#agnes imagines

[cecile-art]

For your consideration

[ifnotlovepersevering]

Spared (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: Agatha can’t resist herself when you ask her to take you to the Road

Warnings: NSFW, naive!reader, deceptive!agatha, mentions of alcohol, thigh riding (R), oral sex (both receiving), fingering, pet names, minors DNI

A/N: quick and dirty fic i wrote in like a day, inspired by a suggestion from @agathas-wife !

NSFW Tag List: @evilangels-stuff @riobutnotthebirb @academiagaymess @musicalmemesandstuff @shinkomiii @vintagegoddess12 @agnessharknes @jesterofrohan @agathaharknessslut @nickalpatel @junaika21

GIF Credit: @hauntinglesbian

As soon as she laid eyes on you, Agatha knew she had to have you.

You, with your alluring eyes, standing out from the rest of the crowd. You, that’d came to find her after the show. You, who all but begged her to take you to the Witches’ Road that she sang about onstage.

You wanted to go on the Road to recover a destroyed family spell book, you’d explained. You weren’t unique in this request, of course. For years Agatha had been luring in witches with the promise of a journey on the Road to receive what they most desire. The witch had collected a fair share of bodies through this scheme of hers.

But she had no wish to drain you of your powers like she did everyone else. A pretty thing like you didn’t deserve that fate, she was sure. As Agatha led you and the makeshift coven out into a field, she leaned in close to you. “Don’t do what they do.” She whispered quickly, before resuming her position at the front of the group. You looked at her, confused, but her face told you not to ask questions.

Agatha began the speech she’d recited many times before. She smiled at the admiration across your face, your girlish wonder exciting her. You couldn’t help it, you found her captivating. She was still wearing her stage getup, and the leather outfit combined with her tousled hair meant she had your undivided attention.

All of you listened intently before singing the song you all knew by heart. But at the end, no door emerged. You could feel the crush of disappointment and you saw Agatha’s mouth twist into a scowl. “Never have I met such a useless coven of witches.”

Her clear disdain stung, and you could tell the other witches were getting upset. “Come on,” Agatha growled. “Did you learn your craft from the Bible?”

Hands began glowing as the other witches’ anger rose from her jibes. Agatha caught your eye and shook her head almost imperceptibly, and you held off on bringing forth your own magic.

Colourful beams of energy began hitting Agatha, but the witch seemed to be undisturbed. The intensity of the magic hitting her increased, and she stretched out her arms as if she was taking it in. You hardly registered what was happening before the rest of the witches slumped to the ground, their lifeless husks at your feet.

You gasped in horror, looking down at the once-alive witches. “How did that- Did you-?”

Agatha feigned her own disappointment as she closed the gap between the two of you. “It’s so unfortunate but this happens sometimes.” She sighed, shaking her head. “The Road can be fickle, and witches aren’t patient creatures. I’ve had to learn to be defensive, Y/N.”

Agatha eyed you, trying to gauge your reaction, as your expression morphed from fear to sadness. Seeing you like this only fuelled her desire, and she smirked to herself as she wrapped an arm around you.

“Why don’t we get away from this, hm?” She asked. You nodded, and with a wave of her hand you two were in what you figured was her trailer.

Agatha motioned for you to sit on the couch as she poured a glass of liquor for the both of you. You accepted gratefully before downing it, wincing slightly at the burn.

“I’m sorry about earlier, doll. I’m trying to improve the ability to conjure the Road…but until then, it’s what I have to do.” Agatha studied your face, her gaze catching on the pout of your lips.

You grabbed her hand in yours and gave it a squeeze. “That must be so difficult.”

“Yes,” Agatha put on a frown. “So difficult.” Ever the actress, she willed her eyes to brim with tears.

“Oh, Agatha,” your expression was plain sympathy, and it took everything in Agatha to not cackle at how easy this was. “I’m so sorry.” You leaned in to give the older witch a hug. Agatha could feel desire coiling within her as she wrapped her arms around you, breathing in your scent.

As you pulled away from the hug, Agatha brought a hand up to brush hair away from your face. Her fingers came to rest on your chin lightly, forcing you to hold her intense gaze. “Don’t be sorry, pretty girl.”

Slowly, she brought her mouth to yours and you found yourself sinking into the kiss. Agatha’s lips were hungry, dominating, and you moaned when her tongue slipped into your mouth.

Agatha pulled away suddenly, and she revelled in how you leaned in, chasing the feeling of her lips. She stood up and sauntered over to the bed at the other end of the trailer, dropping the leather jacket she was wearing to the floor. She continued stripping her clothes as she climbed onto the bed. Settling herself between the pillows, she looked at you expectantly. “Coming, doll?”

You felt your breathing quicken as you made your way over to her naked form, illuminated softly by the lights on her vanity. Before you could get on the bed, Agatha stopped you. “Ah, ah,” she tutted, motioning with her hand for you to take off your clothes.

Heat rose in your cheeks as you began stripping your clothes off for her. You could see Agatha watching intently, lips parted, as you pulled your panties down your legs before unclasping your bra.

Agatha hummed in approval as you crawled towards her before straddling her lap. Her mouth met yours again, hungrily, and both of your moans filled the small space. She maneuvered under you so that you were straddling one of her legs now, and you groaned at the pressure against your bare pussy.

“Oh,” Agatha smirked as you began grinding down onto her thigh, your slick slowly dripping out of you. “Feels good doesn’t it bunny?”

Biting your lip, you nodded furiously. “Use your words.” Agatha said, grabbing your chin to force your mouth open.

“Yes,” you cried out. “Feels so good.”

Agatha began trailing wet kisses along your jaw. You felt her lick a stripe along your neck with her tongue before she made her way to your tits. Eagerly, she sucked and nibbled at your nipple, using her hand to pinch the other. Agatha looked up at you and could tell you were close. “Come for me, baby. Come on my thigh.”

You groaned as waves of pleasure rocked through you, and you brought your mouth back down to Agatha’s. The older witch moaned, and her hands gripped your waist as she guided you so that you were under her now.

Agatha began trailing kisses down your stomach, her tongue lazily drawing circles as she made her way to your center. Between your thighs, she nearly drooled at the sight of your glistening folds. She traced a finger along them, brushing your clit gently, laughing when you hissed. “Mm, don’t say you’re too sensitive for me now, bunny.”

Unable to hold herself back any longer, Agatha buried her face between your legs. Her tongue ran through your folds, collecting your juices. She hummed as she savoured the taste, your taste, before she slid two fingers into you and began pumping them in and out. “Fuck,” you groaned, the added sensation fuelling the pleasure building inside you.

Agatha marvelled at how your walls squeezed around her digits. Your moans were getting louder, and she wrapped her free arm over your hips, which were beginning to buck up against her. Her tongue swirled over and around your clit, and she picked up a pattern of sucking it into her mouth and releasing.

“Agatha,” you moaned. The older witch’s piercing gaze held yours as you came undone, your back arching off the bed. Agatha’s grip was strong and she held you in place while you rode out the waves of pleasure, her mouth not leaving your center.

As you came down from your high, Agatha moved up from between your legs. But before she could bask in the satisfaction of making you come again, you were straddling her.

“Up for round three already, pretty girl?” Agatha grinned from underneath you. You answered by meeting her mouth with yours, savouring the flavour of your juices. “I need to taste you,” you mumbled against her lips.

You helped her move onto her stomach so that her back was now to you. Agatha moaned softly as you trailed your tongue down her neck sloppily, your lips leaving marks behind. Your hand snaked its way down over her ass to her center, where you rubbed a finger through her folds before pushing it in.

Agatha grunted underneath you at the feeling of your fingers filling her aching hole. Her hands gripped the sheets as you slowly moved your fingers in and out. Your mouth continued its ministrations on the sensitive skin of her neck before nibbling at her ear lobe.

“Oh,” Agatha groaned as you quickened the pace of your fingers. You could feel her slick gathering on your hand as the sound of your fingers pumping into her filled the room. “God, yes, baby.”

You felt her walls clench around you as she came, but you were relentless. Before she could relax you were between her legs, arms under her hips to prop her onto all fours.

“F-fuck,” Agatha groaned when your tongue made contact with her folds. You slurped up her juices, probing her opening with your tongue before flicking her clit. Agatha’s face was pushed into the pillows, her back arched, as you circled her clit before sucking it into your mouth.

You felt her hand reach back and grip your hair, shoving your face deeper into her pussy. “Right there, don’t stop- agh, good, good girl.” Agatha cried out as her orgasm shook through her body.

Both of you panting, you collapsed next to her on the pillows. Agatha clasped your face, bringing you in for a deep kiss, her tongue gathering the remnants of her juices from your lips.

“Maybe I could help you,” you mumbled softly.

Agatha smirked. “Oh you’ve helped me plenty, doll.”

“No,” you giggled. “With the Road. I could try and help you in conjuring it.”

“Oh,” Agatha’s eyebrows raised. She’d nearly forgotten about that whole thing. “Yes, you’d be a huge help.” She grinned.

Was it wrong to lie to you? Maybe. But Agatha would be damned if she let morals get in the way of keeping you by her side.

[automatic-midnight]

He had known what it was to desire, and to be desired, both by women and by men

[multimilfs]

Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: Poking The Bear

Summary: Agnes has the misfortune of being called in to work a murder case on Christmas Eve. When she leaves you frustrated, you decide to do what you do best; poke the bear.

AO3

A/N: I said "is anyone going to humiliate this woman in this ultra-specific way?" and didn't wait for an answer. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals <3

Words: 8k

Included: Established relationship, Christmas, Porn with plot; g!p, teasing, somnophilia (implied), dacryphilia, phone sex, accidental orgasm, semi-public sex, humiliation, jealousy, blowjobs, dom/sub, sub space, throatfucking, unprotected sex, masturbation, light breeding kink, light degradation, praise, orgasm denial.

Tag List: @vii-v @absolute-memegarbage @crazycatladycaceta @hannah-0730 @shinysuitcloud @bubbly-moonwarrior @emilynissangtr @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @thelesbianapollokid4 @dmtrxie @notice-shy @vintagegoddess12 @rosie6reyes @softfruity @tragicsapphic34 @msharkness @setsuna1415 @kermidd5 @snickerdoodles-stuff @women-are-so-ethereal @imlike-so-gaydude @lotus-ignis @n0body-is-perfect @goblinscum420 @d-z20 @borntodieedition28 @autbot @ee-bah-sims @kathrynscontroversiallyyounggf @renravens @theothersideofthescreen @sp3c-tr0 @sapphicharknesss @coffeelover245 @madamslaytan @heady-pomegranate @ragnarockz @escapetodreamworld @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @imtrashinflames @goforgreat @welmelsblog @igoturmoney @mol2311 @obnoxiouslycontemplating @bellatrix-black8 @deathly777 @emmasaviorqueen-blog @greatygreatgreat @chlizets @latedawnearlysunsets92

Through the peaceful, warm silence of the morning, an alarm clock blares.

Agnes growls under her breath as she does every morning, lumbering from the comfort of the bed and over to the windowsill where the alarm clock sits. A particularly rough blow shuts it up.

God, why did she let Vidal insist on this shift?

Her routine is simple enough she could do it with her eyes closed; and does, for most of it. It isn’t until she turns the shower to a cooler temperature that she feels anywhere close to awake. She needs coffee—bad.

Halfway through said cup of coffee and one of the donuts you picked up, she realizes she hasn’t kissed you good morning yet.

You grumble a bit when she turns you over, untucking your head from the blankets, but you don’t wake. You look heavenly, painted in the warm glow of the Christmas tree you insist on keeping plugged in all night. Agnes smiles.

Pressing her lips to your forehead, she murmurs, barely a whisper, “Be good, baby.”

A hand wraps around her wrist and she startles. Pulling back, your eyes haven’t opened.

“Agnes, come back to bed.” You say, voice gravely from sleep.

“Vidal will be on my case if I don’t show.”

“I can make your morning better than Vidal can.”

You stretch, curling back into the blankets, but hold her wrist just tight enough to indicate you’re still half awake. It’s good your eyes are closed; she doesn’t need you seeing all the kinds of fond you’re making her.

Agnes really shouldn’t get you started, but curiosity kills cats, not bears, “Oh yeah? How would you do that, baby?”

“You’d come back to bed and sleep until I say.”

“And then what?” She prods, trying not to laugh.

“Then we’ll have a really nice breakfast. Donuts for you.”

“What would you have?”

“You.” You answer, casual and so matter-of-fact, “I’ll even swallow, out of Christmas spirit or something.”

Agnes jolts at the change. Though true to form, she can feel the familiar coil of arousal between her legs. She really shouldn’t have gotten you started.

She’s half awake, she won’t remember this, Agnes tells herself as she tries to move from her kneeling position on the bed. Your grip on her wrist remains.

“Sleep. We’ll have fun when I get home.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.” You whine.

“I’ll be home before you know it, I swear.”

“Fine. ‘Love you.” You murmur.

You rescind your hand and turn over, pacified as you burrow back under the covers. Agnes shakes her head.

“Love you too.” She whispers.

With one last parting kiss to your forehead, she’s gone, with you none-the-wiser.

—

You wake up a mess.

There’s a half-remembered conversation with Agnes lingering in your mind, but it’s hazy enough to feel like a dream; an unsatisfying one, the persistent throbbing between your legs says. You offered to blow her, you remember that much—it’s all pretty blank after that.

No, there was something about having fun when she got home, too.

You can’t wait that long.

It isn’t until two of your fingers are knuckle-deep and you’re missing the fullness Agnes offers that the idea strikes you. You scramble blindly for the phone on your night-stand. The movements change the angle of your fingers and you whine, rolling your hips, even as the blind grabs for your phone grow more frustrated.

Once found, it is ripped viciously off the charger, and you open it, going through your messages for the quickest access to her number. You grin at the contrast between your long-winded messages and Agnes’ one word responses.

An infinitesimal movement of your hips reminds you of your intention.

The phone is brought to your ear and it rings… and rings… and rings…

…and rings…

“O’Connor.” Her gruff voice comes down the line.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You squeeze around your own fingers at the sound.

“Yes, Detective, I’d like to report a crime.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“Go on.”

“Well, my wife woke me up this morning and got me turned on, and she didn’t even have the decency to fuck me before she left. What kind of woman does that, Detective?”

You can hear the curve of her grin, “A lousy one. That’s a pretty serious crime.”

Maybe it’s the low, lilting drawl of her voice down the line. Maybe it’s the way you can see how she’s sitting in your mind; shoulders back against the seat but hips forward, legs splayed with careless confidence, one hand toying with her belt. Maybe it’s the easy humor she slips into with you that she’s never had with anyone else.

Whatever it is, two sentences from her brings you closer to finishing than thirty minutes with your hand has.

You whimper, “Keep talking.”

Another pause. Then the faint rustle of fabric.

“What are you doing?”

Her tone is utterly serious. Unforgiving. And god if it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Finally showing your clit some attention, you moan shamelessly. It’s nice to feel full, but your fingers never quite reach the right spots, and you can’t get off on penetration alone—with Agnes or otherwise. It’s fun to work yourself up though; pushing to the heights you can reach there before really giving yourself the stimulation you want.

If she keeps talking, that—combined with the circling motions on your clit—will send you straight over the edge.

The anticipation builds over the line. For a moment, you pull the phone away to make sure she hasn’t hung up. She’s likely weighing the best thing to say to both turn you on and strike the fear of punishment into you.

Instead, her tone is almost pleading, “Don’t do this now.”

An image strikes you of making Agnes beg, of driving her to a point where the easy dominance falls away, and she’s reduced to chasing whatever kindness you give. It brings you so much pleasure it hurts. You need it. But how to get it?

“Is Agent Vidal in the room with you?” You ask.

The idea of Vidal witnessing what you’re doing to Agnes makes your toes curl.

“No.”

“I thought you were stuck with her today.”

“Leave Vidal out of this.” She demands, but it’s strangled.

She’s clawing for control over the situation, scrambling for a foothold. Normally, you’d give it to her. Normally.

“I don’t think I ask for much…” A lie. You make many requests in the sanctity of your bedroom, “all I wanted was for you to fix what you started.”

“Baby.”

You have to pull your fingers away from your clit, desperate to come but not ready yet.

“There are so many ways you could have done it, too. You could have woken me up with your head between my legs… or with you inside me. It could have been nice, right?”

Only the sound of her breathing comes down the line. Heavy, uneven, like when she’s holding herself over you, hips driving her deeper—

God, you’re so close.

You whisper, needing to know that she’s as affected as you, needing to hear her say it, “Are you hard, Agnes?”

“Yes.”

Even though you haven’t moved any part of your hand, the mental image nearly sends you tumbling over the edge.

“Will you come with me?”

“I…I can’t.”

You know. With the shades open, her office is basically an observation room; meaning if she were to do what you ask, there’s almost a guarantee she’d be caught. A sick part of you wants it. Wants to know that you have enough power over her to make her take the risk.

Gently, you begin to toy with your clit again. You can make her do what you ask. All you need is for her to say it—the confirmation that you’ve undone her so thoroughly that she can’t help but fist her cock under the desk where anyone could see.

“Please.” You beg.

You hear her inhale, the sound sharp in your ear. The words are on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes are no doubt shifting around the office, searching for the perfect way to hide what she’s about to do.

You’re standing on the precipice.

The harsh beeping of a disconnected call blares in your ear. Yanking it away, orgasm thoroughly ruined, you yell in frustration.

—

An officer pulls open the door before you can reach for it, nodding, “Ma’am.”

The precinct is busy for it being a holiday. Uniformed officers sit around desks, either on the phone or talking with others. You spy the Chief talking animatedly to a few toward the back.

They’ve really done up the place this year. Last year it’d been sad, grey. Now there are a few little trees spread around, some personal decorations here and there, a menorah on the front desk with candles waiting to be lit. It livens up the place.

In the back sits the partial vision of Agnes’ office. The blinds are somewhat closed, but she’s left the door open, allowing you enough of a glimpse to know she’s in there. You can imagine her without having to see; her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hunched over the desk, hand toying with strands of her hair as she frowns over evidence.

Gazes follow as you cut through the center of it all. You do your best to ignore the heat working its way up your neck. Once upon a time, a few of the other officers had tried to catch your attention. You’d entertained a few of them. But they were minnows, and you wanted the shark.

You wanted the unapproachable, stone-faced Detective O’Connor.

And you had been the one to catch Agnes, but her fellow officers couldn’t imagine their illustrious Detective not being the one to do the catching. If only they knew how you could have her eating from the palm of your hand.

A swift knock on the open door and you lean against it. She’s exactly as you imagined. Though there’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and her fingers tap on the desk like she can’t sit still.

She doesn’t look up, barking, “I’m busy.”

“I’ll pass this off to one of the other officers then.”

Her head snaps up and you grin. Hanging from one of your fingers is a white takeout bag. The scent of orange chicken and rice permeates the air, but it isn’t what you’re hungry for.

Work forgotten, she looks you up and down, licking her lips. Her fingers twitch on the desk. You clear your throat and she snaps out of whatever daze she’s in. Clearing her own throat, she sits up, tugging on the bottom of her flannel shirt. Your smile widens.

“Close the door behind you.”

Stepping in, you kick it closed with a low, “Yes, Detective.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My job.” You cross to her desk, dropping the takeout bag on top. You’re perched on the edge closest to her. She looks up at you from her chair, lips pursed, tugging on her shirt again, “What kind of wife would I be if I let you go hungry?”

“None of the other guys get lunch delivered personally.”

“None of the other guys are married to me. Do I get a kiss for my troubles?”

Briefly, she looks out into the precinct—not that she can see much with the shades drawn—then back to your lips. Agnes shifts, licking her own, before nodding.

You lean forward and hold onto the chair by one arm, capturing her lips in a rough kiss. Your other hand palms the length you know pulsates between her legs. Upon contact she grunts into your mouth, hips bucking.

Her hand fumbles blindly for your wrist. Catching it in a firm grip, you can feel the tension in her frame as she decides whether to press you closer or shove you away.

Pulling back just enough to smile, “Poor baby. Have you been like this all day?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Detective?” You murmur.

Her breath hitches. Blue eyes so blown out they’re nearly black regard you, her chest rising and falling as she struggles for an even rhythm of breath. You test her grip and find its slackened. The palm of your hand caresses the entire outline of her through her jeans.

Agnes doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer, either. The hand on your wrist allows you enough movement to stroke slowly from base to tip. Every inch of her seems to jump at the whisper of your touch.

Looking into her eyes, you can see how she’s fighting for control. She just can’t find the path to it. Good. You want her like this—panting and desperate. It makes you clench around nothing.

“What have you been imagining all this time?”

She swallows. Clears her throat, “Vidal will be back soon.”

“I can be quick.”

“Anyone… could see.”

“We have a few options. Your favorite is off the table, though.”

The favorite in question being Agnes bending you over the desk and fucking you hard and fast. It’s efficient, allowing her drive in deep while having the benefit of spanking you as she chases her reward. Her cock twitches at the reminder.

She’s tense, taut with energy like she’s only a few strokes from finishing right here. The thought is hot and you want it, bad—but not all dreams can be reality.

“What do we have?” Agnes asks, finally.

“If I crawl under the desk no one would see what I’m doing.” You offer.

Your hand keeps moving. It’s more for yourself than anything; you like feeling her, hard and wanting, yet so restricted, jumping at the slightest bit of attention. A thumb swipes over where you know the head is and she chokes, hips stuttering from what had been a slow roll into your hand.

“Do it.” She demands.

The subtle authority returning to her voice sends a shiver down your spine. One more swipe of your thumb and she keens, before clamping her mouth shut.

You laugh. Waking up this morning, this is the last thing you expected for yourself from the day; but you can’t deny you’re enjoying every second.

“That’s my girl.” You praise.

Bracing to slide off the desk, there’s a knock on Agnes’ closed office door, and disaster strikes.

The knock startles you. You try to turn and look toward the door, but forget just how precarious your seating situation is on the edge of the desk. You lose your balance. You’re able to get your foot under you just enough to fall into Agnes’ lap, rather than onto the cold tile of the office.

Agnes lets out a cross between a harsh breath and a moan as you fall into her. Your back presses firmly to her front.

“Don’t—god, I’m gonna—”

Strong hands settle on your hips to shove you off, but it’s too late. Agnes grunts. Nails dig into your sides as she ruts helplessly against your backside, unloading spurts of cum with every press of her hips.

You freeze in shock.

Then out of habit your hands find hers. With one, you lace your fingers together. With the other you caress her wrist, brushing gently as you turn your head to meet her eyes, careful to keep every inch of your body where she needs you. Her hips tense, stuttering, whimpering as she fights the orgasm that’s ravaging her.

“It’s okay. Let it happen.” You encourage, brushing a finger against her inner wrist. A war is waging over her face as she’s caught between desire and shame. Desire must win out. Agnes movements pick up speed as she furiously grinds up against you, and you can’t help the praise that falls from your lips, “That’s it.”

Now that she’s given in, she can’t stop, the hands on your hips clenching as she presses closer, harder with every thrust, powerless to the desire she can’t stop shooting. A wounded noise leaves her throat. You empathize; you know well how getting what you want can quickly move into pained-pleasure, when your body just keeps giving and giving.

Agnes’ expression is pained, laced with helplessness to her pleasure. Her eyes don’t leave your own as she rides out the waves. You try to sit still, letting her take what she needs. She allows you to watch every twitch of her expression, hear every noise she lets slip—it’s an act of trust that overwhelms. Lifting a hand to her cheek, you wipe at the perspiration there.

Eventually, she relaxes into the seat, her hips stopping in their frantic search for friction. Her eyes slip closed and you watch her breathe.

You’re eternally grateful that whoever knocked didn’t barge in right after; there is no way you’d have been able to talk your way around what was happening. It’s a mercy that Agnes rarely shuts her office door—now that she has, everyone understands something important is going on.

Running a finger along her cheekbone, you whisper, “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” She growls.

“Given the mess you just made, I’d say you’re on cloud nine.” You tease.

With a sudden show of strength, you’re shoved into a standing position. You turn to take in the weight of Agnes’ glare.

Agnes snarls, “Fuck you.”

“You could have… if you had a little self control.”

Your eyes fall to her lap for emphasis, the evidence of her desire stark against the front of her jeans. Her hands clench on the arm-rests. Blood has rushed to her face, painting her features in red hues that betray her forced calm.

The sight of her so humiliated is doing it for you; and you can see that she sees, regarding you with a loaded, wary look. It will take no shortage of negotiation, but you will be revisiting this again.

You open the take out bag and pluck out the napkins near the bottom. Carefully, you wipe them over the planes of her face, soaking up the sweat that had been clinging to her skin. Agnes doesn’t meet your eye.

“Agnes.” Waiting until she locks eyes with you, “It’s okay.”

She scoffs, “I came in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“And it was hot.”

“You’re really something else, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m well aware. I also know that you love me for it.”

Agnes rolls her eyes.

“Unfortunately.”

“Careful, O’Connor, I can still give this lunch away to one of your coworkers.”

The bag is promptly snatched from your reach. You laugh.

Now that she’s standing, you breathe a sigh of relief; her flannel is long, perfectly hiding the evidence of your activities from the world. You just hope no one outside was looking in too closely.

Desire rears its head at the thought. You need to get out of here before you do something that’ll get you both caught.

You lean up and steal a kiss, “Enjoy your lunch, baby.”

When you open the door to leave, you come face-to-face with Agent Rio Vidal holding two cups of coffee in her hands. You startle and she raises her brows at seeing you.

“Agent Vidal.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, sweetheart, or I would’ve bought an extra coffee.”

“That’s okay, I was just bringing Agnes something to eat.”

“Take mine.” The coffee cup is held between the two of you. You can see the faint mark of her lipstick on the lid as she leans in, “I don’t need the extra caffeine anyway.”

“Keep it, Vidal. She can have mine.”

You turn so you can take in both of them. Vidal is relaxed, posture brimming with a quiet confidence while Agnes is tense, staring at the two of you like she could throw something—and she would, if she didn’t think it’d encourage the former somehow.

Agnes has always been… odd around Vidal; moreso than the normal awkwardness between two exes. And Vidal has never been subtle with her interest in poking Agnes’ nerves.

Whatever it is, you’re going to use it and see where it takes you.

You accept the offered cup of coffee, making deliberate eye contact with Agnes as you take a long sip. A latte—thank god, Agnes’ black drip would’ve made you gag.

“Thanks for the coffee.” You murmur low. Then you throw your wife a smile, ignoring the promise of pain in her eyes, “See you at home, Agnes.”

—

Coming home you’re delighted to find a few last-minute packages on the porch. Carrying them in, one shifts heavily in your arms, and you know immediately what it is; one of the speakers in Agnes’ car crapped out on her a few months back, so the passenger-side only spits out static where there should be music—or the sports broadcasts, in your wife’s case; you bought her a new stereo system so she wouldn’t have to ‘make do’ anymore.

There’s also a few new shirts, a nice leather belt, and a watch she’d been eyeing but wasn’t willing to buy for herself. You wrap all of them with a smile on your face and slide them under the tree.

The busy work of it all eases the tension in your shoulders and some of the arousal between your legs. There’s a lingering peace in every corner of your home. It’s quiet, barring the music playing from the kitchen, casting a nostalgic glow over you where the lights seem just a little warmer.

You sit down on the couch and take it all in. Ornaments wobble on branches, glittering and winking at you as they twist. There’s a garland draped over the fireplace with dancing lights; you feel warmer inside when you remember how Agnes helped you set it up, shaking her head at your excitement.

With the bustle of the season, you’ve forgotten to take time like this to stop and let it sink in. So many spend Christmas alone, hungry, without a place to go. You don’t have to. You have a wife who will spend every second with you in the warmth of your home. Tears prick your eyes.

You fall asleep on the couch with that warm feeling in your chest.

—

The scent of garlic and butter tickles your nose. You snap awake.

Did you leave the stove on?

You shoot up from the couch and throw off the blanket you don’t remember grabbing. It falls to your feet, twisting in your ankles, and you do all you can not to fall face-first onto the floor. How long have you been asleep?

Wait. Did you even put anything on to cook?

Agnes’ flannel-clad back greets you when you round the corner. A sigh leaves you. One hand settles over your chest, willing your heartbeat to slow to a normal pattern. It all comes back to you; wrapping gifts, sitting down to enjoy the quiet, intending to get up and start dinner afterward.

You step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around her waist from behind, forehead resting between her shoulder blades. A hand lifts your own so she can press a kiss on the back.

“How was work?” You ask, voice muffled by her shirt.

“A waste of time.” She answers. Her form shifts, one shoulder tensing as she stirs what sits on the stove, “It could’ve waited until after Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Vidal’s a workaholic and fails to realize the rest of us aren’t.”

“You are most of the year.”

Agnes grunts noncommittally, “What trouble did you get into?”

“Wrapped a few gifts, took a nap. I’m surprised some of your guys weren’t beating down my door with how rowdy I was being.”

“Chief would’ve just sent me to handle you.”

“I’d like that… you, handling me…” You murmur, hand moving down her front with intent.

A strong, veined hand grabs your own. She forces it back to its former resting place. You keep your hand where it is directed. The haven you’ve found nuzzled against her back—surrounded by the scent of her cologne and the heat of her—is just as inviting as anything more salacious could be.

Something bubbles and pops on the stove. Agnes jolts, before relaxing. You drag yourself from your haven to look over her shoulder; a pan of sauce is stirred on one burner, boiling pasta churning away on another. Simple, but hearty.

You press a kiss to the skin you can reach, just behind her ear, “You’re getting better.”

Before, her dinner of choice would’ve been a canister of peanuts, maybe a microwave dinner.

“Don’t say anything until you’ve tasted it.”

“I’ll do what I want.” You answer.

“Don’t I know it.”

Jabbing her side with a finger until she cracks a grin, “Let me taste, so I can tell you how amazing it is.”

The wooden spoon is lifted from the sauce and over her shoulder to your mouth. You wrap your lips around it, immediately lulled further into bliss by the combination of onion, garlic, and tomato.

“Agnes, that is delicious.”

Her brows raise. With a flourish, she allows herself a taste.

“You love to stroke my ego.” She says in that self-deprecating tone you know well.

Your hand and mouth move before you think, “That’s not the only part of you I like to stroke.”

Whether by a lapse in understanding or simply because she lets you, your hand finds its mark before Agnes can stop it. The full width of your hand presses at the apex of her thighs. Your mouth drops open.

Agnes is painfully erect for the second time today with little work on your part.

She drops the spoon against the pan and removes your hand again, blunt nails biting into your skin in the way you like. You don’t react, still reeling from the information you’ve gleaned. Agnes libido isn’t what it once was—a reality of age—even if she’s like a well kept oldsmobile; capable of going the distance and then some once you get her properly started. But you’ve done very little in the way of actually getting her started since visiting the office.

“What on earth have you been up to today?” You ask, breathless.

“Don’t start.”

“I’d say you’re well past the starting point, given what I just felt.” A laugh escapes, then you pause, “You didn’t…”

Agnes curious gaze meets yours over her shoulder. Understanding dawns, along with indignation, “Of course not.”

“Needing a little extra help is normal.”

“This is all your doing.” She snaps, “Go sit down.”

“If it’s all my doing, you should let me fix it.” You coo.

In a sudden burst of movement, Agnes is out of your arms, sauce and pasta left behind on the stove. You blink. Did something happen at work? Have you hit a nerve?

She crosses the space to the kitchen table. The chair at the head of the table, facing the stove, is yanked from its resting place. You wince as it shrieks against the floor. But she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, turning the chair and meeting your eyes with a hard look, pointing.

“Sit.”

You move without thinking. There’s a subtle note of steel beneath the command that sends you into submission on instinct, like a pet might jump to obey their owner. The thought doesn’t chafe today; you want to be good, you want to obey.

Plopping down into the seat, hands settle on your shoulders. Agnes growls in your ear, “Stay.”

And you do.

As she finishes dinner, moving the pasta into the sauce with an unsure—but successful—flourish. As she nearly burns herself cutting the garlic bread fresh out of the oven. As she casts quick, dark glances your way every few minutes, as if having to make sure you’re where she left you.

You are the picture of poise and obedience, fighting every desperate urge for nearness to follow her command. But the longer she takes the harder it becomes. Hands settled on your thighs, your fingers scratch anxiously at the fabric of your pants, helpless and without any other way to expel this building energy.

“Agnes.” You whine.

“Quiet.”

It takes ages before she approaches you. She takes her sweet time putting dinner on plates, making it pretty in a way you know is just to drive you crazy; she doesn’t give two fucks about whether or not something looks nice as long as it tastes good.

Dinner is brought over to the table, but you tilt your head. Agnes only brought one plate.

“Up.” She commands, “You’re in my seat.”

You stand. Reaching for the chair next to hers, a hand on the back stops you from pulling it out. There’s the deep sound of porcelain meeting the wood of the table. As she leans around you, the scent of her cologne makes you dizzy.

Agnes snaps her fingers. You jolt, snapping back into your own mind. She points to the floor and your brows furrow. Then, it clicks, and your face grows warm.

You sink to your knees in front of Agnes’ chair as she sits in it.

“I can guess what a perp is going to do just by the way they sit in interrogation.” Agnes drawls, idly tapping her knee as her mind works, “But you… I can never guess how you’re going to act. Look at you now, all good and obedient for me, when you were acting like a whore in my office today.”

So caught up in the dizzying feeling of submission, you’ve been oblivious to the weight of your own desire. Agnes’ words change that in an instant. There’s a needy, pulsing beat between your legs, and you clench your thighs together in an attempt to help yourself. It doesn’t work.

“You started it.” You say, breathless.

You can’t breathe around your desire for her. Oxygen is a secondary need to the feel of her, whether she’s buried deep inside or grazing her fingers over your flesh; you want her and it hurts. But you keep your hands on the tops of your thighs.

Agnes chuckles. It’s a low, rolling thing. Agnes’ usual response to amusement is to grin, maybe even shake her head and scoff—laughter is a rare thing, aged and cultivated until it’s amber laced with smoke over your senses. You feel the heat of it. The intoxication it brings is warm, a weight settling comfortingly over the shoulders.

“I’m collecting on your offer from earlier.”

And with that, her thighs part, and you surge forward without being told. Her belt is unbuckled in one fell swoop. You moan, unable to help yourself, needy for the feel of her skin, to taste.

A testament to the overwhelm of your desire that the concept of toying with her again does not cross your mind. Your hand finds the desperate length of her cock, exposing it to the cool air.

It stands proud, tip flushed and leaking, veins stark against the fair skin. You pant. With single-focus, you lean forward.

An equally fair hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to Agnes’, “How many taps?”

You blink. You’re buried beneath desire, mind clawing its way to the surface.

“T-Three.”

Agnes nods and you’re free.

The first thing you do with your newfound freedom is flatten your tongue and lick a broad stripe up the length of her. The hand on your jaw goes slack in surprise, Agnes’ hips jumping. A groan echoes through the room.

You circle your tongue over the tip, drinking in her taste and the sounds falling from her lips. It’s heady, making the room fuzzy around the edges.

Submission brings with it a strange feeling of power. You’re doing as she bids, being good, but every sound and reaction coming from her is real; the truest manifestation of how well you’re doing to please her.

The world falls away. Your head feels floaty, strangely empty despite the manuevers you’re employing with your mouth. You don’t need words, you don’t need thoughts, you just need to offer Agnes whatever she wants.

Which you do by taking her cock in your mouth until she hits the back of your throat.

A thud sounds from her hand slamming on the tabletop, scrambling for something to grip as she chokes out, “Fuck!”

You do all you can to repress your gag reflex, forcing yourself to just relax everytime she hits the back of your throat. Agnes has her head thrown back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as she pants, whimpering with every movement of your tongue and mouth.

Through it all, her hand remains on the side of your face, a careful guide. You can’t help the hand that sneaks under your skirt; Agnes is shaking with tension, begging to let go and chase her pleasure at your expense, but she’s holding herself back and guiding you through taking her in the way that would do the least harm.

You moan. Agnes’ cock twitches in your mouth and she matches your moan, a semblance of that control slipping with a particularly rough thrust. You gag, tears forming in your eyes.

The hand between your thighs shakes, fumbling for your clit while focusing on what really matters. You’re so wet there’s barely any friction.

You want Agnes to make you gag again. You want her to push into you and take what she wants until you’re crying.

Looking up, you try to will all of that thought and intent into your eyes, but Agnes’ are closed.

You whine.

Blue eyes regard you from beneath drooping lids. You will one thought into your mind and one thought only; use me.

Agnes swallows. The pad of a thumb runs under your eye, collecting some of the wetness there as if to say are you sure? In answer, you take as much of her as you can physically manage, eyes meeting her own the whole time.

Her restraint snaps.

Agnes’ hand travels to the back of your head, her hips moving faster and firmer than you can comprehend. She takes over completely; driving into you for what she needs, making you gag obscenely, without a thought in the world for if it is too much.

Not having to make choices allows you to focus on obtaining your own pleasure. With every tear she forces from your eyes, you swipe over the pulsating bud of your clit. You can feel your own orgasm building low in your gut.

“I’m going to cum.” Agnes groans.

Delight shoots through you. She’s going to cum and it’s because of you; because you were good and gave her everything she needs. It feels amazing.

Why, then, do you pull off and out of reach?

Agnes growls. You blink.

Words. There are words to go with the desire you feel. You close your eyes, searching for them, mentally scrambling at the edges until you can wrap your hands around them and their meaning.

“Can I…” You start, voice rough from the beating your throat has taken, “Can I ride you?”

Agnes makes quite the scene; splayed open on the dining room chair, hair a mess and eyes blown out, cock twitching and needy through the fly of the jeans she ruined only a few hours ago. You clench.

Agnes licks her lips, “Yeah, alright.”

You stand on shaking legs and Agnes holds up a hand, stopping you as she lifts her hips and fumbles in her back pocket. She obtains her wallet and rifles through until she locates a small foil wrapper.

It’s safer, you know. You’ve used one almost every other time for the duration of your marriage.

“Agnes.”

The woman in question pauses before opening the condom. Her brow pops up in an unspoken question.

The words are instinct, comprehensive thought still far away, “I want you to cum inside me.”

Outside, the world rages on. Westview residents race down the street, returning home from last minute errands, gifts in tow that they’ll have to sneak inside. The wind is kicking up and through the trees as snow grows closer with every second.

And then there is you and Agnes, tucked in the warmth of your home, caught in the weight of your words. Stopped in the face of the potential consequences.

Agnes throws the unopened condom on the kitchen table.

“Then come here.”

You stand with your legs on either side of her own, steadying yourself on her shoulders. One steady hand settles on your hip. The other pushes your panties aside and aligns her to your entrance as you lower into her lap.

You could take her in one motion with how wet you are. Yet, Agnes keeps your descent slow, careful. She watches your face with every inch you take—same as you watch hers.

Agnes’ chest is heaving, eyes dark and stormy, face pinched in concentration. She’s the most handsome person you’ve ever seen. You clench around her and her hands tighten on your waist.

“Sorry.” You murmur, out of habit.

Agnes raises a brow, but doesn’t respond, helping you down the last few inches. When you settle fully in her lap you let out the breath you’d been holding.

One hand sneaks under your skirt to trace shapes on the bare flesh of your hip.

“You pulled an interesting stunt with Vidal today.” Agnes says. The hand on your hip tightens, “I’m not so sure I should reward your behavior.”

“Then why let me…”

“Why deny myself just because you’re acting like a brat?”

There’s a small testing thrust of her hips. You clench. She groans, head falling back against the chair. You whimper. Trying to move your own hips, eager for what you’ve been denied, you find yourself held in place.

That’s not fair. All day she’s been teasing you, driving you to the edge of what you want—what you need, just to deny you.

“You started it.” You whine, trying to move your hips again, still finding yourself held stationary as she leisurely thrusts up, “You woke me up and got me all bothered, it’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, baby.”

“Please.” You whine, “It’s not my fault, please.”

Muscles in her arms tremble as she lifts you slightly before sinking you back down onto her. The fullness makes your toes curl but it isn’t enough.

“Calling me at work and getting me worked up wasn’t your fault?”

“…No.”

Agnes laughs, “If you’re going to lie, you could at least be convincing.”

You won’t win this fight by playing fair, not when Agnes is clearly uninterested in fairness.

“You… You feel so good. Can’t think properly.” You breathe, moaning a bit more than comes naturally, “I’m so full of you.”

The thrust of her is uneven. She stops moving you completely and you fight down a grin.

You press a hand between your bodies, applying pressure to your lower stomach as she continues to thrust, subtly picking up speed. Her pants are growing louder, a wheeze leaving her mouth when you press.

“That’s you.” You murmur, leaning forward and ghosting over her lips, tracing the bridge of her nose with the tip of your own. You press harder and enjoy the way she groans, “Nobody has ever been as deep inside me as you.”

“Fuck.” She snarls.

You’re pushed up again, suddenly empty, and whine, blinking at the change. But then her strong hands are on your hips and spinning you around.

Your front is pressed against the table, bent so your cheek rests on the top of it. The texture of her jeans is rough against the back of your thighs as she lines herself and fills you in one thrust.

“Oh, fuck!” You cry.

Agnes sets a brutal pace, chasing that which only you can offer. Every thrust has her cock brushing that perfect spot inside you and you lose control of whatever sounds you’re making.

“Is this what you wanted?” Agnes snarls in your ear, “For me to leave work and fuck you like some bitch in heat?”

“Yes!”

“You haven’t earned it.”

“No, Agnes, please!”

“Hold it.” She orders.

With every move she makes, you do all you can to ignore the pleasure, to pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s somewhat possible when it’s only her cock. But then she leans down and starts toying with your clit and you cry out, fighting not to roll your hips against them.

You want what you’ve been chasing all day, but you still want to be good. You’re her good girl, aren’t you? You have to keep being good even if it hurts.

So, you hold your orgasm at bay, while Agnes chases her own. Judging by the uneven rhythm of her hips it won’t take long.

“Please let me come, Agnes. Please.” You beg.

“Why should I?”

“I’ll give you anything—anything! Please, my love!”

“Anything, huh?”

The tone of her voice is low, dangerous. Layered with a rasp that nearly undoes you.

If she doesn’t let up, it doesn’t matter how good you are; you’re going to cum.

“Anything!”

Agnes phone is slammed down on the table right beside your head. It isn’t on, but you have the sinking feeling that you’ve just landed yourself into something far worse than expected.

Her thrusts stop, but she keeps a light, teasing pressure that grazes your clit just enough to keep you engaged without getting you off.

It is torture. And the silence building as you stare down the upturned cell phone is only making it worse.

“I’m going to make a call and turn on the speaker. Then, I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to let whoever is on the phone hear you as I make you cum.”

The weight of it is like a lead weight of nerves in your stomach, “But—“

“If you want to act like a whore you’re going to be treated like one.” She snarls, then her tone grows softer, “Yes or no, angel?”

Whoever she calls and puts on the line, you’ll never be able to look in the eye again. But you’re so full and eager that you don’t truly care at this point.

Besides, it’s Christmas Eve, maybe everyone will be too busy to pick up.

“Yes.”

A harsh thrust that forces the air from your lungs, then her lips are next to your ear, breath hot, “That’s my girl.”

The echo of your own words from earlier make your toes curl. Her phone is snatched from the table and she continues to toy with your clit as she makes the call.

It rings… and rings… and rings…

Faintly, you hear the line connect, and you gasp.

You can’t make out who the voice belongs to, but you hear a faint, “Yeah?”

Agnes barks down the line, “Don’t say a word.”

The bang! as her phone hits the table again makes you jump, a small shriek leaving your lips. It wobbles. Faintly, you’re impressed she hasn’t broken the thing with how she abuses it.

A long finger slams down on the speaker button and as the phone tilts slightly, you read the name on the screen, and your eyes widen.

Vidal.

Before you can say a word, though, Agnes is back to work. Something in the action of being heard has made her more aggressive. You swear you can feel the bruises forming on your hips where she grabs, leveraging you for every single thrust.

You try to choke down your moans and whimpers, not wanting Agent Vidal to hear you like this, but Agnes won’t stand for it; one hand grabs your jaw and pries your mouth open.

She pushes in to the hilt and you let out a shrieking moan.

“You were so talkative before. Have you lost your nerve?”

“I—please—“

“Calling me this morning and getting me worked up, teasing me in the office, in the kitchen… and incapable of handling your punishment.”

“I’m sorry, Agnes. Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Use me. I want—I need you to fuck me until I can’t remember being without you—I need you to fuck me until you cum inside and make me yours forever—please!”

The knowledge that every word from your mouth is being heard by someone else is not forgotten, but you’ve been pushed beyond caring. Agnes is intent on making you beg for what you want and you want it bad.

Agnes’ fingers and cock alternate stimulating you. If her fingers are working, her hips aren’t—and vice versa. You’re frankly astonished she’s been able to last so long because you’re teetering on the edge of pleasure at the barest contact.

But her will has always been steel. And she wants to see you humiliated.

The hand on your clit slides to your lower stomach and presses, mimicking your own actions only minutes before, “When I knock you up, you’re going to feel it right here.”

Something inside you snaps. You wail.

Agnes’ hips are moving at a clip, every inch of her rubbing where you need, setting you alight from within. Her hand doesn’t move. The faster she goes, the deeper she drives, her hips begin to lose their rhythm.

Any words devolve into animalistic grunts as she ruts into you, mouth alternating between kissing and biting at your neck from behind.

You’re so fucking close. If she denies you now, you think you might die.

“Let me cum, Agnes, please—pretty please—I’ll be your good girl, please, I’ll be so good. Let me cum and fill me up, it’s all I want—“

Through gritted teeth, “Go on then.”

Something inside you snaps.

The command is exactly what you need. Your entire body clenches so tight you fear you may never relax again. You lose track of what noises leave your mouth, you think you may even lose consciousness for a few moments.

All you know when you come to is that your throat is raw and Agnes is driving into you, choking out in your ear, “Gonna cum—“

Her hips meet your own at full force and don’t pull back, remaining, pulsing forward as if she can’t get close enough. Every spasm of her cock paints your insides with her desire, marking you as hers. Agnes holds your hips as she presses in with every twitch, struggling to breathe.

Weakly, you reach a hand back to tangle in her hair. Your throat aches, “That’s it, baby. Fill me.”

A groan. Another rough twitch.

It reaches a point where the pressure ebbs. She remains, but she’s not twitching anymore, nor is she fighting to become one with you. There’s only the sound of your breathing in the room.

Agnes moves to straighten and pull out, but you whine, reaching back to grab whatever part of her you can reach.

“Stay.” You whisper.

She pauses.

A hand gently caresses along your spine, “You can’t stay like this, angel.”

“Just let me feel you a little longer.”

There’s a comfort in the fullness; in the knowledge that Agnes is the only woman who can provide this for you. That she even wants to.

It’s all a blur beyond that.

Eventually, you can’t stand being bent over on the table anymore, even if you never want to be without the feeling of Agnes inside you. The call with Vidal is disconnected at some point. You and your wife move slowly, hand in hand, up to your bedroom.

You gently shove her onto the bed while grabbing damp washcloths. Neither of you can stand a shower at this point.

The two of you take your time, being careful to mind the sore spots. You lean slightly into Agnes as you wipe some of the sweat from her flesh.

“You’re so good to me.” You murmur, kissing the underside of her jaw, “Thank you, my love.”

“Consider it an early Christmas gift, angel.”

You tamp down on the urge to say something sappy for her to scoff at. Instead, you guide her down and kiss her, soft and slow.

[samulogy]

➴ gojo helping you study for your midterms. fem!reader

you were supposed to be studying, but you felt like you were going to die. not from midterms—though those were definitely a problem—but from this.

from him.

from the way gojo satoru had somehow convinced you that this—being stretched out and utterly wrecked while trying to study—was a legitimate way to retain information.

your notes were everywhere, scattered across the bed, some pages crumpled beneath your knees, others dangerously close to sliding off the mattress. your textbook lay open in front of you, but the words on the page blurred every time gojo moved, each slow, deliberate thrust sending stars to dance in your vision, making you forget what you were even supposed to be reading.

and the worst part?

he was enjoying this.

“come on, sweetheart,” gojo murmured against your ear, his voice thick with amusement, with affection. “I know you can do better than that.”

you shivered.

you wanted to murder him.

or maybe let him keep ruining you a little longer.

one of his hands slid up your waist, fingers warm and firm as they traced the curve of your spine. the other hand dipped lower, squeezing your thigh before spreading you just a little wider, just enough to remind you exactly how deep he was inside you.

exactly how he was in control.

your breath hitched.

“tell me about judicial review,” he prompted again, voice far too calm for someone who was actively distracting you.

you tried.

you really, really tried.

you licked your lips, forcing your eyes to focus on the words in front of you.

“judicial review,” you started, voice shaky, uneven. “is the process by which—ah!—courts determine the constitutionality of—of legislative and executive actions.”

you barely got the words out before gojo rewarded you with a slow, deep thrust, making you gasp, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you like a lifeline. he was just so big, filling you to the point where you feel like your heart’s caught right on your throat.

“good girl,” he praised, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder. “and what case established it?”

you whimpered, fingers curling into the fabric beneath you.

he was evil.

he was actually, physically evil.

you wracked your brain, trying—desperately—to push past the heat coiling in your stomach, to remember what you had spent the last week cramming.

your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come.

gojo tutted softly.

“that’s not an answer, sweetheart.”

and then, to your absolute horror, he stilled completely inside you. the audacity of this man to do just that knowing that you were close.

you whined.

you gave him a glare over your shoulder, face flushed with frustration. “satoru,” you hissed. “you can’t do that.”

he feigned innocence. “I can’t?”

you gritted your teeth, torn between wanting to throttle him and wanting to beg. eventually, you forced the words out in a rush. “marbury v. madison. 1803. established the supreme court’s power of judicial review.”

gojo’s grin widened.

“there’s my smart girl.”

and then he moved again, rolling his hips forward in a slow, perfect rhythm, and you saw stars. you sobbed, half from relief, half from the overwhelming heat building low in your stomach. he knew just what you needed, and honestly, when has gojo ever denied you anything that you deserved?

“that’s it,” gojo huffs a soft laugh—so charming, as if he wasn’t driving you nuts, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, fingers massaging the tense muscles there. “you’re doing so well for me, baby. . .”

your body shuddered at the praise.

your mind was an absolute mess, half-focused on the terminologies you were supposed to be memorizing, half-focused on him, the heat of his skin, the way he filled your aching cunt, the way his breath was growing more uneven, more ragged, like he was barely holding himself together.

like he was just as wrecked as you were.

gojo groaned, voice strained as he pressed his forehead to your shoulder. “one more, sweetheart. the checks and balances.”

you whimpered, nails digging into the sheets. “i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he cut her off, voice firm, sure. “you’re my good girl, right? you can give me one more.”

and you—the stubborn, exhausted, utterly ruined you—were helpless against that tone, against the heat curling in his voice, against the way he believed in you, in ways you didn’t even believe in yourself.

you sucked in a shaky breath.

“the checks and balances system ensures that no branch of government has—has unchecked power,” you gasped out.

gojo cursed, his grip on your hips tightening. “that’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough with something deeper, something heavier.

and then he snapped his hips forward, pushing you over the edge entirely. but he didn’t stop, oh no, how could he when he was entranced by how your cunt kept on pulling him in as if it didn’t want him to let go?

you cried out, pleasure crashing over you in waves, leaving you breathless, boneless, your body trembling beneath him. gojo came a moment later, chanting your name like it was the only thing that mattered, holding you close as spurts of his cum filled you whole—like you were made to take him.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

the sheets rustled as gojo carefully shifted, adjusting your position so you were tucked against his chest, basking in his warmth as he wrapped his arms around you. you could barely think at this point.

he pressed a soft, lazy kiss to the top of your head.

“see?” he murmured, smiling against your hair. “I told you this would help with retention.”

you grunted, smacking his chest weakly. “i hate you.”

he just chuckled, pulling you closer.

[pigeonp0st]

Could you do an angst Agatha x reader one shot with happy ending? Maybe reader feels Agatha is losing interested in her (reader) in Westview

pleaseeeeeeee

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings:

Can’t think of any, but if you read this and have a thought to one I could put, let me know and it will be added.

Words from the author;

Hi guys. Went on a long train ride and decided to write this. Agatha’s show inspired me. The joy she gives me is unmatched. I want to ask that we all use are imagination and pretend WestView was a thing longer than the few weeks it was, as to give an explanation and a sense of realism to Readers and Agatha’s whole romance and love story. I also ask that we ignore the additional emotional scarring that would’ve given the town. Thanks a bunch! Now…

Enjoy!

—

Agatha had a plan. A plan that hadn’t, and was never supposed to include you. It had everything to do with Wanda, and Wanda, it turns out, had everything to do with you.

That part of it hadn’t mattered. Yeah, Agatha had originally only been prepared to deal with one Avenger, and you coming in would prove to make things more complicated, but she was sure she could handle it.

And she had, of course. Until…until she developed a relationship with you and emotions towards you that went beyond the limits of what she had planned. Not just plannned for this little mission of hers, but planned for her life—after how her last relationship ended.

She loves you. Wanda’s Maximoff’s best friend. The one that’s been keeping Wanda from going even more off into the dark end. The one that’s been interfering with Agatha’s plans by trying to pull Wanda out of the Hex before Agatha has delved deeper into the amount of magic needed to create it.

You. Infuriating— you. Since the moment she met you it was like you had seen through all of Agatha’s facades. Not just the Agnes one.

She made a point—a stupid emotional driven point—to be honest with you, and only you, from the beginning. The thing is… though she had even told you about her interest in Wanda, and the hex, she had left out her plans of draining Wanda of her powers and killing her.

Which is probably an important thing to mention

…Which is definitely an important thing to mention. As much as Agatha hates to admit it— and she absolutely hates to admit it— it’s been eating away at her.

More than she doesn’t want to lose you, she doesn’t want to hurt you. Well, that’s not completely true…she’d rather not lose you…but it’s a close competition.

This relationship with you was supposed to be fake, but her heart doesn’t seem capable of understanding that. She’s been pulling away from you, acting distant, avoidant, and just as it’s been hard on you—it’s been hard on her.

She can’t imagine a world without you in it, but she needs this power…needs to see if it’s capable of—ahem, anyways— she just needs it. She’s sure you need Wanda similarly. That you can’t imagine a world without her. That’s what the gossip magazines, twitter posts, or even tumblr fanfictions want to guilt Agatha into believing at least.

She’s bitter, hates with a burning passion how much the world likes to advertise you and Wanda as this amazing duo pair, hates even more how unknowing fans like to speculate on some sort of secret affair you’re helping Wanda commit, but she’s willing to admit to some truth in it;

Agatha’s supposed to be very fake relationship, used at first to only get close to Wanda—to learn and kill her—has turned into a real one, and the very person she’s in love with is Wanda Maximoff’s platonic soulmate.

The guilt,and thus; avoidance and emotional distance doesn’t take long to be noticed by you. It all comes to a head rather viciously in a way Agatha had expected.

Which is to say; all the avoidance has led to a rather ceremonious break up….she hadn’t had the guts to do it, so she’s sort of forced you into it. That’s what you believe, and it is the truth. Not in the way she guesses you expect though.

Agatha doesn’t want to do this. She really struggles doing things she doesn’t want to do.

She has to do this though. It’s what she’s convinced herself of.

It aches.

“If that’s what you want, okay. Now If that’s really all you had to say…” Agatha hints, turning to make her tea so you can’t see the way her eyes water and betray her, “well have a safe trip home, and don’t forget your things dear.”

“I am not going to beg you to want me.”

Agatha’s jaw tenses. Her heart feeling heavier than anything she’s ever carried. She wants to scream, to break all of the windows in the room. Wants to say, desperately; I have never not wanted you. I have never wanted to be worthy of anything more.

You’re good. Good in way Agatha’s never been capable of. You’re nothing she expected, but everything she’s wanted, and it hurts more, somehow, like this.

Because she can’t give you everything you want, and as that fact kills you, it kills her too.

Agatha glances over her shoulder and looks at you. Your eyes are brimming with tears, you’re shaking with emotion. With the urge to fight. There is a large part of you, Agatha guesses, that knows Agatha doesn’t want this. Conscious or not. She turns away again.

“I know that’s what you want, for me to beg, but I won’t, not anymore. I can’t,” you whisper.

“Then don’t,” she growls, and then winces because even as she’s turned away she can picture the way you wince. The way you hurt.

All Agatha wants to do is protect you, but it’s like no matter what she does you’ll end up hurt. She’s been pulling away slowly so that when she ends up betraying you to kill Wanda, hopefully it’ll hurt less. All it seems to be doing though is prolonging the pain for the both of you. It’s clear to the both of you the war that’s happening in each of you. The want to fight for this. It’s what makes this worse.

“Don’t”, you repeat with a scoff. Agatha hears it right next to her ear and startles, turning around sharply.

You’re standing right behind her, looking down at her with fiery eyes. Agatha moves to use her magic, but you grab her wrist to stop the thought. It makes her heart skip a beat. Makes her smirk.

She loves you. Loves you always, and wants you just as much when you look at her like you are now. You must sense it because you immediately let go of her wrist, with a look of confusion.

“Do you want me or not?” You ask harshly. And despite herself Agatha can’t help the small flicker of annoyance that crosses her face. Annoyance directed at herself.

She masks it a second later with a smirk, gripping your chin. “Of course I do,” Agatha purrs, her voice dripping with seduction. You tense. Eyeing her with complete betrayal.

When Agatha had imagined the moment in which she betrayed you (and she had imagined it a lot), it hadn’t gone like this. It had gone with her standing over the Scarlet Witch, your best friend, and you frozen a couple feet away.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it’s better this way. For you to realize who she is now, rather than later. She needs Wanda’s abilities, and she’ll do anything to get it. She thinks it to herself, and it’s almost like a reminder. ‘She’ll do anything to get it.’

You hold her wrist so gently though, even as your eyes blaze with all type of hurt, and Agatha feels deeply who she’s hurting. She’s hurting you. Her love. Her heart. “My heart,” Agatha says gently, and to you she imagines it’s a stab in the heart from the way you wince. Agatha’s face drops further. “I want you,” she admits, despite herself, finding herself not capable of hurting you like this.

“Then why…?”

Agatha kisses you suddenly on the corner of the mouth. Gently. Perhaps she shouldn’t have let her mask drop, because now it seems impossible to put back on. It feels real the moment she stops playing pretend…what a surprise. Still, she herself feels vulnerable. Like a puppy just waiting to get kicked. As she feels both her and your despair she feels a wave of self loathing too.

“Down the road Wanda’s going down now she will hurt you. Down the road I’m doing down, I will too.” Agatha whispers, tucking your hair behind your ear. “When I told you I was going to take her power, I meant I was going to kill her, baby.”

Agatha doesn’t expect the laugh you release at that, but more than that she doesn’t expect the simple way you leave. Her hand hands in the air where you once were, as if she had dreamed the memory of you.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

—-

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Couldn’t have gone any worse. Every expectation Agatha has—every time she thinks she can predict what will happen you manage to change everything.

That blast was for Wanda, but you had jumped in front of it like it was your plan from the start. It stops both her and Wanda instantly. The blast would have sent you flying into the house, but Agatha had reacted quickly enough with her magic to prevent the collision. Still, as soon she drops the magic holding you, and begins running towards you, you fall.

Agatha sees it a slow motion but she knows it happens much faster than that, because she’s running with everything in her and still doesn’t make it before your head hits the ground. “My heart, my heart, my heart,” Agatha begs with a trembling voice. Her hands are shaking but she moves your head onto her lap and presses her hands into your side to try and stop the bleeding.

Why did it have to be this spell that hit you. Why did it have to be any? It’s been hundreds of years since her heart has hurt like this. Her mind whirls for a spell, for an anything. All she can do is slow the bleeding, and she does, but you still look up at her with fading eyes, and it kills Agatha.

“Ag-”

“Shh, lovely. It’s going to be okay,” Agatha whispers to you, kissing your head. She doesn’t even notice Wanda’s hand on her shoulder, or her coming up behind her at all.

“I’m transporting us to a Hospital,” Wanda says, looking uncertain and scared. Agatha pays no mind, just takes Wanda’s hand and guides her through the spell with her magic.

“Agatha,” you force out, Agatha returns your gaze, too distracted by the spell to stop you again. “Was power…was it that much more important?”

Suddenly you’re all in the hospital, your eyes are falling shut, and Wanda is shouting for a doctor. “No,” Agatha answers. brushing your hair back. Her chest aches deeply at the streak of blood her hand leaves. She wants to say more, wants to curse at you a bit, just to let it out, but a bunch of medics push Agatha to the side and start touching you.

It’s been a long time since Agatha felt this helpless. She wants to protect you, wants to insert herself into the commotion as the doctors pull you away and command that she gets to stay with you, but she’s scared to take even a split second away from their saving.

She’s paralyzed, watching as they roll you away out of her sight. Wanda, of all people, rests a hand on her shoulder, snapping her out it. “She’ll be okay,” Wanda assures, even as she sounds uncertain.

Agatha can’t bear it any longer. The uncertainty, and the assurance coming from the person she envies the most. She turns on her suddenly, eyes blazing with magic, and this is no longer about stealing Wanda’s magic. This is about Agatha, wanting to grab Wanda by the neck and shout that this is all her fault.

Except it isn’t. It’s her own fault. It was her magic that hit you. Hers that caused you so much pain. Agatha feels the blame so deeply she almost refuses to hold it. For your sake, for your words; was it that much more important? She decides to.

She sags into herself just as suddenly as she had turned towards Wanda, one hand waves her off, and the other presses against the burning in her eyes. “Leave.” Agatha says, her voice hoarse and emotional. And Wanda doesn’t.

She just tilts her head and looks at Agatha like a sad, lost animal. Wanda has no where to return to, not after the scandal she pulled, and the one person who would have probably accepted her (the one person that accepted Agatha herself) is now in a hospital bed.

Agatha sighs.

——

They’re sitting side by side. Agatha threatens to kill the front desk lady 3 times, but never once does she threaten to kill Wanda. Agatha doesn’t mind her. She understands the feeling inside her more than Wanda will ever know. In another life, she would have been her teacher.

If you survive, perhaps in this life too. If she can’t take Wanda’s power, maybe she’s able to watch and learn from it as much as she can.

Agatha can’t believe she’s giving up…she has planned and studied for this for so long…but she’s always been spontaneous, always been ready to plan and shift, always been good at changing track. She’ll get what she wants. She’ll get it another way.

It’s a promise she makes herself, sitting in the waiting room of the hospital waiting to find out if the person she loves is still breathing. It’s a promise she makes herself sitting by the person she’s planned to kill since she first pieced together her ability. A promise she makes herself because it means she gets to have you.

—-

“Agnes?” A nurse calls.

Wanda looks at her, her face reading seriously?. Agatha pays no mind to it, she just sits up violently, and holds tightly onto Wanda’s arm.

—-

When Agatha walks into the room it’s like her heart starts back up again and she can breathe. You’re hurt, but you’re okay. Agatha is in shambles, and she won’t be able to sleep without reliving you bleeding out on the floor—but you’re okay.

She breathes out. Once, twice, then she’s crying; hit with the force of her emotion.

—-

POV Switch

—-

Everything hurts, but when the doctor lets Agatha in with Wanda following— for a moment it doesn’t. For a moment it’s Agatha, the woman you love, standing next to your best friend and not killing her.

Then Agatha is crying, and all you feel is concern. “Ag, lovely, are you hurt?” You ask, still full of drugs and delirious enough to be confused about it all.

Agatha who gave up on you. Agatha who you weren’t good enough for. Agatha who you love, who you could never meet the needs of. Agatha who put you in a hospital bed. Agatha who you love so fully despite the heartbreak she’s caused you.

It all comes back to you suddenly, but Agatha is crying— and none of any of it seems very significant compared to that. Wanda looks between the two of you, and says to you, softly, in a language only the two of you understand; “self-sabotage seems to be a language both me and this one speaks. You are drawn to damaged people, huh?”

You look down and Wanda laughs, but she looks like she also wants to cry. She opens her mouth to say something else, but you already know what she’s going to say so you cut her off. “It wasn’t your fault, Wanda, I am glad it was me and not you.”

Wanda looks like she wants to protest that, but instead she nods her head with tears in her eyes and whispers, after glancing at Agatha, “I’ll give you two privacy. Good luck.”

Then she leaves.

Agatha seems lost in her thoughts…well lost in something. Her eyes are distant, tears still running down her face. “Agatha.” It’s only a whisper but Agatha’s eyes snap towards you. She looks…terrified? She quickly tries to wipe her tears but more just fall.

“You idiot,” Agatha seethes, looking overwhelmed. She breathes heavily and you just let her, even as you bristle and begin to feel your defenses rise.

It’s probably best not to add wood to her fire, you think to yourself.

Agatha stalks towards you, angry, kisses your forehead and then sags into the chair next to your hospital bed. “You idiot,” she repeats shakily, her voice and face lined with a sort of devastation you don’t know how to comfort in her. “What do you think would’ve became of me if I killed you”Agatha presses. “Huh? Did you think before you—“

“Usually when people accidentally almost kill someone, they apologize instead of blaming the person.” You aren’t mad at Agatha, not for hitting you at least, but hearing her act as if you had been the one to fuck up was aggravating.

She fucked up. Not you. “You really think I was going to let you kill my best friend?” You ask, angry now too. “You really think I would’ve let you let me go for some stupid reason like that? I don’t know why power is so important to you, but I support you. I would’ve supported you on finding another way, because I support you when you aren’t hurting innocent people to achieve your self motivated ends. I have given up a lot for you, Agatha, but I will not give up that.”

You release a coughing fit after that. You have more to say but your body won’t allow you to. You have an endless amount of words for Agatha. Agatha who you love. Agatha who you don’t quite know how to be enough for.

Agatha who grits her teeth and looks down. “I will not give up power for you. It is more than that I want, which is something I’m not able to explain to you right now, but I hope you understand,” Agatha pauses. Her eyes meeting yours. “I’m going to find another way. I won’t hurt Wanda. I won’t hurt anyone that will make you—or most humans flaky moral code— ache. By that, I mean anyone ‘innocent’” she uses hand quotes then, and rolls her eyes.

The mild bitterness is clearly something Agatha can’t help. The way she changes tract though was something you never thought she would do for you, and you’re not quite able to understand it.

“Why?” You ask softly. It’s what you want, of course it is, it’s even what you asked, but Agatha doesn’t do anything for other people, nothing if it doesn’t come with her own sort of personal gain.

As if reading your mind Agatha straightens awkwardly in her chair and says simply; “I love you. I don’t want to hurt or lose you.”

“But…but power is important to you.”

“So are you,” Agatha says, tilting her head.

You don’t know why you’re almost trying to convince her it’s more important, but perhaps it’s because you struggle to accept or fathom your own importance in her life. It feels like a fever dream, one you’re trying to pinch yourself to get out of.

If you believe it and then are disappointed, it hurts more than if you had never believed it at all.

“I’m sorry,” Agatha says, pulling you out of your thoughts. Not by her voice, but by the tears forming in her eyes. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I was so scared of my own affections for you I denied myself them, and in turn made you feel denied. I love you.” She repeats. “I love you, and you’re important to me, and there’s a billion things I’d sacrifice for you, and I never want to lose you, and—“

“I love you too,” you rush out, shocked by Agatha’s desperation and wanting to reassure her. Agatha breathes out heavily, a breath she must’ve been holding, and shakes her head at herself, wiping at her eyes.

This time, at the quickness of how she composes herself you don’t think of it as her not really caring, but instead as a defense mechanism she’s mastered. A part of your heart hurts for her.

“Thank you, Agatha. For trusting me with your heart.”

Agatha rolls her eyes at that, but she’s smiling and it’s all apart of her recovery. You let her have it. “My heart,” she sighs, leaning over to give you a lingering kiss. When she pulls away the both of you stare at each other. You, trying to commit this moment to memory. Agatha staring like she’s trying to be sure this is real.

“The witch is still mine,” Agatha whispers, completely breaking the moment. “If she thinks she’s off the hook for the amount of emotional instability she has, she has another thing coming. Unstable emotions and magic are never a good combo.”

You snort. Mumbling under your breath, “funny…just learned that lesson.” Agatha glares at you, just as Wanda walks in.

“If we’re all good now I think we should go,” Wanda rushes.

“What did you do?” Both you and Agatha question.

Wanda smiles nervously, surrounding the room in an aura of red magic.. someone walks over to the barrier of it and begins banging. You’re beginning to wonder if it’s a talent of witches to ruin your peace. Especially when about 4 more armed people start trying to shove themselves into the force field. And oh, there are the guns.

Agatha sighs very deeply, and you release a very dramatic groan. Wanda tilts her head sheepishly. “I should go. I released westview but looks like my consequences are still knocking at the door,” she says quietly.

Agatha agrees. “Yes, you should.” She pauses, most likely waiting and taking pleasure in the pointed look you give her. “I probably should go too though, there’s no telling how people want to paint a witch. Most likely another villain…maybe a hero after the scene we pulled. Still, I shouldn’t be in the public until I find out.”

“We’ll see you soon then, Y/N.”

You give them a look, a look that both Wanda and Agatha know to mean; are you absolutely batshit crazy? You don’t need to say it, but you do; “you two are not going anywhere without me.”

Agatha smirks, and Wanda smiles, then a wave of Wanda’s hand and the three of you are somewhere else much more safe. At least until the media and Avengers manages to get the media to unfairly paint what happened in westview as something much more innocent.

This new journey with the three of you should be…fun until then. At least you have your favorite people, and they have you.

[byulyi]

[romanovspy]

𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝐴𝑔𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑎'𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙?

"𝐇𝐞𝐲𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫!" 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐤.

"𝐇𝐢 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬!" 𝐀 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬; 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭-𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐮𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐱𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐛𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐩, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐦𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫, 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝.

𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝?

"𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬?" 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭.

𝐍𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩.

𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, "𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫, 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰?" 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬.

"𝐈-𝐢 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬-" 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝.

"𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞. 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞" 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝.

𝐀 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧?

"𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝" 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞, 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥.

𝐀 𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐀𝐠𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

"𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐘/𝐍, 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐞."

[iamjessemccartney]

conclave would be fantastic as a muppet movie

[thebadchoicemachine]

Reverse TMA AU where Jon, Georgie, Martin, Sasha, etc. are all evil and the evil characters like Elias, Jude, Peter, etc. are good.

[mssorceressupreme]

hiii i felt like ive read every single minho fic in existence & ive been dying from the lack of it so im hoping u can write ts 🙏🏼

fem!reader works for wicked and betrays the gladers w teresa (or not doesn’t matter). & instead of teresa talking to minho in that one scene, its reader. reader tries to explain that its for a good cause by being slightly stern n rude about it but breaks down for the first time and softens up when she realizes that it isn't right. reader then tries to make up with it by being a lil freaky…..,, (can be spice or smut idc)

HAHAHAH girl mans was literally in pain during that scene but ur so real 😩🤌🏼 literally tho I feel like the fandom is slowly dying and it hurts 😭😭 anyway, l hope I satisfied your prompt but I do apologise as I got slightly carried away at the end and added more to the plot 😭🫶🏼

——

Change | Minho x Reader

Summary: after betraying the gladers, you come face to face with one of them again. the one who captured your heart a long time ago, and you discover that feelings don’t go astray.

Warnings: spicy content, mild violence, mentions of blood and gunshots

——

You stood in the sterile lab, the cold, fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare in the white walls. The sound of machines humming filled the room, a constant reminder of the work you were doing here.

You paused from working on your lab report, glancing over at Teresa, who was intently focused on a computer screen, analysing data. “Do you regret it, Teresa?” You asked, “Betraying them?”

Teresa didn’t look up from the screen. “No,” she replied firmly, “We’re in the right, Y/N.”

You stared at her blankly, did she really not care about them?

“Don’t think too much about it, this is our job now. We’re here and not with them. They’re out there and it doesn’t matter anymore.” She continued, with a slightly gentler tone.

“Not all of them…” you mumbled.

Teresa looked up from her computer screen, she knew how much he meant to you back in the glade, about your secret infatuation with him. “The tests on Minho are looking good, he’s delivering promising results Y/N. If we continue testing, we’ll be closer to finding a cure.”

You nodded, but felt heavy with doubt. You had always believed in the cause, the need to find a cure and save humanity.

But seeing Minho captured and brought to the facility, subjected to tests and experiments, had stirred something inside you. Was this truly the way?

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were crossing the line but you chose to ignore that for the sake of finding the cure.

It was still early in the day and you were due for a check in session with Minho in a few minutes. The first session, and the first time seeing him since he was held captive.

You couldn’t bring yourself to visit him previously, well, not until now, since it was mandatory for you to check in with your subject as a scientist.

“Well I’m off, got a meeting.” You began packing up your items.

“Good luck. See you for a coffee later?” Teresa smiled softly, and you nodded, showing a small smile before leaving the room.

——

In no time, you found yourself sitting in the cold, clinical meeting room, waiting for Minho to be brought in.

You fiddled with a pen, your mind racing. When the door finally opened, and Minho was escorted in, your heart clenched at the sight of him. He looked worn, his usual fierce determination dulled by exhaustion and pain.

You sat at opposite ends of the table, the distance between you feeling both emotional and physical.

“Minho,” you began, trying to keep your voice steady.

Minho didn’t respond, his eyes refusing to meet yours.

“You have to understand where Teresa and I are coming from…” You continued, “This is for a good cause. We’re trying to save the world.”

Again, he didn’t move a muscle nor did he respond. But you could feel the tension between the two of you, the atmosphere was uneasy. The guilt of bringing him here, away from the other gladers weighed heavily on your shoulders.

You felt your resolve wavering but you forced yourself to remain stern, “You know how much we need to find a cure. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

You sighed and continued. “There’s a girl here, her name is Cheyenne. You can help her Minho, we’re so close to finding a cure. You can help hundreds of infected people, think about it. It just takes a bit of sacrifice…”

Minho’s eyes narrowed, anger flashing in them. “By torturing and experimenting on people? How can you justify that.”

“There is no other way.” You sneered, “We’re doing the best we can.”

“Your best looks a lot like your worst.” He spat, clenching his fists through his handcuffs.

“At least we’re doing something about it! Unlike some people!” You slammed your pen on the table, frustrated with the amount of confusion running through your head.

Your head was thinking differently than your heart. You had certain thoughts, but out came opposing ones.

“You’re no better than WCKD,” He was spiteful, “You’re just like them.”

Your gaze softened, you shook your head slightly.

“The Y/N I know wouldn’t have done this.” He added, scoffing.

The weight of his accusation hit hard. You had always prided yourself on being different, empathetic, wanting to help people. But now, you felt the full force of your actions crashing down in you. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn’t hold them back any longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking, “I just wanted to help…I thought I was doing the right thing, but now, I don’t know anymore.” There had to be another way to cure humanity, this was straight up torture.

Minho’s expression softened slightly, seeing you break down for the first time. “If you really want to help, you need to stop this.”

You took a deep breath, the decision forming in your mind. You stood up and walked around the table, closing the distance between you. “I never wanted to hurt you, Minho.” You confessed, “I’ve always…loved you.”

He scanned your face, eyes darting from your eyes to lips, as you leaned in. Your lips brushing against his, before forcefully attaching.

Little did you know, that Minho too, shared your feelings. You had always admired him, his leadership, fearlessness, and the way he cared for other gladers, especially you.

Those moments where he paid extra close attention to you, wasn’t just because he cared for you like everyone else, but because he had feelings for you. You were always his first priority.

“Shuck, I’ve been wanting to do this to you for so long.” Minho mumbled into the kiss, as he pulled you onto his lap despite having his hands cuffed.

“Please forgive me Minho, I can’t bear to see you like this anymore. I want to stop this, stop WCKD and find the others.” You were straddling him, and pulled away from the kiss.

His response was leaning in for another kiss. The kiss was filled with desperation and regret, a silent plea for forgiveness.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging on his hair lightly, while he pulled you closer to him, fully closing the gap between you.

He bit your lip slightly, you left out a soft moan in response. Your lips moved in sync, they became sloppy, desperate and hungry kisses. You craved more, you missed him badly, and this proximity was exactly what the both of you needed.

The fact that his was growing harder beneath you, and how wet you already were, made it evident that the both of you were touch deprived, and all your feelings had burst out in this session.

“Minho…” you moaned, as he began kissing your neck, finding your sweet spot and sucking on it until he left a mark.

“Looks like we’re both tagged now.” He smirked, his eyes still tired and weak, but a tinge of something else was shown, forgiveness.

You now couldn’t imagine how much the betrayal must’ve hurt him especially. But the past is in the past, you wanted to move forward and truly make up for your heinous actions.

You planted a gentle kiss on his forehead, “I’m never going to let you get hurt, ever again.” You looked down at his handcuffs, and grazed your thumb above them, “I don’t have the keys to this on me…they should be in the lab somewhere.”

You got off his lap, “As much as I’d like to continue, we need to get you out of here,” determination hardening your voice, “I’m going to help you escape.”

Minho looked at her, taken aback by your sudden change of heart, “Why would you do that? Never-mind me…what will WCKD do to you if they find out?”

“I don’t care about WCKD anymore. I realise now that I can’t justify what we’ve done,” You replied, “And I’m not letting them hurt you again, I care about you Minho.”

He nodded firmly, “What can I do to help?”

——

You grabbed the handcuff keys from your lab, un-cuffing Minho swiftly. He shook his wrists and cupped your cheeks, giving you a quick peck on the lips, “Thank you.”

As you made your way through the compound, you led the way. Using your clearance to bypass security systems and unlock doors.

It was all havoc. Alarms sounding, people rushing to flee something, gunshots erupting. There had been a sudden attack on WCKD and the Last City, and you mentally thanked yourself for switching to the right side on time.

When you encountered guards, you fought together, defending Minho. Your movements synchronised and steady.

You grabbed a fallen guard’s weapon, tossing another to Minho. You defended each other fiercely, a silent understanding between you. The both of you weren’t just fighting for survival, you were fighting for each other.

As Minho rounded a corner, he bumped into Thomas and Newt, who were searching for him in the compound.

Minho reunited with the two of them, the three of them sharing a relieving hug. “Minho!” Thomas beamed.

You followed soon behind, seeing Minho embraced in a hug.

Thomas saw you and raised his weapon instinctively, and in the chaos, a shot rang out. Pain seared through your leg, and you crumpled to the ground.

“Y/N!” Minho shouted, dropping to his knees beside you. He turned to Thomas, “She’s with us again! She helped me escape.”

Thomas lowered his weapon, guilt washing over his face. “Sorry Y/N,” he stammered, his eyes regretful, “I didn’t know…it’s good, good to have you back with us.” He affirmed.

Minho carefully lifted you into his arms, cradling you into his chest. “We’ve got to get out of here. She’s hurt.”

They moved quickly, Minho carrying you bridal style as you navigated through the compound. You clung to him, breaths shallowed and pained. The warmth of his body was comforting and reassuring against you.

“Hang on,” he whispered, “We’re almost there.”

When the four of you finally burst out the building, the cool night air hit you like a wave. You stumbled into the open, the dark sky stretching above you lot.

“You did it,” you murmured, a weak smile tugging at your lips, you had lost a lot of blood in your leg. “We did it.”

Minho held you tighter, his face close to yours. “You’re safe now,” he said softly, “We’re going to be okay.”

Thomas and Newt followed closely behind, their expressions a mix of concern and determination. They had all made it out, but your injury weighed heavily on them.

“We need to get her to safety,” Thomas said, his voice urgent, “I’ll get Brenda and the others to come to us.”

Minho nodded, his grip on you unwavering. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He promised.

As you moved away from the compound, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Despite the pain, despite the uncertainty of your future, you knew you were where you needed to be—by Minho’s side, fighting for a better tomorrow. Together, you would face whatever came next, your hearts united in your quests for freedom and redemption.

[ifnotlovepersevering]

Trapped (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: in an attempt to get revenge on Agatha, you end up walking right into her trap

Warnings: NSFW, blurry consent, magic play, pet names, light d/s dynamics, oral sex (both receiving), fingering (R receiving), mentions of spit play, face-sitting (A receiving), overstimulation, mentions of violence, lovers to enemies to lovers again?!, minors DNI

A/N: breaking my hiatus by pulling together this horny filth from god knows what part of my brain 🖤 enjoy!

NSFW Tag List: @academiagaymess @musicalmemesandstuff @shinkomiii @vintagegoddess12 @agnessharknes @jesterofrohan @agathaharknessslut @nickalpatel @junaika21

As soon as you’d caught wind that the great Agatha Harkness had lost her powers, you were planning your route to Westview.

You’d been waiting ages for this opportunity - revenge for her betrayal. Agatha had drawn you in close before draining nearly every last bit of power from you, thankfully leaving just enough for you to survive. Though, that was likely an oversight rather than a show of mercy.

But you’d never forgotten. Over the years you slowly, painstakingly, built your powers back up to what they had been, and then even more. You were stewing, waiting for the chance to get the witch back for what she’d done.

Now you stood in her basement at the home she occupied in Westview, after transporting yourself inside. You crept up the stairs, staying as silent as possible. The dagger in your hand glistened as you eased through the door to the main floor.

You quietly stalked your way over to what seemed to be her office. But before you could step inside, Agatha’s voice rang out from behind you. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

You spun around, seeing her standing in the living area. “Agatha,” you grinned.

The older witch eyed the dagger you clutched in your palm. “Hey doll,” she said nervously. “Whatcha got there?”

You began walking towards her as she stepped backwards. “Oh Aggs,” you smirked, using your old nickname for her. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“Let me guess,” she let out a shaky laugh. “Since I juiced you?”

You clenched your jaw. “You bitch. I trusted you. It took me ages to grow my power back to what it was.”

Agatha scoffed. “Oh please. You were pathetic. A baby. You hardly knew how to handle all of that, I did you a favour.”

That’s it. You lunged forward, tackling the other witch to the ground. You straddled her abdomen, her arms by her side, keeping her pinned down. Digging your elbow into her chest, you brought the dagger to her neck. “Last words?” You smirked.

“I missed this view.” Agatha’s blue eyes bore into yours as her expression morphed from fear into a smile.

Her smugness was grating, and you pushed the dagger into her skin to silence her. But it wasn’t working. The flesh that should’ve been tearing under the blade remained smooth and undisturbed, no crimson emerging.

What?

“Oh Y/N,” she grinned at you, not at all worried about the dagger pressed up against her throat. “You’re almost as naive as the day I met you.”

You felt your body suddenly freeze up. “What the hell?” You exclaimed, trying to move your limbs. Agatha began laughing as the distance between the two of you increased. You were floating now, immobilized, and she was standing up in front of you grinning.

“You’re kidding me.” You groaned. You couldn’t move anything below your neck, let alone try and get your magic flowing. Fuck.

“No, no I’m not.” Agatha circled you, unashamedly basking in the glee of having you trapped like this.

You closed your eyes, thinking of what idiotic decisions led you here. “You were supposed to be…”

“Powerless?” Agatha smirked, standing in front of you now. “Come on, Y/N. Are you hearing yourself? Agatha Harkness, powerless?”

You cursed yourself internally. This was stupid. You’d been stupid, and cocky, coming here with no preparation but a stupid dagger and your stupid vendetta.

“Aww,” Agatha pouted at your expression, taking your chin into her hand, forcing you to look her in the eye. “Don’t make that face, bunny.”

You felt a small spark inside of you at her using her favourite pet name. Agatha was leaning in close now, and heat rushed to your cheeks under her intense gaze and the proximity. Yes, you hated her for what she did. But she also knew exactly how to push your buttons. The older witch made you feel things beyond just hatred and try as you might, that was something you couldn’t ignore.

“You know how witches are,” Agatha spoke softly, her eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth. “Start a rumour, it spreads. And somehow I knew that little Y/N would come running once she heard the news.”

Her arrogance irked you. “I’m not the same person you used to know.” You spat.

“Oh?” Agatha arched a brow, a wicked smile on her face. “I beg to differ.”

She stepped back and began circling you again. The familiar hum of her magic suddenly began caressing you again. You looked down at your hovering form and now saw purple swirls of her magic climbing up your legs.

“The Y/N I used to know,” Agatha was behind you now, her mouth by your ear sending shivers down your spine. “Would make the prettiest sounds for me.”

The end of her sentence was punctuated by a purple tendril slipping under your top and caressing your nipple. Another joined right after, on your other breast, pulses of magic squeezing both your nipples perfectly.

You couldn’t even try and stop the moan that escaped you.

“Just like that.” You could tell Agatha was smiling even though she was behind you, her voice clearly conveying her excitement.

You felt another rope of magic snake its way up your thigh and into the waistband of your pants. You cried out as it surround your clit and begin pulsing teasingly. You squirmed, the sensation sending tingles of pleasure through you.

Agatha settled herself into the armchair across from you and waved her hand in a quick motion. You gasped at the feeling of cold air on your now-bare skin. “Mm,” her voice was low, her eyes raking over your exposed form. “That’s better.”

You could feel how wet you were getting between your legs, her purple magic still pleasuring you. “You know,” you started, getting breathless now. “That I came here to kil- ah!”

Your sentence was interrupted by what you could only assume was another extension of her magic teasing your wet entrance before pushing in. Heat rushed through you as your walls stretched and adjusted to the feeling.

“Oh I know hon,” Agatha smirked from her chair, watching you turn into a mess before her. Her blue eyes were tracing your form and you could see that her cheeks were flushed. “But keeping you to play with again is a much better option.”

The tendril of magic inside you began pumping in and out, pulsing gently against your walls. “Fuck,” you groaned, the pleasure in you building at a rapid pace now. Your eyes were half-closed, jaw slack, as Agatha fucked you with her magic.

“Though if you’d like me to stop,” Agatha’s voice made you open your eyes. “I can do that too.”

Another flick of her hand and all the magic pulsing in and around you stopped, causing the pleasure building in you to fizzle. “No!” You whined. “Please, fuck, please, Aggs.”

It was humiliating. You had come here to kill her, and instead you were naked and at her mercy, begging for her to keep fucking you.

Agatha seemed thrilled to see your resolve break. “There she is,” she chuckled darkly. “My sweet bunny.”

You moaned, a mixture of relief and pleasure, when her magic began again. You were approaching your orgasm quickly, filthy moans and profanities spilling from your lips as you reached the edge. But before the waves of pleasure you were aching so badly for could crash over you, the magic stopped again.

You whined in protest, at the brink of tears, as Agatha stood up and came over to you. “Oh I know, baby.” She pouted.

To your surprise, Agatha lowered you down so that you were standing in front of her now. Your legs were unsteady and she gripped your hip, pressing you close to her. “I just couldn’t let you come without tasting you first.”

Any thoughts about what you’d originally came here for were far gone, and you hungrily brought your mouth to hers. Your hands now free, it was your turn to magic Agatha’s clothes off, making her gasp against your lips in surprise. You traced your hands up her figure and began pinching and teasing her nipples. Both of you moaned as your tongues explored each other’s mouths. You nipped at her lower lip, sucking it into your mouth, making her groan approvingly.

Agatha’s fingers buried themselves in your hair and she pulled, drawing your head back so she could move her mouth to your neck. Her fingers teased your nipples as you felt her teeth bite down, gently, but hard enough that you were sure she was leaving a trail of marks on your skin.

“Lie down,” she breathed against your skin. You complied, settling on the carpet as she made the fireplace roar to life.

Agatha wasted no time lowering herself between your legs. She held your gaze as she spread your folds with her fingers before bringing her mouth to your center. Despite the time apart, Agatha clearly remembered how to turn you into a shaking mess. She picked up a pattern of circling and flicking your clit with her tongue, and she quickly had you writhing on the floor. “Agatha,” you groaned.

She switched to sucking on your clit as she slipped a finger, then another into you. The lewd sounds of your wetness filled the room as Agatha pumped her fingers into you, curling them up inside before drawing them out. “Fuck, fuck!” You cried out, spurring her on. Agatha moaned as she sucked your clit into her mouth, hard, making you arch your back off the floor as you came.

She didn’t stop there. She withdrew her fingers but her tongue continued its ministrations on your overstimulated clit despite your squirming. Agatha kept her eyes on you as she doubled down on her pace, her arms wrapping around your thighs to stop you from squeezing them together.

Her efforts brought you to the edge again, your body shaking with the waves of pleasure coursing through you. Finally, Agatha came up from between your legs, her grinning mouth smeared with your juices. You revelled in the feeling of her bare skin against yours as she slid back up to you.

“I’d almost forgotten how good you taste.” She said, before bringing her mouth down to yours. You moaned at the taste, her lips moving against yours sloppily. Agatha pulled back slightly to let a trail of saliva fall onto your tongue before wrapping her lips around it and sucking, moaning as she did. Fuck.

You could already feel yourself aching for more but you needed to taste her first. “Sit on my face.” You breathed in between kisses to Agatha, who was more than happy to comply,

She giggled as you helped her maneuver herself over your face. Lowering herself onto you, both of you groaned as your tongue made contact with her folds. Her taste was intoxicating, and you began lapping up her juices before flicking her clit repeatedly with your tongue.

You watched Agatha as she moaned from above you. “That’s it baby.”

You continued with your ministrations, splitting your attention between her clit and her opening which continued leaking her juices into your mouth. Wanting to taste more, you plunged your tongue into her hole, swirling before withdrawing, then entering again.

“Yes,” she groaned, throwing her head back. “Fuck me with your tongue bunny, come on.”

You could feel her getting closer, her hips were beginning to buck more wildly. Stealing a page from her book, you used your magic to send vibrations to her nipples while you moved your tongue back to her clit.

“Oh fuck,” Agatha grunted, her legs clamping around your head nearly suffocating you as she gripped the armchair near her for support. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.” Rocking her hips against you, she cried out as first one, then another wave of pleasure tore through her.

Agatha dismounted, thighs trembling, before laying down next to you. You smiled at the older witch, panting with her eyes closed and forehead damp with sweat. Her mouth formed a lazy grin, “That was-”

Before she could finish her sentence, a loud bang could be heard from the basement, making both of you jump. You could hear clattering, as if something was fumbling around down there in the darkness.

Agatha laughed at the confused look on your face. “What, did you think you were the only one waiting to get revenge?”

You rolled your eyes, of course, as Agatha leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “None of them are you though, bunny.” She stood up quickly and waved her clothes back on.

“You’re not seriously going to-”

“I’ll just be a minute, doll.” Agatha smiled down at you. Her lips were swollen and her hair messy, but with her hands glowing purple, she looked every bit the formidable witch everyone knew her to be.

“Sit pretty,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way to the basement door. “We’re not done yet.”

You couldn’t help but laugh when you heard Agatha blast whatever poor creature had made its way into her basement.

[witchinatree]

*inspired by a post from @butzenscheibe

i hope everyone from the magnus archives exists in the magnus protocols

i hope jude perry has a fear of fire

i hope dekker and gertrude are librarian coworkers

i hope breekon and hope are just two normal mailmen

i hope eric mary and gerry are an average family

i hope helen and michael are doing their respective pre-spiral careers (NOT the magnus institute for michael)

i hope the montauks are a happy family (no missing mothers)

i hope everyone we've come to hate/love is just a normal person. unaffected by the horrors and tragedies. i hope each and every avatar can live the lives they deserved to have before it was taken from them.

[multimilfs]

Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: The Bigger Bear

Summary: Agnes is set to be recognized for her work on a case, but getting her to the event leads to some... unexpected circumstances.

Ao3 + Part 1

Words: 10.6k

A/N: An enormous thank you to my beautiful beta readers; @saphiccarma , @louisaa-a , and @harknessshi who were kind enough to take their time and read over this for me!!!

Included: Established relationships, G!P, daddy kink, mommy kink, hand jobs, begging, dom/sub, kink exploration, car sex, accidental stimulation, accidental drug use, dirty talk, humiliation, possessive sex, porn with plot.

Tag List: @sapphicharknesss @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @milfslvr @kathrynscontroversiallyyounggf @raleighgay @ninatheronhahn @lizzieolsie216 @ajaasiopaoo @sweetestberryofthebunch @meiwan @pagetboobstarcomments @coffeemelko @alli23rt @thefearoffallingapartohohoh @ambessasevikasexslave @cowtownz @ilovehotactresses @supergirl107 @jillisselt @reignofnightmares @sapphic-gays @heady-pomegranate @dmtrxie @sp3c-tr0 @evie-101 @poisson-99 @renravens @scullysstrapblog @littlebminus @hvrkncss @blue2908 @lolitscaitlin @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @bqqbacenbuger @tastycadaversoup @women-are-so-ethereal @fruityrat47 @yluji @absolute-memegarbage @starryalexis @snickerdoodles-stuff @cheesee07 @rosie6reyes @kmaxmadness

With sleep still clouding every corner of your mind, you sigh, trudging down the stairs. 

The to-do list sits empty, which in theory allows for more time to relax; but relaxation often turns to boredom, and you find yourself missing Agnes. You sigh again as you aim for the kitchen, passing the living room.

Three steps past the living room you pause. 

You know every inch of your home top-to-bottom, down to the scuffs on the baseboards from Agnes kicking her shoes into them—which is why you know the dark mass sitting on the couch shouldn’t be there. You back up and blink at the sight of your wife. 

She’s clad in a flannel shirt and boxers, hair a frizzy halo around her head. Her glasses threaten to slide down her nose as she stares down at the pages of a book. 

“You’re home today?” You ask. 

“Chief told me to leave, take a ‘well deserved break.’” Agnes scoffs, not looking up from her book, “Just because we wrapped that case yesterday doesn’t mean there aren’t others.” 

“True. But you can look at the others with fresher eyes if you rest.” 

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were conspiring with him. He said the same thing.” 

“Common sense for those who believe in work-life balance.” You smile, crossing to the couch and sitting down, leaning into her, “What are you reading?” 

An arm loops around you, pulling you more firmly into her side. Long fingers brush against the exposed bit of flesh on your side. Warmth radiates from her and you cuddle into every bit of contact she offers. The sigh that leaves you this time is pleased—dreamy. 

Agnes switches to reading the book aloud. Yet you’re not paying attention to the words, but rather, her voice; the gravelly note in it as she keeps her voice low in the peace of the morning, how it speeds up and slows at different intervals depending on how eager she is to see what happens next. Head resting on her shoulder, you take in all of her with so much affection it could make you sick. 

Like the details of your home, you know every contour of Agnes’ face as if you possess a map. You know every wrinkle and smile line, the subtle freckles that become brighter in the summer. If she’d let you, you’d kiss every mark on her face a dozen times over. 

Instead, you settle for tracing your finger down the length of her nose. She pauses. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“Admiring.” 

Hesitation, then she shrugs it off, “Okay.” 

She begins to read again, mouth twitching with a grin when you trace the sensitive spots of her skin. It makes you grin. Faintly, you have the thought of hooking a finger in her mouth to see how she’d react, but you’re enjoying the comfort of being near her too much. 

Her lashes flutter when she blinks behind her glasses. The muscles in her jaw work double-time when she reads faster. You drag your finger along said jaw with agonizing tenderness. 

Tenderness that fills you so fully you can’t keep silent any longer, murmuring, “My handsome girl.” 

She swallows roughly.

“What is your deal?” 

“I told you,” you smile, leaning in to kiss her jaw, “I’m admiring.” 

“You’re distracting.” 

“Part of my job, sorry.” 

“Don’t remember that being in the vows.” 

“If I remember correctly, you don’t remember any of the vows—your focus was on the wedding night. As if we’d never had sex before.” 

Agnes barks out a laugh, “A lot of you was on display, what else could I focus on?” 

“How much you love me, for starters.” You pout. 

At the sight of your expression, Agnes rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still pulling at the edges of her oh-so-kissable lips. 

“That’s what the rest of our lives were for.” She waves you off, “The wedding night had its own purpose.” 

“Loving and fucking can and do exist at the same time, you know.”

“You don’t say.�� 

You don’t dignify the comment with anything beyond a petulant huff. 

Like a cat sure of their rightful spot, you curl back into your wife’s side as if you own the space; as if the curve of her body was molded to match your own. The length of a strong shoulder plays the part of your pillow. 

Agnes’ fingers twitch around her book. She resumes reading, silent this time. 

The allure of sleep still beckons with a convincing hand. Your eyelids droop—but though you may close them, sleep does not come. You alternate between opening them to make a half-hearted attempt at reading the pages and letting them slip closed on the hope of slipping away. Similar fatigue plagues the whole of your body. 

A bird calls outside. There’s a brush against your foot as Scratchy hops by. 

The lingering notes of Agnes’ cologne tickle your nose. You press closer—as if it’s possible— wanting to drown yourself in the scent, in her. She huffs a near-silent laugh. 

Your stomach growls. It squeezes, searching and desperate. You should make something for the two of you, but that requires moving away, and you’d rather cut off your own hand than do that right now. 

But the noise doesn’t escape your wife’s notice, “Let me finish this chapter and I’ll make breakfast.” 

A simple, innocuous statement; yet it turns your heart to liquid. 

Before Agnes, how many times did you trudge through the day, ignoring your own needs due to your exhaustion? How many past partners had cared enough to put their tasks on hold to do something like make you breakfast? 

The offering doesn’t surprise you; you’ve been together too long—but in the silence, you’re painfully aware of a time where the idea of anyone caring felt impossible. You had only let yourself imagine someone like Agnes in the dead of night, where the lack twisted in your chest. And you had given up on ever finding what you needed… until she walked into your life and shook the foundations of what you knew to be true. 

The affection and gratitude gnaws at your insides, desperate to be expressed. How do you express the gravity of a love like yours? How do you explain to Agnes the way she makes you feel without her waving you off, unwilling to hear praise?

Without a word, you spit in your palm and slide it past the waistband of her boxers. 

Agnes jolts when you take her in hand. Her fingers press indents into the pages, eyes wide and searching your face for a hint of explanation. 

“Keep reading.” You say, with more force than intended. 

You’re stunned when she does so without argument.

Pages turn, minutes pass. You listen to how her breathing changes as your hand works over her length, varying your strokes, paying attention to what makes her hips twitch. The change is slow—gradual, the sun changing position as you bring Agnes’ cock to wakefulness. 

You don’t mind the time it takes; allowing you to revel in the closeness, breathing in the scent of her and embracing her warmth as she slowly grows hard in your palm. 

Every now and again, you’ll tilt your head back to admire her side profile again—the subtle pucker of her lips, her darling cheekbones, the beautiful meandering outline of her nose. You want to show her love so overwhelming that she never doubts her beauty again. You want to smother her in it. You want to sink your fucking teeth into her. 

Agnes inhales sharply when you squeeze, sitting up a bit straighter. You smile into the skin of her neck at how hard she’s growing, and how with every minute that passes she loses control over her focus. 

“Baby.” She whispers, pleading. 

A strange desire for a different title comes to life in the back of your mind. You shove it down. 

“Keep reading, Agnes.” 

A throaty whine. You like watching her try to do what you ask, but you want to see her squirm more. You nip at her neck. 

“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, hand stroking faster, “And all mine.” 

Though Agnes’ eyes are focused on the book in her white-knuckle grip, they don’t move across the page. Her chest rises and falls, hips twitching as she bucks into your palm. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples. 

When you run your thumb over the head of her cock, she whines, thrusting up. 

“So responsive, aren’t you?” You run your tongue along the shell of her ear, “So needy for more of me around your cock. You just can’t get enough.” 

The flutter of pages and a clatter as her book hits the floor. Head thrown back, she squeezes her eyes shut, throat bobbing. Slowing the movement of your hand, there’s a rush of heat between your legs at her pitiful little noises. God she’s fucking perfect. 

Her cock throbs as you drag your hand over every tense inch. Fist so loose you’re hardly making contact, Agnes’ hand seeks your own; gripping you around the wrist and tightening the grip for you, fucking herself into the warmth of your palm. 

That won’t do. 

Extracting yourself entirely, you tsk, “I didn’t say you could touch.” 

Agnes’ head rolls in your direction. Shadow falls over her face, her eyes darker for it. Pink and red paints an enchanting vision over her flesh. You resist the urge to give in and give her your cunt—because then she won’t learn, will she? 

“Baby,” she grits out, jaw tense, “don’t tease.” 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d behave.” 

“I’m not a fucking dog.” 

“Oh?” Your head tilts. Her cock is pressed against the front of her boxers and you trace your finger along the outline of her, “But I thought you liked being a good boy.” 

A violent throb beneath your touch. Her hands clench in the couch cushions. 

“God.” 

You bring your ghosting touch up to her throat. Sweat clings to your fingertip as you dip along the sharp structures of her physique. An idea pops into your head that has you clenching your thighs. 

“Maybe I should put a collar on you. You’ll never forget who holds your leash if you’re wearing my name around your neck.” 

“Fuck no.”

Agnes twitches. 

You laugh—a mean sound that you don’t entirely recognize coming from your mouth. Oh. The sound of your own twisted confidence and the power wrapped within only deepens the heat between your thighs. 

“No?” 

A dangerous note lingers in your voice. Agnes—whether not noticing or not caring—snarls.

“No.” 

“What a shame.” 

In a beat, you’re gone; off the couch and out of her reach. You crouch to pick up her book and look up through your lashes. Agnes swallows, eyes blown out, cock straining enough that she must be in some kind of pain. 

The weak, pleading look on her face has been replaced by something harder—the veneer of Detective O’Connor, who spits in the face of higher forces and never once stops to ask for forgiveness. Your mouth feels too full; your tongue desperate to trace along the hard line of her jaw and into the divots of her collarbones, the press of bone firm against your soft appendage. 

You love her in power and control, but you want the glimpse caught in her office on Christmas Eve—you want her so desperate she’ll humiliate herself for a touch. 

With a sweet smile, you throw the book into her lap, “Have fun with your hand.” 

A brief glimpse of her shock makes you shiver with satisfaction. You’ve never walked away, never denied either of you; you’re the desperate one, willing to do any degrading little thing she suggests if it means she’ll take you. 

You’re not sure where this desire to dominate has been hiding, but god if it isn’t delicious. 

A step away from leaving the room, her raspy voice calls, “Wait.”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t… Don’t leave me like this.” 

Leaning against the doorway, you laugh, “I’m not taking orders.”

“Come on, baby,” She says, in a near-whine, “I don’t want my hand.” 

“You want mine?” 

For flair, you hold yours up, wiggling your fingers with a raised brow. She stares and gulps. Then, she nods. 

“Words, Agnes.” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

You step back into the room with an expression of faux-sympathy. But instead of returning to the couch where she waits, hard and wanting, you sink into the armchair at the edge of the room. The cushions caress your form without fuss. You sink deeper, getting comfortable. 

Agnes' eyes haven’t left you for a moment—good. You fold one leg over the other and finally meet her gaze. 

“You’ll have to come over here and earn it.” 

She’s up from the couch in less than a second. Her feet wobble beneath her, but she’s so eager that the questionable footing doesn’t stop her. 

You hold up a hand. 

Agnes stops. 

“Crawl.” 

Her teeth make an appearance, lip curling. You brace for a mouthful of venom as you prod at the pride she protects so viciously—but Agnes sinks to her knees. 

You feel as if you’re watching the scene in slow motion. Agnes crosses the space on all fours, hair obscuring her features, even as her eyes never leave your own—not even when the sharp rays of sun sneak through the slats of the blinds and light directly on the electric-blue orbs. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. 

Desire churns and makes you clench. The emptiness between your legs is so prominent that it’s painful. You want her inside you, but you have all day. 

When Agnes reaches you, there’s a split second where she looks unsure, hands twitching in front of her as she tries to decide what to do with them. You wait. Even if you’re enjoying holding all the power, you love how she surprises you. 

Agnes’ eyes leave you as she bends, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin of your ankle. 

“My angel.” She murmurs, alternating to the other side, “My love.” 

It’s a slow ascent. She’s taking her job seriously—worshipping every inch of you on her way up to the space between your legs, murmuring words of devotion and praise in a voice so reverent it almost feels out of place; you are the offering upon the altar she kneels before, and she’ll do whatever is required to demonstrate her piety. 

Your chest is heaving by the time her lips make it to your inner thighs. How unfair, how so like her to steal the power back by completely surrendering herself to you—tears prick at your eyes, your body searching for a way to release all this emotion inside. 

You have never loved or trusted anyone like her. You want to fucking ruin her for it. 

Before she can reach your covered center, you weave a hand in her hair and yank her head back. She groans. The sound makes you clench. But it’s nothing compared to how she looks up at you. 

The heart in your chest squeezes, you whisper, “Perfect.” 

She bristles like the words are an insult. You don’t give her time to argue, leaning down to capture her lips. Your tongue sweeps across them and into her mouth with a desperation that makes your heart race—the need to taste her, to taste your flesh upon her, drives you to near-madness. 

When you pull back a thin web of spit connects you and you lick it from where it meets her bottom lip. 

Unyielding, you grip her jaw in a hand, and stare into her eyes, “Who do you belong to, Agnes?”

A beat.

“You.” She breathes. 

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head. 

“Stand up.” 

Agnes does as you command as quickly as she can manage. You tamp down on your giggle when her knees crack, but you know she can see the amusement in your eyes; a matching look in her own. 

Said look fades when you remove your sleep shirt and yank her boxers down. 

The cold air of the room pebbles your nipples. From her position above you, Agnes licks her lips. You take her cock in hand once more and she throbs; no matter who is in control, she loses it seeing you beneath her. 

You squeeze. Her hips thrust forward. 

“Don’t tease, angel.” She begs. 

“Behave and I won’t have to.” 

Punctuating the statement with a firm stroke cuts off any arguments. Pretty blue eyes roll right back in her head, her hips moving, seeking more—soft little pants leaving her in place of words. 

It’s not going to take long to make her cum. 

When your hand falls into the rhythm that best suits, your mind begins to wander; it feels nice to touch her, taking your time—you’ve both found yourselves so caught up in life as of late that sex was a collection of frantic movements between tasks. Not that it was ever bad sex. But there’s something special about having time to tease and draw out the actions. 

How fortunate you had no plans today. 

You’re going to take your time and worship her like she worships you. You’re going to familiarize every inch of Agnes’ body with your tongue; imprinting her taste until it’s all you hold in your mouth. By the time you’re finished, every inch of her will shake at the reminder of how good you make her feel. 

Looking up through your lashes, that warm devotion in your chest expands until it’s hard to breathe. Her hand digs into your shoulder as she thrusts, eyes closed, completely trusting you to hold her steady. 

You push up the bottom of her shirt and press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Her hips stutter for a moment and you feel her tense, fighting her desire to check on you. But that isn’t what you want; you want her to take, to enjoy without guilt or worry. 

“Who do you belong to?” You repeat, speeding up your movements. 

Faintly, you remember why you don’t use your hand very often; your wrist hurts. 

A choked gasp, “You.” 

“Yeah you do.” You smile, bolstered by her affirmation, “Every inch of you is mine—mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to break. And I’m going to break you, baby. I’m going to fuck you until all you can do is pant like a fucking dog.” 

Agnes keens. Her chest is rising and falling so fast you worry she might hyperventilate, but she doesn’t once stop moving, fucking into your hand while whimpers of “yours, all yours” leave her lips. The power of taking every ounce of her fight makes your head feel floaty.

Her thrusts grow more erratic as she nears her peak. The hands on your shoulders tense and loosen. 

“Let me. Please l-let me—” She cries. 

You tense out of nowhere, waves of pleasure coalescing and rocking through you as you cum without a touch. Heaving gasps of air as you breathe through it. 

Your voice is weaker than you’d like, “Give me a pretty necklace, baby.” 

Agnes wastes no time in fulfilling your request. With one final snap of her hips, they stop, and spurts of cum shoot from her cock, painting the bottom of your face and neck in her desire. You watch every inch of her face—the furrow of her brows as she works through the feeling, and how every muscle loosens as the pleasure settles like a warm blanket. 

Carefully, you extract your hand from her softening length, licking her off your lips. She regards you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

You scoot to the side and make room to tug her down next to you. She allows it. Soft and pliant, she curls wordlessly into you, head falling on your shoulder—only narrowly avoiding the mess she’s made. 

“You did so well,” smiling, you kiss the top of her head, “you make me so happy when you let yourself have what you want. And you look so perfect when you do.” 

She grunts in acknowledgement. Her body weight is pressing against you more insistently with every passing second, and you let it, running your hand up and down her back until her breathing evens out. 

Even as she dozes off, you can resist whispering, “My love. My handsome girl.” 

---

Days later, you curse, every muscle still sore as you answer the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“This is Chief Proctor, would you—” 

You don’t think before rushing out, “What is it? What happened?” 

Did something happen when Agnes was out following a lead? She rarely goes alone, but you know how stubborn she can be about being made to wait. Did some perp try to fight back, or get her before she could get them? Fuck, did she get shot? 

“Everything’s fine, Agnes is just fine!” He rushes to reassure you, and you feel like you can breathe again, “I wanted to ask if you’d come in so I could run something by ya.” 

You put your head in your hand. The heart in your chest is still beating too fast, fear still coursing through your veins even though there is no danger. 

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there soon, Chief.”

---

 A few heads pop up when you walk into the station, but you don’t give them any attention; too exhausted from the scare earlier to entertain polite conversation with Agnes’ coworkers. You beeline straight for the Chief’s office when you spy that your wife’s is empty. 

Harold sits at his desk trying—and failing—to wipe a ketchup stain off his white shirt. 

“Sarah’s stain treatment must be holy with all the messes you make.” You say by way of greeting, plopping into the chair opposite his desk. 

An embarrassed flush works up his cheeks. He clears his throat, dropping the crumpled napkin on the desktop and straightening up. 

“Thanks for coming in. Sorry for scaring ya.” 

Waving off the apology, “What’s up?” 

“Well, you know the annual State banquet is coming up. I was wondering if you could get Agnes to be there.” 

You raise a brow. It takes all your will-power not to scoff at the request. 

“Chief, she hates those things.” 

“I know, I know—but look, they, uh, well what I mean to say is we—”

“Chief.” 

“They want to recognize Agnes for her work in the Maximoff case.” He blurts. 

The second he says it, you know you have no choice but to figure out a way to get her there. 

Ten months; that’s how long you watched Agnes agonize over the Maximoff case, obsessing over the details she was missing. She’d leave before dawn and come back after dark. And even when she was home, she spent half her time sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at all the photos. Some nights she brought Vidal with her—others, she sat in the dim kitchen alone, head in her hands while the world went on outside. 

She’d have worked 24/7 if you hadn’t insisted on days off. When she took them, she slept the whole day. 

Agnes doesn’t do her job for rewards, but you’ll be damned if you let her pass up recognition from the state; especially after everything she went through. 

“Fuck.” Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, “She’s going to be a bear about this.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

---

“Did you pick up your suit from the dry-cleaners?” You ask in lieu of a greeting. 

Agnes’ scoff is faint. The front door shuts with a half-hearted slam. Then, the squeak of rubber on wood; you wish she would stop doing that. 

“No, honey, I came straight home after you texted me about it seven times.” 

She comes into the kitchen, plastic-covered suit in hand, and you relax. That’s the last thing on your list, ready and secured.

“Oh bite me.” 

Agnes grins, “With pleasure.” 

You turn when she rounds to you and accept her hello kiss. The taste of un-burnt coffee lingers on her lips and you frown. 

“Did you go out for lunch again?” 

“The guys needed a pick-me-up.” 

“Agnes.” You groan. 

“It was a few sandwiches, baby. It’s not going to break us.” 

“That would be true if you didn’t buy ‘a few sandwiches’ three times a week.” 

A hand is dragged down her face. She sighs. 

“I’m going to put the suit in the closet and do some work in the office, yeah? Yell when dinner’s ready.” 

You grab her before she can go too far, “No, hey, I’m sorry—I just, there’s been a lot coming out of the account this month and I’m worked up over it. I’m sorry. Stay, please.” 

Worked up over it being an understatement—the state you were in after paying the final installment on Nicky’s funeral arrangements this morning could’ve earned you an Oscar. But you don’t want to dwell on that. You want to finish dinner with some light banter from your wife, sit next to her at the table, and cuddle up in bed talking about nonsense; none of which you can do if she locks herself in her office. 

Agnes relaxes in your hold. She may let you handle the finances, but she’s just as aware of the bills, and likely has a hunch of which are bothering you. 

“When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?” 

“Just enjoy the surprise, baby.” 

“It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover your evil plans,” she says, making you snort, “if you save me the work I’m sure we can strike a deal.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Tell me what I want to know and we can knock your time down from six hours to three—less, with good behavior.” 

There’s a purposeful press of her hips against you. She’s not hard, yet, but you take her meaning. 

“You can’t last that long and you know it.” You taunt. 

“Practice makes perfect.” 

You roll your eyes. Playfully pushing her away, her grin nearly makes you melt—but you focus back on dinner before she can tempt you into letting it burn. 

“Go hang your suit up and stop harassing me.” 

Her grin feels like a brand when she kisses your cheek, “Yes, ma’am.” 

---

The door clicks open and you get a whiff of Agnes’ cologne. You smile, not looking up from where you’re fastening your own bracelet. 

“Can you help me with the tie?” 

After several failed attempts, you loop the clasp through the chain link. Looking up, your breath stops. You swallow. 

Agnes stands in the doorway of the bathroom in a deep brown suit, the jacket button undone to reveal the dress shirt beneath. It’s a bit big, offering a slouchy silhouette that makes her look phenomenal. The matching tie sits unraveled around the back of her neck just waiting for your hands. 

You stand to help and she shifts. The adjustment moves one side of the suit jacket and that’s when you see it—the carabiner with her keys attached to one of the belt loops; simple, something she has on her everyday, but the sight of it has you sinking to your knees in front of her. 

“Fuck, baby.” 

She smirks down at you through the mane of hair she hasn’t pulled back yet, “Stand up.” 

“I need you,” you whine, hands reaching for her belt-buckle, “please, Daddy, I need you so bad.” 

Her hands pause as they reach for you. Clear as a whistle, you both register the desperate want in your voice; the kind she’d expect to hear after edging you a few times. 

Something about the suit is driving you wild—sending you from 0 to 60 from the mere sight of her. Maybe it’s the effortless way she pulls it off. Maybe it’s that she’s so comfortable in a way she’s only displayed wearing her flannels. Maybe it’s both, combined with the reminder that this woman is yours. 

You love her so much it threatens to stop your heart and you need to fuck her about it. 

“Please.” 

Agnes snaps back into movement. Her hand grips your chin, firm, “I gave you an order. Stand up.” 

It’s mean and unfair and so fucking hot. You whine, but you do as she says—though not before pressing a kiss to the front of her pants, longing for the prize past the layer of fabric. 

“What did I ask you to do?” Agnes says when you’re stable on your feet. 

“Help you with the tie.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” 

Your hands find the fabric and go about the motions, though you have to slow down when your hands stutter. Even if she rarely wears them, you’re glad you memorized how to fix a tie, or this would be a significant loss to her ensemble. 

God you want her so bad. 

“Could we… just something quick?” You ask. 

“Oh no, honey, you’ve been on my ass about this dinner for weeks.” Agnes laughs, something cruel, “I’m not living in suspense any longer. You can handle an hour.” 

For an agonizing moment, you consider breaking—telling her that you’re about to be stuck in a stuffy government building with sub-par food, so she’ll refuse to go and punish you for trying to trick her—but then you remember the nights she ate Planter’s peanuts straight from the canister and got two hours of sleep, all so she wouldn’t leave the case for too long. 

“Okay.” 

Her smile softens, “Good girl. You’ll meet me downstairs when you’re ready?” 

“I shouldn’t be long.” 

She nods. Agnes presses a kiss to your forehead and squeezes you in a sweet gesture, before heading for the bedroom door. You listen to her go, unable to look—if you do, you might be tempted to use the rest of your time getting ready with your favorite vibrator. 

Half-way down the stairs, she calls, “Do we still have ibuprofen? My head is killing me.” 

“In the medicine cabinet. Bottom shelf.” 

She grunts an acknowledgement and you laugh. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you take a few deep breaths; it’s only a few hours—you can handle it. 

---

The second you pull up to the State House, Agnes stiffens. Her leg that’s been bouncing with agitation the past half-hour stills. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” 

“You’re the detective, you tell me.” 

Agnes glares, “Turn around.” 

“No.” 

Some defiance is commonplace in your relationship; it’s hard to earn a punishment if you don’t act up a little bit, after all—but the note in your voice now is firm, the kind you’d employ in the middle of a fight. Agnes regards you with steely eyes. 

“Excuse me?” She asks, slow. 

Her voice is tight, her jaw too. Slowly, you watch her hands tense over the armrests, as if she’s trying to measure her patience. A small murmur of fear prods you. 

This isn’t Agnes putting on a stern act to remind you of your place. This isn’t even a mild bit of annoyance you can tread lightly around. This is the type of anger that builds over time—and making her walk through those doors might drive it to bubble over. 

Chief Proctor’s words echo in your mind, “Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.” 

You’ve driven the hour and a half here and she’s going to be pissed regardless. In for a penny… 

“I didn’t stutter.” You raise a brow, making direct eye contact, “I’ve driven us all the way here and I told the Chief we were coming. So we’re going to go inside, sit through this dinner, and play nice. Am I understood?” 

For a split second, you see her eyes widen. Then her face flushes a deeper red and her hand tightens on the armrest again. You are so dead. 

Her voice is surprisingly entreating, “Baby—” 

“Am I understood, Agnes?” 

A long, long moment of silence. 

“Fine.” 

You smile, triumphant. Leaning over the middle console and giving her ample time to reject your nearness, smugness burrows into your mood when she leans in closer; and you press a sweet kiss to her lips. 

Whispering against them when you pull back, “That’s my good boy.” 

Her broken groan makes you feel alive. 

---

As far as State banquets go, you’ve been through worse. They must’ve upped the budget in the years since the two of you stopped attending—the food isn’t half-bad and there’s an open bar; which is exactly where you’re waiting to get Agnes a drink when a warm presence slides up beside you. 

“I’m surprised you got her to come.” An amused voice comments. 

Agent Vidal is a vision in deep green. Her dark hair lays in soft waves over her shoulders, offset by gold earrings that catch the light when she shifts. A small smirk plays at the edges of her mouth. 

“She didn’t know until we pulled up outside.” You admit. 

That startles a laugh out of the woman. It’s a bit maniacal, but you like it—it suits her. 

“No wonder she looks so pissed,” A glass of champagne is passed over the bar and she takes it with a nod, “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Silence lapses between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable as you’d expect. The bartender is dipping around and under the makeshift bar; you perk up, recognizing the ingredients for the drink you ordered Agnes. 

You glance over at Agnes and find her distracted; a couple of detectives have wandered over to your table. Her face is still flushed though she doesn’t seem as upset. Frowning, you wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something. 

The bartender passes you Agnes’ drink and you smile. Vidal hasn’t left your side. She looks you up and down with those rich brown eyes of hers. 

“I never had a chance to thank you for my Christmas gift.” A sultry grin replaces her smirk, and it’s your turn to flush, catching onto her meaning, “Though I’m disappointed it wasn’t delivered in person.” 

Your throat feels dry. Staring at the drink in hand, you consider whether a sip will help. 

“It was a spur of the moment thing.” 

“I guessed as much. Still, I was impressed.” 

“Thank you.” You smile, not sure if it’s the proper response. 

“Should you two ever find yourselves in my city and willing, don’t hesitate to call me up, sweetheart.” 

Vidal doesn’t give you time to respond before vanishing into the crowd. Good—you’re not entirely sure what you would’ve said. But it does a good job of reigniting your desire from earlier in the evening. 

There are people rushing around near the podium, which means you don’t have enough time to drag Agnes into the bathroom for a little relief. You settle for taking your seat next to her and lacing your fingers together. Though you blink at the heat coming from her. 

It isn’t until the other detectives take their leave that you murmur, “Do we need to go?” 

To hell with the award or recognition or whatever it is. Agnes’ health takes priority over everything. 

“I’m fine,” she says, gruff, “let’s just get through this and go home.” 

“My love—” 

“Leave it.” 

Every part of you screams to do the opposite, but you sigh and settle into your chair. You pull Agnes’ hand to your lips and kiss the back of it. Her eyes soften and that’s enough for you. 

You hold onto that soft look in her face as people step up to the podium and drone on about numbers and figures; nothing the actual workers in the room care about, but necessary to show the government officials in attendance that the state forces are still worth funding. As if they need even half of what the budgets are. To keep yourself from going crazy, you steal a few sips of Agnes’ drink. 

About an hour has gone by when Vidal steps up to the podium, unfolding a pair of glasses. You realize her purpose here seconds before understanding dawns on Anges—who turns with an inscrutable look. 

Pressing another kiss to the back of her hand, you smile. 

What Vidal says goes in one ear and out the other, try as you might to pay attention; but you’re too caught up in watching the emotions pass over Agnes’ face—surprise, hesitant softness, feigned indifference. She deserves every kind word being leveled her way, deserves to have everyone in this room know the hours she put in, deserves to be appreciated. 

When the clapping starts and all eyes turn to her, her flush deepens, and she looks unsure. Her eyes meet your own as she searches for comfort. 

You lean in and kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.” 

And the look she gives you—fond, watery eyes and a hesitant smile—makes the entire evening worth it. 

---

When the speeches wind down, the two of you are swarmed by state officials and officers alike who want to give Agnes a kind word. She’s a bit tense through every interaction, but takes it in stride. Some well wishes are no trouble. 

It’s when the people you know come over that you can feel the trouble start. You hide your grin when they start trading jokes, Agnes scoffing, back in her element. 

Her glass sits empty on the table and you snatch it up discreetly. 

You manage to catch the bartender before he cleans up for the night. And though you can tell he’s not thrilled to do more work, he makes the drink—you slip him a twenty and his mood perks up. 

In the few minutes you were gone the table was completely occupied by your friends; Chief Proctor and his wife Sarah, John, a few of the other Westview detectives and some from Eastview, even Vidal. Every seat at the table is filled. You grin as their laughter echoes in the room, drawing eyes from other lingering groups. 

Vidal has stolen your seat. She leans back in it with the same air of poise she possesses in everything. Not for the first time, you completely understand what drew Agnes to her. 

While Chief Proctor captures the table's attention with a story, you offer Agnes her drink, and slip into her lap, unbothered. You can’t help the little squeak you let out. And though your wife manages to tamp down on any noises, her hand is digging into your hip, blunt nails threatening to draw blood. 

Agnes is painfully hard beneath you. 

Her behavior starts to make sense; the flushed face, how stilted her movements have been, her agitation. You blink. Agnes has been off since the drive here.

Without thinking, you adjust to get comfortable, and her grip tightens. 

Hissing so only the two of you can hear, “Don’t fucking move.” 

You’re impressed, past all the worry—she hasn’t been like this since Christmas Eve, and even then you think this might be worse. And you’ve put her in a precarious situation without meaning to. 

You’re deeply reminded of the moment in her office; how little it had taken to drive her over the edge. It’d been fun, though unintentional. But there’s an audience now.

Her breath is ragged. When you chance a look, her mouth is pinched, but her eyes are blown out. One shift—either in you standing up or moving on accident—and she’s going to put on the show of a lifetime. And no one seems in a hurry to leave. 

An idea hits you. 

“Where is your phone?” You whisper. 

Agnes slides it off the tabletop and into your hands without a word. She’s trying to measure her breathing—in 5, out 5. But the throbbing under you only seems to get stronger. 

You find the number without much fuss. 

You: Be discreet, but I need your help. 

If you weren’t moments from disaster, you’d be impressed; the recipient doesn’t so much as glance your way. They respond without even a blink out of place. 

Vidal: Go on. 

You: I need you to find a way to get everyone to leave. 

Vidal pauses after reading the message. She turns her attention back to the group while your heart beats in your ears. Then, you see her regard the two of you from her periphery. The corner of her mouth twitches. 

Vidal: What’s in it for me? 

You: Are you serious?

Vidal: As a heart-attack. 

Vidal: Tick-tock. It doesn’t look like she can hold out much longer. 

You resist the urge to sigh, worried it’ll jostle too much. 

You: Your offer becomes a promise. If we’re in your area, we’ll call. 

Vidal: You’ve got a deal, sweetheart. 

It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, Vidal employs a slow form of manipulation on the group that leaves you breathless; she starts a small story you don’t really hear, drawing everyone in, only to end it with an exaggerated yawn. 

A yawn that passes through every other person at the table. 

God she’s good. 

Putting on an apologetic smile, she stands, “It’s been a long night—I know you all have a long drive home. Congratulations again, Agnes.” 

She throws a smile your way, eyes twinkling. Everyone else at the table stands as if on cue, offering their own apologetic goodbyes; leaving you to wonder if Vidal is some kind of witch. 

Only when everyone has departed do you turn to Agnes. Her face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. 

“If I move, are you going to…” You ask, soft. 

A hesitant nod. 

“What can I do?” 

Her voice is gravelly, “Just—give me a minute. Don’t talk.” 

You raise a brow at the second command, but don’t open your mouth to question her. She relaxes beneath you by just a hair. Each breath is slow, measured. 

Some of the organizers have begun to clean up around the edges of the room. They avoid interacting directly with any of the lingering guests, but their pointed looks aren’t subtle. 

A few groups take the hint and begin to head toward the front. It’s around this time that Agnes taps a finger against your hip. 

“Get up, carefully.” 

A despicable part of you considers doing the exact opposite. The room is mostly empty and she’s capable of being quiet when she tries; if you were to grind down hard and fast, she couldn’t do anything but accept the inevitable—the humiliating inevitable. 

But you shove that down and stand, using the arms of the chair to lift yourself so there’s as little friction as possible. 

Agnes huffs out a breath. 

“Are you okay to walk to the car?” You murmur. 

“I’m not going to lose it from walking,” she scoffs, “give me a little credit.” 

“You’re being very mean to the woman who could’ve utterly humiliated you a minute ago.” 

“The same woman who gets off on that?” 

You don’t deign to respond to that comment. Rather, you hold your hand out, wiggling your fingers expectantly. Agnes’ fond smile warms you as her hand slots into place in yours. 

The night air seems to help as you cross the parking lot. Agnes’ breathing loses its ragged edge, her gait a bit smoother. There’s only the sound of your intermingled breaths and the jingle of her keys; the reminder of earlier making you throb. 

Releasing her hand, you reach the passenger door before she can and pull it open, “Your carriage awaits.” 

Agnes scoffs. 

“Thanks.” She kisses your cheek before sliding into the car. 

You rush around to the driver’s side and don’t even turn the car on before leaning over, scrambling with her suit jacket to reach the belt buckle on her pants. Agnes straightens in her seat. When you brush her cock in your search, she twitches, swearing under her breath. A strong hand grabs your wrists. 

Blinking, you take her in with a look of disbelief. 

“Are you trying to torture yourself? Because that’s my job.” 

“You’re just—You’re going a bit fast.” 

“I’d say this is overdue in your current state.” 

“Drive and we can handle this at the house, yeah? Not in the car like a couple of horny teenagers.” 

You laugh, disbelief coloring the sound. 

“I think being hard this long has stopped the blood flow to your brain.” You deadpan, “Just let me suck you off and we can go home.” 

Agnes' eyes widen just a fraction. Inches from your hands, her hips twitch, as if unable to hold her movements back. But her grip on your wrists only gets tighter. 

“Let’s wait.” 

“We’ve both been thinking about your cock in my mouth since before we left.” 

“Baby—” 

“Do you not want my mouth? Because I’m more than ready to take you if we want to climb in the backseat and—” 

In your haste to fulfill your mutual desires, you missed the signs staring you right in the face. Or maybe you wanted to miss them. 

Agnes’ head hits the headrest with a thud that goes unheard beneath the volume of her moan. Every muscle in her form tenses, with the exception of her hips—which are rutting forward in search of anything to deepen the pleasure. 

Where you expect the hand on your wrist to slacken, it grows tighter. And as if on instinct, said hand falls to her length, effectively using yours to stroke herself through the rest of her orgasm. It’s messy, and her desire is seeping through her pants, but you can’t look away—not as her hips hump forward, almost in a frenzy, and as her mouth parts to let escape her groans. 

In time, her hips still. Silence reigns over the space. 

Your hand rests over her suit pants, where you can feel her cock continue to give weak little throbs. Her eyes have fallen closed. 

“Did I just get you off with my… voice?” You whisper. 

A breathless laugh, “You sound surprised.” 

“I’ve never heard of that happening before.” 

Her eyes open, then. It’s too dark to see the look in them, but what little light exists makes them sparkle. Your heart squeezes. 

How the hell did you get so lucky? 

Then she opens her mouth and says, ever so soft, “There’s no part of you that doesn’t drive me crazy.” 

You blink. Heat flares in your face and you look away, suddenly shy. But her finger beneath your chin brings your gaze right back up. 

“Agnes…” 

“Where’s all that boldness now?” 

Your blush deepens, “You liked it.” 

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She sounds slightly puzzled by the information, “You surprise me. Not many can.” 

There’s a lingering exhaustion in both of you that prompts you to start driving, eager to get home. Agnes sets one hand in the center console, palm up; and you place your own into hers. 

“Is that why you married me? Cause it gives you plenty of time to figure out my mind?” You tease once you’re safely on the highway. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, baby—your mouth was a contributing factor too.” 

You giggle. Your face flushes, again, despite the circumstances; Agnes has seen you in more situations of embarrassment and desire than anyone could hope to, and yet you still blush at her dirty jokes. 

In your periphery, the lights over the highway catch her smirk. 

“The same mouth I oh-so-generously offered, and you denied?” You ask with mock-hurt. 

“‘Oh-so-generously’ my ass. Don’t pretend that was a selfless act.” 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” You pout, “You couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to get out of your pants.” 

Her hand tightens in yours. She jolts in her seat, as if flinching from the remark, and you glance over—but her face is impassive. 

You shake off the moment and settle into the rhythm of driving. Singing along to the music, there’s a calm over you as you traverse the open road, enjoying the lack of other drivers at this time of night. Agnes settles back into her seat, singing under her breath to the songs she knows—early 2000s rock, mostly. 

Halfway through the drive the song changes and you perk up. It’s modern with a heavy beat, the singer going back and forth between high notes and breathless singing, and you match it with a passion, not thinking too much about it. 

Agnes watches every movement. 

And when the song ends and you lean into the seat again, you hear a soft ‘fuck’ from her. You look over, brow raised. 

“Baby?” 

“Focus on the road.” She snaps. 

She avoids your eyes as you squint. The muscles in her neck are taut, a few straining, kinda like when—

Oh. Oh. 

“Agnes, are you hard again?”

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Agnes huffs out a breath. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t—This isn’t normal.” 

“You’re just having an up-day in the hormone department. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“This isn’t… It’s like I’m in my twenties again, getting turned on at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t mind if not for this fucking headache.” 

The information swirls around in your brain for a moment before striking like a snake. No fucking way. She couldn’t have been that careless, right? 

“Baby, what color were the pills you took?” 

She pauses, “What?” 

“The pills. For your headache. What color were they?” 

Agnes throws her hands up, looking baffled by the turn in conversation, “Blue, I think. What does it matter?” 

You laugh. You laugh so hard tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes—and you almost miss taking the first exit you find, looking for a dark, empty lot. 

“Ibuprofen is pink.” You finally force out. 

Her brows furrow. Then, like a switch flipped, it registers. Pink crawls up her neck. Veined hands tense on the armrests. 

A song comes on that is upbeat, a little cheery. Agnes slams the off button. 

“Why the fuck were those in the same place?” 

“It is the medicine cabinet. That’s where medicine goes.” 

You find a dark, empty lot and pull in. Agnes doesn’t seem to notice as she watches you. 

“That’s—You—Why were they on the same shelf?!” 

Your wife. Your beautiful, brilliant, decorated detective of a wife—who somehow managed to miss the bold label on the pill bottle. Another round of laughter bubbles up. 

“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice fond as you throw the car in park, “and I’m going to fuck you so hard.” 

Her mouth snaps shut. Something inside you purrs. 

You continue, “Get in the backseat, Agnes.” 

There’s a moment where she bristles. She leans toward the middle console, lip curling. But then—she winces. The car is turned off, then, with a deafening finality. 

It is only you and your wife and the wind outside. 

Leaning closer, your hand finds the length of her with ease. You trace a finger along all her straining inches. Dark, wanting eyes don’t blink as they take in the sight of you. Agnes is exquisite, cast in shadow and moonlight through the windshield. 

“I won’t ask again.” 

“And if I don’t?” She murmurs. 

“You’ll spend a lot of quality time with your hand.” 

Leaves rustle like insect wings. Trees above sway, dipping into the light kissing Agnes’ strong jaw. 

Her seatbelt unclicks. 

You smile. Agnes rolls her eyes. 

“This is your fault. It’s only right you fix it.” She grouses. 

Neither of you pay much attention to your surroundings as you clamber into the backseat. You’re parked in the middle of a town you don’t know, where any patrol officer could see you, but you don’t care—Agnes would talk her way out of it.

No, all you care about at this moment is having her inside you. 

You straddle her thighs as she furiously works the buckle of her belt. In her eagerness, her hands are fumbling, and you take over with a laugh. Strong hands settle on your hips. The hold pulls you forward a fraction, just enough to press her cock against your core. 

“Ass.” There is no way that action wasn’t intentional, “Condom or no condom?” 

“Need to feel you.” 

Her honesty is rewarded with a kiss. Managing to unclasp her belt, you waste no time in slipping a hand inside to free her. A stuttered gasp is your reward. 

Agnes is heavy in your palm. She’s throbbing, veins prominent along her length, absolutely flushed. You run your thumb over the tip to collect the fluid there and spread it down her slowly. It won’t be enough, though—so you reach between your legs for some more. 

When you spread the wetness down her and give an experimental pump, her hips jump. Agnes’ head falls against the headrest with a low moan. 

In shades of grey shadow she is a vision; limbs sprawled across the backseat, hair wild around her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parting when you squeeze. Ecstasy softens her hard angles when you stroke reverently. 

Tears bead at the corners of your eyes. You blink them away. 

“My sweet, stupid baby.” Tittering, you tighten your grip, “Too silly to read the label on the bottles. Or are you so desperate for this pussy that you took them anyway?” 

You push your panties aside and rub yourself against her. Agnes grunts, pushing up for more. The tip of her cock hits your clit and stars erupt behind your eyes. 

“‘Was an accident.” Agnes defends. 

The defense feels pretty weak when she’s humping her cock against you like she’s never cum before, but you’re not much better. You’ve been wet and wanting since sitting in her lap. And even if you’re playing tough, all you want is to sink down on her length and ride her until you know nothing more than how she stretches your cunt. 

You clench at the mere thought of her. Of how perfect it feels to be so connected—and how warm you feel when she spills herself inside you, clutching any bit of you she can get her hands on. Fuck, you need her so bad. 

But—a little part of you whispers—don’t you want to play?

“I’m sure. Just a dumb little mistake.” 

“Mhm.” 

Seemingly unsatisfied with sitting back, Agnes sits up to mouth at your breasts over your clothing. It makes you bear down where you grind against her. The vibrations from her moan and the muted scrape of her teeth over your nipple makes the emptiness unbearable.

You reach between the two of you and—tentatively—slap her cock. Her startled whimper drives you wild. 

You’re reminded of your idea from a few days ago; of putting a pretty collar around her neck and treating her like a dog. It’d take some convincing, but she’d like it—letting you take control, the denial of begging, the heated destruction of her pride as she humps your flesh like she can’t help herself. 

Another blow to her length. 

Toes curling at the sound of her pretty little cry, you can’t stand the separation any longer. You need her deep inside you. If you don’t get it, it’ll kill you. 

“It’s so generous of me to fix your mistake for you, isn’t it?” You ask, “What do you say?” 

Whining, pathetic little breaths, “Thank you.”

“You want this pussy, baby boy?” 

“Yes, yes. Fuck.”

A thought bubbles up inside you—that wayward desire from the day she spent at home once more rearing its head, urging you to give it life. You’ve thought about it at length only in private moments. The want makes you hurt. 

But will it be too much? Will this be where Agnes draws the line? 

Fuck it. 

Trying to sound as sure as possible, “Tell Mommy how bad you want it.” 

The second you give it life, you’re terrified of seeing it die. You hadn’t been honest with yourself about just how bad you wanted it—too scared that it was wrong, or shameful. Calling Agnes Daddy has always been natural; but is calling you Mommy… wrong? 

You hold your breath as Agnes gasps. Tears threaten your composure. As you stare up at the ceiling of the car, you try to rid yourself of them. 

She’s going to laugh. Shame bubbles up. You should’ve kept it to yourself. 

Agnes’ nails dig into your flesh as she whines into your neck, “Mommy—please, please let me—let me have you, cum in you—I’ll be your good boy—please.” 

The tears fall, but they’re not sad—they’re euphoric. 

Not bothering to hide them as you line her up and sink down, adjusting to the stretch, you hope she knows how happy she makes you; how safe you feel in her arms, admitting the lurid desires in your mind and just being. With every inch of her cock you hope she understands that she is your everything. 

Her hands shake when she bottoms out. You can feel how desperate she is to just take it, but she waits. For you. 

Kissing her cheeks, lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead; you can’t get enough of her handsome face, “Take what you need, baby.”

The dam holding back her need breaks. Hips snap up hard and you would gasp—if you could draw enough breath between thrusts. Shivers descend through your body as she chases her peak, brushing that perfect spot inside you with every movement. 

This would normally be where Agnes taunts you, prying admissions between thrusts and holding back to make you talk; but both of you are too far gone to prolong what you want. 

Little uh uh uh moans dissolve into something more primal, grunting and growling into the flesh of your neck. It makes you clench hard around her. 

“Fuck.” 

You couldn’t have said it better yourself. 

“You like that?” 

Agnes nods against your neck. She’s panting, and the sound feels deafening in the silence of the backseat. At the speed she’s pistoning her cock inside you, she’s going to be sore tomorrow.

You reach down and toy with your clit, fingers slipping over the little bundle of nerves. Every thrust of Agnes’ cock drags more wetness from you. It fills your ears just as your wife’s noises do. You whine, struggling to get friction where you need it most. 

Long fingers brush your own away. They slip against the same spot but with better coverage. Then, she does it again. 

“Right there, right there.”

Her fingers never leave your clit. Even as you lift yourself up and slam back down, taking every inch of her with growing fervor. Even as her thrusts falter in their speed at how you clench. Agnes is dedicated, even when staring down her own ecstasy. 

She gives so much—and to no one more than you. 

A home. A love. Comfort from the hard edges of the world and a soft place to expose the truths of yourself. Agnes gives all of these things without hesitation, without asking for much in return. It’s her turn to take. 

You tamp down on the whine as you secure both of her wrists and hold them away from you. Her eyes—which had slipped closed in the heat of the moment—snap open. 

“What are you—” 

The question cuts off when you take the entire length of her once again. It becomes a pained-sounding groan, but her eyes don’t close. You clench and try not to come at the sight of her staring like you hung the moon. 

Agnes fights your hold admirably. Her hands ache to settle on some part of you, to make you feel good because that’s what she does. But you can’t let her—not right now. This has to be all about her. 

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. All I could think about was how I’d do anything to have you.” You pant, “And now look at you. You’re all mine.” 

Her agreement comes quicker than you anticipate, “All yours.” 

“All yours who?” 

“All yours, Mommy.” 

“That’s right. And you want to be Mommy’s good boy, don’t you?” 

A particularly violent throb inside you. 

The answering nod is a touch frantic, “Yes—yes.” 

“Then I’m going to give you instructions, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Because you’re so good for me.”

No verbal response. Rather, Agnes' head falls to your chest, groaning into the fabric still separating the two of you. You continue to ride her even as her throbbing grows more insistent. You need to stop, to slow down, but the idea of stopping her pleasure for even a second hurts you. 

Continuing while you still can, “You’re going to use me like I’m a toy that only exists to please you. Can you do that, baby?” 

“Fuck, yes.” 

It’s a miracle she’s held herself back this long; given how tormented she’s been all evening. But she won’t be tormented any longer. No—she is driving herself into you at a punishing clip, so deep it hurts in just the way you crave. 

She’s snarling in your ear like an animal, and your eyes roll back in your head. This won’t take long if she’s descended to this level of pleasure. 

A few moments pass in which she says nothing. There’s the smacking of joining flesh and her ragged breath. Her hips begin to falter in rhythm as she fights your hold on her wrists.

“‘Wanna fuck a baby into you,” she pants, “make it stick this time.”

Your toes curl at the thought, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna make you a Mama again.” 

Grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into a kiss, your hips frantic, Agnes shudders. She’s almost there. You are too. 

“Fill me,” you breathe against her lips, “I want it all. Want the world to see that you own me. Want you to make a baby in me.” 

Agnes freezes and snarls in your ear, “Fucking take it.” 

She spills herself inside you in forceful spurts. And you shudder, your walls squeezing as you come, milking her for all you’re worth. 

As you feel your orgasm fade, you wait, sitting still as Agnes’ continues. You’re so warm that you can’t tell if she’s still shooting, but you can feel the weakening throbs. With the extra assistance still in her system you gather it may be a minute. But you don’t mind. 

“You’re so perfect.” You murmur against her skin, “So beautiful.” 

Agnes only grunts in acknowledgment. 

You press little kisses wherever you can reach, but don’t say much else, letting her come down from the high. Her breathing slows, heartbeat no longer fluttering. 

One hand begins to rub circles on your back. 

“Thank you.” She whispers. 

Chuckling, “It was my pleasure. Literally.” 

“Not for that.” 

You soften. Brushing a few sweat-soaked pieces of hair from her face, you take in every inch of her; reveling in the feeling of skin on skin. 

“I’ve got you, baby. Always.” 

Agnes joins the two of you in a slow kiss. You sigh, utterly content, even if the two of you are tangled in the backseat of the car—because you have her, the woman others could only dream of. 

You shift to get closer and Agnes releases a pained noise; you had forgotten she was still inside you. 

“Is it safe to go home, or will we have to make another stop?” You ask. 

“I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.” 

“Aw.”

She chuckles, “Greedy.” 

“Guilty.” You grin, “Take me away, detective.” 

She does. She finishes the drive home with a hand on your thigh, smirking everytime you fidget; more of her leaking out of you each minute. The jerk. 

Somewhere along the way you fall asleep. And when she glances over every now and again to check up, she can’t help but grin. 

Maybe those pills aren’t so terrible after all. 

[pigeonp0st]

heelloo!! uhm i was thinking could u write an agatha harkness x reader one with Agatha sees r with another person (just as closer friends but Agatha doesn’t know it). Then Agatha invites r to her house and Agatha has to bite down on their lip so hard whenever r talks about the other person, angst with happy ending please (and if your are comfortable, maybe you can add smut)?

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary:

Agatha gets jealous of your relationship with Wanda. Emotion ensues.

Warning:

Jealousy, angst (not really)

Notes:

Thanks for the request! I wrote this pretty fast and have not even read it over once…I’ll probably fix it up later…anyways! Hope you enjoy still <3 I always love an Agatha request

——

Agatha stopped Wanda for you. She brought down Westview, and forced Wanda into reality. In the process she ruined both of their fantasies; Wanda’s fantasy of a perfect life, and Agathas of all consuming power.

She did it for you. Because the prospect of power was nothing compared to the prospect of your devastation. Because you asked her to. You with your warm eyes, full of more emotion and humanity than both Agatha and Wanda have in power combined.

You asked her to, and there was no other option.

So no. She doesn’t regret it. Doesn’t regret trailing behind you and Wanda to help the Avengers, doesn’t regret following you. Can’t possibly. She doesn’t regret it, but Wanda smiles at you, leans in close, and Agatha feels a bit like she’s been betrayed. Betrayed because you smile back, and whisper something into Wanda’s ear that makes her flush a color that’s just perfect for the Scarlett Witch.

Agatha grits her teeth and returns to her book. She’s lived centuries and has never felt more childish.

It shouldn’t bother how close you and Wanda have gotten, she knows. She has no right to feel betrayed. She hasn’t done anything she’s done expecting anything more than your happiness. You aren’t hers.

You aren’t hers, and so Agatha just fumes silently in the corner of the room and imagines burning this whole damn tower down.

You don’t even know how Agatha cares, she knows. Every bit of vulnerability, love, and affection is hidden behind layers of humor and sarcasm.

You watch Agatha with distrust still because of it; wondering about alternative motives. Everyone in this god forsaken tower does, and Agatha has no idea why she’s here giving up centuries of planning for this game. These people are no different to those in Westview. Children playing dress up and pretend. All of them wearing costumes of heroes who aren’t afraid.

Cowards. All of them.

Your loud laugh draws Agatha’s attention from her page. Wanda is smiling at you with a gentleness Agatha can’t afford, and Agatha thinks, both with affection and a heavy heart; all of them but you.

She knows that despite her help she has given no one here good reason to trust her. She admits to herself that she enjoys letting them think she’s scheming—that she plays into it.

They’re just as uncaring for her as she is them. They push her away, but all you do is pull her in. To be brave and foolish is one in the same to Agatha, and she loves you for all the things she can’t afford to be.

—-

It’s only the next day that Agatha walks into the compound looking for you. She wants your help to test her potion.

She’s been visiting every day this week, and she’s beginning to feel a bit like the person she thought she wouldn’t ever be again. She’s beginning to settle into the thoughts instead of jerk away.

Then she sees you. You’re on top of Wanda, both you and her sleeping peacefully on the couch. Your head on her chest, her hand threaded in your hair, your legs intertwined.

The glass potion in Agatha’s hand shatters violently and loudly, startling only Wanda awake. She jerks and snaps her eyes towards Agatha, always on edge after being raised in war. Their eyes meet for only a second, and then both turn back to you, still sleeping peacefully.

Agatha turns on her heel. Wanda says, with a knowing that ruins her; “wait—”

Agatha, cowardly, no different than the people she despises, and never having claimed otherwise, teleports away.

—-

Agatha avoids the compound for just a week before she caves and invites you over.

She can’t bear to see Wanda, which is a new thing because usually she enjoys tormenting her. The image of her protective hand tangled in your hair, and your possessive leg thrown over her is still fresh in Agatha’s mind though.

Then there’s the text Wanda sent after Agatha left; filled with the same knowing Agatha sensed with her departure. You’re 5 years old.

(Then a bit later; whatever was in that potion melted through the compound. I hope you can magic up some money to fix your tantrum.)

Agatha, the picture of wisdom, sends Wanda two middle fingers and then blocks her.

So, naturally, she’s glad when you show up only an hour after Agatha’s text. No Wanda, for the first time in weeks.

At least—that’s what Agatha expected. It’s an hour later and all you’ve talked about is Wanda. Wanda this, Wanda that. Agatha has always had a challenge with patience, it’s always the biggest challenge of her schemes, and biting on her lip is barely constraining her from lashing out at this point.

It’s when Agatha tones your voice out though, that she notices the hunch to your shoulders, the heaviness in your eyes.

And the bruise around your neck. Why hadn’t she noticed sooner? “Who did this to you?”

Agatha drops her dishes immediately, rushing to where you’re seated at the kitchen island. She thinks; who, who, with a desperate frustration as she tilts your head up to inspect the injury. She’ll kill them. Kill them.

For now, she pulls her magic forward, setting to the task of healing the violence inflicted on you, but you pull away from Agatha just as suddenly as she calls on her magic; angry in a way Agatha is caught off guard by.

“All you are is hot and cold,” you mutter, looking away. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days and you haven’t responded, then I come as soon as you call and you ignore me for an hour. Now…now you suddenly care that I’m hurt?”

Agatha blinks, once, twice, and then you’re standing up and pacing her kitchen. Agatha stands, hand still hovering where it was touching your cheek, and watches.

“If you’re done—If you’ve already gotten what you needed from us, whatever it is, and are done, just tell me. Tell me and stop pretending to care,” you plead. Agatha notices the dark circles under your eyes. Notices all the parts of you that are dimmed now that she’s not stuck on Wanda, Wanda. “I can’t play pretend like you do, Ag. I don’t get what it serves you to act like you care about me. I have nothing to offer.”

You’re spiraling in the middle of Agatha’s kitchen, and Agatha is torn between all of the parts of herself. The one that wants to laugh and brush this all aside, the one that wants to comfort you, the one that wants to kiss you, and the one she settles on; the version of her that’s angry and feeling misunderstood by the person she knows she’s done everything to deceive.

She’s not often hit by regret, or not often this out of control over her own emotions. It makes her angrier. Angrier because it takes her back and makes her feel younger than she’s been in centuries. She’s not that child anymore, can’t be.

Don’t you get that you’re ruining her?

—-

“I care,” Agatha whispers urgently, silently fuming and with her face morphed into a frustrated scowl. “Of course I care,” she says, like it should have never been in question—because she’s made it so clear apparently, you think disbelievingly, unable to help the scoff that chokes out of you.

Yeah right.

With more disappointment than Agatha could ever understand, you shake your head. “The only thing you care about, Agatha, is power. You tell me yourself all the time. I just thought— ” you pause, untamed tears coming to your eyes. “I don’t know what I thought…”

The moment the words leave your lips, you and Agatha enter into a standoff. Agatha furious and raging, and you too wrapped in your own emotions to register it as it is.

Agatha angry for the first time—at this. At the doubting of her care. It should say all you need to know, but you’ve missed it completely now that you’ve stopped looking.

It’s another moment of glaring before Agatha scoffs and stalks forward, pushing you into the wall and trapping you. Anyone else would be scared, but you just continue to glare (even as you flush).

There’s a part of you somewhere, one you don’t notice, but that Agatha does. A part of you that knows Agatha would never hurt you.

“I’m too old for this, ” Agatha grits out, and then her hand is around your throat. You don’t even flinch. Aren’t even surprised when you feel the rush of healing magic. All you’re surprised about is just that— your lack of surprise.

Agatha’s eyes turn inspecting, she shifts your head to the side with her other hand, ignoring your protests. You’re beginning to feel like a child, beginning to see things as they are.

Of course Agatha cares, you know. Somehow it hurts just as much. How could she both care and be so unpredictable, so cold? Had she thought of how you’d feel at all when you ignored her for the week? The other Avengers grew suspicious, checking everywhere around the compound for something stolen. You thought something terrible happened to her.

Only Wanda seemed unbothered. “She’s just throwing a tantrum,” she said, and wouldn’t explain further.

“Who did this?” Agatha repeats, pulling you from your thoughts.

“It was a mission”, you explained, the fire leaving you with it. You can’t afford to be mad at Agatha. You need and miss her too much.

Agatha growls, not settled at all. “Isn’t Wanda supposed to be protecting you?” She asks venomously, her jaw tightening along with her hand. “What good is your little girlfriend if she can’t even do that?”

It’s so laced with bitterness, with wanting, you’re left to blink at her, utterly shocked. Does Agatha think—? Wanda’s voice comes to your head; “she saw us cuddling and looked like she was going to murder me with the shattered glass in her hand.”

Seriously?

“What?” Agatha asks, self conscious in a way she never is. Self conscious because she likes—possibly loves you back.

All of this week’s turmoil, and for what? Because the two of you love each other?

—

You’re grinning at Agatha now, and Agatha is completely suspicious and unnerved. She tries to step back but you capture her wrists, pull her even closer.

Agatha’s heart pounds at the look on your face. Like a Cheshire cat. She can’t escape the feeling that she’s been caught. She eyes you with uneasiness.

You look at her expectantly now. “So much wisdom and yet you’re still so stupid?”

“Stupid?” Agatha repeats with disgust, like the word isn’t even in the dictionary.

You nod. “Agatha,” you breathe, affectionately. Agatha feels her world shift. “You know I love you, don’t you? Wanda is only ever going to be my frie—”

Agatha doesn’t let you finish. Couldn’t bear too. She’s always standing on the precipice of something. Always hovering over lines, too impatient to stand back, and your I love you snaps Agatha forward, like she’s been waiting for it for centuries. She kisses you roughly, pushing you back against the wall, and tries to claim it.

I love you, to the person who has never felt loved. She turned her back on love the moment love turned her back on her. She was only a teenager then, realizing that there was not a strength she could have that would make her enough for her mother—for her clan. There was not a person she could be beside herself, and never a version that wasn’t lacking, just out of reach of affection.

Then you. You showed up in Westview, strong enough to break in unaffected, and suspicious of Agatha, suspicious and then knowing, but still caring through it, and Agatha felt herself enough in the moments her mother would have claimed were her weakest; her moments where she was vulnerable and honest.

She kisses you like you’re her testament of her strength, now. Like you’re a testament of just how enough she is. She’s always been wanting, and doesn’t know how to exist without it. Without the yearning of; more, more, more, but as her kisses slow down, turn loving instead of passionate, she thinks for the first time that to exist like this—for the first time at peace, is something she could get used to forever.

You’re breathing heavily when Agatha breaks away, completely flustered and shaken. Agatha feels her heart pick up again, and thinks, no—she’ll always be wanting, and moves in to kiss you again.

You laugh, so joyful and happy—because of her. Because of her—a hand over Agatha’s mouth to stop her. “Are we ever going to talk?” You wonder breathlessly. “About feelings? About where you got that idea about Wanda and me?

Agatha pulls your hand away, smiles devilishly and possessively. “After I’ve had you against every corner of this house, we’ll invite Wanda over and talk over everything you’d like.”

You groan in exasperation, but there’s no protesting when Agatha kisses you next, and from the way you practically fall into the way Agatha’s hand curls loosely around your neck, she doesn’t expect one anytime soon.

[livelaughgem]

If the Conclavers were animals;

Lawrence: Pug

Benítez: Turtle or lamb/sheep

Tecesco: Cat

Aldo: Pigeon or Stork

Tremblay: Goose

Adeyemi: Tiger

Agnes: Lioness

(Credits to @fluffycoffeebuns for coming up with the animals for Tremblay and Adeyemi)