#!darkfic

a/n: i think i remember how to do this. cheers.

Natasha Romanoff is grumpy when you meet her (and sporting a week’s worth of insomnia under her eyes and wearing a tee that’s a little too tight, too, but as appealing as both of those are neither endears you as much as her furrowed brow and little frown).

Two weeks later you’re on recon with her, some assignment dropped into your lap an hour before wheels were expected to be up.

“You’re going into the field, rookie,” Stark told you, and, “Romanoff will babysit you, but if you’re as good as your resume claims you shouldn’t need her.”

Recon only. No engagement unless necessary.

The two of you post up in a slimy cave high in the mountains, half a mile above the entrance to a long forgotten mine that may or may not be the newest hideout of one of Stark’s most-wanted. It’s a stupid assignment, Stark could have sent drones, but you reckon he just wants to see how well you do with bullshit assignments, last minute takeoffs, and taking orders.

“Could be fun,” Natasha says, dangling a flask in front of your face.

“Is this a test?”

She smiles.

An hour later you’re tipsy and breaking a protein bar in half to split for dinner.

“I know this is bullshit,” she says, and to her credit she does sound apologetic, “but Tony likes to test people. He wants to see you prove yourself, you know, make it known that you’re as competent as you are on paper.”

You can’t say that’s not fair. This is, after all, no nine-to-five, but, “How am I supposed to prove myself when there’s fuck-all to do?”

Natasha laughs.

An hour later Natasha’s her own stoic version of piss drunk, you’re far worse off, and you’re staring at each other with a vigor that would scare the hell out of you even if she weren’t your immediate supervisor.

But you’ve always liked fear.

You make the first move: you crawl onto her lap, sink down against toned thighs, and tuck in. Her lips are warm, softer than you’re used to, and she doesn’t protest. She licks into your mouth and clamps her hands around your thighs and though you’ve never crossed a boundary like this before, you can’t see yourself ever going back.

Natasha makes the first move next time.

When she asks you out for drinks the week after you return you assume the address she sends you will be a bar.

It’s her apartment.

Bold.

She answers the door in black fatigues and a tank top and takes you right to her bedroom, sinks down on the edge of the California king, and puts you on her lap. She likes you there, where she can reach all of you, where your chest presses up against hers, and your mouth is right there for the taking. She’s gentle until you push your hands through her hair and tell her, “You don’t have to be so nice, you know.”

She’s never gentle after that.

She likes throwing you around, and likes that you can take it, knows it makes your heart flutter and your cheeks flush when she reminds you time and again how much stronger than you she is. On your back is how she likes you best, with your legs spread open and your knees pushed back as close to your chest as they’ll go.

Sometimes she’ll clamp a hand around your throat and dig her nails into the soft skin beneath your jaw until you can’t breath and you’re clawing at her arm and your vision’s starting to go. Sometimes she won’t let go at all, not until you slip away and your body slackens and she’s left fucking a fake cock into your helpless cunt.

You don’t know what she does to you when you’re out cold until she starts to film it.

Filthy fucking videos, those are, full of her laughter and your inability to protest while she does things like stuff her fist into your sloppy hole or perform a full pelvic exam wherein she dons rubber gloves and leaves you gaping around a speculum far longer than any licensed practitioner ever would.

“Look at you,” she’ll say later after she slaps you back to consciousness and queues up her newest video, “you’re so easy to break.”

It’s easier when you come back to with your mouth empty; when she brings you back and you’ve still got your own panties stuffed into your mouth she never lets you pull them out to catch your breath until she’s had her fun holding you down while you struggle to regain your hold on the world.

Sometimes you wake back up on your own while she’s in the middle of things. You either love or hate those times the most, but you’re never sure which.

“...doesn’t matter if you don’t want it,” she’s saying this time, and she’s blurry above you (and there are three of her and three sets of nails carving jagged red lines down your torso, but you know there will only be one of each in a minute or two), “gonna fuck your whore pussy anyway and you’re going—to—take—it.”

“—Nat—”

“Look who’s awake.”

You can hear the smirk in her voice, can see the bright white glare of her cell camera, and you’re sure you look like hell and that she’s going to give you shit for that later, but that’s the least of your worries.

“Stark should fire you,” she says. “Maybe he will once he finds out you’ve been getting your stupid hole stuffed on camera for months. Or maybe he’d like your little videos. Maybe he’d even want a turn with you, huh? Would you like that?”

No, but only because by her rules you're not allowed to think about anyone else like that.

But you can't say that, not unless you want her to go and make it happen. You learned long ago that Natasha Romanoff is nothing if not genuine in her threats.

“Maybe I would,” you say, low and hoarse, and it almost sounds like a growl.

She finds a pressure point and digs in, and, “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me,” she says, and you’re out again.

The next morning you wake up to the sun cutting through the window and warming your bare back, waking with you the memories of the night before and bringing it all to a boil in your belly. You want to relive them. You want her to fuck you again, to stuff you full and flood you with desperation and desire.

She pulls the sheets from your body and flips you onto your back, coasting a hand up your shin as she settles at the foot of the bed.

“Show me your pussy,” she says, soft, mocking, like she’s requesting the easiest thing in the world from the dumbest little thing she’s ever met.

Your knees part, legs falling open without thought, and you can tell the slick between your thighs from the night before is still there.

She lifts her brows and looks.

“You look sloppy,” she says, pulling your lips apart and dragging a nail over your clit. “Let me make it worse.” She slaps you before you have time to think and though it hurts it’s the lingering sting that pulls a cry from your throat. It’s been a while since she’s hit you like this, between the thighs, where the shame hurts worse than anything else.

The next time you see it coming, but you don’t stop her. You don’t even bother to keep your legs from trying to clamp shut when she slaps your cunt for the second time, you just screw your eyes shut and force your legs open again because for that you know she won’t stop until you’re crying and begging her to do something—anything—to get you off.

It takes you a minute to focus up when she’s done, to familiarize yourself with the steady throb between your legs and the warm pressure of Natasha pushing something into you.

She’s kneeling between your legs, hands clamped around your thighs to keep them apart as she lazily fucks into you with a cock as thick as your forearm.

“Look at that,” she says with a little laugh. “Even when you’re looser than a ten-cent hooker I can still find something to stretch you out with.”

You’ve always known that Natasha is beautiful.

Strong.

A little terrifying.

And a crack-shot with a pistol.

One of the most intimidating women you’ve ever met, as well as one of the most stunning.

You think her strength has a lot to do with that. The fact that when you first met her she knocked you on your ass with one swing still wows you.

Like — wow, what a woman.

Arm wrestling on the Quinjet that one time, too. She would’ve beat you if Yelena didn’t step in and tell the two of you to quit comparing dick sizes. And you would’ve liked it.

“You know,” Natasha says, “you’re not so hard-looking without your battle suit.” She’s grinning at you and you like that, too. That smile is powerful. Sly and cocky and so full of pride. Natasha’s got plenty to be proud of.

“You're not so scary either,” you say. You dig your fingertips in and pull her hips against you. You can’t remember the last time you were this close to a woman — if you’ve ever been this close to a woman — but if Natasha never gets any farther away from you than she is now, you’ll die happy. “Now that you don't pull guns on me for fun.”

Natasha’s eyes twinkle and for a moment you forget where you are.

On a stolen jet with your legs stretched out on the floor of the bridge. You’d been trying to nap, sleep off the emotional weight of the last twenty-four hours. Thought it might do you some good to close your eyes and forget the world for a little while. Then Natasha ditched the pilot’s seat and pulled you out of your dreams.

Not that you’re upset about it. You aren’t, you’d like to make that clear. More like you’re tickled that it took her fifteen minutes to make the decision, and surprised it took her that long at all.

“Is that what you want me to do?” She’s not looking at you. Or she is, but only at your lips. “Pull a pistol on you?” Her hand drifts from your chest to the holstered weapon at her side. She thumbs open the strap and pushes the other hand through your hair, wrenching your head back.

Your expression doesn’t change. Gloved fingers flex against Natasha’s hips, drawing her down to you with the subtlest of motion.

Natasha catches every movement, seamlessly follows your guidance. Lets you notch your hips together like pieces of a puzzle.

And you know it’s all her doing, that you wouldn’t be in this position if Natasha didn’t want you to be, that this is all going to be on her terms. You aren't sure any other way is plausible, really, because ever since you walked away from your old life you’ve felt lost to hell with no map in sight. You haven’t known what to do, how to feel — hell, you’ve barely known what to say. You’ve resorted to self-isolation when possible and varying levels of selective muteness.

Gunning your way through the Avengers compound for shits and giggles was easier than this. Putting down your first big bad was easier. Throwing hands with the Hulk was easier. Shit, all of it was easier than whatever you’re doing right now. There’s no more mission, no more threat, no more risk — just Natasha and a stolen jet and too much time on your hands.

This is the first time since childhood you’ve had to truly relax, and you want no part of it. You’d take back the bullets, the espionage, the threats, the risk, all of it, if it meant you no longer had to feel this empty.

So if Natasha wants to take that away, the trillion-ton weight on your shoulders, even if just for a while, you’re okay with that.

You hear your belt click open and the heavy buckle hits the ground before you feel the cold kiss of a gun barrel pressing into the soft skin beneath your chin. For a moment you can taste danger again. It makes you smile, crooked and dopamine high.

“You’re a little more damaged than I thought, huh? Would it get you all excited if I told you it’s loaded?”

“Yes,” you say, but you’re barely listening to her. You’re too focused on the warm hand working its way into your pants, pressing against you through the thin fabric of your underwear. “And yes.”

You hear a click, a soft one, and you know exactly what it is.

Something cracks open in your chest, something weighty and encompassing that ripples through your veins and blossoms in your core. Something familiar: thrill.

“Safety’s off,” she says, but you already know, and she grinds the heel of her hand against your clit, pushing your dampening underwear against your leaking hole. “Still excited?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Natasha laughs.

You don’t dare move your head. You won’t even look at her, eyes falling shut as you suck in a sharp breath.

She’d shoot you if you asked her to, you know her well enough to know that, and you wouldn’t even have to ask with your words. A look would do it. And that terrifies you, but you don’t think it’s your fault that terror intoxicates you. That it makes your heart pound and your ears ring and the coil in your belly start to burn. Terror makes your body feel pressurized, fit to burst, threatening to blow shrapnel into anyone unfortunate enough to be near, and you like that feeling. You like wondering what would happen if every little thing bottled up inside you just … blew.

Kaboom.

You wonder if there would be any survivors.

“You’re not even listening to me,” you hear Natasha say somewhere far away and you yank yourself back.

“I'm really not.”

“Look at me.”

You do.

Natasha’s eyes bore into yours. Hers are searching and inquisitive, probing as she peers into your soul. Yours are cloudy and dark with hunger and you don’t worry about her finding what she wants in them. She’ll find exactly what she needs to find.

“You’re pleading,” she says after a moment, furrowing her brow. “I’m not sure I know how to feel about that.”

A slow grin slides across your lips. “But?”

“But at least you’re fucking wet,” she mumbles, slipping her hand into your underwear. She drags her fingers through your slick lips, lingering on your clit, and laughs. “Honestly?”

Do it, you think, I dare you, matching her laughter with expectancy.

And then something changes.

Maybe it’s the heat — the sweat sticking your shirt to your chest, the warm buzz in your ears between words, the fire rising in your belly — or maybe you’re just losing your mind. Maybe that last mission flipped a switch inside you. Maybe this is the culmination of every moment spent training with the Avengers, the aria at the height of the show where your heart splits open and suddenly you’re looking at things differently, seeing things you never wanted to see before, all because of the people you've spent so much time with. Or maybe your programming has just gone to shit; like Natasha, you were built to be a weapon, a machine capable of decimation and deception without remorse.

Or maybe you don't know Natasha well enough to know anything at all.

All you know is that something is happening.

Takes you another moment or two to realize that it’s not actually something that’s happening to you.

It’s Natasha.

Her hand stills between your legs. The pressure of the barrel under your chin lessens.

She looks — scared? It’s not something you’ve ever seen in her face before.

“You actually think I’d do it,” she says, voice gone quiet, eyes threatening to close off and keep you from reading too far in. “You honestly believe that I’d shoot you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” It’s hard not to smile.

“God.” She’s laughing again, but it’s pained this time, incredulous, and disheartening. “When Tony told me you were fucked up, I didn’t expect this. It’s like...you want me to do it.”

Natasha starts to drop her hand, to pull the gun from your head, to holster it again, but you catch her before she can. Your hands clamp tight around her wrist, unrelenting, and you pull it back until the barrel of the gun is digging so deep into the soft skin below your chin that it’s a little hard to breathe.

“Don’t,” you growl out. Now you truly are pleading, begging her with your eyes, with the desperation written so clearly across your face that it scares you. You still like the terror. “Just” — there’s weakness in your voice, seeping into your hazy eyes, and Natasha’s looking at you with something between pity and horror — “don’t. If you won’t kill me, just fuck me.”

She won’t.

Not until you let her flip the safety back on, which you do, even though it dampens the adrenaline coursing through your veins and kind of makes you want to roll your eyes and roll over and go back to napping.

You don’t let yourself do that because, on some level that you aren’t yet comfortable with, you don’t want to upset her. And you do still want to get fucked, want to break beneath her touch and slump into ecstasy when she’s through with you, but you wanted it a certain way.

It was her fear that did it. The worry in her eyes, the disbelief that rocked her the moment she figured you out.

Fuck your own relationship with fear, you decide, because that’s one thing, but you didn’t like seeing Natasha afraid. You actually kind of hated it. And you’ve never been one to cater to anyone’s emotions before.

It’s all new.

For her and for you.

But she adapts.

So do you.

And she starts to smile again, if slowly, once she’s safeteyed-up and your hands are back on her waist and guiding her hips against your thigh in a steady grind while she takes you.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Cold metal kisses your temple and you close your eyes. Warm fingers press against your cunt, push in, and stroke you from the inside. “Getting felt up with a gun pressed to your head?”

“Feels forced,” you mutter, biting back a smirk, “now that I know you won’t use it.”

“Fuck off,” she says.

“Just fuck me.”

She doesn’t.

Instead she slips her hand out of your underwear and hauls herself off your lap.

“Focus,” she tells you after she’s dragged you onto your back and stripped off her pants. She swings a leg over your head and hovers just inches above your mouth. “I trust you can manage that.”

You slip your hands around her thighs and pull her down.

She tastes like honey on your tongue, sweet and inviting and wildly intoxicating. Your fingertips dig into her skin, pulling her against your open mouth as your tongue glides over her lips.

It’s only when you start to lift your head from the floor, eager for more of her, desperate to slip your tongue in and taste the depths of Natasha’s cunt, that she pulls the gun on you again. Presses it to the middle of your forehead and forces your head back to the ground with a dull thud that sends a ripple of shock through your system.

“Look at me,” she says, and you do, forcing your eyes open. She smirks at the faraway look in your eyes, and, “Stop thinking,” she says, rubbing her thumb over your cheekbone. “Focus on the taste of my cunt and forget everything else. Can you do that for me?”

You want to please her, you realize, and it’s worse than not wanting to upset her.

Not wanting to upset her is passive, or it can be, but this isn’t, and it can’t be.

This is wanting to act in a way that Natasha will like, that she’ll remember, that she’ll still be thinking about two days from now when you’re back in New York and on your separate ways. This is wanting to rip off your gloves and dig your nails into her thighs because she wants to feel the sting, not because you want to make her feel it. It’s wanting to keep your eyes open because it’s what she told you to do, not because it’s what you’re pretending you would’ve done anyway. Wanting to please Natasha is forcing yourself to stop caring about whether or not the gun’s loaded, whether the safety’s on or off, and whether she’d actually shoot you or not; wrenching your thoughts away from the doom and the gloom and the buzz it brings you is not easy, but Natasha makes it easier.

You nod.

“Good girl.”

A sound rumbles from your throat, something between a groan and a growl, and its effect is immediate: Natasha shudders, thighs trembling in your grip, and she hunches over, digging the metal of her gun into the skin of your forehead so hard that you're certain it'll cut and leave a scar.

You close your mouth over her clit and suck, rolling your tongue against the little bundle of nerves, coaxing her on, drinking her in, all while she fists a hand in your hair and grinds against your eager mouth. Her slick coats your tongue, her hand pulls at your hair. You’d care about how hard it is to breathe if the lips of her cunt didn’t spread so easily around your tongue, swallowing you so smoothly, wrapping you in heaven and giving you a taste of hell.

“Fuck,” she hisses, and, “just like that,” and, “for someone who doesn’t talk much, you’re — christ — pretty damn good with your mouth.”

You’d smirk if you could.

Instead you just hum, slow and steady, sending dull vibrations through Natasha’s clit as you fuck her with your tongue.

When she comes it spills out of her quivering hole in waves, gushing onto your tongue each time she clenches and releases. You feel it coating your lips, slicking your chin, and when she slumps off of you and the gun goes clattering to the floor all you can think about is your heart thundering in your chest and the taste of Natasha on your tongue.

“I’m telling Tony to send you for a psych eval when we get back,” she says after a moment, breaking the silence.

You turn your head, too come-drunk and hazy to let your eyes focus, and, “Sounds about right,” you mumble, your own pleasure entirely forgotten. Giving Natasha hers was enough.

She reaches for you, touching your forehead. “You’re bleeding,” she says. When she pulls away her fingertips are wet with blood. “Sorry.”

You hear her brash laugh from across the party as she tells the bartender, “God, my husband is useless. I need a stand-in.”

She’s pretty in a terrifying sort of way, like if you get too close there’s no telling what could go wrong. Like approaching a field of land mines planted by your worst enemy.

You approach her anyway because she’s older than you and scary hot and you’ve got a one-track mind. And you’re fairly certain she’s the one your mother told you to stay away from (you’ve decided you’re on a rebellious streak as of right now because of, well, reasons). And maybe she does really want a stand-in for her ineffective husband.

Turns out she is, and turns out she does.

Turns out, too, that she’s far more than you bargained for.

Agatha Harkness is a witch.

And not the good kind.

And your mother never told you what to do if you ever met another witch, so you play dumb.

“A witch?” you ask with all the mild amusement you can muster. “Like — double double toil and trouble? Fire burn and cauldron bubble?”

The moment the words are out of your mouth something coils around your throat and cinches tight. Something purple and incorporeal that originates from the palm of Agatha’s hand.

For a moment you wonder why she wouldn’t just do that with her hand, but when she rolls her eyes at the feigned surprise on your face you realize that she only wanted to prove the truth of her confession to you.

You’re surprised she confessed at all — she knows who you are, everyone does; it’s a small town, and she probably knows, too, that her secret is not safe with you. You can pretend all you’d like that you’ve never touched anything magical in your life but Agatha sees right through you. Doesn’t take much longer for you to learn that she does not intend for you to remember her secret at all.

She leaves you like that for a bit — purple magic ebbing and constricting around your throat — while she fixes herself a drink. You’re in the living room of her home with the curtains drawn and a fire crackling in the hearth. She took you away from the party not even five minutes after you introduced yourself by first name only.

Whatever she’s got around your throat won’t budge. You try to free yourself while she’s out of the room; you pull at it with your hands, try to make it give way with your powers. Nothing. You struggle with it until you realize that it is not, in fact, hurting you at all. Even when it tightens it isn’t enough to steal your breath. For now it’s just a warning: enough to do real harm if she wills it to, but until then just a reminder.

It’s slightly worrisome that you aren’t afraid of what might happen to you. You’re a little fearful of the magic she wields, sure, because you haven’t seen its full potential, but you don’t fear for your life. In the back of your mind you’re still somewhat satisfied to be doing something your mother would hate.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Agatha says when she comes back, circling you like a lioness stalking her prey. “I’m going to have my merry way with you. You’ll have absolutely no say in what happens here tonight. And if you remember any of this when you wake up in the morning, well, sweetheart, then I’ve lost my touch.”

You nod. She smirks.

“I like this,” she says, tugging at the lapel of your jacket. “All handsome in black-tie.”

You dressed up for the party — black suit, black shirt, black tie, black vest — hoping to impress your boss. You aren’t sure it worked, but now you’re here, and Agatha’s approval is better anyhow.

“My, uh — my mom helped me pick it out,” you admit, a blush creeping up your neck.

“Right,” Agatha says, and suddenly the thing around your throat slithers away and fades to nothing. She drops down onto the couch and crosses her legs and beckons you to her side. “We should probably talk about that — your mother.”

You don’t have a single idea where she plans to go with this but you sit down beside her nonetheless.

“She doesn’t love you,” Agatha says, so simply, like you should know it already. Like it isn’t one of the cruelest things anyone’s ever said to you. She reaches for your tie and tugs on it, pulling you that much closer, saying, “Never has and never will. Not while she has those two perfect little boys to take up all of her time. What are their names again?”

“Tommy and—”

Agatha stops you with a pout that oozes false pity and makes you feel uncomfortably stupid. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, touching your cheek, your chin, then letting her hand fall to your chest. “I don’t actually care what their names are. It’s you I care about.”

You don’t quite know what to say to that.

“Me?”

She hums, freeing the buttons of your vest and slipping her hand underneath. One more layer and she’ll be right there on your skin, right there where no one’s ever touched you before. She tests the fabric of your shirt with her fingers, presses against your abdomen, dipping her fingertips between the buttons to catch her nails against your belly.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Again: “Me?”

Agatha rolls her eyes and twists her fingers, sending a tiny purple burst of magic straight up at your face. When you open your mouth to protest you find you no longer have the words. You don’t have any words at all anymore, turns out, because she’s gone and stolen your voice.

“That’s better,” she says, smiling, but you swear that for the briefest moment there is pure hatred in her eyes. And then it’s gone and the mocking pity is back, and now it’s seeping into her voice. “Do you want someone to care about you? To love you? Like a mother should?”

You hate that you actually have to think about it.

As far back as you can remember your mother has always been so occupied. Busy with this, busy with that, busy with your father (which, okay, you get, because they’re grossly in love, but still). And then she had your brothers and you felt like an old toy tossed aside for one that was shiny and new. You aren’t sure it’s fair to call it neglect because you never wanted for anything, never went to bed hungry. You had what you needed and you figured it was enough. You understood that babies were time-consuming, especially when there were two of them, and they grew so fast. Then they learned how to grow themselves and they grew even faster. When their other powers began to come in you were almost entirely cast aside.

Not even the fantastical things you were capable of were enough to pull your mother away from the twins for more than a few minutes.

Your father was better about paying attention to you, and still is, and you love him endlessly for it.

When you think about who you’d like to be in the future it is always him you think about. It helps that apparently you were made in his image, though not completely.

Your powers are much more like your synthezoid father’s than your witch mother’s. The Vision can manipulate his own density, mass, and weight at will; you can manipulate density, mass, and weight, too, but not your own. The Vision can phase through walls; you can alter the density of a wall so that it phases around you.

Tommy's abilities match Pietro’s. Billy’s, Wanda’s. The Vision is not human and the fact that your powers come from him make you wonder whether or not you yourself are truly human.

“There is no explanation, my son,” The Vision told you once, “other than perhaps the fact that before replicating the relationship she once had with her brother, your mother attempted to replicate what she saw in me.” He smiled fondly and ruffled your hair, a gesture he’d picked up from whatever sitcom Wanda had him watching. “If she did not allow you the exact abilities I myself possess it is only because she wishes you to be a man of your own.”

“But — Tommy and Billy,” you said, frowning. “Does she not want them to be men of their own?”

“Your mother misses her brother dearly,” your father said. “There is not a waking moment she does not spend wishing she could have saved him. Tommy is Pietro’s second chance at life.”

“And Billy?”

“I believe Billy might be a better version of Wanda herself.”

“Better?” You didn’t understand that. “He’s just a kid.”

Vision’s smile became sad then and he seemed to pause only because it was what a human might’ve done at a moment like that.

“Better, I believe, because he has not yet been allowed the opportunity to hurt anyone. A child’s innocence is invaluable, my son. I am proud that you have grown, but I do miss the days you would sit on my knee at the breakfast table and tell your mother and I all of the dreams you would one day achieve.”

You don’t remember that. In fact, you cannot remember anything that happened before the start of the year. You remember your twenty-first birthday, the cake in February with the yellow candles and each of your younger brothers, born only weeks before and already ten, eagerly awaiting the moment you blew them out so that they could eat their fill. You remember your father handing you the keys to a used car that roared like a lion when you started it up and was a little rusted around the edges but that you loved so much it might as well have been right off the lot. You remember him smiling proudly as you drove it out of the driveway for the first time. You remember ordering your first drink at a bar. You remember kissing a girl for the first time that very same night.

But before that?

Nothing.

You don’t remember high school.

Or middle school.

Or growing up. At all.

All of your memories are of the past year and nothing more. And very few of the ones involving your mother are any good.

So you look at Agatha and nod because yes, you want that. Desperately.

“Good,” she says, gently scratching beneath your chin. “Mommy’s always wanted a perfect little boy of her own.”

It’s all downhill (uphill? you’re still not sure) from there.

She doesn’t give you your voice back because she likes it better when you can’t speak, which is fine, and she doesn’t give you so much as an inch of freedom because everything is better in her world when she’s pulling the strings, which is also fine. What’s less fine is that everything is on her time and you’re growing increasingly desperate.

It scares you a little, how willingly you go along with all of it, although you aren’t certain she’d stop if you weren’t willing. You got yourself into this and you plan to see it through. Whatever it takes, even if it involves Agatha teasing you silly and ridiculing your every reaction.

She strips you of your jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch. The vest goes next. Then the tie. When she starts unbuttoning your shirt you remember that you might actually have something to worry about in this situation, but without a voice there isn’t a thing you can think to do.

When she figures out exactly what you are, when your shirt falls open and she sees the twin scars snaking across your chest, she just looks at them for a moment.

“So that’s what you’re hiding.”

You shiver, exhaling heavily as she traces the scars with her thumbs. Her hands are cold and buzzing with magic that feels an awful lot like static electricity. It’s less overwhelming when her hands don’t linger in one spot, when she coasts them over your abdomen to familiarize herself with the parts of you already on display, letting them wander up your sides, over your chest, and down your arms. But you like it best when she drops her hands to your ass and pulls you against her like that, with her fingertips digging in and dangerously close to tearing your slacks.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a damn thing,” she tells you, close enough that you feel her words on your lips as she speaks them. “I’m going to take care of everything. All you need to do is be a good boy and take it; you don’t even have to think. Can you do that for me? For mommy?”

You nod and yeah, you think, you really can, because she’s kneading your ass and pressing her tits up against your chest and all you can think about is how easy it’s going to be to spread your legs and let her take the thing you’ve never gotten close to giving anyone before.

For a moment, when she drops back onto the couch and pulls you onto her lap, you think she’s going to kiss you. Wishful thinking, maybe, because she’s got your face in her hands and she’s gently scratching through your close-cropped beard but then she’s pushing her hands into your long hair and the length makes it so easy for her to take a fistful and yank your head back. With a twist of her fingers a writhing tendril of purple magic slithers from her hand and prods at your lips, pushing into your mouth with patient determination. Its head is blunt and smooth and fits perfectly between your lips. You don’t know what you were expecting it to feel like but the thing in your mouth is soft and surprisingly warm and vibrates gently as it presses down on your tongue. You’re drooling before you know it, leaking spit from the corner of your mouth as the thing between your lips swells to keep them spread open. As it slides in deeper, pushing for your throat, you gag and sputter and hot tears spring to your eyes.

“Have you never sucked a cock before?”

Is that what this is?

You shake your head, blinking the tears from your eyes.

“Breathe through your nose,” Agatha says, petting your thighs and pulling your knees to either side of her lap. You do as she says and it gets a little bit easier. “That’s a good boy.”

Nothing else gets easier.

Agatha keeps your mouth stuffed full of her magic as she undoes your slacks and slips a hand inside. You’re wet enough that it’s soaked through your snug boxer briefs and the shockwave of arousal that shoots through you when she grinds her palm against your clit is staggering. It’s enough to make your hips twitch and press down against her in search of more.

“No one’s ever touched you here, have they?”

You shake your head again.

She takes you to her bedroom and lays you out on her bed, peeling off your slacks and pushing your legs apart. By now she’s got another tendril of magic wound around your wrists that digs into your skin and leaves your hands tingling for the lack of circulation, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when she’s between your thighs and tearing a hole in the seat of your boxers to bare you to her. It’s cold without the fire, your skin is prickled with goosebumps, and there’s something incorporeal and unfathomable keeping your thighs propped open. You couldn’t close them if you tried, though there’s nothing purple that you can see to lay the blame on. There is only Agatha, looking down at you with pity in her eyes and her mouth twisted into a wicked smile.

“You’re a big boy,” she coos, slapping you between your thighs and pulling on your slick, hormone-enlarged clit. It’s harsh and it stings and despite that you still feel yourself begin to throb. “Now how how do you want mommy to fuck your virgin pussy first?”

She gives you two options: one of her “obedient little friends” like the one in your mouth, or a hyper-realistic cock that she brings to life with magic and fuses to her body very much like the real thing (if the real thing leaked purple pre-cum and had veins that slithered along its length like live snakes).

Then she reminds you that you don’t actually get to have an opinion on the matter and spreads your cunt with her fingers and fucks into you for the first time with a wriggling magical tentacle. When that word comes to mind, when Agatha takes your virginity for herself, ruining you for everyone else to come, you flush and shiver and attempt to squirm away only to be shocked into immobility as the thing in your pussy pulses and begins to grow until pulling away from it would only stretch you further and you’re not sure you’re ready for that.

Agatha doesn’t stop you from squirming in place as inch by inch she fills you with magic, but she does laugh at you for your red cheeks and your drooling mouth and the pathetic tears in your eyes as she steals your innocence.

You feel so full so fast and with Agatha standing over you at the foot of the bed there’s little more you can do than exactly what she wants you to: lay there and take it. You don’t even have to think about it.

“That’s enough of that,” she says as soon as you’re starting to get used to it, the stretch and the fullness and the shame of being held open and fucked for the first time by a woman you aren’t even supposed to be talking to. The tentacles slip out of you and disappear back into Agatha’s hand and with them gone you’ve never felt so empty.

Your jaw is sore, your cunt is wet and messy, and you still don’t have your voice or the use of your hands. Trapped as you are beneath the will and want of a powerful witch, all you feel is bliss and desperation; bliss for the tingling heat tearing through your body and desperation for something to stuff you full again.

You don’t have to wait long for it.

Agatha crawls onto the bed and settles between your spread legs, coasting her hands down your trembling thighs until she reaches your cunt and pries it open with her thumbs, inspecting the stretched out hole nestled between your pink lips.

“I’ve never met a boy with such a tiny cock,” she teases, pinching your clit and giving it a tug that sends a dull throb straight through you. “If it were big enough maybe mommy would let you fuck her.”

You don’t think she would even if it was.

“But since it isn’t,” she goes on, letting a hand drift up to lay on your belly, “I’ll just have to fuck you with mine instead.”

It’s big. And thick. And you can’t tear your eyes away from the slithering veins that move along it. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize that it might not fit.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she mutters, lazily stroking her cock and nudging the tip of it against your clit. “Don’t you worry about that. Mommy will make it fit.”

Your eyes go wide.

Agatha rolls hers.

“Yes, I can hear what you’re thinking. But no, I can’t read minds like your mother. I hear concepts, sweetheart, not actual thoughts.”

A small relief, you think.

“Sure it is,” she says, smirking. “Now — quiet. Mommy’s going to put her nice big cock in your messy hole and she doesn’t want to hear a thing from your stupid little head other than how grateful you are to finally have a mommy who takes care of you the way she should.”

Agatha fists her cock and presses up against your empty cunt. Even just the head stretches you further than her tentacle did. She’s warm and thick and invasive inside you and even if you wanted to say something you can’t recall the most basic of vocabulary. She goes slowly at first, maddeningly so, and plants her hands on your thighs and pushes your knees back toward your chest to spread you open that much more as she forces you open around her cock.

The second she’s all the way in she releases your legs and drops forward, clamping a hand around your throat as she fucks into you lazily, squeezing your breath away as she draws her cock out just to push right back into you. The tentacle was longer, but she’s thicker, and it feels like you’re going to break, like she is going to break you. At least you’re wet, you think, embarrassingly so, enough that you coat her length in shiny slick and there’s still so much left over that it spills from your hole and dampens the sheets beneath you.

She doesn’t fuck you with any rhyme or reason, no, her pace is deliberately uneven and shifts back and forth beteween frustratingly slow and torturously brutal. You like it better when she’s rough, when she drags out to the tip and pounds back into you deep enough that a bump rises in your belly with each thrust.

“Such a pretty boy,” she says, dragging her nails down your stomach. “All stretched out on mommy’s big cock and taking it so well. You were made for this, weren’t you? To have your pussy fucked open and used over and over again until it’s weeping and ruined and no one else can ever fill you like I can?”

If that’s all you’re good for, you think, at least you’re good at taking it.

Then Agatha pulls out of you without warning and manhandles you onto your belly. She frees your hands only to restrain them once more, this time behind your back. Another tentacle lashes out of her hand and snakes around your throat, but she holds on to it, leashing you.

“You don’t get to decide what you’re good at,” she spits out, yanking you up onto your knees, and without the support of your hands your upper half tumbles down and for a moment, with your face smothered in a pillow, you can’t breathe, but Agatha fixes that with a yank on your leash that wrenches your head back. “You’re just a hole for mommy to stuff her cock into and fill up with cum — understand?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just forces her way back into you and you swear that this time it’s bigger. “Good.”

Wait.

She’s going to—?

But you can’t finish that thought. You can barely remember your name because Agatha’s coming inside of you and the only thing you can think about is how full you are and how wet and messy it feels between your legs now that you’re full of her cock and her cum. And god, you can’t stop clenching, willing her deeper inside of you as you tumble over the edge and for the first time in your life see stars behind your eyes. You don’t have anything to compare it to because you’ve never felt anything like it in your life. All you know is that it’s good, it’s warm, and good god, she’s still fucking you.

She rolls you onto your side and the leash around your neck fizzles away into nothing. Then the binds around your wrists go, too, and you’re grabbing at the sheets as Agatha lifts your leg and tells you to look.

So you do.

Watching her thick cock slip in and out of your puffy pink pussy is one thing, but watching her fuck her own cum into your hole is entirely another. The fact that it’s purple and smeared all over your thighs is nothing. You’ve seen weirder things. But you’ve never seen anything quite as nice as your pussy stuffed with the first cock you’ve ever taken.

“Dumb little baby’s only good for getting fucked full of mommy’s cum, isn’t he?”

You nod, eyes falling shut as Agatha’s movements slow to a stop. Wracked with tremors, your breath shaky, you clench involuntarily as your body trembles again and again and again.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she asks almost gently as she settles behind you, wrapping an arm around your middle to keep you close. “To have a mommy nice enough to take care of her little boy?”

You don’t have time to think anything at all before you’re falling asleep with Agatha’s cock buried in your cunt.

Sometime in the night she disperses the magic and when you wake up in the morning you’re achingly empty but still wet and sticky and you slip into the shower before she can wake up to send you home all dirty.

As you walk home, the sun slowly rising on sleepy Westview, you realize that Agatha was never actually going to make you forget a thing, no, because remembering everything is much worse. She wants you to go home to your mother with a head full of filth — Agatha pushing past your lips with a shimmering tentacle born of magic, her hands in your hair, yours bound behind your back, ass in the air, that stupid magical cock she conjured out of nowhere and spent half the night filling you with until you were positive you’d be leaking purple for the next month — because it’s next to impossible to keep secrets in the Maximoff household and she wants more than anything for Wanda to happen upon your thoughts and see just how thoroughly Agatha has ruined her perfect little boy.

your mother’s awake and making breakfast when you get home.

you try to throw up mental blocks against her magic but you’re so sleepy and sore that you can tell it isn’t going to work so as a last-ditch effort you try and hustle up to your bedroom before she can stop you and happen upon the thoughts in your mind.

spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.

wanda hears you as soon as you enter the house even though she’s got the radio on and she’s humming to herself. “honey? is that you? come here a minute, i want to hear about the party.”

you really don’t want to tell her about the party. and you figure she’s only asking because her precious twins are still asleep and she’s got spare energy to spend on you.

“i’m wiped, mom,” you shout back, making for the stairs, “talk later!”

“what’s wrong with you? come talk to your mother.”

halfway up the stairs you walk into a shimmering wall of red magic. your head hurts, your eyes are dying to close, and your shoulders slump as you turn on the spot. this is going to be very bad.

wanda’s at the foot of the stairs with her hands on her hips. “i don’t know who you think you are walking away from me, but i am your—“ wanda chokes on her breath, eyes wide, hand over her heart. “you— agatha— ?”

she knows. and she looks horrified.

you cut and run before you can think about it.

halfway down the street you realize your cheeks are too hot and your heart won’t calm down and you can’t decide whether to be scared, angry, or ashamed.

you decide not to decide and before you realize it you’re at agatha’s door with your jacket over your arm and your eyes on your feet.

“you again,” agatha says. “back so soon?”

“she knows.”

“and what about it?”

“i—“ you have no idea.

“come on inside, sweet thing. mommy’s gonna make everything better.”

she does not make anything better. or she does, depending on how you look at it.

“you did a bad thing, baby boy, letting wanda inside your stupid little head.”

you know that’s a lie. you did exactly what agatha wanted you to do, willing or not.

she takes you to bed, strips you down.

“lay back and show mommy your pussy so i can slap it until it burns to help you realize what you’ve done wrong. feel free to cry.”

you can’t help it. even if you didn’t do anything wrong. it’s so easy to obey her.

you do indeed cry. agatha wipes your tears from your cheeks and pushes her fingers past your lips to let you taste your tears as she sits you on her lap and helps you rub yourself against her thigh.

you leave a wet spot on her pants and she punishes you for that, too. pulls your limbs apart and slips a little magic tentacle into your cunt that wriggles and buzzes, hums and writhes, but isn't enough to truly get you off.

"look at you, so worked up and full of mommy's magic. can you take another one? no? i don't know, little boy, i think you can."

another tentacle pushes into you. they both stop moving. and then they pull you apart, holding your leaking hole open.