed—or finally cared enough to do something. 

“A little distracted there?” Agatha teases and you snap back to attention, making eye contact. Your cheeks flush and she smirks knowingly. “I hope you won’t be for the test. I’d hate for you to not get your reward.” 

“What will the reward be?” you dare to ask and she reaches over to lay her hand on your wrist, subtle but everything to you. Her thumb traces circles on your skin and it’s like you can feel her touching your clit. 

She thinks for a moment. “How about…” Her words are emphasized by her fingers tapping on your arm, “if you get a one-hundred, I’ll let you ask for anything you want.” 

Your throat suddenly goes dry and your heart skips a beat. “Oh,” you choke out and Agatha’s tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek as she tries not to smile smugly. 

“Any ideas?” 

“I—I think,” you swallow roughly, mind spinning at the possibilities, “I think I want to taste you.” 

Agatha’s breath catches in her throat and you get a thrill out of catching her off guard. But she recovers quickly, as she always does, and lowers her voice. “Oh, honey, you don’t need to get a perfect score on my exam to do that.” 

Which only makes the heat inside you worse. Your breathing is ragged and you look at her desperately but she just winks sweetly. 

“What if I don’t get a one-hundred?” 

She tuts. “As long as you get above a ninety, you’ll get something. But where would the fun be in telling you what?” You pout and Agatha playfully raps your wrist. “How about—if you really want to know—I’ll tell you, but it won’t be as good of a reward as if you just waited.” 

Another delay of gratification experiment. Because of course. You laugh at how you should’ve known. 

“I guess I’ll wait and hope I do well enough,” you concede and Agatha nods toward your computer screen. 

“I think you’ll do well. It always helps when you’re sufficiently motivated, even if you got a little distracted.” 

You snort. “Can you blame me? Maybe if you wanted me to focus, you shouldn’t have made out with me in the bathroom and then denied me again.” 

Agatha shoots you a look. “You’ve got to earn your rewards, honey. But if you’re not going to study, why don’t you pack up and I’ll take you back to campus? Maybe you can clear your head a bit before getting back into it.” 

The suggestion makes your mind go blank. “Are you—I—what—” Your words don’t make any sense and it’s almost frustrating how easy it is for her to knock you off balance. Sometimes you’re smooth, but other times she knows just what to say to wipe out your ability to think. 

She leans in and you instinctively look around just to make sure no one else is looking at you. The couple at the other table is engrossed in a conversation and the two employees behind the counter are cleaning the countertops. 

“I’m going to take you back to your dorm,” she whispers slowly and you feel your cheeks heat up, “and then you’re going to be a good girl and touch yourself for me.” Another strangled gasp rips itself from your throat and you want to start packing your stuff up immediately, but you can’t move. “And once you finish—which I doubt will take very long—you’re going to study some more for this test so you can get a good grade. Okay?” 

You nod shakily and then muster up, “Will you?” 

Agatha raises an eyebrow as she pulls back. “I don’t need to study,” she says, fully knowing what you mean. 

Because, as your theory stands, she likes when you use your words. 

“Are you going to touch yourself?” Your heart pounds in time with each word and you look down at her lips again before meeting her dark eyes. 

She shrugs noncommittally. 

But it’s enough for you, because you see the pink in her cheeks and hear the way her breathing is just slightly labored. You nod, finally able to move again, and slide your notebook and computer into your bag and stand up. 

Agatha chuckles at your enthusiasm and follows you out of the shop to her car. 

The short drive feels like an eternity, and while you don’t want it to end, you can’t wait to get back to your room. 

Not many words are spoken, but tense looks are exchanged. The knowledge of what you’re both going to do is hanging over you. For a brief minute, you’re considering trying to get her to come up with you but you shoot it down because she won’t say yes and imagining Agatha in your two-hundred square foot dorm room is almost laughable. Plus there’s a very good chance someone would see and wonder why your professor is coming to your room with you. And if Wanda was there? 

Agatha pulls up in front of the building and you give her one last longing look. 

“Have fun studying,” she says, reaching out to swipe her thumb against your lips one last time after she checks that no one is walking around, “and put some concealer on your neck tomorrow.” 

You smirk at her and open the door before getting out. Agatha raises a hand as a goodbye and you watch her drive away, leaving you standing there hot and bothered and still in her sweater. 

Will it smell like you if you fuck yourself in it? You think about handing it back to Agatha tomorrow in class with the fabric smelling like Black Opium and sex. 

That’s the image that spurs you on and you quickly make your way to your room. Thankfully, it’s empty. 

You climb in your bed, shove your shorts over your hips, and inhale the perfume from her sweater one last time before finally following your professor’s directions. 

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[myharkness]

WandaNat

[myharkness]

Lilia: Agatha... you've been cuddling with me for over and hour now.

Agatha: *muffled* mm hmmm :)

Lilia: Fuck. I should be annoyed but you're adorable.

[myharkness]

[myharkness]

Hi! You sound like a very sweet person. It's cute

May I ask for Agatha Harkness x reader? Where after some time of the relationship, Agatha worries reader’ll realize she deserves better but reader shows her that she will always choose her as Agatha always chose Reader

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Anon, you have no idea how much i enjoyed writing this. I hope you like it.

Minors do not interact.

Summary: 13.7k words. Things are never as they seem.

Relationship: Agatha x Fem Reader. With a side of Agatha x Rio Reader

The World Still Burns

The sun had dipped low by the time you reached the edge of the woods. The road had narrowed into gravel and the trees leaned close, their limbs bare and clawed like they’d whispered to one another just before you arrived. You wouldn’t have seen the sign if you hadn’t slowed at the bend.

It hung askew, nailed into weather-beaten wood: Thorne – Antiquarian Books & Folklore. No hours. No neon. Just letters carved deep and filled with flaking gold paint, like it had once meant to impress but had long since given up the performance.

You parked beneath a bowed maple, the last red leaves curling like ash at its roots. The wind smelled like woodsmoke, moss, and something old—like the breath of the earth itself had steeped in memory.

The bookstore crouched back from the road, shrouded in ivy and shadow. It looked less like a shop and more like a house the forest had almost swallowed whole. Weathered shutters hung crooked. The windows glowed faintly amber.

Something in your chest tugged forward.

You stepped out of the car, boots crunching on gravel, coat pulled tighter against the chill. A crow cried once in the distance, and silence followed it like a held breath.

You weren’t supposed to find places like this. But somehow, you had.

The bell above the door gave a low, reluctant chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth met you first—dense and slow, the kind that clings to thick wooden walls and the spaces between well-loved spines. Not heat from a vent, but something older. A hearth, maybe. Or a fire just gone out.

The scent curled around you before you could name it: black tea, something citrusy… lavender, maybe. Beneath that, a whisper of something herbal and sharp, like the edge of burned leaves or a half-forgotten spice. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just strange. Familiar in a way you couldn’t place.

Shelves filled every corner. Crooked, uneven, overstuffed. Books leaned against one another like exhausted friends. The air smelled of paper and dust, ink and time. A small bouquet of wilted wildflowers sagged in a glass bottle near the door.

And then—you saw her.

At the far end of the room, behind a tall counter, a woman sat with a steaming mug in her hands.

She didn’t startle. Didn’t even straighten. She just watched.

She looked to be in her forties, maybe older. Thick dark hair twisted into a loose knot, a soft wool cardigan pulled around her like a second skin. One knee drawn up, foot tucked under her. The mug in her hand was chipped at the rim. Her other hand—resting lightly beside a worn leather journal—wore no rings, no polish. Just faint ink stains at the tips of her fingers.

She looked like someone who had been here a long time. Not waiting. Not eager. Just… enduring. As though she had outlived many things. And let them all pass by.

“Bit late to be hunting ghosts, isn’t it?” she said, voice dry, low, and velvet-edged.

You stepped further in, boots soft against the old wood. “Ghosts don’t keep business hours.”

That earned a slanted smile. Not friendly, not dismissive—just… practiced.

“You’re not local,” she said after a moment. Not a question.

You shook your head. “I’m a Ph.D. student. Folklore and cultural memory. I’m doing research on regional legends—specifically stories tied to the figure of Agatha Harkness.”

That name hung heavy in the air. It didn’t echo—it just landed, with weight.

She didn’t blink. But her posture shifted, barely. Her fingers curled slightly tighter around her mug, then loosened again.

“I’m not here for the myths or the magic,” you said quickly. “I’m not chasing spells. I’m trying to understand how she was reshaped—how memory turned her into something monstrous. I think the truth is something harder. Braver.”

She let the silence stretch—measured, steady. Then set her mug down with care on a small coaster carved with what looked like vines, or maybe runes.

“People come in and ask all the time,” she said flatly. “About whoever Agatha Harkness is supposed to be.”

Her gaze sharpened—not cruel, just pointed.

“And let me warn you now—I’m not in the mood to help you find ghost stories to tell your undergrads.”

That hit like a cold wind against your ribs. You straightened a little.

“I’m not looking for a story to sell,” you said, careful not to let your voice rise. “I’m trying to understand how women—especially women with power—are turned into legends so people don’t have to face what they did to them. She wasn’t just a witch. She was someone who mattered. Someone who scared the wrong people.”

Another pause.

Then, finally, she stood.

Not abruptly. Just… decisively. She stepped out from behind the counter, sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing forearms faintly freckled with age. The lighting made her unreadable. Her gaze was neither warm nor cold—it simply was. Like the gaze of someone who had seen too much and expected very little.

“You’re not the first to think they’ve cracked the angle,” she said. “Everyone wants to peel back the layers. Prove they were the one who figured it all out.”

“Maybe they weren’t listening hard enough,” you offered.

Her eyes met yours again. That pause again. Something shifted—but you couldn't name it.

Then, without ceremony:

“I’m about to lock up.”

You nodded, already preparing to be turned away. “I understand.”

“But,” she added, voice calm as still water, “I’ll give you one hour.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One hour,” she repeated. “To find something in this place—anything—that tells me you’re here to study, not to scavenge. If you do, I’ll let you stay. Maybe even help.”

“And if I don’t?”

She turned, moving toward the narrow stairway at the back of the shop. As she reached the first step, she glanced back.

“You’ll know when it’s time to go.”

Then she was gone. The door closed with a soft, final click.

And the silence that followed?

It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like the shop was listening.

The soft click of the door upstairs echoed far too long in the silence it left behind.

You stayed standing for a moment, listening. Not for her footsteps—those were already gone—but for something else. Something you couldn’t name. A shift in the air. A breath you weren’t sure was yours.

The room was the same.

And yet it wasn’t.

The shelves no longer felt quaint. They loomed. The books didn’t just lean—they leaned toward you. Some spines looked fragile enough to crumble if you so much as breathed too hard. Others gleamed faintly, like they’d been oiled or loved or… fed.

You drew in a slow breath. Let your shoulders drop. Then stepped farther inside.

One hour.

No instructions. No rules. Just find something.

You started with the left-hand wall. The books were organized in no order you could decipher. Titles shifted between Latin, Old English, French, Arabic—languages you’d studied but never spoken aloud. Some had no titles at all. Just strange sigils etched into leather or wood. A few bore names you’d only heard muttered in dusty archives, scrawled in the corners of footnotes too fragile to cite.

You passed a set of slim, handmade volumes tied with faded ribbon. Each was labeled only with a season and a year: Spring, 1891. Autumn, 1912. Winter, Unknown. You hesitated, then moved on.

There was a section on charms. One on death rituals. Another on saints who’d been forgotten by the church.

One book, thick and leatherbound, fluttered open on its own. You hadn’t touched it. The page was a poem, handwritten in looping ink. The title? "Return to Me."

You ran your fingers over the words. They tingled faintly. Maybe it was just dust. Or maybe something older was watching.

The farther you wandered, the more you noticed how the light in the shop didn’t quite follow you. Lamps glowed softly in corners you hadn’t seen before. Shadows moved, but not away from you. They simply… adjusted. As if making room.

Your footsteps softened without you realizing. The wood beneath you stopped creaking. The air pressed closer.

It wasn’t menacing. Just attentive.

Then, tucked near the back—between a leaning tower of hymnals and a brittle collection of hearth spells—you saw it.

A small velvet-lined tray, nearly hidden behind a drooping lace shawl. Nothing grand. No inscriptions. No glow. Just a single object resting inside.

A stone.

Round. Smooth. Thumb-sized. Purple as dusk, with a faint shimmer beneath the surface like mica caught in deep water. Not polished, not decorative. Just… worn. Softened at the edges. The kind of stone someone had carried for a long time.

You reached for it without thinking.

It was cold, at first. Not shockingly so—just enough to wake something under your skin. Your fingers curled around it instinctively, pressing your thumb into the natural dip at the center. A perfect groove, shaped by touch.

Something in your chest slowed. The quiet in your mind, that faint thrum of academic urgency—prove yourself, don’t waste time—faded into the background.

You exhaled. A long, full breath.

And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot you were here on a clock.

You turned the stone in your palm. Its weight was gentle, grounding. Familiar in a way that didn’t feel personal. Not like your object. Just one that knew how to be held.

You set it down.

Brows drawn, you moved to the next shelf. Flipped through a hand-stitched folio that smelled faintly of rosewater and mildew. Nothing called to you. Nothing moved. You kept glancing back.

After five minutes, you returned.

You sat in the nearest chair—an old armchair tucked beneath the edge of the spiral stairs. The cushion dipped with a soft sigh beneath you. The room exhaled with you.

Your hand reached for the stone again without thinking.

This time, when your fingers closed around it, the warmth came quicker. Not heat. Not magic. Just the sense of something present. Something listening.

You held it in both hands and stared at it in your lap. Let your breathing steady.

You didn’t know what it was.

But you knew it mattered.

--------------

The stairs creaked above you, soft and deliberate.

You straightened slightly, the stone still cupped in your palm. The armchair held you like it had been waiting. The air shifted again—warmer now. Or maybe that was you.

The door at the top clicked open. Then the steady rhythm of her footsteps, slow and certain, descending.

You didn’t look up right away. Instead, you focused on the stone—how it had warmed under your fingers, how the curve of it matched the shape of your thumb like it had been molded just for that purpose. Just for this moment.

She reached the bottom step, and her presence settled into the room like smoke curling low against wood. Unhurried. Watchful.

“Well,” she said at last, folding her arms, “let’s see what you think qualifies as proof.”

You looked up.

She was leaning against the banister now, mug refilled, gaze unreadable. Not cold. Not inviting. Just waiting.

You didn’t speak. You simply held out your hand and placed the stone on the table beside you, the cool surface making the faintest sound as it touched wood. The warmth that had gathered in your palm faded instantly, as if the stone had decided to go quiet again.

Her eyes dropped to it.

She didn’t move for a long beat.

Then: “A rock?”

You met her gaze. “Yes.”

“From an entire bookstore filled with rare volumes and unsorted knowledge, that is what you bring me?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

You nodded once. “It was the only thing that felt like it had something to say.”

A pause. The edge of her mouth twitched—maybe from amusement, maybe something else.

“And what, exactly, does it say?”

You hesitated, then shrugged faintly. “I’m not sure. Only that I kept walking away from it, and something kept pulling me back.”

She walked forward slowly, each step deliberate on the uneven boards. Her sweater shifted in the light as she reached the table, gaze flicking down to the stone. She didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

“I’ve had that thing for years,” she murmured. “No one ever notices it.”

You glanced at her. “Then maybe I’m supposed to.”

She tilted her head at you, examining. Measuring. Something in her expression softened—not into anything you could name, but into possibility. Her fingers brushed the edge of the stone, then lifted it between her thumb and forefinger like she was weighing memory itself.

“It’s lepidolite,” she said finally. “Not particularly rare. But layered. Lithium-based. Carried to ease the mind, or so people say. It’s a stone of quiet… of return.”

You didn’t respond. The air between you felt fragile.

She looked at you again—closely this time. Her gaze didn’t flinch away, and for a moment you had the sense she was trying to see around you, not just at you.

“I’m still not convinced you’re not here for ghost stories,” she said.

Your heart sank a little. But you kept your voice even. “I’m not. I’m here to trace memory. To understand why some names survive in whispers and others in warnings.”

She watched you for another long moment, then gave the faintest nod.

“Fine,” she said. “You can stay.”

Relief hit you so quickly you nearly laughed. “Thank you.”

You glanced toward the front windows, where the last light of the day had dimmed into a soft gray.

“Is there a hotel nearby?” you asked. “Or something in town?”

She blinked once, then gave a short, almost amused breath through her nose. “You’re standing in the only business for ten miles.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“We’re closer to the Appalachian Trail than we are to the next gas station,” she said, turning back toward the counter. “If you saw a sign for a motel, it was either a relic or a lie.”

You gave a soft groan. “Guess I’ll sleep in my car, then.”

That made her pause. Not dramatically. Just enough.

She turned to face you again. Not quite looking at you—looking past you, maybe. Through you.

“You won’t make it through the night,” she said simply. “Not with the temperature dropping. This road gets slick with frost by dusk. Most don’t see it coming. the cold settles in before the stars do. Even the deer know better than to be out past sundown.”

You straightened, a little uncertain. “I’ve done worse.”

She tilted her head, considering something unspoken. Then she exhaled through her nose again, this time quieter. Less amused.

You looked back at her, brows slightly raised. “Are you offering something else?”

She considered you for a long moment. Her expression didn’t change, but the air between you did—subtle, shifting.

“There’s a guest room upstairs,” she said. “Small bed. Clean sheets. No locks. No ghosts. I keep it ready for wanderers.”

You blinked.

“I keep it ready,” she added. “For researchers. Or people who wander in off the road thinking they’ve stumbled on something interesting.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t offer.”

She turned once more toward the counter and reached for her tea.

“I keep the kettle on,” she said. “There’s tea, if you want it. I won’t offer it twice.”

You stood there for a moment, unsure what to say. Then nodded, slowly. “I’d love a cup.”

“Good,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s stronger than it smells.”

You followed her carefully, the stone warm in your pocket, the shelves watching as you passed. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the glass in its frame.

There wasn’t anything grand about the motion—but something about it felt... specific. Not practiced. Not casual, either. Like a choice made deliberately. Like a door being opened for the first time in a long time.

The stairs groaned beneath you, but only once. The smell of tea and old paper followed you upwards.

She didn’t speak as she moved behind the counter, only reached for a kettle that had already begun to whisper steam. As if she’d known she’d need it.

You hovered nearby, unsure of the rules. The warmth of the shop had deepened in the last few minutes—part firelight, part something else you couldn’t quite name.

“I hope you like strong,” she said as she poured, her back still to you. “I don’t sweeten mine.”

“I’ll survive,” you said.

She glanced over her shoulder, a wry flicker at the corner of her mouth. “That’s a dangerous thing to say in a place like this.”

You weren’t sure if she was joking.

The cup she handed you was old, hand-thrown clay with an uneven rim. It fit in your hands like something carved rather than made. The tea inside was dark, nearly black, with a thin thread of steam curling upward like incense smoke. It smelled richer than you expected—earthy, sharp, floral.

You followed her to a small table tucked near the window. Two chairs. One ancient lamp. A few dried herbs hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

She sat first. You mirrored her. And for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

You sipped.

The tea was bitter, grounding, strangely heavy on the tongue—but it warmed you faster than anything you’d ever tasted.

“You always let strangers stay in your house?” you asked quietly.

“No,” she said without looking at you. “I usually lock the door before they get this far.”

That made you smile.

She didn’t return it. But her gaze flicked toward you, then away again—like a tide testing the edge of shore.

“So why me?”

She didn’t answer right away. She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down carefully. Her eyes remained fixed on the window, though nothing could be seen beyond the glass now. Just the reflection of old light on older shelves.

“Because you didn’t ask if you were welcome,” she said. “You asked where else you could go.”

You let that settle in your chest. Heavy. True.

“Is that a good thing?” you asked after a beat.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

You weren't sure why her presence quieted something inside you. There was a strange weight to the moment—not tense, but familiar. Like sitting across from someone you used to know in a dream.

“Strange,” you murmured, half to yourself.

“What is?” she asked.

“It’s like I’ve been here before.”

She only smiled, sipping her tea. “Some places find us more than once.”

You sipped your tea. She watched the dark beyond the glass.

------------------------

The shop felt like it had exhaled for the first time in a long time.

You woke to stillness.

Not the dead quiet of unfamiliar places, but the kind that feels lived-in. Like a house that didn’t creak out of protest, but habit. Your body registered the softness first: the sheets, worn cotton and clean. A faint scent of lavender clung to the pillow. Morning light filtered in through sheer curtains, golden and quiet, casting long beams across the wooden floor.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You dreamed of hands wrapping yours in gauze, a spell murmured under breath, lavender smoke curling in the corners of a candlelit room. Her voice—soft, trembling—calling you by a name you didn’t recognize.

When you woke, your palms ached. You didn’t know why.

Then, slowly, you sat up.

The guest room was simple. Small dresser. One chair near the window. A crocheted blanket draped at the foot of the bed. On the nightstand, a stack of books that didn’t seem decorative. Their spines were cracked, well-read. Personal. One had a pressed flower tucked between the pages, long-faded and ghost-pale.

You rose and dressed, pulling your coat on more out of instinct than necessity. The floors were cool beneath your feet. The smell of tea drifted faintly from below—steeped, strong, the same scent from last night. Something grounding and bitter.

You made your way downstairs, one hand brushing the smooth banister as you descended. The shop below was bathed in light now—sun slipping between the trees and pooling across the shelves like honey. Dust hung in the air, undisturbed. The silence was soft, not watching this time. Just resting.

She was already at the counter.

Same cardigan. Mug in hand.

She didn’t look up right away.

You crossed to where she stood and accepted the cup she offered without words. It was warmer than expected. Heavy in your palm. You curled your hands around it, grateful.

She nodded toward the window table. You followed her there.

You both sat with your tea, the morning quiet threading between you like a line neither of you had decided to cross yet.

It was the kind of silence that asked nothing of you.

You glanced out the window. The trees shifted slowly in the breeze, sunlight catching on the dew like glass. The town—or what little there was of it—remained unseen, hidden beyond the woods, as if the rest of the world had quietly agreed not to intrude.

“You open the store every morning?” you asked after a while.

“Most mornings.”

“And when you don’t?”

“I read.” She lifted her mug again. “Or close the shop entirely.”

You sipped your tea. It was stronger than the night before. The kind of flavor that stayed on the tongue long after you swallowed. She hadn’t asked how you liked it this time.

“You’re free to dig around,” she said after another moment passed. “Just don’t move anything that looks like it doesn’t want to be moved.”

You gave her a side glance. “How would I know?”

“You’ll know.”

You didn’t push for clarity.

Instead, you nodded slowly. “Any suggestions on where to start?”

She leaned back in her chair and watched you for a breath longer than was comfortable. Then she stood.

Her footsteps were nearly soundless as she moved behind the counter again. She opened a drawer—deep, creaky—and pulled out a thick stack of keys. Selected one with a red thread tied through the loop. Then she bent, unlocked something out of view, and reappeared with a slim, dust-dark volume bound in gray cloth.

She placed it on the table in front of you like it was a peace offering—or a test.

“Start here.”

The cover had no title. Just a faint embossing of a sigil you didn’t recognize. A circle with notches like teeth around the edge.

“What is it?”

“Transcripts,” she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the counter again. “Journals. Observations. Some nonsense, some not.”

“From?”

“Different people. Different centuries.”

You opened it gently. The paper inside was aged but not brittle. The ink varied—some in scrawling hand, others blocky, mathematical. Notes written in the margins. Diagrams of constellations. One page had a charcoal sketch of a woman standing beside a tree, faceless but unmistakably female.

Something in your chest shifted.

You cleared your throat. “This is incredible.”

“You’ve got a full table, daylight, and one hour before the postman arrives.” She arched a brow. “He’s chatty. If you value your peace, keep your head down.”

You smiled into your tea. “Understood.”

She nodded once, satisfied, and disappeared into the back room, leaving you alone at the table with your cup and the book that felt like it had been waiting just for your hands.

The morning unfolded without ceremony. The pages turned like they’d missed being touched.

And somewhere behind the walls of the shop, she moved—quiet as breath, steady as history.

You lost yourself in the pages.

The book wasn’t linear. It didn’t obey any known structure—no chapter headings, no consistent hand. It read like someone had taken a century of footnotes and folded them all into the same breath. There were moments of clarity—a quote about weather turning before memory, a notation on “the woman in lavender”—but most of it teetered just past understanding. Like looking at a memory that wasn’t yours but wanted to be.

You scribbled notes in your journal, circled phrases, annotated questions you’d ask—if you could figure out how to phrase them without sounding like a child speaking to a priest.

Now and then, she passed through the room.

She never hovered. She didn’t ask how the research was going. But each time she drifted by, she paused for just a second longer than before. A mug refilled. A second book placed quietly on the far edge of the table. Once, you caught her adjusting the corner of the lace curtain near the window, only to realize she’d left behind a plate of something warm and toasted without saying a word.

By late morning, your neck ached from bending over the journal. You leaned back in the chair, stretching slightly, hand brushing the back of your neck.

“You’ll hurt yourself sitting like that,” she murmured as she passed again, not looking at you.

You looked up, amused. “Is that professional concern?”

“It’s personal offense,” she replied dryly. “You’re slouching in one of my best chairs.”

You smirked. “Then maybe you should show me how to sit properly.”

She didn’t stop walking. But the corner of her mouth lifted just barely—like the idea amused her, or like she was choosing not to answer.

Later, she returned with another stack of books—these smaller, thinner, wrapped in cloth.

She set them beside you and didn’t walk away immediately this time.

“They’re unindexed,” she said. “Some entries in Latin. Some not meant to be read at all.”

You looked up at her. “So you’re giving me the impossible pile now?”

Her gaze flicked over you. “You’re the one who claimed you weren’t here for ghost stories.”

You laughed, soft and dry. “Right. Just historical trauma and psychic remnants.”

“That’s better.”

You looked at her for a moment too long.

There was something about her in the daylight. She didn’t look softer—but she did look realer. Like the lines of her face were made of things that had survived. And that survival looked good on her.

“I’ll try not to ruin your best chair,” you murmured.

“I’ll let you know if it’s beyond saving,” she replied.

You could feel her watching as you turned back to the books.

By the time noon brushed the edge of the windows, she returned again—this time with two plates. Soup. Bread. Something savory and herbal and unfamiliar.

You looked up in surprise.

“I didn’t order room service,” you said.

“This isn’t a hotel,” she replied, setting the plate down anyway.

“Still—thank you.”

“Don’t let it get cold. That would be insulting.”

You smiled. “To you or the soup?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, the day passed.

With every hour, something settled deeper in your chest. Something still unnamed. But present.

The stone remained in your pocket.

Warm.

Still.

---------------------------

The storm didn’t arrive so much as emerge.

One moment, the sky was overcast, soft and still as wool. The next, the light thinned into ash. The trees outside stiffened. And then the first raindrop struck the glass with the weight of something inevitable.

You looked up from your journal, blinking.

The bookstore was dimmer now. Not cold, but muted—every shadow deepened, every corner a little closer. The silence shifted, no longer the kind that invites rest. This silence was listening again. Awake.

Thunder rolled low in the distance. Not a crack, but a warning.

You heard her enter before you saw her. Footsteps that knew exactly where the creaks in the floor lived. That same deliberate pace. Unbothered. Unmistakable.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she crossed to the window and stood there, one hand lifting the edge of the lace curtain. The other still curled loosely around her mug. Her profile was cast in grayscale now—stormlight softening every line, catching the silver in her hair.

She looked… unchanged. And yet utterly transformed.

“It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” you said quietly, more to the room than to her.

She didn’t turn. “It rarely does what it’s supposed to, out here.”

You closed the journal, fingers lingering on the cover. “Should I be worried?”

“That depends.” Her voice was calm. Measured. “Were you planning on leaving?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Then you’re right where you should be.”

She watched the fire instead of you. The flicker of orange reflected in her eyes.

“There are things I wish I could tell you,” she said softly. “Things I wish you never had to remember.”

You turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

She smiled—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Never mind. It’s late. The storm has made us both sleepy.”

--------------------------

Something pulled you toward the far corner of the room. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the light pooled there—silver and soft—or the way the books leaned like they’d been disturbed recently. As if someone had tried to leave a message behind.

One of the volumes was already open. Wide, thin pages spread like wings.

You knelt beside it.

The paper was delicate—almost translucent—and the ink had faded in places. You turned one page gently. Then another. And there, folded flat between the pages, was a loose scrap of parchment.

Not blank.

Not discarded.

You unfolded it carefully.

The script was tight, urgent, slanted, almost elegant. But it was the words that made your breath catch.

If she remembers, Death will find her.

You stared at it.

Your fingers trembled just slightly.

There was something in the curve of the handwriting that unsettled you. Not because it was threatening. But because it felt known. Like the echo of a voice you’d heard once in a dream and never forgot. Your chest tightened. You looked up.

And she was there.

Closer than she’d ever stood before.

She hadn’t announced her presence. No footsteps this time. No cleared throat. She was just… there. At your side. One hand reaching out—not to take the parchment, but to steady the book beneath it. Her fingers brushed yours.

And the world stilled.

It wasn’t electric. It wasn’t violent. It was worse than that—it was gentle. Familiar. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask for attention because it already knows it has it. Her fingers were cool at first. Then warm. Then gone.

But something in you had already opened.

Your breath faltered, caught in your throat. You didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Her hand lingered just beside yours, as though the moment hadn’t finished deciding what it wanted to be.

The rain struck harder against the glass. Thunder rolled again, louder this time. Closer.

You looked up at her, parchment still trembling between your fingers.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered, voice low and strange in your own mouth.

She didn’t answer. Not right away. Her eyes were on the page, not you. But her posture shifted—shoulders drawn just slightly inward, like something inside her braced.

“No,” she said finally. Her voice was softer now. Not quiet—fragile. “You don’t.”

The space between you shimmered with something unsaid. Something that had no name yet, but knew yours. Her gaze met yours again, and for a second, you saw something—grief, maybe. Or memory. Or longing sharpened into bone.

She blinked. The moment cracked.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.

Then she stepped back, leaving the scent of rain and paper and something unspoken in her wake.

The shop seemed to exhale with her.

You didn’t move.

You stood there a while longer, the parchment held lightly in your hands, the words staring up at you like a secret you’d been keeping from yourself.

If she remembers, Death will find her.

And still— You stayed.

---------------------

It happened slowly.

Not like a spark. Not like a storm.

But like a door easing open after centuries sealed shut.

You set the book aside, your fingertips brushing the cover, eyes lingering on the soft curve of her profile across the firelight. The rain hummed steady against the roof. The whole world had narrowed to this room, this hour, her.

You reached into your pocket. The stone was there—cool, solid. Familiar.

You rolled it once between your fingers, grounding yourself in its quiet weight.

Then looked up.

She hadn’t looked away.

There was no smile now. No teasing. Just the shape of her gaze, steady and unguarded.

You stood first. So did she.

Neither of you spoke.

You stepped toward her, your heartbeat slow and loud. She didn’t move back. Didn’t ask questions.

When your hand rose—uncertain, trembling slightly—hers met it halfway. Her fingers brushed yours, then curled around your wrist, guiding it gently until your palm rested against her cheek.

Her skin was warm. So achingly human.

And then she kissed you.

Softly, like you were something she’d dreamed about too long. Like she wasn’t sure this version of you would stay. Like the kiss itself was a question she’d been waiting a hundred years to ask.

You kissed her back.

Your other hand found her waist, light as breath. Her sweater was soft beneath your fingers, but she was solid, present. She deepened the kiss just slightly—like she’d tried to hold back, and changed her mind.

Your noses bumped. Your teeth caught for half a second. You both laughed, breathless against each other’s lips.

And then you kissed again—this time slower, more sure. Like you meant to stay in that moment. Like time had bent to make space for it.

Her hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, and you felt it down to your bones. That tenderness. That claiming.

It wasn’t passion, not yet.

It was recognition.

A stillness between heartbeats. A promise passed from breath to breath.

You pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips parted, her breath shallow. She looked… softer in the firelight. Or maybe it was just that she wasn’t holding anything back.

“I—” you started, and then stopped.

Her gaze searched yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. Quiet. Gentle.

But you wanted to. You wanted to tell her that this felt right. That the shop didn’t feel like just a shop anymore. That the way her voice softened around your name had begun to matter.

Instead, you leaned forward and kissed her again—just once more, slow and grateful.

Then you rested your forehead against hers.

No heat in the stone. Not yet. Just the steady comfort of her touch and the silence that wrapped around you both like belonging.

And outside, the storm passed—just as quietly as it came.

----------------------

You hadn’t packed the night before. You couldn’t.

So you did it slowly that morning—folding clothes as if each one might buy you another minute. The guest room looked strange without your things. Bare. You fluffed the pillow once, then stepped back from the bed, heart thick with everything unsaid.

Downstairs, the shop was exactly as you’d left it—quiet, golden with morning light, and somehow older than it had been the night before.

She was already there.

At the counter. Mug in hand. Same cardigan, same posture, as if nothing had shifted between you.

Except everything had.

You lingered in the doorway a moment too long. She didn’t look up right away, but you knew she’d heard you.

“I should head out,” you said softly. “If I leave now, I’ll make it back to campus before dark.”

She nodded, eyes on her mug. “The road’s clear. Weather’s holding.”

You stepped closer, fingers brushing your coat pocket. “I’ll stay in touch. If that’s… something you’d want.”

She looked up then. No hesitation.

“I’d like that.”

You smiled, tentative. “I’ll send letters. Updates on the research. And I’ll call—if that’s okay?”

“Evenings are best,” she said. “But whenever you can… call.”

There was something in her voice that made you ache. Something careful, but open. Like a door left unlatched.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the stone.

“I think this belongs to you,” you said, offering it out.

She looked at it for a long moment before shaking her head.

“No,” she said. “It never did.”

You blinked. “Then… where does it belong?”

Her eyes met yours. Steady. Unmoving.

“With you.”

You swallowed. The stone felt heavier now, warmer, as you tucked it gently back into your coat.

Then your hand reached out—just a breath of a motion—and she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.

You leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t long. But it was intentional.

Soft. Certain. Grateful.

Her hand found the side of your face for just a moment. Fingertips cool against your cheek. When you pulled back, her gaze didn’t drop.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything.”

A beat passed.

Then: “I’ll miss your company.”

A small breath caught at the corner of her lips—surprise, maybe. Or just quiet heartbreak.

“I’ll miss yours too,” she said. And it sounded like truth.

You smiled. Not a full one. Just enough.

“I’ll write.”

“I’ll read.”

“And I’ll call.”

“I’ll answer.”

You hesitated. Just long enough for it to hurt. And then you turned, stepping toward the door.

The bell above it gave a single, hollow chime behind you.

You didn’t look back. But the stone in your pocket began to warm.

Not a flare. Just a presence.

As if it knew you were already finding your way back

---------------------------

The call came late.

Not because you meant it to, but because the day ran long—office hours, meetings, a lecture that stretched an extra thirty minutes because your students were actually listening. By the time you made it home, the sky had gone navy and the stone in your coat pocket had grown warm again.

You sat on the edge of your bed, lights dim, your laptop closed and forgotten beside you. The stone lay in your palm now, thumb pressed into its worn groove. The familiar shape of it steadied your breath.

You pressed her number before you could talk yourself out of it.

Two rings. Then three.

Then her voice.

“Hello?”

It was soft. A little hoarse from evening quiet. You imagined her in the shop, maybe by the fire, that same chipped mug cradled in her hands.

“Hi,” you said, trying not to sound breathless. “It’s me.”

A pause—just a second.

Then: “I was hoping it was.”

You smiled, head tilting back against the wall.

“I didn’t wake you?”

“No,” she said. “Just sitting. Rain started again about an hour ago. Thought about calling you.”

You swallowed. “Then I’m glad I beat you to it.”

She didn’t answer, but the silence between you was warmer than any greeting.

“I’ve been working through the last two volumes you lent me,” you said, letting the conversation ease in. “That journal with the star charts? You were right—it’s connected to the missing transcripts from 1763. I finally matched the ink formulas.”

“That’s impressive,” she said. “Though I admit I’m more impressed that you’re still writing by hand.”

You laughed. “It feels right. Like it belongs in the margins.”

She hummed softly. You could hear the smile in it. And then, gentler: “How are you doing?”

You paused.

Not because you didn’t have an answer—but because it felt good to be asked.

“I’m… okay,” you said. “Tired. I keep thinking about the shop. And you. And how everything’s quieter here—but not in the way I want it to be.”

You could hear her shift on the other end. Maybe curling into a chair. Maybe just breathing a little deeper.

“I miss your tea,” you added.

“Flattery,” she murmured. “Cheap tactic.”

“It’s working, though.”

A silence. Soft. Real.

You hesitated.

“Would it be alright if I came up? Just for a few days?”

You waited.

The rain tapped gently at the windows. The stone pulsed warm in your hand, like it knew the question before you asked it.

Then her voice—steady, quiet, and something like relief:

“Yes. Of course.”

You smiled, breath catching slightly in your throat.

“I’ll bring fresh notebooks.”

“Bring yourself,” she said. “That’s all I want.”

The call ended, but you didn’t move. The silence in your room was thick with everything unsaid, everything still blooming between the lines.

Your fingers closed around the stone.

And there it was again—warmth. Not heat, not pulsing magic, but a steady, low hum. Like a heartbeat. Like it knew the decision had been made.

You looked down at it, the shape so familiar now it felt like part of you.

“I’m coming back,” you whispered to the empty room.

The stone glowed faintly. And then cooled. As if it was satisfied.

-----------------------

She didn’t move for a long time after the call ended.

The sound of your voice still clung to the air like steam—soft, warm, fleeting. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding her breath until the line went quiet.

A storm curled behind her ribs, old and patient. Not panic. Not dread. Just… Hope.

Carefully, she stood from the chair by the fire. Her knees ached more these days—years had left their mark—but her hands didn’t tremble as she reached for the old lockbox beneath the floorboards.

She didn’t open it often. She couldn’t.

The latch groaned softly under her fingertips, reluctant but obedient. She lifted the lid and brushed aside the folded cloth at the top.

There, nestled between dried herbs and the remnants of another lifetime, sat the second stone.

A twin. Not in shape, but in spirit.

Her fingers curled around it with quiet reverence. The moment her skin touched the surface, it flared. Not light. Not heat. Just the deep, unmistakable feeling of presence.

She’s thinking of me.

Her breath caught. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, but she barely heard it.

“She found it,” Agatha whispered. “After all this time… she still knows you.”

The stone pulsed once.

And Agatha Harkness—witch, wife, wanderer—clutched it to her chest and closed her eyes.

Come home, she thought. Not aloud. Not with magic. Just…

Come home to me.

---------------------------

The road unwound like a memory.

Mile by mile, the world fell away—the city, the lectures, the emails left unanswered. You’d packed in a rush that morning, fingers clumsy with want. The moment you passed the county line, it was as if something inside you settled. Like a compass, long ignored, had finally spun true.

The trees leaned in closer as the gravel crept beneath your tires, their limbs bare now, rattling softly in the wind like bones telling secrets. The deeper you went, the quieter the world became. The sky was gray, close. The air smelled like cold stone and pine needles and something faintly sweet you couldn’t quite place.

The stone sat warm in your coat pocket. Not urgent. Just there. Steady. Sure.

Your hand drifted toward it more than once during the drive, brushing it like a reflex, like checking to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

You weren’t even sure when you started smiling.

It wasn’t big. Just a soft thing. A secret thing. The kind of smile that lived in the corners of your mouth when you realized you were heading home, even if you didn’t have a word for what home meant anymore.

And then—

There it was.

That crooked sign nailed into weather-worn wood. The ivy-wrapped shape of the bookstore, half-shrouded in shadow, hunched just past the bend like it had been waiting for you.

You pulled in under the same bowed maple, the leaves gone now, its branches bare and reaching. The engine clicked softly as it cooled. You didn’t move right away.

Your heart had already beat its way into your throat.

You reached for the door.

And she was already there.

Standing at the top of the steps.

She wore her usual cardigan, sleeves pushed up, hair pinned messily like she hadn’t bothered with a mirror. She wasn’t smiling—but her arms weren’t crossed. Her shoulders weren’t guarded.

She looked at you like you were something familiar. Something missed.

You stepped out of the car slowly, coat slung over your arm, bag hanging from your shoulder.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“You made good time,” she said.

“I didn’t stop.”

She nodded once. Her eyes flicked down—maybe to the outline of the stone in your pocket. Maybe to the way your fingers had curled instinctively toward it.

“I turned the heat on upstairs,” she said. “The guest room’s ready.”

Your chest tightened.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

She stepped back, just enough to hold the door open. Warmth spilled into the chill.

You climbed the steps slowly.

And when you crossed the threshold— it didn’t feel like you were entering.

It felt like you were returning.

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed up against the windows and settled into the corners.

You lay in the guest bed, sheets tangled at your waist, dressed only in your boxers and a tank. The air was cool against your skin, but you barely noticed. Not with the stone in your hand.

You rolled it slowly across your palm—thumb over its familiar curve, again and again and again.

It had been just one night. And yet…

Your mind wandered back to the kitchen. To her.

To the way her body had leaned just a little too close when she reached past you for the honey. The way her fingers brushed yours without flinching. The way her mouth had looked in the low, amber light—lips parted like a question neither of you had dared to ask.

And then the kiss.

God, the kiss.

It had started slow—like the last time—but this one had deepened fast, surprising you both. Hands in hair. Mouths open. Her breath had hitched when you pressed closer, and the sound had sent a bolt of heat down your spine. You had kissed her like you were starving. She kissed you back like she didn’t care if she drowned.

You remembered the way her hands had fisted in your shirt, how her hips had arched once—just once—toward yours before she pulled away, breathing hard, pupils blown wide.

“We should stop,” she’d murmured. “Not yet.”

And you had nodded. Not because you wanted to.

But because you knew if you didn’t, you’d never come back from it.

------------------------------

You’d been thinking about her hands lately. The way she passed you books. The way her fingers brushed yours when she handed you tea. The way her eyes lingered, soft and unreadable.

You weren’t supposed to want her this much. Not this fast. Not this deeply. But something in you ached like it had waited too long. Like the wanting had been echoing down through lifetimes.

Now, in the dark, you couldn’t stop thinking about

How her mouth had tasted faintly like cinnamon and something older. How her body had felt—warm and solid and curving into yours like it fit. How her breath had sounded in your ear.

You bit your lip and let your head fall back against the pillow.

You wondered—dangerously—what she would sound like if you touched her like you wanted. If you kissed lower. Slower. If you sank your teeth into the base of her throat. If she’d whisper your name, or curse it.

You imagined the sound of her moan, close and desperate.

You imagined her above you, eyes dark, hips rolling—

The stone in your hand flared hot.

You startled, breath catching, as the warmth bloomed—not from your skin. Not from your heat. But from it. A deep, pulsing glow that seemed to radiate from within the stone itself. It was humming now, faintly. Like something inside it had begun to turn.

You sat up, heart pounding, hand still curled around it.

And for the first time in a month, the stone felt awake.

The air in the room thickened, just slightly. Like something had shifted beneath the skin of the world. Like the rules had changed and no one had told you.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Measured.

At your door.

You froze.

The stone cooled instantly. Not gone. Just… waiting.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, pulse still thrumming in your throat.

“Yeah?” you said, voice low.

The door opened a crack.

And there she was.

Framed in shadow. Barefoot. Wrapped in that same cardigan, sleeves pushed over her hands. Her hair was loose this time, falling over her shoulders in soft, silver-streaked waves.

Her eyes met yours—and they were dark. Not afraid. Not hesitant.

Just… burning.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

You swallowed. Your fingers still wrapped tight around the stone.

“I know the feeling,” you murmured.

A pause. Her hand lingered on the frame.

Then, softly:

“May I come in?”

Her voice was steady.

But there was something beneath it—raw and unfinished. A note of longing too long suppressed.

You nodded. “Of course.”

She stepped inside without hesitation, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The hallway light disappeared behind the frame, and the room folded into shadow and silence, broken only by the hush of her breath.

Neither of you moved. Not at first.

She stood a few feet from your bed, wrapped in that cardigan, bare feet planted firm against the old wood floor. You were still seated on the edge of the mattress, one hand wrapped tight around the stone in your lap.

Her gaze flicked toward it. “Is it warm again?”

You hesitated, then slowly opened your palm.

The stone was quiet now. Cool again. Resting.

“Not anymore.”

She crossed to you in two slow steps. The floor didn’t creak. Your breath did.

She reached out—gentle, slow—and took your hand in both of hers. Her fingers were soft but certain, curling around your wrist like she was claiming it. Like she was anchoring you.

“I don’t know why this feels the way it does,” you whispered.

Her eyes met yours, and something inside them cracked open.

“I do,” she said softly. “I think I’ve known for a long time.”

You didn’t ask her what that meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

Your other hand found her waist—hesitant at first—but when she leaned into your touch, your fingers tightened, drawing her closer. She stood between your knees now, her cardigan brushing your bare thighs. She smelled like old books and dried herbs, like lavender smoke clinging to wool, and something richer, older, that made your pulse stutter.

You reached up, fingers threading through her hair, and pulled her mouth to yours.

The kiss was soft—at first. But there was a tremble behind it. A hunger neither of you had spoken aloud. A need long held.

She opened to you like a secret.

Your hands found her back beneath the cardigan. Heat rose from her skin, and her sigh into your mouth sent warmth spiraling through your chest.

You stood, your knees brushing hers, and let her walk you backward until the backs of your legs hit the bed. She didn’t hesitate.

She pushed the cardigan from her shoulders and let it fall.

Her nightshirt was worn thin, clinging to the curve of her breasts, the softness of her waist. Your hands lifted instinctively, brushing the swell of her hips, the small of her back, your fingers reverent in their discovery.

Or remembrance.

You didn’t rush. Your palms moved like they’d always known her. The lines of her ribs. The slope of her shoulders. She trembled, not in fear, but in the unbearable intimacy of being seen.

She reached for the hem of your tank, fingertips skimming your stomach, brushing your ribs. Wherever she touched, your skin burned.

She leaned down, pressing her lips to your throat—soft, reverent.

Your head tipped back, your eyes fluttering shut.

“You feel familiar,” you breathed.

“I know” she whispered. “In ways that scare me.”

Your hands slipped beneath her shirt. You lifted it slowly, and she raised her arms without hesitation. You bared her to the soft glow of the lamplight.

She was beautiful.

Pale in the quiet light. Her breasts full, her nipples already peaked, her stomach curved and soft, her thighs thick and real. There were lines and freckles and scars—a map across skin you hadn’t known you remembered until now.

You kissed her like she was sacred.

Because she was.

She pushed your boxers down next, slow and deliberate. You stepped out of them without breaking her gaze. Then, with both of you bare, she moved with calm certainty and climbed onto the bed.

Straddling your hips.

Her skin was hot against yours. Her thighs on either side of yours. The swell of her breasts brushing your chest. Her hair fell loose around you both like a veil.

She looked down at you as if she didn’t quite believe you were real.

And then—she moved.

Her hips shifted forward, down—pressing her soaked folds against yours. The first grind of clit against clit pulled a gasp from both of you.

You grabbed at her hips, her waist, anything to steady yourself.

Her moan—her first moan—spilled hot into your ear.

And your body shuddered.

It wasn’t just the friction. Not just the heat of skin against skin. It was what rose with it—something old and thunderous, pounding behind your ribs like a forgotten name.

Your mind clicked. A brick fell loose. A lock turned.

And then she ground against you again.

Her second moan—higher, breathier—ghosted down your throat. Her clit caught against yours and dragged slow, pressure building between you with each drag of your slick bodies.

And again—something opened.

A flicker of a memory: red wax. A sigil drawn in salt. Her hand clutching yours in the dark.

Gone. But not lost.

“You—God—” you gasped, breath hitching.

She rolled her hips again, this time deeper, needier. Her body rocked over yours like she needed it—needed you. And every sound from her lips—every gasp and cry and whisper—dragged another piece of the past into focus.

Her third moan was wrecked and low, barely a sound at all. It vibrated against your throat as she ground her clit hard into yours. The slick slide of her against you felt devastating. Perfect. Familiar.

And suddenly—a vow.

A voice in your mind. Hers. Yours.

Hands bound. Lips bloodied. A promise spoken under breath. Salt and iron and rose petals.

You choked on a sob you didn’t understand.

She kissed you, and it was no longer soft. It was desperate. Open. Familiar.

Her thighs tightened around your hips. Your hand slid between her legs, not to guide—just to feel her. The heat. The slickness. The rhythm you matched as your own hips lifted to meet hers.

You cupped her breasts, dragged your thumbs over her nipples. She whimpered, her body arching, her clit grinding against yours in frantic, sacred rhythm.

You whispered her name. Again and again.

And every time she cried out—every moan, every gasp—another piece returned.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Please—don’t stop—”

You couldn’t if you tried.

Your hands on her hips. Your thighs locked together. The room filled with the wet sound of friction. Her body moving like she remembered you in her bones.

She was close.

So were you.

Your mouth found her breast again. You kissed her nipple. Sucked gently. Her moan—raw and broken—sent you over the edge.

She came first.

Not with your name. With another.

A name you didn’t recognize. But you knew it. It lit your spine like fire.

She cried it out into your mouth as she came—her body convulsing, hips grinding down with frantic desperation.

And you followed.

Clit to clit. Body to body. Heart to memory.

You came with her. Not after. Not alone. With her.

And the world tilted.

The stone on the nightstand began to glow.

Soft. Pulsing. Alive.

You held her. Still trembling. Your arms tight around her, her breath catching as she buried her face in your neck.

And in the silence that followed, one truth settled over both of you like an incantation returning home:

This was not the first time.

-----------------

It was quiet after. Not just silent. Still. Sacred. The kind of stillness that feels like something waiting to be named.

She lay beside you, one arm draped over your waist, her body a slow-breathing warmth against your side. Her skin was soft with the sheen of sweat, cooling now, though neither of you moved. Not yet. Not even to wipe the damp from your chests.

Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink, a halo of silver-streaked darkness that tangled in your collarbone. You could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest. The way her thigh rested over yours. The scent of her skin—salt, smoke, lavender, and the earthy sweetness of something older.

And then— You felt it.

Not a sound. Not a shift. A gaze. Heavy and lit like firelight at the edge of your vision.

You turned your head. And found her eyes already on you.

But what lived there wasn’t softness. It wasn’t fear. It was something… older.

Older than this room. Older than the bed that creaked beneath your tangled bodies. Older than the name you thought belonged to you.

Her hand lifted slowly from your stomach. Not hesitant—just deliberate. Like a choice she’d made in a language older than time.

She reached past you. To the nightstand. To the stone.

Not the one you’d carried. Not the one that called to you in dreams. The other. The twin. The one she’d kept hidden, wrapped in shadow and wood and time.

She picked it up gently—fingers reverent, like touching something sacred. Not an object. A promise.

She cradled it in her palm, her thumb brushing the surface with aching familiarity. The stone pulsed faintly, the same rhythm you now felt in your own blood—slow, ancient, sure.

Her eyes never left yours.

And then— She moved.

She leaned over you, hair falling like a curtain around your face, brushing your collarbone, your breastbone, your bare chest. Her breath was warm—carrying that strange blend of honey and earth and time as it ghosted across your cheek.

She held the stone between you, both hands around it now, like it might break if handled without love. It hovered over your sternum, just above the heartbeat that suddenly thundered like a drum in your ears.

And then— She whispered.

Just one word.

Not in English. Not in Latin. Not in any human tongue you’d ever learned.

The sound curled through the air like incense. Like smoke. Like heat from a fire long dead and just now reigniting.

It didn’t just land. It coiled. It claimed. It wrapped itself around your ribs and pulled.

And it hit— Like a curse. Like a blessing. Like a name you didn’t know had ever been yours.

And your mind— Opened.

Not with violence. Not like glass shattering.

But like a door unsealing. Like light creeping through cracks in a forgotten temple. Like breath after drowning.

Your mouth parted—no words. Just air.

And then the memories came. One. Then another. Then everything.

You didn’t just remember.

You returned.

The memory wasn't a rush. It was a slow unfolding. Like a petal in moonlight.

You stood barefoot in a grove soaked in starlight. Your hands trembled, but hers were steady as she bound them with a ribbon dyed with ash and myrrh. You could feel the river humming nearby, the scent of lavender smoke twisting through the trees.

She was radiant—not in the way light reflects, but in the way a vow burns beneath the skin. Her silver hair was braided down her back, streaked with wildflowers. Her voice didn’t shake as she said the words.

“I bind myself to you—heart to heart, magic to magic. In all lifetimes. Even the ones where you forget me.”

You remembered the ache in your chest then. How you’d sworn your soul would always remember.

“I choose you when the sky is quiet, and I will choose you when it breaks.”

Between your joined palms, she had placed the stone. Warm from the fire. From her magic. From her love. The moment you kissed her—everything inside you had quieted. Magic didn’t crackle that day—it pulsed, low and sure, like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the world. The ribbon binding your wrists was still damp with the smoke of myrrh, edges frayed where her hands had gripped too tightly. You remembered the scent of her skin—sandalwood and river moss—and the way the world hushed the moment your lips met. A warmth spread through your joined hands then, and the stone glowed like a coal banked in velvet. Not just magic. A vow made flesh.

And then… You remembered the way she smiled like she didn’t believe it would last. You remembered the laughter. The fights. The way she smelled when she’d been reading too long. The feel of her magic brushing yours in the dark.

The next memory came sharp. Bitter.

Her hands were shaking. Agatha stood alone in the house you’d built together—your wedding grove visible through the rain-streaked window. The hearth was still burning, though low. Everything around her looked the same. Except the light was wrong.

She had drawn a circle. Salt and crushed petals. Blood from her own palm.

You had been asleep upstairs. Or unconscious. You weren’t sure anymore. The last fight had hollowed you both out.

She pressed a kiss to the stone and whispered the words. Not in fear. In grief.

“I give her back to the world. Let her forget. Let her be free.”

Her voice broke as she whispered the final line: “If she finds us again, let it be her choice.”

Her lips trembled as she sealed the final glyph with blood. Her shoulders shook, but she kept chanting. The magic clawed up her throat, wild and resisting, and she bit down on the scream rising behind her teeth. When she pressed the stone to your heart, her magic fled her like breath from a dying body—violent, aching, final.

She collapsed to the floor after. Not in pain. In surrender.

Your chest seized.

You gasped.

The air still shimmered with the echo of the vow. You smelled ash and lavender and honeysuckle in bloom—scents no season should hold together. The magic didn’t vanish when the vision ended. It followed. Coiled beneath your skin like a second heartbeat, like a compass that had finally found its way.

And when you opened your eyes—

You weren’t in the guest room anymore.

You were in the house.

Your house.

The one you built together long ago, before time bent and broke. The wood beams you traced with symbols carved into their grain. The hearth you'd blessed. The window where Agatha once stood, bathed in morning sun, hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

The bed beneath you was the same. The sheets. The smell. The creak of the floorboards.

You sat up slowly.

Heart in your throat.

And then—

You felt her.

Behind you. Barefoot. Watching.

You turned.

And there she was.

No cardigan. No softened disguise.

Just her.

Ageless and powerful. Silver streaks like lightning through her hair. Magic humming around her skin like a storm held in a glass jar.

You didn’t ask her name.

You knew it now.

The word came quiet. Certain.

A breath returned to its body. It rose from your chest like a prayer. A word older than memory. It sat on your tongue like something you'd spoken in every lifetime. You hadn’t known it until now, but your body had never forgotten.

“Agatha.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a hundred years.

And whispered back:

“You remember.”

The magic simmered under your skin like something reawakening.

Not sharp. Not burning.

But steady. Old.

Yours.

It hummed in your bones now—not because she’d given it to you, not because she taught it—but because it had always been there. Waiting. Sealed away by the one person who swore she loved you most.

The woman now standing in front of you. Bare. Trembling. Real.

Not the bookshop owner. Not the quiet woman with bergamot tea and cautious smiles.

Agatha Harkness. Your wife.

And you remembered everything.

You stepped toward her. The stone still glowed in your hand, pulsing faintly. Her breath caught.

“Say something,” she whispered, voice hollow. “Please.”

You stared at her—really looked. Her eyes red from tears. Her shoulders tight, as if still bracing for you to disappear. Like some part of her believed she was seconds away from losing you forever.

And she would’ve. If you hadn’t fought.

If you hadn’t followed the ache in your chest. If you hadn’t stepped into that strange little shop. If your soul hadn’t reached out for hers the only way it knew how—

Through stories. Through pages. Through a trail of words, because once upon a time, she had taught you that’s where magic lived.

And now—

Your voice came quiet, but sure.

“I have always chosen you.”

She flinched, tears spilling again. Her mouth opened, trying to argue. To reject it. But you stepped closer.

You held the stone between you, and you said it again:

“Through every life. Through every silence. Even after you took it all from me—I found my way back. Because I never stopped choosing you.”

She crumbled.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Her knees softened. Her head bowed. Her hands covered her face as a broken sob escaped her.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her. She came into you like something collapsing. Her skin against yours. Her breath shuddering. Her magic—no longer held back—curled around your ribs like ivy finding its home.

“I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered into your shoulder. “I thought if I just… let you live a quieter life, you wouldn’t have to carry the weight of what we were. What I was.”

You held her tighter.

“You thought you had to become something less so I could become something more,” you murmured. “But you were always enough, Agatha.”

Her breath caught.

“You are enough now. You were enough then. When you were scared. When you were proud. When you were powerful, and wild, and devastating. I didn’t love you in spite of those things. I loved you because of them.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you.

Her hands trembled against your ribs. Her lips parted, trembling, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“You don’t have to be soft to be loved,” you said. “You don’t have to hide your power or your past. You’re allowed to be fierce. You’re allowed to be afraid. You’re allowed to be real. And I will still be here. Loving you. Choosing you.”

Her eyes overflowed.

“I ruined everything,” she choked. “I let fear decide for us.”

“No,” you whispered, brushing her hair back, cupping her face. “You made a mistake. A devastating one. But I still found you. And that has to mean something.”

The stone in your palm burned bright for a moment, then cooled.

You pressed it into her hand, curled her fingers around it.

“No more pretending you’re someone else. No more hiding. I remember who I am now. And I remember who you are.”

You leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“You’re Agatha Harkness. You’re my wife. And you are enough.” “I spent so long trying to be someone new,” she whispered.

“I didn’t come here for someone new,” you said. “I came here because my heart remembered what my mind couldn’t. And it led me back to you.”

You pressed your forehead to hers, and this time, the magic between you didn’t hide. It glowed.

She collapsed into your arms fully, sobbing into your shoulder as the weight of years—centuries—finally broke.

And you held her.

As she had once held you.

------------------------

The wind shifted. Just one breath. Cold. Sharp. Wrong.

Your smile faltered.

Agatha’s magic surged beneath her skin—an instinctive, ancestral current. Violet light flickered along her fingertips like candle fire clinging to life. You felt her still beside you, utterly motionless, the kind of stillness that only came from bracing for something that had already begun. Her hand tightened in yours, the pulse beneath her wrist quickening—not from fear, but recognition. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t unexpected.

It was inevitable.

The silence wasn't peaceful. It was loaded. The kind that comes before glass breaks. Before skies open. Before memory returns.

Then— The stone in your pocket flared. Once. Again. Hot. Blistering. Furious.

Your chest locked. Your ribs screamed. Something ancient—a part of yourself that had been buried beneath spells and silence—rose up through you like floodwater breaking a dam.

And then you felt her.

You didn't see her. Not yet. But your soul knew before your mind could catch up.

“…Rio,” you whispered.

And the world— shattered.

The front door didn’t open. It detonated.

A sound like mountains splitting reverberated through the walls. Wood exploded into splinters. Hinges tore free. The storm that tore through the house wasn’t made of weather—it was her.

Fury given form. Grief given breath. Vengeance shaped like love.

Wind screamed through the room like a god grieving at full volume. Candles snuffed out. Books took flight, spines cracking mid-air. Shelves snapped free. Glass sprayed like knives into the walls, catching the lightning as it forked through the night.

And at the center of it— Green magic.

Violent. Alive. Devastating.

It slammed through the house like a judgment. The magic of harvest and reckoning, of endings and returns. You could feel it press against your skin, your teeth, your bones.

Agatha stepped in front of you with a snarl, arms raised. Her power ignited in twin blooms of violet, crackling at her palms, spilling sparks into the ruined air. Her hair lifted in the wind. Her eyes burned bright white. She didn’t hesitate.

But it was already too late. She had found you.

“WHERE. ARE. YOU ?”

The voice wasn’t loud. It was seismic.

The house reeled beneath it. Floorboards shrieked. Rafters bowed. Walls shook like they were trying to flee.

Footsteps hit the stairs. Deliberate. Final. One. Two. Three.

Each step sounded like a gavel. Like the end of something holy.

You staggered back, eyes wide, as the power pouring through the house reached a crescendo—wild, divine, utterly relentless.

And then—

She arrived.

The hallway blackened. Smoke curled over the floor like a living thing. The doorway bent with shadow.

And there—

Rio.

Hair wild, curls tangled in wind and light. Skin glowing like moonlit bone. Her body crackling with power that had been dragged through fire, grief, and centuries of silence. Both of her palms burned with raw, green magic. No restraint. No apology. Just truth.

And Rio— Rio was Lady Death.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not whispered in myth or whispered in prayer. She was the end that waits at the edge of everything.

The weight of her presence bent time. Bent you. The air around her fractured, trembling like it wanted to kneel.

You could feel her. In your ribs. In your blood. In the stone still searing a hole through your pocket.

Her power reached first. It touched yours. And recognized it.

And her eyes— Her eyes locked on you.

Not Agatha. You.

And for one heartbeat—just one—her fury broke.

She inhaled. Shaky. Like the sight of you alone had shattered her from the inside out.

And you— You stood there glowing. Magic pooling under your skin in ribbons of sunset orange. A perfect blend. Violet and green and something new. Your magic, born of three souls braided across lifetimes, bloomed like memory returning from the grave.

The storm paused.

You swallowed.

And whispered: “Welcome home.”

The words hung there like a blade unsheathed.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with you, her jaw set. Her voice came dry, edged with humor so sharp it could bleed:

“Making an entrance so dramatic, my love?”

But Rio didn’t laugh.

She took another step. Glass cracked beneath her boots.

And her voice—low and gutted, like a blade run across stone—came shaking:

“You hid from me.” Another step. “You hid her from me.” Closer. “You hid yourself from me.”

Green fire rose behind her eyes. It didn’t flicker. It consumed.

Agatha didn’t speak.

Because she knew.

She had rewritten everything.

Rio’s fists trembled. Her power flared brighter, brighter—until it licked the ceiling and seared the paint from the walls.

“I mourned you,” Rio rasped, broken and divine. “I mourned both of you. And you were right here. Pretending.”

Her voice broke like lightning cracking through centuries of silence. Her eyes burned—not from fire, but from the wound love becomes when it’s denied.

“How fucking dare you.”

The air snapped.

Violet met green.

And your orange magic rippled out in response—reflexive, protective, ancient. It bloomed around you like sunset flame—slow and sacred, but rising now with the force of revelation. You stepped forward, stepped between them, your eyes locked on Rio as her fury gave way to something worse:

Devastation.

The house had gone silent. But the magic hadn’t. Your skin shimmered. Light orange, warm and aching, flickered from your chest like a memory clawing its way free. The spell Agatha had cast—the one that buried you both—was unraveling.

And Rio— Lady Death herself— was standing in its wake.

Agatha exhaled, just once. Her expression unreadable. But her voice—when it came—was low. Honest. Almost broken.

“I thought I was protecting her,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving Rio’s.

Rio’s fists clenched. Her shoulders trembled beneath the emerald blaze curling off her skin.

Agatha’s voice didn’t waver.

“And I thought I was protecting you.”

The green aura flared—bright enough to scorch the air.

And Rio whispered, sharp as a dagger drawn from the bone:

“You don’t get to make that choice for me.”

The ground shook.

You felt it in your ribs—in your marrow. The weight of their shared past, your shattered memories, their love, your love—everything—crashing together in a single, breathless moment.

Magic collided in the space between them—violet, green, and orange—twisting, sparking, burning.

Agatha’s face twisted—not in fear, but in grief. Rio’s twisted in fury—grief sharpened into rage.

And you— You stood in the center of it all. The memory. The betrayal. The storm of what comes next.

Agatha looked at you. And for the first time, her voice broke.

Not from fear. Not from guilt. But from love.

“She was young, Rio ” Agatha said softly, her voice like parchment curling in fire. “She had years ahead of her. A future. Not a war. Not a curse. Not a lifetime bound to a centuries-old witch with a bounty on her…”

Her eyes flicked to Rio. Her voice fractured on the edge of the words.

“…and Lady Death.”

Her voice cracked like glass.

“She deserved more than us.”

Rio inhaled sharply. Her magic trembled—flickering violently at her fingertips. The air around her warped, shimmered, threatened to unravel. And just before the next spell struck— Just before the house shattered again— Rio turned to you.

And her voice— Low. Ragged. Wrecked— broke open the night like a final vow:

“You’re mine.”

The room held its breath.

And the stone in your pocket— exploded.

Light—orange, gold, green, violet—all of it spun into the air like a spell set loose from time itself.

Magic screamed between your fingers. The room fractured. The world tilted on its axis.

And then— Black

-------------------------

You woke up. Gasping. Drenched in sweat. Blankets twisted around your legs like ivy. Moonlight spilled through the open window, silver and soft and wrong somehow. The air pressed in, too quiet. Too still.

You were in bed. Their bed.

The scent of lavender, earth, and cedar smoke clung to the sheets, warm and familiar. Rain pattered gently outside. The walls around you were old wood and golden lamplight—the cabin tucked into the woods where you’d spent the last few months falling for your professors.

Agatha and Rio.

It had started with a research grant, a thesis on witchcraft and folkloric inheritance. They had offered guidance. You’d taken their course on gendered magic systems. Hours turned into late-night emails. Then coffee. Then whispered confessions under oak trees.

You’d thought it was all metaphor. Symbolism. Not memory.

Not truth.

You exhaled shakily, heartbeat crawling back from the cliff’s edge.

Beside you, Agatha stirred—barely—her arm still draped across your chest. Her fingers were resting right over your pulse, like she'd known exactly how fast it was racing.

Rio was behind you, her legs tangled with yours, a blanket twisted around her thighs. The heat of her bare skin pressed against your back in a way that was grounding. Familiar. Worshipful.

And still—

Your body remembered something else. The dream. The night before.

Their mouths on you. Their voices tangled in ancient language. Words you hadn’t known you could understand, whispered against your skin as they made you theirs—again and again until you couldn’t breathe. Until you forgot your name. Until you remembered, it wasn’t the first time.

Your head fell back to the pillow.

“God,” you whispered. “That felt real.”

Agatha shifted. Her voice was hoarse with sleep. “Nightmare?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “I don’t… know.”

Rio’s arm moved over your stomach, tracing a slow, calm pattern. Her touch sent a flicker of heat down your spine.

“What was it?” she asked softly, her breath against your neck.

You swallowed a laugh, still shaking. “You were witches.”

Agatha didn’t move.

Rio stilled.

“You put a spell on me,” you said, grinning. “Rio, you were Lady Death. I think you shattered the front door and demanded to know where your wives were.”

You laughed a little louder now, letting your head fall back against the pillow.

“I mean, I must’ve been really out of it,” you murmured, trying to lighten the tension. “I had orange magic. I mean, it was a beautiful orange, but..” You leaned back against the pillows, still smiling faintly. “Guess I’ve been buried in too many books. All that research is finally melting my brain. I even found a line in a book that said ‘If she remembers, Death will find her.’

You turned to look at them.

And froze.

Around Rio’s throat—green stone glinting like emerald fire.

Around Agatha’s neck—a pendant of deep violet, almost black, pulsing like a heartbeat.

And dangling just above your shoulder—resting against Agatha’s bare collarbone—was the chain.

Your stone.

The one from your dream. Sunset orange. Warm. Alive.

The room shivered.

The air shifted.

And inside your chest, your magic—that impossible, familiar hum—burst into life.

Orange light flared across your skin, curling up your wrists, weaving between your ribs like something ancient unsealing.

You sat bolt upright.

Your voice broke as it escaped your lips:

The same one from the dream. The one Agatha had kissed. The one that had unlocked everything. And it was glowing.

Your eyes widened. The air shifted. The soft warmth of the room turned thick—charged.

Something cracked inside you. Like a seam in your mind splitting open. The orange glow surged through your fingertips.

You sat up fast.

Your voice broke as it escaped your lips:

“…What the fuck is happening?”

For a moment, they didn’t move.

Not Agatha. Not Rio.

Then—slowly—they sat up.

No longer sleepy. No longer soft. And in their eyes—

Violet. Green. Knowing.

Not fear. Not guilt. But something older. Something earned.

And then, in perfect unison, voices echoing a vow made long before this moment—long before this lifetime—they spoke:

“We promised we’d come back once the world forgot how to burn.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened over the edge of the blanket. Her voice, when it followed, was quieter. But not less powerful.

“It’s not our fault,” she murmured, looking directly at you, “that out of every single topic… you chose to study the one thing you were already intimately bound to.”

Your stomach dropped. Agatha placed the chain around your neck, the stone pulsed.

Like recognition. Like relief. Like the moment before a name is spoken aloud.

You hadn’t just fallen for your professors. You hadn’t just studied witchcraft and lore. You had chosen—by instinct, by heart—the one thread in the universe that could unravel everything.

The silence held.

Then Rio’s jaw tensed.

She reached forward—not to comfort, but to steady. Her fingers brushed your wrist like a shield locking into place.

Agatha’s breath hitched.

And then—

Rio spoke.

Low. Controlled. Terrible.

“They know you’re awake.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Agatha’s hand found your back flat and firm.

“The spell broke,” she said, her voice shaking now—not with fear, but with fury barely restrained. “Which means the ones we hid you from felt it.”

The stone around your neck flared—orange, searing. “The world never forgot how to burn,” Rio whispered. “It just got better at hiding the match.” Your pulse spiked.

The walls of the house creaked—like something outside was listening.

Waiting.

“They’re coming,” Agatha said softly. “And this time… they know exactly who you are.”

Then the light blew out.

All of it.

Darkness swallowed the room.

And in the silence that followed, you finally understood—

This wasn’t the end of your story.

It was the beginning of a war.

----------------

Dear Anon, I hope you love this.

[myharkness]

hi do u think u could do Agatha Harkness & innocent reader smut please 💕💕

{ The “virgin” }

Mbf!Agatha harkness x innocent reader

Warning: ( NSFW! Do not read if you’re not over the age of 18, includes adult sex information) masturbation (r! Receiving), fingering (r! Receiving), clit play , talk of watching porn, talk of sex toys, forced orgasm, breast play, praise kink, first time cumming.

A/n: had this in my box unposted for far too long, sorry for the long wait hope you enjoy!

Agatha was your mom’s best friend since childhood. They were very close since high school and have always stayed that way. Growing up Agatha was like your second mom. Always taking you to school, picking you up, dropping you off to dance practice when your mom had to work late nights, taking you out on tea party dates and ensuring that she took pictures and videos so you mom wouldn’t beat herself up for thinking she’s missing out on your childhood.

By the time you were ready to go to high school Agatha had moved states and your mom had decided to completely remove you from the outside world. She made you switch schools, and would sometimes make you take online classes when she had a night shift and couldn’t pick you up. She completely locked you away from society and civilization. You didn’t have friends, you didn’t go out, you never drank or smoke, you never had a normal life.

You were always at home either reading or listening to music—sobbing your youth away. For your last year in high school she finally allowed you to live a little. You were able to do big girl stuff, like drink alcohol for the first time, vape once, attend wild and crazy parties, sneak out, and all the teenage stuff you had missed out on. And finally you were able to make cool popular friends who shared the same interests as you and who had your back.

But there was one thing. You never had sex. You’d listen to all your friends talk about it and pretend that you have, telling them stories of times you would randomly hook up with guys and sneak out just to have sex, and times you’d do it for fun then ghost them or break their hearts or times you’d do it for the money. You were a really pretty girl and lots of guys would hide the front of their pants everytime you walked past them. They were all crazy over you but you didn’t wanna date anyone until you knew enough stuff about sex so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.

You’d often watch porn but it often wasn’t real enough so you’d go to sex shows or strip clubs. You’d join sex group chats where girls sent their nudes or sex tapes. You’d read journals about how to orgasm, squirt, ride a dick, suck one, sex positions and all the crazy stuff. None of which you knew how to do.

So when you heard that Agatha was coming to visit,you thought that you’d speak to her about it personally since you’ve never talked to your mom about your feelings and you were kinda scared to do so, because often times she’d tell you to don’t have boyfriends and never get caught up in sexual activities— classical.

You had your last course work exams today and you were completely and utterly exhausted and sexually frustrated. You were doing human biology and part of your class today was learning about sex and the different type of orgasms.

****

When you got home you didn’t bother to check your phone and maybe you should have because then you would have saw the message from your mom stating that Agatha was back in town and going to be spending the night because she had a late night shift and that she should be coming over anytime soon, so keep the doors unlocked.

Once you saw that house was completely empty, You went straight to your room and gently closed the door. You tossed your bag aside and quickly removed all piece of clothing from your body. You laid on your bed, pillow underneath your hips as you laid there completely naked and sprawled out. You closed your eyes and reflected on the orgasm videos you once used to watch.

First you started by playing with your breast, small light gropes before twisting and pulling your nipples. Then your hand made its way down your stomach gently drawing shapes and caressing the soft flesh, when you got to your mound you slowly parted your legs and allowed your hand to wonder. You carefully started toying with your clit. Just as you saw in the porn videos. Slow, small and gentle circles around the small bud.

Your back arched slightly as your head fell back. You could feel all the slick from your cunt on your fingers coating them so sinfully. A soft moan escaped from your throat as your finger went down further exploring, your depths. you swirled your finger around your entrance before gasping softly. You’ve never had anything up there in a while since the time your mom had almost caught you riding your friends dildo in her bathroom. You had to lie about your moaning being coughing because you were getting sick.

Soon frustration started to build up within you. You increased the pace of your fingers, desperate for some sort of release or high but nothing came. You felt a small tingling in your stomach but it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. At this point you were just forcing an orgasm, you weren’t totally in the moment and the sexy, horny feeling that you once felt was now gone and replaced with unease.

“ fuck! Gosh just cum already” you huffed as you sat up and removed your hands from your cunt wiping off the tip of your fingers with wipes. Sighing you laid back against the headboard and closed your eyes.

“ my love?” Your eyes snapped open when you heard the familiar voice. It was Agatha. She was standing in your door way, arms crossed with a slight concerned look but maybe for a moment you saw a glint behind her eyes or maybe you were imagining things. You quickly covered yourself with your blanket before she proceeded to approach you.

“ how long were you standing there?” the question came out a little more harsh than you may have intended because you saw the way she stopped in her tracks and looked at you. She stared at your figure for a while before smirking.

“ long enough to observe that you have no sex drive….. so who’s the boy you’re trying to impress?” Your eyes widen at her statement before huffing and rolling over on the bed, giving her a little space to sit.

“ 1. there’s no boy, 2. You weren’t supposed to see that and 3. Please don’t tell mom” Agatha smiled softly at you before her hand reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“ I won’t….. but you have to let me help you first. “

That’s how you ended up with her three fingers knuckle deep in your dripping cunt. Your cunt gladly sucked in her fingers ,clenching down on all three digits. You were a complete moaning mess for her. With your back arched and your eyes rolled to the back of your head….. the entire scene was utterly and completely sinful. But god did it feel so good. Her fingers were hitting a spongy spot in you felt magical.

Unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Your thighs were closing in on her as your toes curled every now and then.

“ oh—oh my fucking god!SHIT—“ you cried out as your body twitched when she opened your legs wider allowing her to go a little deeper. Her fingers would curl every time they thrusted into you, the more audible you were the faster she would fuck her fingers into you. Your grip on the sheets were detrimental as you began to see stars.

“ yeah baby girl? Right there? It feels good when mommy’s does that?” Your mind was fuzzy and your skin was bathing in sweat, the once so innocent girl was now a moaning whore for her own mother’s childhood best friend. You started to feel that familiar burning sensation in your lower tummy and it felt strange this time. Demanding or forcing.

You tried to ease away from Agatha’s fingers a bit but she held your hips firmly.

“ w-wait,oh god! Stop, I think I’m gonna c—“ before you could finish your sentence Agatha pushes your legs above your chest fucking you deeper from a different angle as a sinister smirk took over her face. All you could hear was the sqlueching noise from her knuckles connecting over and over again in a brutal attempt to push you over and edge and with a few more thrust you were gone completely.

You came with a silent cry as you cling onto the bed sheets for dear life, your thighs shook vigorously as you continued to soar high at cloud nine. You’ve never experienced anything like this. It felt like heaven. Agatha’s fingers was still working you through your climax as you slowly started to regain your senses. She removed her fingers from your trenches before placing them in her mouth.

A soft but audible moan was heard from her before she smiled softly down at you.

“ do you have anything else in mind that you wanna learn sweetheart, your mom doesn’t get home till 7 and I have all weekend…..” oh brother…….

[myharkness]

DISOBEDIENCE

3k words. summary: emily is away on a case, and she's left you alone with a single rule. you decide to break it, of course—but she finds you on her bed, touching what belongs to her. punishment ensues. tags: explicit sexual content, established relationship, g!p emily, sub!reader, masturbation, dom!emily, d/s dynamics, mommy kink, face fucking, spanking, hair pulling, face slapping, facial, creampie, brief spit kink, blowjob, choking, degradation, slight dumbification, oral sex, aftercare, etc. 

It's been over a week. Surely she can't expect you to hold out that long without her—without touching her, feeling her, hearing her. Coming home from work each day and being met with the sight of an empty bed did nothing to ease the pressure of the stress looming over you since she left. Your need for her has grown too much; you can't possibly spend another minute thinking about her without touching yourself. Not when her bed is covered in her scent, and her clothes make you feel like she's holding you. You’re not strong enough—not today, not right now. 

It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?

Plus, you’re already in bed … you’re practically naked, and you’re already wet. There’s no harm in leaning back, laying on the plush silk sheets soaked in her scent, spreading your legs open and letting your hand wander down between your legs. Your cheeks flush when your fingers brush teasingly over your clit, and swallow down a little whimper. You tug the oversized shirt upwards, taking the fabric between your teeth and letting your legs part forward. Your mind flashes with images of Emily—of her dominance, her beauty, her whispers. You think of her fingers, and your eyes fall shut when you let your own slide inside of you. 

You groan, feeling yourself pulse at the sudden fullness. But you’re still too empty—it’s still not enough. You miss her, and you wish she was here to tell you how good you feel, and fuck you until you see stars behind your eyes. You choke on a whine and set a steady pace with your fingers, digging your nails into your thighs as your hips buck, seeking more comfort. More friction. More. When you curl your fingers inside you, pressing into that soft spot inside you that Emily always finds and abuses, you whimper, digging your feet into the mattress and fucking yourself faster. You imagine it’s her touching you; you imagine her body above you, her pants, her whisper, the filthy things she says in your ear. 

“Fuck, fuck,” You whine, panting heavily. Your chest rises and falls rhythmically, and slick drips down onto the mattress. There’s heat that crawls up your neck and settles on your cheeks, and the lewd squelching noises that echo in the room have you so pathetically turned on. Your eyes are still glued shut, and you’re so distracted with fucking yourself that you don’t notice the bedroom door creaking. You slip in another finger, holding back a sob that wants to break through. You need Emily, you miss her. You need her to fuck you, and degrade you, and tell you that she loves you. 

God, you could fucking cum right now—all you need is her voice. A single word from her lips. 

But your eyes fly open when your hand is yanked away. Your heart skips a beat, throbbing painfully, slamming against your rib cage—bruising you from the inside when you see Emily standing above you, dark eyes glaring down at you, her fingers bruising your wrist. Your heart is in your ears; your mouth is dry when your lips part, looking up at her, and your thighs quiver, soaked. 

“Uh-oh,” She hums, tilting her head. “Someone’s feeling particularly rebellious tonight, huh?”

Your cheeks flush under her attention, “M’sorry—I just…”

“No, no,” She chuckles, and it’s dark. Her fingers leave your wrist, and grip the underside of your jaw, her palm just below your chin, tilting your head up. “Mommy doesn’t like excuses, little one. Such a dumb girl. What happens when we break a rule?”

“P-punishment,” You swallow thickly. “We get punished.”

“That’s right,” She hums, taking her hand away. You almost whimper when her touch leaves you, but your lips part as you watch her shrug off her jacket. Her shirt is snug, and her cleavage is on display, making you practically drool at the sight. Her hands shift down to her belt, and you squirm, pressing your thighs together, cold slick dripping onto the silk sheets. Her eyes narrow at the sight, and you jolt at the unspoken warning, parting your legs once more. 

“Now, baby,” She murmurs. “Why don’t you remind me what rule you broke?”

The metal clinking of her belt makes heat stir inside you, and your cheeks flush in embarrassment, “I was … was playing with Mommy’s b-belongings without permission.” 

“That’s right,” She replies, sliding the belt out of the loops. Her hand slides over your jaw, fingers tangling themself in your hair, fingers tightening firmly and she tugs back sharply, making you hiss at the sharp pain. Your throat bobs on a whine, and your palms press against her thighs—you can see the outline of her bulge against her crotch. Her eyes narrow, and before you know it, there’s a sharp sting on your cheek, a slight throbbing just below your eye. 

You let out a choked groan, eyes watering, “Sorry, Mommy.”

“What a bad day you chose to misbehave, baby,” She sighs tauntingly, and another slap lands on your cheek. She watches your skin burn red, marking the outline of her hand on your face. “You know your safe words, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mommy,” You choke, biting back a sob. “Y-yellow to slow down, red to s-stop.”

“Good,” Her fingers tighten. “Better remember them.”

Her hand roughly yanks you by your hair, making you squeak as you fall back. Her fingers unbutton the dress pants, sliding the zipper down. She sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring you as she undoes the buttons of her shirt. She doesn’t spare a glance at you, and your heart thrums nervously as you wait. Your hands tremble, unsure of what you’re meant to be doing, but you refuse to move an inch without her permission. She’s already punishing you—you’re nervous enough. 

“Kneel,” She says, and you scramble to get off the bed. You make way between her legs, dropping to your knees immediately. Your wide eyes watch her expectantly, and she presses you against the bulge of her boxers. Your eyes widen, and your hands tremble when she smirks down at you. She signals for her crotch, leaning back and watching you with dark eyes. You scramble to tug at her boxers, and you pull her cock out from beneath her underwear. You swallow, glance up at her, and lean down, but she grabs your hair again. 

You gasp at the sudden tug. 

“Do not test me today,” She whispers. “You will fucking regret it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mommy,” You squirm, hands shooting up to reach for your head, looking to ease the sting. You hold back a sob when she presses her shoe down on your cunt, making your clit pulse beneath the pressure. Your hips grind against it—and your eyes water. You’re dripping down your legs. She guides your head forward, and your hands land on her thighs when your mouth opens. Her cock forces your mouth to widen, and your tongue rests against the underside of her length as she slides in. 

Your eyes water when she reaches the back of your throat, and you gag as she holds your head in place. She doesn’t pay you any mind, only focusing on bobbing your head up and down on her cock, not loosening her grip on your hair. You gag and splutter, and drool coats your chin, mixed with precum and tears, and your cheeks are stained, but you continue focusing on her pleasure. You can hear the occasional breath she lets out, but she’s so composed compared to you. She’s still in her work clothes, and they cling to her body despite being unbuttoned, but you’re on your knees, wearing a loose shirt that slides off your shoulder. 

Your lungs begin to ache, and another gag forces its way through. You tap her thigh twice, and she pulls you off of her cock, watching you cough and pant, catching your breath. She smears the spit on your chin all over your swollen lips, and her fingers dip into your mouth, making you close around them. You breathe through your nose, looking up at her with teary eyes, before giving her a brief nod. Then,  your mouth returns to work, swirling your tongue just the way she likes as she pushes your head down, letting her hips buck up into your mouth. 

“Fuck,” She groans, feeling you swallow around her. There’s a bulge in your throat, and she can see the way her cock slides in and out. She stands, her cock slipping out of your mouth, letting you breathe for a split second before your mouth is stuffed full again. She grips your head firmly, and thrusts into your throat—sloppy, uncaring, like she’s using nothing more than a fleshlight to get off. You’re dripping. Twitching. Throbbing. You try to breathe through your nose, tears dripping down your cheeks, and she’s cumming down your throat without warning. 

You swallow and cough, feeling her thrusts turn sloppy before she slips out. Her fingers wrap around her length, and she tilts your face up, letting her cum stain your face, mixing with your tears. You breathe heavily, panting, catching your breath. Your skin is flushed, and you’re soaked in more ways than one. Emily’s fingers on your hair loose, and she runs her nails soothingly over your head. 

“There,” She says, and her lips twist into a grin. “Wanted to act like a slut? Now you look like one, too. All pretty for Mommy, baby. All covered in cum.”

Your cheeks flush as she sits back down on the bed, grabbing her belt, “Hands out.”

You offer your hands, and she expertly makes restraints out of the belt she had been previously wearing. You burn when she tightens it around your wrists, tugging at them experimentally. She gives you a look, a single finger under your chin tilting your eyes up, “Color?”

“Green, Mommy,” You answer, voice raspy. She seems pleased, and she leans back, patting her lap. Your eyes widen in recognition, and you stand obediently, sprawling yourself over her lap. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and her hand squeezes your bare ass, landing a quick slap. You squirm, but remain silent, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you. 

“Why are you getting a spanking, baby?” She asks, trailing her fingers down to your thigh. You breath hitches when she squeezes, teasingly allowing her index finger to brush against your soaking pussy—but only momentarily. You swallow, breath quickening. 

“B-because I…I touched myself without your permission,” You whimper. “Please, Mommy—I’m sorry…I won’t do it again.”

“I don’t want apologies,” She sighs. “Stupid girl—you’re making Mommy repeat herself. I don’t want apologies—you’ll be forgiven after a proper punishment.”

Your cheeks burn, and you nod obediently. 

“Now,” She murmurs, and her nails dig into your flesh. “I’m gonna give you as many as I want—if you can’t tell me where we stopped, we’re starting over, understood?”

“Yes,” You nod quickly, swallowing. When her hand lands firmly on your ass, the slap rings loudly in the room, and it’s followed by a gasp, your body jolting forward. She doesn’t let your body adjust—doesn’t let the sting lessen. She’s landing another slap on the same spot seconds after the first one, and it makes you clench your teeth. Her hits are rougher than usual. They’re a little less calculated, and a little more harsh. 

But —fuck— you need this. You need this badly. 

Another slap lands on your ass, and tears sting your eyes. She grips the forming bruise, and you sniffle, writhing beneath her, a broken sob leaving your mouth. You know better than to plead for mercy—you know it won’t get you anywhere. Instead, you let her proceed, biting your tongue until she finishes. When she does, tears fall down your cheeks, and your ass burns. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, and your backside throbs. You’ll be bruised for weeks. 

“Number,” She murmurs. Your heart thuds nervously and you swallow, hands trembling. 

“Uhm…six—sixteen..?” There’s a beat of silence. You can hear your heartbeat echoing in the room. You can hear the faint buzzing of the AC, and suddenly, you’re so cold. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. Her breathing doesn’t shift—there’s no sign that you can read. When her hand brushes over your ass, you jolt instinctively, a harsh thrill making you tremble. 

But she doesn’t touch the bruise. She gently grips your thigh, leans forward, and kisses the back of your head, “There’s my good girl. Such a smart little doll. At least Mommy doesn’t have to teach you how to count, as well.”

Your cheeks burn, and your heart stutters, “Thank you, Mommy..”

She leans forward and undoes the belt around your wrists, tossing it aside, “Hands and knees.”

You scramble to obey, the mattress dipping beneath you as you take the position she orders you to. You can feel the bed dip, a faint creak following. She’s on her knees behind you, and you feel her hand settle between your shoulder blades, pushing you down. You follow her silent command, dipping down slowly until your chest presses against the silk sheets. Your breath trembles, and you feel her lean over you, her chest pressing against your back. 

Her lips leave a kiss on the nape of your neck, and her hand slides down to grope your chest. She lets her nose brush down the outline of your spine, until her hands settle on your hips, and her mouth meets the plush skin of your ass, biting down just above the bruise. You whine, jolting forward, but otherwise remain still. She kisses the handprint tattooed onto your skin, her tongue darting out to soothe over the heated skin. And then she nips just below your ass. 

“Mommy,” You breathe out, and her tongue meets your pussy, making you gasp. “Mmph, fuck.”

She hums, the taste of your arousal leaving a lingering taste on her tongue. You jolt forward as her tongue glides slowly, parting your lower lips, catching the slick arousal that leaves your entrance. Your thighs tremble for a moment, and you move backwards instinctively—a pathetic attempt to grind against her mouth, searching for the release you’d been denied when she first found you. She pulls her mouth away, leaving you whining. But her cock lines up with your entrance, and she fills you up with one quick thrust. 

You gasp at the sudden fullness, and your skin flushes as you hear her groan. Her hands on your hips bruise, and she pushes them back as she fucks into you. The pace she settles on is brutal, and it makes your eyes roll back at the sudden harshness. She’s reaching that spot inside you that has you reeling—you’re on the road to losing your mind. After everything she’s done—after the rough treatment, and the punishment, and the delicious fucking that she’s giving you, it’s not surprising how quickly you’re reaching your peak. 

“Oh, baby,” She breathes out, sliding her hand down and wrapping her fingers around the back of your neck. She pulls you up, and you choke on a sob as you’re forced against her. Your hands move to hold onto the bed frame, and the bed pushes against the wall with every harsh thrust she gives you. You’re sure your neighbors are going to file a noise complaint, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Your eyes roll back as her cock reaches new depths inside you, making you clench and pulse around her. She lets out a choked groan, wrapping her hand around your neck, squeezing. 

“Fuck, Mommy, fuck,” You sob, trembling, thighs quivering. You feel weak as you hold on, and your orgasm comes to you suddenly, as soon as her fingers press against your clit. Her hand moves from your neck and covers your mouth, pushing you against the bed frame, muffled groans against your skin making you buzz with life. You soak her hand with tears and saliva, muffling your broken sobs, fucking you through your high. 

It feels like a wave of satisfaction—it melts your insides, makes you gush onto her cock, soaking her. You clit throbs, and before you know it, she releases inside you. You can feel her cum dripping down your thighs—can feel the heat on your skin burning. You’re so full. Full with her cock, with her cum. Your heart feels full, too. With the amount of attention she’s given you—with the subtle, loving touches she offered between punishment.

“Em,” You sob, trembling. “Em, mph—fuck. M’so full..”

“I know, baby,” She coos, panting. You feel her nuzzle into your neck, and she gently slides her cock out of you. You whimper at the sudden loss—your limbs tremble and weaken, and you flop on the mattress and try to catch your breath. She chuckles and slips her hand beneath your shirt, gently scratching over your stomach. She leans down and takes your lips with hers, strands of her hair brushing against your cheeks. 

Your hand gently brushes against her, and she gently pulls away. 

“Welcome home,” You murmur, and a dopey grin stretches your lips. 

She matches your grin, and her features soften, “Thank you for the wonderful welcome, baby. Just what I needed.”

You giggle, pressing another kiss to her lips. She hums and brushes hair away from your face. The way she looks at you has you breathless again. Her dark hair is free, if a bit ruffled, and you can see strands of gray hair that have your heart stuttering. She’s so beautiful in every way—and the way she ages has you in a chokehold. She’s perfect to you. 

“What do you need?” She hums softly. “Hm? Bath? Snacks? Water?”

“I want cuddles,” You whisper, gazing up at her. “I missed you.”

She smiles softly, pressing her forehead against yours, “I’d love to. But we should clean up first. We’re covered in … fluids.”

You giggle, “Yes, Mommy.”

“Brat,” She chuckles teasingly, and kisses your forehead. “Come on.”

[...]

[myharkness]

- Long Distance

Relationships - Wandanat x Reader

Summary - A long distance relationship with Wanda and Natasha after hooking up with them while drunk

Warnings: phone sex, vibrator, teasing, orgasm denial, guided masturbation

A/N: idk if i like this so might delete and rewrite in the morning, we'll see how it does

It'd been a few weeks since you'd seen Natasha and Wanda, a drunken encounter that was hazy in your own mind and the only thing you had left was a number in your phone you were too scared to text. You often found yourself staring at it, fingers over the keyboard as your brain swirled with possible greetings, but they all sounded too lame.

Which is why you were sitting in your bed, scrolling through Wanda's Instagram account. It was hard to refrain from liking every photo but if your finger slipped a few times then oh well. One of your hands wanders along your stomach, dancing along the exposed skin from where your shirt rides up.

You can feel a heat pooling between your thighs, insistent and begging for attention.

Swiping across another photo, hitting the like button, you freeze when an unknown caller id pops up. After a moment you recognize it and you swear you've never answered a call so fast. The sounds you hear make you choke on any words.

Filthy moans, punctuated by wet slapping sounds and low whines. Heat rushes through your body as you grip the phone tightly, cautiously setting it down on the nightstand, your hand dipping lower to tease the waistband of your pants.

"You look so pretty like this," Natasha's voice is a low purr, just how you remember it and your core clenches at the sound of it. Wanda whimpers on the other side of the phone, but it's strained and almost reluctant.

More pornographic noises flood through your phone, and you hear their bed creak with each movement. Unable to resist, you slip your fingers into your panties, pointer finger circling your clit. A soft moan leaves your lips, hardly noticing you're not muted. You press down harder, your free hand coming up to tease your breasts as the moaning increases.

"Oh fuck Natasha-" Wanda sounds nothing like a few weeks ago, instead replaced by a needy submissive side.

It's honestly embarrassing how quickly you approach your climax, thighs already trembling and breath hitching. Stifling your moans is an impossible task so you don't bother any longer, instead letting yourself to be as loud as you want.

You should mute yourself on the call. You should hang up. Yet you can't bring yourself to do either of those things, instead pinching your clit as you listen to Natasha fuck Wanda and hear the delicious sounds she makes. A low groan leaves your lips when you slip a finger into your tight heat.

From just being on call with them and looking at photos of the two women has you so worked up it's not a problem to slide your finger in and out. Your thumb continues to work on your clit while you play with your breasts. You roll the rosy peaks between your fingers, twisting and pinching so that you whimper softly.

"You gonna come for me pretty girl?"

Natasha words have you falling apart in sync, lips parting simultaneously in ecstasy as your back arches off the bed and you rut into your fingers. It was rare you touched yourself, but fuck, this time it felt so fucking good. You pant, slowly catching your breath and you hear Wanda doing the same.

Easing your finger out of your cunt, you remove the pressure put on your clit and wipe your fingers off on the bed sheets. You would wash them later. You fumble for your phone, hands slightly shaky, and your hand hovers over the end call button.

"Do you think she would move here?" Wanda asks softly. At first it doesn't click, but then you realize she's talking about you. She's asking if you would move in with them or at least move close to be with them. The sound makes you needy all over again, even though your cunt throbs from just coming.

There's a scoff, distinctly from Natasha, "Why don't we ask her?"

All you can formulate is a surprised noise before your finger jerks and hangs up.

^___________^

From that point forward it only escalated. Not talking at all turned to weekly phones calls and texting everyday before that turned into calling during every available moment you had. Then those calls turned into masturbation sessions, following every command and order given to you. Even if it meant ruining your own orgasm.

Recently, Wanda implemented a rule that you were not to touch yourself without permission. At first you were appalled, frustrated, but also so eager to please. It took some getting used to, but you managed to restrain yourself.

It was a particularly difficult day. You started off your morning with a video of the two fucking - Natasha tied up, her wrists pinned above her head by a soft ribbon that was tied to the headboard. Wanda was settled between her legs, hands on her thighs as she ate her out like a woman starved.

Every time you close your eyes you see them.

And to make matters worse, Wanda forced you to keep a vibrator shoved in your cunt all day. It was Bluetooth one that somehow worked from where they lived all the way in New York, but you didn't question it. It was pure torture, having the little red device buzzing inside you all day.

As much as you wanted to, you knew cumming would only make matters worse. So you went about your day with an ache between your thighs was impossible to relieve. Even if you could cum, the vibrator was set so low you just weren't able to climax.

Wanda was being a fucking tease and you both loved and hated her for it. As you wander around the house, the toy inside you picks up speed, vibrating against your cunt and drawing you so close to the edge. Maybe you could come and just never tell her. She doesn't have to know.

But just as you get close, the intensity is lowered and you whine in frustration. Whipping out your phone you shoot a text to the group chat, 'Can I touch myself? Please?' After a moment three dots appear on the screen, bouncing up and down before they disappear again.

You let out an annoyed sound, throwing your head back as you sulk over to the couch, plopping down. Your bitter mood quickly changes when Wanda's contact photo flashes across your phone - you've never answered a call so quickly.

"Hey sweet girl." Her voice flows like honey and strokes the fire in your belly, "Is someone needy today?"

You exhale sharply through your nose, "Yes."

She laughs at your curt response, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth. The vibrator picks up speed again, making you clench your thighs together and wiggle on the couch. Nothing you do helps to alleviate the need between your thighs.

"Mind your manners," she chides softly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow, "I'll make you a deal. If you can last until Tasha gets home from work, which is in about fifteen minutes-" your eyes widen, fifteen minutes may not seem like long, but when you were teetering on the edge it felt like an eternity, "-then you can come. But if you come before that, then you don't get to tomorrow. Or the night after. Not for the whole week. Understood?"

While she phrased it as a deal you know it's more of a command. Exhaling shakily, you nod your head, inhaling sharply as Wanda turns the vibrator up even higher. When you remember she wants words, you force out a stammering "understood."

"Good girl," the praise hits you like a freight train, "Alright darling, fifteen minutes."

You moan when you shift your hips, the vibrator angling to a new spot deep inside you. It feels so good at a higher setting and you approach your climax within a minute. Gritting your teeth together you force yourself to hold back.

Orgasming now would only result in a week of pain. It was funny how even in a different state they had so much power over you, but you loved it with a deep passion.

"Lift your shirt up. I wanna see you play with yourself."

For a moment you don't register the husky command. Once you do, you scramble to lift your shirt, hands flying to your breasts. While you hold the phone in one hand, the other tweaks and rolls your nipple between your thumb and forefinger.

"Slower." There's a smug note in her voice that tells you she knows exactly what she's doing, "Prop your phone up on the coffee table and strip your lower half."

Your hands shake but you manage to prop the phone up, giving Wanda a solid view of you. Stripping your pants and panties off, you moan when the vibrator shifts inside you again. Every movement is a mix of pain and pleasure, a desperation for release.

A steady stream of praise flows through the phone as Wanda guides you through touching yourself. Your fingers swipe through your wet folds, pushing the toy even further into you. And you tease your breasts until the tips are red and sore.

It feels like an eternity as you wait, staving off an orgasm that was begging to be released. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you bite your lip, throwing your head back as your hips writhe on the couch. You're so close. You just need Natasha to get home.

Wanda tuts, disappointment radiating from the sound, "Ah ah, let me see your face pretty girl. I want to watch as you cry while coming undone."

"Please," you beg, looking down to the phone, "I've been good please."

Wanda only gives you a look of faux pity and remains silent. You take that as a que to keep touching yourself, little gasps and whimpers leaving your lips as you fight back the bomb threatening to explode inside you. Finally - Finally you hear the front door through Wanda's phone creak open.

Eyes snapping open, a tear streaks down your face and you see Natasha come into view. Her red hair is pulled into a high ponytail and she looks thoroughly amused at your predicament. Scoffing, she takes a seat next to Wanda, ready to enjoy the show.

"Can I come? Please you said I could. Natty's home, please." Your words are a pleading babble, hoping that you'll get the release you so desperately crave.

"Go ahead baby."