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older!neighbor!wanda who slowly corrupts housewife!reader …
-telling you how pathetic your husband is, how you could do so much better than a man who simply brushes you off.
-and desperate for her approval, you beg wanda to help your marriage, and wanda desperate for more obliges. wanda teaches you how to be a good wife, a good woman. teaching you to cook, clean, but most importantly…how to please.
-and little you….you want to please him..so you tell yourself, but it’s not his affection you crave—it’s hers.
-and wanda knows all about your little feelings towards her, so much to where she initiated the arrangement! One where she teaches you how to please a man.
-what’s a better way to learn than hands on?
-“let me be your test doll…for practicing of course” she’d say in that sickeningly sweet tone of hers. underlying cunningness that flies right over your head as she inches closer, her hand coming to your jaw forcing it straight, making your nervous wandering eyes look at her. Only her.
-“this is what good neighbors do babydoll….what kind of neighbor would I be if I let you prance around all clueless hm?” how could you not believe her when she talks so sweetly?
-Wanda has slowly become what you consider your close friends. you love gushing about her to your friends, telling your family back home is what wonderful neighbor you have…how she helps you navigate married life, sorta like a mentor—you phrased it.
-but mentors don’t have their hands in your hair pushing your face closer to her cunt, instructing you to stick your tongue out further, and moaning out in between heavy breaths “fuck keep going baby…doing so good for mommy…such a fast learner..”
-and a fast learner you are, one of wanda’s favorites? teaching you how to ride, by having you up and down her thick strap. saying “just like that babydoll….exactly like that” while she watches herself disappear into you over and over. It gives her a rush to see your pretty thighs—marked from her own love bites—tremble all tired from how long she’s had you bouncing.
-maybe next she’ll even introduce you to her lovely friend natasha….her mind is running with the amount of corrup—teaching she can do to you.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Balletinstructor!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader
♪ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You attend a highly favored ballet school in New York, and are your instructor's star dancer. Little did you know she had differing intentions than previously imagined.
♪ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Innocence corruption, sexual tension, cunnilingus, naive reader, Wanda needs that, competence kink, sizeable age gap ( W is 38, R is 19), Dom = W, Sub = R, and yea
♪ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3k
You frantically dig in every nook and cranny of your pink gym bag for your phone as you near the grand, slightly run-down entrance of the studio; you cannot be late again.
"Aha! Thank god," you exhale, a small victory. You think to check the time, 12:13 pm, great. Miss Maximoff won’t be here for another fifteen minutes; you can stretch some more.
It’s pretty cloudy today, and it's probably going to rain soon. You hum as you shove your phone into your back pocket, then push open the double doors of The Scarlet Ballet School. You were just as surprised as everyone else that you got in, more so even. Not many of your relatives are supportive of your passion for the art of ballet. Wanting you to pursue something more sustainable, more real. But you didn’t let them stop you.
Only the dancers with the most credibility got in, but you... were an exception. You're here on a scholarship. Screw up? And it's back to square one.
You’ve been at this studio for a few months and in New York for a little less than a year, and it’s treated you well, especially your new ballet instructor. Wanda Maximoff. Wanda… has a more hands-on approach. So to speak.
The inside of the studio has the sort of charm that you only see in movies. Never did you think you'd make it a reality. The front desk is manned by Billy, the scrawny, awkward teen with smudged eyeliner, every day. He types away at whatever as he sips his Monster.
"You know drinking those every day will give you heart murmurs, right?" You smirk as you approach the desk, propping your arms on it.
Billy doesn't spare you a glance; he rolls his eyes, though. "That? Is a myth."
"Fuck around and find out, I guess." You shrug, which gets a small smile out of the teen. "Has Yelena come in yet?" You ask, lightly drumming your fingertips on the desk.
Billy nods, finally meeting your eyes, "Mhm, like five minutes ago. She said she'd meet you after she's done in Miss Romanoff's room."
You hum, "Alright, thanks, Billy!" you say as you begin to walk away.
"Cute skirt!" He calls after you, and you smile brightly over your shoulder.
--
"Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?" Yelena Inquires, stretching her leg on the barre, putting her short blond hair in a small ponytail. "Since you cancelled last week." She mentions with a pointed look.
You huff before you get a sip of water from your bottle. "Yes, Lena, we're still on for lunch tomorrow." You playfully roll your eyes and smile easily, though it falters somewhat. Your brows knit together in concern. "Shouldn't... shouldn't, Miss Maximoff be here by now?" You glance at the entrance to the ballet room.
Yelena follows your gaze before meeting yours again, shrugging lightly. "Little graces," she snorts, getting off the barre to stretch her back now, adjusting her navy leotard straps.
You sigh. You're sorely aware of the fact that no one here likes the older woman. You can practically feel the dread suffocate the room when she comes in on bad days. Sure, she's abrasive sometimes, too strict, and can be mean. However, for whatever reason, you never got to experience that side of her. She differs from you. Patient, a sweet-talker, and lenient. You have no clue as to why. The other girls in your room hate you for it, too. Whispering amongst themselves and giving you sideways glances.
Suddenly, the doors to the room swing open as Wanda struts in like she owns the place. Confidence exudes from her every step, not the in-your-face kind of self-assurance, but the quiet kind. One that shows just how comfortable she is being who she is. Her black pencil skirt is just shy of the knee, and her blood red satin button-up is perfectly tucked into it, with a few tantalizing buttons left unbuttoned. The sound of her heels reverberates on the vinyl floor.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.
Your heart skips a beat at the sound. Your hands subconsciously smooth over your fitted black tank top and small pink skirt.
"Speak of the devil, and she will appear," Yelena mutters beside you, her stretching halting. You subtly nudge her.
Everyone in the room waits with bated breath for Miss Maximoff to speak; conversations die mid-sentence, and a few girls suddenly become very interested in their stretches. Someone near the mirrors straightens so fast she nearly loses her balance.
Wanda regards everyone with a pointed look, assessing, before they land on you. Something in her gaze shifts, something… dark, it makes you blink and falter. "Good afternoon." She says briefly, getting her keys to her office out of her purse. "Since everyone seems fascinated by the time of my arrival," she says coolly, removing a pair of reading glasses from her blouse pocket, "perhaps someone would like to explain why we're standing around instead of warming up."
Like clockwork, everyone who stopped stretching to show some sort of respect for Miss Maximoff, scatter to continue stretching; it's almost comical.
__
Some time has passed, and Yelena is practicing her ballons on the opposite side of the room. The other girls are working on whatever movements Miss Maximoff has drilled them to perform. You stand alone, near the barre, in first position, your legs burn from the effort you put into them today, in fear of disappointing your instructor. You take a minute to breathe. Suddenly, you feel warm hands glide gracefully to support your sides, and you straighten almost instantly, ignoring how every inch of you screams to settle into the touch.
The scent of her, vanilla and something faintly smoky, like incense, hits you before she even speaks.
Wanda’s hands are firm but gentle, warm from the studio lights above. Her fingertips press just slightly into your ribs through the thin fabric of your tank. No one else gets this close to her during class - not unless they’re being corrected harshly or praised quietly.
You don’t turn around right away.
Instead, you feel her lean in, her breath a whisper against your ear, and then that low voice wraps around you like velvet, “Breathe deeper than that, detka.”
Ugh, that pet name makes your gut coil.
Her lips brush the shell of your ear for half a second before she pulls back slightly to adjust how she’s holding you, but you miss the barely there touch. Your pulse spikes so hard it feels audible in the quiet.
“Now rise.”
Wanda’s hands don’t just rectify you; they linger.
When you rise, her palms slide up your sides like she’s memorizing the curve of your waist, thumb brushing the dip just above your hip. She doesn’t let go when you’re fully upright. No, she keeps one hand there, warm and possessive at your back, while the other lifts to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
Too intimate for an instructor during class… everyone knows it. No one dares say anything, though. Not with Wanda Maximoff standing two inches away from you, her favorite student. You don't mean it with sovereignty; it's simply a fact.
“You look tired.”
You blink out of your reverie, stammering. "I-I… yeah. I am, I was up too late practicing for the past two days." You explain sheepishly.
The brunette's presence shifts to one of concern and disapproval. She raises a brow and sighs lowly. Her grip on your sides tighten imperceivley, sending a cold shiver down your spine. "Now, why did you think that was a good idea?"
Your lip catches between your teeth, and your green eyes follow the motion. "I don't want to be behind, I'm here on a scholarship… I need to be ahead." You elaborate determinedly.
Wanda pouts, "I see how hard you work, honey. I'm proud of you, but burning out won't help anyone." She pulls back slightly, her hand still on your left hip, and slowly glides up your back, to your shoulder, stopping just shy of your neck, her thumb barely caressing your collarbone. "You don't need to prove yourself to me." Miss Maximoff whispers in the most intoxicating tone you've ever heard, and your lips part.
You don't know what comes over you; maybe it was the stress, or the weight of expectation, or perhaps the lack of real sleep.
Your eyes well up with tears.
Your instructor notices almost immediately, and her taller form comes a step closer before you, her hand now fully holding the back of your neck, her thumb gently rubbing your cheek. Her brows furrow, grabbing your jaw lightly when you try to avoid eye contact. "Hey, hey, look at me when I'm talking."
You fight and fail miserably to stop the stray tear that falls, you sniffle, then meet Wanda's eyes, hesitating some.
Wanda smiles. "Good girl. You wanna come to my office, sweetheart? We can talk about it," she coos.
The way Wanda spoke to you makes you feel small, dumb, and incapable of handling this on your own. The words catch in your throat. You nod.
Wanda shakes her head, "Nuh uh, use your words."
You take a shuddering breath, scared the dam will break. "I do. Want t-to talk about it." You wipe another tear.
Wanda hums approvingly, standing straighter; she almost looks relieved. "Smart girl." She praises, her hand falling from your neck to your lower back, leading you to her office. You don't want to look and see everyone staring in the ballet room, but you do catch Lena's questioning gaze, her head tilted, she mouths, 'Where the hell are you going?', throwing her arms up slightly.
You wince, 'I'll be back', you mouth in reply.
—
The office is small but cozy, cluttered with ballet books, framed photos of Wanda’s friends, you assume, a few potted plants that look like they’re barely surviving, and the ever-present scent of her vanilla-sandalwood perfume.
Without asking permission, she sits right beside you on the plush velvet couch, the kind made for crying students or exhausted instructors who just need five minutes alone. Close enough that your knees touch, and hands you your tea.
You mutter a thank you before taking a sip.
Wanda watches you sip the tea, the sliver of green remaining in her eyes tracking the way your lips press to the rim of that scarlet mug, how your fingers curl around it for warmth.
“Is it good?” she asks softly. Her voice is honeyed, no sharp edges like during class. You nod slightly, and she smiles, a small, private little thing meant only for you.
Then, without hesitation, she lifts her free hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear again. Her fingertips linger there - a featherlight brush along your temple before sliding down to cup your jaw gently.
“Look at me,” she commands gently.
Your eyes meet hers, your breath catches at how the older woman stares openly at you. Hungry, sympathetic, and restrained. All demonstrated by her flushed cheeks, parted wet lips, and furrowed brow. You set your mug down on the old coffee table, praying that your tremors aren't visible.
"I know... what can make you feel better, honey."
A beat passes, which feels like an eternity as the gears in your head shift. "What?" You gulp.
She licks her pink lips, "You're gonna have to trust me, think you can do that for me?" She asks hopefully.
You nod frantically.
"Say it."
You subconsciously squeeze your thighs together, failing to quell the ache. "I trust you."
Her hand finds your thigh, fingers pressing into your thigh. “Do you?"
"I-I really do..."
"Good girl."
Your eyes widen, chest constricting as she rises from the couch and sinks slowly to her knees before you on the faded Persian rug. The shift of her weight, the quiet rustle of her black pencil skirt, it feels obscene.
Her warm hands slip under your skirt slowly, stopping on your mid-thigh. You’re sure Wanda can feel the heat radiating from your pussy.
“You do so much. Being my star student, dorogoy. It must be exhausting,” she pouts, gently kneading your inner thighs, coaxing you to spread them wider. The older woman smirks.
“I wanna make you feel better.” She continues.
Your not even fully aware you're holding your breath; you’ve never actually gotten eaten out before. Sure, in high school, a girl fingered you in the bathroom once, but other than that, nothing. You really hope Wanda can’t tell.
“P-please…” The whine that follows your plea surprises even you.
Wanda seems to excite from the noise, her cheeks flushing once more, blinking repeatedly.
Her expression softens, deepens. She realizes that you're the type to whimper, to whine. To beg. She swallows hard, her mind racing with new, dirtier thoughts. "Please what, honey?"
You stammer, “D-do something!”
She laughs, a breathy, delighted sound that vibrates in your abdomen. Without warning, she taps your thigh, signaling for you to lift enough for her to peel off your damp, cotton panties. They stick to your glistening folds, embarrassingly so.
Never mind to Wanda, it seems, she leans in and licks a slow stride from your hole to your throbbing clit.
You cry out, back arching off the couch cushions. "Oh fuck!"
"Like that?" She inquires coyly.
She dives back in before you can even process that she spoke, her tongue circles your clit gently but firmly.
One hand grips your hip possessively, holding you still as she licks into you again, and again. She settles between your spread thighs, face buried against your pussy, tongue working lazy circles around your clit. Her other hand moves to cover your mouth, muffling the whimpers and cries that spill past your lips.
Your hips move without your permission, seeking more pressure, more contact. She groans against your pussy, the vibration making you see stars. She pulls back briefly to speak against your core. "Quiet, honey... God, you taste so good..."
She goes back to eating you out like she's starving for your taste, her tongue never stopping its gentle circles around your clit. Your whines are getting louder despite her hand covering your mouth, and she knows you're close when your hips start rolling harder against her face.
The tip of her tongue curls, deliberately tracing the letters W-A-N-D-A across your throbbing clit and sensitive folds. It’s possessive and obscene, branding you from the inside out. Your back arches violently, a muffled sob tearing from your throat behind her hand as she writes the final 'A' with agonizing precision.
A full-body shudder wracks through you when she finishes spelling her name. Her name is written in saliva across your pussy. Her mouth stays glued to you, sucking softly on your clit.
Your hands grip Wanda’s hair tightly, and you whimper constantly against her hand. You accidentally tug on your instructor's hair in the midst of your pleasure.
A deep, throaty moan reverberates against your core as she feels your fists tighten in her hair. The sound sends vibrations directly to your clit, making you gasp louder against her palm. She actually smiles against your pussy, loving how desperate and noisy you're getting.
Her mouth is sealed over your clit when your orgasm hits, the intense suction sending you hurtling over the edge. You convulse against her face, fingers yanking hard on her hair as a silent scream tears through you. She drinks you down greedily, swallowing every drop of your release.
Wanda licks your heat a few times before her head rises, her hand falling from your mouth. Her lips glisten with your come; she licks them slowly, "Good girl," she praises. “You did so well for me, sweetheart.” Miss Maximoff pants while wiping her chin, then moving her chestnut hair from her face.
You reel from your orgasm, your vision still swimming some. “T-thank you…” You cannot believe you actually-
You Are Coming Down With Me, Hand In Unlovable Hand
Mean Southern Wanda x Reader
Part Five (Final)
Parts One, Two, Three, and Four
⚠️TW: detox, general heartbreak, abandonment
As Wanda’s condition started to improve, the two of you fell into sort of a routine. You started the morning bright and early, sitting in a couple of folding chairs in front of your trailer, drinking coffee in your respective bathrobes. You worked opening shift at the diner while Wanda got a little bit more sleep, and then you were home around lunch time with food for the both of you.
The afternoons were spent with the two of you together. You were trying to get Wanda up and walking as much as she could manage. There was a nice wooded hiking path that winded along beside a creek not too far from your place. So, when the weather allowed, you took her there to fish. She didn’t know it yet, but you were planning on spending a little of your savings on a two-seat kayak. Wanda always did love the water, and you adored the way she just seemed to light up when she was around it.
In the evenings, you both turned in a little early. After sharing a warm shower, you curled up together in bed and picked out a shitty free movie to watch together on your laptop. “Watching” the movie was never really the point. Instead, you took turns making jokes and finding things to laugh at. Wanda’s favorites were always when the actors had bad southern accents. You’d exaggerate your own accent in response, repeating bits of the ridiculous script to make her laugh. You would do anything to see that laugh.
It wasn’t an extravagant life by any means, but it was yours. You couldn’t remember a time you’d ever been quite so happy.
After taking off so much time to help Wanda recover, you were working everyday. It was almost two weeks before you finally had a day off to spend with her. You and Wanda had gotten a later start than usual, so, by the time you’d gotten sat in your lawn chair with your coffee, the sun was already coming up over the trees. It was a beautiful sunrise. So much so you were about to go inside and rush Wanda out so she could see it too. Luckily, she wasn’t far behind you, coming out the front door only a moment later.
“Look, mama! Ain’t it beautiful?” You said, excitedly pointing to the sky.
Wanda looked off into the distance, humming pleasantly and smiling slightly at the way the sun rays filtered through the leaves. It was beautiful. So beautiful she was momentarily thankful not to be dead in ditch somewhere. If you hadn’t come for her, she’d never get to see this.
The contentment didn’t last long, though, because the moment she turned to face you, she noticed you weren’t watching the sunrise. You were watching her. You were watched the warm morning light paint her golden, and her dirty blonde hair glow in the sun. She could practically see the hearts floating around your head.
She sighed. “Listen, Y/N,” she started dreadfully. “Viz and I are moving.” As the words left her mouth, she watched each of those shatter into a million pieces.
“What?” You asked, not believing what she said. They fought, right? That’s why she was here. That’s why she was with you now instead of him.
“His mother is sick. He doesn’t want to put her in a home, so we’re taking the boys up to Oregon to move in with her,” she explained. “It’s what we fought about, that night that I came here with the….” She gestured vaguely towards her face. “I don’t want to go, obviously. But his mind is made up, and, well, I’m a stay-at-home mom whose name isn’t even on lease. I have no ground to stand on.”
“You…you could stay here,” you suggested hopefully. “We could get a place together. Me and you. You don’t have to leave.”
Wanda looked away, staring back into the tree line. “But he’s taking the boys and everything I own. I could stay, but, once they’re gone… there’s nothing left for me here. I’m 45. I can’t start over. I chose my life, and that life is… leaving for Oregon.”
You didn’t say anything for a long time. Tears poured down your cheeks, reflecting the rays of sun. Nothing left for her here? How could she say that when you were here? Did you really mean that little to her? You swallowed. “When?”
“Two days,” she whispered. “But… if I’m gonna keep Viz from throwing out all my stuff I’ll need to go back sooner. Like… now.”
You went silent again, refusing to look at her. “Was this the plan the whole time? You were just gonna detox in my bed until you felt well enough to run back to your husband and leave me?”
“No, the original plan was… I was going to drink and drink and drink and then find a soft patch of grass to lay down in and die,” she admitted honestly. “But… you saved me, and now I have to try and put my life back together.”
A dozen emotions flashed across your face in a matter of seconds. At first, Wanda thought you were going to kick her out now and storm back inside. Then she thought you might punch her in the face. But, when you finally moved, you sat at her feet, settling into the dusty dirt. You rested your head on her lap and stared despondently into the distance while she ran her hands through your hair.
“Is there anything I could say? That would make you change your mind,” you asked, defeated.
“No,” she whispered, bending forward to kiss the crown of your head.
You wrapped your arms around her calf, clinging to her like she’d float away. “I love you, mama,” you cried. “I… I’ll always love you. Even if you go.”
“I know you will,” she responded with a wince.
“I’m gonna miss you.” You wiped your tears on her robe. “I’m gonna miss you every day.”
“I know you will,” she repeated.
“Thank you. For telling me this time. I know you probably wanted to leave before I woke up,” you said unexpectedly.
She chuckled. She had wanted to leave last night. She wanted to leave so she could avoid this exact moment: looking at you, bereft and heartbroken.
“I’m glad you stayed. I’m glad I got to say… goodbye.” You started to cry harder, and she pulled you up into her lap.
“Hey don’t start with that now,” she scolded, trying to hide tears of her own.
“I’m sorry… I just… I’m never gonna forget you, mama,” you sobbed into her shoulder.
She took a deep breath and pulled you almost imperceptibly closer. “I wish you would. I really wish you would.”
*******
Wanda hadn’t brought much when she came to stay with you, so there wasn’t much packing to be done. She loaded her truck up in 15 minutes and climbed into the driver seat.
You climbed up onto the trucks bench, laying across it with your arms wrapped around her waist. “Goodbye, mama. I love you,” you cried, giving her one last squeeze.
“Yeah, I…” she started before cutting herself off. “I… um… gotta go.”
You sat up, ready to tearfully peel yourself off of the vinyl seat when she grabbed your arm.
“Wait. Um… before you… I gotta tell you something,” She stammered nervously. “You know I don’t believe that bullshit about how everyone is special. Because everyone is special, nobody is special. But I do believe that you are one of those people, who really does get to be special. I think you should become a mechanic. And I think you should buy a fancy house on the water. And I think you should build one of them swings with the cup holders. And I think you should get a dog or a cat or whatever animal you want. Not because I like it, but because you do. I think your life’s gonna be beautiful, not because I made it that, but because you did. And I want you to care of yourself, because…” she looked out the window and then down at her own lap where she was anxiously fiddling with her fingers. She inhaled sharply, unable to hold back tears any longer. “Because I really do love you. And I think you are just the most wonderful person who deserves the most wonderful life. Even without me in it.”
You leaned across the seat and threw your arms around her neck. She pressed a long, teary kiss to the side of your head and squeezed you tight. When you finally pulled away, she cupped your face in her hand.
“You be good now,” she said, watching you climb out of the car.
You turned back towards the trailer and headed inside. But when the car started, you turned back. “Mama! Wait!”
You ran towards the car and reached through the window, pulling her hand out and kissing her knuckles while you pressed something into her palm. Before she could look at what it was, you were already running back inside.
She opened her hand to find the small metal charm from the collar she’d given you that first night you’d spent together. The one you’d worn every day since. “Mama’s Puppy” was still stamped across the front in your sloppy penmanship. She dragged the pad of her thumb over the indentation and pressed a small kiss to the cool metal. When she was finally ready to let it go, she clipped it around the rosary hanging from her truck’s rear view mirror.
Even after years of it being there, no one but her ever noticed it.
Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.
Word Count: 9.2K
Warnings: smut warning for this one so as always MDNI xo
A/N: I’m back on the Adventures in Babysitting grind! I’ve had some big writers block and anxiety but I’ve started to really get momentum with this series x and obviously if there’s anything you want to see in any of my other things let me know! I’m sure I’ll have loads of Maya content when season 2 comes out 💜 Xx
It’s late by the time you ease your own front door open, the rain still dripping from your hair and coat. You slip your boots off quietly, trying not to wake the house, but the flicker of light from the living room gives them away.
Your mom and Billy are curled on the sofa, a blanket tossed over their legs, eyes glued to the TV. The shrill strings of some old horror film fill the room, shadows dancing across their faces.
You step into the doorway just as something jumps on screen, a ghoul lunging. They both scream, at full volume and ridiculous.
“Wow,” you deadpan, dropping your bag onto the side table. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”
Billy clutches his chest, glaring at you through wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, you nearly killed me!”
Your mom swats his arm, though she’s still catching her breath too. “Don’t sneak in like that!”
“I walked through the front door,” you point out, chuckling as you peel off your damp coat.
“Like a ghost,” Billy mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “All silent and creepy.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth and normalcy untangles something in your chest that’s been knotted all night.
Your mom pats the space between them. “Come sit, sweetheart. We’ll protect you from the scary bits.”
Billy snorts. “We’ll protect her? You’re the one who screamed loudest.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and sink down onto the armchair instead, curling up and letting their bickering fill the room.
Billy mutes the TV with a dramatic flourish of the remote once the commercials come on, eyes squinting at you. “Didn’t expect you to come in tonight,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought you’d be… busy.”
Your mom shoots him a look, then turns her attention to you, brows raised expectantly.
You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Her son was really sick. She needed to focus on him, so I came home.”
“Her son,” your mom repeats slowly, like she’s trying the words on for size. Her eyes narrow a little. “Wait. Are you telling me… are you’re dating the woman you babysit for?”
Your heart lurches into your throat. “I uh…” you glance at Billy, who is already grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly enjoying every second.
“Mom,” you start carefully, “please don’t freak out…”
“Oh my god.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.”
Billy laughs. “I told you she had a girlfriend.”
“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.
Your mom leans forward, still staring at you in disbelief. “So you’re really with her? Billy’s boss? The professor?”
You nod, cheeks flaming, wishing you could sink into the armchair and disappear. “Yeah. I am.”
Your mom leans forward, pausing the movie entirely now, her eyes fixed on you with that maternal mix of worry and curiosity.
“She’s a bit old for you, isn’t she?” she says gently, but firmly. “And sweetheart, being a stepmother, even unofficially, that’s a big responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
The words hit hard, right in the soft spot where your insecurities live. Your cheeks heat, your chest tightening. “Mom…”
Billy groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. “Here we go.”
“No, I’m being serious,” she insists, folding her hands in her lap. “You’re still so young. You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve taken on more than you can handle.”
You swallow, staring down at your hands twisted in the blanket. “I… I know it sounds complicated. And yeah, she’s older. A lot older.” Your voice drops, softer. “But I… care about her. And I care about Nicky. It’s not… it’s not something I fell into by accident.”
Your mom studies you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she sighs, reaching across to squeeze your hand. “I’m not trying to scare you off. I just want to make sure you’re thinking it through. You deserve to be happy, not overwhelmed.”
You nod, throat tight, managing a small smile. “I am thinking it through.”
Billy smirks, breaking the tension. “Besides, you’ve already survived me. You’re basically qualified for stepmom status.”
You throw a cushion at him, rolling your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens a little.
Your mom squeezes your hand once more, then leans back against the sofa with a decisive nod. “Well I’ll need to meet her.”
Your head snaps up. “Mom, no. Please, no.”
“Yes,” she says firmly, crossing her arms. “If you’re serious about this woman, and it sounds like you are, then I need to meet her. That’s non-negotiable.”
You groan, dragging the blanket over your face. “You’ll scare her off.”
Billy chuckles, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Trust me, Agatha Harkness isn’t scared of anything. Except maybe imminent death.”
You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. “Not helping.”
Your mom shakes her head, smiling faintly but with a stubborn glint in her eyes. “Sweetheart, if she’s good enough for you, then she’s good enough for me. And if she’s serious about you, she won’t mind meeting your mother.”
“She will mind,” you mutter.
“Then she’s not as serious as you think.”
That lands like a stone in your stomach. You sink deeper into the chair, groaning, while Billy smirks at the whole scene.
“Mom,” you mumble, “please don’t make this a thing.”
“It’s already a thing,” she says simply. “And I expect to meet her. Soon.”
~
The living room is a mess of crayons, construction paper, and little cut out leaves Nicky insisted on bringing home from preschool. You’re on the rug with him, knees tucked under you, while he twirls in a circle with his stuffed goat clutched in one hand.
“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down,” he sings, his little voice high and proud, bouncing more than dancing.
You chime in with exaggerated gusto, clapping along in time. “Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”
He collapses into giggles, clapping his hands and throwing himself into your lap. You catch him, pressing a noisy kiss into his curls before sitting him upright again. “That was so good, professor,” you tell him, using his goat’s honorary title. “Ten out of ten.”
“Again!” Nicky cheers, already springing back up, his little feet stomping against the rug.
You take a deep breath, lifting your arms dramatically like a conductor. “Ready? One, two…”
“Three!” he shouts, spinning wildly as you both launch into the song again, your voices overlapping.
It’s in the middle of the second round that the front door opens. Agatha steps inside, still in her work clothes, hair a little mussed from the wind. She stops short in the doorway, her briefcase slipping from her fingers with a soft thunk.
On the rug, Nicky is twirling like a leaf himself, his cheeks flushed, his laugh bubbling high and bright. You’re on your knees, arms waving with theatrical drama, singing loudly and off key just to make him laugh harder.
For a moment, Agatha just watches, something soft breaking open in her chest.
When Nicky spots her, he squeals. “Mama! Look!” He rushes over, tugging at her hand. “We’re singing my show song! Y/N knows it too!”
Agatha’s gaze flicks from her son’s shining face to yours, your cheeks pink, still catching your breath from all the singing. Her lips curve, slow and warm, into the kind of smile she almost never shows anyone.
Agatha sets her briefcase down with a soft thud, hand to her chest like she’s been hit. “Oh, you got your show song today?”
Nicky bounces on his toes, nodding so hard his curls flop. “Yes! Yes! Wanna hear it?!”
Agatha gasps, playing along, eyes wide. “Do I ever!” She drops into the armchair like it’s the front row of Carnegie Hall. “Give us a performance, darling boy.”
Nicky scrambles back to the middle of the rug, shoving his goat into the “audience” too, then throws his arms wide. “One, two, three!” he counts off, launching into the little song with all the power in his tiny lungs.
You pad over and sink onto the armrest beside Agatha. Her hand immediately finds your knee, giving it a squeeze, her eyes fixed on Nicky like the world could fall down around her and she wouldn’t notice.
He twirls, stomps, half forgets the words halfway through and makes up the rest, but his grin never wavers. When he belts the final line, “all around the town!” he bows so low he nearly tips over.
You and Agatha clap wildly, cheering like lunatics. “Bravo!” Agatha cries, whistling through her fingers. “Encore, encore!”
You laugh, clapping until your palms sting. “Ten out of ten, Professor Goatly agrees!” You lift the stuffed goat in mock solemnity, making Nicky dissolve into shrieks of giggles.
Agatha glances sideways at you, her smirk softened into something gentler. Her thumb strokes over your knee, an unspoken thank you, as Nicky starts gearing up for another round, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.
Later, after dinner and the small storm of bedtime negotiations of one more story, one more sip of water, one more kiss, the house finally quiets. Nicky’s door clicks shut, and Agatha pads into the living room, her blouse a little rumpled, her hair falling loose around her face. She drops onto the sofa beside you with a sigh.
You curl sideways to look at her, chin propped on your hand. “Well,” you murmur, eyes glinting, “I hope you’re prepared to hear that song every day, about a hundred times, from now until the show.”
Agatha groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “God help me.”
You smirk, clearing your throat with theatrical gusto. “Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down!”
Before you can get to orange and brown, she leans over and captures your mouth in a kiss, effectively cutting you off. It’s slow at first, deliberate, her hand cupping your cheek.
You grin against her lips, the song dissolving into a muffled laugh as you kiss her back.
When she finally pulls away, her eyes are half lidded, her smirk wicked. “That’s the only acceptable way to shut you up,” she murmurs.
“Mm,” you hum, still smiling, “guess I’ll have to sing it more often.”
Her hand squeezes your thigh, her brow arched. “Careful, babygirl. I’ll find other ways to make you quiet.”
You start to laugh again, but it dies on your lips as she leans back in, kissing you slower this time. Her hand slides from your thigh to your waist, tugging you closer until you’re curled against her side. The silk of her blouse is cool under your fingertips as you fist the fabric, melting into her warmth.
She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, her thumb stroking along your jaw in a way that makes your chest ache. You sigh into her mouth, letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace.
When she finally breaks away, her lips hover against yours, her breath warm. “There,” she murmurs. “Much better than singing that damn song.”
You giggle, pressing your forehead to hers. “You didn’t even let me get to the second verse.”
“Exactly,” she says, smirking, and kisses you firmer this time, until you’re clutching her blouse tighter, your heart racing.
By the time she eases back, you’re curled fully into her, your head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped tight around you. She presses a kiss into your hair, sighing as her other hand rubs slow, soothing circles over your back.
You breathe her in, the faint trace of her perfume mingling with the warmth of home, and let yourself sink into her hold. The world outside, with all its sharp edges and questions, feels far away. Here, it’s just her arms, her lips, the steady thrum of her heartbeat under your ear.
You’re still curled against her, her hand stroking slow lines down your back, when you mumble into the fabric of her blouse, “My mom’s been talking again about meeting you.”
Agatha hums low in her chest, fingers pausing for just a second. “Would you like me to meet her?”
You groan, tilting your head back enough to look at her. “Honestly? No. She’s insufferable. But she’s important. And she won’t let up.” You chew your lip, hesitating before adding, “So… maybe for my birthday. You could come out to dinner with us?”
Her whole body stiffens beneath you. She pulls back, her brows lifting high. “Excuse me, your birthday?”
You blink at her, suddenly sheepish. “…Yeah?”
Her eyes narrow, a flicker of guilt and annoyance cutting through her expression. “And you were going to tell me this when exactly? After the fact? Over cake crumbs?”
You flush, pulling the blanket higher over your lap like it’s a shield. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big-…” she cuts herself off, shaking her head, her tone sharp with disbelief. “Sweetheart, your birthday is a very big deal to me. You’re my girl.” She cups your jaw, forcing you to meet her eyes. “I should’ve known.”
Your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and nerves under her gaze. “I just… I don’t like making it a thing.”
“Well, it’s a thing now.” She kisses you once, quick but fierce, before pulling back with a sigh. “I hate that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
You lean into her touch anyway, your voice small. “You know now.”
Her expression softens, but there’s still that glint of frustration in her eyes, not at you, but at herself for missing it. She presses her lips to your temple, her arm wrapping tightly around you again.
You tilt your face back toward her, biting your lip. “So you’ll come? It’s nothing huge. We always go to this Thai place Billy loves the day before my birthday.”
Agatha’s brows knit. “The day before?”
You nod, smiling a little shyly. “Yeah. Because… my birthday’s on Halloween. So we celebrate the day before.”
Her mouth falls open, eyes narrowing like she thinks you’re joking. “You’re serious. Halloween?”
You grin, unable to help it. “Yeah. I’m a Samhain baby.”
There’s a beat of silence before she tips her head back, laughing. “That makes so much sense.”
You giggle, hiding your face in her blouse. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” she insists, still laughing, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Of course you were born on Halloween. That explains everything. My little witch.”
You laugh with her this time, the sound warm and tangled, the tension between you dissolving into something softer.
Agatha is still chuckling, her thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “Alright, Samhain baby,” she teases, “so what do you usually do on the actual day? Your spooky little Halloween birthday?”
You shrug, cheeks heating. “Honestly? Horror movies in bed. That’s kind of it.”
Her brows rise, lips curving slow and sly. “So… no real plans.”
You shake your head, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Not really.”
“Good.” She leans in, her voice dropping low against your ear. “Because that means you’re all mine.”
The words make your stomach flip, your whole body going hot at once. You duck your head, blushing furiously, but she catches your chin with her fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers.
“Ohhh,” she purrs, clearly enjoying the way your composure crumbles, “look at that blush.”
“Agatha,” you whine, but you can’t stop smiling.
Her grin widens, wicked and affectionate all at once. “Don’t worry, babygirl. I’ll plan something worthy of a Samhain birthday. You won’t lift a finger, except maybe to unwrap presents.”
You bite your lip, heart hammering. “You’re really going to plan my birthday?”
“Already am,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine that day. No arguments.”
Your cheeks flame hotter, but your grin gives you away.
Her mouth hovers at the corner of yours, her grin sly. “So what does my little Samhain baby want for her birthday? A cauldron? A broomstick? A séance in the living room?”
You swat weakly at her shoulder, giggling. “Shut up.”
“Oh, she giggles.” She leans in, brushing her lips against yours. “Cute.”
“Agatha…” you start, but the rest is swallowed when she kisses you properly, her hand sliding into your hair to keep you exactly where she wants you.
You melt, sighing into her mouth, your fingers clutching at her blouse. She chuckles softly against your lips, clearly pleased with how easily you crumble for her, and deepens the kiss.
Your blush only worsens when she murmurs between kisses, “All mine. Gonna spoil you rotten, babygirl.”
You whimper, caught between laughter and want, and she grins against your mouth, tugging you into her lap like it’s nothing. The blanket slips to the floor, forgotten, as her hands spread warm over your back.
“Mm,” she hums, lips trailing down your jaw, “maybe I’ll start planning tonight.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle, tilting your head back to let her mouth find your throat.
“And you love it.” Her teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you squirm, before she pulls back to kiss you again, like she could happily make out on the sofa with you all night.
The TV flickers silently in the background, the whole house hushed, just the sound of your breathless laughter and her low, pleased sighs filling the room.
Agatha’s kisses turn greedier, her hands sliding from your back to grip your hips tight, tugging you closer against her. You gasp into her mouth, the shift in her energy making your stomach flip.
She growls softly, low in her throat. “God, babygirl… you’re killing me.”
You whimper as her teeth catch your lower lip, her tongue soothing the sting before diving back in, kissing you like she’s starving. The blanket on the floor is long forgotten, all you can think about is the way her fingers dig into you, pulling you exactly where she wants you.
She pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven, “Bed. Now.”
Your cheeks flame, your body already thrumming, and you nod quickly.
“Good girl,” she praises, standing smoothly and hauling you with her. One arm stays locked around your waist as she guides you down the hall. You stumble once, breathless with laughter, but she just scoops you up, carrying you the last few steps of the way.
“Agatha!” You giggle, your arms looping around her neck, “you don’t have to carry me!”
“Oh, but I want to,” she purrs, kissing your cheek as she pushes the bedroom door open with her hip.
She sets you down on the bed, eyes dark and hungry now, already tugging her blouse loose. “Been thinking about this since the car ride home,” she admits, crawling over you, her mouth claiming yours again before you can answer.
Your hands clutch at her shoulders, your body arching up into hers, the heat between you snapping fast from playful to desperate.
“Mine,” she growls against your mouth, pinning you beneath her. “All mine.”
Her hands are frantic, pulling off your panties, tugging at your dress, sliding up under the fabric to touch as much skin as she can. You arch into her, whimpering, your fingers tangled in her hair.
“Agatha,” you breathe against her lips, your voice breaking with need. “I love you.”
She freezes for just a second, pulling back enough to look at you. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, but the expression on her face is pure awe.
“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, voice rough. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realise had slipped free. “You undo me every damn time.”
Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours, her sighs mingling with your gasps. She kisses you like she’s trying to breathe you in, like she’s terrified of ever letting go.
Her hands skim down your body, every touch deliberate. She takes her time undressing you, murmuring soft praises between kisses. “So beautiful… my perfect girl… mine.”
She parts your thighs wider as she presses into you, letting you feel every inch of her cock inside of you, her breath shuddering against your mouth. You gasp, your nails biting into her shoulders as your body stretches around her, clenching tight.
“Jesus, baby,” she groans, forehead dropping to yours. “So fucking tight for me, you were made to take me.”
Your whimper makes her kiss you again, swallowing the sound, her hips rolling until she’s fully seated inside you. She doesn’t move right away, just holds you there, both of you trembling.
Her hand cups your face, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. “God, I’ll never get over this. Being inside you… it’s like nothing else.”
When she starts moving, it’s with deep, unhurried strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch. Every thrust drags a desperate sound from your throat, and every sound makes her groan like she’s losing her mind.
“That’s it,” she pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Cling to me, baby. Let me feel you. You’re so good, fuck, you’re perfect.”
You whimper, burying your face against her neck. “Agatha…”
She stills, just for a heartbeat, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes are dark, glassy with want, but underneath it’s awe. “Tell me you love me baby,” she whispers, voice breaking.
“I love you,” you breathe, shaky, desperate.
Her lips crash onto yours, the kiss hot and wet and claiming. “My baby,” she moans against your mouth. “You undo me, you fucking undo me.”
Her pace builds, not rushed but more insistent, each thrust deeper and harder like she’s trying to carve herself into you. Her hand slips between you to circle your clit, drawing sharp cries from your throat.
“Take it, babygirl,” she growls, her voice low and rough. “Take all of me. You’re mine. Always mine.”
You cling tighter, keening under her, your body a mess of heat and want. She kisses you through every sound, her words tumbling fast and needy between kisses: “So beautiful… so good for me… fuck, the way you squeeze me baby, I never want to leave you.”
The intensity builds until you’re trembling, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust making you see stars. And she’s right there with you, her own breath ragged, her moans spilling into your ear.
“Come for me,” she begs, almost broken with it. “Let me feel you, baby, give it to me.”
And when you shatter, sobbing her name, she follows with a guttural groan, burying herself deep, spilling inside you with a kind of ferocity that makes her whole body shake.
She holds you through it, kissing your hair, your face, anywhere she can reach, murmuring ragged I love you’s and mine’s until all that’s left is the sound of your breaths, tangled and shaking, pressed so close you’re not sure where you end and she begins.
~
By the week of the show, that damn song has invaded every corner of your world.
Your mom hums it absentmindedly as she stirs a pot of soup, tapping the spoon against the rim in time with the melody. Billy whistles it while brushing his teeth. Agatha, caught on a work call, doesn’t even notice herself mouthing “red and yellow, orange and brown” as she paces the kitchen with her laptop open.
You groan every time you hear it, because it’s everywhere.
Even Nicky’s stuffed goat has been enlisted. Last night he’d made you hold Professor Goatly and make him “sing along” while Nicky spun in circles until he fell into a heap of giggles.
It’s in your head when you wake up, when you shower, when you’re trying to fall asleep. You’ve caught yourself humming it under your breath while waiting for the kettle to boil, and immediately wanted to throw yourself out the window.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lines repeat in an endless loop. Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…
You throw an arm over your face and groan. “I’m being haunted.”
From the bathroom, Agatha calls back dryly, “Welcome to parenthood, darling. Death by nursery rhyme.”
And then you hear her voice, smooth and rich, sliding into the next line without missing a beat, “red and yellow, orange and brown…”
“Agatha!” you shriek, throwing a pillow toward the bathroom door. “Don’t encourage it!”
She peeks her head out, towel in hand, grinning like a fiend. “Too late, babygirl. It’s already in my bones.”
She slides in beside you a minute later, her damp hair brushing your shoulder, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to your sheets.
She pulls you close automatically, her arm heavy and solid over your waist, her breath brushing your temple as you settle into the curve of her body. For a moment it’s quiet, just the occasional car passing outside.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “Parenthood, huh?”
Her body goes still behind you. You can feel her stiffen just slightly, like you’ve touched a nerve.
You turn your head, peeking up at her, your voice softer now. “Was that a joke, or…?”
Agatha clears her throat, the sound low, almost sheepish which is rare for her. “Well I did mean it when I said I intend to keep you round forever, baby.” Her thumb rubs an absent line over your hip, grounding herself. “And forever, for me… means my son, too.”
Your heart gives a nervous kick. You roll onto your side so you can see her face, her eyes dark in the low light, her brows drawn just faintly as if she’s bracing herself.
“So…” you whisper, barely more than a breath, “does that mean I’d be like… a stepmom, or something?”
There it is, the question you’ve been carrying in your chest for weeks, finally out loud.
Her gaze flickers over your face, searching. “If that scares you, tell me now,” she says quietly. “Because Nicky isn’t going anywhere. He’s my whole life. You’d be stepping into something… permanent.”
Your throat tightens, but you force yourself not to look away. “It doesn’t scare me. I just…” Your hands twist in the sheets. “I don’t want to be… not enough. For him or for you.”
Agatha exhales, something breaking in her expression, half stern, half unbearably soft. She shifts closer, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice low but steady, “you are already enough. He adores you. And as for me,” her mouth trembles into the faintest smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like this.”
You blink fast, your chest tight with something that’s part fear, part relief. “You really think I could be good at it? At being that kind of part of his life?”
“I don’t think,” she corrects, leaning in until her forehead presses to yours. “I know. I watch you with him. I see the way he lights up for you, the way you meet him where he is, the way you give him your whole attention. That’s what matters. Not perfection or some fantasy. Just love.”
Tears prick hot at your eyes, your voice cracking. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
Her thumb swipes under your eye before a tear can fall. “Then don’t walk away, and you won’t. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
For a long moment, you just breathe together, her forehead pressed to yours, her hand warm against your cheek, your own heart pounding out its uneven rhythm.
Finally, you whisper, “Forever sounds really good.”
Her lips brush yours, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying more weight than any words could. When she pulls back, her eyes are shiny, her smile small but certain.
“Then forever it is,” she murmurs.
You sink back into her arms, your chest loosening for the first time all night, the ridiculous little autumn song still rattling around your brain but quieter now, drowned out by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.
Agatha settles onto her back and tugs you with her until your cheek is pillowed against her chest, her fingers stroking lazily up and down your spine. The room feels smaller like this, tucked away from the world. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear, grounding you.
“So,” you mumble, voice muffled against her blouse, “what’s the show gonna be like?”
She chuckles, low in her throat, her hand tracing the curve of your shoulder. “Chaos. Delightful chaos. The youngest class always sings something, the teachers line them up, half of them forget the words, two start crying, one picks his nose through the entire performance…” She tips her head so her mouth brushes your hair. “And it’ll be the most important show I’ve ever been to.”
You smile, even though your chest pinches. “Wish I could come.”
Her hand pauses, then resumes its soothing stroke. “Two tickets per child, baby. You know I’d have you there if I could. But it’s just me and Rio.” She sighs softly. “Not exactly my dream pairing.”
You hum, tucking yourself closer. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with the dress rehearsal.”
She laughs, kissing your temple. “Which I’m sure he’ll put you through a dozen more times before Friday.”
You grin against her chest, eyes fluttering shut as the steady motion of her hand and the warmth of her voice start to lull you. She notices, her fingers drifting up into your hair, her voice softening.
“Sleep, my little Samhain baby,” she murmurs. “You’ll hear the song again soon enough.”
You snort, too drowsy to answer properly, but your arm tightens around her waist. The song plays faintly in your head still, but softer now, muffled under the rhythm of her heartbeat.
And before long, you’re asleep in her arms.
~
The morning of the show, the whole house feels a little different, brighter and buzzing like even the sunlight is in on the excitement.
Agatha is already in the kitchen, hair swept into a loose twist, sleeves pushed up as she wrestles with Nicky’s tiny button-up shirt. He squirms on the chair, cheeks puffed out in protest.
“Mama, it’s itchy,” he whines, tugging at the collar.
Agatha sighs, half exasperated, half amused. “Of course it’s itchy, darling boy, it’s new. Just let me do the last button and then you can show everyone how handsome you are.”
He grumbles but lifts his chin, letting her fasten the top button. The moment she’s done, he hops down and spins dramatically. “Do I look like a big boy?”
Agatha presses a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Like a very big boy. Practically a man.”
He giggles, then blurts, “Can we sing it one more time?”
Her mouth curves into a smile despite herself. “One more time,” she agrees, crouching down so they’re eye to eye.
He claps his hands together, takes a deep breath, and launches into the song, his little voice clear and wobbly at the same time.
“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”
Agatha joins in, “…red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town…”
Nicky grins, twirling so fast his shirt comes half untucked. When he stumbles, she catches him, pulling him into her arms and pressing a kiss into his curls.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing down his back. “The brightest leaf of all.”
He giggles into her shoulder, but when she sets him down again his little hands twist in the hem of his shirt. “What if I forget?” he asks her nervously. “What if I mess up?”
Agatha kneels, cupping his face gently. “Then you’ll keep going. Everyone messes up sometimes, darling boy. What matters is that you sing with your whole heart.”
He nods, comforted, though his grip on her hand lingers as she straightens up.
She brushes his curls back, sighs, and mutters half to herself, “God help me if he starts crying on stage I’ll be up there singing it with him.”
Agatha buckles him into his car seat, tugging the strap snug across his chest before leaning in to kiss his forehead. He smells faintly of the apple shampoo you helped him pick out, his curls still damp.
The morning rush fades into the quiet hum of the car. Nicky hums under his breath in the backseat, his little legs swinging, and Professor Goatly clutched tight against his chest.
“You’ll be there, Mama?” he asks suddenly, his voice serious.
Agatha catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror, her expression softening. “Of course I’ll be there, darling boy. Right in the front row.”
He nods, reassured, then adds quickly, “And Mama Rio too?”
“Yes, baby,” Agatha says with certainty. “She’ll be there too. Both of us, cheering you on.”
Nicky lets out a relieved little sigh, hugging the goat tighter. “Can you bring Professor Goatly? He makes me brave.”
Agatha smiles, her heart squeezing. “We’ll tuck him in my bag. He’ll be clapping louder than anyone.”
That wins a giggle out of him, but after a beat, he asks in a smaller voice, “will Y/N be there?”
Agatha keeps her eyes on the road, her voice gentle but firm. “Not this time, love. The school only gives two tickets. Just me and Mama Rio today.”
His shoulders slump, the smile sliding right off. “But I want her there.”
Agatha reaches back at the red light, her hand brushing over his knee. “I know, darling. She wants to be there too but she’ll be waiting to hear all about it when we get home and you can sing the song just for her.”
Nicky clutches the goat close, his little mouth set in a pout. “It’s not fair.”
Agatha sighs, her thumb stroking his knee, steady and reassuring. “It isn’t. But you’ll still have us there, and we’ll be so proud of you.”
His lip wobbles, but he nods, leaning into the goat like it can hold the rest of his nerves.
The school car park is crowded, parents and little ones spilling across the pavement in a noisy tide of coats and backpacks. Agatha slips the car into a space, glancing back to where Nicky sits clutching Professor Goatly, his face pinched with nerves.
She opens his door, unbuckles the seatbelt, and helps him hop down. His hand finds hers right away, small and clammy, his eyes fixed on the swarm of children heading inside.
Agatha crouches so they’re eye to eye, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Alright, darling boy. You’re going to go in with your class, and then this afternoon you’ll get to show us your big performance. Sound good?”
Nicky chews on his lip, shifting from foot to foot. “You’ll be there?”
She nods, steady, certain. “Front row, I promise. Me and Mama Rio.”
“And Professor Goatly?”
Her mouth curves despite herself. “Professor Goatly wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He huffs out a little laugh, then throws his arms around her neck. She holds him tight, breathing in the warm, apple scented tangle of his curls, before setting him back down and nudging him toward the door.
“You’ll be brilliant,” she says firmly, squeezing his hand one last time before a teacher waves him over.
Nicky looks back once, eyes wide and anxious. Agatha smiles, blowing him a kiss. “See you later, my leaf.”
That wins the smallest grin out of him before he toddles toward his classmate.
Agatha watches until he disappears inside, her chest tight, before straightening her coat and heading back to the car.
Once Agatha gets home she drops her keys into the bowl by the door and kicks her heels off. She’d cleared her whole day for this, every email bounced back with a crisp ‘out of office,’ every meeting pushed to tomorrow. Today was for Nicky.
She’s halfway through making tea when her phone buzzes across the counter. Rio.
With a sigh, she picks up. “What?”
“Agatha.” Rio’s voice is clipped and hurried with the cadence of someone already halfway into an excuse. “I’ve got a huge meeting this afternoon. It just came up and I can’t get out of it.”
Agatha goes still, the kettle starting to hiss behind her. “What do you mean you can’t get out of it?”
“I mean exactly that. The client flew in early, and the entire board is expecting me. It’s not optional.”
“You’re telling me you’re going to miss his show for a client meeting?” Agatha’s voice sharpens, low and dangerous.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” Rio snaps back. “You know how my job works. This is one of those times.”
Agatha presses her palm flat to the counter, nails biting into her skin. “No. No, this is his time. He’s been talking about this show for weeks. He asked me this morning if you’d be there. I promised him. And now you’re bailing?”
Silence hums on the line, heavy. Then Rio sighs, softer but no less infuriating. “You’ll be there. He’ll still have a parent in the audience. He won’t even notice.”
Agatha’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “You really believe that? You think he won’t notice the empty seat? He notices everything, Rio. Everything.”
There’s a pause, long enough that Agatha can hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.
“I’m sorry,” Rio says finally. “But I can’t be in two places at once. You’ll just have to handle it.”
The line clicks dead before Agatha can bite back.
She slams the phone down onto the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. The kettle shrieks behind her, but she doesn’t move, her chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Agatha eventually kills the kettle with a sharp flick, the whistle cutting off mid shriek. The kitchen falls back into silence, but it doesn’t feel quiet. It feels heavy.
She paces the length of the tiles, phone still in her hand, thumb pressing into the glass so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t crack. Her mind runs circles around itself.
She can’t call the school to warn him. He’ll be lined up with the other kids, scanning the crowd for her face, for both their faces. He’ll spot her easily, and then he’ll keep looking. And looking. And when he realises Rio isn’t there…
Agatha exhales sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until it’s wild around her face.
“Damn it, Rio.”
There’s nothing she can do. No way to soften it. No way to prepare him. She imagines the wobble in his bottom lip, the panic in his eyes, and her stomach twists until she feels sick.
She had promised that they’d both be there. His small hand had been so tight around hers, his voice so hopeful.
Agatha presses her palms into the counter, bowing her head. For all her careful planning, the cleared calendar, the pressed blouse, the camera already charged to film him, none of it matters. Because all he’ll see is the empty seat beside her.
She straightens, jaw locking. She’ll have to make up for it somehow. She doesn’t know how yet, but she will.
Her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts, the one she always presses when she’s unraveling, when she doesn’t know what to do.
Her first thought is to call you. She pictures your voice, steady even when you’re unsure, the way you’d talk her down and remind her to breathe. The way you’d probably say that he won’t be alone, Agatha. He has you. That’s enough.
Her thumb twitches, ready to tap.
But then she remembers you told her this morning that you have therapy at noon. You’d made that brave little smile as you said it, like you were trying to be casual when she knew it still terrifies you.
And now, as the clock blinks 12:14 from the oven display, she can see you in her mind’s eye, knees tucked up in that chair, fidgeting with your sleeves, trying to peel your chest open in front of a stranger. She can’t interrupt that, can’t drag you out of your own fight just to soothe hers.
Agatha sets the phone down with a sharp clatter, bracing her palms on the counter. Her jaw tightens until her teeth ache. All she wants is your voice. But for now, she has to sit with the silence.
The thought of Nicky seeing that empty seat makes her stomach twist again. She paces, furious with Rio, furious with herself for promising something she couldn’t control, desperate to reach for you but refusing to rob you of the one thing you’re doing for yourself.
~
Traffic crawls outside the school, minivans and SUVs jostling for the drop off lane. Agatha grips the wheel tighter, her pulse hammering as she imagines the gymnasium filling up, the folding chairs in neat rows, one of them already destined to stay heartbreakingly empty.
Her phone buzzes in the cupholder. Your name.
She snatches it up, fumbling to put it on speaker. “Baby?”
“Hey,” your voice comes, soft but steady. “I know the show’s about to start. I just wanted to say good luck. Tell him I’m cheering for him.”
Agatha swallows hard, the words spilling before she can stop them. “Rio’s not coming. She called with some bullshit excuse about meeting she ‘couldn’t miss.’” Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “He’s going to look for her, and she won’t be there. He’ll see that empty chair and…”
Her voice breaks, raw. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain it to him.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then your tone sharpens. “How long do I have?”
Agatha blinks, thrown. “What?”
“How long until showtime?”
She glances at the dashboard clock. “Ten minutes, maybe less. Why?”
“Okay, gotta go,” you cut in, and the line goes dead.
Agatha stares at the phone, stunned, then back to the traffic outside the school.
And for the first time all day, a flicker of hope pushes through the dread because if anyone could make sure her son doesn’t see an empty chair, it’s you.
The corridors smell faintly of glue sticks and floor polish, children’s artwork taped in uneven rows along the walls. Agatha makes her way toward the gym, heels clicking against the linoleum, her bag heavy with Professor Goatly tucked inside.
At the entrance, a cheerful woman with a clipboard greets her. “Name?”
“Agatha Harkness. For Nicholas Harkness Vidal.”
The woman checks her list and smiles. “Two tickets. Is your guest with you?”
Agatha forces a calm nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. “She’s running a little late, but she’ll be here. Please just let her through when she arrives.”
“Of course,” the woman says, waving her inside.
The gym is already buzzing with rows of metal chairs filled with parents, the makeshift stage lined with autumn decorations of paper leaves, construction paper pumpkins, and a painted banner that says ‘Welcome Fall!’ in uneven letters. The teachers hustle small children behind the curtain, voices hushed but urgent.
Agatha takes her seat in the front row, the little folding chair creaking under her as she sits. It feels too small for her, but she barely notices.
Her eyes keep darting to the door. Every time it opens, her breath catches, but it’s just another parent, another sibling, another stroller rolling in. Not you. Not yet.
Her fingers tap against her knee, restless. She can already picture Nicky’s face peeking from behind the curtain, scanning the crowd. If you don’t get here in time…
She presses a hand over her heart, swallowing hard. She told the clipboard woman you’d be here. She told herself you’d be here. And now, all she can do is sit in the small chair, surrounded by smiling parents, and pray you’ll make it before her son steps out and sees an empty space where his family should be.
You’re not even sure how fast you drove, only that you threw the car into the first open space you saw, half crooked across the line, and bolted.
Now you’re sprinting across the school parking lot, bag thumping against your hip, lungs burning with the chill of late October air. Parents are strolling casually toward the doors, chatting, clutching travel mugs, and you weave between them, muttering frantic apologies as you go.
Inside, the halls are a blur of posters and backpacks. You catch the faint sound of a piano warming up from the gym, a teacher’s voice herding kids into line. Your heart slams harder. Don’t miss it. Don’t let him see that empty chair.
Your boots squeak against the polished floor as you skid around the corner. The clipboard woman at the door startles when you appear, breathless.
“Agatha Harkness’ guest,” you gasp, already reaching for your ID.
She checks the list, then waves you through with a smile. “Go, go! They’re about to start.”
You dart inside, the gym already packed, rows of parents filling the folding chairs. The paper pumpkins and tissue paper leaves strung across the stage blur past as your eyes lock on the front row.
The moment the door swings open, Agatha’s eyes snap toward it, the way they have every single time someone’s walked in. But this time it’s you.
Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the sprint, eyes wild with determination as you hurry down the aisle. You don’t even glance around at the rows of parents craning to see who’s rushing in so late, your gaze is locked on hers, like you knew exactly where she’d be.
Her chest seizes. Relief crashes over her so hard she almost sags in her chair.
You, her messy, shy, stubborn, beautiful girl, you showed up. Not for her but for him.
She knew she loved you before, of course she did, but this is another level entirely. A raw, bone deep love, sharpened into something fierce by the sight of you gasping for air in a school gym just to make sure her little boy won’t see an empty chair.
You drop into the seat beside her, still panting, and without thinking she reaches for you, her hand clamping onto your knee. Your hand covers hers, warm and steady despite your racing pulse, and Agatha has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her composure.
She leans closer, her voice a rasp only you can hear. “You came.”
You manage a breathless grin. “I wasn’t about to let him look out and see an empty chair.”
Her throat tightens. She swallows hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes, and squeezes your knee so hard you almost wince. If you weren’t in a room full of preschool parents, she thinks she’d kiss you until she cried.
Instead, she whispers, “God, I love you,” and turns back toward the stage just as the curtain begins to twitch.
The curtain ripples as the teachers shuffle the kids into place. Your hand slips quietly into Agatha’s bag, rummaging till you grab Professor Goatly. You pull the plush goat out and set him carefully on your lap, arranging him so he’s sitting tall, facing the stage.
Agatha sees it and her composure cracks, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a grin so tender it makes your chest ache. She leans sideways, pressing a quick kiss into your hair, her lips lingering for a second longer than they should in public.
Her voice is a whisper, warm against your ear. “I want to tell him.”
You turn your head, blinking. “Tell him what?”
Her hand finds yours under the cover of the goat, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. “That you’re not just his babysitter.” She swallows, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. “That you’re Mommy’s partner. That you’re ours.”
Your breath catches. The noise of parents settling in, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of costumes behind the curtain, all of it fades. It’s just her, her hand squeezing yours, the weight of those words hanging heavy and bright between you.
Tears sting hot in your eyes before you can stop them. “You mean that?”
Her grip tightens, her forehead brushing yours for the barest moment. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
You sniffle, trying to blink the tears away before the curtain goes up, before Nicky can see. But you can’t hide the way your smile trembles as you whisper back, “I want that too.”
Professor Goatly sits proudly in your lap, a silent witness, as the first notes of the piano strike up.
The curtain shuffles open, revealing a row of tiny four year olds in paper leaf crowns, each one fidgeting in place, eyes scanning the crowd.
The teacher steps forward with a big smile. “Our youngest class has been working very hard on their autumn song. Please welcome them!”
The room erupts into applause and camera flashes.
And there he is. Nicky. His curls bouncing under his crown, his little shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, Professor Goatly nowhere in sight because he’s safely on your lap.
His eyes dart nervously across the crowd, wide and searching. Then they land on the front row. On Agatha first, her hand raised in a steady wave, her smile as bright as he’s ever seen it.
And then on you sitting right beside her, the goat propped up proudly on your knees.
Nicky freezes, blinking like he can’t believe it. Then his whole face lights up. He beams so hard his crown slips sideways, and he waves with both hands, bouncing on his toes.
You and Agatha both wave back, grinning like fools. She leans into you, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at him.”
The music cues again, and Nicky straightens with the other kids. He takes a deep breath, clutches the edge of his shirt, and sings at the top of his little lungs.
“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”
Some of the kids sing at the top of their lungs, others mumble shyly into their collars. One little boy in the middle stares at the ceiling like the words might be written there, while another girl next to him is already chewing on her paper crown.
Nicky belts it. His voice wobbles on the high notes, but he sings directly toward the front row, his eyes darting between Agatha, you, and the goat on your lap. Each time he catches sight of all three, he grins wider, his crown slipping further over his curls.
“Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”
Half the class comes in too early on orange and brown, dissolving into giggles that make the teacher clap frantically to bring them back together. Agatha’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter beside you, her hand covering yours tightly.
They launch into the second verse, even less in sync than the first, but no one in the audience cares. Parents beam, phones held high. A mom in the second row dabs at her eyes like she’s watching the Royal Opera instead of a preschool show.
One little girl forgets the words entirely and just twirls in a circle until she falls over. The boy next to her bursts into tears, tugging at his crown. But the rest keep going, the song chugging along through every wobble and mistake.
And through it all, Nicky keeps singing, cheeks flushed, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he’s putting every ounce of bravery he has into each line. His eyes flicker to you both constantly, like he’s drawing strength from the fact you’re there, his family in the front row.
“All around the towwwwnnnn!”
The kids hold the final note far too long, their voices cracking with the effort. The teacher claps her hands together, beaming. “Take a bow!”
They do, half tripping over each other, crowns tumbling, paper leaves scattering across the stage.
The audience erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the little gym. Cameras flash, parents whistle.
Nicky bows so low he nearly topples over, then pops back up, grinning so wide his face could split. The second his eyes find you and Agatha again, he waves with both arms, practically vibrating with pride.
Agatha squeezes your hand hard, her throat working. “My brave boy,” she whispers, voice thick.
The applause still thunders through the little gymnasium as the children are shepherded off the stage, paper crowns crooked, some of them already yawning from the excitement. Parents begin to shuffle, standing to get a better view, calling their kids’ names.
Agatha rises, her hand slipping from yours only because she’s craning her neck to what door Nicky will come out of. You clutch Professor Goatly against your chest, your stomach already tight with anticipation.
And then there he is.
Nicky barrels out from the side of the stage with the other children, his crown now fully askew, his face flushed and glowing. He scans the crowd wildly, eyes wide.
“Mama!” he yells, spotting Agatha first. Then, a beat later, his gaze lands on you and the goat in your arms. His whole face lights up, brighter than the stage lights, and he bolts.
“Mama! Y/N!”
He collides into Agatha’s legs first, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She scoops him up without hesitation, kissing his curls, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “Darling boy, you were wonderful.”
“I did it!” he beams, breathless from the run, curls sticking to his forehead. “I wasn’t even scared!”
You hold up the goat, and he squeals, reaching from Agatha’s arms to grab both you and the plush at once. “Professor Goatly saw me! You saw me too!”
You nod, grinning, your eyes stinging. “I saw everything. You were amazing.”
He wriggles until Agatha crouches down to set him between you both, his little arms looping around your necks, pulling you close in a clumsy, tight hug. “Best show ever!”
Agatha meets your eyes over his curls, her smile breaking into something raw and full. She mouths, ‘thank you’, even as she kisses the top of Nicky’s head again and again.
“Well, superstar,” she says, brushing a stray curl off his forehead, “I think a performance that brilliant deserves a celebration.”
His eyes go wide, glittering. “Celebrate?!”
“Yes honey.” She taps his nose, grinning. “What do you think? Pizza?”
“Pizza!” he squeals, throwing his arms up so enthusiastically his crown finally slips all the way off and clatters to the gym floor.
You bend to pick it up, laughing as you hand it back to him. “Pizza sounds perfect.”
Nicky hugs the goat tight against his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Best show ever, best pizza ever!”
Agatha stands, slipping one hand around your waist while she reaches for Nicky’s little hand with the other. “Then it’s settled. Let’s get our superstar fed.”
You glance at her as the three of you head toward the exit together, her eyes catching yours with that same look from before, full of love, relief, and something deeper and fiercer than you’ve ever felt trained on you.
And for the first time, it really feels like you’re a family walking out of that school together.
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A/N: Watched Suspiria and Whiplash back to back a few days ago, and this is what bloomed in my brain afterwards! Larissa is strict, authoritative, bordering on cruel. Reader is eager to please, pushing her own boundaries for a crumble of praise from the woman she has an unhealthy obsession with. I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I do! <3
Morning rehearsal begins before the sun has properly decided to rise. The academy sits in a kind of blue half-light when you arrive, all long corridors and sleeping radiators, the windows filmed faintly with winter condensation. Somewhere upstairs, a piano stumbles through scales. Someone laughing too loudly in another studio gets shushed almost immediately.
Studio A smells of rosin, sweat, and old wood polished so many times it has developed a shine like still water. The mirrors along the far wall catch every movement with exhausting honesty. Girls are already stretching at the barre when you enter, their warm-up knits hanging from narrow shoulders, pointe shoes discarded in pale satin heaps beside dance bags.
No one speaks much before Larissa arrives.
You are three minutes late.
Not late enough for another instructor to notice, perhaps, but Larissa notices everything. You have learned this the way dancers learn most things, through repetition and humiliation.
The studio door opens behind you just as you tie your hair back, and the room stills with almost embarrassing immediacy. Conversations taper off. Spines straighten. Someone hurriedly removes their phone from the barre and tucks it away.
Larissa steps inside carrying the cold with her.
Snowmelt glimmers faintly at the hem of her black wool coat. One leather-gloved hand rests atop the silver head of her cane, though she hardly seems to need it. She moves with the same sharp composure she brings to everything else, as though even pain has been instructed to behave properly in her presence.
She surveys the room once. A practiced sweep. Inventory rather than greeting.
Then her eyes settle on you, moving from your face to your half tied bun.
“You were late.”
The words are not loud. They do not need to be. Larissa speaks the way surgeons cut. Neatly, without wasted force.
Heat climbs immediately into your face. “I’m sorry, Miss Weems.”
“You apologize as though it alters time.”
Around you, no one looks directly at either of you. The dancers at this academy have perfected the art of witnessing someone else’s destruction discreetly.
Larissa removes her gloves finger by finger and lays them atop the piano. “Don’t be late again.”
“Yes, Miss Weems.”
The pianist receives Larissa’s coat with the solemnity of someone accepting ceremonial robes, and then rehearsal begins.
“Barre.”
The room obeys at once.
That is the frightening thing about Larissa. Not that she is cruel—though she can be—but that obedience forms naturally around her, instinctive as breath. She does not command the room so much as arrange it around herself. Even silence seems curated in her presence.
The music starts softly. Slow warm-up exercises first. Pliés and tendus repeated until the body loosens from sleep. You settle your hand against the barre and try to ignore the lingering embarrassment beneath your skin, though embarrassment under Larissa’s gaze has a tendency to become physical. Your shoulders tighten. Your breathing shortens. Every movement begins to feel observed.
Perhaps because it is.
Larissa walks between the dancers while the pianist plays, correcting posture with economical precision. A lifted chin here. A pressed shoulder there. Her criticism is rarely theatrical. She doesn’t shout unless absolutely necessary. The disappointment in her voice is usually punishment enough.
“You look lazy,” she tells one dancer flatly. “I assume this is accidental.”
The girl flushes crimson and straightens immediately.
Larissa moves on.
You feel her approaching before you see her reflection in the mirror. Your body always notices first. Some humiliating instinct. Your spine lengthens unconsciously, your stomach tightens beneath your leotard.
“Shoulders.”
The word lands directly behind you.
You correct instantly.
“No,” Larissa says, and there is the faintest trace of irritation in it. “You’re stiffening, not opening.”
Her hand settles between your shoulder blades before you can try again. Warm even through the fabric. Firm enough to feel instructional rather than comforting, though your body has long since stopped understanding the distinction.
“Here.”
Pressure against your spine forces you upright. Not rigid. Supported.
Larissa’s hand remains there a moment longer than strictly necessary, and the awareness of it spreads through you like fever. She smells faintly of sandalwood and something colder beneath it, something clean and expensive that belongs in opera houses and nowhere near a studio full of sweating dancers.
“You collapse inward whenever you lose confidence,” she says quietly enough that only you can hear. “The audience will notice.”
You swallow. “I’m trying not to.”
“I know. Try harder.”
The words settle strangely inside you. Not praise. Not kindness. Worse, perhaps. Recognition.
Larissa steps away, and cold rushes back into the space she occupied. You hate the immediate feeling of loss almost as much as you hate the relief.
The exercise continues.
Outside, snow drifts softly against the windows. Inside, the room warms with effort. By the end of barre, strands of hair have escaped slick ballet buns and the mirrors are beginning to cloud faintly at the edges where bodies have brushed too close.
Larissa watches all of it.
“Swan Lake is in eight weeks,” she says during center work, clipboard balanced lightly against one arm. “At present, most of you dance as though this information has failed to concern you.”
No one speaks.
“You are technically proficient,” she continues, pacing slowly across the studio floor. “Unfortunately, technical proficiency without emotional discipline is how mediocre dancers convince themselves they deserve principal roles.”
Her gaze drifts across the room.
Lingers on you.
Moves away again.
The relief is immediate and shameful.
“Auditions for Odette will be next Friday,” Larissa says. “I suggest you begin behaving accordingly.”
The atmosphere changes at once. Competition arrives quietly but thoroughly, sliding itself beneath the skin of the room. Girls stop smiling at one another quite so easily. Corrections begin to sound personal. Every stumble becomes visible.
You can feel it happening inside yourself too, ugly and desperate. The role has rooted itself somewhere deep in your chest ever since the production was announced. Odette. White silk and tragedy. Fragility sharpened into precision.
You want it badly enough to embarrass yourself.
Perhaps you already are.
The rehearsal becomes brutal after that.
Larissa works the same turn sequence for nearly forty minutes, stopping the music every time someone falters. Again and again and again until fatigue begins unraveling technique altogether. Ankles shake. Breathing roughens. One dancer nearly slips during a landing and catches herself hard enough to bruise.
Larissa watches impassively.
“You are tired,” she says. “How devastating.”
The girl lowers her eyes.
“Again.”
No one argues.
You dance until your calves burn violently beneath your skin. Again until your toes feel blistered raw inside the pointe shoes. Again until the studio begins narrowing strangely at the edges from exhaustion.
Larissa’s attention settles on you more and more frequently as rehearsal drags on. You have never decided whether this is fortunate.
“You anticipate the turn before you trust it,” she tells you after stopping the music mid-combination. “Why?”
“I thought—”
“There is your first mistake.”
A few dancers laugh behind you.
Heat flashes across your face, but Larissa is already moving closer, her expression sharpening rather than softening at your embarrassment.
“You think too much while dancing,” she says. “I can practically see the calculations happening behind your eyes. Ballet is not mathematics.”
You nod quickly.
Larissa sighs through her nose, dissatisfied. “Again.”
You reset position.
The pianist begins once more.
This time you force yourself not to think about Larissa watching. Not about the mirrors. Not about the audience that will eventually fill velvet seats and decide, in a matter of minutes, whether you are extraordinary or forgettable.
You turn.
Land cleanly.
Continue.
The sequence finishes without error.
Silence.
Larissa studies you for one long moment. Her face gives almost nothing away, but you have become disturbingly skilled at reading the tiny shifts in her expression. The slight easing around her mouth. The near-invisible softening in her eyes when something pleases her despite herself.
“Better,” she says at last.
The single word settles into your bloodstream like alcohol.
Praise from Larissa is dangerous. Too rare not to become holy.
You spend the next twenty minutes chasing the sound of it again.
—
During the break, Isabelle collapses dramatically beside you against the mirrored wall, her tights already laddering slightly at one knee.
“I think she enjoys this,” she mutters, gulping water. “Not ballet. Human suffering specifically.”
You smile faintly, unwinding the ribbons from your ankles. “You say that every rehearsal.”
“And every rehearsal I’m right.”
Across the room, Larissa stands near the piano speaking quietly with the accompanist. Winter light spills pale across her profile from the windows behind her, turning the edges of her hair almost silver. Even exhaustion seems elegant on her.
Your gaze catches there too long.
Isabelle notices immediately. Of course she does.
“Oh, you’re doomed.”
You look away at once. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I really don’t.”
“She humiliates you publicly ten times a day and you look at her like she hung the moon over the theater district.”
You feel your stomach drop hard enough to hurt.
“Keep your voice down.”
Isabelle snorts softly. “Please. She probably noticed your crush before you did.”
“No, she didn’t.”
As if summoned by the conversation itself, Larissa looks up.
Her eyes meet yours across the room with terrifying immediacy. Not accidental. Never accidental.
You look away first.
Cowardly.
Necessary.
“Break is over,” Larissa says.
The room moves instantly.
—
Partnering rehearsal begins badly and deteriorates from there.
The White Swan pas de deux requires a kind of trust that exhaustion makes difficult. Girls miss cues. Hands slip. Timing fractures apart under pressure. Larissa’s patience thins visibly as the afternoon drags on, though her anger remains frighteningly controlled.
“You dance like frightened prey animals,” she says after one particularly clumsy sequence. “Odette is not fragile because she lacks strength. She is fragile because the world insists upon breaking her.”
No one responds.
Larissa gestures toward center floor. “You. Demonstrate.”
Of course she means you.
You step forward while the others retreat slightly toward the mirrors. Your partner takes position behind you, one hand hovering carefully near your waist.
Larissa circles once around the pair of you, gaze sweeping critically over every line of your posture.
“Chin,” she says.
You lift it.
“Higher.”
Her fingers settle briefly beneath your jaw, tilting your face upward with careful pressure. The touch is entirely practical. Professional. Yet your pulse reacts with humiliating speed anyway, stumbling unevenly beneath your ribs.
Larissa’s thumb lingers for the briefest moment before she steps away.
“There,” she says. “Odette does not beg to be loved. She expects it.”
You spend the next several seconds trying to remember how breathing works.
The music begins.
You dance.
Or attempt to.
Larissa watches with such unwavering intensity that your awareness of her becomes almost physical. You can feel her attention moving over every imperfect angle before she even speaks.
Halfway through the turn sequence, your balance falters.
“Stop.”
The music cuts abruptly.
Silence folds over the studio.
Larissa approaches slowly, her cane tapping once against the floorboards.
“You’re afraid of the turn.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she says calmly. “You anticipate failure before your body has even moved.”
Shame burns beneath your skin.
Larissa steps closer. Too close.
Her hands settle against your waist to correct your alignment, firm enough that you can feel the exact span of her fingers through the thin fabric of your leotard. Your body goes painfully still beneath the contact.
“Feel where your center actually is,” she murmurs. “You keep abandoning it.”
The warmth of her palms lingers long after she steps away.
“Again.”
This time the turn lands perfectly.
Larissa’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Not satisfaction exactly, but something adjacent to it.
Then she says, “Now do it consistently,” and the moment disappears.
—
By the end of rehearsal, your right foot is bleeding.
You noticed it nearly an hour ago when pain sharpened suddenly beneath your toes, warm wetness gathering inside the pointe shoe. You continued dancing anyway. Most dancers would. Ballet has a way of teaching people that the body is negotiable.
The studio empties slowly around you once Larissa dismisses the class. Girls limp toward the locker rooms carrying dance bags and exhaustion alike, complaining softly about bruised arches and strained calves.
You sit on the bench and begin massaging your thighs.
“You’re staying again?” Isabelle asks.
“I need to practice.”
“You need a priest. And medical intervention.”
You smile faintly. “I was off during the turns.”
“You were exhausted.”
Larissa noticed.
The thought arrives instantly, shamefully warm.
Isabelle studies you for a moment, concern dimming the usual amusement in her face. “She’s harder on you than everyone else.”
“That’s because she thinks I need improvement.”
“No,” Isabelle says quietly. “I think it’s because she sees more in you.”
Before you can answer, the locker room door opens.
Silence follows immediately.
Larissa steps inside. “Everyone out.”
No one argues.
Within moments, only the two of you remain.
Larissa waits until the door closes behind the last dancer before looking at you fully.
“You stayed after rehearsal yesterday.”
“Yes, Miss Weems.”
“And the night before.”
You nod.
“Why?”
The truthful answer catches painfully behind your ribs.
Because your attention feels like oxygen.
Because when you look at me, I stop feeling ordinary.
Instead you say, “I need to improve.”
Larissa watches you in silence for several long seconds. The fluorescent lights flatten the room harshly, but they do strange things to her eyes, turning them pale enough to look almost silver.
“You confuse suffering with discipline,” she says eventually.
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Her voice remains calm. “You romanticize your exhaustion. You wear it like proof of devotion.”
The accuracy of it leaves you briefly speechless.
Larissa has always possessed a terrifying ability to reach directly into the softest parts of people and press there without hesitation.
“You think destroying yourself for ballet makes you exceptional,” she continues. “It does not. It makes you interchangeable.”
The words hurt because they are true. Worse because some part of you still wants to impress her by surviving them.
Larissa sighs softly then, almost tired. “Studio.”
You obey at once.
Of course you do.
The mirrors look different at night. Less honest, perhaps. The darkness outside the windows turns them strange, reflections layered over shadow until bodies appear ghostlike at the edges.
Rain taps softly against the glass while you tighten your ribbons.
Larissa stands near the piano watching.
“You favor your left foot when tired,” she says.
You glance up too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“That was not an invitation to lie.”
Heat creeps into your face.
Larissa gestures once toward center floor. “Show me the turns.”
Your muscles ache violently now that rehearsal has ended. Fatigue settling properly into the joints and tendons. Still, you rise.
The music begins softly from the stereo.
You dance.
One turn.
Then another.
Halfway through the third, pain slices sharply through your foot and your balance wavers.
“Stop.”
You freeze immediately.
Larissa crosses the room without hurry, though something sharper has entered her expression now.
“You’re injured.”
“No.”
Her gaze drops toward the faint stain spreading through the satin of your pointe shoe.
Then back to your face.
“You are a very poor liar.”
Before you can answer, Larissa crouches before you.
The movement startles you enough that your breath catches outright.
Her hands close carefully around your ankle, professional and efficient in a way that only worsens things. She unties the ribbons slowly, fingertips brushing occasionally against your skin with absent precision.
You stare helplessly at the pale crown of her hair beneath the dim lights.
Larissa removes the shoe, the blood-speckled padding earning a quiet exhale through her nose.
“There it is.”
Humiliation floods you immediately. You feel absurdly close to apologizing.
“You continued dancing on this,” Larissa says.
“I could still dance.”
“That was not the question.”
Her hand remains lightly wrapped around your ankle, warm and steady.
Rain gathers harder against the windows.
“You are reckless,” she says quietly. “And you mistake recklessness for ambition.”
The words settle heavily between you.
Then her thumb brushes once against the inside of your ankle, thoughtless perhaps, and your entire body reacts like struck wire.
Larissa notices. Of course she notices.
Her eyes lift slowly to yours.
A pause opens between you, sharp enough to split skin.
Then she releases you and stands.
“Again,” she says.
You stare at her. “I can barely stand.”
“Yes.”
No sympathy. No softness. Only that terrible unwavering expectation.
“You want Odette,” Larissa continues. “You want greatness. Yet the moment pain becomes inconvenient, you expect permission to stop.”
“I didn’t ask to stop.”
“No,” she says softly. “You asked to be admired for continuing. You wanted me to see, to notice that you endured the pain. And you thought that I would allow you to stop.”
The words land cleanly because they are true.
Outside, rain streaks silver down the darkened windows. The studio has gone almost black beyond the overhead lights, the mirrors no longer reflecting properly. Only fragments now. A shoulder. A hand. Larissa’s pale face suspended faintly in glass.
Your foot throbs violently inside the ruined shoe.
Every muscle in your body aches.
Still, when Larissa repeats, “Again,” you straighten instinctively beneath the command, and hate the part of yourself that feels proud for obeying.
Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.
Word Count: 9.5K
Warnings: talk of abuse of power and assault but no graphic descriptions x no smut this time loves but as always MDNI xo
A/N: lots of backstory and plot on this one folks x hope you all enjoy and hope you’ve had a blessed beltane and are taking care of yourselves xo
The waiting room is too bright. Every wall is stark white, filled with posters about mindfulness and breathing techniques in pastel colours, the faint whir of a vent overhead the only sound. You sit in one of the plastic chairs, knees pressed together, hands fidgeting with the strap of your bag.
Your phone vibrates in your lap.
~ Mum: Good luck today, sweetheart. So proud of you. ❤️~
A second buzz, almost immediately after.
~ Billy: You’ve got this. Text me after or I’ll come drag you out for coffee, deal? ~
And then, right on their heels is a text from Agatha.
~ Agatha: With you in spirit, babygirl. Be gentle with yourself. Call me the second you’re done. ~
You stare at the three messages stacked on top of each other, all soft and supportive, and somehow they just make your stomach twist harder.
You swallow, staring down at the screen until the words blur. It should feel good, having them cheer you on. Instead it feels like pressure. Like they’re all waiting for you to come out better somehow. Fixed.
You slip the phone back into your bag, pressing your palms to your thighs to keep them from shaking.
Your name is called from the doorway, your head jerking up at the sound of your name.
The air feels thick in your chest as you stand, your body already too warm. You force your legs to move, every step toward that office making the sick feeling coil tighter in your gut.
She’s not what you expected.
Short, with dark hair pinned back in a loose twist, streaks of silver glinting through. Big, expressive eyes lined in kohl. Her clothes are professional enough but there’s something wildly witchy in the way bracelets are stacked at her wrists, a single silver ring catching the light when she pushes the door open wider for you.
“Come on in,” she says, her accent faint, a lilting undercurrent that makes you glance twice.
You step into her office, clutching your bag strap too tight. The space smells faintly of herbs and old books. There are shelves lined with psychology texts, yes, but also a few dog- eared novels, a thick candle burned low in a glass jar.
And behind her desk is a framed, weathered map of Sicily.
Your nerves tangle with curiosity. “Are you Sicilian?”
Her mouth curves, faintly amused. “I am. Very perceptive.” She gestures to the map, stepping past her desk to pull a chair out for you. “My family is from Palermo. I keep that there to remind me of home.”
You nod quickly, sinking into the offered chair. Your heart is still hammering, your palms clammy, but there’s something steady in the way she looks at you, direct but not unkind.
Dr. Calderu settles into her chair across from you, her bracelets give the faintest chime when she folds her hands in her lap.
“So,” she says gently, tilting her head a little, “why have you decided to come to therapy?”
You pull your knees up into the chair before you can stop yourself, arms wrapping around them tight. The position makes you feel smaller, safer.
You sigh, eyes flicking to the floor. “I don’t know. I guess… people are worried about me.”
“People?” she echoes, tone curious but not sharp.
“My mom. My brother. My…” You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. “My… girlfriend.” The word comes out quieter than you mean it to.
Dr. Calderu nods once, like she’s tucking the detail away without judgment. “Why do you think they’re worried?”
Your gaze skitters away from her, catching instead on the lines of that old Sicilian map behind her desk. You focus on the faded coastline and the faint, sea worn names of towns you don’t know. It feels easier to look at that than her eyes.
You shrug, hugging your knees tighter. “I left my doctorate. I moved back home. Slept a lot.” Your words are flat, like you’re reading them off a page.
She doesn’t rush. “Why?”
Your throat tightens. You squeeze your arms tighter around yourself, knuckles pressing into your ribs. Your gaze drops to your shoes, blurring a little through the sheen of gathering tears you refuse to let fall.
You shake your head, voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t… I just...” you can’t seem to get the words out.
She nods again, slow, calm, like she expected that answer. “That’s alright. We don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready for.”
Her voice is steady and low, grounding in a way that makes you breathe a little deeper, even as your arms stay locked tight around yourself.
Dr. Calderu lets the silence hang for a moment before she shifts slightly in her chair, her bracelets chiming as she folds her hands loosely again.
“Alright,” she says softly. “Let’s try something else. Tell me, what do your days look like now?”
You sniff, wiping quickly at your cheek, though no tears have fallen yet. “Um… I babysit a little boy.” Your voice is small, but it’s something. “Most weekdays.”
She nods. “That sounds like important work.”
You huff a laugh, quick and humourless. “It’s just one kid.”
“Just one kid who depends on you,” she counters gently. “That still matters.”
You look down, embarrassed, your arms tightening around your knees. “The rest of the time I… I don’t know. I sleep. Or I’m at home with my mom. Or with…” you trail off, fumbling for the word, “…her.”
Dr. Calderu’s eyes are steady, but not piercing. Just open. “So it sounds like your days are split, some responsibility, some rest, some time with people who care about you.”
“I guess,” you whisper, though your shoulders hunch tighter. “But it still feels like nothing. Like I’m not doing anything that counts.”
Her head tilts. “Counts to who?”
The question lodges in your chest, simple and impossible at once. You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening. You just squeeze yourself smaller, trying to avoid her gaze, the question buzzing in your ears.
You don’t speak for a while but when you do, your voice is quiet. “I always wanted to be a professor.”
Dr. Calderu doesn’t interrupt, just waits for you to continue.
“I loved what I did,” you continue, staring down at the floor. “I was good at it. I mean… I was becoming kind of a leading researcher in my field. My specialty was folklore, and the history of witchcraft. Obscure archives, manuscripts, oral traditions… I loved digging through things no one else seemed to care about.”
Your arms tighten around your knees. “My whole family was proud. My mom told everyone I was going to be a Doctor of History. Billy bragged about me. It felt like my life was all finally… coming together.”
You swallow hard, your throat thick. “And now anything else I do feels… empty. Pointless. Like I’ve already failed at the only thing that mattered. Babysitting, sleeping, cooking dinner with my mom… it doesn’t touch the same place. It just feels like I’ve ruined everything.”
The silence after is sharp, and you almost wish she’d say something, challenge you, contradict you, anything. But instead Dr. Calderu just nods once, her expression unreadable except for the steady warmth in her eyes.
“That’s a lot to carry,” she says softly. “No wonder it feels heavy.”
Your lip trembles, and you duck your face back into your knees, ashamed of how raw your voice had come out.
Dr. Calderu watches you tuck your face down into your knees, arms locked tight around yourself. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t fill the silence, just tilts her head and lets the space hold. Then, softly:
“Would you like to try again to tell me what happened?”
The question cracks through your chest like glass underfoot. You sniff, wiping your nose with the cuff of your sleeve, and your anxiety surges sharp and immediate, throat closing, stomach rolling, palms damp against your jeans. You don’t want to look at her. You can’t.
Your heart is already pounding, the way it always does when the memory comes. You can taste it, that awful mix of shame and bile, and your body doesn’t seem to know whether it wants to run or collapse.
“My professor,” you start, barely audible. “My… mentor.” The word sticks in your throat. You swallow hard, your voice cracking. “She was… inappropriate.”
Your whole body tenses, like even saying it out loud is dangerous. The air feels too thick, like it’s sticking to the inside of your lungs.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do,” you manage, words tumbling, shaky. “So I went to the dean. And they…” You break off, hugging yourself tighter, fingernails pressing crescents into your arms. “…they took her side.”
The shame rushes back hot and heavy, like it’s happening all over again. You can feel the sting in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.
“So I left.”
The words hang there, small and brittle.
You drag a shaky hand through your hair, your whole body restless, twitchy with the memory. “And now I’m nothing. I walked away from everything I worked for. And she’s still there. She’s still teaching, still publishing, like nothing happened. No fucking consequence.”
Your voice cracks harder, breaking into something closer to a sob. “And I’m so angry. All the time. I loved what I did. I really, really loved it. And now it’s gone. It’s just…” you clutch your knees tighter. “It’s nothing. I’m a failure.”
The words echo in the quiet of the office, and for a second you can’t breathe, like you’ve hollowed yourself out just to say them.
You hug your knees tighter, your face pressed into the fabric, as the silence stretches. It feels like ripping a scab clean off, raw air rushing into an open wound you’ve kept hidden, hidden so well you almost convinced yourself it wasn’t still bleeding. And now it’s gaping wide, stinging in every nerve. You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in your temples.
For the first time in a long time, you don’t try to patch it over. You just let it sit. The ugly truth of it. The humiliation. The anger. The grief.
“What happened to you,” she says, her accent softening the words, “does not make you a failure.”
Your head tips, just enough to peek at her through damp lashes. She hasn’t shifted in her chair — she’s still sitting, composed, but her eyes are fixed on you, steady and unwavering.
“You were wronged,” she continues. “By someone who abused her position, and by an institution that chose to protect her instead of you. That is not your failure. That is theirs.”
You swallow hard, the lump in your throat catching.
“I hear how much you loved your work,” she says. “How much you poured into it. That love doesn’t vanish because you were forced to walk away. It’s still yours. What she did… what they did… it cannot erase the truth of your talent or your worth.”
Your arms loosen a little around your knees. Just a little.
Dr. Calderu leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on her thighs. “You are not nothing. You are someone who survived being betrayed in the place you should have been safest. And you are here choosing to talk about it and get help. That does not look like failure to me.”
Your lip trembles, the tears threatening again, but this time they feel different, not humiliation but something closer to release.
Dr. Calderu doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t soften into pity or harden into judgment. She just watches you carefully, her voice lowering another notch.
“All you wanted,” she says, quiet but steady, “was to go to school and to learn. To do the work you loved.”
Your breath catches, and suddenly you can’t hold it back anymore. The tears spill fast, burning hot as they track down your cheeks, and then you’re sobbing.
And still, Dr. Calderu doesn’t move to interrupt it, doesn’t shush you or rush you along. She sits in her chair, letting the silence of the office hold your sobs, like there’s space here for all of it. Years of anger, shame, betrayal, and all the things you never said out loud, spill out in sobs that feel endless yet cathartic. Your chest hurts, your throat raw, but it’s different than before. This isn’t panic, it’s release.
When the sobs finally start to ebb, you can hear your own shaky breathing again, the hitch and stutter of air trying to find its rhythm.
Dr. Calderu speaks only then, her tone the same as it’s been from the start, calm and solid.
“What was done to you was wrong. But none of it changes who you are. You are still the girl who loves to learn. That’s still in you. And it always will be.”
You wipe at your face with your sleeve, the fabric damp by the time you drag it away. Your chest still hiccups a little with the aftershocks of crying, but your lips tug into the faintest smile. “…thank you.”
Dr. Calderu doesn’t soften into platitude. She just inclines her head, eyes steady, a small curve of her mouth. “No need.”
The quiet lingers for a few beats before she shifts, crossing one leg over the other. Her bracelets clink faintly. “Tell me,” she says, voice still calm but curious, “how are you taking care of yourself?”
You blink at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Forms of self care,” she explains. “Little rituals, routines, things you do to keep your body and mind steady. Ways you give yourself kindness.”
You sniffle, your frown deepening as you hug your knees tighter. “I don’t really… I don’t know.” You shrug, embarrassed. “I don’t think I do that.”
She nods once, decisive but not unkind. “Then that’s your homework. Between now and the next session, I want you to choose ways you can take care of yourself. It doesn’t have to be anything complicated, just something.”
You hesitate, then murmur, “My girlfriend’s taking me to the movies tonight, does that count?”
“Yes.” Dr. Calderu’s smile widens just slightly, enough to feel like approval. “That’s a start.”
You duck your head, cheeks hot, but there’s a flicker of warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.
The clock on the wall ticks past the hour. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had gone until Dr. Calderu leans forward, uncrossing her legs.
“Well,” she says, tone gentle but conclusive, “that’s enough for today.” Her eyes stay fixed on you, steady and unflinching. “You’ve done the hardest part, showing up and saying the truth out loud. Now we can begin to make things better.”
You sniff, rubbing your sleeve under your nose, but there’s a tiny warmth in your chest at her words. A cautious spark of relief.
She stands, offering you her hand to help you up. When you’re on your feet, she simply says, “Same time next week,” like it’s already decided, and somehow that makes it easier to nod.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Her smile is brief but real. “Good work today.”
You leave her office slowly, the weight of what you said still clinging to your shoulders, but lighter now, like some of it was peeled away.
In the hallway, you finally dig your phone out of your bag. The screen lights up immediately with stacked messages.
~ Billy: Still alive in there? 👀~
~ Mom: Thinking of you. Call me when you’re home. ❤️~
~ Agatha: How’s my girl? ~
The knot in your stomach twists again, but this time you remind yourself that they’re all waiting for you, that you’re not walking out of this alone. You tuck the phone back into your hand, breathing deep, before pushing the door open to step outside.
The door clicks shut behind you, the late afternoon air hits cool against your face. You’re fumbling for your earphones when movement across the street catches your eye.
Billy.
He’s leaning against his beat up little car, jacket collar turned up, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s scanning the building, bouncing on his heels like he’s been waiting a while, trying to look casual but not quite pulling it off.
Your chest clenches so fast it knocks the air right out of you. Your eyes sting all over again, vision swimming before you can stop it. He looks up at just the right moment and catches sight of you, his face softening instantly.
You don’t even think. You just run.
Your boots slap against the pavement, your bag thudding against your hip, tears blurring your vision as you cross the street. Billy straightens, arms already opening, and you crash into him hard enough to make him stumble a step back.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, wrapping you up tight, his chin resting on the top of your head. One hand strokes down your back, steady and sure. “You did it. You went in there. I’m so proud of you.”
You clutch fistfuls of his jacket, sobs coming again, smaller now but with all the rawness still in them. He just holds you, rocking faintly, his cheek pressed against your hair.
“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing between your shoulders. “It’s over now. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just breathe.”
And you do, clinging to him on the street, tears soaking into his jacket, the weight of the session finally breaking loose in the safety of his arms.
Billy flicks the blinker on once you both get into the car, pulling out into the slow crawl of late afternoon traffic. He drums his fingers against the wheel like he wants to fill the silence but knows better than to push too soon.
After a few blocks he glances over, voice careful. “Did it… go okay?”
You keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of shopfronts and bus stops slip past. Your throat feels raw. “I told her.”
There’s a pause. He chews on his lip, then asks, gently, “told her… about university?”
You nod once, quick, still staring out the glass. The words scrape their way out, shaky. “I told her what happened. About…” you falter, clutching your sleeve tighter. “About my professor. And the dean. And how I left.”
Billy’s hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale, but he stays quiet, letting you say it.
You breathe hard through your nose, tears starting again before you can stop them. “She said… she said all I wanted was to go to school and learn, and…” Your voice breaks on the memory, sobs catching in your chest. “And it’s true. That’s all I wanted. Just to do what I loved. And now it’s gone. It’s all gone.”
Your chest heaves, your forehead pressing to the cool glass. Tears blur the passing cars into streaks of colour.
Without a word, Billy flicks the indicator on and pulls the car to the side of the road. The hazard lights tickn in the background. He shifts the gear into park, then leans over, one hand on your arm. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You shake your head, but he tugs gently until you turn, and then he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling you across the console into his arms.
“I know,” he murmurs into your hair, squeezing you tight. “I know, I know.”
You sob against his chest, clutching the front of his hoodie like you’ll fall apart if you let go. He just rocks you a little, his hand rubbing circles into your back, his voice steady even as yours cracks apart.
“You’re not a failure,” he says firmly. “You’re my sister. You’re brilliant. You survived something that would’ve broken most people. And I love you. Always. No matter what.”
The words crack something deeper in you, but this time the sob that comes feels like release instead of shame. You let yourself cry into him, and he just keeps holding you, repeating soft little “I know”s until the storm ebbs enough that you can breathe again.
By the time Billy pulls up outside the house, your eyes are raw and sore, your chest still hiccupping now and then with leftover tears. He kills the engine, squeezes your hand once, and says, “Ready?”
You nod, even though you don’t really feel it, and follow him up the path.
The door barely clicks shut behind you before your mom’s there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, eyes darting to your face.
“Sweetheart!” She doesn’t wait for you to explain, just pulls you into her arms.
It’s different from Billy’s hug, less steady and more frantic, her hands smoothing over your hair, your back, like she’s trying to check every part of you at once. You sink into it anyway, letting her fuss, letting her hold you.
“Thanks,” you mumble into her shoulder, a small smile breaking through. “I really needed it.”
She leans back just far enough to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing under your tired eyes. Her own smile is soft, if not a little wobbly. “Anytime, my love. Always.”
Your throat tightens again, but you nod, squeezing her hand before gently untangling yourself. “I’m just gonna… go upstairs for a bit.”
She presses a kiss to your temple before letting you go, turning back toward the kitchen.
You slip up the stairs, your phone already in your hand by the time you reach your room. The screen lights up with a fresh message from Agatha.
~ Agatha: Well? How’s my girl? ~
You curl on your bed, back against the headboard, blanket tugged around your shoulders. Your thumbs hover for a moment before you finally type.
~ Y/N: I feel better x tired but better ~
It only takes a few seconds before her reply pings through.
~ Agatha: Good girl. I knew you’d get through it. ~
Your lip wobbles, but you smile, tucking the blanket tighter. You type again.
~ Y/N: How wasNicky? ~
~ Agatha: Handed him to Rio this morning. He clung a little longer than usual… always does when it’s her week. The house feels too quiet without him. ~
You stare at the screen, chewing your lip. You know how hard those hand offs are for her, she never says it outright but you can read it between the lines.
~ Y/N: Then it’s a good thing we have a date tonight x ~
The typing bubble appears instantly.
~ Agatha: Damn right we do. What time are you coming over? ~
You grin at your phone, typing back.
~ Y/N: Whenever you want me x but fair warning my therapist gave me homework to practice more self care so I’m picking the movie x ~
There’s a beat, then her response flashes up:
~ Agatha: Ohhh self care is it? So what are we watching? A three hour black and white documentary about goat sacrifices in the Carpathians? ~
You snort, shaking your head.
~ Y/N: Very funny but no x and you’re not allowed to complain! ~
~ Agatha: Never. I’ll even buy you the big popcorn bucket. Anything for my girl. ~
Your chest warms, the ache of the day easing a little more with each message.
Later on you stand in front of the mirror for longer than you mean to, tugging the hem of your dress down, smoothing it again even though it doesn’t need it. Your hair falls just the way Agatha likes, and you swipe on a little lipstick just enough to feel like you made an effort. You glance at your reflection, heart fluttering at the thought of her seeing you like this.
By the time you come downstairs, your boots clicking against the steps, the living room is filled with the low hum of the TV. Your mom looks up first, dish towel still in her hands.
“Well, don’t you look nice,” she says, brows rising. “Where are you off to all dressed up?”
Before you can even open your mouth, Billy twists around on the sofa, a grin spreading wide across his face. “She’s got a date.”
“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.
Your mom’s eyes light up instantly. “A date?” She steps closer, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Who is she? How long have you been dating? When do I get to meet her?”
“Ma stop.” You laugh nervously. “You’re not meeting her!”
Billy snickers, leaning back on the sofa with his arms stretched wide, smug as anything. “I’ve met her.”
Your jaw drops. “Billy!” you gasp, whipping your head toward him. “Stop it!”
He just grins wider, unbothered. “What? It’s true.”
Your mom turns on him immediately. “You’ve met her?”
“Billy,” you warn, glaring, but he just wiggles his eyebrows, enjoying every second of your mortification.
“Sweetheart,” your mom presses, turning back to you, her voice practically a coo, “why can’t I meet her? If your brother has-”
“Because,” you cut in quickly, grabbing your coat from the hook, “it’s new, and you’ll scare her off, and ugh, stop interrogating me.”
Billy snorts, hiding his laugh behind his hand as you shove your arms into your coat sleeves.
“Not funny,” you mutter at him, though your cheeks are flaming.
He just grins. “Kinda funny.”
You’re still fussing with your coat zipper when Billy pipes up again, voice all faux innocent.
“Don’t stay out too late, okay? Curfew’s midnight.”
You shoot him a murderous look over your shoulder. “God, I miss life before Mom adopted you.”
“I’m not adopted!” he protests, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
“Yeah okay,” you say sweetly, already pulling open the front door. “Keep telling yourself that.”
He splutters behind you, and your mom sighs, “Children,” in that long suffering tone that tells you she’s trying not to laugh.
You step out into the cool evening air, the flush of embarrassment still warming your cheeks. The sky’s deepening violet, the street lamps just flickering on as you cross the drive to your car.
By the time you slide behind the wheel and start the engine, your nerves are sparking again but this time with excitement and the anticipation of seeing Agatha.
The drive over is a blur of headlights and nerves. Your fingers keep tightening and loosening on the steering wheel, stomach flipping every time you picture her face when she sees you and the fact that you actually made an effort to look pretty for her.
When you pull up outside her building, you cut the engine and fish your phone from your bag, thumbs tapping quickly before you can second guess yourself.
~ Y/N: I’m outside! ~
A couple minutes later, the front door swings open, and there she is.
Agatha steps out onto the stoop like she’s walking into a premiere, her hair blown out smooth, lips painted deep red, a soft silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers that make your breath catch. A cropped jacket is slung over her shoulders. She looks devastatingly put together, every inch of her styled for you.
Her eyes find you through the windshield, and her mouth curls into a grin that makes heat spark low in your belly. She strides down the steps, heels clicking, and opens the passenger door like she’s already claimed the seat.
“Well, don’t you look edible,” she purrs, sliding in and letting her bag drop at her feet. She leans over the console before you can answer, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, her perfume curling around you.
You melt instantly, giggling when she nips your lip lightly before pulling back.
“You driving us tonight, babygirl?” she teases, smoothing a hand over your thigh like she already knows the answer. “Good. I like being chauffeured around.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks hot, but the butterflies in your stomach are fluttering so hard you can barely focus on putting the car back in gear.
The car hums back to life under your hands, headlights catching the wet sheen on the road as you ease out from the curb. Agatha shifts in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other.
You clear your throat, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Okay, but fair warning, you’re not allowed to criticise my driving.”
Her head tilts, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Sweetheart, I would never criticise… I would observe, maybe. Colourfully.”
You snort, shooting her a quick look. “That’s worse.”
She laughs, the sound warm and throaty, and it untangles some of the nerves fizzing in your chest. She leans back into her seat, watching the way your hands grip to the wheel. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Better than Billy anyway, the boy thinks turn signals are optional.”
That makes you laugh despite yourself, and her smile sharpens like she’s pleased to have dragged it out of you.
Her hand drifts then, sliding over to rest warm against your thigh. The weight of it is immediate, her thumb brushing idly against the fabric of your dress.
You flinch. Just a tiny jolt, your leg stiffening under her palm.
She notices instantly, withdrawing her hand back to her own lap like she’s been burned. “Hey,” her tone drops softer, careful, “sorry. Too much?”
You bite your lip, cheeks heating, eyes flicking from the road to her and back again. “No, I’m sorry I just… it’s been a rough day.”
Something in her expression eases. The sharp teasing softens into something warmer. She nods once, leaning back in her seat. “Then we’ll make it better. Starting with popcorn the size of your head.”
You let out a shaky little laugh, shoulders relaxing again as the road unfurls ahead of you, her gaze still steady on you in the glow of passing streetlights.
“So,” she says finally, low and lilting, “therapy.”
Your knuckles whiten against the wheel. “Mm.”
“How did it go?” she presses, her tone not quite teasing this time.
You can feel her waiting. It ties your insides up instantly. “Uh,” you murmur, eyes darting between the road and your side mirror. “It… went.”
“It went,” she repeats, one brow arching. “That’s very detailed. Extremely helpful.”
You let out a nervous laugh, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not writing a report.”
She hums, amused but clearly not letting you off that easy. “You know, if I had a dollar for every time someone tried to dodge me with a vague answer…” She trails off, turning her head to look fully out the window, but the smirk stays. “I’d still be working at the university, but at least I’d have a nicer office.”
“Very funny.”
Her eyes flick back to you. “So? Was it awful? Was it bearable? Did you feel like you could say what you needed to say?”
Your chest tightens. Your throat does too. You swallow, fingers twitching on the wheel. You can feel her watching you, steady and expectant, and the pressure of it makes your heart hammer harder.
So you blurt the first thing that comes into your head. “My mom wants to meet you.”
That gets her. She blinks, then lets out a low laugh, sharp and delighted. “That’s… not the same thing.”
You risk a glance at her to see that she’s grinning, lips painted red and wicked, and groan. “I know. But she asked, okay? Tonight. She was all ‘who is she, how long have you been dating, when can I meet her?’” You shake your head, cheeks burning as you stare hard at the road. “And I said absolutely not. She’s not going to meet you.”
Agatha smirks, leaning an elbow on the console, chin in her hand as she studies you. “Why not?”
“Because she’ll…” you falter, feeling the heat creep higher into your face. “She’ll interrogate you and scare you off.”
“Oh, baby.” She leans in just enough that you feel her gaze burning into the side of your face. “Nothing about your mother could scare me off.”
Your stomach flips violently and you bite your lip, keeping your eyes on the road just so you don’t have to look at her directly.
She notices anyway, she always does. “You’re blushing,” she teases, voice velvet smooth.
“I am not,” you protest immediately.
“Yes you are. I can see it.” She grins wider. “It’s adorable.”
“God, you’re annoying,” you mutter, but your voice cracks on the word and it makes her laugh, throaty and warm.
The neon glow of the theatre sign cuts through the rain slick night, splashing red and blue light across the windshield as you pull into the lot. The wipers drag one last streak across the glass before you kill the engine, the hum of the car falling into silence.
You’re fumbling with your bag strap, nerves jittering again now that you’ve actually arrived, when you feel her eyes on you.
“Hey,” Agatha says softly, drawing your attention.
You glance over to see she’s already leaning in. Her hand comes up, sliding over your cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before her lips press to yours.
Your breath catches, and you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth moves against yours. She lingers, kissing you deeper, her palm warm against your skin. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours, her lips still brushing yours when she speaks.
“Better,” she murmurs. “I’ve been waiting all damn day to do that.”
You giggle softly, your stomach flipping, and she grins at the sound, her thumb stroking your cheek once more before she leans back, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“C’mon, babygirl,” she says, voice low but playful again. “Let’s go see what ridiculous film you’ve picked for me.”
Inside, the theatre lobby is buzzing with families corralling kids toward animated features, clusters of teens clutching sodas, and the hum of arcade machines chiming from the corner. The smell of buttered popcorn and artificial cherry slush fills the air as you step inside.
Agatha keeps close behind you, her hand brushing the small of your back as you head for the ticket counter. “Alright,” she murmurs, leaning down toward your ear, “what are we seeing? Please tell me it’s not three hours of men in spandex punching each other.”
You bite back a grin as you pass her the ticket stub. “We’re seeing a scary movie.”
She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Of course. My little witch picks the horror flick.”
“You don’t like scary movies?” you ask, pretending innocence.
“I love scary movies,” she declares, her chin tilting up, lips curving into her trademark smirk. “Love ‘em. Bring it on.”
But the way she smooths her jacket down and clears her throat says otherwise.
You hide a smile, threading your arm through hers as you head to the concession stand. She doesn’t argue when you order the jumbo popcorn, just pays for it and hands it over like she planned it that way.
By the time you find your seats in the darkened theatre, previews already rolling, she’s sprawled into the chair beside youl, jacket folded neatly over her lap.
“This is nothing,” she mutters under her breath as the lights dim further. “I’ve lived through faculty meetings. Nothing’s scarier than a tenure review.”
You snort, sipping your soda. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am not.” She takes a handful of popcorn, eyes flicking to the screen a second too quickly as the opening credits roll over a dimly lit house and a low, ominous score.
When the first jump scare hits, a sudden shriek of violins accompanied by a figure lunging across the screen, Agatha jolts in her seat, her hand flying to the armrest.
You smirk into your soda straw. “Not scared, huh?”
“Shut up,” she mutters, her hand sliding deliberately over yours on the shared armrest. “Just making sure you’re not scared.”
You squeeze her fingers, hiding your grin as the movie swallows the both of you in shadow and sound.
On screen, the camera glides through a dark, empty house. An ominous score swells and you know what’s coming. The second scare comes sharply, a figure slamming past the window with a crash of strings. The whole audience gasps. Agatha, too. You bite your lip, smothering a smile.
She leans sideways, voice low and dry. “Don’t you dare say a word.”
“I wasn’t going to,” you whisper back, eyes glinting.
“Uh huh.” She crunches a kernel like she’s proving a point, then focuses her gaze stubbornly on the screen.
But the movie doesn’t let up. A long stretch of silence, a door creaking slowly open on its own. Agatha tilts her chin, like she’s not fazed at all.
And then a hand shoots out of the dark to grab the protagonist’s shoulder.
Agatha jumps.
This time it’s not subtle, her hand shoots across the armrest and latches onto your thigh before she can stop herself. Her nails dig through the fabric of your dress, and you bite back a gasp more from the suddenness than the pressure.
Slowly, you glance at her. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, jaw tight, like if she ignores you, it didn’t happen.
“You okay?” you murmur, lips quirking.
She exhales through her nose. “Perfectly fine. Just making sure you’re safe.”
“I feel very safe,” you whisper, giggling.
Her hand doesn’t move, though. If anything, her thumb strokes once over your thigh like she’s soothing herself.
The film spirals darker. After every scare Agatha stiffens a little, shoulders tightening under her silk blouse. She keeps up the bravado, muttering dry little comments like “oh yes, by all means go into the basement, that’s clever” but every loud sting in the score makes her jump again, her hand squeezing your thigh tighter.
At one point, the protagonist creeps toward a closet, the camera closing in on the knob twisting slowly. The theatre goes dead silent. You can feel Agatha holding her breath next to you, her grip iron tight. The door bursts open with a shriek of violins and Agatha actually yelps under her breath.
You press your fist to your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Her head whips toward you, eyes narrowing in the glow of the screen. “Not. A. Word.”
You lean in, whispering so close your lips brush her ear. “You’re so brave.”
She smirks, but her ears are pink.
By the time the third act rolls in, full of bloodied survivors running through shadowy corridors, monsters lunging from every corner, she’s flinching in her seat, her arm now solidly around your shoulders under the guise of keeping you safe.
When the credits finally roll, the lights starting to come up, Agatha exhales like she’s been holding her breath for two hours straight. She shakes her head, smoothing her hair back into place, trying to look casual.
“Well,” she says, voice a touch higher than usual. “That was… interesting.”
“Totally.” You grin at her, eyes sparkling.
She narrows her eyes, lips twitching. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs theatrically, standing and stretching her arms over her head, blouse riding up just enough to make you blush. “Fine. Next time, I pick the movie.”
“You promised me selfcare!”
Her grin returns, sly and sharp. “Exactly. And selfcare means no more demon closets.”
You laugh, trailing after her as she leads the way out of the theatre, her hand sneaking back into yours as the crowd spills into the neon lit lobby.
The crowd spills out into the night, chatter buzzing with nervous laughter and retellings of the scariest bits. The neon from the marquee paints everything in red and blue stripes, slicked across the wet pavement.
Agatha slips her hand into yours as you step down the curb together, her grip firm, like she’s still recovering from the film.
“How,” she says, voice low and incredulous, “do you enjoy that shit?”
You laugh, the sound spilling out before you can stop it, shoulders shaking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she throws her free hand up dramatically, “two hours of jump scares and bloody shadows, and you’re just sitting there, sipping your soda like it’s a Sunday matinee.”
You grin, bumping your shoulder against hers as you walk. “I’ve always loved horror movies. Even as a kid. I used to sneak them on late night TV when my mom thought I was asleep.”
“Of course you did,” she mutters, smirking sideways at you. “Creepy little thing.”
“Hey.” You giggle, pretending to pout.
She squeezes your hand. “Cute creepy,” she amends, the smirk widening.
By the time you reach the car, the rain’s thinned to a mist, dampening your hair. She presses the key fob, the lights flashing, and opens the drivers door for you with a little flourish. You roll your eyes but climb in, still smiling.
When she settles into the passengers seat, adjusting the mirrors with a casual flick, she glances over at you, lips curving into something slower, heavier. “Back to mine, baby?”
You gasp theatrically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Agatha Harkness. Are you suggesting I put out on the first date?”
She barks a laugh, throwing her head back against the headrest. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her hand slides deliberately onto your thigh again, this time with no flinch from you. “That was always the plan.”
You giggle, turning the ignition, the car purring to life beneath you both as she eases it out of the lot.
The engine hums low as you pull out of the lot, headlights cutting across wet asphalt. Inside the car it’s quiet, just the swish of the wipers, the muted thrum of tires on slick road.
“So,” she drawls after a beat, “did you have fun tormenting me, babygirl? Sitting there watching me jump out of my skin?”
You stifle a giggle. “Maybe a little.”
She side eyes you, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re cruel. I like it.”
You take one hand off the wheel to hit her arm lightly, pretending to pout. “I wasn’t cruel! I was supportive.”
“Supportive,” she repeats, amused. “Is that what you call smirking every time that I jumped in my seat?”
You can’t help giggling outright now, shoulders shaking. “You were so brave, though.”
“Brave?” she scoffs, squeezing your thigh just enough to make you squirm. “Baby, I nearly threw the popcorn at the poor bastard sitting in front of us.”
You bite your lip, grinning at the windshield. “I’d still go to another one with you.”
Her smirk softens into something warmer, “yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter.
There’s a pause before she murmurs, “Good because like taking you out. Even if it’s to a fucking haunted house.”
The car hums on through the wet streets, streetlights flashing across her profile. Every now and then, her thumb strokes idle patterns against your thigh, like she’s not even aware she’s doing it.
“So…” you start, smirking. “What exactly are your intentions with me tonight, Professor Harkness?”
Her smirk returns, slow and dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart. My intention is to get you back to mine, pour you a drink, and see how long it takes you to climb into my lap.”
You gasp, half laughing, half flustered. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m driving!”
She chuckles, low and pleased with herself, leaning back in her seat. “Consider it motivation.”
Your breath catches. The light turns green, but you barely notice, you’re too busy stealing a glance at her, heat crawling up your neck.
“Eyes forward,” she teases, voice like velvet.
You swallow hard, forcing your gaze back to the road, but your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The car hums on, block after block bringing you closer to her place, the tension tightening like a bowstring.
By the time you pull into her street, your hands ache from gripping the wheel. You slide into the curb, kill the engine, and before you can even draw a steady breath, she’s leaning in.
Her mouth crashes against yours, hot and insistent. You whimper into the kiss, your hands flying to her shoulders. She pulls you over the console, her fingers already tangling in your hair, kissing you like she’s been starving for it.
You gasp against her mouth, and she takes advantage, deepening the kiss, her tongue stroking yours greedily. Her other hand fists in the hem of your dress, tugging you closer.
“Been waiting all night for this,” she growls against your lips, kissing you harder, her teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you moan.
Your breath comes fast, fogging the windows, your body melting against hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the whole world shrinking to the heat of her mouth and the steady grip of her hands.
You whimper when she drags you fully over the console, the gearshift digging into your thigh as you straddle her lap. You don’t care, her hands are everywhere, one cradling the back of your skull, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.
“Fuck, babygirl…” she groans against your mouth, kissing you harder, open and hungry. “You’re killing me.”
You tug at her jacket, fists clutching the silk of her blouse underneath, kissing her back with everything you’ve got. The need floods hot through your veins, sparking at every point of contact.
Her mouth leaves yours only to trail down your jaw, her teeth grazing your throat as she licks and sucks there, messy and possessive. You gasp, nails digging into her shoulders.
“Mine,” she mutters into your skin, voice ragged. “All mine.”
Your hips roll helplessly against hers, and she groans, bucking up just enough to make you gasp. The car rocks faintly with the movement, the leather seat creaking under you both.
Your kiss turns frantic again, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, the two of you breathing like you can’t get enough air unless it’s from each other.
You break only long enough to whisper, “Agatha,” your voice shaking with it, “please don’t stop.”
Her hand fists tighter in your hair, pulling your head back so she can kiss you deep and filthy, like she’s trying to devour you whole.
The windows are nothing but mist now, the whole car swallowed in your heat, your panting, and the desperate sound of her kissing you like she’s not letting you go.
You moan when her hand slides up the back of your thigh, fingers pressing into bare skin. “Agatha…” comes out as a whimper, broken and needy.
“Mhm,” she hums against your throat, teeth catching your pulse. “Tell me what you want, babygirl.”
“I-” your words scatter when she rocks up against you, the friction sparking heat through your whole body. “I want… god, I just want you.”
That earns you a low, guttural laugh. “Already have me baby.” She kisses you again. “Always.”
Her hand inches higher, skimming dangerously close to where you need her most. Your hips buck, desperate, and she groans into your mouth like she’s the one falling apart.
The seat squeaks, the car rocks faintly, her breath hot and heavy as she mutters, “You feel so fucking good in my lap… could take you right here, couldn’t I? Fuck you until the car shakes.”
You whimper, clinging to her shoulders, dizzy with need. The heat between you both is unbearable, every kiss frantic, every touch like she’s staking claim all over your body.
Then she stills, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting. Her fingers flex on your thigh, achingly close.
“As much as I’d love to ruin you right here,” she rasps, eyes dark and wild in the dim light, “you deserve a bed where I can take my time.”
You whine, hips rolling helplessly against hers, but she just smirks, kissing you soft and slow now, a cruel contrast to how desperate it’s been.
“Don’t worry, babygirl,” she murmurs against your lips. “We’re not stopping. Just relocating.”
Her hand slides back to your hip, steadying you as she helps ease you off her lap, both of you flushed and panting in the fogged up car.
By the time you stumble into her apartment, your cheeks are still flushed, lips swollen from the car. You kick your boots off half blind, her mouth still chasing yours as she shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it somewhere.
She’s tugging you toward the bedroom when her phone buzzes against the counter, a vibration so insistent it doesn’t stop. Then again. And again. The screen lights up: 12 missed calls. Rio.
Agatha freezes, her hand still curled around your wrist. “Shit.”
You blink, heart still racing, the heat of the makeout still buzzing under your skin, but the tone in her voice slices right through it.
She snatches up the phone, thumb swiping across the screen. It barely rings once before Rio’s voice bursts through, tinny and frantic. You can hear enough to piece together that Nicky’s sick, feverish, and inconsolable, crying for his mother. Rio’s frazzled, her voice clipped with panic.
Agatha’s whole posture changes, shoulders stiffening, face sharp with focus. “I’ll come get him,” she says quickly, already moving, hunting for her keys. “Just keep him cool, I’ll be there in twenty tops.”
She hangs up, shoving her phone into her pocket, muttering, “Goddammit.”
You step closer, touching her arm. “Let me drive.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “You don’t-”
“You’re too upset to focus on the road,” you remind her gently. “And Rio already knows about us. It won’t make a difference if I’m the one behind the wheel.”
For a moment she just stares at you, jaw tight, breathing heavy through her nose. Then she exhales sharply, shoulders sagging. “Alright.”
You squeeze her arm once, steadying her. “Go grab what you need for him. I’ll get the car.”
She nods, still rattled but grateful, and you turn for the door, the urgency of the night flipping from hungry kisses to something far more fragile, getting to Nicky.
The city blurs past in streaks of neon and wet asphalt, wipers beating fast across the glass. Your hands grip the wheel tighter than usual, every muscle in your shoulders strung taut with the weight of the moment.
Beside you, Agatha is nothing like the composed, teasing woman from the theatre. She’s wound tight, knee bouncing, fingers tapping restless patterns against her thigh. Her phone sits face up in her lap, screen dark now but still heavy with the weight of those missed calls.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to you. “He sounded bad. He hardly ever sounds that bad.”
You glance over briefly, heart twisting at the sight of her. “Kids get sick,” you say carefully. “It doesn’t mean-”
“It does with him,” she cuts in, sharper than she means to. She drags a hand through her hair, sighing hard. “He’s always been… fragile. Even as a baby. The asthma, the infections, the nights I was up with him every hour.” Her voice cracks but she swallows against it. “Every time he so much as coughs, I hear it all over again. Him tiny, gasping, hooked up to those fucking machines.”
You bite your lip, eyes flicking from the road to her profile. The streetlights catch the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw works like she’s trying not to cry.
Your hand slips from the wheel just long enough to brush her knee, steady and grounding. “He’s not that tiny anymore,” you murmur. “He’s bigger and stronger. And you’re already on your way to him.”
Her hand finds yours fast, gripping like a lifeline. “I just hate how fast it all comes back.”
You squeeze her fingers, the hum of the car wrapping around your silence. Rain spatters harder against the windshield, and she leans her head back, eyes closing, still holding onto you.
The road stretches ahead, but all you can think is getting her to her son and keeping her steady until she’s there.
You pull into Rio’s drive, the porch light a soft yellow against the rain. Before you’ve even shifted the car into park, Agatha’s unbuckled and out the door, heels clicking up the path in a near run. You stay put, hands locked on the wheel, heart thudding as you watch her disappear inside.
Through the rain blurred glass, the scene unfolds. Rio opens the door, hair mussed, wearing an oversized sweater. She looks frazzled and pale and the second Agatha steps in, Nicky is already there, flushed and teary, reaching for her. Agatha scoops him up without hesitation, murmuring against his damp curls, rocking him close.
You can’t hear through the car windows, but you can see Rio talking, the sharp gestures of her hands, the way she leans in close. Agatha shifts Nicky on her hip, answering clipped, then starts for the door again. Rio blocks her path.
You crack the window, just enough for voices to filter in over the rain.
“Stay,” Rio urges, her voice low but edged with something fierce. “He needs his mother here. Just stay the night.”
Agatha shakes her head, calm but firm. “No. He needs to be comfortable in his own bed. I’ll take him home.”
Rio’s tone sharpens. “It’s his home here too.”
Agatha exhales through her nose, jaw tight. “Y/N’s in the car. We’ll go back together.”
The name lands like a slap. Rio’s posture stiffens, her arms folding, her mouth curling. “Of course. Her.” The word drips venom.
Agatha adjusts Nicky against her shoulder, protective. “Don’t start, Rio.”
“I’m not starting,” Rio snaps back, voice rising. “I just don’t understand why she has to be involved in everything. She’s the babysitter, Agatha. She’s not family.”
Your stomach twists at the words, heat crawling up your neck even as you sink lower in your seat.
Agatha’s eyes flash, steel behind them. “She’s mine,” she says simply, quiet but razor sharp. “And she’s here. End of story.”
Rio bristles, lips parting like she wants to lash out more, but Nicky whimpers against Agatha’s chest, and the fight drains into a hissed sigh. She steps aside, jerking her chin toward the door. “Fine. Go.”
Agatha doesn’t wait another beat, she tightens her hold on Nicky, presses a kiss to his hot forehead, and sweeps back out into the rain toward the car.
The passenger door swings open hard enough to rattle the hinges, and then she’s climbing in, rain streaking her hair, Nicky clutched tight against her chest. He’s whimpering, little fists knotted in her blouse, his face blotchy and damp from crying.
Agatha doesn’t even glance at the front seat. She shifts straight into the back, settling against the leather with Nicky curled into her, murmuring low in his ear.
You turn in your seat, heart tugging at the sight of them. “Both of you stay in the back. I’ll get us home.”
Her eyes flick up to yours, gratitude breaking through the storm in them, and she just nods. Nicky’s too far gone to notice, he’s burrowed against her shoulder, trembling and whimpering, his breaths hitching like he can’t quite calm down.
Agatha rocks him gently, her cheek pressed against his curls, whispering soft comforts only he can hear. Her hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, her whole body curved around him like a shield.
The car fills with his small, uneven sounds, the shudder of his breath, the occasional broken “Mama” against her neck.
Agatha hums softly, kissing his temple again and again, eyes closing as she holds him tighter. The steel you saw in her face at Rio’s is gone now, replaced with pure, aching love for her boy.
You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, giving them that cocoon of space. The quiet hum of the engine blends with her soft murmurs and the sound of Nicky’s clinging little breaths. He hasn’t let go of Agatha, tiny fists still fisted in her blouse, his face pressed wet and hot into her neck.
You ease into her drive and kill the engine. For a moment, none of you move. Agatha strokes her hand over his back, pressing another kiss into his curls, whispering so softly you can’t quite catch the words.
Then you twist in your seat, catching her eyes in the dim glow of the streetlight. “Go take care of him,” you murmur. “I’ll come by tomorrow, yeah?”
She blinks, lips parting like she wants to argue, to insist you come in — but then she sees the look on your face. The understanding. The way you’re not asking her to split herself in two, not making her choose between you and the boy trembling in her arms.
Her throat works, and she exhales slowly, relief softening every sharp edge. “God, baby…” Her voice cracks just a little. “You get it.”
You smile, small but sure. “Of course I do.”
She leans forward as much as Nicky will allow, pressing her forehead to yours through the gap between the seats. Her free hand curls at the back of your neck, squeezing gently, her breath warm against your lips.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For knowing.”
You close your eyes, soaking in the touch, before she pulls back. Nicky whimpers again, and she shifts him higher on her hip, climbing out of the car with the practiced ease of a mother who’s done it a thousand times.
You watch as she disappears inside with him, the door closing behind them. Tomorrow, you’ll come back. Tonight, she belongs to her son.
(and if anyone has already wrote this please tag me) but it’s Dark!Natasha Romanoff x reader during the Black Widow movie timeline. She kidnaps reader and has her starched away in her trailer in the middle of nowhere. Reader tries to run away many times but only gets lost and has to wait for Natasha to find her again. After Natasha makes sure not to leave any shoes around the house so if you manage to escape again, you won’t be able to run far.
If anyone wrote or wants to write this, please let me know!!
“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” — Aristotle
Word count: 8.3K
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Subtle angst, Sexual tension, Mild language
A/N: Hi everyone!
I honestly can’t believe this is the last one and there’s no next chapter after this. Thank you so much for a whole year of support, for reading this fanfic, and for staying with me until the end. I love you guys so much!
I’ll still be writing more fics, but for now I’m going to take a long break since I’m still really busy with trainings.
Btw, if you guys ever need anything or just want someone to talk to, don’t be shy to message me on Insta or TikTok. I’m more active there than here. My socials are pinned on my profile, so you can find them easily.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this final chapter!!💜
❀ NAV!
You Were Never Mine to Lose (Masterlist)
(Please read it here, guys, since my fic can’t be transferred here in full anymore. It says I may have reached the block limit or something, I’m not really sure. I just started posting on Tumblr again, so I didn’t know there was a new update to the app.)
After spending a profoundly sheltered life in Wanda’s little bubble, you find yourself unequipped to deal with your adult body.
Tags: Heavy age play, stepcest, first time, light piss kink, breastfeeding, brief mention of straight (PinV) sex, inappropriate use of childcare supplies, kind of forced infantilization? (but most R is just like that)
Word Count: ~4k
A/N: I was really hesitant to post this, as it covers some kinks I’m yet to really explore on this page. Please read the tags carefully before deciding whether or not to read this. Also, this was originally written as male!reader, so you can find this exact same story written from that perspective below.
Little Prince (Masc Version)
———————————————————
"Mama?" Your voice was small when you stepped into her office, approaching her desk with your shirt hem clutched in your hands, pulling it down over your groin.
She almost gasped with excitement when you came in. You weren't supposed to interrupt her workday unless you really needed her for something, and she _loved_ it when you really needed her for something. "Hi beautiful," she chimed, swirling her chair around to face you. "What's up?"
You didn't answer, just stood there shifting uncomfortably, unsure of how to communicate your issue.
"Do you wanna come over here and show mama what your hiding under your shirt?" She asked, not pretending to not notice your awkward stance and obviously embarrassment. "Come here. Show mama what's wrong."
She held out her hands, guiding you to stand in front of her. When her hands rested gently on your hips, you finally let the shirt spring back into place, revealing a discolored wet spot down the center of your grey panties.
"I thought maybe… maybe I had a potty accident… but when I tried to go potty I could- I could only get a little dribble," you explained nervously.
Wanda nodded in understanding. "Ah I see the problem," she hummed. As she spoke, she calmly handed you the hem of your oversized shirt to hold up out of the way. Then she hooked her fingers into your waistband and started to slowly ease your underwear down over your hips. "See, sometimes, when little princesses start thinking about naughty things, their little princess parts get all wet and sticky."
"B-b-but I wasn't thinking about naughty things!" you protested, ears going red as arousal gathered between your legs, clinging to your panties as they slid down your thighs.
"Not even a little?" Wanda continued, swirling her office chair until she was inches away from you. Her hands, no longer working at your waistband, gently caressed your sides in a calming motion. "You weren't thinking about… mama, letting you sit on the counter while she took a shower last night? Or watching her put that good smelling lotion on all over?"
Against your will, your clit pulsed at the thought, sending another wave of arousal running down your legs. Wanda smirked, very satisfied with your reaction.
Your bottom lip started to quiver and the blush spread across your cheeks. "N-no! I wasn't—"
She cut off your protests with a gentle shush as her hands worked their way down to your hip bone, and then inward, tracing the line of muscles right to your precious pussy. As iniquitous as it was, Wanda had come to realize that this was her favorite part of your body. Although your mind stayed naive and dependent, watching you grow had been difficult. She was thankful that you'd always been small, and even at your tallest you still remained two inches shorter than she was. But the day that she could no longer rest you comfortably on her hip, her heart shattered. It hurt her so severely that she could not keep you as her little girl forever.
This part of you, however, did not seem to grow as the rest of you did. This small, precious piece of you reflected the you she saw: little, innocent, untouched, and absolutely hers.
She ran the tips of her fingers between your folds, inspecting you carefully. You were properly soaked. "Ooohh," she cooed quietly, kissing your lower stomach, "you are so very wet for mama, aren't you. You must've been having some _very_ naughty thoughts."
You couldn't bring yourself to refute her again. You only squeaked and let go of your shirt, letting it fall over her hand and cover you up.
"Ah ah," she chided, holding your shirt up again. "Hold it up nice and high for mama. We don't want it getting in the way."
You obeyed, clutching the shirt with white knuckles as she started to rub slow circles around your clit. "Mama…" you whimpered so quite she could hardly hear.
"I'm right here baby," she reassured. "Just hold onto mama however you need to, okay? Do you wanna hold my hand?"
You nodded frantically, already reaching out for her hand.
"Okay, brave girl. Take a big deep breathe for me." She demonstrated a breath, letting you mirror her. In through your nose, then out through your mouth. "Good girl. Now just relax. Let mama make you feel good."
With that, she kissed your lower stomach and dragged her tongue through your folds.
Almost instantly, your knees buckled. If not for her hold on your waist, you would've fallen to the ground. "Mama," you whimpered again, this time with more of moan.
You tasted divine, like honey and pineapples: just as sweet as she knew you would be. She nuzzled the downy soft peach fuzz that sat in a perfect patch where corse, thick pubic hair should've been. Even though you had more body hair than most people, it always seemed to grow like this: in soft, fuzzy patches that covered nearly every inch of your body.
Wanda loved it. Myshka. Her precious little mouse. She loved to run her fingers through the hair or feel it, soft and smooth against her face. Even now, with your body twitching and spasming with pleasure, she couldn't help but indulge herself by pushing her nose against it.
She pulled away for a moment to kiss the inside of your thigh before plunging her tongue inside of you. You were so incredibly tight. She doubted you've ever had so much as a finger inside of you, and you reaction all but confirmed her suspicions. Nothing had ever felt quite like that before: like she scratching an itch from the inside. You gasped and gave Wanda's hand a squeeze.
She only smiled and moved back to your clit, rolling her tongue in quick circles until you were close to tears. When she sucked it into her mouth and lightly flicked her tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, you weakly pushed her head back.
"Mama…" you panted, weak but desperate and determined. "Mama… you… you have to stop mama…"
Wanda sat up, face immediately filled with concern. "What's wrong, angel? Do you not like when mama plays with you like that?"
"No, I do… I just… I…" you shifted uncomfortably, crossing your arms and hugging your elbows. You couldn't bring yourself to look at her, instead opting to look at the floor as you whispered "It feels like I'm gonna have a potty accident…." Your ears and face were beet red, humiliated by the confession.
"Oh," Wanda chuckled softly, more with relief than amusement. "That's a very natural feeling to have when mama plays with your little princess parts. I promise you're not gonna have a potty accident."
You hugged yourself tighter, rubbing your legs together to relieve the ache. While you trusted mama, you couldn't think of anything in the world worse than accidentally going potty in her mouth. "But… just in case… I don't wanna go in your mouth."
Wanda almost had to laugh. She found it so funny how nervous and shy you were about using the bathroom in general. Your anxiety was so bad she often caught you holding it until your bladder was near bursting. It wasn't uncommon for her to insist on helping you in the restroom, worried you'd push yourself to the point of obstruction or infection.
Instead, she managed to keep a serious expression and nodded with understanding. "Okay, honey. That's okay." She gently rubbed your side, snaking her hand up under your sleep shirt. "I tell you what, how about mama goes and gets a nice little washrag and we can keep playing on the couch. That way, if you have any accidents, the washrag will be right there to catch it."
You considered her words for a second. One hand, you would be absolutely humiliated to accidentally pee on Wanda in any capacity. But on the other hand, it felt really really good when mama was playing with you. Besides, it certainly wouldn't be the first time Wanda had dealt with one of your accidents. Hesitantly, you nodded your head and whispered "okay."
Wanda beamed, scratching lightly under your chin. "That's my brave girl," she praised. "Come on, let's go find a spot to get comfy on the couch."
Wanda made a effort to make the corner seat of the couch as comfortable as possible without leaving you waiting for too long. By the time you were situated in her lap, you were completely naked clutching your teddy bear for courage.
"That's my good girl," Wanda whispered from behind you. You could feel her chest pressing up against your back and her breath hot against your ear. She placed her legs over your, pinning your thighs apart and your legs open.
You whimpered, feeling terribly exposed in the new position.
"Shshshhh," she soothed. "You're okay. You're being so brave. Mama's got you." She wrapped her hands around your waist, placing a washrag just underneath you, keeping your excitement from running onto the couch. The "rag" was actually a burp cloth, made extra soft and absorbent. She could help but take a moment to admire how precious you looked, dribbling onto the duck printed fabric. "Mmm you're so beautiful, baby. My sweet, sensitive little girl."
She only needed to use one finger, very gently stretching your virgin hole open to accommodate her. She curled her finger up inside of you, using her thumb to circle your clit. When your body started to twitch and you instinctively started to roll your hips, she kissed the side of your neck. "That's my good girl. Hump mama's hand. You can do it. Just like that," her voice was high and praising, like she was talking to a toddler learning to walk. "You're making mama so proud and happy. You're my perfect little angel, aren't you? Are you mommy's perfect little princess?"
You nodded, hardly able to open your mouth in any attempt to verbally respond. There was a small, strained whimper every time you exhaled, and, from the sound of it, you were struggling to breathe. "'m mama's… little princess…" you finally managed before your hips started to staggered and froze in place. You were already so close, but you weren't exactly sure what you what you were close to. It still felt like you were going to pee and it made you too nervous to keep going.
Wanda took over from there, adding in another finger and pumping faster. Your entire body shuttered and your hands dug into her forearms when she pressed her thumb hard against your throbbing, sensitive clit. She could tell you were holding in your orgasm, too nervous to let go.
"You're okay, pumpkin. Mama's got you. You don't have to be scared. Mama would never ever let anything bad happen to you," she assured, buring her nose in your hair and kissing your head. "Just take a deep breath and relax for me. No, baby, don't struggle. Your body needs this. Let mama take care of you. That's my good girl."
Two tears rolled down your cheeks when you arched your back, body twitching as you came, spraying the rag with cum. Your mouth opened in a silent scream that only came out as a slight squeak.
"Aww, that's it. That's my good girl. Oh my brave little princess. So perfect for her mama," she cooed, coaxing out the final drops before pressing her hand to your forehead to calm you. "Shshsh settle down, sweetheart. Settle down. Mama's got you. You're okay. I know. I know that was a big feeling for my baby girl. But you did so good, and you were so brave for me. It's okay if you need to cry. Mama's here. I'm so proud of you angel."
You turned around in her lap, burying your face in her neck. Your teddy bear was tossed haphazardly to the side as you started to cry. Your head felt so foggy it was impossible to think. You tried to open your mouth to speak, but every attempt was met with a whimper or little squeak.
Wanda rubbed her hand soothing up and down your back, rocking you gently in her lap. "Poor baby," she cooed. "Is it really hard to think about anything but mama after she made you good?"
You nodded into her neck, pulling her closer. It seemed impossible that you could ever get close enough to her.
"That's okay, angel," she assured. "Mama's got you. She can handle all the big girl thoughts and you can stay in that fuzzy little space for as long as you need."
Your little hands made their way to the hem of her shirt, sliding just underneath to graze the soft skin of her waist. Her skin was so impossibly soft. You wanted more. With pleading eyes and a pathetic little whine, you tugged gently on her shirt, silently requesting she take it off.
"Aww sweet pea, do you want mama to take her shirt off?" She chuckled. "Is it gonna help you talk better if mama's not wearing her shirt?"
You nodded, continuing to paw at her waist, desperate to get closer.
"Okay okay." She giggled at your eagerness. "But you better not be fibbing just cause you wanna see mama's chest. That would be very naughty."
She almost had to laugh. The moment she slid the shirt over her head, your eyes went wide as saucers. She could practically see the tiny stars swimming in your pupils as you stared at her bare chest.
You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around her bare waist and resting your head on her soft, pillowy breast, nuzzling your cheek against them.
She stroked your hair and gently rocked you in her lap, unable to keep her hands from roaming your naked body. Starting up under your shoulder blades, she traced a line down the notches of your spine until she hit your tailbone. From there, she used both her hands to slide over the swell of your ass, massaging it with her strong fingers. You moaned softly into her chest, sheepishly buring your head between her boobs.
"Do you like it when mama touches you like that?" She asked quietly. "I just can't help it. Not when my precious girl's beautiful body is right here in front of me. And certainly not when she's feeling all floaty. Cause you can't really think about anything but making mama happy, can you? And this makes mama very happy, baby girl. So it makes you happy too, doesn't it?"
You nodded into her chest.
"C'mere," she said, hauling you up by the underarms and laying you across her lap so she had full access to the front of you.
Conveniently, it put you right at eye level with her nipple, which, unsurprisingly, found it's way into your mouth. She cradled your head in the crook of her elbow, gently guiding your head.
She chuckled. "Oh, I should've known that's what my little lady wanted," she mused, placing her pointer finger against the palm of your hand until you reflexively wrapped your hand around it. She lifted the hand to her mouth, kissing your knuckles with a gentle smile.
You made her so incredibly happy like this. It was everything she'd ever wanted, to be your mama, and you were beyond precious. She traced her thumb over your cheek, feeling the rhythmic pulse of your suckling. Then she moved to your forehead, brushing the hair away from your face and grazing your long, fluttering eyelashes with the pad of her thumb. Your eyes were nearly closed, and, on the rare occasion you blinked them open, she could see they were rolled uselessly into the back of your head. You were completely limp in her lap, laid across her perfectly exposed and vulnerable.
She traced her hand down to your sternum, then moved to either side to lightly circle your sensitive nipples. You hummed, sending a pleasant vibration through her chest. When you started to squirm, she continued downward to your navel, carding through the fuzzy happy trail that grew below your belly button. As she inched lower, your legs instinctively parted, practically begging her to continue her journey downward.
She ran her finger up your sensitive center, pausing to make gentle circles around your overly sensitive clit. You twitched and instinctively clamped your legs shut. "Shshsh," she hushed. "It's okay. Mama knows you're sensitive baby. Just relax and let mama play with her special girl, okay?"
Without protest, you went back to your gentle, mindless suckling, leaving her free to do as she pleased. Sensing you may not be ready for overt overstimulation after cumming for the first time, she gently pressed a finger inside of you, seeking more to explore than to arouse. She pressed hard against the side of your inner wall, feeling your clit from the inside.
"That's my good girl," she praised, moving now to gently cup her hand between your legs and simply hold it there.
You could've fallen asleep just like that, peacefully suckling from your mama while she cradled your most intimate parts in her loving hand. The connection between the two of you felt impossibly strong you could've sworn your hearts were beating in tandem. You could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest, and started to subconsciously match your rhythm with her's.
It was only when Wanda absently reached out for the soiled rag that you were pulled from your stupor by an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and guilt.
"I'm sorry, mama," you whined, so quiet she almost didn't hear. You shifted, sitting up slightly in her lap so you were no longer supported only by her arm.
"Aw, baby, what are you sorry for? You were so perfect for mama," she asked, trying to get a look at your face while you desperately tried to hide it in her chest.
"I made a big mess!" You cried, embarrassed and a little confused by everything that just happened. Your head still felt so foggy and it was hard to think. Emotions seemed to just spill out of you, impossible to control.
"First of all," she started, pulling your head back so she could see you. "What does mama always say about messes?"
"That… that I shouldn't feel bad because… cause little girls make messes sometimes and… and that it's just part… part of growing up," you stammered.
"And that mama will never ever be mad you for making a mess because she loves that you're her little girl," she added.
You sniffled and curled into her shoulder. "Yeah. That too."
"And second of all," she continued, "this mess is a very very special kind of mess. One that only happens when little girls feel really really good. Mama will always be happy when you make a special mess for her. So no matter where or when it happens, if you make a special mess, you can come tell mama and she'll be happy to clean it up for you, okay?"
You nodded, reaching up and grasping at her so you had something to hold on to. "Okay, mama."
Wanda looked down at the rag, now covered in your thin, watery cum, and smiled. She couldn't help but think of how sad it was that most mothers never got to experience this moment: their little girl's first ever orgasm.
She wondered how you would've handled it had you discovered this on your own. If she had to make a guess, she would've bet you would've come to her anyway, crying and confused about what happened. It simply wasn't in your nature to try and hide things like this from her.
Maybe in another lifetime entirely you would've tried to hide the evidence, carefully tucking it down into a laundry basket only for her to find it later when she went to wash your clothes. Hell, maybe you wouldn't have made the discovery alone. Maybe you would've found out fooling around with some boy.
Wanda didn't like to think about that possibility, though.
It wasn't necessarily a matter of jealousy, but rather a sense of protection. She was sure the fumbling fool would've ruined it for you one way or another. Chances are he would've hurt you, made you bleed by carelessly pushing his penis where it wasn't wanted. He wouldn't see you for what you truly were: a pure, innocent flower to be gently care for lest it break.
Wanda smiled to herself as she considered how, even in this scenario where you'd strayed so far from her loving embrace, you'd still most likely end up running back into her arms. Their were thousands of possibilities of how this could've happened, and they all ended with you in this exact same position, naked and spent across her lap.
She tossed the rag aside and wrapped both of her arms around your waist, kissing the crown of your head. You were quiet and contemplative, tracing light figure 8s on the skin above her collarbone. She loved seeing you like this: her smart little girl thinking her big thoughts. If she focused, she could practically see the wheels turning in your little head as you thought through your feelings.
"Mama?"
"What is it, angel?"
"I love you." Your words were simple and quiet, spoken without ever even looking away from her collarbone.
"I love you too, sweetheart," she replied. "Your mama loves you so much. More than anything in the universe."
There was another long silence as you sat up straighter, wrapping your arms around her neck and buring your face in the crook of her shoulder.
She rubbed gentle circles on your back. "Can you tell mama about how your feeling right now?" She asked, almost nervous to hear the answer.
You gave her a tiny shrug, still very confused about what had happened and how you felt about it. "I feel like I'm sleepy but I don't wanna go to sleep cause if I go to sleep mama won't be there."
Wanda leaned her head on top of yours and pulled you closer. "You just really wanna be with mama right now, huh?"
You didn't even have to think to answer that question. You nodded.
"What if," she started, pulling a throw blanket from the back of the couch and starting to wrap it around you, "we went back into mama's office and you sat on my lap while I finished work. I can set up some Blue's Clues on the monitor. And then after I get done with work we can go get ice cream. How does that sound?"
You didn't respond for a second, and then said "I wanna watch Elmo."
Wanda giggled. "Alright, baby. Elmo it is." She reached down and grabbed the discarded teddy bear from the floor. "Don't forget Mister Maxwell." You tucked the bear neatly under your arm.
You were the picture of innocence when Wanda picked you up, carrying you into her office with your naked legs and arms wrapped around her. The blanket was thrown over you like a cloak, covering the entirety of your naked backside. Between your chest, which was pressed against Wanda's and the blanket, very little of your body was exposed to the cold air.
If you hadn't been tired before, you certainly were now. Wanda was so warm and the blanket was so soft. Had you been able to relax a little bit more, you would've been asleep already. But you were still feeling terribly clingy and reluctant to leave Wanda in favor of sleep.
When she sat down and turned the colorful cartoon onto one of her monitors, you were immediately enraptured. It took so little to distract or entertain you. You stared at the screen, arms folded around your teddy bear as your naked body straddled her's. Absently, you tucked your bottom lip under your front teeth, exaggerating your overbite. If it weren't so damn adorable, Wanda would've tried to break that habit.
Predictably, you didn't last long like that, warm and cozy, pressed up against your mama's chest. By the end of the third episode, Wanda looked down to find you fast asleep on her shoulder.
She smiled and kissed your temple. You really were her everything. Her girl. Her baby. Her little princess.
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CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU
Other parts & Tip jar
Word count: 11k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power dynamics, toxic relationship, d/s dynamics, absurd mean sugar mommy behavior, Agatha is emotionally constipated but trying, themes of corruption, smut, anal fingering, discussion of crime, fluff, angst, CUDDLING, secrets, threat, she's not nice but she's also nice.
"I always want to be where you are. I see the good in you."
She scoffs. "There is no good…You're so naive. Coming here. You couldn't leave even if you wanted to."
Your skin feels hot. You can't tell why.
The helicopter is loud. Even louder is your heartbeat in your chest. Hard thuds against your ribcage, barely containing the feelings inside of it.
It's too dark to see the water below you as the blades buzz above your head. It's almost a relief as the wind picks up, rocking the tiny little floating lounge above vast amounts of terrifying nothingness.
You don't remember the last time you were able to breathe normally.
Was it at the club with her hands on your skin? Was it in your apartment with your lovely new roommate and Agatha's portrait on the Forbes magazine cover? The image glossy and half rolled over where you'd shoved it into your bag. Maybe a little careless. Maybe you knew you'd get the real deal soon.
Goosebumps on your cold skin despite your cheeks feeling hot and if being in her penthouse somehow wasn't safe enough for you, her island certainly will be.
Certainly? Hopefully.
A private paradise for the two of you. All those things she'd talked about...did she expect you to come here so soon?
You'd imagined a romantic vacation. Hammocks out of place for the Hamptons and waking up together in the private bubble of bliss. Like a honeymoon that lasts forever.
Just the two of you, and all the peace money can buy.
How long will it take you to realize that Agatha can't and won't live like that?
Every instance of normality is quickly replaced by something complicated, terrifying or an alluring combination of the two.
Including Agatha herself.
It's hard to imagine her preparing for you to come here at all, despite her words. A new level of sharing her space with you, somewhere so private she's retreated there in whatever emergency this is.
Despite her bragging, you don't actually know that much about this island of hers. Is it one big house? A little village? Wanda's island seemed like one massive complex, but Agatha had made a point of having lots of special rooms.
Her island is almost certainly bigger, you think. If everything else is anything to go off of. If there's something to compete at, Agatha is making sure she's winning.
How are you supposed to process all of this?
If only there was somebody you could talk to. Properly talk to. Jake could never have been your friend, it seems obvious now. The late nights with him watching the television too loudly. His gross cups stacking up in the sink and the subtle digs thats have become far less subtle as time has passed. He didn't understand you, and it seems he never will.
But Maggie, maybe there could have been something there. It didn't seem like she was the kind of person to be nice to you just because you lived there. Someone sweet, with pure intentions and a kind heart.
She seemed like she wanted to be your friend.
And predictably, you've picked the woman that looks at you like you're lunch. The woman that has committed so many absurd HR violations, she's somehow forced you into needing her to feel human.
But you can't think like that.
Agatha is difficult, and she is intense. But she cares. It's obvious in the cherry syrup she keeps in her penthouse and the laugh she lets out when you press her buttons. In the way she looked at you when she didn't think you noticed back at the gallery.
When she rented the whole space out so you could take a closer look at the artwork. A thoughtful memento from the date stored as a surprise in the car. Teaching you wine like she wouldn't ever judge you.
It can be hard to get her into that headspace.
But you've made your decision.
Floating above the midnight sea, it's too late to turn back even if you wanted to. So, you try to focus on your breathing and hope you’ll be landing soon.
Despite it all, you just can't wait to be in her arms again. Despite her causing these problems, intensifying them and running away without telling you where she was even going.
It's push and pull. A shifting conversation of not being able to stay away from you, and sending you away without a text message…only to tell you she's been recording you in secret while you lay on her bed.
Even though you've shared her space, eaten dinner in her bed and met her friends, one thought makes you question everything.
What if for her this is some kind of game that's gotten out of control?
And for you, well, this is your whole life.
Although your bag holds almost nothing important, although you're yet to rest or remove the image of that man from your brain, all you can think about is whether she's okay. Whether she's stressed. Scared. Overwhelmed. Whether she's changed clothes, whether she's had anybody bring her food or make her coffee. How much whiskey she's gone through while on strategy calls.
Swept from the rough sheets of your apartment and flown to a private island at the hands of the only person who can make your life more meaningful and more disastrous at the same time.
And you probably won't even get a raise for it.
Dim lights come into view as the helicopter sways and drops slowly, you suspect it must be landing but it's almost hard to tell with the dark and the breeze.
You grab onto the arm of the chair. The leather squishing between your fingers as your grip intensifies.
Landing.
It's certainly landing and it feels worse than when her hand was in yours. At least you knew she had it under control. Something about how she can switch between her silly sarcasm and the quick, controlled voice she can command boardrooms with. It makes you feel like she could fix anything.
Just close your eyes. Imagine her warmth, her skin finally on yours, the smell of her perfume and her shampoo. The safety and security she brings you just by being near. You pull out your phone to check the time. The battery is low. This day is too fucking long.
The pilot says something through the headset and you pick up approximately none of it trying to focus on not losing your shit as the whole thing moves about in the wind. You'd hoped there’d be more test runs of this thing before you had to ride it to the island, and you never imagined doing it on your own.
Well, maybe in some distant fantasy you'd indulged once or twice. When your head hits the pillow and your brain shows your subconscious in vibrant shapes and colors. When her bed becomes your bed, and her house becomes your house, and flying to the island to see the Agatha Harkness is a normal occurrence. You'd cook dinner for her and rub her shoulders after a long day. She'd finally learn to make you pancakes and buy you a teddy bear on valentines day.
You know you can't think like that. But if you could control your dreams, would you change any of it?
With your eyes forced closed so tightly you start seeing glittery squares, the whole thing finally stops moving.
It's silent.
Less bumpy than maybe you expected.
Your fingers are still bursting through the leather when the door is opened for you and with wobbly legs, you're able to step out. Your useless bag in one hand and the other trailing along the exit of the helicopter, grabbing onto the arm of the pilot as he helps you stand.
The helipad is enormous, and you suspect Agatha was being somewhat modest about the island as well as the yacht. Maybe less modest, and more financially clueless.
Agatha.
She knew you were coming, she'd sent for you.
You need her. Her body holding yours. Her warmth on your freezing skin and the sound of her voice purring in your ear.
So where is she?
"Thanks." You're able to muster up as you release the pilot from your clawed grasp. It comes out barely audible and you clear your throat before attempting anything else.
The place is almost entirely dark, with red lights on the helipad. As the sound of water hits the shore, you fully grasp the fact that you're on an island.
She literally owns the ground you're walking on.
It’s hard to take in, looking around as you head toward what you assume is her house. One large building surrounded by several smaller ones. Orange lights coming through the windows.
It’s almost too dark to see, like she hadn't plan on you coming at all and somehow hasn't prepared in any way to collect you. The firm texture of the helipad becomes crunchy as you head up the path. Gravel or sand under your feet, something unsteady.
Is she as bad as you'd worried? Sat hunched over a laptop covered in crumbs and drunk out of her mind?
You wouldn't care. You could help her.
Helping her is part of your job.
Maybe she's picking snack wrappers up off of the carpet. Maybe she's brewing you a pot of tea or cooking you a hot dinner. Putting on a jazz record and warming you pajamas.
The thought is preposterous, but you walk towards the lights anyway.
Other buildings and trees pass you as you head further up the path, small lights on the ground lighting up as you stumble up the gravel texture. It seems mostly modern, with large windows and a chimney. Most of the house already in darkness.
Is she really not coming to find you?
The gravel turns solid as you wander up the steps of the house like some kind of confusing trial you're now a part of. The door enormous, rounded at the top with the shape of the moon inside of the glass.
Do you knock? This feels like a humiliation ritual all on it's own.
What could she possibly be doing?
You hesitate for a second before your knuckles hit the wood three times.
Despite the frustration that's becoming more noticeable within you by the second, it’s hard to outweigh the excitement and sense of relief already bursting out your chest.
For a long minute, there's nothing.
The sound of the water.
The whistling of the breeze.
Your breath as you continue to grow more and more annoyed....she really didn't bother to pick you up?
After everything she's put you through?
Until the door pulls open, and your eyes finally rest on her once again.
A cream colored sweater high on her neck, a brown blazer draped over the top and a glass of red wine in her hand.
She looks surprisingly, perfect?
"Agatha!" You burst towards her without thinking, the stress of the past god knows how many hours bundling inside of you until you can't hold yourself back as she stands in the dim lighting.
You hadn't even registered the expression on her face as you collide with the expensive fabric of her jacket.
Her free arm catches you, and the softness of your body that was preparing for a wholesome hug is thrown off when she shoves you against the wall without a second to spare.
Air leaving your chest in surprise and exertion as the smell of cherry and red wine hit your senses.
You don't get a hi.
You don't get a hug.
Her hand is on your throat, looking over your face like she's examining you. Keeping you in place as she scans over your skin. Nails digging into your cheeks as she inspects your features.
"Did anybody hurt you?"
Her words are sharp and her eyes are wild.
You suddenly feel embarrassed you even went in for a hug in the first place. She’d just been so soft recently. You’d been playing a game of silly dates and romantic dinners before it all fell apart.
Shaking your head, Agatha takes a sip of her wine and releases your neck.
Already desperate for her touch as soon as it leaves you.
You didn't realize how hard she was squeezing until the pressure is suddenly gone.
Her hand presses firmly down your chest, trailing hard over your stomach and finding the waistband of your pants.
It's not even been a minute since you showed up here.
"Agatha I–"
"Shh. Do you even know how frustrated I am right now? I can't even think straight I just—" her left hand fumbles with the button on your pants until it pops open, she doesn't waste a second longer before she's pressing against you with her fingertips. "—just let mommy relax..."
You're not sure how you're already getting wet, is it from the simple action of her hands on you despite their intention? Are you conditioned by the smell of alcohol on her tongue? By the roughness of her hands when she grabs you like that?
It would be embarrassing. But Agatha doesn't make you feel embarrassed.
She makes you feel important and necessary.
You push back against her without thinking as she slips aside the fabric of your underwear. You should have worn something prettier, for some reason you thought maybe you'd just go to bed.
She doesn't care, the fabric is only a barrier for her. She doesn't look, she doesn't need to.
Her eyes closed as you study the gentle lines of her skin. A soft hum leaving her lips. Her touch making you shudder, the salvia you swallow making a louder noise than you anticipated.
Agatha's movements are slow, delicate and controlled as she lets your body adjust to her. Collecting your wetness on her fingers without another word, without a question or a demand or a kiss.
There's apparently no time for pleasantries as she presses two fingers inside of you before even saying hello. The pressure of the intensity is soothed instantly as she groans. Like the simple act of being inside of you is enough to relax her after the disaster that was the past few days.
"What are you—fuck–" you struggle for words as she thrusts into you, her expression easing and softening as you adjust around her.
"You can take it, can't you?"
Agatha gives you a moment, feeling your body melt against her touch. Her thrusts slow as she studies your face, is this what she was thinking about while she watched you on her bed?
Wanting to fuck you right here in her isolated hallway?
"Just couldn’t help myself” she whispers as she picks up the pace, her palm flat against your clit, her voice hot against your ear.
Your legs begin to tremble beneath you as she picks up the pace, quick and erratic, like she's been waiting to do this all day.
Maybe she has.
"There's my girl, come on." Her words are deep and settle right through you as she shamelessly takes what she wants, it's too much too quickly, your stomach tightening and your hands in her hair before you can stop yourself.
Her softness. You missed her softness. But you missed this too.
"Let me feel it. Let go. There you go." She gasps, watching you through hooded eyes, blues dark as she curls her fingers in your throbbing cunt.
It's too much and not enough as soon as you're reunited with her, the way your body welcomes her like it's branded with the same initials as her cars.
The smell of her is in your throat.
She looks far too perfect for a woman on the run.
She knew she wouldn't be able to wait.
That's why she didn't meet you at the helipad.
You come right there, whimpering against the wall with her name on your lips.
Her hair still in your hands as you settle. Deep breaths and shallow breaths between the two of you.
Your chest feels things it shouldn't. Words it shouldn't for a woman so rough with you, your boss no less.
You push them away.
"I uh—" The blues of her eyes instantly softer as you finally move in too quickly for that hug. Her free arm pulls around your waist, the other outstretched so you presumably don't knock her wine over.
Priorities.
Agatha's hand settles on the small of your back as you inhale the cherry of her perfume, and something salty. Maybe it's the jacket.
Her brooch digs into your chest, shoving against your collar bone. You don't care.
You could live in this hug forever.
"Hi." You finally exhale after a long, long second.
Expecting her to pull away.
She doesn't budge.
She rests her head against yours. The woman in that suit on the cover of your magazine.
"Hi."
"You smell like salt."
"That'll be the sea, hon." Her words are matter-of-fact. Her body warm and comforting, the stability after your legs were shaking is a bonus.
You hug her tighter.
She let's you.
"I missed you."
"I know."
She pulls back so she can take a sip of the red liquid, and you're finally able to get a little look at the hallway. Lamps on the wall light the expansive space. Artwork in expensive frames.
You'd be excited if you weren't so damn exhausted.
"Can I get you a glass of wine?"
She seems far too casual about the situation and although you would have killed for a glass of wine on the way out here, all you can think about is being unconscious next to her while she sucks up all the air in the room with her snores.
"God no. No thank you I mean. I just...It's been a really long day."
"Well, that's why I offered." Her hips sway as she moves down the corridor ahead of you, you follow her without question as she leads you into a kitchen, the bottle of wine sits almost empty on the side. The label isn't something you recognize from your wine tasting adventure.
"Just as well. I think this one is too strong for you." Agatha's long fingers grip the bottle as she empties the rest of the wine into her glass. "It's a little bolder, a little more full-bodied."
In this light you can see the lines under her eyes.
She does look tired.
The kitchen is wide, small dim lights under wooden countertops glow in the room. You know you're sleepy, because you don't even care about gleaning every piece of information you can out of the space.
Until your eyes fall on the overflowing trash can. Ready to pity her for having to do her own chores and ask questions about how it's already gotten so full, when you see it hanging out the top of the trash mountain.
"Agatha you ordered Taco Bell to your island?"
She almost flinches on the pour.
"What are you, the taco police?"
"Oh my god. Did you send a helicopter to get that? Was it even hot?"
She screws the lid back on the bottle before launching it in the recycling bin anyway. Recycling all the wine bottles must really offset all of the jet emissions. The things a woman will go through for queso. That was not in the Forbes article. You've created a monster.
"I mean, no, not really. But that's why I have staff. To fetch me things."
"I knew I would regret taking you there. You need actual nutrients. You need to eat vegetables.”
“Tacos have vegetables. Although I did pick most of the lettuce out. But you’ve seen me eat a salad.” She drips the last few red splashes into the glass, holding it upside-down to make sure she's really getting the last of it.
"I don't greatly enjoy you telling me what I can and can't do. You know i'm in charge?"
“Please just try and balance the things you eat.”
"I lived a long time before you started bringing me lunch, you do know that, don't you?"
Agatha's sauntering towards you, nails drumming on the counter as she approaches. Your arms fold over each other like you're on display in the middle of the mostly-empty room. Where are all her appliances?
"Well yeah but...not as well."
Good one. Heiress Harkness didn't know true living until she met you.
She laughs one loud 'ha!' with her head thrown back. It's hard to pretend to be even a little mad when she's so outrageous.
You can't wait to be in her bed.
She's already beginning to leave, waltzing away a few steps ahead of you. You were hoping she wouldn't go so soon, playing hard to get even when you've been in her vehicles more than you've been in your apartment recently.
"Come on. Let me show you to your room. You look worn out."
You start following her anyway as she pushes off of the counter and begins to enter her hall-maze again. You are worn out. That doesn't mean you want this to be over. You only just got her again.
Wait did she say?
"My room? Wait. No."
You plant your feet firmly on the floor. "...I don't want my own room. I want to stay with you."
She turns on her heel. Swallows in the silence between the two of you, you're slightly further away than you initially thought, it feels tense again. Like maybe you had imagined all the fun you had at the movies and the club. Maybe the taco wrapper is all the evidence that's left of that.
Your eyes focus on the way her body moves under the dim light. The waves of her hair as the highlights catch under the lamps. It's messy. Messier than usual maybe. You know she's been running her hands through it the way she does when she's overwhelmed. You could untangle it, if she'd let you, you doubt she will.
Her posture is perfect, but there's something behind her eyes that's clearly bothering her. Maybe it's just all of the recent problems. Maybe all of the problems aren't just recent, and she hasn't lived a normal and relaxing life since...well, ever.
There's no way you're sleeping without her.
"I just thought you might want your own space, because of tonight and because of—" her eyes wander from your face to your half-empty bag "—all of your luggage."
The smirk from her own joke is plastered on her face as she spins, contunuing down the hallway, past several oak doors and various paintings you'll get a better look at tomorrow.
"Please can I stay with you?"
Your voice comes out smaller and more distant than you intended. She doesn't turn back, she doesn't reply. Just a swig of the wine and finally stopping at one of the many doors.
Agatha turns the doorknob, the house responds with a croak as it settles. Like it's welcoming you.
Her hand ushers you inside the room, your feet finding the soft dark carpet as you brush past her into the space.
Is this the guest room? She's really going to make you beg to sleep with her after everything?
You are not above begging.
She knows it.
"As if i'd let you sleep on your own." She slams the door shut behind her.
You nearly pass out at the tenderness of her words as a lamp shaped like a paper lantern casts a warm glow across the bed. The sheets crisp white and delicate looking like a clean hotel.
Your body aches for it almost as much as it aches for her.
You throw yourself down, sitting at the edge of the bed and kicking off your shoes like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like being swept away to the CEO's island after a break-in is just a normal weekday afternoon. The people at work wouldn't believe this. And if they did, they'd call you some help immediately.
The sheets smell too fresh. Too clean, ironed and perfect.
She didn’t sleep here last night.
You should be thinking about how she got into this mess. About the danger that comes with being with her. About her secrets, her temper, your differences. About what she was doing last night, and what she'll do tomorrow to solve it.
But all you can think about is hoping she doesn't spill red wine on the white sheets as she leans over you, taller now you're sat. Moving in close until she's a shallow breath away from you.
The heat from her skin in your breathing space.
You swallow. Not sure what's happening now.
Not wanting to look stupid from asking.
And not wanting to apologize in case she tells you off.
You brace as Agatha Harkness places a delicate kiss on your forehead.
Your body relaxes so much at the unusually sweet gesture you practically melt into the high thread count beneath you.
"I'm glad you're safe." She whispers, her lips are soft against you before she's standing tall again like she's cracking her shoulders. "...And that..." She clears her throat, almost kind of awkwardly. "...That you're here."
"...Me too."
You want a thousand more kisses.
You don't want to scare her off.
"It was scary. At the penthouse. I didn't know, I mean— I didn't know what was going on for a second. I thought that would be the best place to be, you know? I hope I didn't intrude going into your house like that."
Agatha turns, facing away from you as she takes off her jacket and delicately hangs it over the back of a chair. Her thin wine glass placed on top of her dresser next to some objects you can’t quite make out. Maybe a photograph, definitely some books.
You don't mention how you snooped through her stuff. You just open your bag, tipping the contents onto her bed to grab one of the many snacks that fall out onto the sheets. You are so glad you bought a lot of these things.
If you weren't so emotionally and physically drained you'd probably feel odd. Like you're intruding. Like you shouldn't be treating her space like this. Like you don't belong.
Instead you finally feel the familiar domestic comfort of the woman you're dating.
Even if she's not going to let you call it that.
But two dates is dating.
That's just science. Or dating law.
Agatha is rolling up her sleeves as she takes off her necklace and unclasps her bracelet. You watch her as she unwinds for the evening. Her hair flows down her back as she faces away from you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
You realize that outside of sex, Agatha seems to mostly get undressed in different rooms.
Her taking off her jewellery feels soft...and unusual.
In a good way.
"It should have been safe. It's never happened before...I have top notch security." She doesn't sound comforted by the thought of the security, she suddenly sounds extremely frustrated.
"I pay the best of the best to watch over all of my belongings. My safety. Fucking—"
Her voice is louder like she's remembering how she feels in real time. Her house. Her things. Her safety. Her girl.
"One of them has seriously got some explaining to do, I don't even know where to begin with him."
You rummage through your snack pile for something that'll curb your stress cravings. Although her talking about the incident as she undresses, discussing it like she has a plan, even though each word feels louder and angrier than the last, it feels like you can let her take over and passenger princess this whole runaway thing.
"And for god's sake, they found out he knew the code because someone had left little melted chocolate fingerprints on the keypad, I mean can you believe it?! It's probably the fucking housekeeper! I knew she was—"
She turns as if on cue to see you holding a Snickers.
You didn't even register what she was saying. Fuck. Wait. Is she serious? You were that focused on getting out of your apartment you didn't even notice? Are you five?! Wait. Did you even eat any candy before you left? Should you defend yourself? It's been so intense you can't even remember.
You want to drop the chocolate. You don't. You clutch it tighter like it'll protect you from her wrath, her eyes are angrier than you've seen her in a while, vicious and furious as she marches over to you, her eyes flickering between the snack pile and your face.
You miss the forehead kiss.
"Are you fucking serious?!"
She raises her hand without thinking about it as you sit below her, you gasp, eyes closing quickly as you brace for impact.
You're not sure whether you flinched or not as you cower beneath her like a terrified animal.
Agatha settles for a growl and an angry grasp of the air instead of instinctively hitting you.
"How old are you? You're getting melted chocolate all over my penthouse and now you're bringing it to my island? Why do you even have all of this?”
You shy away.
“Look at me when I’m taking to you!"
"I don't— I don't know!"
Don't cry.
Don't cry.
Don't bring up the m&ms you found in her stuff-drawer.
Don’t tell her she’s messier than you’ve ever been.
Don't say it might not have even be you.
"I mean I— I bought it all because I was trying to get your attention, with the credit card. I'm sorry I didn't mean to, I left so quickly I was just...I said I bought food—"
"This isn't food. This is what you bought with my money?"
You're not sure what you're supposed to do now.
"You have no idea how much trouble you're in oh my god."
She paces on the ground, her hand on her forehead.
"Do you know what that penthouse is evaluated at? And you rubbed your little chocolate fingers all over it? I should—"
Don't cry.
Don't mention you do know what it's evaluated at because you were literally Googling it this morning.
Don't cry.
"—I don't even know what I should do with you. I don't even know."
Her hands are wild in the air and you can tell she's trying to hold back on terrifying you.
You shrink back into yourself. Are you supposed to say something?
"I'm sorry."
She stops. Her nostrils flared as she looks down at you.
"I'm really sorry, he came to my house and I was really scared and...the day before at the club was scary and I just— I just wanted to feel close to you and I wanted snacks I guess and I— I left my house all stressed and nervous I didn't even think about it I didn't even notice I feel so stupid!"
You can't tell yourself not to cry again, it's already too late as the tears stream down your face. They're hot against your flushed skin as the overwhelm of the last few days all floods out of you at once.
And Agatha just watches.
Just for a minute.
Just blank behind the eyes in a way that's new and unreadable.
Both hands grabbing the air as she watches you break down on her bed.
The silence is uncomfortable and you hesitate in your realization that this can't be the relationship you need.
Agatha swallows, sits.
"Oh."
The weight of her body settles in beside you on the bed as her arm wraps around your waist once again and the familiar sense of comfort returns.
You should flinch. You don't. You nuzzle closer to her like she didn't just hold herself back from hurting you. Your mascara on her cream sweater.
"My baby."
Her voice is slightly above a whisper as you sob onto her cashmere. "I shouldn't have..." But it trails off when she can't decide whether to apologize or make an excuse for her behavior.
Should you have even come here? Leaving behind Maggie and Jake and the only normality you had left to be here with her?
Her hand doesn't move in a way that's relaxing. It stays rigid like she's not sure how to hold you, she just knows she has to.
And although you expect her to pull away, Agatha makes no attempt at moving when you can finally breathe again.
She takes a deep breath.
"I shouldn't have raised my voice like that."
You sniff. "It's okay."
"...I just, I'm sorry...I usually wait for you to leave."
"I know."
She nods as she takes a second before moving off of you, her hand flexing as she picks one of the snacks from your pile. You aren't sure what will happen now as the air feels lighter, but not quite right.
You accept her apology.
You don't mention the S word.
She's ripping the packet open before you can lecture her about her health again.
"You should have brought the magazine too."
You blink.
"What?"
"The Forbes." She takes a bite of the candy bar. "You should have brought it. Did you see how good I looked in that photo?"
You did.
"How...did you know about that?"
"Did you like the interview? Or just the photos?"
You laugh, taking a bite of your own. Your breathing back to normal. It's okay. Everything is okay.
"I mean, I liked the photos the interview was..."
Agatha stands, pulling her sweater over her head and throwing it on the ground, the chocolate held between her teeth.
She's not wearing a bra and the dim lighting shows off the muscles in her shoulders.
You try not to stare as she opens up a mahogany set of draws, pulling out a black vest and slipping it on.
There's no fucking way you're going to sleep next to her like this tonight oh my god. Will this ever begin to feel normal? Will your moments with her ever feel ordinary, even when they are?
"I mean, it was fake. Obviously."
"Fake?" Her face is a dramatic shocked expression as she turns to look at you. "You think I'm fake?"
She makes you giggle like a baby.
"I mean, I've spent time with you. I think you were pretending to be somebody else. Which makes sense, I mean you're in the public eye I wouldn't—"
"Stop talking."
You nod.
“Do you have pajamas in your snack bag or do you need a t-shirt? I don't really have anything else in this room." She rummages aimlessly as you try not to stare at her biceps. "I can go find something. A dress shirt, or—”
The concept of what’s even in your bag falls right out of your head at the mention of her giving you a shirt.
“—Can I have a t-shirt?”
She’s already sifting through her drawer again before you finish the sentence, fabric of different colors squished all around as she finds something for you.
In a second she’s flung a large grey piece of cotton at you, and you’re glad your reflexes don’t fail you as you reach up to shield your face from it. Spreading the fabric open you get a good look at the yellow faded print.
Yacht Club Italiano '93.
Like something you'd find in the back of a thrift store. But you know she wouldn't shop there. Agatha probably doesn't even know what a thrift store is. This is a memory. A memory of hers, draped across your skin.
The woman from the magazine. Your boss, cold and cruel. The woman people refuse to make eye contact with as she walks through the corridor. The woman who owns this house, and this land, and this city, is eating a KitKat as you get changed into her Italian yacht club shirt from 1993.
Your clothes feel suddenly uncomfortable as you stand to change, Agatha slips out of her pants and leaves them in a lump on the ground. You're too tired to tell her to use the hamper.
You're too distracted by the skin of her thighs to see when she finishes the KitKat and instantly reaches for another candy bar, before pushing the rest of them onto the floor in one big careless swoop.
The cotton slips over your skin like it was always meant to be there.
Did she really wear this in the 90s? Does she wear it still? Does she keep all of her old clothes? It dawns on you you've always seen Agatha as so current, so present. Always this terrifying, this powerful and this perfect. Even when she tells you stories about when she was younger, or even when your eyes scanned that photograph of her and Rio. She just seems so...constant? Always knowing exactly what to say and do. Always having this element of control, despite you knowing that isn't true.
"How old were you in 1993?" You ask as you slip under the covers. You should really brush your teeth after the sugar but the thought of getting up again makes you feel like you might die.
"Twenty."
Agatha isn't looking at you, she's fishing through a different drawer for a makeup wipe and begins rubbing her eyes much, much too hard.
The stress of your day and the anxiety of the evening rub away with her mascara. You're not sure why she bothered wearing any makeup, or such a precise outfit. Unless it was for you? No. That's a silly thought.
You snuggle into the softness of the white sheets as the old shirt holds you in it's thirty years of memories.
"Did you enjoy it? The yacht club?"
Agatha had mentioned she could drive boats, she must have done it more recently than 1993 though.
She hums, long and slow as she leaves the makeup wipe on the dresser and takes a couple steps over to the bed. She's so beautiful in the light. Her hair waved and wild as she fixes her parting.
She makes you feel feral.
The sheets are soft under your fingers as you pull back the covers for her to get in next to you.
"No. Not really."
Of course she'd give you the shirt with the shitty memory.
You're not sure whether to pry as her head hits the pillow. Her side profile a perfect series of backlit shapes as you watch her think. The lamp glow bouncing off of the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.
"It's ok. You don't have to talk about it."
"Mhm. It's not entirely bad. It wasn't my intention to give you that one. I didn't look at the print."
Well now she's just being ominous.
"Then?"
"They just didn't like me, at the yacht club. It's stupid." If you could go back in time and start a riot in the Italian yacht club in 1993 maybe you would. But you can't. So you stay quiet and let her relive the memory. "...Well. I mean. I don't know. I probably deserved it."
That's probably true. She slides her hand over her face.
"But you're so friendly and welcoming?" You smile, catching your lip under your teeth.
"I know right?" Her hand reaches out and forcibly turns out the light so you can't look at her. Either it's one of those ones that's touch sensitive or she's just murdered it.
You shuffle a little closer to her body. You were hoping to be in her bed, but this is more than you could have ever asked for.
"Then what happened?" You don't touch her, not right away. Settling your skin in the warmth that’s radiating off of her.
"I just...I got out of boarding school when I was eighteen. The yacht club was something my mother signed me up for after she refused to let me buy a boat. I should have known it'd be agonizing."
"I thought you liked boats and stuff?" It's hard to avoid your words spilling out like you're talking to a toddler.
"I do. Like boats....and stuff." Her tone mocks your voice, before she clears her throat like she's in too deep to back out of this conversation.
"I don't know...I think they thought I was bad. Pompous and annoying...I liked the sailing. They stopped inviting me to their dinners and group activities after the first day. I spent the rest of my time there on my own."
If you could go back in time and start a riot in the Italian yacht club in 1993 absolutely you would.
Really, you should be asking questions about the poker club. The island. The break-in. But you want nothing more than to imagine a twenty year old Agatha Harkness buying a t-shirt because she wants to learn to sail.
You pity her.
You know she doesn't like that.
"Isn't everyone at a yacht club pompous and annoying?"
In the dark you hear her raising both of her arms up, before slamming them back on the bed.
"Yes! I'd hear them whispering rumors in the hallways in exactly the same way I'd heard them when I was at the school and I just—" she takes a sharp breath, her words are faster like she can't quite catch up to what she's going to say.
It's unlike her.
She's usually so in control.
"—and it’s exactly the same way my mother would talk about me, exactly the same way they talk about me in the headquarters and I think maybe—" you're startled as she stands too quickly, blinding you suddenly when she turns the lamp back on.
"—if everyone thinks i'm so fucking terrible already, maybe it's easier if I just am."
You're not sure how this all started from your yacht club shirt, shielding your eyes with your arm as they adjust to the sudden change, sitting up you watch her grab her robe from the hook on the back of the door.
"What? Agatha, where are you going?"
"For something stronger than wine."
For the amount of drinking Agatha does you've yet to see her properly intoxicated, but the combination of anger and whiskey sounds relatively terrible for the two of you right now.
"Don't. Please. Please just stay here?" You gesture to the bed, patting it which you regret instantly when she her eyes turn cold like something inside of her has been switched on.
"I need to calm down."
"Have you tried breathing? That always helps me?"
Her smile sits the wrong way around on her face. The blues of her eyes look almost wet as she swallows. Is she about to scream or cry?
"Breathing? What are you, a shrink?"
You knew you shouldn't have suggested that, crawling to the edge of the bed to try and reach for her.
She flinches away.
"Please just come back to bed."
"You talk to me like...I don't even know." Like she's important? Like she's more than the mask she puts on? "It's ridiculous."
And just when everything feels so right, she loves to make it feel so wrong.
"Everything they say about me is true, you know that, right?"
You clear your throat in a room that suddenly feels too quiet.
"No. It's not. I've met you."
"No you haven't."
Will this relationship always be like this?
Your heart race increases like you're prey, when it suddenly dawns on you that you might be. Agatha drops the robe, leaning against the door when she sees you waiting for her.
Not leaving, not cowering. Waiting. Kneeling at the edge of the bed without even being aware of where your body is, and what it's doing.
"Well then I want to."
"You don't."
Her voice is low.
"Why?"
Maybe you shouldn't be poking her, encouraging her when the fire is behind her eyes and there's nobody around to save you. But you're hers. And whether she knows it or not, she's yours.
"You wouldn't want to be here with me."
"I always want to be where you are. I see the good in you."
She scoffs. "There is no good…You're so naive. Coming here. Now you couldn't leave even if you wanted to."
Your skin feels hot. You can't tell why.
"Agatha. Stop trying to push me away. It's not going to work."
"You know what people say about me. Online. In the newspapers. At the galas when they think I can't hear them."
A few steps closer, and she's able to reach out and touch you, holding your chin in place to look at her, too soft for the spite in the words. "At the club...and on Wanda's island."
"Why do you let people believe those things about you?" The words come out half-baked.
Croaky and more nervous than you perhaps realized.
Her grip is firmer as you grab onto the sheets beneath you, balancing yourself as she stares upon you with an expression you can't read. Somewhere between awe, desire and pure, true disgust.
"You hear all of those things and you still follow me everywhere...like a sad little fucking puppy."
One hard shove to your chest and you're flat on the bed, her frame climbing onto yours. Straddling your hips. Her hands finding your wrists, pinning you down as her face hovers above yours.
That look in her eyes.
Perhaps that look is pity. Pity you can't see the truth. Pity you've fallen for her charms and constant disarming. Pity you've ignored the warnings from others. Ignored the warnings from Agatha. Pity she can't truly respect you, because you're just that pathetic.
"I don't believe them." You try again, harder. the words feel firmer in your mouth this time. "I don't believe what anyone says about you."
You aren't sure if you're telling the truth or not.
"Then you're dumber than I thought you were." But her lips are inches away from yours. And deep down, you don't think she means that either.
Her hands are slow and controlled as they move from your wrists to your neck. Wrapping around your throat softly like a warning, eyes pale like she might kill you, or kiss you. Maybe you'd let her do both.
Her hands rest. No pressure. Just the promise of what she could do to you if she wanted to.
"And it wouldn't matter if they were true." You breathe heavy, in time with her. She grimaces.
And this time, you know you are telling the truth.
The smile that spreads across her lips is a cruel one, and this is not the same woman that kissed your forehead earlier.
"You don't even care?"
"No."
Her fingers tighten, slowly, steady. The smell of wine on her lips.
"If they were true, you wouldn't want me to let go of you right now?"
You shift beneath her.
"No."
"Does anybody even know you're here?"
"...no."
"The tallest penthouse. A private island. Nobody even knows you're with me...where exactly would you be able to go? Your apartment is in my name."
The vein in her forehead is more prominent than it was a half hour ago, but as you lay beneath her, focused on the tone of her words and the venom in her voice.
"I fucking own you."
You still feel safe.
"I know. You can't keep me away from you."
"Does anybody even know you belong to me?"
"...No. Nobody."
Agatha's lips crash into yours before you're able to process what's happening, the taste of merlot and lies and things she can't or won't tell you.
And you still see the good in her.
If the world says you’re wicked, why not just be wicked?
Her tongue is in your mouth, deeper as your fists find her hair.
She doesn't like that, releasing the grip on your neck and finding your wrists again. Interlocking her fingers with your own as she grinds her body against yours.
"They will." She breathes when you break free from her lips.
Another kiss. Heat and fire and the thin fabric of her vest and yacht club italiano separating you from her.
"I thought it was a secret." You breathe, mouth dry.
"I have too many secrets."
You don't care. You want the gardens of the chateau with her. You want to see the yacht club anyway. The french attic. Every house of hers in every country. Every terrible club in every terrible neighborhood she bought. All of it.
Agatha shifts her weight, her bare thigh slipping between yours, a gentle moan spilling into your mouth as she kisses you again. Grinding her body against yours as you push against her. The fabric of her underwear is soaked as she moves against your thigh.
You know she can feel you too.
"My poor little slut. You're awfully wet for someone who should be scared of me."
You gasp against her lips.
"I'm not scared of you."
"God. Shut up."
Agatha climbs off of you abruptly, watching you lean back onto your arms as she peels off her underwear, probably dumping it on the floor with everything else.
"Lay back down."
You obey as she crawls over you again, continuing to move until her thighs are either side of your head.
You swallow.
You don't move.
She's dripping.
Fuck. Settling down on your mouth until all you can taste is her, all you can breathe is her and even if you have been manipulated, you don't care about that either.
She's everywhere, your hands on the soft of her thighs as she rides against the flat of her tongue. The taste of her consuming you, looking up at her head thrown back. Hair wild and free. Lips parted.
Your cover star. Your boss. Your everything.
"This is the only way I can get you to shut up, huh?"
You try to talk. You can't. She groans against the vibration of your lips against her clit.
Her mess dripping down your chin.
"Mommy's pretty little doll loves saying all the wrong things. Lay there and be useful."
And you do.
As if you'd want to be anywhere else.
She's rough. Her hand reaching to find something to grab onto. Your hair, the wall, she settles on the bed frame, shifting her weight as she forces herself against your lips. Your air overtaken by her.
"You don't even know what you're saying. Just that fucking desperate for me."
Her nipples hard under the thin fabric of her vest, but you don't dare try to touch.
"My perfect, pathetic girl."
Her thighs lock against your cheeks as her moans get louder above you. Your fingers in the soft skin of her thighs, smooth and warm. Her legs shudder as her breaths stutter.
"Fuck—stay fucking still"
Not being able to breathe is a privilege when it feels like this. When it's all for her pleasure.
“Ggonna come on your pretty lips baby—fuck—" her voice is higher, weaker "—so glad you came.”
Her cheeks flushed as her hands move back to her hair, pushing it out of her face as her forehead wrinkles. That face you've come to love. The silence that comes right before the cries.
She shakes, pornographic noises erupting from her, eyes forced shut as her movements become more erratic.
Throbbing against your tongue as she finishes making use of your face.
You can’t help but gasp when she shifts back a little.
Her breathing loud as she wipes the sweat from her eyebrows with the back of her hand.
“Jesus Christ.”
With your eyes closed you can feel her climbing off of you, your lips covered in her.
She's silent only for a moment as her chest rises and falls.
“You look pretty like that.”
You swallow.
“Thank you.”
The ache between your own thighs is unbearable as she settles herself back on the pillow besides you.
It’s hard not to squirm as she catches her breath and wets her own lips, she notices without even having to take a proper look at you, obviously.
“Aw.” She coos, rolling over to get a better look at your soaked face and desperate, pleading eyes. “Is someone feeling needy?”
Embarrassingly so.
“I— yeah”
“Well, you did come all this way…” she taunts, propping herself up on one arm, her palm flat against the yacht shirt as she feels your nipples harden beneath her touch. Your skin alert as she drags her experienced fingers across your stomach, walking down to grip your thigh.
Goosebumps left in her path.
“…I bet you’re already leaking for me...You always are.”
That is an understatement.
Her fingernails tease across your skin, clit aching with desperation as she reaches under your waistband again.
Gasping softly when she feels you against her.
“My my, is this all for mommy?”
“Yeah— yes.” You nod your head furiously, bucking up into her, the taste of her still on your tongue. Desperate for something, anything.
“Even after everything?”
"Always."
She glides against your clit too easily, the pressure perfect like she's done this a thousand times. Like she knows you inside and out. Circling slowly, and then too gently. Too precise. Too much and not enough.
"All alone with me." She laughs, biting her lip as she watches you fall apart for her, and only ever her. "Nowhere to go."
You can't tell if she's trying to scare you off again.
"I just want you."
"...You have me...The things I'll do to you."
Her fingers dip lower, collecting your wetness between them as she presses against your entrance, teasing gently before following the curve of your body further. Placing the gentlest pressure against your ass.
"Aw…You're so wet my cute little thing, I could probably slip right in...I never did get to see that pretty diamond..."
God. You almost forgot about that. Her touch is so much gentler than when you tried that. Maybe she should help you next time.
"But your mistress needs to keep you nice and ready for when she wants to use you, you understand don't you?"
You nod, choosing words when her eyes shift colder.
"Yea. Yes. I understand."
"You know how stressed out I get during meetings." She purrs. "I want you to be the perfect assistant. My perfect little toy."
The pressure of her finger is more intense as she pushes against you, the feeling not foreign but certainly less familiar. Her eyes are on you, looking for any suggestion of a safe word or hesitation.
"Are you going to let me touch you here? You'll like it. I always know best, don't I?"
You nod, a firm and pleading "yes" when she hisses in response.
To your surprise she removes her hands from you, only to flip you onto your stomach in a quick, controlled move. Her grip already pulling your panties down before you can get comfortable on your front.
"Mommy wants to see everything she owns."
Exposed and trembling as her hands return to you, kneading the soft curve of your ass before she's right where she wants to be.
She's right.
She slides in easily.
Slowly, little by little. A wide soft smile painted on her face as she watches you relax around her. Your head turned to the side, straining to try and see her as she takes what she wants.
She thrusts just a little, enjoying the visual of you letting her decide what’s best for you.
"Oh." You gasp, reaching for her. Her eyes on yours as she moves a little more, and a little more after, picking up the pace as your brows furrow.
"There's my girl." She purrs as her thumb grazes your clit.
You swallow the spit on your tongue, tasting her as she watches you unravel.
"You're doing so well hon, fuck...I can't wait to feel this tight little ass stretch around my cock while I'm on a stupid fucking client call."
You clench around her at her words, at the thought of being so perfect for her. Picking up her dry cleaning, bending over her desk, and getting right back to making photocopies when she's done.
Your moans become more and more raw as she fucks you harder, the sound of skin on skin and ragged breath as she crawls palms your flesh with her free hand.
"There you go honey. My good girl. Do you love it?"
She can tell your close, she always can. But your body is so sensitive, she could be doing anything and it would be enough.
"Answer me slut, do you love it?"
"I— yes."
The pressure on your clit is too much as she pushes you over the edge, she gasps as you tense around her.
"Aw, you do?"
Your body hot and tense as she slips out of you agonizingly slowly, her thumb gentle as you ride out the aftershocks.
Until it's just the two of you in the silence again.
Mouth dry as she looks down at you. Agatha watches you as your heartbeat slows, sitting back on her heels.
You wish you could read her mind.
"Well..."
She starts, and you know the rest can't be good because the only possible thing you want to do next is go to sleep.
"…We should probably go get cleaned up."
The worst thing anyone could ever have suggested.
"I really don't want to do that." You need a glass of water.
"You have to." Her tone is stern, your body feels like jello. "Do I have to bend you over my knee?"
"Maybe."
"What if I lure you in?"
She's Scooby snacking you right now and you know it.
"With what?"
"I'll give you a t-shirt with a good memory."
You sit bolt upright.
"And you'll tell me about the memory?"
She rolls her eyes but she's already standing and opening the drawer.
"Yeah. Whatever I'll tell you about the memory. Just take a shower."
"Will you shower with me?"
She takes a deep breath.
"...no. I'll meet you here in 10."
---
The shower is scalding hot and you can't quite figure out the dials, opting to pre squeeze the gel on your body, and hop in fast and smart. You'd ask for help if Agatha wasn't so anti showering with you.
But even though you want it all, the roughness, the softness, the domestic moments and the care. You want to respect her boundaries.
So you spin fast in the shower and hope you're clean enough to pass potential inspection.
Does she shower with it this hot? You thought she was from Salem, not hell.
You're in the towel before you can ponder anything else. Drying yourself off quickly so you can skip to the part with the t-shirt and the pretty cheekbones of your boss.
She's already on the bed with messy hair and the same vest when you return, making you wonder if she even showered or whether she just wanted you clean.
But as you get closer, the smell of freshness radiates off of her. Expensive bath products like she's a human spa.
You're sure you'll grow to love it, but it all you want are the smell of cherries and coffee and wine.
The t-shirt is already laid out as Agatha scrolls through her phone. Does she even get signal all the way out here? It occurs to you that you know nothing about owning islands in any way, and have one million questions she'll hate you for.
The shirt on the bed is black, less faded, with a small chest design.
Employee of the month, 2015. The company logo right underneath.
"What is this?" You ask, picking it up and taking a closer look. This thing is hardly worn.
"It's your happy memory shirt."
She's still on her phone as you drop the towel and slip it over your head.
That gets her attention.
The phone is on charge in an instant as she watches you climb back onto the bed. It's even softer than you remember and it must be so, so late by now.
"I didn't know we had employee of the month shirts." You state flat and confused. is this a joke? This is a joke.
"We don't."
Agatha climbs under the covers, seemingly uninterested in telling you her story.
"So....story?"
The eye roll again.
"I had an advisor in 2015, because we had terrible employee retention and I couldn't figure out why."
She's certainly the why.
You don't tell her that.
"He said if we gave people employee of the month stuff, they'd feel happier. They'd want to stay longer."
This somehow doesn't make any sense still. Who was employee of the month this year?
"And did it work?"
"Well I gave myself the shirt and fired him. So I don't know."
"Why do you even want the shirt?!" You can't help but laugh as you crawl under the covers opposite her. She's ridiculous.
"Well I was the best employee, and I hated that guy so... We never did it again. I guess you're employee of the month now."
"Wow thanks boss this means so much to me. I love it."
"Does it make you want to work harder for me?"
"Yes that's absolutely why I work so hard for you, not any other reason."
“I picked you to be employee of the month because you never spill a drop of coffee when you get it from the store. You’re great at replying to emails and my plane journeys are always perfectly stocked.”
“Any other reason?”
“Hmm. Let me think…no.”
The tender playfulness between you settles. It feels comfortable. Right.
And kind of like you're at a sleepover.
Your skin feels on edge, in a good way. Butterflies in your chest that risk escaping as she suddenly reaches out and pulls you closer to her by your waist.
You place your arms on her chest as she holds you close.
You want to poke fun, and you also don't want to draw any attention to her actions.
"I'm just cold." She states like she can read your mind. "Don't get used to it."
But she's warm. She’s so warm. You’re both probably too warm to be this close.
Her hair still smells like cherries and salt.
"Can I ask you a question?'
If you focus you might be able to hear her brain work.
"No."
"What if it's an easy one."
She sighs. You can feel her hands clench for a moment.
"Okay. What is it?"
"What perfume do you wear? I like it...it’s so sweet."
"I have it custom made from an Italian company. I went to the factory, to sample the scents I liked."
She swallows in the silence that follows.
“Before you had to leave…” she starts up again, half awkward and half sleepy “…I had fun. On our date. Like I was young and stupid instead of old and stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“…neither are you.” She blinks slowly and softly. Her body relaxing into the bed. “…but I make stupid decisions.”
“Me too.”
Maybe that’s why you’re both right here right now. Or maybe you can tell yourself that. You both know the clear, obvious reason.
“Can I ask about—"
The blackmail. Your mother. The man. The accusations she’d half confirmed were true.
“No. Not right now...”
It’s frustrating, it’s scary.
“…please.”
She’s too soft to argue with.
“Okay.”
But as her hands hold you close to her chest, and as you settle in to sleep close to the woman you’ve been chasing. Your brain has the same things on repeat.
Lies. Fraud. Other women. Murder. Secrets. Dirty money. More secrets. Agatha’s terrible memories.
“Tell me something nice about you?” You ask, voice slow and sleepy.
“Something nice? No.”
“Please. You have stuff to say, you’re nice.”
“I am not nice.”
“You’re so nice. I think you’re nice.”
“I think you’re tired.”
You are tired.
You can’t sleep.
“Tell me about your rabbit.”
Agatha leans over and slaps the lamp shut, you’re crawling over to her and filling the space before she even has a chance to adjust.
“My rabbit?”
“You told me you had a rabbit.”
She sighs.
“I have a rabbit. As in currently.”
The gap between you opens again as you pull back to try and see her face in the darkness. Moonlight shifts through the curtains just a little, her face fresh but exhausted. The tiny lines on the side of her lips.
“You have a rabbit?”
“Yes.”
“You have a rabbit. As in now. The present. And he’s alive?”
She makes a face you can’t quite see in the shadows.
“What you think I’m nice but not nice enough to have a pet?”
“I thought you’d like, have a goldfish you killed by accident. Maybe a scary dog. Oh, or a cat. You guys could ignore each other.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Rabbits are so floppy and cute!”
You squeal as she groans. The woman who made you cower earlier has a little soft friend. Unless she’s lying again.
“Shut up.”
“Oh my god and you’re serious? Where is he, what’s his name?”
“He’s in France. And I’m not telling you his name.”
Her sleepy voice is almost as cute as the rabbit information.
“Oh you’ll fly me to your island but you won’t tell me the name of your secret rabbit?”
“He’s not a secret. He just didn’t come up. And don’t get too attached to him. You don’t even know him.”
Is she defending herself or the rabbit?
“You don’t get to know rabbits. They start off great and only get better. Unless he’s like, evil. Does he bite?”
“He’s not evil and he doesn’t bite. I mean, unless he’s has evil thoughts. He seems normal. He just sort of, I don’t know. Hops around.”
“You let him LOOSE?”
“Oh my god. Yeah. I’m not gonna cage the rabbit...Then where would I put you?”
You’d playfully smack her but you don’t want to discourage her from that idea
“Why did you get a rabbit?”
“Can a woman not want a rabbit? What’s with all the questions? Go to sleep.”
She pulls you in again so you’re pressed against her, despite her words sounding more serious.
“Okay.”
You close your eyes, breathing her in. The security you needed last night.
“…why are you so surprised?”
She wants to keep talking.
She wants to keep talking.
“I’m just so excited imagining you talking to a little rabbit. Being all cute with it. I can’t wait to see this.”
“Oh I see, you think you’re gonna get to meet him.”
“Well when you take me to France duh I’ll meet him. He lives there, Agatha.”
She scoffs.
“We can talk about it. Go to sleep.”
"Why did you lie in your interview? You pre-approved the questions."
"Go to sleep." She grunts.
"You said you listen to podcasts. You hate podcasts."
"I hate everything."
"You like rabbits."
She shuffles, her grip loosens and tenses again, like she seriously debated ending the cuddle over this.
"Go. To sleep."
"I've never seen you eat a healthy breakfast."
"Coffee is healthy."
"Coffee with syrup is not healthy. And that's not breakfast. Breakfast is like, an egg or—"
"—Stop talking about the interview. I say that stuff so people get off my back."
"Because you're famous?"
You tense your whole body in case she hits you.
"I'm actually going to kill you dead if you don't go to sleep right now."
The wind picks up outside. The sound of it against the windows, the sound of Agatha’s breathing slowing, calming. You hope you sleep before she starts snoring.
Her sheets under your skin as you rest in her safety, knowing tomorrow you’ll need to have a conversation.
A real conversation.
A real unveiling of secrets.
—-
omg. i'm alive?
This will be on ao3 like I said. I was going to post it today but predictably my wifi is messing up, so i'm on mobile ( I may have continued to draft in tumblr ). Would rather sort it soon on web. I'll let you know! <3
Summary: You don’t know why your dreams are getting fuzzier, or why your tummy aches when Mommy holds you close. But Wanda does. She knows just what her sweet little bunny needs—warm hands, soft words, and milk to quiet your busy brain. You don’t have to think anymore. Mommy will take care of everything.
CW: Mommy kink / Caregiver x little dynamic (non-age regression), Power imbalance (soft control, magical influence), Non-sexual lactation kink / nursing for comfort, Emotional dependency, Orgasm control / light D/s, Semi-hypnotic language and dream manipulation, Soft possessiveness / manipulation (consensual), Submissive adult reader
Men and Minors DNI
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
You weren’t sure when it started. That feeling. The one that bubbled up in your chest and made your thoughts get stuck like thick syrup in your brain every time you looked at her.
Maybe it was the lavender scent that clung to her clothes no matter how many battles she fought. Maybe it was the way her arms always felt just right—like they were made for holding you. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the soft lull in her voice when she called you “bunny” and pressed your head to her chest.
Whatever it was, it made the world feel hazy. Distant. Like the only thing that mattered was Wanda. Your Mommy.
And today had been a hard day. Not for her, obviously—Wanda had returned from work flushed with energy, cheeks kissed pink by the wind, brushing off alien guts from her sleeves like dust. But you? You’d woken up from the kind of nap that left your heart pounding and your face hot, dream fragments trailing behind you like spider silk. You’d tried to watch cartoons, tried to snack, tried to distract yourself from the lingering ache in your stomach and the guilt crawling just beneath your skin.
Because the dream had been about her. Again.
You didn’t remember most of it. Just warm hands. Red light curling like smoke. A voice calling you sweet girl, good girl, Mommy’s girl—until your body tensed in your sleep and you woke up already halfway to tears.
You didn’t want her to know.
But of course she did.
She always did.
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By the time she finds you, you’ve curled yourself into a tight little ball on the sofa. You don’t even hear her footsteps—you just feel her presence, like gravity. And then her arms are around you, warm and strong, lifting you into her lap like you weigh nothing at all.
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, like it’s a lullaby only you get to hear. “Have an icky dream, did you?”
Your face burns. You don’t answer—just nod against her chest and try not to cry. You’re too old to cry over dreams. You’re too old to—
“Shhh,” she hushes, stroking your hair. Her fingers slip through the strands like silk, carding slowly, rhythmically. “Mommy’s here now. You’re safe. My sweet little bunny…”
Your bones practically melt under her voice. You want to say thank you, to apologise, to explain. But all that comes out is a shaky breath and a soft noise—something between a whimper and a sigh as you press closer.
She smells like laundry detergent and burnt ozone. Her red magic hums faintly beneath her skin. It always does when she’s holding you like this. When she wants something.
And even though you don’t understand what that something is, not really—you feel it.
You squirm in her lap, not because you want to leave, but because it’s too much. The heat, the comfort, the quiet sense of wrongness that you don’t have the words for. Her hand brushes your cheek—so gentle it makes your stomach flip.
“There she is,” Wanda whispers. “My soft little lamb. I missed you today, you know.”
“You did?” you croak, voice small and hoarse.
Wanda lets out a soft chuckle. “Of course I did. You think I save the world for fun, baby? No. I do it for you. So you can live in this cosy little house, with your soft blankets and silly cartoons and all the applesauce you could ever want. That’s why Mommy works so hard.”
You nod, ashamed again. You hadn’t even thanked her. You hadn’t done anything today. And here she was, acting like she was the lucky one.
She presses a kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering for just a second too long.
“Dreams getting strange again?” she asks softly, her voice like warm honey.
You tense.
Her arms tighten slightly—just enough to remind you that she’s there. That she’s not letting go.
“Baby…” Her fingers move to your chin, gently coaxing your face up to meet her eyes. “You can tell Mommy. You know that, right?”
You look at her—really look at her. Her eyes shimmer with concern. Her lips are soft and pink. She’s so pretty it makes your head hurt. You want to tell her, but the words curdle in your throat. How can you say it?
That the dreams are about her. That you wake up aching, confused. That sometimes you think her voice is still in your head, whispering things that don’t make sense but feel right.
You blink, and her expression shifts. Something darker settles behind her gaze—smug, maybe. Or knowing.
“Was I in them again?” she asks, and you freeze.
“I—no—”
“Oh, bunny,” she sighs, but there’s no real disappointment in it. Just amusement. “You’re such an adorable little thing. Don’t have a single clue, do you?”
You shake your head slowly.
Her hand slides down to cup your cheek. “Poor thing. Your little brain can’t handle all these grown-up feelings, can it? That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for.”
You should pull away. You know that. But all you do is nuzzle into her touch.
Wanda smiles.
And you never see the faint red shimmer that flickers behind her eyes.
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
You lose track of how long you lie there. Safe in Wanda’s arms. Curled up like a kitten, pressed to the rise and fall of her chest, your breathing syncing to hers without you even realising. Her touch doesn’t stop—not for a second. Fingers in your hair, on your cheek, across your back. Always gentle. Always there. Like if she stopped, you might unravel.
You want to speak, but your mouth doesn’t work right. Every time you try to form a word, your tongue gets stuck. You feel… stupid, almost. But not in a bad way. Just fuzzy. Floaty. Like you’re drifting underwater in a dream where everything smells like lavender and feels like Wanda.
“Mmhm,” she hums, as if responding to a thought you didn’t say out loud. “That fuzzy little head of yours is running in circles again, isn’t it?”
You nod slowly, dizzy from the sound of her voice in your ear. It’s like she lives in your head. Always has. But lately it’s gotten worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper.
Wanda pulls back just enough to look at you. Her expression is so full of pity you could cry.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She presses a soft kiss to your temple. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just sensitive. You feel things deeper than most people. And that’s okay.”
“But the dreams—”
“Are just dreams,” she says, cutting you off with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Your little brain’s still growing, still trying to make sense of big things. Of feelings. That’s normal, bunny.”
You shift in her lap, and her hands slide to your hips—holding you steady, keeping you right where she wants you.
“Still,” she says, tone dipped in honey and something else, something darker, “if those dreams are making my baby uncomfortable, maybe we should do something about them.”
Your heart stutters.
“Like… like therapy?” you offer weakly.
Wanda laughs. Full and warm and rich with amusement. “Oh, no, no. Therapy’s for other people. Strangers. You don’t need some stranger poking around in that precious head of yours, do you?”
You shake your head. That sounds awful. You wouldn’t want anyone else inside your head. Not when Wanda’s already there. Already knows you better than you know yourself.
“No,” you murmur. “I want… I want you.”
You don’t even really mean to say it like that. But the way her eyes light up? The little inhale she takes? It makes your stomach twist in that now-familiar, shameful way.
“I know you do,” Wanda whispers, and her hand cups the back of your neck. “You always want Mommy. Even when you’re sleeping.”
Her words send a bolt of embarrassment through your spine. You squirm instinctively, trying to hide your face in her shirt, but she won’t let you. She tilts your chin up with one finger, forcing you to meet her gaze.
“You’ve been dreaming about me,” she says. Not a question. A fact. A gentle accusation.
You nod. Barely.
Wanda sighs again, all softness and control. “You poor thing. You don’t even understand what you’re feeling, do you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologise, bunny. It’s not your fault. Your brain’s just trying to tell you something. And it’s too little to make sense of it all on its own.” Her fingers tap your temple, affectionate but firm. “That’s why I’m here. To help.”
You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You don’t even know why.
“I feel weird,” you mumble. “Like… itchy inside.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Wanda purrs, already shifting you closer. “That’s called longing. You want me. And it feels scary because you don’t know what to do with it.”
You blink slowly, like your brain’s catching up one second at a time.
“I do want you,” you whisper, and it comes out like a confession. A sin.
Wanda smiles again. This one is softer. Sadder, maybe. “Of course you do. I’m your everything, aren’t I?”
You nod helplessly.
“Then there’s no need to feel guilty,” she says, leaning in to brush her lips over your cheek. “Your dreams are just your heart’s way of trying to be close to me. That’s sweet, bunny. So sweet.”
Her hand moves to your chest, right over your heart. Her palm is warm. Steady. Your breath hitches.
“You don’t need to be scared of your feelings,” Wanda says, like she’s reading straight from your subconscious. “They’re natural. And you’re such a good girl for telling me. For trusting me.”
You bite your lip.
“I feel bad that they’re about you.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Why would you feel bad about that?”
“Because… you’re my Mommy.”
She leans back just slightly, eyes narrowing—not with anger, but interest.
“And what does that mean to you?” she asks.
You don’t know how to answer that. Your head’s spinning again. You want to curl up and cry and crawl inside her shirt like a baby animal and never leave.
Wanda pulls you forward, your cheek resting over her heart.
“It means I’m yours,” she says. “And you’re mine. That’s all that matters.”
You nod against her chest, the ache in your belly easing a little at her words.
“You’re so lucky to have me,” she murmurs. “Most people don’t get this. They don’t get someone to love them like I love you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her voice hardens by a hair. Just enough to make your stomach clench again.
“Yes, Mommy,” you say quickly. “I do.”
She strokes your back again, slow and lulling. “Good girl. That’s what I want to hear.”
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
You wake up trembling.
You're not even sure what startled you-the dream was warm, not scary. There was no running or screaming. Just Wanda. Her voice. Her touch.
The way she looked at you like you were hers-not just emotionally, but physically. Entirely. Like every inch of your skin belonged to her.
And now you're soaked between the legs, face hot, body aching with a need you don't know how to satisfy.
You whimper softly, trying to shift away, to hide, to think. But you can't. Because Wanda's already awake.
Already watching you.
Like she never slept at all.
"Oh, bunny," she murmurs, voice like velvet and syrup and everything. "You're squirming again."
You try to apologise, but all that comes out is a gasp as her hand moves-down.
"You thought you were hiding it, didn't you?" she coos. "Poor baby. You're always so embarrassed when your body tells the truth."
Her hand cups your cunt over your panties, slow and firm and inevitable. You bite your lip hard, trying not to cry out. It's too much. You're too sensitive. She always makes you too sensitive.
"You're soaked," she says, mock-scandalised. "From dreaming about Mommy. That's what this is, isn't it?"
You nod-shamefully, helplessly.
Wanda's smile could ruin you. "Of course it is. My needy little thing. You can't even sleep without me pressing into you. Holding you. Touching you. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, Mommy," you whisper, voice trembling.
"There's my good girl."
She kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips-soft and teasing, like she's so proud of you for admitting the truth.
"You were trying to be good, weren't you? Trying not to wake me?"
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation. "I'm sorry-"
"No, no. Don't apologise," she says, sliding her hand into your panties without warning. Her fingers stroke through your folds, slick and slow, like she has all the time in the world. "Mommy's so proud of you for feeling this much. It means your heart is open. Your body's honest. You're letting go."
Your hips jolt against her hand. You're not trying to grind down. You're not trying to be bad. But your body's desperate, and she's so good at this.
"Shh," she whispers. "Don't fight it. You want this."
You nod, gasping, breath catching in your throat as she circles your clit with a soft, wet stroke.
"Say it."
"I-I want this. I want you, Mommy."
"You want Mommy to touch you like this? Make you come in her bed?"
"Yes-yes, please-!"
"Such a sweet, well-mannered bunny," she coos.
"You're doing so well. Just keep letting me take care of you."
You melt. That's all you've ever wanted. For her to take care of it. Of everything. And Wanda knows that.
She slides a finger inside you-slow, deliberate. You cry out, clinging to her like she's oxygen.
"Good girl," she breathes. "So good for me. My perfect little pet."
You whimper into her shoulder, brain full of fog and heat and her. Nothing else exists. Nothing else matters. Just this. Just her. Just the way her fingers curl just right, pressing into your walls until you're gasping her name like a prayer.
And then she stops.
You let out a sob, hips bucking, frantic. "No-Mommy
—please—!"
"Shh, shh," she murmurs, kissing your ear. "You'll come when I say. You're not in charge of your body anymore, baby. That's my job, remember?"
You nod frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks, thighs trembling around her hand.
"You're mine," she says again, slower. Deeper. Like it's a spell. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Mommy. All yours."
She smiles. And starts moving again.
The second finger pushes in with ease, and you gasp at the stretch. Her thumb finds your clit. The rhythm she sets is almost cruel-perfect, punishing, loving.
"There you go," she whispers. "Now let go for Mommy. Be a good girl and come for me."
You do.
It rips through you like lightning. A tidal wave of pleasure, guilt, relief, and need. You sob against her as your body shakes in her arms, every nerve lit up like a firework.
She doesn't stop. Not until you're trembling, overstimulated, and still pressing your hips into her hand like a bunny in heat.
"My poor girl," she says softly, pulling her fingers free and licking them clean. "So starved for affection."
You can't even speak. You're crying and whimpering and curled up against her chest like a baby, and it feels right. Like this is who you were meant to be.
Like this is where you belong.
"Shh, it's okay," Wanda murmurs, stroking your hair.
"It's all better now, isn't it? You don't have to think anymore. You don't have to want. You just have to let go."
You nod, delirious. Happy. Empty and full all at once.
"Mommy will keep you safe," she promises, tucking you back under the blanket. "Forever. You never have to leave. Never have to grow up."
And you believe her.
Because your dreams already belong to her.
And now, so does everything else.
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
You're still shaking when she lays you down.
Not from fear. Not even from the orgasm. But from the come-down. The emotional unraveling. The way your brain turns to cotton after you've let yourself go that far, that deep, with her.
Wanda tucks the blankets around your body like you're something precious. Fragile. Something she owns, but not in a cold way— in the way a mother holds her child like they're the axis her world spins around.
"Easy," she murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair back from your forehead. "There's my good girl. You did so well for Mommy."
You want to respond, but your throat's tight. All you can do is cling to her shirt and try not to dissolve.
She doesn't rush you. She never does.
Instead, she sits back against the headboard and gently pulls you up with her, until you're resting against her chest, your head over her heart. You listen to the soft beat of it-steady, certain, like it could anchor you even if the world was ending.
Which, you suppose, she's probably prevented a few times this week already. "Breathe with me," she whispers. "Can you do that?"
You nod, inhaling shakily.
"That's it. Just like that, bunny. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
She guides you through a few slow rounds, her hand tracing slow circles on your back, her other hand cradling the back of your head. And little by little, your muscles begin to loosen.
"There we go," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're safe. I've got you."
You nuzzle into her without thinking. Still floating, still fuzzy.
And then, softly:
"I love being like this."
Wanda hums warmly. "Like what, sweetheart?"
"Little," you murmur. "Just... held. Protected. Like you're the only thing I have to worry about."
She smiles against your skin. "That's because you don't have to worry about anything. That's Mommy's job."
You hum, sleepy now. Your head rises and falls with each of her breaths. There's something primal about it-being curled against her like this. Something ancient. Deep. You feel like a baby animal safe in its den. Like you never even knew you needed this until she gave it to you.
"Mommy?" you whisper after a long moment of silence.
"Mhm?"
"..Can I ask something?"
"Anything, my love."
You hesitate. You don't know why you feel embarrassed. She's seen every inch of you. She's held you while you cried, while you begged, while you came apart in her arms. But this feels... different. Vulnerable in a new way.
"I've been thinking about something," you say quietly.
"And I don't think it's sexual. It's just—comfort."
Wanda doesn't press. She waits. Letting you find the words.
"Sometimes," you say slowly, "when I'm like this... when | feel really small... I get this... urge."
You pause. Wanda strokes your cheek, so gently it almost hurts.
"Tell me."
"I want to... I think I want to nurse from you. Not like a sex thing. I just want to feel close. Safe. Like I'm yours."
You go quiet again, afraid to look up.
But Wanda doesn't laugh. Doesn't flinch. She just smiles.
"Oh, bunny," she says softly. "You don't need to be embarrassed about that."
You blink. "
"...l don't?"
"Of course not." Her hand drifts down to cradle your jaw. "Wanting that kind of closeness is normal. Especially for someone like you. You're so emotionally open when you let yourself drop. You crave nurture, not just care. That's beautiful."
You bite your lip. "But I'm not actually a baby."
"No," she agrees gently. "You're not. You're my big girl. My sweet girl. And that's what makes this so special. Because you choose to be soft with me. To let me feed you. Hold you. Love you."
You breathe out a shaky little sigh, the shame in your chest loosening.
"Would you want that?" you ask. "Like….. actually?"
Wanda cups your face in both hands now. Her eyes are soft. Fierce. Certain.
"If it would comfort you?" she says. "Then yes. Without question."
You're quiet again. "You could... make it happen, couldn't you?"
She smiles faintly. "Bunny. I can bend reality. I can defy physics. I think I can manage a little magical lactation."
You giggle-surprised by your own lightness. It feels good to laugh after how intense everything was.
Wanda beams at the sound.
"I'd like that," you admit. "I don't even need it now. I just... I want it to be something we can do. Sometimes. If I feel too small. Or scared. Or like I don't know how to be a grown-up anymore."
Wanda doesn't answer right away. Instead, her hand moves to her chest, and with the gentlest whisper of scarlet, you feel it shift. A warmth, a pull-something ancient and primal awakening just beneath her skin.
You blink up at her, dazed. "Did you just—?"
"I told you," she murmurs, voice wrapped in love and power, "I'll give you whatever you need."
She reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it up slowly, revealing one soft, full breast, the peak slightly flushed, already responding to you. There's no eroticism in it-just invitation. Tenderness. The kind of gesture a goddess might make to her most devoted worshipper.
"Come here, sweetheart."
Your breath stutters, but your body knows what to do before your mind catches up. You shift up, still trembling, still so small, and Wanda gently guides your head to her chest.
"That's it," she whispers, brushing your hair from your face. "You're safe. Just take what you need."
Your lips close over her nipple slowly, hesitantly, and -
Warmth.
It's warm. Her milk is soft and subtly sweet on your tongue, and your whole body melts as you begin to suckle. Shame evaporates instantly-there's only the overwhelming, complete right-ness of this. Of her hand stroking your spine. Her heartbeat in your ear.
Her soft voice murmuring praise as your breathing slows and the fuzz in your brain dissolves like sugar in tea.
"There you go," she whispers. "Good girl. Mommy's so proud of you."
You feel like crying again. From relief, this time. From how utterly full you feel, in every sense of the word.
"That's it, my little bunny," Wanda hums. "Drink up. Fill that aching tummy. Let Mommy hold you.”
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
A/N: I’ve never wrote anything in this style before, so please let me know how I did and if you enjoyed it! And if you guys want more then tell me.
What if I had a mama and, after I got off my long shift and I was so sore and achey, she gave me a little massage and little kisses to make it better before she tucked me into bed.
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Mother Gothel finally meets you where your needs are, afterall; she loves you most.
Warnings: NON CON / Incest / hair pulling kink / spit kink / Mommy Kink / G!P / Magic C / Urine Play / Voyeur Kink / Innocent Kink / Virginity Kink / Mother Gothel x Reader Rapunzel / Oral BJ / Forced Oral / Forced Orgasm / Blood Kink / Innocent Reader / Knife Play / Breeding Kink / BDSM Mentioned / Pain and Pleasure / Warped Love / Manipulation / Older Woman & Younger Woman / Dead Dove / 18+
“NO!” You shout, only for your Mother to arch a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“No? Oh.” Mother’s unhappy now.
You step back just enough for a twig to snap.
You’re so close to freedom, to being with Flynn, but just to the right is your tower.
Two lives split, in this moment - a moment you’ll never be able to go back to.
You choose a life without…without your Mother.
Dark curls are wild as Mother brings her chin up, you feel a chill go over your body.
“You think he loves you? Sweetheart, that’s demented.” She laughs at you; it’s calculated and cruel. You don’t have any life experience, so you only pick up on the cruel part.
“He loves me!” You say, and like a snake, your Mother snaps forward, pinching your chin in her sharp red fingernails.
“No, I love you.”
You feel tears ready to well.
“I cannot stay in that tower.” You say simply, trying to make her understand.
“Was I not company enough?” Mother’s eyes flick with something else, hurt?
“I want someone to love me…” You say simply, sounding like a child now. You may be of age, but you’ve not really gotten to live. Only dream, draw, and read up in your tower.
Mother Gothel blows air out of her nose like she finds this whole thing just so adolescent. Dropping her hold of your chin she shakes her head condescendingly at you.
“Don’t be a dummy, come with Mommy.” She tells you, looking up tired at you.
Only to see a bit of redness in your cheeks.
A new realization dawns on her.
“You wish to be loved, why didn’t you just say so?” She tells you, and you’re further confused. But in three strides, she’s in your face.
“Mother!” You yelp just as she grabs your jaw and shoves you against a tall, thick tree. Your back collides with it, then her body pushes against yours.
You lose your breath and balance, but Mother is holding you tight, no room for moving.
“No, you used to call me Mommy, don’t you remember? Why did you ever stop my sweet flower? Hmm, let me hear you say it.” She instructs, then her dark red lips are mere inches away from your lips, but she moves to kiss your cheek. Smearing red lipstick onto your skin, it’s as though she’s marking you.
“Mother-no this is-” Your guilt swoons, and you’re sure you are a terrible person. Because your blush now covers your body.
Mother wraps your long locks in her fist like a rope and then she roughly tugs, making your face wrench up in surprise.
“Every time I climbed up your hair, I heard those little whimpers. Now call me Mommy, and I’ll teach you how to be a woman. I’ll love you in ways the thief has never dreamed of.” Mother’s lips ghost over your ear, and you shiver.
“Flynn-Flynn is a good man, he-” But you're cut off as your hair once again is whipped in your Mommy’s palm like you’re some kind of horse.
You gasped and moaned like a common whore.
“Your Mommy’s got more than this shell. I can bend the comic to my will, child. I can make you feel things-” Mother made her first point by letting one hand move down to cup your privates.
You don’t know why, but they’re wet, but Mother seems to know, because this time she lets out a moan.
“I knew my little girl still needed Mommy. Shhhh, no more silly boys. I can have you with child faster than he could blink. I can give you everything.” Mother promises and your mouth opens, lips quivering in the light of the forest.
You don’t know when you went limp, but Mother reaches to grab the end of your dress, and she reaches inside of your intimate area.
Your eyes widen in horror at what you’ve allowed and you go to push her arm away.
“Mother n-”
But she’s just sunk two fingers into your wet hot heat, you yell in the burning pain of it.
“And just like that, Mommy’s home.” Mother Gothel said, as your thighs shook and your head rolled to the side, your long hair tangling with the vines in the tree.
Mother removed her hand to hold it up to the sunlight, your blood streaked. You don’t have long to panic as she engulfs it into her mouth.
You’re internally horrified, but physically unable to fight, the sensation foreign and uncomfortable, you're still shaking.
“Mommy no,” you whimper pathetically, and now Mother gives you a gentle look.
“Flower, you belong to me, don’t you see that now?” She asks, her jealousy and possessive behavior seem undeterred.
You reach out but your dress is being flipped up to your stomach again.
“Hold this for Mommy,” she instructs and you’re so disappointed in yoursllf, because you can’t stop listening to your Mother now.
You hold the dress, the fabric crinkling in your clammy palms.
Mother makes a show of wiping all the blood until she’s licked it all clean.
Then she moves back into your opening.
You wince and try to move away, but Mother slaps your wet cunt.
It echoes in the forest, and you shout out in surprise.
“Behave Flower, or I’ll come up with more painful ways to bring myself pleasure.” Her threat is real.
Your bottom lip pouts just like when you were young, and Mother Gothel likes that, no, she loves that.
She reaches forward and steals your first kiss just as brutally as she’d stolen your virginity.
Her kiss is harsh, and her teeth bite that succulent, plump lip like she’s biting into a wild berry.
You hiss in pain and her tongue invades your mouth, your knees buckle, all this blood exchange is doing things to you.
But what you don’t understand is the things it’s doing to Mother Gothel.
Because she’s smearing that blood under her own dress, right over her pubic mound.
She pulls back as your eyes dilate further than possible. Mother whispers some Latin you don’t understand.
The next thing you see is Mother moving her own dress, you pull back, what was that? So veiny, dark and angry, it was a snake? No, no, it was fleshy and leaking?
“What is that Mother?” You ask but she slaps you across the face.
You grab your cheek at surprise of the sting.
“Now look, I’m the bad guy. You never disrespect what I give you. Do you, dear?” Mother said, disappointed, and you felt a tear fall this time.
“No, Mommy,” you say correctly and see as the older woman at least drops her shoulders in a little bit of ease.
“That’s better. Why don’t you apologize to Mommy? Remember how I told you to always apologize when you do something wrong? Don’t be petulant, Rapunzel. I am giving you a gift, you must be grateful.” Mother tells you and you hiccup just a little but nod.
“Yes, Mommy, I’m sorry, h-how can I apologize?” You ask and she’ pretends to think for a moment before roughly shoving you to the forest floor.
You fall for a moment, but her hand falls back on your hair, and she pulls you up from the locks on your scalp.
Your mouth opens to moan, and that's when the fleshy meat at the apex of her thighs pushes into your mouth.
You gag, but Mother slaps your cheek where her dick is, not as rough but enough that you open your mouth in shock again.
“No teeth, or I’ll have to spank you with the hairbrush, again.” She tells you and your thighs try to close, because something in you is….achey?
Mothers special part is a little salty, but it tastes familiar, so you relax your throat and work on breathing through your nose.
Your tears run freely and even a bit of snot, but Mother doesn’t mind.
She pushes her hips forwards and back, one hand in your hair so you can’t run away. Holding painfully tight, making your head tight with pain.
The other holds up her dress, she sighs like when Flynn would urinate on a tree.
It was similiar you realized, but Mommy was so….. Intense? The veins in her hand, arm, neck and forehead were all protruding. Face a sort of crimson you’d only found in your paint set.
Your jaw ached, your gagging was uncomfortable, and eventually, you were sure you would choke. As Mommy’s dark hair just above the meat in your throat met your nose.
You inhaled the calming scent of your Mommy.
“My good girl, I knew you could behave, I just needed to make you stop thinking-” she grunted as she pushed out and back in, making you drool. “Just needed to take away your silly talking.”
The way Mother talked down to you had you burning with the need for praise again.
“Now look, you’ve ruined the dress I made you.” Mother said as he cock twitched at the sight of you.
The drool now in big strands down your chin and into the cleavage of your dress.
Soaking down your neck and breasts.
Mother Gothel yanks her dick out of your mouth, and you cough and struggle, wheezing and folding your body over.
But Mother simply pulls a dagger out, the light glints on the meta,l and you see it.
You stagger backwards further to the tree, but you don’t have a moment to scream for help or run.
Mother takes the blade at the top of your clevage and tears down, the tip of it pierces your breast just enough, like a pin prick. The tear in your dress ruins it, and your corset is demolished.
The fabric ends rough as Mother finishes down your waist.
Once you’re entirely nude, she see’s the tiny cut.
“Mama will fix it,” she tells you and then her ruby lips are on your breasts and you flex up into her mouth.
Your eyes roll back and your hips lift.
You don’t know who you are.
But Mommy does, and she’s going to take care of everything.
You don’t hear a twig break in the forest, but Mother does, her eyes move as her mouth doesn’t leave your breast.
But instead moves down to your nipple, where she sucks and bites with roughness, making you writhe under her body.
Blue eyes lock eyes with Flynn Rider, but he isn’t moving to save you.
His jaw is slack and open; he’s not coming to save you, just as Mother thought.
He’s watching, though, oh, is he watching.
Mommy doesn’t mind that one bit, in fact she hopes all of the fuzzy duckling boys would come and watch.
Not another soul would ever wonder who owned the maiden in the tower.
Mother Gothel made eye contact with Flynn and moved her hand into your cunt.
Making a show of pushing her fingers in.
The wet noises, the embarrassing squelch of your desire filled the forest.
Flynns hand dropped to his trousers, as he watched Mother Gothel take his princess.
Mother didn’t care to watch more; the boy was keeping his distance, she didn’t care what else he did.
But as her own cock leaked, she knew it was time to make you into her perfect flower.
“Mother-I” You moaned out, not sure of what you needed, but positive who needed to give it to you.
Gothel released your breast with a wet pop, her saliva all over your chest, as hickies began to bloom purple on your skin.
“Mommy’s got you, Oh, Rapunzle do you hear yourself? You are nothing more than a common whore. Begging for me to take you in the woods. What if someone were to see us?” She asks you, and you bite your bottom lip, trapping it in your teeth and you open your thighs to answer.
“Now you understand why Mother knows best, don’t you, Pet?” Mother Gothel needs to hear it. Have Flynn hear it, to understand that you were forever hers, and hers only.
“I love you Mommy,” you say with a hazey look in your eye.
Mother smiles and lines her cock up with your entrance. She isn’t kind, why be kind now?
With one thrust she pushes roughly into you, it burns and your body spasms and your eyes roll back.
But no scream can come out of your throat, just a silent burst of agony.
“I love you most.” She answers just as her balls slap against you.
Your toes curl, it’s embarrassing but the pain is the only love you’ve ever known anyway.
Why wouldn’t pain be how you understood pleasure?
Mother wanted it that way from the beginning.
Mommy pulls out only to jackhammer back in, you lose control of your bladder. Or was that ejaculation? You didn’t know, had never heard of it, all you knew it that you’d soiled both your ruined fabric and Mother's dress.
But she only cackled in delight. Through her own moans of taking you brutally you hear her say;
“As fragile as a flower,” and you shudder at the sensation.
Then Mother whispers to you. “Shall I urinate on my little sapling as well? Is this how the world will know who owns you? Such a little baby, not even a grown woman, could not hold it in, could you?” She says then her meaty member pushes so far inside of you that you feel you might break.
“You need Mommy.” She tells you like it’s a spell.
Your nails dig into the rough forest dirt to hold onto something, anything.
“You will not last, oh Rapunzle really, how adorable!” Mother laughed feeling your walls close tighter around her than even before.
But Mother grabs your chin again and twists it to the side, she wants you to see your knight in shining armor.
“Tell the thief how only Mommy can touch you? Tell him how you wet yourself in pleasure, tell him who will be using you in the tower, tell him.” She thrusts more erratically, losing her rhythm to the ideas.
On what she’d do with you, the bondage with your hair, the humiliation, the way she’d break you down.
Mommy was never more excited.
Your watery eyes fix on Flynn as his hand is in his trousers, pumping his meat wildly. He’s going to cum in his pants, just as you’d receive your mother's first load to your womb.
You hate how your body was begging for it.
But how could you deny it?
You look at him sadly. Because in that moment, you both knew, you couldn’t pick him, not anymore.
Not when Mother loved you most….
Mother leaned in and whispered just as she lost control.
“Don’t be such a Dummy, Cum with Mommy.”
Just couldn't wait anymore!!!!
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Tags: magic brainwashing, forced identity change, canon typically reality fuckery
Word Count: ~1.5k
A/N: this is actually the first ever Wanda fic I wrote three years ago. It was up on the very first edition of my marvel account, the short-lived @wandamademedoit. I took it down pretty early on because it was kind of intended to be a longer fic, and I didn’t want to promise anything I didn’t think I’d finish. Now I love promising things that won’t get finished, so enjoy!
———————————————————
You stood in front of the wooden door, a fresh cherry pie balanced in your hands. You were sort of nervous. Were you supposed to nervous about this? They were just your new neighbors. Yet, you had an odd feeling that this was something more important. Like you were making a debut of sorts.
You didn’t know why you felt this way. You didn’t know a lot of things, actually. Like how this cherry pie got to be in your hands or how you came to be in front of this door. Or how you came to be so perfectly manicured in a gingham sundress, with a matching ribbon tied into your hair. You didn’t even remember the new neighbor’s moving in. You just knew they were here, and you were supposed to bring them a pie. Thinking about the why and how of it all felt impossible. Actually, thinking at all sort of felt impossible.
You took a deep breath in and knocked on the door. Typically you’d be the type to fidget in moments like these, yet you stood perfectly still as you waited for the door to be opened. It almost felt like you were being puppeted: no longer in control of your body or the way it moved. You were simply strung up and being danced across a stage to a song you didn't know.
When the door finally opened, you were greeted by a gentleman with glasses. “Oh, hello!” He greeted, motioning to let you in the house. “Come on in!”
You weren't typically the type to walk into strangers houses, but the invisible strings dragged you forward and you stepped into the living room. As you did, a woman came in from the kitchen. You attempted an excited wave, nearly dropping the pie in your hands. What a silly little girl you were. The audience laughed.
The audience?
“Well aren’t you a little cutie. What’s your name?” The woman asked.
“I’m Sadie,” you answered without thinking, even though you were pretty sure that wasn't actually your name. You reached out to shake the woman's hand and almost dropped the pie again. The audience laughed again, exactly the same as before.
“Here let me take that from you before we have an accident,” she teased playfully, effortlessly taking the pie from your hands and setting it gingerly on the coffee table. Another laugh. “And you’ve got some whipped cream right,” she motioned to her general nose area.
You crossed your eyes in a silly attempt to get a better look. She swiped down your nose with her pointer finger, wiping the glob of whipped cream away. She put the cream in her mouth and shot you a soft smile. Weren’t you just the cutest little thing.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Sadie?” The man asked from behind you.
You turned your head answer. “Oh, well I’m from next door. I just thought I’d come by and meet the new neighbors.”
“Well I’m Wanda,” the woman said, gesturing to herself, “and this is Vision, my husband.”
“It’s very nice to meet you both.” You smiled and clutched your hands together behind your back and twisted on your toes. There was a long moment of silence as Wanda took you in, glancing from your hair ribbon all the way down to your kitten heels. She looked entranced at the sight of you.
Her cheeks turned a sort of pinkish color, and suddenly, you realized this was the first time you were seeing any sort of "color" at all. Everything else was in black and white, but the rosy blush of her cheek cut through the monotone world. It was a reaction so unplanned and unexpected that reality itself wasn't able to adjust in time.
The audience “Ooo”ed at her love-struck expression, quickly snapping her from her haze.
“Wait, no” she said suddenly, face filled with fear and concern.
For a moment, you were hit with an overwhelming bout of nausea paired with an excruciating headache. Your vision went blurry, and you were overtaken with fear.
Something isn’t right.
Then, you felt your brain jolt a little, and the sensation disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Without thinking, you were repeating “It’s very nice to meet you both” and the motion you’d done only a moment before.
Almost on cue, your stomach audibility growl, and you sheepishly looked down.
Wanda chuckled. “Well it sounds like you might like to stay for dinner.” The audience laughed this time.
You blushed. How embarrassing. Nonetheless, you nodded shyly.
She ushered you into the kitchen, where three plates were already nicely made for you to bring out to the dining area. You didn’t think about why the plates were already made, nor why there were three when she should’ve initially only cooked for two. You simply grabbed one while she grabbed the others and carefully set them on the pre-set table.
You sat down next to Wanda at the dining table, leaving a spot for her husband on her other side. As you ate though, you could've sworn you your chair was slowly inching closer and closer to Wanda's.
At one point, while you were taking a sip of your lemonade, the chair suddenly shifted underneath you. The lemonade went flying, spilling across the floor as the glass shattered. "I'm so sorry," you apologized. "I'll go get a rag from the kitchen."
As soon as you stood up, though, a sudden draft blew in from the window, causing the skirt of your dress to blow up into your face. You fumbled for a moment, trying to cover yourself and gain control of the gingham cloth. By the time the wind settled and your dress fell back into place, the mess on the floor was gone.
You sat back down, forgetting the reason you'd gotten up in the first place.
"Can I get you some more lemonade, dear?" Wanda asked, lifting the pitcher and pouring you a fresh glass.
"Thank you, ma'am," you smiled and took a sip. "Did you know lemons are my favorite fruit?" The sentence took you aback for a moment. It was the first thing you said all night that actually came from you. It wasn’t in the script you’d unknowingly been pre-assigned.
Wanda froze for just a second, equally as surprised. She cleared her throat. "I didn't know that. An awfully sour choice for a girl so sweet." She playfully pinched your arm. "Well, I'll be sure I've always got some lemonade for you whenever you come over. Freshly squeezed."
"Then I'll be sure to find plenty of reason to come over," you teased.
Wanda's smile widened. "I'm sure you will."
Conveniently, you seemed to finish your food at the exact same time as both Wanda and Vision. It occurred to you that throughout dinner, you'd never actually seen Vision take a bite of his food. Yet, his plate was just as empty as yours.
"Shall we start on dessert? I want to try this delicious pie you brought," Wanda asked, bringing the pie over to the dining table and cutting you a nice big slice. It was lemon meringue, your favorite.
Wanda took a bite of her own slice, humming pleasantly at the taste. "My my, you are quite the chef! You'll have to share the recipe."
"Oh thank you," you blushed. "It's nothing special. Just…" you furrowed your brow in concentration. How did you make this pie? "Well, I actually can't quite remember the recipe." How could you bake a pie and not remember the recipe? Or not remember baking the pie at all? "Wait, didn't I bring a cherry pie?"
For an instant, you were overwhelmed with that same nauseating headache. Then, you were jolted back into place, a bright beaming smile painted onto your face as Wanda repeated herself. "You'll have to share the recipe."
"I'm afraid it's a family secret," you answered with a playful wink.
Wanda put her hands on her hips, playfully swatting at the air. She made a brief quip, but you couldn't hear it over the closing credits.
Where was that music coming from?
The next minute or so was confusing. You found yourself unable to speak as you hugged Wanda and Vision. Your lips moved in a silent "goodbye", yet no sound came out. The only thing you could hear was that music. The details started to become fuzzy. You were in the living room, and then suddenly on the front porch. All of your actions felt like they were being carefully clipped into a sort of montage. You couldn't keep track of your movements or actions, just individual scenes that made it clear you were saying goodbye and leaving the house.
As you walked past their white picket fence and turned the corner to walk back home, a feeling of bliss ran through your mind. It felt like something inside of it was pleased with you.
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Summary: After being sent to jail for armed robbery, people start treating you like a joke. You need protection, and only one guard is willing to give you that at a small cost.
Warnings: blood, fighting, mentions of armed robbery, dub-con (kinda?? putting it to be safe), fingering, taking r's virginity, giving head, hair pulling, praising, dom!wanda, bruising.
1.1k Words
/ masterlist / / w.m masterlist /
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"Move it, newbie."
You let out a grunt as you're shoved onto the ground. You look up at the person who shoved you and scowl when you realise who it is.
"Leave me alone, Romanoff." You mutter, standing up and stepping closer to her.
"Or what, huh? You gonna wave a baseball bat in front of my face and demand all my money?" Natasha loudly laughs, making everybody look over at her.
"Oh, shut the fuck up." You say, grabbing onto her shoulders and pushing her away from you.
Natasha stumbles back a few steps and before you could even blink, she tackles you onto the floor and starts punching you in the face. Her fists come down hard and fast, causing you to immediately start bleeding. You attempt to block her hits by bringing your arms up to protect your face but she's stronger than you and pushes them out of the way.
Suddenly, you see a person pulling Natasha away from you and another person pulling you to your feet. You're not entirely sure what is happening as the blood dripping into your eyes is affecting your vision, but you know you're being dragged into a small room. A warm cloth rubs over your face and you see one of the prison guards, Wanda Maximoff, in front of you.
Wanda Maximoff is one of the most well-known and feared prison guards. She's a tough guard and not many people mess with her. The ones that do mess with her, aren't seen by anyone till months later.
"Awe, poor baby. She got you good, didn't she?" Wanda coos, continuing to wipe the blood off your face.
You nod, trying to hold back your tears.
"She's been calling me names ever since I got here, and now she's done this." You jester towards your face.
Wanda places the bloodied cloth down on the counter and picks up a band-aid . She places the band-aid on a small cut above your eyebrow.
"Natasha's like that," Wanda says, "When I first started working here, she tried to force me to do things I didn't want to do. Though, I shut that down pretty quickly by scaring her a little bit."
"She fears you?" You ask in surprise. Natasha doesn't seem like the type of woman to fear anyone.
Wanda looks at you with a grin, "Of course she does, baby."
Your heart flutters at the pet name.
"You know, I could protect you from Natasha." Wanda suddenly offers.
Your eyes widen in surprise, "Really? You'd do that for me?"
Wanda nods, "But if you want this from me, I want something from you." Wanda places her hand on your hip and pulls you towards her.
Your heart drops when you realise what she wants.
"I-I've never done something like that before." You stutter out awkwardly.
"That's okay, sweetheart. I promise I'll be soft and sweet with you." Wanda's hands drift toward your waistband and starts to tug it down.
You didn't protest until the bottom half of your body was bare and on display for Wanda to shamelessly look at.
"Should we even be doing this?" You ask, "I mean, is it even legal?"
Wanda pushes you against the wall and kneels in front of you. She grabs onto one of your legs and throws it over her shoulder. Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel her hot breath hit your cunt.
"You don't seem to care about if it's legal or not," Wanda smirks as she drags two fingers through your folds, bringing them up to your face to show you her glistering fingers. "You're drenched, baby."
Your face turns red in embarrassment and you look away from Wanda. Wanda softly grabs onto your face with her spare hand and tsks at you.
"Look at me, Y/n."
You hesitantly look back at Wanda.
"Good girl." Wanda rewards you by slipping a single finger into you.
Wanda is quick to find your G-spot, continuously hitting it over and over until she believes you're ready and slips her second finger into you.
You moan loudly and quickly cover your mouth to muffle any other noises that escape your mouth. You don't want anyone else to know about this.
"God, you're so tight." Wanda groans, feeling you clench around her fingers.
You moan softly at Wanda's words. It's almost embarrassing how wet you are. You can feel yourself dripping into Wanda's hand and down her arm.
"More, please." You beg, scrunching your eyes shut and throwing your head against the wall.
Wanda's lips quickly wrap around your clit, sucking and licking softly. Your hand threads through her hair, pulling her closer towards you and keeping her head in place.
"Fuck, I think I'm gonna cum," You start to grind onto Wanda's face, needing to reach your high quicker.
"Cum when you need to," Wanda mumbles, pulling back for a few moments so she could speak.
You let out a loud moan as the coil in your stomach snaps. Your back arches off the wall and you have to bring both of your hands up to your mouth to muffle yourself. You start to quickly become overstimulated and push Wanda's head away from you.
Wanda stands up and immediately pulls you into a deep kiss. You moan softly when you taste yourself on Wanda's lips. You try to kiss down Wanda's neck and leave marks but her voice stops you.
"Don't mark me, baby." She breathes out, "People will know about our little deal."
You start to whine about how nobody will notice but Wanda silences you by kissing you again. Reluctantly, you pull away from Wanda's lips and rest your forehead against hers to regain your breath.
"That was a good first time, thank you." You whisper with a smile.
Wanda grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. "How about we make this a weekly thing? I can double your protection."
"But what if someone catches us?" You ask in pure fear and concern. You don't want your sentence to be extended or Wanda fired from her job.
Wanda shakes her head, "Nobody will find out. You trust me, right?"
You nod.
"Good girl."
Wanda helps you put your clothes back on and attempts to make you appear as normal as possible before leaving the room.
"Head down to the infirmary and get some ice for your face. It's going to bruise." Wanda instructs before walking towards Natasha's cell block.
You can't help the small smile that spreads across your lips when you hear Natasha grunting out in pain and Wanda yelling at the top of her lungs. You're safe now.
Can someone please help me find a fan fic I was reading?
I lost it and I have no idea where to find it. It was a Claire Debella x reader fic where Claire was being really cold towards the reader and the reader left and that’s when Clara realized like “oh I gotta get her back” and the title was like “and suddenly she’s miles away” or something like that.
I read part one and part two and didn’t get to read part three and I’m very mad that I can’t find it. Please help!
