Aggie's angel

She || fanfic writer (?) obsessed with; Older Women, Older Men, Dark fanfictions, and the WizardingWorld. ko-fi.com/moonyplum (tip Jar 🥰)

[buttercandy16]

Hi again,

How are you doing?

I just saw you posted a new fic, I’m excited to read it!!

For you: 🫂🫂💚💚

-🐺

Hallo 😇

I recently watched Run with Sarah Paulson and it really stuck with me. I kept thinking about different “what if” scenarios afterward, like what if I was the girl in that situation, or what if it was Agatha in her role instead. It just stayed in my mind and eventually turned into inspiration for the new story.

And yeah, most of my work does lean dark 😅 that’s just where my ideas tend to go.

sending hugs back 🖤 and I’m really glad you’re excited for it too

[buttercandy16]

You’re more than welcome! Also really sorry I haven’t reached out sooner, that’s my bad. Glad to hear you’re okay, hope you have all the fun and good times during your break!!

Don’t blame you for taking a breather, but I am excited to make my way through your works to get caught back up and even more so for the future point you post more cause their masterpieces and a comfort to read. So thank you for sharing your works with us lonesome wolves 🐺 who find the best comfort and company in your fics. Sending all the hugs 🫂, love 💚 & best witchy 🧙‍♀️vibes your way in return for your amazing self and works

I’m around if you ever wanna chat about anything or need a sound board for your ideas. And I’ll definitely try to be more active in check in with you more often. Cause your amazing and deserve the bests of this world

-🐺

That really means a lot to me. Thank you for such a kind and thoughtful message. I truly appreciate you being here. It makes coming back feel even more special 🤍

Lately I’ve been feeling inspired to branch out and write for other characters too, so you might see some new content from me soon. I hope you’ll enjoy them just as much 🫶

And please know you can message me anytime. I’m always happy to hear from you 💌

[buttercandy16]

Safe with Me (Dark)

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Synopsis: You thought love meant she would never leave you. Agatha proves that true… in ways you were never meant to understand.

Warning(s): Yandere themes, obsession, manipulation, medical abuse, loss of autonomy, psychological horror, toxic relationship, injury, death.

Author’s Note: It’s been a while since I last posted, but I’m back with something new. Dark as usual, so please read the warnings. Hope you enjoy 🤭

Tip Jar ❤️

•••

The room always smelled faintly of lavender.

You never used to notice it this much. Back when you could move freely, when your world wasn’t confined to soft sheets and careful shifts of your body, details like that didn’t matter. Now they did. Now everything did. The way the curtains stirred with the breeze, the quiet ticking of the clock, the distant sounds from outside.

And most of all, the sound of her.

Agatha’s footsteps were unmistakable. Slow, measured, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world because she knew exactly where she belonged.

With you.

The door opened with a soft creak.

“Well,” she said, her voice warm with quiet amusement, “someone’s awake earlier than usual.”

You turned your head toward her, offering a small, tired smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, the morning light catching in her hair as she moved closer. There was something about the way she carried herself, something calm and certain that always made you feel grounded, even now.

Agatha sat at the edge of the bed, her hand immediately finding your face. Her fingers brushed a strand of hair away, lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“Did something hurt?” she asked softly.

You shook your head. “No. Just thinking.”

Her thumb moved slowly against your cheek, tracing idle patterns. “That’s a dangerous habit.”

You huffed quietly. “I used to think all the time.”

“Yes,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips, “and look where that got you.”

There was something teasing in her tone, light enough that you didn’t question it. You leaned into her touch instead, letting your eyes soften.

“You’re mean,” you murmured.

“Only to you.”

Your heart fluttered despite yourself.

She stood after a moment, moving toward the small table near the window. You watched her as she reached for the familiar bottle and a glass of water, her movements practiced, effortless.

Your medicine.

She never forgot. Never missed a dose. Never let you take it on your own.

“Time,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder.

You hesitated, just for a moment.

It wasn’t distrust. It was something else, something quieter and harder to name. Every time you took those pills, you were reminded of what you had lost. Your legs, your independence, the version of yourself that didn’t need to be cared for.

Agatha noticed immediately.

She always did.

Her expression softened as she returned to your side, sitting close enough that you could feel her warmth.

“Hey,” she murmured gently. “None of that.”

You looked away. “I just… hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate needing you for everything.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, heavier than you intended.

There was a brief pause, just long enough to make your chest tighten.

Then her fingers tilted your chin back toward her, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“Say that again,” she said softly.

You frowned slightly. “I said I hate—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice quieter now. “The other part.”

Your breath caught.

“I need you for everything.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond.

Then, almost too quickly—

“Good.”

The word slipped out sharp, immediate, before she could soften it.

Something flickered in her expression, but it was gone just as fast. Her hand moved gently along your jaw again, her touch soothing as if nothing had happened.

“I mean,” she corrected smoothly, “there’s nothing wrong with needing me.”

You searched her face for a second longer, but all you found was that familiar warmth, that steady reassurance you had come to rely on.

“You take care of me too, you know,” she added.

You blinked. “How?”

Agatha leaned closer, her forehead resting lightly against yours.

“By staying.”

Your heart stuttered at the quiet intensity in her voice.

“I don’t have to do anything for that,” you murmured.

“Exactly.”

You didn’t fully understand what she meant, but the way she said it made it feel important, like something you were supposed to hold onto.

“Now,” she said softly, pulling back just enough to lift the glass toward your lips, “take your medicine.”

You didn’t argue.

You never did.

Your eyes stayed on hers as you swallowed, the familiar routine playing out exactly the same as it always had. She watched you closely, carefully, as if the act itself mattered more than anything else. Only when the glass was empty did her shoulders relax.

“Good girl,” she murmured.

Heat rose to your face, and you turned away slightly, embarrassed. She smiled at the reaction, clearly pleased.

“You’re impossible,” you mumbled.

“And yet,” she replied lightly, “you’re still here.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest tighten, though you couldn’t quite explain why.

“You’re not going anywhere, right?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Agatha stilled.

Slowly, she turned her attention back to you, her gaze sharpening just slightly.

“Why would you ask that?”

Your fingers curled into the sheets. “Because… I can’t walk anymore. I can’t do anything. I just…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she laughed, soft at first, but with an edge that made something in your stomach twist.

“Darling,” she said, almost incredulous, “do you really think I’d leave you over something so small?”

“It’s not small,” you whispered.

“It is to me.”

Her hand slid into your hair, her grip tightening just enough to make you notice.

“I would burn the world before I ever left you.”

Your breath caught.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping, quieter now, heavier.

“You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

A chill ran through you, sudden and sharp, but before it could settle, her lips pressed gently against your forehead, warm and grounding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.

Her touch lingered on your skin, igniting a deep need within you. She seemed to feel it too, her eyes darkening as they met yours.

"Agatha," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "I want..."

She didn't hesitate, her lips crashed against yours in a bruising kiss, stealing your breath and igniting a fire in your veins. You kissed her back fiercely, pouring all of your pent-up desire into the meeting of your mouths.

She broke away after a long moment, her chest heaving. "You're mine," she growled, her hands gripping your hips possessively. "Every inch of you belongs to me."

You whimpered at her words, arching into her touch. "Please, I need..."

She silenced you with another kiss, this one slower, deeper, her tongue delving into your mouth to claim you fully. Her hands roamed your body, caressing every curve and hollow until you were writhing against her, desperate for more.

She broke away abruptly, leaving you gasping for air. Agatha gently pushed you down onto the mattress, straddling your hips and pinning you beneath her. "You’re all I want, and I’m all you need," she’s punctuating the words with a nip to your neck.

She’s tearing your clothes off of you like a wild beast, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. “I'm going to show you how much I love you."

You shuddered beneath her, your body already aching for her touch. She seemed to sense this, smiling wickedly as she leaned down to capture one of your nipples between her teeth. She bit down just hard enough to send a jolt of pain-pleasure through you before soothing the sting with her tongue.

"Please," you whimpered, arching into her touch. "I need you inside me."

She chuckled darkly, trailing a finger down your stomach towards your aching core. "So greedy," she purred, circling your clit with maddening slowness. "So desperate for my touch."

You whimpered, wanting more pressure, but she held you still with ease. "Patience," she admonished, slipping one long finger inside you. "I'm going to make you feel so good."

And she did. She pumped her finger in slow, steady strokes, curling it to hit that perfect spot deep within you. Her thumb worked your clit in time with each thrust, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

"Fuck," you panted, clenching around her finger. "More, please..."

She added a second finger without hesitation, stretching you open and filling you up in the most delicious way. She pumped them faster, harder, until the room filled with the obscene sound of wet skin and your desperate moans.

"Come for me," she commanded, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles. "Come on my fingers like the good girl you are."

And with a final thrust of her hand, you did. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, crashing over you and leaving you shaking in its wake. She held you through it, murmuring praise and comfort as the last aftershocks subsided.

Agatha immediately pulled you into her arms panting and still fully dressed, while you just lay there naked and mesmerized by this woman.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning into her instinctively.

“I’m lucky,” you whispered. “That you stayed.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she pulled you closer, her arms wrapping around you in a hold that felt almost too tight, like she was afraid you might slip away.

Or like she wouldn’t let you.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said at last.

Her voice was quiet.

Certain.

Final.

You relaxed against her, your eyes slowly drifting shut. The tension in your chest eased under the steady rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her presence wrapping around you like something safe.

Something yours.

Sleep came easily like that.

It always did when she held you.

Agatha stayed still long after your breathing evened out, her arms still wrapped around you as her gaze settled on your face.

Watching.

Studying.

Lingering.

Slowly, carefully, she shifted just enough to reach toward the bedside table. Her fingers curled around the bottle, lifting it into her hand as she turned it slightly, examining it with quiet satisfaction.

Her lips curved faintly.

“Such a fragile thing,” she murmured under her breath, her eyes flicking back to you.

Her thumb tapped lightly against the side of the bottle, the soft sound barely audible in the quiet room.

“You wouldn’t last out there without me.”

There was something colder in her gaze now, something that didn’t match the softness she had shown you just moments ago.

Something possessive.

Something certain.

“But that’s alright,” she continued, her voice smoothing out again as she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your temple.

You stirred faintly in your sleep, instinctively leaning into her warmth.

Her smile deepened.

Satisfied.

“I’ll take care of everything.”

Her fingers brushed lightly over your hair, soothing, steady, as if sealing a promise only she understood.

“Where you belong.”

The words were barely more than a whisper.

But in the quiet of the room, they felt absolute.

•••

The house felt different the moment Agatha left.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Everything looked the same, the curtains drawn just enough to let the light in, the faint lavender scent still lingering in the air, the quiet stillness settling into the walls. But something underneath it all felt wrong, like a thread had been pulled loose and you were only just beginning to notice it unravel.

You shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the familiar heaviness in your legs. Nothing. No response. Just the same hollow absence that had become your normal.

A small breath left you, shaky and quiet.

Your gaze drifted toward the bedside table.

The bottle sat there. She must’ve forgotten to put it away.

You stared at it longer than you meant to.

Agatha had given you your dose earlier. She always did. Always watched, always waited until you swallowed, her eyes never leaving yours until it was done. You used to think it was sweet, how careful she was.

Now it made your chest tighten.

Slowly, you reached for the bottle, your fingers brushing against it before you picked it up. It felt the same as always, light and familiar in your hand. You turned it slightly, reading the label again even though you already knew what it said.

Vitamins.

That’s what she told you.

That’s what you believed.

Your thumb hesitated at the cap before twisting it open. The faint rattle of pills echoed in the quiet room, louder than it should have been. You tipped one into your palm and stared at it, your brows slowly drawing together.

It looked normal.

So why didn’t it feel like it?

A memory tugged at you, faint but persistent. You couldn’t place it at first, but the more you stared, the clearer it became. The pills hadn’t always looked like this. Not exactly. Close enough that you wouldn’t question it at a glance, but different enough that something in you refused to let it go.

Your breathing slowed, then quickened.

“No…” you whispered, more to yourself than anything else.

You reached for your phone, your hands unsteady as you searched, comparing images, descriptions, anything that could prove you wrong. Your eyes scanned the screen, hoping to find reassurance, some explanation that would make all of this ridiculous.

Instead, your stomach dropped.

Your grip tightened around the phone.

It wasn’t vitamins.

Not even close.

A sharp, uneven breath left you as the realization began to settle in, slow and suffocating. You looked down at the pill in your hand, then toward your legs, unmoving beneath the blanket, and something cold crept through your chest.

“She loves me…” you whispered, like a fragile defense against the truth forming in your mind.

But the evidence sat in your palm, silent and undeniable.

Your hands started to shake.

You tried to reason with yourself, to find another explanation, something that made sense, something that didn’t turn everything you knew into a lie. Agatha wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t. Not after everything, not after the way she looked at you, the way she cared for you, the way she stayed.

But she had.

The thought hit harder the second time.

A quiet, broken sound left your throat as you pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to hold yourself together. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close, like they were closing in on you.

You couldn’t stay here.

The realization terrified you, but it was impossible to ignore.

Your fingers moved almost automatically as you opened your contacts, stopping on a name that made your chest tighten in a different way.

Wanda.

You hesitated.

Calling her meant saying it out loud. It meant making it real.

Your thumb pressed the screen anyway.

The ringing stretched too long, each second pulling tighter at your nerves until—

“Hey,” Wanda answered, her voice casual at first. “What’s up?”

You tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“Hello?” she tried again, sharper this time. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Your voice broke immediately, and you had to swallow hard just to try again. “Wanda…”

Something in your tone must have given you away, because her voice changed instantly.

“What happened?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the words out before you could stop yourself.

“She did this to me.”

There was a pause.

“What?”

“My legs,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s not an illness. She’s been giving me something.”

“That doesn’t—” Wanda cut herself off, exhaling sharply. “Are you sure?”

“I checked,” you said quickly, panic creeping in. “The pills aren’t vitamins. I looked them up, I compared them, they’re not supposed to—” Your voice cracked again. “She lied to me.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

Then Wanda spoke, slower this time, steadier.

“Okay. Listen to me.”

You nodded without thinking.

“You need to get out of there.”

Your heart dropped at the words. “I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t even walk—”

“I’m coming to you,” she said firmly.

“No—” fear surged through you. “If she finds out—”

“She already crossed the line,” Wanda snapped, anger slipping through. “You think she’s going to stop?”

You didn’t answer, because you couldn’t.

“I love her,” you admitted, your voice small and fragile.

Wanda didn’t hesitate.

“And she poisoned you.”

The words landed heavy and unforgiving, cutting through whatever denial you had left. You covered your mouth as a sob escaped, your chest tightening painfully.

“Do you want to stay there?” she asked, softer now.

You looked around the room, your eyes lingering on everything that once felt safe. The bed, the table, the quiet comfort you used to cling to. Now it all felt different.

Your answer came out barely above a whisper.

“No.”

“Then let me help you.”

You swallowed hard. “…Okay.”

“I’m on my way,” Wanda said. “Get ready.”

The call ended, leaving the silence heavier than before.

This time, it wasn’t comforting.

It was suffocating.

You moved as best as you could, gathering what little you had within reach. It wasn’t much. You hadn’t needed much. Agatha had always made sure of that.

Time blurred together after that. Every sound made your heart jump, every passing second tightening the knot in your chest. You kept glancing at the door, half-expecting it to open, half-expecting her to walk in and see everything.

A car pulled up outside.

Your breath caught.

The door opened, and Wanda rushed in, her eyes scanning the room before settling on you. Relief softened her expression as she crossed the space between you.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

The moment she reached you, everything broke.

“I didn’t know,” you cried, gripping onto her. “I didn’t know…”

“I know,” she murmured, holding you firmly. “I’ve got you.”

You clung to her like she was the only solid thing left.

“Can you move at all?” she asked gently.

You shook your head.

“Alright,” she said, her tone shifting with determination. “Then I’ll carry you.”

Your breath hitched. “She’s going to know.”

Wanda followed your gaze toward the door, then looked back at you, her expression hard.

“Good.”

The word startled you, but she didn’t take it back.

“We’re not hiding this,” she continued. “What she did to you… we’re ending it.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Wanda carefully lifted you into her arms, steady and sure despite the urgency. The sudden movement made your head spin, but you held onto her, trusting her to keep you from falling.

You glanced back at the room one last time.

At everything you were leaving behind.

At her.

Your chest ached.

“She’s going to hate me,” you whispered.

Wanda adjusted her hold on you. “She should be the one afraid.”

You didn’t respond.

Because a part of you still didn’t believe that.

Outside, the air felt different, cooler against your skin as Wanda placed you gently into the passenger seat of her car. She moved quickly, circling to the driver’s side and starting the engine without hesitation.

“Okay,” she said, gripping the wheel. “We’re going to the police.”

Your stomach twisted.

“…Okay.”

The car pulled away from the house, each second putting more distance between you and everything you thought you knew.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

You flinched, your breath catching as you looked down.

A message.

From her.

“Did you take your second medicine, darling?”

Your fingers hovered over the screen.

You didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know what you could say.

Wanda glanced at you. “Don’t respond.”

You didn’t.

But you also didn’t put the phone down.

The road stretched ahead of you, long and quiet, the kind of silence that should have felt like relief but didn’t. Instead, it felt wrong, like you were being watched even now, even here, even as far away as you could get.

Wanda’s grip on the wheel tightened.

“We’re almost there,” she said.

You nodded again, though you weren’t sure you believed it.

The car slowed slightly as it approached a bend in the road.

And then—

The headlights hit.

Too bright.

Too fast.

Wanda barely had time to react.

“Wait—”

Impact.

Everything turned.

Sound broke apart into chaos, metal twisting, glass shattering, your body thrown against the seatbelt as the world spun violently out of control. You heard Wanda shout your name, but it was distant, warped, like it belonged somewhere else entirely.

Then silence.

A ringing filled your ears.

You couldn’t tell where you were anymore. Up or down didn’t make sense. Your body felt heavy, disconnected, like it didn’t fully belong to you.

Somewhere nearby, Wanda was moving.

“Hey,” her voice cut through the haze, strained but alive. “Hey, stay with me. We’re getting out, okay? We’re getting out.”

You tried to answer, but nothing came out.

Your vision blurred.

Then another sound.

Footsteps.

Closer.

Wanda lifted her head slowly.

Her expression changed.

Understanding. Shock. Something sharp and immediate.

“No…” she whispered.

You couldn’t turn your head, but you felt it anyway.

The presence.

The air shifted.

And then—

A hand grabbed her.

Fast.

There was a dull sound, quick and decisive, and Wanda’s body went still before collapsing out of view.

Everything inside you went cold. And before you can process what happened your vision turned dark.

•••

When you woke up, the room was white.

Soft.

Quiet.

Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Agatha was there immediately.

Always there.

“Hey,” she said gently, moving closer as soon as your eyes opened. “Don’t try to sit up too fast.”

Your head hurt.

Badly.

“Wanda…” you whispered automatically.

A pause.

Just long enough to feel heavy.

Then Agatha lowered her gaze slightly.

“She didn’t survive,” she said softly.

The words hit differently this time.

Slower.

Heavier.

Real.

Your breath broke.

“No…”

Tears came before you could stop them, your hands curling weakly into the blanket as your chest shook with something you couldn’t contain.

Agatha immediately pulled you into her arms.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You clung to her without thinking, because there was nothing else to hold onto.

“I don’t remember anything,” you sobbed quietly. “I don’t remember what happened…”

“That’s alright,” she murmured against your hair. “You don’t need to.”

Her hand moved slowly along your back, steady, calming.

You shook in her arms, grief swallowing everything else.

And Agatha held you like she was the only thing keeping you together.

Like she was the only thing left in the world.

“It was an accident,” she said softly. “There was nothing anyone could do.”

You shook your head against her shoulder, your breathing turning uneven, panicked.

Her hand stroked your hair slowly, soothing, steady, almost perfect.

Too perfect.

Your mind felt like it was slipping, pieces of something trying to surface and then dissolving before you could catch them.

Wanda’s voice.

The car.

The road.

Something sharp and fast and wrong.

But every time you reached for it, it disappeared.

Agatha held you tighter.

“You’re safe now,” she murmured. “That’s what matters.”

Safe.

The word should have comforted you.

It didn’t.

Somewhere deep inside, something screamed that it wasn’t right.

But it was fading.

Everything was fading.

When your breathing finally slowed, when the tears stopped coming, when exhaustion began to pull at you again, she didn’t let go.

Instead, she stayed close.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her lips brushed your temple gently.

“You’re safe now,” she repeated softly.

You nodded weakly, too tired to question it.

Too broken to think clearly.

Agatha’s arms tightened just slightly.

And she smiled.

Small.

Private.

Satisfied.

“You’re all I have,” you whispered faintly, your eyes half-closed.

Her voice came back soft as silk.

“And you always will be.”

Outside the hospital window, the world moved on.

But inside, nothing else existed anymore.

Only her.

Please don’t forget to vote, comment, and reblog ❤️ Thank you ❤️

[buttercandy16]

Hey 👋!

Just wanted to stop by and check in on you. So how are you doing, how’s everything going for you lately?

You’re one of my favorite authors on here within the AAA fandom and I’ve admittedly gotten behind on your works but it just means I get to have a blast reading them as I work to catch up.

-🐺

Hey 🫶

This really means a lot to me. Thank you for taking the time to send this. I’ve been doing okay, just taking a bit of a break, but I’m slowly getting back into writing.

And honestly, hearing that you enjoy my work makes me so happy 🥹 Please take your time catching up, there’s no rush at all. I just hope you enjoy the stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

I’ll also be posting something new soon, so I hope you look forward to that.

Thank you again for checking in. I truly appreciate it ❤️

[buttercandy16]

Happy Holidays! ❄️🎄

Happy Holidays! 🥰

[firefly-graphics]

Witch Dividers

Please like and reblog if you use or save.

Dividers List

[witchwolfwriter]

𝔄𝔫 𝔄𝔩𝔭𝔥𝔞 𝔅𝔬𝔰𝔰 & 𝔄 ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔊𝔞𝔪𝔢

🅺🅸🅽🅺🆃🅾🅱🅴🆁🄳🄰🅈14🅺🅸🅽🅺🆃🅾🅱🅴🆁

Warning : Prompt : Omegaverse + Possessive Sex + Choking / Gagging / {Maya Mob Boss / Student Reader } / Maya 50'S AU / G!P / Knotting / Oral Sex / Blow Job / Yandere light / Violent Maya Au / Virginity Kink / Maya is a Killer and a Simp / Impreg Kink / Maya Has Good Intetions, and Violence / Scent Glands /Pheromone Kink / Omega / Alpha / Scenting / Licking / Messy Kisses / Chalk board ASMR / Drugs,Gamblin, Sex Work Mentioned / Maya is a Boss / Poker is statistics / 18+

☞🧿☜

Maya took out brass knuckles and sighed not wanting to have to interrogate another asshole. She just wanted you. And she’d break Saperstein's jaw open to get the secrets. 

Taking off her coat jacket, the cigarette smoke, making the room thick. Outside this office, where a man wasn’t bleeding, tied to a chair. 

Mason’s house was booming in the year 1952, drinking, gambling, and prostitution didn’t have an off-season. And Maya had many different properties in New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. Whore houses and cards were easy to keep up with her large staff, making a dirty enterprise. 

And anyone who had trouble being managed by a mob boss woman simly was taken to see the Brooklyn Bridge. 

Maya had only one weakness in this whole world. 

And that was you. 

Omegas were rare as hell even in populated cities like New York, and the second Maya sniffed you..she’d gon into a rut. 

So why weren’t you currently mated and pregnant from the infamous Maya Mason…It just so happened that you were the twenty year old love child of the Leigh Legacy. And Patty had gone to great length to make sure you had been as far away from the business as possible. 

So there was no way in hell Maya was going to get to court you. 

Maya sent flowers, she offered money, she told Patty she’d go straight, quit the game even. And Patty just shook her head. 

“You’ll always be a Mobster trying to get her dick wet, you’ll party and leave. You talk a big game, but in the end, you’ll leave my only child with pups and no support. Or even worse, the mating will take, and they’ll be sick without you. No, you come anywhere near my family, and I’ll burn your business to the ground.”

Maya had no choice; the two families went to war. But she was still trying to figure out how to stop it, how to get Patty to give you up. 

Which is how she’d ended up with your cousin, Sal in a bloody heap. 

He’d been a rat, and tattled to a cop about his godmother's game. And Maya saw no problem with beating the living shit out of him. 

But she’d let him walk into the facility looking for Matt. A prostitute he frequented, she let him drink, he did some drugs. And then Maya made sure to make a scene out of Sal being drug from the room, naked and high - to the backroom. 

Maya unbuttoned her blazer jacket and smoked a cigar as her goons went to town on him. 

Breaking his ribs, as they did body shot after body shot, and Sal screamed. 

Loud enough every now and then that it cut through the juke music playing in the main room. 

“You tell me where your cousin is, I want the omega. You know which school the sweet thing goes to, where they work, anything? Address of  a friend of a friend, anything?  I don’t care about your proclivities. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you keep your cock.” Maya breathed out a big puff of smoke. And let the brass knuckles on her hand shine. 

She’d had them engraved with your name. 

If Maya was going to have to tear this town apart to get to you, so be it. 

“I TOLD YOU I DON’T KNOW!” Sal yells in pain, and Maya holds up her hand and the two stop their assault on his sides. 

Maya sets the cigar on a glass ash tray next to some playing cards from her previous meeting. Standing up Sal got to see that at the other thend of the brass knuckles was a knife. 

He paled further and started to beg, snot dripping from his nose. 

“I told you, all I want is the omega. You are small fish kid. You want to keep your willy. I would love to give you that chance. But if you play me, I’ll send your balls to Leigh as a in-law present. I saw you talking to the police, I bet Leigh would love to know how you earn your living. Come on - help me help you!” Maya opens her palms like ‘what can I do.’

“You promise If I tell you, you won’t tell Leigh?” Sal ways his options and Maya clenches her fist to show the knuckles and the blade. Signaling he isn’t in a place to make many demands. 

“Boss!” A man ran in and Maya snarled at the intrusion. 

“What is this? What did I tell you, doors closed! Get outta here!” Maya yells but the guy comes in with a piece of paper. And one of the muscle guys grabs him by the shirt to stop him from getting closer to Maya. Then takes the paper out of his hand and gives it to the other man. Who passes it to Maya. 

Maya flips it over and snaps her fingers.

“Get the car.”

🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫

You feel like you are going to puke. 

You had so hoped that by 1952 they’d have made a better suppressant, one that doesn’t make you want to vomit every two seconds. 

And one where you had to wait to take again every fourteen hours. Because by the second hour, you needed it. 

You took a ragged breath and tried to focus. 

You held a piece of chalk between your fingers, you were in your last year of college. Going for Mathematics was difficult enough, but your last name made you a pariah on campus. 

Which was partially why on a cold night in the fall, you were alone, in an empty room on campus with a chalkboard, trying to figure out your theory. Using Riemannian, Einsteins, Oppenheimer different mathmatic puzzles to try and distract yourself. Hell you had a chessboard out and playing cards scattered while you played poker statistics with yourself. 

But the pull in your womb was making you downright violent. 

Taking another sip of black coffee, in the hopes to quel your shaking fingers. 

As you raised your hand again to put chalk to board, but the door swung open, making you jump and turn. 

A woman walked in, her suit perfectly tailored, holding a bouquet of marigolds. Her long dark hair, lipstick, and overall confidence had you at a loss for a moment. 

“This wing is private.” You start, but she closes the doors behind her and reaches above to put the deadbolt in. Striking a bit of fear in your veins, you use the moment she’s turned around to place your hand swiftly on a letter opener on the desk, sliding it behind your back into the tight tweed pants belt line.

Maya turns back around and closes the distance of the stuffy room to stand a foot away from you. 

Handing you flowers. 

“Do you know who I am?” She asks and you squint for a moment, and then take off your reading glasses, thinking maybe it’s your vision. 

“I’ve seen you before…In the papers?” You say carefully. 

“Yes, anywhere else?”

Your face sours and yet Maya doesn’t take offense. 

“Do you work for my mother, did she send you here?” You supply lamely. 

“No, Darlin, I don’t work for her. Is that a full house you got there?” Maya points to the cards but doesn’t look away from you. And you can see she has a sort of dreamy expression. 

“Yes, why are you here?” 

Maya keeps holding the flowers, but she takes her coat off and throws it over a chair, pulling it back and having a seat. 

“I am sorry for frightening you. I’ve come to ask for your hand.” Maya says, now she sets the flowers down and grabs the stack of cards. Shuffling them with the ease of a card dealer, and you scoff, but you are far too intrigued not to pull up the opposite chair and have a seat. The knife is still hidden in your pants, and you make sure not to let it fall as you move swiftly. 

You hope this will go the way you want it to. 

“We’ve never spoken, and you are asking for my hand in marriage?” You flirt. 

“Your reputation precedes you. Would you do me the honors of a game?” Maya asks, and the sound of the cards flittering against each other has you grinning. 

“Do you know who I am?” You ask, not pompous - and not anything about who your family is. In fact, you are enjoying this gorgeous woman's brazenness, not seeming to fear you. 

“I do, I brought you flowers.” Maya answers like it makes sense, and you smile fully. Putting both your elbows on the table and resting your chin on your folded fingers like this was all too fun. And the mirror look you got as Maya dealt the cards for texas hold’em was that of adoration. 

“Why did you bring me the flower of death?” You say not looking away from the woman. But you took the cards once Maya was done shuffling and pushed them out, fanning them in your hands to see what you’d been dealt. 

Maya flips her own cards but looks over at the flowers and seems momentarily stuck. 

“I was told they are the flowers of love…and rebirth..new things?” She asks now, and you like this. You are going to have fun now. 

“I do know who you are, it took me a moment, but I recognize you now.”

“Oh?” Maya asks, and you nod. 

“I’ll take two.” You tell her, and she puts her cards down and deals you two, you discard two. 

“Would you think terribly of me if I told you that I am going against courting rules. Ignoring your mother, killing your cousin, all to get an audience with you?” Maya says, and she doesn’t speak but takes one card and discards it, before dealing herself one. 

Your poker face is better than Maya would have thought, and you don’t react to the facts laid in front of you. 

“Some would call what you’ve done a bluff.”

“What’s this that you’re studying in here?” Maya derails, stacking her cards and pointing to your chalkboard. 

“Mathematics, statistics, science… or I suppose in your line of work you’d call it probabilities.”

“I’m afraid your reputation doesn’t do you justice, Honey, you are far smarter than they even gave you credit for.”

You lean forward, not one to be fooled easily, and you don’t take the bait. Even though it isn’t meant to be false compliments. You keep your cards tight in your hand, tilting towards your chest, not willing to give in just yet. 

“You are familiar with the Geometry and Algebra on the board, then?”

“Not in the slightest, I make my money from blood and flesh.”

“And gambling, cards, dogs, drugs, horses, all sorts.” You finish for her and Mya smirks. 

“Not as clean as you look, what else do you know of my affairs?”

“I know my mother is losing money from your territories. I know you have gotten out of the grasp of the law for multiple murder chargers…And I have heard you don’t bed your staff. Though many betas have tried.” You say and then you look down at the alphas hands. Noticing some indents - you figured it was new from brass knuckles. But there were cuts and scars from years of fighting. 

The alpha was not afraid to get her hands dirty. 

“You don’t like the flowers then?” Maya asks but her eyes have turned, and you are sure that the woman is in love with you. 

“I didn’t say that. What are we betting? Something tells me you didn’t come to my college for a late-night game.”

“I’d like to do something I don’t usually do.”

“Buy a stranger flowers?” You bat your eyelashes. 

“I’ll bet the house. If I win, I get the opportunity to call on you.” Maya says, and her button-down shirt moves as she takes in a deep breath. You know this, tell, her heart is racing, her black dress suspenders expand slightly at her slight tell. 

“You do like to gamble.” You observe out loud the obvious, not really speaking of the cards on the table. 

“Only when it’s worth it.” Maya’s trying to remain calm, but you can see that this really matters to the alpha. 

“Maya Mason, I have heard that you have had your eyes on me for a while. And I must say. I’m disappointed.”

Maya flinches but you carry on. Knowing the ego bruising of the alpha wasn’t going to be small. 

“I had hoped you’d play a little dirtier than this. You bluff with your cards. You bet the house, promise my mother your kingdom…but you won’t even play dirty with me?”

“What would you like to play for then?” Maya tries to pick up the threads, but you smell her pheremones shifting, anger and possession building. She doesn’t want to leave without a promise of seeing you again. 

It’s too bad she doesn’t know. 

You’d only been waiting for an introduction; you had Maya’s photo from the newspaper pinned in your dorm. 

You had been waiting for this. 

“Strip Poker.” You say confidently. 

Maya snorts now leaning back and putting her cards on the table. One eyebrow shooting up, finding you endlessly surprising. 

“I ask you for marriage, not a romp-”

“You expect me to marry you and not test drive?”

“You know many would say that is-”

“Not very prudish, no it’s not. But you see,” you turn your wrist over to look at your small gold watch. “I have a small window of opportunity. And you’ve taken far too long. So we can play cards, you can talk your big alpha game, and maybe if you keep being interesting. I won’t take my suppresents in an hour. Or maybe you’ll bore me, and I’ll cut you down where you stand.” You shrug like it was nothing. 

Maya stood up and you didn’t move, but her strength pushed the table aggressively, and she reached for your folded playing cards. 

You strike at the same time to stop her from cheating, and her strong grip held your wrist too tight, bringing it up to her face. 

“You are playing a game you won’t win.” Maya warned and then used her free hand to flip over the cards. Then laughed to see you had been bluffing, only having a pair. 

You scrunched your eyebrows in aggravation, your hand reaching to her dress pant pocket, but Maya gripped your other wrist. 

Your fingers were only an inch from where her cock was already straining to break free, to play with you. To own you completely. 

You lock eyes for a minute, and you can smell the alpha fully now. 

Beyond the smoke, and scotch. You inhale and she smells of bergamot, sage, and apple. And you feel your womb tug again desperate to dive deep into Maya and drown in the pheramones, the sweat, the fluids. 

Maya’s eyes dilate far pass unnoticeable, and she works to keep her breathing even. 

You move the hand near her crotch slowly, and Maya loosens her grip, now far closer to a caress than a warning. 

Her breath is coming out harder than she’d like in front of you.

You reach into her right pocket, as her pants are pulled with the suspenders, high waisted, and yet the small wet spot from where her cock had leaked precum is now visible to you. And you can almost smell her sex, you reach two fingers into her pocket. 

And pull out three aces and set them onto the table. 

“You are a cheat.” Your voice is shaking, and you want to blame it on your lack of suppressants. But with Maya this close, you are sure you never stood a chance. 

Maya steps closer, and your breath hitches as she takes the hand that didn’t pull the cards. Twisting it behind your back to make you arch against her body. 

Now your crotch pushed tightly between her own. You can feel her cock, and it grows with the warmth of you now. And both of you let out a tight noise of desperation. 

You drip down your thighs at Maya holding you hostage like this, one hand behind your back, tight against the alpha. 

Then Maya releases the hand that found her stash of cards only to reach into the back of your pants and pull out a letter opener. 

The blade shining in the light. 

“You don’t seem to be playing fair yourself.”

“You thought you’d come in here and get a date like I’m some young omega fresh to be fucked.”

“I ought to clean your mouth out with soap.”

“Something tells me the whores you employ say far filthier things to you.”

“I thought you said you knew I didn’t lay with them.” Maya challenges. 

“I thought you said you only brought me flowers, so what am I feeling?” You counter and Maya laughs breathily and pulls you closer to her chest. And your hips twist to hump, and you both can’t ignore the action. 

“Darlin, something tells me you know exactly what you are feeling.” Maya says it holding the letter opener, and your arm in a vice grip. The heat of her body has your senses a buzz. The electricity between the two of you was enough to bring back Frankenstein's monster. 

“You came with good intentions, huh? Where did those go, you are just as bad as the rest of them.” You want to fight, want her to take you here forcefully. It’s too intense to ignore the ache. 

It’s a lie, alphas and omegas could be in rooms and not act like this. You two were going to be an instant match. The bite would take, your pheramones amtching was far too perfect.

“Sticks and stones, but that dampness I feel from you has me believing you don’t believe what you are saying, sweetheart.”

“Flowers and marriage proposals my ass!”

“Check the left pocket.” Maya  says, and her voice changes, it’s stern now and you can’t help the way your nipples harden from the shift. But you take the hand now being held behind your back to reach into Maya’s pocket, and you feel a small velvet box. 

You lose all air from your lungs. 

“Does that feel like a bluff to you?” Maya asks, her teeth bared to show you she’s not playing with you. 

You snap, you push forward, and kiss Maya hard, and it takes the mob boss no time to kiss back. She dominates the kiss, but loses her grip on your arm, and you take the second of weakness to wrap your arms around her neck and swoon into her. 

Maya kisses you like the black and white films you love, she kisses you like the world begins at your fingertips and ends with her mouth enveloping you. 

Sweat takes your body, your heat, making this moment turn carnal fast. 

But you were in love with Maya long before she walked through that door, and you’d picked her out of a crowd. And seeing her sniff the air like some cartoon dog with a bone had you sure, the feeling was mutual. Maya didn’t know you saw her, saw the way she lost her mind when the smell of you faded, yelling at her meat heads to find the source. But you slipped out of the party, just as Maya’s eyes found you. 

You’d been waiting for her, so patiently, and now you didn’t have to pretend. 

Maya’s tongue found yours and you ground your hips down against her erection and she gorwled her first alpha noise and you mewled. 

It was simple math, you two just fit together. Chemistry taking over, a science older than humanity. 

And as your hand fell to button of Maya’s slacks she broke away from you with the letter opener and stabbed it into the table before putting distance between the two of you. Holding her stomach as her curls fell loose around her face. 

Then she pointed at you accusatorily. 

“You are a menace, you need an alpha. You need a good spanking!”

“What am I not like your whores?” You taunt. 

Maya’s jaw tensened and you knew poking her would only end with one thing. Damn you hoped it would. 

“You stop that ugliness, I came with a ring and a promise! You knew!”

“You came with a hunger and trick cards.” You counter, but you don’t mean it rudely. And Maya starts to stalk, to pace back and forth like she’s deranged. 

“I brought flowers, I wanted to woo you! To- And you make noises like that and try and open my fly!” Her hands make a v shape towards her crotch. 

“You want a good omega, maybe try another state.” You saw and drag your thumb to the bottom of your lip to clean the smudge of lipstick, and Maya turns to you with such desire. 

“You are all I want.” The alpha says, leaving no room for argument. 

“What is stopping you?” You say smaller this time, and you look so young to Maya now. No longer the trickster, but a lovesick college student who didn’t know how to make it with an alpha.

“You’re afraid,” Maya says, finally understanding, and you scoff and turn away to go back to your chalkboard. 

“If you won’t do it, I’ll find an alpha who can,” you say hurt, lacing your voice, a sense of rejection finding you. 

And Maya doesn’t make a sound as she flips the desk to get to you, cards flying and chair clattering to the ground, but she’s already behind you. 

Her erection is stiffer than before, pulsing as she grinds it against your butt. 

Hand wrapping around your throat, her nose against your neck, your scent glands. 

And you whip your head back at the clear dominance and moan so dirty Maya ruts her hips forward at the sound. 

“You gonna be my good omega?”

“Please?”

“You tell me yes, you’ll marry me. You come with me. Be mine.”

“Schoo-”

Maya makes a frustrated noise. But she won’t deny you a thing. 

“You are smart enough, fuck - baby fine! You finish school. But you are mine.”

Maya rocks her hips, and you can feel the bulge of her knot, it’s just from the smell of you. The blood pulsing and forming at the base of her cock without even getting to be inside of you. 

You were amazed at this older alpha's control, that she hadn’t lost all sense yet and used you, split you bloody open. 

Many alphas would have lost all morals by now, moving on instinct. 

“I want to run your books, you could be making more.”

Maya grunts, and her body shakes like she’s a lose cannon. 

“You shouldn’t be in the business….damn it, whatever - Done.” Maya pants. 

“You’ll help my Mother.” You lick your lips and push your ass back.  Maya’s mind isn’t working; her fingers dig into your skin. 

“Done.” 

“You’ll let me pick where we live.” You counter. Sweat drips down Maya’s shoulder blades; she can’t take it. 

“Anything you want.” The alpha’s voice cracks. 

You flip surprising Maya who growls thinking you are trying to run. Her hand punches through the chalkboard from pure primal possessiveness. Dust fills the air from the chalkboard and the chalk. 

 But you kiss her jaw and then lick over her scent glands and Maya makes a noise so raw you are sure that someone in the college would come with police now. 

You find the front of her pants and Maya closes her eyes and grabs your hands. She’s trying so hard, and it’s so sweet. 

“Daddy, let me.” You whine and Maya’s eyes snap open and the guttural growl that comes out makes your knees buckle with the need to submit. 

“We will wait till our wedding night.” Maya says, but her entire being says the opposite. 

“What?” You cry and your hands break free from hers and hold her cock from the outside of her dress pants. And Maya acts on impulse and buries her nose against your neck, like it’s the only thing tethering her from madness. 

You stroke up and down, like you’ve read about. And Maya makes dog panting noises and kisses over where she’d bite to mate you. 

A claim so true that no time or legality would ever free you from her. And you almost cum from her breath, from her lips, and then she licks and you whine and hump nothing. 

“You sure you are a virgin?” Maya laughs, and it’s not because of your movement. But rather your skilled hand holding her thick dick like you’d done it before. 

You move Maya’s face to whisper in her ear. 

“You’ll have to check.”

Maya lets out a howl that made any alpha or beta within a five-mile radius understand you were hers. 

Maya’s hands found your ass, and squeezed like she’d be able to keep you in her palms like this forever. And you whine high-pitched but nuzzled her neck again, the two of you two animals lost in pheromones and mating movements. 

“We’ll marry tomorrow, as soon as the church opens. No more supresents, I’ll calm you now. And- fuck you’ll have a body guard when I’m not around. Fuck, and I’ll send a carrier to your mother tonight. Fuck, you - you need a dress.” Maya tries to distract from the act she wants to do by reasoning how to treat you right, to plan for your wedding. It doesn’t help nearly as much as you give tiny bites along Maya’s throat but not on her scent gland, taunting her. 

“Please Maya, Daddy I need you.”

“Okay, okay, okay,  my love not inside though.” Maya reasons like she’s young, lying that if you didn’t do penetrative sex maybe it didn’t count. And you nod and pant, licking up her scent gland like it’s only ever been yours. 

Maya moves your buttons, wanting to suck your sweet juices, that sticky mating wetness that would only drive the alpha to insanity once she got to taste. But Maya had been dreaming about it. And not that you had soaked through the fabric of your slacks, Maya wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to stop. 

You grabbed Maya’s button as well and lifted your fingers to shove the suspenders off of alpha’s strong shoulder. But you only got one before Maya grabbed you by your elbos. 

“Omega, I don’t have- I don’t have the strength, you must slow down.”

“Please, own me? Show them all.”

Maya teeth bared and a furious noise vibrated the room, at the idea of anyone else ever thinking you were anything but hers. 

And your knees did give as you kneeled, but Maya’s unbuttoned state, with one suspender down past her knees…meant that you could finally see alpha’s erection from the thin white pressed boxers. 

And you didn’t mean to, but you move like an omega possessed with heat. 

Sure your suppressant was long gone with the overwhelming chemicals shooting through you at your alpha so ready. 

Your nose buries at the junction of Maya’s thighs, having her making the most beautiful noises. The tendons straining in her arms as she tries so hard not to grab your face. Holding the broken chalkboard behind her, further shatters the tiny shelf with chalk, puffs of white coming up as pieces of white chalk fall to the ground. 

But you don’t care one bit, your nose pressing against Maya's groin. 

You inhale, and this must be what doing drugs is like. 

A boiling sensation in your blood, a head high, your tongue lulls out, jaw unable to hold. And you lick the side of Maya’s shaft through the white underwear. 

And Maya’s head flies back as she is stuck somewhere between dominating and sobbing in relief. 

Your tongue traces over the cloth, and you can’t stand the taste of the soap that cleans her clothes. You need Maya, only her, the deep scent and taste that is owned by the alpha alone. 

You see a slit, never having any experience in men's boxers. But you move your tongue and nose to the window in. And this time, when you lick Maya’s shaft, your tongue slows at the thick vein protruding against your wet taste buds. 

A line of spit coating her penis like you’d imprinted on her very soul. 

And as your nose goes further up from your licking, your nose meets dark black curls of her pubes, and you inhale. 

Sure that you could make your home forever with your nose in her curls. The scent of Maya makes your cunt far wetter than you’ve ever been in any heat. 

It almost looks like you’ve peed, it’s down your thighs, this dark spot of slick. 

You can’t be bothered with that right now, though. 

You are on your knees for Maya Mason, your alpha, your wife come tomorrow. 

And as your tongue moves back down, you get the side of her tip, and Maya’s knees wobble. 

You look up through dark eyelashes at Maya to see that you have the mob bosses' unending attention. The look of love in her eyes made it clear. 

You had the head of the mafia wrapped around your pinky. 

Your fingers went up to hold her hands, and Maya gave one to you and just as she moved her other hand to hold yours. You used your index finger to tug gently at the top of her boxers. 

“You want to hold Daddy’s cock in your mouth?” Maya asked, and you moan. You don’t know what you are doing, but you’d read a lot, and your body seemed to be doing exactly what the older alpha wanted. 

So you were sure no matter what happened, you two would love it. 

Maya quickly pushes her boxers down, and you see the hair slowly peaking out and then bush, and then the veins, and base of her thick cock. Then, more and more shaft, Maya’s trousers were flopped open, one suspender still up her left shoulder. 

And you didn’t have time for her to completely disrobe. The second her mushroom dark red cock head popped out of its confinement. You reached your hand up to hold the knot that was causing the alpha intense pain. 

And she jerked at the feeling. Body going to pudding. 

“Easy baby, I’ve never had a knot like this before, usually it’s just tiny and goes away during my rut. This is different baby, my knot knows you are fertile, fuck. Oh fuck, that’s it baby.” Maya compliments as your tongue replaces your hand, licking around the knot, wanting to help your wife at any cost. 

Maya balances against the broken chalkboard as your tongue licks the underside of her shaft all the way until coming to the small valley of her urethra. Where you lick and then suck with pouting lips. And Maya would have murdered anyone who you’d done this to before, but knowing you are a virgin and doing all these dirty omega needs on instinct had her balls swelling. Maya knew her load would be more than she’d ever produced. 

And you took a deep breath before pushing your mouth to engulf Maya’s cock, and halfway down you gagged. It was big and thick and pulsing and you relaxed your throat, tears forming. 

“My wife, my omega, fuck nothing has ever been as gorgeous as you.” Maya whimpers and you work hard to get your nose back into her curls. 

To swallow her whole. 

“It’s okay sweet girl, your throat will be trained. We’ll do it together, I’ll help you my love. Fuck you already took so much, so good. Omega, so good.” Maya was leaking pre cum down your throat with no stopping, and you swallowed, your throat bobbing up and down with each gulp. 

And the head of crime pushed your hair out of your face to gaze at you. 

“Let your alpha feed your tummy, that’s right baby, swallow all of it up.” Maya chanted, and you’d never thought the mob boss would look so in love. 

A knock at the door had Maya grow. 

But you couldn’t move from your spot, glued to getting as much semen down your throat and into your belly as possible. 

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE OR I’LL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YA!” Maya yelled and lifted one leg, throwing you off balance for a second. But she was quick, holding up a revolver she fired it up into the college ceiling. 

And there were screams outside and people running in fear. 

Maya kept one hand on the gun and the other found the back of your neck. 

Drool falling from your puffy lips, rolling to your chin, and then dribbling down to Maya’s black dress shoe. 

“It’s okay omega. You keep going, no one will bother us. My wife I have you. Nothing's gonna take you from me ever.”

Kinktober2025MasterList | AO3 | @agnes-strap is my personal + Edits & Moodboards | Tip Jar💰- If you want to buy me a Witches Brew | Story Moodboard

[witchwolfwriter]

𝔊𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔇𝔢𝔅𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞'𝔰 𝔓𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔢

🅺🅸🅽🅺🆃🅾🅱🅴🆁🄳🄰🅈10🅺🅸🅽🅺🆃🅾🅱🅴🆁

Warning: Prompt - Oral Sex + Punishment + CNC NON CON / Kidnapping /Oval {Gov Claire / Reader } / Campaign Gone Wrong / DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT / Office Murders/ The Purge AU / Cannibalism / Unhappy Ending + Forced Marriage / Forced Oral Sex / Blood and Gore / DARKFIC / Previous Sexual Assault / Blood and Gore / I messed up cnc to nc so now i have to write a cnc oops / Dead Lovers / Judge Harkness / FBI Agent Vidal / Running mate Gov Jennifer Barkley / Previous Drugging and NonCon / 18+

☞🧿☜

“The soul of our country is at stake.” You heard Senator Charlie Roan say. And you had to agree. 

The day before the Purge was always the most terrifying; everyone was on edge. 

With the upcoming election, you were already slammed. And this years purge was following at the wrong time. 

The primary was only weeks away. And you’d agreed to run with Jennifer Barkley. Currently, you were campaigning, trying to get in front of a crowd and a camera as often as possible. 

But the campaign coordinators had made a terrible mistake. 

And your tour bus was supposed to go towards a bunker for government officials, where you could wait out the impending bloodshed.

Jennifer had already gotten to said bunker - she flew there yesterday to be sure. And you had been trying to keep the budget and stay on the bus. 

Which already was a problem, but worse than that today…. you had to drive through Connecticut…

As in your opponent Claire Debella’s home state. She had been the governor of the state for many years before moving her way up with funding from a certain billionaire. 

But you had long ago been a young, budding college intern for Claire. And you knew the woman more than you cared to admit, and you realized she was dirty just in time. In time that when she asked you to sell your soul, you high-tailed it out of there. 

 So you made better decisions, and worked hard to get where you were today without getting blood on your hands. Not like DeBella, and you with the help of Senator Roan and Governor Barkley, were planning on showing just how shady Claire DeBella really was.

 As you three had been adamantly against The Purge….Well, it was no wonder your skin was clammy and your stomach upset. This was the perfect intro to your head being on a stake. Plenty of the population still loved The Purge Day. 

Twelve hours of all crime being legal had only made sure to show what the American people could really do, given a key to the kingdom. 

And as your bus rolled through Hartford, all you could think about is how it was getting late, and you were not nearly close enough to the bunker. 

It seemed the rest of your team was also growing concerned, but the bus driver continued steadily. And you tried not to let your paranoia take effect, that maybe someone had paid him to drive slow, just under the speed limit. That maybe Miles Bron’s Alpha Industries truck would T-bone your campaign bus at an intersection. 

The sun had already set, Wanda and Vision - your right hands, had the radio up on full blast as NPR did it’s countdown. Interviewing people pre-gaming the event, and people calling in to mourn fallen family members from previous Purges. Telling the radio station that it was barbaric, and needed to end. 

You sighed, unable to look anyone on the bus in the face, and unable to voice your concerns. You had agreed to stand with them, you had agreed to the idea of dying with them. 

The clock ticked, 6 : 50. A measly ten minutes, and you checked your phone. You were only 13 minutes away. It was so close, too close. Looking across the aisle at the bus you spotted Peter part of your junior staff and Billy a cub reporter holding hands. Whispering something close to a prayer to someone somewhere that you would make it. 

And you looked down at your dress slacks and white button down and wondered if your mother would have wanted you to wear magen david necklace. Or if it mattered this far into the campaign, if they killed you would you have wanted it?

You check your phone again…6:55….you wouldn’t check navigation, it wouldn’t help you now. You just tried to breathe, appear calm. Stare out the window, not at all the innocent people on this bus who believed in you, and your cause. 

When the bus slowed, you jerked to look over at Vision, who was already standing. 

“What seems to be the problem?” Your chief of staff asks and you gulp and look up to see the bus driver opening the bus door. And a few people gasp as a police officer walks on board. 

You should feel better; society tells you this should make you feel better. Seeing that badge, an official with a gun, taser, and a bulletproof vest.

But you weren’t some ivy league virgin, you’d worked in polotics for too long, in law too long, to find comfort in a badge. 

“We were told you all were coming through Governor DeBella’s state. And so we are here to make sure you get where you are going safely!” The man says and then you see a woman step onto the bus, she’s got FBI on her vest and a semi automatic rifle. 

You look down at your phone to see it say 6:57. 

“Let’s go then!” Wanda shouts not as polite as the man you were sure she was boning. 

“We just need to do a routine safety check.” The man says and the FBI woman looks around the bus. You gaze over at Billy and Peter practically in tears and decide that this is the moment where you stand. Because if you were going to be a leader anyday, it was the day you died. 

You stood up and slid your phone into your pocket, lanyard hitting against your chest as you made your way to the front of the bus, and the FBI agent smiled. 

“No don’t!” Vision shouted and Wanda actually stood to come with you but you turned and eyed her carefully. 

“You remember what I said to you when we got super drunk in DC’s inauguration ball two years ago?” You say to her and she nods once sitting down. 

“Mohitos?” She asks and you nod and Wanda shoots back up to hug you. You squeeze her once and push her back into her seat to walk the rest of the way to the front, like Mary Queen of Scots, or Mary Antoinette to their own beheading. Your eyes go up to the clock on the bus - 6:58.

“You can have me if you give me your word you let them cross.”

“We’ll let them cross, but that doesn’t mean the state will.” The FBI agent tells you and smirks. You aren’t in the place to make deals. You just have to get off the bus. 

You go down and the whole bus goes nuts yelling for you, and you are proud of them for their fight. But it isn’t necessary, as your leather nice boots hit the dirt Agent Vidal checks her watch, but slaps the side of the bus for them to drive. 

A black military car is outside, three teams of guns for hire, but they must be ex military. Because they keep their faces guarded, and their stance tells you this is not some hillbillies with a shotgun. 

The bus pulls away, and you can see people yelling and arguing about abandoning you, but Wanda is at the helm, calming the people as Vision freaks out. 

“You really FBI?” You ask seeing Vidal speak into a walkie talkie. 

“Sure am.”

“Well that’s interesting, are we really waiting?”

The overwhelming noise of the message starts to blare from peoples cellphones. And you sigh closing your eyes - here we go 7 pm.  

“Not anymore.” Vidal states and throws a black bag over your head. And there’s the sound of gunfire and you are thrown into a vehicle and it takes off. 

Vidal is yelling spanish into the walkie and you wonder who was the ‘traitor’ but whatever it doesn’t matter. 

You are transported quickly and then taken into what you are assuming is a parking garage, as the wheels squeak and the echos change. The car opens and shots and screams can be heard. Then people are grabbing you and a beep sounds out, stairs, more stairs, like ten levels of stairs. All going down, across three rooms. Up again five, and you hope until another door beeps and you are thrown into another room. 

Your knees hit soft ground which throws you for a moment, as the bag is pulled off your head and the lights blind you. You smell a familiar perfume.

And you can’t help but laugh, perhaps it was the wrong chemical reaction when faced with death and torutre. But you had to find the humor in the situation. 

Your vision clears and you are in the white house, the oval office to be exact. 

A few blood stains stood out to you quickly, and then the visual of Claire DeBella. 

Her hair was a little uncombed, dress perfect, mascara smudged on one side. 

She must have gotten her hands dirty today. 

You laugh again and now Claire kicks off her heels and walks to you. 

“What’s so funny Dear?” 

She points to one of the sofas and you get off your bruised knees and sit down. Your hands are unbound, and you turn around to look in the oval office. Claire doesn’t understand for a second and misreads your gaze. 

“Figured you would be in this office under different circumstances?”

You see Claire DeBella’s former running mate practically in pieces from some large axe of machete already dead ontop of the desk. The desk that did not belong to you or to Claire. The idea of the death of democracy played over and over in your mind. And then a silly cartoon popped up to replace it, to disassociate. 

“Figured you’d beat your Mama in her own game?” Claire teased, and you checked behind you to see two more dead bodies with fresh blood. Claire worked fast, you had to hand it to her. “You looking for someone to save you? Let me in on the joke too?”

“I was seeing if we had an audience. I was laughing because I remember when your kids were young we watched Nightmare Before Christmas. And we used to sing ‘Kidnap The Sandy Claws’ I just didn’t realize how much life imitates art I guess.” You shrug hoping it stings, remembering the memories of what was. Before Claire ruined it all.

“They ask about you often, more than their own father. But don’t you fret, you’ll see them again.” She softens taking off her glasses and placing them on the coffee table. 

“Oh, you want to behead me in front of your third grade children?” You laugh again, an interesting coping skill to stress you hadn’t realized would flare so much when nearing the end. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a wonderful mother, and a strong leader. How would that look?” Claire laughs and stalks over to you and sits a little too close on teh uncomfy sofa. 

“I hope they’re someonwhere safe. Like I’m hoping my team is.”

“Of course…I only killed Wanda.”

You flinch, your friend didn’t deserve that. And along with her died the secret of how to find you. Claire reached around you to your back pocket where the cellphone sat. The record button on, she chuckled setting it on the coffee table. 

“Ask me what we did with the body, oh wait let’s make sure we get better audio.” Claire reached across to pick the phone back up. “Testing testing.” 

She smirked and you shook your head, you wouldn’t ask. 

“Miles took a trip to a special island and found out from a man podcaster that if you ate people….You got stronger, smarter, more powerful or whatever. So he’s spending this Purge Hannibal style.”

You throw up a little bit in your mouth but swallow, not about to let Claire see you react. But you shiver involuntarily. 

“What’s wrong, no comment now?” Claire pushed the phone closer to your mouth and you bat it away. The phone fell to the ground and shattered. Claire watched it and then gave you a fake mournful face. Her bottom lip sticking out as though you were a child she was telling wouldn’t get second helpings. 

The image of Wanda being eaten by the rich was the most revolting thing you had ever heard. And you worked in politics. 

You worked in politics, you had to remember this was a game, and you weren’t some lowly intern working for Claire’s campaign any longer. 

So you plaster a grin, your appearance ready to fight or meet your maker. 

“Get on with it DeBella, go ahead, kill me, make my cause a new flame.  Martyr me I dare you.”

Your eyes must reflect that you are ready to die this was because Claire appears very unhappy. Then she forced up a facade of polite enthusiasm. 

“You were always prone to dramatics.” Claire pushes a stray hair over your shoulder and you dont’ flinch, much to your credit. 

“Says the political candidate who killed the president, VP, and I’m guesing your own husband… and then fed them to a billionaire.” You work hard to keep your voice monotone. 

“You say canabalism I saw re-assignment. Besides, politics was always about getting your hands dirty. You know this, I taught you more than you let CNN know.”

“Your right, your coffee order is burned into my skin, as well as your favorite way to yell at an intern.”

Claire reaches out and grabs your jaw harshly, like she’s done entertaining this. 

“Don’t play coy.”

“Why not? We have a little less than twelve hours. You gonna murder me clean or televise it? I’m sure FOX would pay you big bucks for that.”

“Well BBC wouldn’t call it world news that’s for sure.”

You both laugh at the absurdity of it all. Claire’s perfect manicured nails digging into your cheek painfully. 

“Is this the part of the story where you tell me what’s in store and then cackle?”

“I’m trying to decide if I like you scared like this, some tiny thing in my palm. So fragile, just like when you first got to DC. Wanting to make a change, you want me to put your nose in the carpet? Like a dog who pisses indoors, show you what change tastes like?”

“You really are what’s wrong with this system.”

“Oh honey, you overestimate me. I can’t take responsibility for all of it. Besides, I’m not what’s wrong, I’m the solution. And so are you.”

This took you off guard and Claire smashed her mouth against yours and you were so shocked you just sat there with your eyes open, frozen. 

 Her residual lipstick smearing over your mouth and chin. 

When she pulled back, her arm wrapped around your neck like a lover it started to click. You always wondered why Claire had favored you so quickly, and the gaps of your memories when you two would drink. You hadn’t talked about it in therapy, never wanting to. But something sat cold in your heart when you saw Claire on the news, and now it was starting to unravel. 

“Looks like things are falling into place my love.” Claire whispers, her mouth inches from yours. As though she wants to see the moment it all sparks. 

“I thought you were just going to kill me.”

“What a waste.” Claire lets meticulously tongue roll over her front teeth. 

“You couldn’t just end it that fast, you want to punish me.”

“Punish, now that’s a word that makes sense. VP to many is a worst punishment than no position. And you wouldn’t be as cute as a meatpie.” Claire licks your bottom lip, and you hold onto the side of the sofa for dear life. 

“You want to Johnson me?”

“No dear I want you branded, like cattle, I have a ring picked just for you.”

“You’re gonna Jackie me?” You re-asses and Claire chuckles at that phrasing before using one of her thumbs to hold open your eye. A display of power with no purpose, a vet checking out a pig. 

“Think of it more like Clinton. We’ll keep each other secrets, we’ll fight alongside each other. You’ll clean up my messes, and I’ll clean yours.”

Claire releases her hold and leans back just to let her words settle in your skin. 

“Bill, I don’t have messes.” You play along and Claire kisses your jawline, as though she just can’t help but enjoy you.  While you try to turn your brain pattern that understands sensation off. 

Because soft lips were hard to ignore, even if they came from a killer. Claire was psychotic….but she wasn’t’ hideous on the outside, a real venus flytrap situation. 

“But you do, and I’ve been so good at cleaning it up.” Claire scolds you and she leans to reach in her dress pocket. Making a show of pulling out four polaroids.

And you see pictures taken of Supreme Court Judge Harkness, she’s in stills but the terror is there. As they hold a gun to her head. And then the aftermath, with her brains on the floor. You drop the polaroids, fear finally hitting your blood stream correctly. 

“There it is, so scary when it hits, isn’t it? Your fight of flight, what does it look like?” Claire asks and unbuttons your blouse, and you freeze. 

“Is that why she called you Bunny? Because you don’t flee or fight, you just sit in the middle of the road? Please, I’ve debated with you for too long to believe that was true. Did you know Agatha was still  married when you two started fucking? Did you care? Of course not. You judge others for their impure actions and excuse your own.”

Claire takes off your white button down and pushes it over your shoulders, and then unclasps your bra from the front. 

“That’s why you never listened to my advances, remember because I was unhappily married. Trying to separate, and you just wouldn’t cave.” Agatha continues and snaps the buttons in the middle of your shirt and they fall to the floor. You want to look away. But you have to keep paying her game. 

“So what? Your plan is to film me and air it?” You try to think two steps ahead, just like DeBella taught you in politics. You weren’t playing chess right now though, not an Rubik's cube, or fucking battleship. This was a game formed from the flames of The Purge.  

The lights flickered, and you could hear someone scream, but Claire wasn’t in the least bit concerned. 

“No, darling, I wouldn’t want anyone to see you writhe beneath me. No, much too Hollywood.” Claire kisses the corner of your lips before continuing, “ It’s 2025, I plan on setting you up for murder if you ever think of disobeying me ever again. No more straying away from home. I have enough DNA to put you all over the poor Harkness murder…And Bron promised to keep Wanda’s teeth for me…”

Your face turned green with disgust, shaking at the idea of all of it. The next conclusion is the most obvious one…

“You want me to be your pretty stage wife?”

“I want you to be my vice president, but every night spread your legs like Jackie.” Claire laughs manically and you think this is worse. 

“Or you’ll…”

“I have a friend in the FBI who doesn’t like you very much. And a little birdie told me my opponent Jen has a crush on you.”

You close your eyes in horror, this was much worse than death. 

“Shh, my little vp don’t be so sad! I think we all look a little alike, dark hair, blue eyes, cute nose. I’m sure over the next four decades you can learn to like me just as you did them. After all, I came before them, and you did like me once. You have a type, woman in charge enactin change, looks good in a pantsuit. It’s cute really.”

“You are foul.” You say and Claire shifts her head back and forth like she’s contemplating it. 

“Maybe, but maybe you shouldn’t piss off crazy.” Claire stands, her mood shifting fast. As she grabs you by the hair and you lose your balance as she lifts you by your scalp off the sofa and towards the desk. 

Pushing her previous VP choices corpse off of the surface. Blood still all over and you cringe as she throws you onto the wet wood . 

The hard edge hurting your lower back but Claire just keeps pushing your chest until you have your whole body ontop of the bloodsoaked desk. 

Your body makes the red puddle fall over the side and drip onto the carpet more. 

But Claire didn’t care a bit. Getting ontop of you, she put her knees on the desk, straddling your stomach.

As she lifted her cream dress up her thighs and hips for you to see her pussy, no underwear. 

“Time to learn how to please Mommy.” A bit of Claires cum gobs onto your tummy, and you want to die. The Governor is stupid if she actually believes this is going to work. 

“Fuck you.” You sneer and Claire smiles and then back hands you so hard you feel like a tooth might come out. 

“You will learn, the rest of your existence is all about rewards system. And if you disobey, then it will be a string of punishment. And you won’t like all of what I’ve come up with. Now I haven’t cum since the day you left, my late husband believed my clit was  fourt knox. He just never seemed to be able to crack it. But you made Mommy cum so fast. “  Claire moved to stranddle your face and you tried to wiggle only for her to pin your arms with her knees. And the full wait of her on your arms was painful as hell. 

Mixed with Claire’s hands grabbing onto your hair like she’d rip it out if you misbehaved. 

“Don’t bite, or I’ll feed you like I feed my billionaire.”

That makes your stomach churn in disgust and you open your mouth to say something nasty. Only for Claire to sit down completely on your face. 

You try to move away, her pussy soaking your face as you attempt to free yourself. Claire sighsn disappointed by your actions, taking one of her hands to pinch your nose. 

“You can breathe once you start to lick. Be good and suck on Mama.”

You try to fight, really you do, but Claire is patient. Something you didn’t find when working for her before. She waits for you to turn purple, and then she lifts her hips just enough for you to breathe and she pinches your nipples behind her back as hard as possible. 

And then repeats, and it’s after the third time you realize that you are no longer a person. No longer someone with rights, you are a first lady, or maybe even less than that. Manchurian candidate, a puppet, and a sex toy on command. You feel for Monroe. And you close your eyes and give the first lick. 

Earning a string of happy noises from the soon-to-be president. 

You lick her labia up and down, moving the underside of her clit. And it doesn’t take long for Claire to moan and scream with delight. And you hate yourself for it. But you figure bringing her to orgasm quickly will at least get this part over with. 

Licking this maniac you once looked up to wasn’t rocket science, and you pushed your tongue flat and pushed up against her clit ten times in curcles and that was that. 

Claire actually ejaculated onto your nose and cheeks, it dripped down your chin and neck. Getting into your hair, you just kept licking, hoping it would end soon. 

And Claire laughed and made little content noises, before lifting her hips up for you to take a deep breath again. Her hands staying in your hair like they were the reins to a pony. 

“See what a good reward, now a few more seconds and we’ll sixty-nine on the desk.”

“What! No, I did what you wanted!”

“Oh sweetie, you’ll have to read the fine print better when I put you in the white house. No, we’re gonna do what all those Republicans really want. And sixty-nine on the white house desk. I have twelve hours to do whatever I please with you. And Mama already got her to do list done. Kill the president, kill your little slutty  girlfriend, blah blah blah. Now it’s time to enjoy The Purge the way it was meant to be savored.”

 Tears fell down your already soaking wet face, mixing with Claire’s cum. But she just lowered her cunt back down to your mouth. Her body ready for more, for hours of it. As her team went out and killed more, slaughtering innocents in her wake. Stocking up to feed Bron’s new diet. 

“This is Mommy’s Purge baby.” Claire moaned, letting  her head fall back as your tongue moved to fuck her hole, and she moaned out into the bloody room:

“God Bless America.” 

Kinktober2025MasterList | AO3 | @agnes-strap is my personal + Edits & Moodboards | Tip Jar💰- If you want to buy me a Witches Brew | Story MoodBoard

[buttercandy16]

This makes me happy 😋😊

[buttercandy16]

The Perfect Family

PAIRING(s): Agatha Harkness x Reader

SUMMARY: To everyone else, Agatha Harkness, her wife Rio, and their son Nicky are the picture of happiness. But perfection is only what you’re allowed to see… and once you step inside their world, nothing is as it seems.

WARNING(s): Cheating, Dark themes etc.

Tip Jar 💰

The Vidals had always been the kind of family people whispered about with admiration.

On the surface, they seemed untouchable.

Agatha, with her sharp intellect and magnetic charm, carried herself like a woman who had never once doubted her place in the world. Rio, soft where Agatha was sharp, moved through life with a smile that could melt even the coldest stranger. Together, they radiated an almost theatrical perfection, as if their marriage was some stage play that everyone else was lucky enough to watch. And then there was Nicholas — or Nicky, as everyone called him — their teenage son, who carried both of his mothers’ best features and wore them with the ease of someone who’d never known cruelty.

Your family had been close with theirs for as long as you could remember. Dinners, holidays, birthday parties — the Vidals were woven into your childhood like thread in a tapestry. So when your parents announced that Agatha and Rio had invited you all over for dinner again, you hadn’t thought twice.

The Vidal house was warm that night, filled with the scent of Rio’s cooking and the low hum of music playing from the kitchen speaker. Agatha was already seated in the living room when you arrived, legs crossed elegantly, a glass of wine balanced between her fingers. She looked up the moment you stepped inside, her lips curling into a smile that felt sharper than the welcome it carried.

“Look who’s finally grown up,” she murmured, her voice smooth as velvet. “You’ve changed.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks under her gaze. She didn’t say it the way most family friends did — not with that absentminded fondness that adults reserved for children they’d seen grow. Her words held weight, a glimmer in her eyes that unsettled you.

Rio appeared then, wiping her hands on a towel before pulling you into a warm hug. “Don’t listen to her,” she laughed. “She’s always dramatic. You look wonderful.”

Dinner passed in the usual blur of conversation. Rio asked about your studies, your parents discussed work, and Nicky animatedly told stories about his friends. Agatha, however, was quiet. Too quiet. She sat across from you, her gaze steady, almost predatory in the way it never seemed to waver. Every time you dared glance up, you found her already watching.

Later, when the table was cleared and everyone lingered with dessert, Agatha leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching in her eyes.

“So,” she asked, directing the question to you alone, “what’s keeping you busy these days?”

It should have been innocent. The way she asked, though — low, deliberate, like her words were meant only for you — sent a shiver down your spine.

You answered quickly, fumbling over your words, trying to look anywhere but at her. Rio chuckled and teased Agatha about interrogating you, but Agatha only smiled.

When dessert was done, Nicky tugged you toward the living room to show you something on his laptop. You followed him, grateful for the distraction, only to realize a moment later that Agatha had drifted in after you. She stood behind the sofa, watching quietly, sipping her wine as Nicky clicked through his photos.

At one point, her hand brushed your shoulder — just a fleeting touch as she leaned down to comment on something her son was showing you. But it lingered half a second too long.

You told yourself it was nothing. That it was your imagination. That Agatha Harkness was married, that she loved Rio, that this family was as perfect as they seemed.

But when you finally said your goodbyes at the door, Agatha was the one to open it for you. And as you stepped past her, she leaned close, her lips grazing the shell of your ear in a way that no family friend ever should.

“You’ve grown into something beautiful,” she whispered.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

By the time you turned to look at her, she was already smiling — the same charming smile she’d worn all evening, as if nothing had happened.

And in that moment, you understood something unsettling: the perfect family wasn’t so perfect after all.

The following week, you tried to put the dinner out of your mind.

It should have been easy. Agatha’s words, her touch, the way her eyes seemed to strip you bare — it was all just your imagination, you told yourself. That family had always been good to yours. She was married. She had Rio. There was nothing there.

Except you couldn’t shake it. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way her lips had brushed your ear. Every time you replayed the dinner, you remembered her gaze fixed on you like she already owned you.

So when your phone buzzed late one afternoon and you saw her name flashing on the screen, your stomach flipped.

Agatha Harkness.

“Darling,” her voice purred the second you answered, “I was wondering if you might help me with something.”

You hesitated, but her tone left little room for refusal. Within the hour, you were at the Vidal home again, under the pretense of helping Nicky with a school project.

But Nicky was nowhere to be found.

“He ran off with his friends,” Agatha explained with an airy smile, pouring herself another glass of wine. “Typical teenager.”

You should have left then. You told yourself to make an excuse, to walk away. But instead, you sat across from her in the quiet living room, nerves buzzing under your skin.

Agatha leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re very obedient,” she said softly, almost like a compliment. “One little call, and here you are. Not everyone would come running so quickly.”

“I… I thought Nicky needed help,” you stammered.

“Of course,” she replied, though her smile suggested otherwise. “But I don’t mind having you all to myself.”

Her words hung in the air like smoke.

For the next hour, she kept you there with small talk, her voice low and deliberate, her eyes never straying from you. Every once in a while, she leaned forward to adjust something on the coffee table, her hand brushing yours — not by accident. Never by accident.

At one point, she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your cheek. The gesture was so intimate it made your breath catch.

“You blush so easily,” she whispered, as though she were amused by her own power.

You jerked away, heart pounding. “This is… this isn’t right.”

Agatha tilted her head, studying you like a puzzle she was intent on solving. Then she set down her glass and leaned closer.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.

It was a trap. You knew it was a trap.

But when you opened your mouth, no words came.

Agatha’s smile deepened, slow and triumphant. And then, before you could find your voice, her lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was nothing like you’d imagined — not gentle, not tentative. It was insistent, commanding, as though she had been waiting for this moment far longer than you had ever suspected. Her hand slid behind your neck, holding you in place, and despite every voice in your head screaming that this was wrong, your body betrayed you. You kissed her back.

When she finally pulled away, your lips tingled, your chest heaving with breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“There,” Agatha murmured, her thumb stroking your jaw. “Now you’ve tasted it. Tell me you don’t want more.”

You should have said no. You wanted to say no.

But the words refused to form.

And Agatha, of course, noticed.

Her smirk widened as she leaned back, sipping her wine again as if nothing had happened. “That’s what I thought.”

You promised yourself you wouldn’t go back.

After that kiss, you had sworn it was over. That you would ignore her calls, her texts, her knowing smiles across the dinner table. That you would bury the memory before it rooted too deep.

But Agatha didn’t make promises. She made demands.

And when her name lit up your phone again a few nights later, your hand trembled as you pressed accept.

“Come over.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Rio’s working late. Nicky’s out. It’s just me. Don’t keep me waiting.”

You didn’t remember making the decision. Only the next thing you knew, you were standing in front of her door again, your pulse hammering in your throat.

Agatha opened it herself, dressed in silk the color of spilled wine, her hair loose around her shoulders. She smiled when she saw you — a slow, predatory curl of her lips.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, taking your wrist and pulling you inside.

You barely had time to protest before her mouth was on yours again, more forceful than before. Her kiss stole your breath, her hands pressing you back against the wall. You gasped into her lips, torn between pushing her away and pulling her closer.

“Agatha—”

“Shh.” Her tongue slid against yours, silencing your protest, her body pinning yours in place. “You want this. You’re just too afraid to admit it.”

Her hand trailed down your side, fingers skimming over your waist, teasing at the hem of your shirt. You shuddered, clutching at her shoulders, and she laughed softly — dark, pleased.

“See? Your body knows the truth.”

She guided you toward the sofa, pressing you down into the cushions before climbing over you. The silk of her robe brushed your skin, cool against the heat rising between you. Her eyes burned into yours, daring you to resist.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Her mouth traveled down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, tongue soothing over the sting. You whimpered, arching beneath her, and she rewarded you with a satisfied hum.

“Mine,” she whispered against your throat. “You’re mine now.”

Your guilt screamed louder than ever, Rio’s kind smile flashing in your mind, Nicky’s laughter echoing in your ears. But Agatha’s touch was relentless — her hands slipping beneath your clothes, her lips tracing fire across your skin. The line between fear and desire blurred until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

The night dissolved into breathless moans and tangled limbs, every inch of you consumed by her. Agatha was both merciless and intoxicating, knowing exactly how to draw out your pleasure and prolong your torment. Every time you thought you might beg her to stop, she coaxed another sound from your lips, another shiver from your body, until surrender felt inevitable.

By the time it was over, you were shaking in her arms, your head pressed against her shoulder. She stroked your hair lazily, as though she had all the time in the world.

“There now,” she murmured. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Tears pricked at your eyes. “This is wrong. Rio—”

Her hand tightened in your hair, forcing you to look at her. The softness in her expression vanished, replaced by something sharper, darker.

“Don’t,” she said coldly. “Don’t speak her name here. This is ours. You belong to me when you’re with me.”

Her lips brushed your temple, deceptively tender.

“And I won’t share you with anyone.”

Every stolen kiss, every secret meeting, every hurried touch behind locked doors left a deeper mark on your conscience.

The guilt was suffocating.

Rio’s kindness became unbearable. Each time she smiled at you, each time she wrapped you in one of her warm hugs, you felt yourself unraveling. She deserved better than betrayal. She deserved better than this.

And Nicky — sweet, unassuming Nicky — laughed at the kitchen table, telling you stories about his classmates as if nothing were wrong, as if the world hadn’t tilted on its axis behind his back. His trust made you sick.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

The decision came one restless night as you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. You would end it. Whatever spell Agatha had woven around you, you would break it. You would confess, apologize, distance yourself. It was the only way to make things right.

The next day, you went to her.

Agatha greeted you in her study, lounging on the sofa with a book in her lap, her silk robe falling loosely over her body. She looked up the moment you entered, her smile slow and deliberate.

“There you are,” she purred. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Your throat tightened. “We need to talk.”

Her eyes gleamed, intrigued. She closed her book and set it aside. “Oh? That sounds serious.”

You forced yourself to meet her gaze. “This has to stop.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Her smile didn’t falter, but it no longer reached her eyes.

“Stop?” she repeated softly, as though testing the word on her tongue. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you said firmly, though your voice trembled. “It’s wrong. Rio doesn’t deserve this. Nicky doesn’t deserve this. I—”

Before you could finish, Agatha was on her feet. She crossed the room in two strides, her hand snapping around your wrist. Her grip was vice-like, her nails digging into your skin.

“Don’t you dare speak to me about Rio,” she hissed. Her face was inches from yours now, her eyes burning with something sharp and terrifying. “Don’t you dare pretend you care more about her than you do about me.”

Your breath hitched. You tried to pull back, but her hold only tightened.

“I made you feel alive,” she whispered, her voice low and venomous. “Don’t you forget that. I gave you what no one else could. And now you think you can walk away? From me?”

“Agatha—please—”

Her other hand came up, fingers sliding into your hair, forcing your head back. It should have been tender, but it wasn’t — it was possessive, frightening, a reminder of just how little control you had.

“You’re mine,” she growled. “Do you understand? Mine. If you breathe a word of this to Rio, if you even think about leaving me, I will ruin you. I will take everything you love and twist it until you can’t recognize it anymore.”

Tears stung your eyes. You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

Agatha softened then, in a way that made your stomach churn. She pressed her lips to your forehead, a mockery of tenderness, her hand still fisted in your hair.

“There, there,” she cooed. “Don’t cry. You’ll stay. You’ll stay because you know what happens if you don’t.”

And before you could protest, her mouth was on yours again — bruising, consuming, forcing you back onto the sofa. The kiss was a punishment and a reward all at once, leaving you breathless, terrified, and hopelessly trapped.

By the time she pulled away, you were shaking.

Agatha smiled, stroking your cheek as though she hadn’t just threatened to destroy you.

“Good girl,” she murmured. “Now, let’s never have that conversation again.”

You thought about telling Rio.

For days, the guilt had gnawed at you until your stomach ached and your chest felt like it was splitting open. Every time Rio touched your arm, every time she laughed with you over coffee, every time she treated you like family, you wanted to fall to your knees and confess.

She would forgive you. She had to. If you told her the truth, she’d see what Agatha really was, wouldn’t she? She’d protect you.

That was what you told yourself the night you stayed after dinner, lingering in the kitchen while Rio washed the dishes. Your parents had already left with Nicky, giving you the perfect chance.

“Rio…” your voice shook, but you pressed on, “there’s something I need to tell you. About Agatha.”

But before Rio could answer, a hand slid across your shoulder.

“Darling,” Agatha’s voice purred in your ear, “there you are. I was wondering where you’d gone.”

You froze. She had moved so silently you hadn’t heard her enter.

Rio glanced between the two of you, her brow creasing slightly. “Everything okay?”

Agatha’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against your shoulder, the message clear: say nothing.

You forced a smile, your voice cracking. “Y-yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Rio studied you for a moment, but Agatha’s smile was dazzling, practiced, perfect. Whatever suspicion flickered in Rio’s eyes quickly softened. She nodded and went back to rinsing the dishes.

As soon as her back was turned, Agatha leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You were going to tell her, weren’t you?” she whispered. Her tone wasn’t angry — it was worse. Amused. Like a cat who had already caught the mouse.

You shook your head frantically. “No—I wasn’t—”

“Liar.” Her nails grazed your arm through your sleeve, sharp enough to sting. “You forget who you’re dealing with. I see everything. I hear everything. And if you ever try that again…”

Her breath was hot against your neck. “I’ll make sure Rio pays for your betrayal. And Nicky, too. Sweet boy — imagine how it would break him if he knew.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes.

“You wouldn’t—”

“Oh, darling.” She laughed softly, darkly. “Don’t test me.”

That night, after your parents had left and the Vidal house fell silent, Agatha found you again. She cornered you in the guest room, the door clicking shut behind her.

“You need to understand,” she murmured, stepping closer until your back hit the wall. “There’s no escape. You’re mine, body and soul. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be.”

You tried to push her away, but she caught your wrists, pinning them above your head. Her mouth claimed yours, fierce and consuming, as if she could devour your defiance. You whimpered into the kiss, trapped between fear and longing, and she smiled against your lips.

“Good girl,” she whispered when she finally pulled back, her forehead resting against yours. “You see? You don’t need anyone else. Not Rio. Not your parents. Not anyone. Just me.”

And in that moment, with her body pressed against yours and her threats still ringing in your ears, you realized the truth:

You weren’t just having an affair anymore.

You were trapped in a cage of silk and violet, beautiful on the outside, deadly within.

Agatha had you — and she would never let you go.

The Vidal house was as warm and inviting as it had always been. Rio’s laughter still filled the kitchen, Nicky’s footsteps still thudded across the upstairs hallway, and Agatha still wore her dazzling smile like a crown.

But you saw it now — the cracks in the glass.

Rio’s eyes lingered on you a second too long sometimes, as though she sensed something she couldn’t quite name. She would tilt her head when you spoke, her brow faintly furrowed, like she was listening for something beneath your words.

And once, as you reached for a glass in the cupboard, she touched your arm gently.

“You’ve seemed… different lately,” she said softly. “Quieter. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

You forced a smile, the lie heavy on your tongue. “I’m fine.”

But Rio didn’t look convinced.

That night, as you left the Vidal home, you caught her watching from the window. Her face was calm, but her eyes were sharp, thoughtful.

Meanwhile, Agatha’s hand rested firmly against the small of your back, guiding you to the car like you belonged to her.

“You worry too much,” she murmured when she saw your expression. “Rio suspects nothing. She never will.”

Her lips brushed your temple, soft and poisonous.

“Because you’ll never betray me.”

You nodded, because you had no choice.

But as you glanced back at the house, at Rio’s silhouette framed in the golden light of the kitchen, a flicker of hope stirred beneath your fear.

Because maybe — just maybe — Rio was starting to see the truth.

And if she did…

The perfect family would shatter.

_-_-_-_

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[buttercandy16]

The Nanny

PAIRING(s): Nanny!Agatha Harkness x Reader

SUMMARY: A mysterious nanny enters a fractured household, bringing comfort, chaos, and desire in her wake.

WARNING(s): Dark themes, Cheating, Nsfw

A/N: Should I write some sort of prequel but in Agatha's POV?

Tip Jar 💜

The storm hit the night Agatha Harkness arrived.

Rain clawed at the windows like something desperate trying to get in, thunder growling low behind the hills. You stood on the front porch with your husband beside you, both of you watching the black car roll up the driveway. In the backseat, a silhouette sat poised, still—like she belonged in a portrait.

You weren’t sure what you expected. But not her.

She stepped out, heels tapping the soaked pavement, umbrella tucked beneath one arm. Dark hair curled neatly around her face, her long coat cinched tight at the waist like a secret. Her lips were wine red. Eyes, a storm of their own.

"Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N," she said in a low, velvet voice. "I'm Agatha. Thank you for having me."

Your husband shook her hand first. You watched how Agatha smiled at him—friendly, professional. Her gaze slid over to you next. It lingered.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you," she said, voice soft but deliberate.

Something about the way she said you made your stomach stir.

Agatha moved into the guest room on the second floor, across the hall from your son's nursery. She unpacked quickly, efficiently. By dinner, she’d already soothed your toddler’s tantrum, folded the laundry you hadn’t touched in two days, and remembered your dog’s name.

She was… perfect. Unsettlingly so.

Your husband noticed too, but not in the way you did. You saw the way his brow lifted as Agatha laughed at his jokes. He never looked at you like that anymore.

“She’s good,” he said that night as you both lay in bed. “The agency sent us a miracle.”

You didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the ceiling. For some reason, you couldn’t stop thinking of the way Agatha had adjusted your necklace earlier that evening, her fingers brushing the back of your neck as you stood frozen in the hallway.

“She’s a little weird,” you muttered.

“Huh?”

You turned on your side. “Nothing.”

Over the next week, Agatha became a fixture. Morning coffee. Afternoon walks. Dinner prep. She read stories with a voice like honey, cooked like she’d known your kitchen better than you did, and handled your son with a tenderness you hadn't felt in ages.

Too tender, maybe.

She often touched your arm in passing. Smiled when you caught her staring. She never once slipped up in front of your husband. But when it was just the two of you—when he was out for work and your son napped upstairs—Agatha spoke with a different cadence. Slower. Intimate.

“Motherhood suits you,” she said one afternoon, eyes following your every move as you prepared a bottle in the kitchen. “There’s a softness in you most women lose when they marry the wrong man.”

You froze. The bottle slipped from your hand and bounced in the sink.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” she said with a soft laugh. “But you’re always tense when he’s home. You relax when it’s just us. Have you noticed?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

That night, you stood outside Agatha’s door. You had no idea why.

She opened it before you could knock. Almost like she’d been waiting.

“I—uh… I was just checking—”

Agatha smiled slowly, pulling her robe tighter around her waist. Her collarbones peeked out, pale in the moonlight, a wisp of lavender perfume curling into your nose.

“Everything’s fine,” she murmured. “But thank you for coming.”

You couldn’t sleep after that. You lay in bed next to your husband, heartbeat loud in your ears.

Her voice. Her scent. Her gaze. They haunted the dark. And deep in your gut… you weren’t afraid of her.

You were afraid of yourself.

Your husband left early the next morning.

Another client meeting. Another “emergency” out of town. Another kiss on your cheek like routine—dry, thoughtless. You stood in the doorway in your robe, clutching your mug, watching his car disappear into the mist. Your son wailed somewhere upstairs.

Behind you, the sound of soft slippers. And then her voice, velvet-smooth.

“I can take him today,” Agatha said. “You look like you need rest.”

You blinked at her.

She wasn’t even dressed yet, just her silken nightgown and a long robe trailing like ink down her figure. But her hair was already brushed. Her lips pink. Calm. Beautiful.

You swallowed. “No, it’s okay. I—”

“I insist.” Her hand found your wrist and gently turned your mug. “You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t realized it. But you were.

She leaned in, her voice close to your ear. “Take a bath. A long one. I’ll handle everything.”

You sank into the tub fifteen minutes later, the house unusually quiet.

Agatha’s presence downstairs was a strange comfort. She sang to your son while she cooked. You recognized the tune. A lullaby your mother used to sing. But you hadn’t told Agatha that.

You let it go.

The warmth of the water began to ease your nerves. You closed your eyes, leaned back, and for the first time in weeks, just breathed.

Until you heard it. A soft knock on the door.

Before you could answer, it creaked open.

Agatha stood in the threshold.

“Sorry,” she said. “I brought you this.”

She held out a glass of red wine. You blinked at her, startled, more by her gaze than the intrusion. Her eyes dragged over the bubbles, your exposed collarbone, your bare knees. But her smile didn’t waver.

“Figured you’d need something to help you let go.”

You took the glass. Your fingers brushed. Her hand lingered. She didn’t leave.

“Agatha…”

“You look beautiful like this.” Her voice was low, reverent.

You froze.

“You always look beautiful. But now… raw. Real. Soft.” She tilted her head. “It’s a shame he doesn’t see you.”

You stared at her, your heart pounding in your chest.

“That’s not—”

“He doesn’t touch you. Not anymore.” Her eyes flicked downward. “Does he?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Silence.

“I know what desire looks like, sweetheart,” she said. “And it’s not in his eyes.”

Her words hit you like a slap, but they didn’t feel cruel. They felt… true. Shameful. Exposed. She wasn’t mocking. She was mourning it with you.

Her hand touched your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar.

“You deserve to be seen.”

You didn’t pull away.

You told yourself it was the wine.

That’s what you blamed for letting her kiss you in the hallway an hour later, with your back to the nursery door. Your son was asleep. The house was silent. Your mouth found hers in the dark.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t wild.

It was slow.

Her lips were patient, fingers cradling your jaw, her body pressed against yours like she’d been waiting for this. Like she’d known all along that you’d eventually break.

And she made it feel like breaking was okay.

When she finally pulled back, your hands still gripped her waist. Her breath fanned your lips.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean to,” you rasped.

“But you did.”

She leaned her forehead against yours. “And I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I’m married,” you whispered.

“You’re lonely.”

Her thumb traced your bottom lip.

“Let me take care of you,” she said. “Let me be what he isn’t.”

That night, you lay in bed alone.

Your husband sent a text. Meeting went late. Staying at a hotel. Love you.

You didn’t respond.

Down the hall, Agatha’s door was closed. You stared at it in the dark.

You had crossed a line.

And yet—your heart thudded every time her voice echoed in your mind.

“You deserve to be seen.”

You woke to sunlight pouring in through half-open curtains.

The bed beside you was still cold. Empty.

The pillow barely smelled like him anymore.

You sat up, wrapping the duvet around your body like a shield. Your head ached—not from wine, but from memory. That kiss. The weight of Agatha’s touch. The way she’d looked at you like she knew every inch of your sadness. Like she’d studied it. Wanted it.

A low sound echoed from the hall—a laugh.

Your son’s.

You rose, slipping into your robe, and followed the sound to the kitchen.

Agatha stood by the stove, hair pulled into a messy braid, barefoot, wearing one of your aprons. She was flipping pancakes while your son sat at the table, happily chewing on strawberries.

She looked up and saw you.

Her smile bloomed like she'd been waiting all morning just to see your face.

“Morning, mama,” she said sweetly. “He’s already had his milk, but he wanted to wait for you before eating pancakes.”

Your son giggled and waved his fork at you.

“Mama sleepy,” he said.

You felt your heart clench.

“Yeah,” you replied, staring at Agatha. “I guess I was.”

She slid the pancakes onto a plate, placed it gently in front of your seat, and poured you coffee without asking how you liked it. She already knew.

You sat down. The smell of cinnamon filled the air. Your son talked between bites. Agatha laughed with him, made silly faces. She was good. Too good. She made this morning feel like something it wasn’t—a family breakfast. Something whole.

But it wasn’t real.

Your gaze found hers over the steam of your coffee.

Last night had happened.

And the weight of that truth sat heavy in your chest.

Later that day

You were folding laundry in your bedroom when you heard a soft knock.

“Come in,” you called.

Agatha stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“He’s sleeping,” she said, meaning your son. “Tired himself out after lunch.”

You nodded, distractedly smoothing out one of his shirts. “Thanks for handling everything.”

She didn’t answer.

When you looked up, she was watching you—intensely, darkly. Her arms crossed over her chest.

“Are we going to talk about last night?” she asked.

You froze.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop.” She stepped forward. “Don’t lie to me. Not now. I felt you melt in my hands. You wanted it.”

You swallowed, the shirt crumpling in your grasp.

“I’m married,” you whispered. “It was a mistake.”

She tilted her head, slow and deliberate.

“Was it a mistake when your lips parted for me?” she asked. “Was it a mistake when your hands clung to me like you were drowning?”

You turned away, throat burning.

“I can’t do this.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper behind you. “But you already did.”

You felt her hands slide around your waist. Her breath brushed your ear.

“Let me make you feel it again.”

You didn’t stop her when she turned you in her arms.

You didn’t stop her when she kissed you—slow, hungry, consuming. Your lips parted for her, unthinking, your robe falling to the floor. She touched you like she owned you, like she knew the places your husband had long forgotten.

Her hands were firm as they pushed you gently onto the bed, fingers trailing down your thighs, coaxing your knees apart.

“You’ve been starving,” she murmured, her mouth brushing your stomach. “No one’s tasted this softness in so long, have they?”

Your skin prickled. You shook your head, ashamed, aroused.

“Then let me feed.”

She kissed her way down your belly, her hands holding your hips firm as her mouth dipped lower—pressing, parting, devouring.

You gasped, arching, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other gripping her hair. She moaned against you like she’d waited her whole life for this moment. She didn’t stop. Not even when your legs trembled. Not even when you cried out, overwhelmed.

Her voice was husky as she kissed her way back up.

“Tell me he’s never made you feel like that,” she whispered, brushing your cheek.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

Agatha smirked, kissing you again—deeper this time. Possessive.

“Good girl.”

Later

You lay in her arms in the silence that followed.

She was tracing circles on your bare shoulder, humming something soft.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel alone.

What you didn’t see—what you’d never see—was the unlocked phone in her pocket. The one holding every private message between your husband and that blonde coworker of his. The one she’d quietly photographed from his laptop three nights ago.

Tomorrow, you’d see those messages.

You’d cry.

And Agatha would be there.

Not just as the nanny anymore.

But as the only one left who loved you.

You didn’t cry right away.

Not when you saw the first message.

Not when the word “baby” flashed beside your husband’s name, sent not to you—but to her.

It was the timestamp that shattered you.

Ten days ago.

The same night he’d told you he was “too tired” for dinner.

Agatha didn’t say anything as you scrolled, your breath hitching. She didn’t have to. She sat on the edge of the couch beside you, her hand resting lightly over yours, her presence warm—anchoring. Like a shadow waiting to catch the pieces.

Your fingers shook.

Photos. Messages. Voice notes.

You wanted to vomit.

“I—I don’t understand…” Your voice broke. “We were fine. I thought we were—”

“He was never fine.” Her tone was soft, controlled. She reached up and gently tucked your hair behind your ear. “You were just too good to see it.”

You blinked, hot tears falling without permission.

“How did you even—?”

“I didn’t want to show you. But I had to. You needed to see the truth.”

Your body crumpled. You turned into her chest like a child, sobbing as her arms wrapped around you, secure and steady. She let you cry. She kissed the top of your head, whispered soothing things you didn’t even process.

It was agony.

And she made it tender.

Three days later

Your husband tried to explain.

He came home reeking of panic and desperation.

“Don’t do this,” he begged as you handed him the suitcase. “I made a mistake, but this—”

Agatha stood in the hallway with her arms crossed, watching silently.

You didn’t say a word.

You were already too far gone.

That night, Agatha lit candles in your bedroom.

Not for romance, but for silence.

She pressed a warm cloth to your face, wiped away the tears, and then brushed your hair in long, patient strokes. You sat still on the edge of the bed, hollow, your robe draped around your shoulders.

“You don’t have to be strong anymore,” she said.

You closed your eyes.

“I feel… stupid.”

“You’re not.” Her voice was firmer now. “You were loyal. That’s rare.”

She leaned down, her hands on your knees. Her face was inches from yours.

“Let me show you what devotion really looks like.”

You didn’t resist when she gently pushed you back into the mattress, not this time.

Her touch was different now—not teasing, not coaxing. It was reverent. Worshipful. She moved over you slowly, like she was learning you from scratch. Memorizing the shape of your grief, the curve of your loneliness, and kissing every inch of it into submission.

She whispered praise into your skin, her mouth at your throat.

“You’re beautiful when you’re breaking.”

Her hands spread your thighs apart like a prayer, and she looked up at you as she leaned in.

“Let me rebuild you.”

Her tongue was slow. Torturous. She lapped at you with methodical control, her moans low and needy, as if she were starving for you and you alone. Every whimper from your mouth was met with more pressure, more worship, more control.

She didn’t stop until your cries echoed off the bedroom walls.

She didn’t let you go until your nails left marks on her shoulders.

After, when you lay boneless beneath her, she pulled you into her lap—naked, still wet, her fingers tracing the outline of your lips.

She kissed you gently.

“You don’t need anyone else anymore,” she murmured. “You have me.”

You nodded, dazed.

And meant it.

Later That Night

You curled against her chest in the dark, drunk on touch. On comfort.

Agatha stroked your back. Her voice barely above a whisper.

“You were never his to hurt.”

You felt yourself drifting.

“I’m yours now,” you mumbled, unaware of the weight of those words.

Agatha smiled into your hair.

“Exactly.”

She kissed your temple, and held you tighter.

And somewhere in the deepest part of your bones, you didn’t feel afraid.

You felt kept.

One Month Later

The house was quieter now.

No shouting. No accusations. No wandering glances from your husband while you looked away. No child’s cries echoing unanswered down the halls because you were too exhausted to chase them.

It was just you, your son… and Agatha.

She handled everything.

The meals. The school pickups. The bills. The legal filings your ex tried to contest.

When the documents were too stressful to read, she held you in her lap and whispered through them, one line at a time.

You never had to lift a finger.

“Sweetheart, eat,” she’d say. “Let me take care of it.”

So you let her. You let her handle things. Because what other choice did you have?

She was the only one who stayed.

You didn’t even notice when your friends stopped calling.

Or when she quietly blocked your mother’s number.

You didn’t want to talk to anyone. The outside world only reminded you of everything that fell apart. Everyone who turned their back.

But Agatha didn’t.

She stayed. She always stayed.

That Night

Your bed wasn’t your bed anymore—it was hers now. Or maybe both of yours. You couldn’t remember when she moved into your room. It just sort of happened.

The scent of her—smoke, lavender, clove—lingered in your sheets. Her clothes hung in your closet beside yours. Her perfume rested on your vanity. Her hairbrush replaced yours. Little things. Little shifts.

Now you woke to her lips on your shoulder. To the press of her thigh between yours.

She made love to you in the dark like you were sacred. Like she’d spent lifetimes waiting to earn you.

“You’re mine now, darling,” she whispered that night, drawing slow circles over your hips. “And you love it, don’t you?”

You nodded, gasping into her mouth.

You did love it.

She worshipped your body like it was the last thing on earth worth touching. Her hands coaxed sobs from you—not from sadness anymore, but from need.

From the unbearable way she wanted you.

You cried when you came. She kissed the tears off your cheeks.

“You’re safe,” she murmured, holding you tight. “You’re perfect. You don’t need anyone but me.”

Agatha took you apart with patience. With obsession. Her mouth between your thighs, tongue slow and cruel, as though she savored the taste of your unraveling. You clutched at the sheets, at her hair, your moans broken and hoarse.

“Please…” you whispered, barely able to breathe.

“Please what?” Her voice was like velvet and venom. She sucked your clit softly. “Say it.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Mmm. That’s right.”

She made you beg. Twice.

Then she flipped you over, pinning your hips down, spreading your legs wider until you arched into her hand. You could barely process how deep her fingers went, how tight her other hand held your throat, gentle but firm.

“You belong to me now,” she whispered, lips ghosting against your ear. “Say it.”

“I—I belong to you—”

She rewarded you with more.

More pressure. More heat.

More of the dark, aching pleasure that made your legs tremble and your soul fold.

The Morning After

She fed you breakfast in bed.

Kissed your forehead before your son came into the room. Hugged him like a second mother. He didn’t even remember your husband anymore.

“I love you, Agatha,” your son said quietly that morning, sitting beside her.

Agatha smiled, brushing his hair.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

You watched them.

And you smiled too.

Later That Day

Your ex called again. You didn’t answer.

“Shall I deal with him?” Agatha asked gently, standing beside the couch with her phone in hand.

You didn’t ask what she meant by deal.

You simply nodded.

That was the last time he ever contacted you.

That night, Agatha bathed you slowly. Her hands were gentle. Her voice was quiet. She cradled your body in the warm water like you were glass.

“You don’t ever have to go back,” she whispered. “You don’t ever have to wonder if you’re enough again.”

You looked up at her.

“You really love me?”

Her eyes darkened. “More than you’ll ever know.”

She kissed you, deeply.

And when she led you to bed again, you didn’t resist.

You opened yourself to her completely.

Mind, body, soul.

Everything was hers now.

Just the way she planned.

You had everything.

A quiet home in the countryside, a son who smiled more often now, and a partner who adored you.

Agatha never left your side.

She cooked. Cleaned. Loved you with frightening intensity. And for two years, you thrived in her shadow.

You’d forgotten what it meant to be lonely. Forgotten the sound of your ex’s voice. Forgotten the biting sting of betrayal.

All of that had been washed away.

By Agatha.

You weren’t meant to go upstairs.

Not to the attic. Not to the old study.

Agatha told you once—

“It’s where I keep old documents. Legal things. Nothing interesting, darling.”

And you believed her.

Until today.

She had gone into town.

You stayed behind with your son, who napped after lunch. The house was quiet, filled with golden afternoon light, and something drew you upward.

You weren’t sure what.

Curiosity.

Instinct.

Or a nagging whisper that had been building in the back of your mind ever since that first night she crawled into your bed.

The door was locked.

But you found the spare key in the linen drawer.

Your fingers trembled. Not from fear. Not yet.

From guilt.

You weren’t supposed to be doing this.

The room was… preserved.

It wasn’t dusty or abandoned—it was immaculate.

A single desk. A series of shelves. File boxes.

And photos.

Dozens of photos. On the wall. Hung like a shrine.

All of you.

Candid shots. From months—years—before you even met her.

You standing outside your son’s daycare.

You laughing with your ex-husband on the front lawn.

You grocery shopping. Sleeping in your car.

You… in the shower, through a window.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You stumbled back, eyes wide, a scream forming—

—but then you turned, and saw the center table.

A book.

A journal.

You picked it up, hands shaking. The first page was dated three years ago.

“I saw her today. Her smile is lazy, a little sad. Her son clings to her like a limb. She won’t leave him.

Not yet.

But soon.

I’ve already sent in my resume.”

The next entry:

“The husband is weak. He watches other women when she isn’t looking. I won’t need to try very hard to drive a wedge. She’s already halfway out the door. All she needs is someone who sees her. Someone worthy.

I’m worthy.”

You flipped pages—faster now. Words blurred by panic.

“He tried to touch me. Perfect. She saw. She doesn’t trust him anymore.”

“She cried tonight. I comforted her. I touched her back when she trembled. Her body responds to me. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine.”

“He hit her. I made sure of it. She won’t forgive him after that.”

“The custody battle will fail. I called in a favor. She’ll never know what I did. But she’s mine. Finally.”

Your fingers slipped. Pages fell open to a polaroid.

You.

Sleeping, naked, in bed.

Agatha curled around you, watching your face.

You had no memory of the photo.

“You weren’t supposed to find this.”

You jumped.

Agatha stood in the doorway.

Not panicked.

Not sorry.

Just… watching you.

Her hair curled, her blouse crisp. Her eyes dark with something that looked like sorrow. Or possession.

“I—what is this?” you breathed. “How long—how long were you watching me?”

She stepped forward, closing the door behind her.

“Long enough to know you were wasted on that life,” she said quietly. “Long enough to know you needed me.”

“You manipulated me.”

“I saved you.”

Her voice rose, trembling now.

“You were dying in that marriage. You hated yourself. You cried yourself to sleep, and no one heard you but me.”

She touched your face. You flinched.

“You loved that I came. Don’t lie to me now.”

Your lips parted to argue—but you didn’t know what to say.

Because somewhere inside you, a part of you did love her.

Even now.

Even knowing this.

“I gave up everything for you,” she whispered. “And I’d do it again.”

You backed up slowly.

“I need to think—”

“There’s nothing to think about,” she said sharply. “You’re here. With me. Like we were meant to be.”

Your heart pounded.

Her fingers curled around your wrist—not hard. Just enough.

“Don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”

You stared at her.

The woman who raised your son.

The woman who loved you in ways no one else ever had.

The woman who orchestrated your entire downfall.

And somehow…

…you still weren’t sure if you wanted to run.

Or fall into her arms and pretend you’d never opened that door.

You didn’t run.

You could have.

The window was open. The stairs behind you led to freedom.

Your car keys were in your purse, and the road out of town curved toward anonymity and healing.

But you didn’t move.

You stood there—still clutching her journal—your heart a tremoring thing in your chest, and you looked at her.

Agatha.

Beautiful. Unmoving. Terrifying.

And somehow…

The only person who ever truly saw you.

The only one who never turned away.

She stepped closer.

“I know it’s a lot,” she said softly, brushing a curl behind your ear. “But I never lied about how I love you.”

Your throat was tight.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered.

“No,” she murmured. “You didn’t have to. I knew you before you even knew yourself. I watched you suffer. I watched him shrink you. And I couldn’t stand it.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

“You broke me.”

“I remade you.”

Her arms wrapped around your waist, slow and certain, like a vice made of silk.

“I fixed everything,” she breathed against your neck. “And all I want… is for you to say thank you.”

You were quiet. Shaking.

Then—slowly—you set the journal down.

You didn’t push her away.

You didn’t scream.

Your hands came up, hesitantly, to rest on her back.

“I… I’m scared,” you confessed, voice trembling.

Agatha kissed the corner of your jaw.

“I know, little dove. But fear doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Sometimes fear is just love… changing you.”

She pressed her forehead to yours.

“I’ll never let you go,” she whispered.

And you knew she meant it.

That night, she made love to you like a woman unchained.

No longer careful. No longer playing the doting nanny or the slow-burn savior.

She devoured you.

Her hands branded your thighs. Her mouth claimed your cries.

She made you beg for her—again and again—until your voice broke and your body trembled from the pleasure she demanded you feel.

“Say you’re mine,” she growled, hips rocking against yours as your legs wrapped around her.

“I’m yours—Agatha—please—”

“Forever,” she bit out, bruising your neck with her teeth. “You belong to me. Say it.”

“I belong to you!”

And when you finally passed out in her arms, sore and ruined and utterly worshipped, she whispered a single word against your skin.

“Finally.”

Years passed.

The room upstairs remained locked.

You never asked about it again.

Agatha never needed to remind you.

You smiled. You baked. You wore her ring.

You raised your son together.

He never remembered the man who used to call himself Dad.

All he knew was Agatha.

Warm. Powerful. Ever-present.

And you?

You belonged to her.

Fully. Willingly.

Maybe even happily.

She won.

And the scariest part was…

So did you.

♡●♡●♡

Please don't forget to like, comment, follow & reblog 💜

[buttercandy16]

Just to clarify: I used one AI image for a single post and I clearly labeled it as AI. Now someone is spreading false claims that my fanfics and audio roleplays are AI-generated, which is absolutely untrue. Every story I’ve posted is written by me and the voice you hear from my audios? that's literally my voice on Tiktok, babe.

We may not share the same views or moral compass, but that doesn't give anyone the right to discredit my work or try to rally others to attack me.

Also, for the record — my bio says I love the wizarding world, not that I support J.K. Rowling. The author and the universe she created are separate in my eyes, and many fans feel the same.

It’s disheartening to see people twist things and encourage others to dogpile someone over a difference in personal belief or creative choice. I’m here to write and share stories, not to deal with hate campaigns masked as “criticism.”

Thank you ♡

[buttercandy16]

The Favorite

PAIRING(s): Empress!Agatha Harkness x Concubine!Reader x Concubine!Rio Vidal

SUMMARY(s): A commoner is taken by the Empress to be her concubine. Now, she must survive the Empress’s obsession, palace politics, and a jealous rival.

WARNING(s): Dark Themes (As always 🤭), Nsfw, Non-Con, Kidnapping, Threesome...

A/N: The art is AI made and loving it. Sadly, they can never make Agatha's face resemble Kathryn's 🥺

Tip Jar 💜

You were born in the cradle of the mountains — a village so small it barely had a name, tucked between rivers and fog-kissed pines. It was quiet. Honest. The kind of place where the days bled into each other in soft hues, where no one ever looked too closely and time moved like honey.

You were the daughter of a painter — your father, gentle and worn, who rarely spoke to others but painted the world like it was still worth worshipping. His canvases lined your cottage, but it was your face that lived in all of them. You were his muse. His greatest masterpiece.

He painted you at sunrise, laughing barefoot by the brook. He painted you asleep in the field, cheeks kissed by clover. But one painting… one he never showed you… was done in secret. You never even knew it left the cottage.

It was the painting that destroyed your life.

🕯️

Far away, in the obsidian halls of the Imperial Palace, Empress Agatha Harkness stared at the canvas with unblinking hunger.

It had been brought to her by a traveling collector — a fool, really, peddling mountain works to a monarch who hated sentiment. But the moment she saw it… she stopped breathing.

The girl in the painting had eyes like dusk. Skin like moon-pale silk. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, as if whispering a secret just out of reach. There was something innocent, unknowable, almost holy about her beauty — and that infuriated the Empress.

No one should look like that. Not in her world. Not without belonging to her.

She dismissed the collector with a wave of her hand.

And then, with a voice like death made velvet, she said:

“Burn the village. Bring me the girl.”

🔥

The fire came at night.

You had been sleeping, limbs tangled in linen, lulled by the hum of crickets. Then came the screaming. The smoke.

You ran barefoot into the chaos, the sky above painted orange with flame. Homes crackled and groaned. Neighbors cried out. Soldiers in blackened armor marched through the village like wolves through a flock.

They did not speak. They only searched.

And when their captain laid eyes on you — pale from the smoke, nightgown clinging to your body, eyes wide with terror — he knelt. Kneeling.

You were taken.

A cloth soaked in perfume was pressed to your face.

Darkness took you before you could even cry.

🐍

You awoke on silk.

Naked beneath crimson sheets. Your wrists, sore. Your hair, washed. A strange perfume coated your skin, too rich and heavy, like jasmine rotting in the heat.

A pair of handmaidens loomed at your bedside. They did not speak. They only dressed you in layers of gossamer and gold, corseting your waist, oiling your lips, adorning your throat with jewels heavy as chains.

You tried to speak, to scream, but they said only one thing:

“The Empress is waiting.”

🕊️

The throne room was a cathedral of decadence. Gold arches. Black marble floors. Curtains as red as spilled blood.

At the end of the hall sat the Empress.

Agatha Harkness.

She lounged on a throne made of obsidian and bone, dressed in a robe the color of spilled ink. Her lips were wine-dark, her gaze feline — narrowed and amused, like a predator enjoying the taste of its next meal.

When you were brought before her, you trembled.

She didn’t blink.

Instead, she rose. Slow. Calculated. A goddess made flesh — but cruel, and too aware of her beauty.

She circled you like a storm, fingers ghosting over your bare shoulders, your cheek. You flinched.

And she smiled.

“You're even more divine than your portrait,” she murmured, voice laced with hunger. “But the eyes… ah, they don’t do you justice.”

You opened your mouth to speak — to beg, to ask why — but she placed a gloved finger against your lips.

“Shh,” she cooed. “Pretty things don’t need to speak. They only need to please.”

🩸

That night, she did not take you to her chambers.

She placed you in the Velvet Wing — her personal harem.

There were dozens of women draped on lounges and cushions, laughing with kohl-lined eyes and slow tongues, dressed in silks that clung like second skin. Perfume hung heavy in the air, mixed with sweat and wine and lust.

They looked at you like a rabbit dropped into a pit of snakes.

And among them sat her.

Rio Vidal.

Slender. Sharp. Beautiful in the way that kills — all cheekbones and poison. She had eyes like a dagger unsheathed, and they locked onto you with immediate disdain.

She stood, crossing the velvet lounge barefoot, her hips swaying.

“So,” she purred, circling you the same way Agatha had, but with venom instead of hunger. “You're the little painting.”

You said nothing.

She grabbed your chin. Dug her nails in.

“I was her favorite,” she whispered. “Until you.”

A beat. A warning.

“Stay out of my way… or I’ll make sure you’re nothing but paint on the floor.”

The others laughed.

But all you could feel was the fire still clinging to your lungs.

You had been stolen.

And now… you were trapped.

But the worst part?

From the shadows, watching with a wolf’s grin — Agatha Harkness.

Amused. Possessive. Patient.

Her next play already planned.

And you…

You were already hers.

The palace was built for gods and monsters. You were neither.

And yet, from the moment the Empress laid eyes on you, you were treated like something divine — and punished for it all the same.

The golden doors of her empire closed behind you like the jaws of some ancient beast. You were stripped, bathed, perfumed, and dressed not in rags, not in mourning — but in silk. You tried not to scream when they washed soot and blood from your skin. Tried not to cry when they combed your hair with fingers too gentle to match the world you'd just lost.

The harem was not a dungeon. It was worse.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Soft cushions, pale marble, translucent drapes that danced like spirits. There was laughter from the women who had long since surrendered themselves to the Empress — women who would die for a glance, a kiss, a night. They whispered about you behind lacquered fans and bitter smiles. You were the disruption. You were the reason she didn’t visit them anymore.

You were the new obsession.

❖

The first to approach you was Rio Vidal.

You’d heard the name before the woman herself. It came laced in silk and venom. Whispers that she’d once slit a girl’s throat in the rose gardens just for laughing too loud in the Empress’s direction.

She was taller than you. Elegant. Her robes draped like water over her bronze skin, her black hair pinned with silver combs sharp enough to kill.

“New toy,” she purred, leaning close enough for you to smell the sweet venom of her perfume. “Do you know what happens to things the Empress loves?”

You kept your eyes low. You’d learned submission could be armor.

“She ruins them,” Rio whispered. “Or I do.”

Then she cupped your chin, hard, tilting your face up. Her touch was not affectionate — it was cruel, possessive, curious.

“She won’t keep you. She never does. But you’ll bleed before she lets you go.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your throat was tight. But in Rio’s gaze… something flickered. Hunger. Confusion. Rage. Then — curiosity again.

She let you go. "I'll be seeing you soon, pretty thing."

And she left.

❖

That night, you were dressed like a bride.

You didn’t even fight the handmaidens anymore. What was the use? They silenced your questions with sweet smiles and cooed assurances.

“Such a lucky girl,” they said. “The Empress hasn’t touched anyone in months.”

You were poured into a sheer nightdress, embroidered with black roses and nothing else. Your skin glowed beneath it, bare and vulnerable. They braided silver into your hair. Rubbed oil into your thighs. Kissed your shoulders before they left you alone in the dark, on silken sheets that smelled like spice and fire.

Your heart beat like a war drum. You waited. And then—

She came.

Like a shadow with a crown.

Agatha Harkness. Empress. Sorceress. Monster.

Her robes shimmered black-blue, her eyes twin embers. She didn’t speak at first — just stood at the foot of your bed, watching you. Devouring you.

“I waited,” she murmured. “I waited to see if your beauty would fade outside that painting. But it doesn’t, little dove. It only deepens.”

You sat up, trembling, fists curled in the sheets. “Why me?”

Agatha smiled — slowly. “Because I saw heaven in you. And hell wants its due.”

She moved like smoke, slipping onto the bed beside you, fingers trailing over your collarbone. “Do you want to be mine?” she asked.

You didn’t answer.

So she didn’t wait.

Agatha kissed you like a curse. Her lips stole the breath from your lungs. Her hands slipped beneath your nightdress, fingers cool and smooth, tracing every inch of you like scripture. You gasped — a sound caught between protest and surrender — and that only excited her more.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Let me worship you.”

She kissed down your throat, your chest, her mouth greedy and reverent all at once. Her teeth grazed your nipple, sucking until you arched into her. You whimpered — humiliated by how wet you already were.

“My poor little thing,” she cooed. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Her fingers slid lower, parting your thighs with obscene ease. You tried to close them — she slapped them open, softly but firm, and pinned them with her own leg.

“Mine now,” she growled.

Her fingers found your heat — teasing, testing, dipping in just enough to make your hips jerk. She chuckled darkly. “Already dripping for me?”

She went slow at first — one finger, then two — pumping them inside you while her mouth bruised your neck. She dragged her tongue across your skin like she wanted to devour it.

“Say my name,” she breathed, curling her fingers. You gasped, back arching, her palm rubbing that aching spot above your slit as her fingers stroked deep.

You said it.

Not in defiance. Not in prayer. But in desperation.

“Agatha.”

She moaned.

Then her thumb circled your clit, fast, perfect, relentless — and the tension broke with a sob. You came with her name on your lips, legs trembling, slick coating her hand. She didn’t stop. She liked the way you cried.

She kissed you as you came down — possessive, tongue deep in your mouth, her hand still stroking you lazily.

And then she whispered into your ear, voice silk and steel:

“Now you understand. You’ll never belong to anyone else.”

You were shaking.

And you believed her.

You hadn’t slept since the Empress claimed you.

Not really.

Your body ached with a strange, lingering heat — her touch still seared between your thighs, her voice coiled in your ear like a wicked lullaby. The marble floors of the palace were cold, but her bed had been fire. And even now, as you sat quietly in the private wing of the harem, wrapped in silk robes and silence, that heat wouldn’t leave.

It had settled into your bones like a fever.

You tried to keep your head down, avoid the watchful stares of the other concubines, but it was impossible. You were new. You were chosen. And worst of all — you were hers.

You didn’t even see Rio Vidal approach.

The favorite.

The one whose name was whispered like a warning.

“I should rip out your tongue,” Rio murmured behind you, voice like velvet stretched over a knife. You froze. She stepped into view, clad in obsidian silks, every curve a weapon. Her dark hair was pinned back, neck exposed like a blade’s edge.

“I heard her last night,” she continued, circling you slowly. “The noises you made. The way she… devoured you.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding.

“Are you proud of yourself, little songbird?”

You shook your head. “No. I didn’t ask—”

Her hand struck fast — a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek that left your skin burning.

“Don’t lie,” Rio hissed. “She branded you. You moaned for her. Now you think you’re her favorite?”

“I don’t think anything—”

“You don’t have to think. That’s the problem.”

She shoved you back against a silk-draped pillar, pinning you by the throat, her lips a breath away from yours. Her eyes were fire — not just rage, but something far more dangerous.

Desire.

“She doesn’t love you. She obsesses. And when she’s done? When she breaks you?” Her hand slid down, curling under your robe. “You’ll be meat. A toy.”

Your gasp caught in your throat as her fingers traced your thigh — not lovingly, not gently, but with possessive cruelty.

“You want to survive here?” she whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Learn how to please us both.”

You whimpered — but it was unclear whether in fear or something darker. Your knees shook.

“I hate you,” Rio murmured, dragging her nails lightly down your belly. “But gods help me… I want to ruin you too.”

She kissed you then — deep, devouring, hungry with resentment. Her tongue was demanding, tasting what the Empress had marked. Her thigh wedged between yours, forcing you open. Your breath hitched.

“Do you like this?” she sneered, pulling your robe apart. “Being used by the woman you replaced?”

Her fingers sank lower, slicking through the evidence of your shame. “Yes, you do. You’re pathetic.”

She pressed you harder into the pillar and forced your body to respond, dragging moans from your throat you hated yourself for. Her rhythm was punishing, her grip bruising, but your traitorous hips moved with hers.

“You’re going to beg for me now,” she growled. “Just like you begged for her.”

You didn’t want to — but when she bit your shoulder, possessive and raw, and her fingers curled inside you with expert cruelty — the whimper escaped. A moan. A plea.

And she smiled like she had won.

The moment shattered.

A sharp knock echoed through the harem halls, followed by a chilling voice:

“Bring her,” said the Empress’s steward. “She is to perform before the court.”

Rio froze.

Her lips curled into a cruel grin. “Oh… she wants to show you off.”

You stood at the center of the great hall, the court gathered like vultures in gold and shadow. Candles lit every edge, casting the obsidian floor in dancing flame. Music played — slow, haunting — and all eyes were on you.

You were dressed in nothing but sheer silk and gold cuffs. A veil hung across your lips, but your body was bare. Marked.

Agatha sat upon her throne, watching — hungry.

“Dance for me,” she purred. “Let them all see who you belong to.”

You obeyed.

Every step was a humiliation, but also a seduction. Your body swayed to the haunting rhythm, hips rolling, arms arched. You felt eyes devour you — but none more than hers.

When you turned, she was already standing.

The dance stopped.

She descended from her throne like a goddess of ruin and took your face in her hands.

“Mine,” she growled — and kissed you before the entire court.

As the crowd erupted into whispers and delight, you saw Rio across the chamber, eyes burning.

Not with hatred now — but obsession.

You had survived… but only barely.

And both monsters wanted you.

That night, you were not taken back to the harem.

You were led down a different corridor — deeper, darker, away from the perfume-soaked chambers of silk and rivalry. The guards did not speak. The torches burned blue. Your robe clung to your damp skin, still warm from the humiliating dance Agatha had demanded. The gold cuffs around your wrists chafed slightly, but you didn’t dare ask for them to be removed.

Not when you knew where they were taking you.

Not when she was waiting.

The throne room had vanished behind you. And in its place loomed the private chambers of the Empress.

Heavy carved doors opened with a groan — and the scent of myrrh, spice, and something darker greeted you like a kiss.

She was already inside, seated by the fire, a goblet of red wine in hand. Her hair was loose now, cascading over her shoulders in waves. The crown was gone. In its place was something more terrifying.

Desire.

She rose slowly. Her silk robe fell open slightly with each step. You caught glimpses of her skin, her curves, the lean muscle beneath her elegance. And her eyes — gods, her eyes — drank you in like a starving creature finding its final meal.

“My jewel,” she murmured, stepping into your space. “Do you know what you did to me today?”

You shook your head.

She took your chin between her fingers. “You made me hungry.”

She stripped you bare like she owned you. Every layer peeled back revealed the marks already left by her and Rio — bruises, love bites, scratches. She admired them like they were art.

“I like what she did to you,” Agatha whispered, brushing her thumb across your neck where Rio’s teeth had sunk in. “She’s vicious. But she doesn’t understand you the way I do.”

You said nothing.

She kissed you then, slowly — not a devouring kiss this time, but a claiming one. Deep, slow, possessive.

Her mouth moved to your throat.

Your chest.

Your stomach.

Until she was kneeling.

“I will feast,” she whispered, “until you forget every name but mine.”

She kept her promise.

She dragged you onto the bed like a sacrifice, parted your thighs, and worshiped you with the kind of reverence that bordered on madness. Her mouth was merciless. Her tongue, her fingers — they worked in tandem, drawing you to the edge again and again only to stop, to deny, to own.

“Say it,” she demanded.

“I—”

“Say it.”

“…Yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

Only then did she let you fall over the edge.

And then again. And again. Until your body was limp, your voice hoarse, your thighs trembling from overuse.

But she wasn’t done.

She rose above you like a beast in heat, pulled your wrists up, and bound them to the bedposts with soft black silk.

Then she mounted you.

And it was slow — achingly slow — the kind of rhythm that drove you mad. Her hands roamed your body, her hips grinding just enough to tease, just enough to torment. Your eyes rolled back.

“You don’t understand what you are to me,” she whispered, her voice breaking with need. “I watched you long before you ever stepped into my court.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“I had your portrait commissioned from a dream,” she whispered, rocking against you with more force now. “And when I finally found you — real, breathing, perfect — I killed for you.”

You gasped, heart slamming in your chest.

“I burned villages to get you,” she hissed into your neck. “I razed the coast.”

Every thrust now was brutal. Unrelenting. Possession.

“You were never free,” she snarled. “Not from the moment you were born.”

You shattered beneath her — not just from the pleasure, but from the terrifying truth.

She didn’t just love you.

She owned your fate.

You lay in her bed, limp, body marked from head to toe. Her scent clung to you like smoke. Your wrists were raw. Her breath was still warm on your neck.

And then came another presence.

You barely registered the door creaking open. A shadow slipped in.

Rio.

She stared at your ruined body on Agatha’s bed. Her lips parted. Her eyes went glassy.

“You… let her break you,” she whispered.

“She belongs to me,” Agatha said, from the shadows.

But Rio didn’t leave.

She approached.

Touched your ankle. Then your thigh.

And the Empress watched.

You were too weak to protest.

Too broken to stop what came next.

The moon was blood-washed over the palace when Rio Vidal struck.

You had sensed her growing bolder — the way her stares lingered too long, the cruel way she’d toyed with the concubines who whispered your name in admiration. But nothing prepared you for the shadowed hand that clamped over your mouth that night, dragging you from your silken bed while the Empress slept.

“Shh,” Rio breathed against your ear, her voice laced with equal parts venom and desperation. “Don’t scream. I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.”

The cold air in the servant tunnels bit your skin. She led you quickly, a dagger at your spine, pressing her body close.

“You ruined everything,” she hissed. “She doesn’t even look at me anymore. But I’ll make her look. I’ll make her beg.”

You stumbled into a hidden wing of the palace — forgotten, rotting, and strangely… reverent. Rio shoved open heavy wooden doors, and what you saw inside stole the air from your lungs.

Portraits. Paintings. Statues.

All of you.

You as a child, face half-finished. You cloaked in bridal white, your eyes hollow and downcast. You naked and bound, mouth open in a silent cry.

“She's been watching you since before you even knew her name,” Rio spat. “Your village? That wasn’t chance. She hunted you.”

On the far wall, an altar stood — obsidian and candlelit, velvet draped, bearing a crown of thorns and a vial of your blood. Your dress from your first night in the harem had been preserved there like a relic.

Your legs trembled.

Rio turned to you now, the dagger lowered, her expression fractured — torn between hatred and hunger. “I wanted to kill you,” she whispered. “I should have. But now… I think I understand why she’s obsessed.”

She cupped your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, forcing it open.

“She carved you into her bones,” Rio murmured. “Now I want to taste what drove her mad.”

Before you could protest, her lips crashed into yours — bruising and hot. Her fingers curled into your hair, pulling you close as her tongue swept over yours with punishing force. You tried to shove her, but her body pinned yours to the altar, the cool stone shocking against your back as she yanked your nightdress down.

“You’ll beg for her,” she growled, kissing down your throat. “But tonight, you’ll moan for me first.”

Her mouth closed over your breast, hot and possessive, while her fingers found your thigh, parting it with no patience. The danger of it, the madness swirling in her every move, set your blood alight with panic — and something darker.

But then—

A roar tore through the chamber.

“ENOUGH.”

The doors blasted open. Agatha Harkness strode in, her obsidian gown flowing like smoke, her eyes incandescent with rage. One hand was outstretched, pulsing with black fire.

“Get away from what’s mine.”

Rio’s smirk didn’t fade. She turned her head slowly, dragging her tongue along your throat like a final act of defiance. “She’ll never just be yours again.”

Agatha’s power slammed her against the wall — but not to kill. No. She didn’t want death. She wanted punishment.

And you? You were trembling on the altar, eyes wild, chest heaving — marked by both their touches.

Agatha approached, eyes locked on yours. “My little jewel,” she cooed. “Did she hurt you?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

“She wanted to taste you?” Agatha leaned down, her mouth brushing yours. “Then she’ll watch as I devour you whole.”

The magic pulsing in the air pinned you down, but this time, it was not cold. It was molten — burning. Agatha’s fingers slipped between your thighs with possessive certainty, and her mouth followed quickly after, devouring you like a starved beast.

You cried out — whether from fear, pleasure, or the overwhelming weight of both, you weren’t sure.

Rio moaned from where she was bound against the wall, eyes glassy. “You want me to watch?” she whispered. “Then make me jealous.”

Agatha’s grin was feral. “On your knees, Rio.”

The concubine obeyed.

Soon, both women knelt before you.

Agatha took your mouth with a kiss that swallowed your soul, her fingers now inside you, curling, commanding. Rio’s hands slid behind you, gripping your hips, her lips trailing fire along your spine as her voice purred, “Tell us who you belong to.”

You didn’t answer.

So they both made you.

Agatha lifted you into her lap, grinding your soaked core against her thigh while Rio knelt between your legs, tongue teasing, taunting, flicking over the place Agatha had left wet and trembling. You were nothing but limbs and gasps and sweat, caught between devotion and rivalry — prey to twin obsessions that fed off each other.

“Mine,” Agatha growled, biting your neck.

“Ours,” Rio hissed, licking a stripe up your thigh.

Your scream shattered the silence — your release crashing into you as Agatha wrapped her arms around you, claiming you from behind while Rio kissed you through the aftershock.

The altar had become a throne.

You were the offering.

And they would never let you go.

It is said the palace fell into silence after the Empress chose her favorite.

The old noise of politics and courtly intrigue dulled, swallowed by something heavier, hungrier. A sacred hush that rippled outward like blood into water — the kind that precedes worship or madness.

And at the center of it, she sat.

You.

Draped in crimson silk and heavy gold, your body marked by hands that owned you — one cruel and cold, the other desperate and trembling. The throne beside Agatha’s was not meant for a consort. It was a pedestal. A gilded cage. You looked like a queen, but you were something far more dangerous: a holy thing, possessed and preserved like an offering made of flesh.

Your eyes no longer wandered toward escape.

Why would they?

When the very air you breathed was drenched in their obsession.

Agatha's gaze devoured you.

Each day began with her mouth on your skin — reverent and ruinous, her tongue tracing the bruises she left the night before, lips murmuring vows too obscene for the priests to hear. Her love was not kind. It was monstrous, patient only in how slowly she undressed you, worshipped you, wrecked you.

“You were made for this,” she whispered once, her fingers sliding deep into you beneath the silks during a public audience. “Made for me. Let them see what I’ve claimed.”

And you did. You let them all see.

The generals, the concubines, the nobles. You cried out like a creature being sanctified, shaking on her lap as her fingers curled just right, her smile crueler than ever.

Rio knelt. Always.

Where once she had plotted your death, now she kissed the ground you walked on. The madness that bloomed in her when Agatha forgot her… had twisted. She no longer wanted to destroy you.

She wanted to belong to you.

“Please,” she whispered at your door one night, her hands bloodied from a concubine she’d slaughtered in jealousy. “Let me serve you. Let me love you the way she does. I can’t— I need to—”

You should’ve turned her away.

But instead, you pulled her in.

That night, the three of you met again beneath the black velvet of the Empress’s bed, bodies tangled like thorns.

Agatha gripped your wrists as Rio licked between your thighs. You sobbed as they took you, no longer knowing where one mouth ended and the other began. Your voice broke on Agatha’s name, and Rio cried against your stomach, lost in her need to prove herself.

It was grotesque.

It was divine.

They took you until dawn. Until your body could no longer hold the pleasure without pain, until your mind frayed into something ruined and beautiful.

Now, you sit beside the Empress on her throne.

You no longer flinch when Agatha’s fingers dig into your hip possessively. You no longer fear Rio’s jealous glances. You smile when they fight over you. You part your legs when Agatha commands. You run your fingers through Rio’s hair when she begs for your forgiveness.

You wear devotion like a second skin.

And though your father’s painting once captured your innocence, a new portrait hangs in the royal gallery now — one where your eyes gleam like flame, your lips parted in rapture, your throat bruised, your crown of thorns bleeding just slightly onto your gown.

You are no longer the stolen girl.

You are the beloved curse of an empire.

And if this palace ever burns…

…it will burn in your name.

_-_-_-_

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[buttercandy16]

✨ New Fanfic Incoming ✨

Hey everyone! Just a heads-up — I’ll be posting a dark Agatha x Reader x Rio fanfiction within the day. 🔥 Obsession, danger, and twisted romance — all the good stuff.

If you're curious about the theme and direction, I’ve left a little hint over on my Ko-fi. 🖤

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[buttercandy16]

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Here it is 💜

[transboyswitchytales]

Love Potion Number 69

Request by @buttercandy16 Hey! I finally got it done! I hope you like it! Everyone, go check out Buttercandy's fics!

Hello! Love your work 💜 I’m writing my own version for this one but I really need your version for this plot as well. Working in a corporate setting. Agatha Harkness as the reader's strict boss. Reader is infatuated with Agatha, but Agatha doesn’t seem to feel the same way. Reader discovered some dark magic, a love potion perhaps. But something went wrong with the potion, so instead of the sweet affection that the reader wanted from Agatha it turned into a dangerous obsession. Now, everything in the reader's life started to go down really bad because of Agatha and instead of enjoying her affection, the reader now needs to survive the craziness.Or you could do your own twist for this. Please do 🥺💜 maybe some smut as well 🙈Love ya!

Warning: SEXUAL ASSAULT / Piss / Golden shower / DEAD DOVE DON'T EAT / Mommy Kink / NON Consent / Love Potion Gone Wrong / Witchcraft / Southern Gothic / Manipulation / No Love Only Lust / Possesive Kink / Car Sex / Bondage Magic / Mind Fuck / Non Consent face fucking / Drugging / Choking / Blood / Cum Eating / Blood Drinking / Degregation / Humiliation / Victim Blaming / Blackmail / Sexual Harassment / DARK FIC / MDNI 18+

Dark Fic MasterList. MasterList AO3

Green was the color of your mother's irises; you still saw the dead stare she gave that day. Her pupils no longer registered you or your father with his smoking shotgun. Your mother’s blood pooled out of her stomach, like butter melting in a dish, oozing and falling. The fat separating and the flies collecting over it.

 The emerald glass potion glistened in her palm, her last attempt at magic. The final thing she clung to, before her story ended. And you are glad you don’t remember the smell of the gun going off, or the mist of blood splatter. Not even your father’s cologne, the really expensive one he saved for dates. No, none of those memories were reachable anymore. 

You came from a long line of witches, your ancestors were with the witches who didn’t burn in the south. Your mama was a witch, by tradition but also by profession. And your father had killed her once he found out what she’d done to keep him. The potions she slipped into his morning coffee, his grits, his greasy catfish, and his nighttime whiskey. Your mother had caught herself a wealthy businessman, but it wasn’t the money. It was the confidence he exuded. His presents helped, yes, but your Mama was smart; she was cunning. She knew that love took work, a little push. 

So when the businessman with the nice things, and all that inflated ego fell for a witch from the south. Well, it was only a matter of time before it all went to horse shit.  All this was ancient history though. No use in tears today. 

The point was, you were no stranger to the dangers of a love spell. The morality and ethical conversation of it all.

Yet you brew it anyway. Like stepping on the crack even after you knew it would break your mother's back. 

You held no shame for this; you reasoned with yourself that you were in love. It was sick, it was wrong, a one-sided romance. Agatha Harkness was everything you’d ever wanted. So you knew you’d do absolutely anything to be hers, even if you had to break the rules to get her. So yeah, you’d brewed the potion with Damiana, wanting the ultimate closeness. You’d used yarrow, cinnamon, and patchouli. Hoping to create a deep sense of passion and desire. A need that would never be satiated in Agatha. You added too much clove to amplify it, to enhance the intensity of Agatha’s need for you. Because over the last nine months, you had felt obsessed with Agatha Harkness. 

And all you wanted, you coveted, was for her to love you in return. 

But you should have known better, because you had not heeded your mother's advice, her warning, the end of her story. You did not think to read the measurements of the potion, going with too little of that, and a dash to much of this. 

If you had paid attention in your frenzied state. You would have added rose petals; it would have added some tenderness, fragility that comes with new love. But no, you did not add any softness; you forgo the honey. Not finding any in your pantry, and you wanted the spell done. You’d brewed it after finishing a bottle of wine, having masturbated to her LinkedIn profile pic. You were so far gone, you even dipped your fingers in your own cunt and smeared it onto the wooden spoon. Dunking it into the potion. That could have been the silver bullet. 

Had you stopped, remembered your mother's teaching, her legacy. If you had read the instructions, the grimoire in your shaking hands. 

You would have known that honey would have made your love sweet. That Agatha would have been sweeter to you, kinder. That dropping your own nectar into the pot would only bring trouble your way. This potion was one fatal mistake after another. Potions were never your strong suit; dabbling in them without proper study was a terrible idea. And now you would pay the price. 

Why, why, why had you not read your mother's grimoire all the way through? Her death really should have been warning enough. Generational trauma did not translate to you in your selfish endeavor. 

Agatha Christie, a smart witch of her own right, once said, “Good advice is always certain to be ignored, but that's no reason not to give it.” So maybe someone one day would look at your story and learn what you didn’t learn from your mothers. But let’s not jump ahead. 

The day you gave your boss the potion, you almost wondered how it had taken you this long to do it. Why didn’t more witches do this?

You slipped the potion easily into Agatha’s iced oatmilk shaken espresso. No one saw a thing. It was the hottest day this summer, reaching a new high. In the south, it always felt undeniably hot. Though there were different levels of being uncomfortable from this type of weather. Today was a level of humidity, was only meant for Hell. The torturous heat was the type that stuck your clothes to your wet skin. Like everyone was a sinner in a wooden church pew.  The mildew was thick on things, the bugs were loud, and the willow trees looked ready to take someone's soul prisoner. 

As Agatha drank the cool drink, you did your best not to gawk in the middle of the staff meeting at how quickly your boss gulped it all down.

 Mrs. Harkness was thirsty, of course she was, even with the pitiful window AC, the room was at least 92 degrees inside. The wooden conference table had a bit of condensation to the top of it. Like a snake's second skin. 

The building you all were occupying was built within the last ten years. Agatha Harkness ran Maximoff’s Maximum Security. Wanda Maximoff, a billionaire businesswoman, had been very smart. She’d started many great companies that made a large profit.

Oh, that was different, wasn’t it? The distinction, a great company, not great values or people. Or even the way it treated people, no, not people - employees, that was the better legal word. Employees weren’t people; people had responsibilities. Kids and loved ones, homes and medical needs. No, employees was a better word, a tax  form, a social security number. One more faceless name on a roster. Replaceable was a better word than employee, honestly. 

Well, Maximoff, how to describe her? Well, let’s say it this way. She and Bezo’s got brunch every second Wednesday. That feels as deep as anyone needs to go. 

You’d gone to college, you liked sales, and you thrived in manipulation. Perhaps it was because you could pull magic. Their souls were on strings, and you just needed to pluck them just so, and they’d do anything you said. 

Which is why you were number two in the entire company. The only reason you were allowed in these stupid meetings, to see Agatha Harkness. To be this close. 

Agatha had at one point been ready to buy out Wanda, but something had happened. Something sinister, an undercut, a move that reeked of blackmail and payoffs. No one knew what, though. So Agatha took over the CEO slot and seemed to be the gator in this southern swamp, waiting to snatch the company once more. 

And why the South? This story should take place in New York, the city that never sleeps. With it’s Wall Street and cocaine addicted business types with their golf games and upstate homes. The pinky ring and speedboat men. Because what New York Barbie toy isn’t complete without these added accessories? 

Well, Harkness had that life, a house in L.A, a penthouse in Manhattan overlooking Central Park. Fuck she had enough money to make Bezos lie down on a plastic mat and wrestle Mark Zuckerberg, naked, covered in Jello. She was smart, too, though, not just cruel and rich. Agatha must have memorized the ‘Art of War.’ Because she was vicious in business transactions. Yale and Brown business schools did that you supposed. Or perhaps she was from such a high pedigree that she was born with that shit. 

None of it was fair; and it all made you so wet. You just wanted her to be that mean to your aching cunt. To slap your mouth, to leave you humping her shoe until rug burn took over your knees. And then you wanted her to spit into your raw burns. 

You had it bad. 

But whatever shady deal had been made, Wanda had buried Agatha Harkness. Making her set up this building in the middle of the south. This was Agatha’s punishment, and one that Wanda no doubt laughed about weekly on the big calls. As she smirked and asked Agatha ‘How hot is it today in the Bible belt?’Which was incorrect, technically, New Orleans was not the bible belt. But the New Yorker either didn’t know that, or didn’t care. She just wanted Agatha to feel two inches tall. 

So, as Bruce spoke about the new IT app launching for maximum security, you traced the visual outline of Agatha chugging her spiked drink. Like it was the only thing saving her. 

Did she like the taste of the potion?

Could she taste your blood in it? Could she taste your cum? Was that why she was guzzling the whole thing down? Did she like the taste of you in your most raw form? Was the copper the thing her tongue had been missing this whole time? Hungry for someone she didn’t know she needed. 

This was wishful thinking, and yet the ice in her drink made noise as Bruce rambled, unable to look at anyone else. Agatha popped the top off and attempted to get every drop, good. You hoped it hit her bloodstream fast. 

“Alright, well, that’s been great, Bruce. I think that concludes this meeting; it’ll all be in your email. So not sure why it was a meeting at all.” Yelena’s cold tone stopped the poor IT man from choking on his own spit. 

Yelena was young, and you weren’t sure where they found her. But she was ready to fire everyone, not enjoying you lowly employees. It seemed she didn’t like the South either. Her hair and tailored pantsuit said L.A. 

But her words were tongue twisted, sounding further from these shores. Whatever, it didn’t matter. What mattered is that Agatha had chugged that drink like a freshman at a frat party. 

Now that the meeting was coming to a close, Yelena stopped everyone. 

“Damn, um, alright, so the sales team and the higher-ups are having a dinner just this location. Yes it is mandatory, no you can’t go home first. So there will be a car to take us for some music and food or whatever. It’s on Maximoff’s dime, so let’s just get the good booze.” Yelena mumbled the last bit, but the team did seem to like the idea of free booze. You trailed out with the rest of the herd of people in their suits and pencil skirts. Heading out of the building and towards the town cars. Guess no limo this time, well, that was fine, as long as Wanda was buying the alcohol, you didn’t care what you drove in.  

You stood in the back of the line of mostly men, as they piled four to a car. Then the car would close and they’d drive away. It only took about six cars before you realized it was just you left. 

Until of course, the dreaded click of Louboutin heels behind you. You don’t hear the car pull up, you hold your breath. A bit of sweat rolls down your neck, and you wait, wondering if Agatha can see your fear, your anticipation. 

“Get in, Superstar.” Agatha’s voice is deeper than normal, and you reach out to the car door, pulling the black metal handle. It stings the soft palm of your hand, but you welcome the contrast now, your body feeling cold in this heat. 

You scoot into the back of the leather car, Agatha wastes no time getting in behind you. Yelena is talking to someone over her shoulder but starts to panic as Agatha grabs the inside of the door to close it. 

“Wait-” Yelena snaps, seeing Agatha not allowing her and the other suits into the car. 

“Aw damn, all full, I’m afraid. Nepo babies can get the next car.” Agatha’s tone is sickly kind, and the nickname drops out with precision. Yelena glares, but it’s short lived, as Harkness slams the car door in her face. 

The man driving the car gets the message as your boss slaps the partition twice for him to speed away. Then she slides the flimsy plastic close before turning to you. 

“You did so well this quarter. Do you enjoy working for this company?” Mrs. Harkness asked you, it sounded like a review; it sounded like you were being promoted. 

But as Agatha spoke, keeping her eyes firmly on you, she unbuttoned the top button of her white blouse. Your mouth went dry all at once, cotton mouth, unable to speak. Unable to fucking believe what was happening in real time. 

Mrs. Harkness didn’t seem to mind one bit, though, like she could do this all on her own. 

Her eyes didn’t seem the same. Something was different. 

The potion must be taking effect, her irises, once brown, were now a piercing blue. You momentarily panicked; perhaps you’d given her too much. 

Agatha got to the last button and took off her blouse completely. 

“Mrs. Harkness?” You waiver, unsure of what you were questioning. You didn’t want her to stop, but you were also curious how lucid she was for this. The magic snapped under her skin like a hornet's nest ready to be unleashed. But her hands didn’t shake as she slid the zipper down her pencil skirt. 

The garter belt, black lacey thong, and sinful bra that was holding your boss's breasts in like it couldn’t handle the job, was enough for you to cream on the spot. 

The devilish black and green set was more of a present to you than any birthday you’d ever celebrated.  

“No bonus though, and you want a bonus, don’t you, Superstar?” Agatha’s mouth stays open, and her tongue looks sinful. Not forked like a snake, though you weren’t sure if she couldn’t make it split on command. “That’s what we call you, Wanda and I. Our little Superstar, but she doesn’t know you aren’t hers. Does she baby?”

“Um, Mrs. Harkness, are you feeling alright?” Your voice sounded younger than you were now. And her long eyelashes bat playing coy for a moment as if she’s making fun of you. 

“Oh, you were doing so well in sales. Do you want to assist me now instead? Is that it, you want to be used by me?” 

You want to be offended, but you can’t find it in yourself to be. Your legs part just enough, and it’s not an invite. But Agatha Harkness doesn’t seem to give a fuck. 

Your boss moves like you were something to be conquered, not romanced. Like she was going to own you, burn her name into your skin. Let all of the rest go to hell, you were Agatha Harkness’s personal cum rag. 

She grabbed you by the throat and yanked you off of the seat and onto the uncomfortable cloth car floor. 

Your head slammed hard against the plastic of the door and you heard it crack. At least you hoped it was the door and not your head. 

Agatha’s hand squeezed your throat, harder than any lover should. And you tried to pull breaths but it was getting difficult. 

“Can you be good for me, can you behave for your boss sweetheart? Maybe I’ll even give you a raise!” Mrs. Harkness' voice sounded like a villain in a film now, high and excited. Like she enjoyed your pain, like she had no problem with your fear. 

You tried to choke out words but they all died on your throat when you saw Mrs. Harkness grab your hand and pull your fingers into her mouth. 

Your Ivy League, rich boss,  licked your digits like she was trying to earn a meal. You felt Agatha take your hand as far to the back of her throat as she could go. Before gagging around your fingers and taking them out, a string of spit sticks from her bottom lip to your hand. The saliva glistening from the low lighting in the back of the car.  

Mrs. Harkness let go of your throat and you coughed and gasped and almost curled against your stomach, but Agatha was quick. 

She used her wet fingers to move her thong, that tiny ruined fabric to the side. You saw her wax job, her gorgeous clit, it was pink and puffy and all you’d dreamed of. 

But you didn’t get to kiss it and adore it like you thought your first time with your crush would be. 

Instead, Agatha moved her knees forward and sat her full weight on your face. You gasped once again for air, but Agatha’s perfectly manicured dark black fingernails were sharp in your hair, forcing you to stay in place as she rode your face with gusto. Hips bucking wildly, your nose and chin nothing but her playground. 

“My good little office whore, you wanted this didn’t? I saw you look at me. I know you need this baby. Is that why you work so hard for me?”

Wet noises fill the car, as your boss rides your face like she’s possessed. You don’t have time to think about how she tastes on your tongue. You don’t have time to use your mouth at all in fact. Agatha does not care if you could breathe, at this point you wondered if she would fuck your corpse. 

Your legs shake and you try to calm down, remember this isn’t her, this is the potion. You attempt to match her rythme, so you can at the very least breathe out of your nose. But her cum is filling even your nostrils, and you realize you might die here. 

And you never even put the spell in her grits. 

“You are so lucky I didn’t fuck you on that conference table,” Agatha says to you, though you wonder if she knows you too busy for dirty talk. As you are going to asphyxiate. 

“I’d have split your stupid cheap shirt open, and licked up your stomach right in front of Yelena. That fucking bitch can’t have you. No one can have you. You’ll be good for me won’t you, dear? You’ll stay under my desk and lick my pussy, you’ll behave now. Now you are mine. If I want to take you in front of Maximoff, I will; no one will ever have you again. You are mine, and I’ll never let you breathe without my cum on your tongue again.” Agatha screamed at the end, and you blacked out. 

At one point, you wake, head splitting in two to see Agatha’s ass in your face as your own clothes are ripped and shredded. And she’s licking your pussy, it would feel good if you could stay awake. 

But you blink once, and then fall back to sleep. 

When you wake again, fighting for consciousness, Agatha’s hair is tickling you and she’s got three fingers in your pussy, and she’s slamming into you like she has got something to prove. 

“There’s my girl, hi baby! Just in time, I was about to see if I could wake you with double penetration!”

Your face must show the fear, but her eyes gleam with the new blues, and you are sure that the woman is too far gone to even see you. 

“Fuck Mrs. Harkness I- I can’t take anymore!” Tears actually start to cascade down your hot cheeks.  Half embarrassment and half mortification, making your mascara run. 

The car stopped, and you couldn’t believe the panicked enraged look on your boss’s once orgasmed out of her mind face. The driver didn’t dare speak again, only waiting outside of the company event for you two to finish. You prayed he didn’t record you both. 

“You aren’t going anywhere, no. You think I’ll let you walk into this party, this company party, with a ripped cum soaked outfit looking like a sex worker? Think again.” The woman's dark curls fall into your face. And you can smell her expensive shampoo mixed with the intense aroma of cum and sweat. Agatha’s eyeliner was smudged down her cheek, her dark red-stained lipstick has now in fact stained your neck and breasts. 

Like she’s branded you, like you’ll never be bare again. 

Your boss grinds her teeth as she thinks fast. And you don’t know what her solution is, but you have a feeling it’ll be bad. 

“Mrs. Harkness, uh, I can’t miss this party. It’s mandatory, Yelena said so!” You try, but Agatha looks downright disappointed that you aren’t well-trained by now. In the back of this company car. 

“You don’t want to listen? Fine, let me make it more clear for you. Here I thought you were smarter than this, suppose I was wrong.” Agatha grabbed your throat again and squeezed agonizingly tight, and you arched into her, the wrong response. 

The well-adjusted person may have fought, kicked, and screamed, even? Your throat is already sore from being used as her personal stress toy. Your boss liked this, but she ignored you, sighing, and you heard the sound before you recognized the sensation. 

Piss.

Urine. 

Pee, a golden shower, you’d seen it in porn. But never ever let anyone do it to you, it was demeaning. It was humiliating, and you should be humiliated. Horrified that your boss, whom you were in love with (one-sided love but still), was willing to do this. Had thought of this after using you. She was telling you exactly what she thought of you, the sound echoed in the back of a car. In front of a driver, before going to a work event. 

Red flags all over the place, the spell was wrong, you fucked up. Love spells were wrong; you shouldn’t ever have gone this far. 

But your legs opened so that the stream of yellow liquid, scoldingly hot, could hit your clit. Not just your stomach and thighs. 

And her aim was gorgeous, as the hot piss bounced off your clit and splattered around you. Like those Roman fountains, Greek Gods and Goddesses splashing, sprinkling, and squirting. 

Well, Agatha was your goddess as she gave you the potion right back, only this was far more intimate than you ever wanted. You shuddered under her and orgasmed, you couldn’t believe it, you orgasmed from the feeling of humiliation. 

Your mouth opened, you wished it was shock, but your tongue stuck out. You panted and sighed as your body quaked with aftershocks, horrified by what you’d done.  

“Look at you, you wanted to be marked. I own you, not simply the paycheck. You aren’t just my star employee. No, you are my property. The sooner you obey, the more this company will favor you. The less painful I’ll make your life.”  That shattered the last bit of your sanity. 

Agatha got off your war-torn body. She fixed her makeup and got dressed, and you tried to take breaths of any kind but you were sore, and your heart was broken. Agatha pulled the partition back to speak to the driver. 

“Don’t drive away, keep the engine running. I’m just going to give my regards and then you’ll drive us home.” She slipped him money, and you hiccuped as she left the car, without a word to you. 

And you hated that you wanted her to come back, that you missed her. The smell of her perfume, shampoo….her cum. 

Fuck you were fucked up. But as upset as you were, you licked your top lip to taste her one more time. The smell of piss permeated the car and you sat up as quietly as you could. Before grabbing your wet, now yellow shirt and wrapping it around your shoulders. Your bra was completely ruined, no attempt to fix it. Your skirt was shredded but you quickly pulled the wet fabric up your hips and opened the driver side door and sprinted out. 

You got home that night from sprinting, nothing could stop your body, you ran until it burned, until the acid filled your muscles and lungs. 

By the time you got home, inside, and showered the disgusting act you’d just been in off of your body. You were no closer to feeling clean, or okay. 

But you needed to make a plan, anykind of plan, you needed to figure out how to undo it. This was not what you wanted, fuck not at all. 

Yes, your body responded to her, but you had wanted it to respond from the throes of passion and romance, not what happened in that car. Fuck you couldn’t believe how quickly that had gone to shit. 

You couldn’t go back to work, right? But you had to go back, you had to turn her back. To make this right! You had to fix this spell, whatever it took. 

You walked across your apartment in your towel. Wet feet leaving tracks on the floor and opened the grimoires, you’d have to fix this. Whatever it took. 

That’s when the sound of your front window breaking through you from your thoughts. 

Quickly, you tried to remember the warding spell, how had you never sprinkled brick dust? How had you been such a dumb naive witch? Not listening to your Mama’s words! 

You threw your family grimoire down and scrambled over your sofa, to grab the salt. If you made a circle, maybe it would be enough, maybe? You tore open the pantry and reached for the Morton salt. 

The image of your dead mother flashed in your mind before purple magic invaded your senses. 

You shriekd as purple tendrils of magic stretched your arms over your head and strung you in the middle of the living room. Your futon and coffee table moved without your say, to the edges of the room. Agatha was wearing exactly what you’d seen her last in, though her makeup was perfect, and a new layer of sweat formed on her brow. Her heels clicked on your cheap wood floor,s and her arms were crossed. 

Your towel dropped as you hung with purple magic from the ceiling, and you closed your eyes in horror at what would happen next. 

“That wasn’t very smart of you, Superstar.” Agatha’s eyes are glowing blue now, practically luminescent, shining out of her. The only thing out of 

“Mrs. Harkness, you- you are really sick. And I can make it better.” You whimper, looking across the room at the monster you created. 

“You didn’t know I was a witch, too, I know. It took me a minute to realize what you did, first sip  I tasted you.” Agatha cackled as she walked over to your kitchen floor, where the grimoire was flipped upside down, pages bent like your morals. 

“Mrs. Harkness, please.” You once again beg, not sure on what you want. 

“You thought I didn’t see you. With your drug store lipsticks and big eyes watching my every step.”

You shivered as Agatha bent down and picked up your family grimoire, a big no- no. You didn’t open anothers ancestral grimoire, but it seemed your boss, your monster, wasn’t like other witches. 

“If you knew it was a love potion - why did you drink it?” You ask the most obvious question, even though you are still in a state of shock. You hadn’t known Agatha was a witch; you were in deep now. Not skilled enough for a witch fight. 

Agatha stopped, as she was flipping through the pages of the book to look at you with ease now. Before she giggled like you’d told the funniest of jokes. 

“You tasted good, Superstar.” Agatha says, keeping the book open as she walks towards your naked hanging form. You wish you could cry, could shout, could call on your ancestors' magic to get you out. But you felt your clit stiffen and Agatha gazed at you like you were her favorite plaything. 

“In the car?”

“Oh that wasn’t just your potion, baby. You did fuck up the brew pretty good, though. And it’s still in me, I found your address from HR. I slit her throat to get it,but  you wrecked my plans. You have no idea how much trouble you’ve gotten the two of us in. But don’t worry, your Agatha will fix it all for you.” The witch lifted one hand to touch your cheek, and you tried to jerk away from her. But she just smirked,  pleased at the whole thing. 

Agatha studied the book again, walking into the kitchen and lifting the ingredients you’d used on the counter. 

“Mrs. Harkness I’m so-”

“-sorry?” Agatha’s hair whipped as she looked over her shoulder at you. Then she dropped the book onto the counter, with a loud thud, and snorted at you. “Yeah, that’s cute.” 

Agatha moved around your kitchen with ease, bringing your biggest stock pot out from the dirty sink. She used her finger to trace the inside and lick it. Rubbing her pointer finger and thumb back and forth, deep in thought. 

“Mrs Harkness-” You started, your arms beginning to hurt from being strung over your head. 

“You might as well start calling me Agatha, Darling. You and I are going to have a long, sinfully beautiful life together. But first, I’m gonna give you some medicine. And then, I’m going to build you into exactly who you need to be.” The click of tiny ingredient glass bottles makes the hair on your neck stand up. 

Oh no. 

“Listen, I’m sure we can fix wh-”

“Oh my Sweet Superstar, I don’t want to be fixed. I drank your potion, remember? Now I crave you, and I’ll have you. But it’s only fair if we are on level playing field, don’t you think, Buttercup?” Agatha’s voice is filthy and she doesn’t even turn to look at you as she fills the pot with water and sets it to boil. 

“Mrs. Harkness-”

“Agatha, it’s Agatha, Pet.” The witch reminds you, and you sigh. Your back feels like it’s on fire. Dangling like a yo-you on a string. 

“Agatha, I don’t think you under-” Agatha cuts you off, yanking a drawer open to riffle through it.

“No honey, I got it summed up real nice.”

“Why would you want my shitty potion it didn’t even work right! You don’t love me!”

“Oh baby’s mad i didn’t write you a Valentine? What was your spell's intention little witch? You wanted me to actually-“ Agatha throws her bed back to lack. “F-fall in love with you?” 

You bristled, not enjoying how hilarious she found all of this. But once Agatha cooled down her laughing fit she smiled big and proudly at you.

“Listen, you accidentally made something much better than a love spell. Pet, you made an obsession spell. I don’t want a cure. I’m going to use you, I’m going to fuck you so many different ways. You will do every dirty thought I’ve ever had, just because I can. And you and I have a long witchy life, plenty of time to make new things up Pet. So I’m brewing this potion. Then I’m gonna see what’s in my sweethearts family book about creatively ending Maximoff.” Agatha shared and your panic skyrocketed. This felt like the insane part of the plot where the evil doctor tells all.

“No, no you can’t!” You knew it was futile, but it was your first reaction. 

“Oh don’t tell me your ethics are starting now, Darling?” Agatha feigned interest in you, but she started to sprinkle in ingredients like you had. 

“You’ll never get it right! I didn’t follow the recipie!”

Agatha stopped now, then turned and glared at you.

“Excuse me?” Her voice is scarier now, much scarier than the back of the car. You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen this version of Agatha Harkness. You licked your bottom, bruised, busted lip from her bites, and you tried to say it stronger now. But she didn’t let you.

Slowly sauntering over to you with the book and your legs were spread and purple held your legs wide open like a starfish now, arms and legs open and waiting for Agatha Harkness, the wicked witch she was. She held open the grimoire to you, to show you the page you’d ignored. Her black nail pointed to the potion, like you were dumb as a rock. 

“The ingredients are right here. How many love potions does your family have?” Your boss's irritation was clear as the windowpane she broke to get into your home. You didn’t say a word, just let the silence stretch like the tendons in your bodies. 

Agatha rolled her eyes and shoved three fingers in your cunt, hard and fast and you shouted. She hurled your family's grimoire against the wall, like it never mattered. Her eyes focused on you, and you moaned high pitched as her thumb rubbed against your bruised clit. She’d bit it harder earlier in the back of the car. 

Agatha licker her lips at the sound and the feel of your cunt in her hand. 

“I can be really good to you, you know that. I can be really cruel too. So what’ll it be? You want to make a deal? Because I’m going to own you for centuries, and I can make it all a lot worse.” Agatha tells you and curls her fingers to your g-spot and starts to fuck you fast. 

“Agatha fuck! No! I won’t tell you the sp-spell!” You pant as she fucks you, and then she bends forward and kisses you slowly and gently. Her tongue flicks against yours, and you practically mewl. Agatha pulled back and whispered something against your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the words coming out.

“ I didn’t follow the recipe! BUT I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOU AND I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO OWN ME! MY MOTHER NEVER LOVED ME AND MY DAD KILLED HER AND ALL I WANT IS TO BE LOVED.” You bit the tip of your tongue, and the spell broke. Agatha’s thumb slowed, but she didn’t stop touching you. 

Your boss tilted her head to the side and bat her eyelashes at you. And for the first time you wished you could hit her. Which was crazy considering how your day had gone together. Your thighs shook, maybe from being tied this long, maybe from the talented, unforgiving touching of your pussy. 

“Oh that’s precious, baby.”

Blood filled your mouth, and Agatha tisked and reached forward and her thumb brushed against the corners of your lips. Where blood had come out just a bit, she licked it. Humming in satisfaction at the taste. You wondered for a moment if that was from the potion or Agatha’s own fetish. 

“Tell me the ingredients, Darling. Tell me the ingredients, and then I’ll be your Mommy.”

Your heart broke open, you didn’t realize you wanted her to say it. And something in Agatha’s face looked more at peace by the idea than you’d seen her all day. 

“I’ll be your Mommy til the end of my days.”

Your lip quivered, she read too much between the lines. A master businesswoman, but further than that, Agatha was a manipulative bitch. And you already longed for her to make good on her words. It must be a lie, she couldn’t ever love you. You shook her head and spit the blood onto Agatha’s face. Your boss just rolled her eyes, before gripping your jaw too hard. 

“I can be a nice Mommy, or I can show you exactly what being punished really looks like.” Agatha sighs as she speaks so close to your face you share a breath.  Something about her is kinder than before, though.  

“I-I didn’t even write it down!” You say with Agatha’s nails piercing into your face like she was holding an object, not a person. 

“That’s okay baby, just open up for Mommy.” The witch whispers, and you hate yourself, but you do. You open your mouth, and this vile woman kissses you with fever. And she slinked into your very being and leafed through your memories until she found the things she needed. 

You don’t know how long it took but when you regained consciousness, it was to humming, a sweet song. For a second, you thought you might be a child again, from the memories and dreams you just had. You heard a gentle voice singing;

“I took my troubles down to Madame Ruth

You know that gypsy with the gold-capped tooth

She's got a pad down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine

Sellin' little bottles of Love Potion Number Nine”

Blinking, you started to remember, as the pain in your throat, your body, your cunt, it all too became overwhelming. The bit of blood still in your mouth from biting your own tongue. You groan and lift your head, your neck killing you. 

“Mommy didn’t wanna put you to asleep, but some of those memories…well, it was better this way, baby.” Agatha’s voice woke you now, as you felt a bit of drool at the side of your mouth. You look to the windows, blinds were drawn, glass on the floor from where your boss had broken in. But light coming through, it was morning already it seemed.  

Agatha had changed out of her heels and into one of your floral robes. Make-up gone, she looked gentler now. Her eyes were still blue, as it seemed they would stay. But Agatha did look more at peace than before. 

“I took some of your blood and cum while you slept, that’s why I look like this, Buttercup. I drank both, and only then could I think. I finished the potion, though.” She told you, walking over to the bubbling potion on the stove, taking a ladle, and pulling out a small green bottle. You recognized it immediately, the same one in your Mama’s hand the day she died. You let out a shaky breath, not realizing she would find it. But of course she did, Agatha had been deep in your mind. 

She filled the antique glass vile and then sauntered over to you, looking at you like a lover, and also like a black widow spider does a fly. 

Pushing the vile to your lips, and you jerk away. Agatha takes a long breath out of your nose. 

“Tell me this Superstar, why wouldn’t you take it? What do you have here? This disgusting apartment, with it’s late rent bill on your kitchen table? You like being number two in sales? Using your magic to pull people to buy? You wanted to be mine. Why do you care how I do it?” Agatha tries to sell you now; her voice is soft and you consider her for a minute. 

“I wanted you to love me. You used my body and pissed on me in a company car. You broke into my apartment and bound me, snuck into my mind, all so you could what, cum? Fuck over Wanda?. I just wanted you…I just wanted you.” You repeat and close your eyes, and then Agatha cups your face tenderly, and your eyes shoot open in shock. 

“I can’t love, I can’t give you that. I couldn’t before either, not the way you would have wanted. But obsession, devotion, I’ll own you. I’m hungry for you, dear. Isn’t that so much better? To crave each other, to get lost in each other's skin? Don’t you want to see how far you’ll bend for me?” Agatha’s blue eyes are gorgeous, and you get lost in them now. Like a kid looking into the sky, watching the swirl of clouds dissipate against the baby blues. 

“But…” You try lamely, and Agatha shakes her head, but she is more empathetic than she’s been this whole time. And you consider it could be from the blood and cum she ingested from you. 

“It’s not what you thought it would. Life never really is. But this could be so much better. I’ll take you to islands and countries you’ve never even heard of. You’ll be mine. Not my girlfriend or partner, nothing so small or trivial. You’ll be mine, and I’ll drink from you like a vampire, yes. And you’ll do the same, you’ll beg for it. But you and I, fuck baby. Taking Maximoff’s empire will just be the beginning. We’ll bring this world to its knees. And at the end of the day, you’ll lay against my bare breast. And you’ll never wonder if Mommy wants you again, isn’t that so much better?” Agatha finishes her own daydream, and you are too caught in it to breathe. You forgot how. 

So when Agatha brings the green bottle, the one your mother held in her dying hand, back to your mouth. You forget why you shouldn’t drink it. And you cough at the taste of it at first, and your captor laughs. 

“Don’t break my cute little bottle of love potion! Ha, love potion number nine, how funny. You will be very naughty if you break my love potion, baby. Sip it good for me.”  She coo’s and your bottom lip chases the bottle now. 

“You like how Mommy tastes too, I knew you would. My blood and cum in this potion is too good to ignore huh, baby?” She tells you, petting your hair like you are her greatest creation. 

You drink the whole thing and try to lick inside the bottle and Agatha releases you from your binding. And you fall to your hands and knees, and the bottle breaks against the floor, and you go to lick the broken glass, but Agatha grabs your hair. 

“Easy pet!”Her voice actually sounds concerned. Your mind is bending and breaking over and over, all you see is Agatha’s life and your memories colliding and exploding behind your eyes. It burns over and over again and you wonder if you have lost your mind. 

“Breathe Superstar, Mommy’s got you.” Agatha tells you, grabbing your face in her hands. She’s on the floor with you now, and you blink slowly, she smiles proudly and you notice her left eye. 

It’s green now, one blue, one green. But that green is the same as your mother's was. Agatha’s thumbs brush under your bottom lashes, and you wonder if yours match. That’s when you inhale her and realize. That day, where your mother died, and your father stood with the smoking shotgun barrel still hot. 

That smell, the smell of his cologne. Dark and spicy, chilli, cinnamon, cloves, and red cedar. It was your father's scent; it was Agatha’s natural scent. 

One green eye, one blue, and as you tried to stop your panic, you were sure you could smell the gun smoke.

I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink

I didn't know if it was day or night

I started kissin' everything in sight

Dark Fic MasterList. MasterList AO3

[buttercandy16]

Devil's Bride

PAIRING(s): Devil!Agatha Harkness x Reader, Rio Vidal x Reader

SUMMARY: The Devil will claim her bride, the end begins.

WARNING(s): Dark themed, Non-con, Religion mentioned, Forced pregnancy

A/N: Enjoy! Did some multiple pov and I think I blew it, lol. I hope it all make sense...

You were born during the blood moon.

The hospital lights had flickered and died the moment your mother’s screams reached their peak. Nurses whispered prayers in corners, crosses trembled on rosaries. The delivery room stank of sulfur and something else—something rotting and ancient. When you were finally pulled from the womb, slick and wailing, your mother looked into your eyes and began to weep.

Not from joy.

The priest who had been summoned to bless your body dropped dead three hours later. Heart attack, they said. But his hands had blackened. Curled. Burned as if he had touched something unholy.

And on your back, etched in faint crimson, was the mark. The sigil. The prophecy made flesh.

You never saw it—your parents never let you. They paid for plastic surgeries, treatments, creams. Nothing erased it. And as you grew, so did its heat. A strange warmth under your skin, like your spine was branded from the inside out.

But you didn’t know any of that, not yet.

You only knew the dreams.

They started when you were thirteen. The first time, you woke up gasping, sweating, trembling from something you couldn’t understand. In the dream, you had been naked. Lying on a black altar. Surrounded by cloaked figures chanting in tongues. And above you… her.

A woman with long, inky hair. Lips the color of bruised roses. Eyes like frozen storms and a smile that dripped hunger.

She had mounted you like you belonged to her. And she whispered your name like a spell.

“Mine.”

You hadn’t known her name then. But you did now.

Agatha.

Each year, the dreams grew more intense. She was always there—pressing her body against yours, her hands branding paths along your skin, her mouth a sermon of sin. No matter how many times you woke screaming, her voice lingered.

“Soon, my bride.”

By seventeen, you were broken in places no one could see. The paranormal occurrences had worsened. Mirrors cracking when you passed. Animals howling beneath your window. Books flying from shelves. The sky turning blood-red for a moment, then blinking back to blue.

Your parents took you to priests. Shamans. Therapists.

All of them failed.

Except Rio.

Your best friend since you were kids. She never doubted you. She was the only light in your shadow-soaked life. She sat with you when the dreams got bad. Held you when you shook. She slept on your floor some nights, whispering lullabies to drown out the whispers in your head.

She loved you.

And though you never dared say it, you loved her back.

But love couldn’t stop fate.

The night before your 18th birthday, you didn’t sleep.

You felt it in your bones. Something was coming.

Rio stayed with you, curled beside you on the bed, her head resting against your shoulder. You could feel her warmth, her heartbeat, her breath. Human things. Comforting things.

“Do you feel it too?” you asked.

She nodded. “It’s like… the world’s holding its breath.”

You turned to her. “Rio… if anything happens to me—”

She silenced you with a touch. “Nothing’s going to happen. I won’t let it.”

You woke up alone.

The house was silent. Too silent.

When you stepped outside your room, the air was thick. Wrong. Heavy with the scent of ash and roses.

And then the sky cracked open.

The earth trembled.

Lightning split the skies, not with white—but violet. Deep, electric, bruised lightning. The trees outside bowed inward as if something massive and ancient had passed overhead. And from the woods beyond your backyard, they came.

Cloaked figures. Hooded. Chanting.

You ran—barefoot, heartbeat like thunder. But they surrounded the house before you reached the door. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Eyes glowing red behind veils. And in the center…

She emerged.

Agatha.

Her form shimmered with heat. Skin flawless, glowing like molten metal beneath moonlight. She wore no crown, yet the world bent to her presence. Her lips curled into a smile that had haunted your dreams since you were a child.

She raised one hand, and the cult fell to their knees.

“My bride,” she said. “At last.”

You tried to run, but your legs betrayed you. Roots clawed up from the earth, coiling around your ankles. The very ground obeyed her. A tree branch wrapped around your wrist, dragging you forward until you collapsed at her feet.

“You knew I would come,” she purred, crouching beside you. “Didn’t I make you feel it, every night? Your body is already mine.”

“Please…” you whispered, eyes wide.

“I will not hurt you,” she said gently, brushing your hair back. “But I will claim you.”

Agatha waved her hand, and the cult parted. Behind them, a throne made of bone and obsidian waited in the clearing. Upon it, silk sheets were spread, black as sin.

“I waited eighteen years for you,” she murmured. “Now, the world ends… with your pleasure.”

You were stripped—by unseen hands. Magic curling like fingers. And though terror coiled in your gut, you couldn’t look away from her.

Agatha climbed onto the throne, beckoning you with one outstretched hand. Against every instinct, your body obeyed.

You laid beneath her.

The throne was warm.

Too warm.

You were naked, laid across it like a sacrificial lamb. The silk clung to your damp skin, cool where her hands hadn’t touched. Above you, the world crackled and bent. The cult surrounded the clearing, chanting in some dead tongue that made your teeth ache just to hear.

But you couldn’t look away from her.

Agatha.

She stood before you, the wind licking at her raven-dark hair. Her body was divine—tall, sculpted, powerful in its feminine grace. She wore only a sheer veil of smoke that melted away as she climbed the throne. Her eyes, glowing like twin eclipses, raked down your trembling form.

“So beautiful,” she murmured, straddling your hips. “Just as I dreamed you.”

You tried to speak, but your mouth betrayed you. You could only shiver, your thighs pressed tight, your hands curling in the sheets.

Agatha leaned forward, dragging her lips along your collarbone. Her mouth was hot, electric. Like a brand. Every touch left something behind—an invisible stain you’d never be able to wash away.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” she whispered into your skin. “The bond. The hunger. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Her tongue traced your nipple, slow and deliberate, before she sucked it into her mouth with a groan. Your back arched.

“You were born to be devoured.”

And devour you, she did.

Her hands—cold and burning—traced down your ribs, your stomach, parting your thighs with no gentleness now, only hunger. The chanting grew louder. The ground pulsed with an unnatural beat. The air reeked of incense and sulfur.

Agatha’s fingers found your sex, slick with dread and heat. She groaned like she’d tasted salvation.

“So ready… Look at you. Dripping for me.” Her voice dropped into something inhuman—ancient. “I don’t even need to make you beg.”

Her fingers slid inside you—one, then two—curling and stroking with supernatural precision. You gasped, choked, whimpered. Your legs shook. Her thumb pressed firm circles to your clit while she whispered filth into your ear.

“What did you dream of all those nights, little one? Was it this? My hands buried in you? My mouth sucking the soul from between your legs? Did you come for me in the dark, like a good little bride?”

You sobbed as your climax built, wild and monstrous. You hated her. You needed her. You wanted to die. You wanted to live in this moment forever.

And then—

Her mouth replaced her fingers.

You screamed.

Her tongue worked you like an instrument, tasting every drop, sucking and licking and growling into you as if starved. She didn’t let you come softly. She ripped it from you—your first orgasm crashing over you like a tsunami, your back lifted from the throne, your cries echoing into the trees.

But she didn’t stop.

She lifted herself above you, guiding her hips forward. You didn’t understand what you were seeing until it pressed against your entrance—warm, slick, hard.

She had shaped herself to claim you fully.

“No more dreams,” Agatha whispered, voice thick with lust. “Now, you’re mine in flesh.”

She sank into you.

Every inch felt wrong. Divine. Violent. Like being split and made new. Like a dagger sheathed in velvet. Your walls stretched, clenched, welcomed her like they’d waited years for this.

You screamed, not in pain… but in surrender.

Agatha moved slow at first, rolling her hips, her hands gripping your wrists above your head. She kissed you, her tongue claiming your moans. Her breasts pressed against yours, sweat and power and perfume filling your lungs. Her pace quickened. Every thrust echoed with prophecy.

“My seed… will grow in you,” she growled into your mouth. “You’ll carry the end of the world. And love it.”

She fucked you like a ritual. Like you were her altar. Your womb her throne. Her thrusts grew harder, more desperate, a crescendo of lust and damnation. Your mind shattered.

Another climax tore through you.

Agatha roared, voice inhuman.

And as she buried herself to the hilt, her hips jerking, your body spasmed beneath her—you felt it.

Her essence. Hot and endless, flooding your womb.

The moment her seed entered you, the sky cracked open with fire. Thunder bled. The trees screamed. The ground split.

And deep within your belly, something ancient stirred.

Agatha collapsed atop you, lips pressing to your throat, possessive.

“You are mine,” she whispered. “Body. Soul. Womb. And soon… the world will be, too.”

RIO’S POV

There was blood in the sky.

That was the first thing Rio saw when she stumbled into the clearing, gasping for breath. Trees burned with no flame. The earth was cracked, blistered, and pulsing like it was alive. The cultists were gone, scattered to the shadows like roaches. And in the center of it all—on the throne of bone and silk—you lay.

You.

Naked. Still. Eyes wide open, staring up at the churning black clouds.

Rio dropped to her knees, sobbing before she could speak. Your skin glowed with sweat. Bite marks on your breasts. Bruises blooming down your throat. Between your thighs, something darker leaked—thick, inhuman.

“No…” she whispered, crawling to you, trembling hands cupping your face. “Please, no…”

But you blinked.

Slow. Empty.

“Y/N?”

Your lips parted. But the voice that came out wasn’t yours.

“She’s inside me.”

You felt her.

Still inside you. Deep, deeper than flesh. Agatha’s presence pressed against your soul like a weight you couldn’t shake. Her essence—her seed—had settled, rooted, blossomed. You could feel it curling inside your womb like a serpent, a heartbeat within a heartbeat.

Your mind was unraveling in silk and sin.

And it felt good.

You didn’t know where your thoughts ended and hers began. Her voice whispered behind your eyes, her memories flickered like film behind your eyelids. Visions of fire. Altars. Blood-slicked thighs. Her name, moaned a thousand times across centuries by a thousand different mouths.

And now—yours.

“She claimed me,” you said, voice thin and dreamy. “I didn’t want it… but I did. I wanted her.”

Rio was crying. Screaming something. But her words didn’t reach you anymore.

You reached for her hand.

“You have to leave, Rio. She’ll come back. She’s always watching. I can feel her… inside. Like a heartbeat. A heat.”

You moaned.

God, you moaned—because she was still moving, even now. Her power curled within you like she was fucking your mind from the inside out. Every thought you had, she wrapped in silk and dragged down, devoured, reformed.

“You’re sick,” Rio whispered. “She broke you.”

“No,” you sighed, head lolling back. “She remade me.”

RIO’S POV

Rio ran.

She had no choice. The moment you touched her, the ground split beneath your feet and a voice bled from your mouth—a voice not yours.

“You cannot save her, little mortal. She is mine now.”

She had fled the woods, barefoot and sobbing, and every mile away only made the air heavier. The world was changing. The sky was wrong—bleeding light from black suns. Birds flew in spirals, then dropped dead mid-air. Churches were burning. People screamed in tongues on the streets.

She returned home to find her parents staring at the wall, eyes white, smiling.

It was too late.

You woke again that night.

Naked, again.

This time in a bed of velvet. Shadows danced along the edges of the candlelit chamber. Everything was too soft. The sheets, the air, the hands brushing along your skin.

You turned.

She was beside you.

Agatha.

Her body—bare, glowing, sprawled against yours like a cat curled around her prize. Her fingers trailed down your stomach and settled between your thighs again.

“You carried me well,” she purred. “He stirs inside you already. My son. Our son.”

You should have screamed. But instead, you moaned into her mouth as she kissed you—slow, deep, possessive.

“My perfect bride,” she whispered. “You don’t belong to the world anymore. The world belongs to you. You’ll be its undoing.”

You tried to say no.

But your hips rolled.

Her fingers slipped inside you again, and this time they curled like roots into your core. Power surged through your veins—black and red and humming with sex and sin.

“Let me show you what love really is,” Agatha said.

And she fucked you again—slow, deep, until your soul bent to her name.

RIO’S POV

She watched the news flicker static. Entire countries swallowed by red storms. Oceans boiling. Children born with black eyes and knowing smiles.

Rio sat in the dark, clutching a knife, whispering your name like a prayer.

But even prayers felt hollow now.

And somewhere—on the wind, in her dreams, inside the static—

She heard you laughing.

Your body is not your own anymore.

You can feel it every time you breathe—something stretching inside you, thick and slow, like roots claiming soil. Your womb pulses with life, but it’s not life. It’s deeper than human. Older than light. A thing that dreams inside you, twitching in sleep, feeding on your heartbeat.

Your skin is warmer now. Softer. Almost glowing. The mark along your spine has bloomed, tendrils of black vine-like scars twisting outward, alive under your skin. You watch yourself in the mirror, lips parted, hand over your belly.

You're changing.

You're radiant.

You're horrifying.

And she adores you.

Agatha rarely leaves your side now. She watches as you bathe. As you moan in your sleep. As you writhe from phantom pleasure when the child inside you stirs. Her hands never stray far—always cradling, stroking, praising. Her voice fills the walls of your mind.

"You're so beautiful like this. Ripening. Soft and sacred."

You don't know when you stopped fighting.

All you know is that when she touches you now, your body answers. When she slips her fingers into your mouth, you suck obediently. When she spreads your legs, you open without hesitation.

"Let them watch," she purrs when you arch for her before the altar, your cries echoing through the ruined chapel. “Let the old gods weep as I worship what’s mine.”

And you are hers.

Even as the baby kicks beneath your navel, and black veins bloom across your hips, and your reflection smiles when you do not—

You still moan her name like a sacred word.

You’ve forgotten what you were before.

RIO’S POV

Rio stood before the chapel ruins, knife clenched in shaking hands.

Her heart ached with memory. The two of you dancing in your bedroom to songs that meant nothing now. Your soft laughter. That time you kissed her on the cheek and giggled like it was nothing.

Now…

Now you were a mother of the apocalypse.

She had followed your trail for days—what was left of civilization crumbling behind her. People raving. Cities collapsing. Creatures slithering through cracks in the earth. And always, always, the sky above her pregnant with screaming stars.

She saw you through the open chapel doors.

Naked.

Kneeling.

Pregnant.

Swollen, glowing, utterly other.

And beside you—Agatha. Dressed in black silks, stroking your hair like a lover, a queen, a god.

Rio’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t saving you.

This was saying goodbye.

You looked up the moment she arrived.

Rio.

Sweet, mortal Rio—stained with ash and sweat and trembling with too much grief. Her eyes wide as she beheld you. Her lips shaking. Her chest heaving.

You smiled.

Not from joy.

But from ache.

Some piece of you—tiny and flickering—still remembered love. Still wanted to cry and collapse into her arms. But it was buried under velvet. Under flame. Under Agatha’s seed.

“You’re too late,” you whispered.

Rio stepped forward, voice cracking. “You’re still in there. I know you are.”

Agatha laughed behind you. “She belongs to something greater now. You should bow.”

But Rio didn’t.

She ran to you—sobbing—and cupped your face.

“Please… I love you. Come back to me.”

Your lips trembled. Your eyes welled. Her hand was warm. Human. Alive.

And for a second—just one breath—you saw yourself in her gaze.

But then the baby inside you moved.

Hard.

Something curled up your spine and licked the back of your skull. You gasped. Your belly pulsed, swollen and glowing with unnatural heat. The sigil on your stomach flared.

You cried out, falling to your knees.

Rio caught you, sobbing. “It’s okay—breathe—I’m here—I’ve got you—”

And then Agatha's voice whispered in your mind like smoke:

“Let her go, my bride. Let the past die. You belong only to me.”

You moaned as your body convulsed—not from pain.

But from pleasure.

“R-Rio…” you whimpered, clutching her shirt. “It… feels s-so good…”

Your back arched. Your thighs spread. The altar pulsed beneath you. Dark honey pooled between your legs.

She stepped behind you.

Agatha.

And as she pressed her body to yours, one hand cradling your swollen belly, the other sliding between your legs, you sobbed into Rio’s arms.

“Watch her come apart, little mortal,” Agatha whispered with reverence. “She’s no longer yours to save. She’s mine to worship.”

RIO’S POV

Rio held you as you moaned.

Your face buried in her neck. Your breath hot and wet. Your body grinding helplessly into Agatha’s hand, possessed with erotic reverence.

Rio could feel the child kicking between you.

She felt her heart shatter.

You looked up at her with wide, wet eyes.

“Please… don’t leave me.”

She wanted to scream. To run. To stab Agatha. To save you.

But your hips bucked again, and you moaned her name—not in recognition.

But in lust.

“R-Rio… don’t stop touching me… please…”

Agatha watched with a grin as you cried out again, orgasm shuddering through your corrupted, glowing body.

And that was it.

Rio dropped the knife.

Fell to her knees.

And kissed your forehead like a mourner.

“Goodbye.”

She left you there, convulsing in the chapel, gasping on Agatha’s fingers, cradling the antichrist inside your belly like it was your salvation.

You awaken to heat.

Your body is drenched in sweat. Your skin hums. The velvet sheets cling to your glowing, swollen belly. The mark across your abdomen pulses like a second heartbeat. You try to speak—but your mouth opens only to moan.

It’s starting.

The contractions don’t come in waves. They come like earthquakes. Your hips grind helplessly against the altar’s surface. Your thighs slick with honeyed wetness that smells of roses and blood. And still—Agatha watches.

Always watching.

She sits at the foot of the altar like a queen before a sacrifice. Her eyes glow with pride. Her lips curl with lust. She’s already naked, already waiting. Her fingers drift between her thighs as she watches you writhing in divine agony.

“Breathe, my love,” she whispers. “Let it tear you open. Let the world end through your womb.”

You scream—but the scream becomes a moan. Your back arches. Your body begs. You don’t understand if it’s pain or pleasure anymore—everything blurs into something holy.

You’re not giving birth.

You’re ascending.

Agatha moves to you. Her body glides like smoke—her hands warm and trembling as they spread your thighs wider. Her mouth presses to your inner thigh, kissing the slick trails your leaking body leaves behind.

“My perfect little bride,” she murmurs, kissing up your belly. “You carried the End so well.”

Your vision blurs as your stomach tightens again—this time, you scream her name.

“A-Agatha… please… I-I’m breaking—”

“Yes. Break. Shatter for me. Let him come.”

You feel it—the tearing. The stretching. The impossibility. Your womb opens like a flower, and something ancient crawls from it. Not screaming. Not crying.

But smiling.

A child of shadow and flame.

Born between your thighs on a bed of silk and bone, wrapped in afterbirth soaked in prophecy. Its eyes open. They are Agatha’s eyes.

It coos.

The world trembles.

And you, still spread open and panting, sob.

But it’s not fear.

It’s love.

You’ve never felt more complete.

Agatha leans down, taking your face in her hands. She kisses you—not sweetly. Not softly. But deep, hungry, like she’s consuming your soul from the inside.

“You’ve done it,” she breathes. “The veil is broken. Heaven has fallen. The earth belongs to us now. My queen. My whore. My mother of ruin.”

Your thighs still twitch. Your nipples ache. You feel slick between your legs, and yet you still want her. Crave her.

She mounts you once more.

As the world burns around the chapel, she fucks you again—blood between your thighs, her child cradled beside your head, the sigil on your belly now alive and glowing.

You moan. You cry. You beg.

“More. Please, Agatha… more…”

RIO’S POV

She wandered the wastelands.

The sky above her was black and pulsing. The sea had turned to glass. The stars had fallen like ash. There were no more clocks. No more gods. No more prayers.

Only her memories.

Of the girl she loved.

The girl who called her name as she fell apart on that altar.

She saw you once more.

In a vision, maybe. Or in a dream. Or perhaps the new god let her glimpse you in mercy.

You were standing in the ruins of the chapel—naked, radiant, mad. A child of darkness clinging to your breast. Agatha behind you, her hands wrapped around your waist.

You looked up at Rio.

Smiled.

And whispered:

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The earth cracked beneath Rio’s feet.

She did not run.

She closed her eyes.

And let your love end her, too.

_-_-_-_

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[buttercandy16]

MOMMY'S GIRL

PAIRING(s): Mafia!Agatha Harkness x Reader

SUMMARY: Kidnapped and sold, she thought the worst was over — until mafia boss Agatha Harkness claimed her. But Agatha doesn’t want a lover… she wants a little girl to own, mold, and keep forever.

WARNING(s): Dark Themes, Yandere, Conditioning, Non-con, Age-Regression, MDLG, Dead Dove

A/N: This is something...

You weren’t supposed to be here.

The last thing you remember clearly was walking to your car. Bright lights in the parking lot. A hand. A rag. A scent like rot and sugar.

And then—darkness.

You woke up in a room with no windows, wrists cuffed in front of you like a gift waiting to be opened. You weren’t the only one there. Other women huddled against walls, bruised, wide-eyed, silent.

One by one, they were taken.

Now it’s your turn.

They dress you like a doll—silk slip, no underwear. Lips tinted pink. A collar placed delicately around your neck.

“Lot 17,” the handler says to someone outside. “Virgin. Twenty-four. Spirited.”

You thrash against his grip. “Let me go! This is—this is illegal! You can’t—!”

A sharp slap across your face silences you.

“Don’t make her ugly,” someone scolds.

Your cheeks burn. Your eyes sting.

Then you’re led into the auction room.

A dark hall filled with smoke and suits. Men and women sipping liquor, laughing softly, monsters in velvet.

You’re pushed onto the stage.

Spotlight hits your face.

You squint against it.

Then your eyes land on her.

She’s seated in the back, flanked by two suited guards. A cigarette rests between her fingers. Her legs are crossed. Her gaze is predatory.

Agatha Harkness.

You don’t know her name yet.

But you feel her looking at you—studying you like a glass of wine she plans to taste slowly.

She leans in and murmurs something to the man beside her. He nods and raises his paddle.

The bidding begins.

Others try. They throw numbers around like candy.

$80,000. $95,000.

But Agatha doesn’t blink. She simply lifts her hand once.

The room quiets.

“Two hundred thousand,” her man says.

No one dares to go higher.

Sold.

You’re taken from the stage, shaking.

You scream. Kick. Cry.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve been bought.

They bring you to a suite—dimly lit, all marble and velvet. You're thrown onto a bed that smells like lavender and leather.

And then, she enters.

Her presence makes the air heavier.

Her heels click slowly across the floor. Her suit is custom—dark, precise, the kind that says: I own you before I even touch you.

She kneels beside the bed.

Takes your chin in her gloved hand.

“Hello, little thing,” she purrs.

You jerk your face away. “Fuck you.”

She laughs. A low, husky sound.

“Oh, you’re perfect,” she murmurs.

She begins that night.

Not with ropes.

But with honey.

She feeds you warm milk.

Spoons of chocolate mousse.

Brushes your hair with slow, practiced strokes.

She puts you in soft cotton pajamas—childish, humiliating, covered in bunnies.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper, heart thudding.

Agatha smiles.

“I’ve always wanted a little girl,” she says. “Not just a pet. Not a slave. A little. Someone to care for. To own. To protect.”

You stare at her in horror.

“I’m not a child.”

She leans in. “Not yet.”

That night, she touches you.

Gently.

Almost reverently.

Her gloved hand slips under your shirt as you tremble, her fingers circling your nipple with cruel patience.

You try to pull away.

She grabs your wrist.

“Good girls don’t fight,” she whispers. “And you will be a good girl for Mommy.”

You freeze.

“I’m not—I’m not—”

But your voice breaks as her mouth replaces her hand.

She suckles, slow and deliberate, groaning softly like it’s her who’s drunk on you.

She hums as she pulls back, licking her lips.

“Tastes like sugar.”

She curls around you in bed. Holds you so tight you can’t move.

“You’ll forget who you were soon,” she breathes into your hair. “You’ll forget all those grown-up thoughts.”

You want to scream.

But she rocks you to sleep like a child.

And you wake up with a pacifier between your lips.

You wake up in the same bed.

But something’s changed.

The walls are different now—pastel pink. The furniture is smaller. Softer. The sharp edges gone. There's a stuffed bunny beside your pillow, and your clothes are missing.

All of them.

In their place is a wardrobe full of ruffled dresses, pastel onesies, cotton panties with cartoon prints, and padded training pants.

It hits you like ice: She’s building a nursery.

You scramble out of bed, heart racing, body aching. The door is shut. No handle on your side.

You’re trapped.

“Good morning, princess.”

Her voice.

Silken. Dangerous.

You turn—and she’s standing in the doorway with a tray. Warm oatmeal, sliced bananas, a sippy cup.

Agatha is smiling.

But her eyes are cold.

“You missed your morning diaper change,” she says calmly.

You freeze. “I’m not—You’re fucking sick.”

She sighs, setting the tray down.

“We’re going to work on that potty mouth.”

She sits you on her lap like a child.

“You don’t need to make decisions anymore,” she murmurs, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You don’t need to worry. You don’t need to think.”

You squirm in her lap, fists clenching.

She holds your wrists.

“I know,” she whispers. “The adult part of your brain is still screaming. But she’ll quiet soon. You’ll thank me when she’s gone.”

There are routines.

Wake, change, breakfast.

Playtime with wooden blocks. Books without words. Forced naps with lullabies she hums against your ear.

Every time you resist, she punishes you.

Not violently. Worse.

Emotionally.

The first time you said “no,” she locked you in a crib for four hours.

The mattress was waterproof. You weren’t allowed to use the toilet.

By the time she came back, you were humiliated, wet, sobbing.

She held you.

Stroked your hair.

“Poor baby,” she crooned. “It’s okay. Grown-up accidents happen in the beginning.”

She changed you—slowly, lovingly—cooing praises as she wiped between your legs, powdered your thighs, and taped you into a fresh, humiliating pink diaper.

“You’ll feel so much better when you stop trying to be big.”

She spoon-feeds you dinner now.

If you finish without protest, she rewards you.

Sometimes it’s candy.

Sometimes it’s worse.

She’ll press you into the mattress afterward, kiss you gently, run her tongue over your nipple until you whimper.

“You’re such a good girl,” she purrs. “And good girls get special kisses, don’t they?”

You shake your head.

She kisses you harder.

You cry—but you can’t help what your body does when her fingers slip between your thighs, soft and patient.

“Shh,” she whispers. “Mommy knows.”

You come without meaning to.

And she praises you for it.

Like it’s your first word.

Like it’s a trick she taught you.

Time becomes a fog.

Your name becomes baby, princess, kitten.

You cry when she leaves the room.

You flinch when she says “no.”

You feel yourself—splitting.

There’s the old you, screaming behind your eyes.

And the new you, dressed in ruffles, trying to earn gold stars on the chore chart taped to the wall.

Agatha tucks you in every night.

Her lips brush your temple.

“You were born to be mine,” she whispers. “We just had to cut the grown-up part out of you.”

One day, she makes you crawl to her.

Completely naked.

Your hands shake, knees bruised, but you do it.

She opens her arms. “There’s my perfect girl.”

You collapse against her chest, sobbing.

And for a moment, you believe her.

Because it’s easier than fighting.

Because she’s the only one who touches you like you matter.

Because she’s winning.

You used to hate her touch.

Now, you flinch when she isn’t near.

Agatha’s world has swallowed you whole, and it tastes like strawberries and sweat. You sleep in a crib carved from mahogany. You wake to lullabies leaking from hidden speakers in the ceiling. There’s no window in your room—only the soft pink walls of your new life.

You were an adult.

Now?

You’re her little girl.

Not by choice.

By design.

The days blur.

They’re filled with the soft rustle of diapers, the smell of powder and lavender oil, and the ever-present, terrifying warmth of Agatha’s gaze. She doesn't blink much when she watches you. Doesn’t look away when you cry. Doesn’t flinch when you scream.

But you don’t scream anymore.

That was broken out of you.

It began with the spoon.

“You’ll eat from my hand,” she whispered. “Good girls don’t feed themselves. That’s too big girl.”

You were starved.

You obeyed.

Then came the bottle.

Thick, lukewarm milk laced with something… calming.

“Drink for Mommy,” she said.

Your body fought it at first. But the formula softened you. Numbed you. After a few days, you found yourself suckling without being asked. Your lips swollen from hours spent clinging to the rubber nipple like it was your lifeline.

Then came the pacifier.

You tried to spit it out.

She strapped it to your face.

“You’ll keep it in until you’re ready to stop using your big girl words,” she said sweetly. “It’s too hard to think, hmm? Let Mommy do the thinking for you.”

You sobbed into it.

She rocked you anyway.

And after two days of constant wear—during baths, naps, diaper changes—it no longer felt foreign.

It felt like home.

One night, she bathed you in rosewater and patted you dry.

"Such a precious thing," she purred, trailing her fingers down your thighs. "Soft... everywhere."

You trembled when she touched your folds.

When she slipped two fingers in, you cried behind your pacifier.

But your body betrayed you.

You clenched around her, wet and helpless.

She smiled like a mother watching her child take their first steps.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she whispered. “You’re finally forgetting who you were.”

You were punished for cumming too soon.

But rewarded when you cried and begged.

That’s what she wanted most: your regression. Not just physical, but mental.

A woman undone.

A child built from the wreckage.

You stared at your reflection.

Pacifier in mouth.

Onesie snapped shut.

Blank eyes.

She stood behind you, stroking your hair.

“Do you see her?” she asked. “That big girl?”

You nodded, barely.

She tisked.

“Wrong answer.”

She bent you over the vanity.

You were spanked until your bottom burned like fire.

Then she cupped your cheeks, kissed your tears, and smiled.

“There’s no big girl left,” she cooed. “Only my baby.”

You no longer question being carried.

Her arms are strong. Her chest warm. Her scent all-encompassing.

She holds you in her lap, your head resting against her breast, and guides your mouth to her nipple.

Not bottle this time.

Her.

Warm. Real. Human.

You moan when her milk coats your tongue.

She sighs.

“There’s my good girl. So obedient. So dependent.”

Your eyes flutter closed.

You don’t know what she’s laced her body with—hormones, drugs, spells—but whatever it is, you’re addicted.

By the time you’ve suckled her dry, your limbs are jelly.

Your mind blank.

You don’t even flinch when she slips her fingers into your wetness again.

“Shh,” she whispers. “You’re almost ready. Just one more ceremony left.”

She kisses your forehead and lays you back in the crib.

The mobile above your head turns slowly.

Tiny knives dangle beside plush toys—her sick sense of humor never far.

“Tomorrow,” she says, brushing a curl from your cheek. “You’ll be mine in every way. Branded. Claimed. Forgotten by the world. And you’ll thank me for it.”

You try to speak.

But the pacifier muffles the only sound you can make:

A whimper.

There’s a kind of silence that isn’t peace.

A silence that comes only after something has been broken. A bone. A rule. A person.

You are the silence now.

Not the girl who screamed in the cold cage, not the woman who wept as a collar was buckled tight around her throat. She’s gone—peeled away like skin under a razor. What’s left is soft, sweet, pliant.

You sit on the nursery floor in a pale pink dress that Agatha picked just for you. The lace tickles your thighs. The matching socks scratch just a little—but she said you'd get used to it.

"Almost there, little one," Agatha murmurs, her voice like silk and sin. She kneels in front of you, her ringed fingers slipping under your chin to tilt your face up. "Your eyes don’t fight anymore. Do you know how beautiful that makes you?"

You blink. Slowly. Like a doll.

Your lips try to form words. A protest? A plea?

No. Only one name comes.

“…Mommy.”

Agatha’s pupils dilate with hunger.

"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, my precious girl. That’s exactly what you are."

She carries you into her bedroom—the one you weren’t allowed to enter until now. It smells like her perfume, old books, and ash.

The bed is massive. Canopied. Covered in black velvet and ivory silk.

She lays you down like a sacrifice. Undresses you slowly. Reverently.

“You’re ready now,” she whispers, kissing a trail down your collarbone. “Not just to be mine. But to know it. To feel it everywhere.”

Your breath hitches.

You should be scared.

You are scared.

But the fear is tangled now with something warmer. Something darker. Something she put inside you.

Her mouth descends.

She takes her time.

Hands on your hips. Thighs spread. Her name on your lips like prayer.

“Mommy… please…”

She doesn’t stop until you sob for her. Until your body shakes with release and shame and need, until you forget what it felt like to be untouched.

She whispers lullabies while you cry in her arms.

“You did so well, baby.”

“You’re all mine now.”

“You’re never going back.”

The nursery is quiet tonight. A lull before something irreversible.

You kneel on the thick pastel carpet, body clad in a frilly pink nightdress—one Agatha picked out herself. The lace itches against your thighs, the hem barely covering your trembling hips.

Agatha watches you from her chair, legs crossed, a glass of scotch in one hand, remote in the other. The large TV on the wall plays grainy footage—surveillance from your first night in the estate. You sobbing. Kicking. Screaming into a pacifier gag.

You shut your eyes.

“I said watch, sweetheart,” Agatha croons. “You’re going to see how far you’ve come. What Mommy’s love really did to you.”

You force yourself to look. Your throat is dry. There’s a leash attached to your collar now, clipped there minutes ago. She gives it a gentle tug.

"Come here."

You crawl—because you know better than to walk when she says it like that. You kneel between her legs. Her silk robe parts, revealing her body underneath—bare, flushed, waiting.

“Mommy’s toy wants to be good, hmm?” she says, setting the glass down. “Then prove it. Put that filthy little mouth to work.”

You hesitate, not out of resistance, but from fear. She trained you to crave this. To need her touch, her praise, her body. And yet the shame always lingers.

Still, you lean forward.

Your lips press to her inner thigh, trailing kisses upward until she cups the back of your head and guides you exactly where she wants you. Her voice is low, commanding, nearly tender:

“Open your mouth. Show me what that pretty little tongue is for.”

You obey.

She tastes of salt and power. Your tongue moves in practiced motions—slow, reverent, desperate for her moans. You feel her thighs tense around your ears. She grips your hair, pulls, guides.

"Good girl. Such a good little girl for Mommy."

The praise hits harder than it should. You moan into her, the vibration pulling another gasp from her lips. She rocks her hips forward, taking what she wants. Using you.

But that’s all you are now.

Something used.

Owned.

Loved—if love can be this cruel.

She comes hard, pulling your head tight against her as she rides it out. The sound of her pleasure echoes like victory in your ears. When she finally releases you, you’re gasping, messy, flushed.

And she’s smiling.

“You did so well, baby,” she purrs, wiping your mouth with her thumb, then licking it clean. “Mommy’s proud. Mommy’s very proud.”

You look up at her with glassy, empty eyes.

And you believe her.

At breakfast, she brings a small silver box tied with a purple satin bow.

Inside: a black leather collar, hand-stitched, with a tiny heart-shaped tag.

Engraved:

AGATHA'S BABY

She fastens it around your neck in front of her lieutenants. You kneel obediently, trembling, but you don’t resist. You don’t even think to.

They applaud softly.

Some are aroused.

Some are afraid.

All know better than to look too long.

Agatha kisses the crown of your head. Possessive. Triumphant.

"Mine," she declares.

And no one dares to disagree.

At night, she bathes you in oils and warm water. Brushes your hair one hundred times like a ritual. Dresses you in your softest onesie. Tucks you into your oversized crib with the same stuffed bunny she gave you that first week.

“Mommy,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

“Yes, darling?”

“…Was I good today?”

Agatha’s expression softens with something dangerous. Something eternal.

“You were perfect.”

She kisses your forehead. Locks the crib from the outside. Shuts the light.

In the dark, you hold your bunny tight.

You think you hear crying.

Maybe it’s the old you—some ghost buried under lace and regression and mind games.

But it’s fading.

You’re safe now.

You’re loved.

You’re Mommy’s.

Forever.

You don’t remember the last time you thought of yourself as an adult.

The woman you once were—independent, angry, terrified—feels like a dream now. That version of you wouldn't have worn bows in her hair. She wouldn’t have needed permission to use the bathroom. She wouldn’t have crawled on all fours to her captor’s feet, looked up with glossy eyes, and whispered:

“Mommy… can I please have your touch?”

Agatha closes her book slowly, eyes gleaming with adoration—and something far darker.

“My good girl wants her reward, hmm?”

You nod, cheeks flushed, hands fidgeting with the hem of your pastel dress. You’re not allowed panties tonight. Agatha said they just “get in the way.”

She shifts on the bed and crooks her finger. You crawl into her lap like a trained kitten, straddling her thigh while her hand immediately strokes up the curve of your back.

“I remember how you used to fight me,” she murmurs. “Spitting, biting, screaming. And now look at you… soaked through and trembling just because Mommy's holding you.”

You whimper as her fingers trail between your legs—teasing, testing, not quite giving you what you want.

“Use your words.”

“Please, Mommy,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please touch me.”

That’s all it takes.

Her hand grips your throat—not hard enough to choke, just enough to remind you who owns you. Her other hand cups your soaked heat, sliding two fingers between your folds with expert ease.

“Already dripping?” she coos. “Such a filthy little thing.”

You cry out as she begins to move inside you, slow and deliberate. Her palm presses against your clit, grinding gently while your hips twitch. You try not to moan. You want to be quiet, submissive, obedient.

But you can’t.

Not when she whispers in your ear, “Such a good little pussy, all mine to ruin.”

You grind harder against her, lost in the feeling of being used. Her hand around your throat tightens just enough to make your vision blur. Your thighs quiver, your mouth falls open, and your whole body begins to shake.

“Don’t cum yet,” she warns, voice low. “You haven’t earned it.”

You sob, desperate, needy.

“Please! Please, Mommy—I'll be good, I promise—”

Agatha smiles. Her free hand strokes your hair with mock-gentleness.

“I know, baby. But good girls wait.”

She pulls her fingers out slowly, deliberately, leaving you shaking in her lap. She brings them to your lips and taps.

“Clean.”

You suck them in without hesitation, moaning around the taste of yourself. Her eyes darken with lust as you swirl your tongue, obedient and broken.

“That’s my girl,” she breathes.

And then she shoves you down on the bed.

You’re on your back now, legs spread, dress bunched at your waist. Agatha wastes no time—she kneels between your thighs, pushing her own slick core against yours, grinding in firm, slow circles.

“Mommy’s going to cum with you this time,” she growls. “I want you to look in my eyes when it happens.”

You do.

Because you can’t look away.

Because her eyes are all you have left.

She moves faster. The heat, the slick sound of your bodies grinding, the pressure—it builds too fast. Your fingers dig into the sheets, your moans echo like prayers.

“Cum, little one.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking, sobbing, clinging to her arms as her own orgasm crashes through her seconds later. You both collapse together, sweat-slicked and trembling.

She kisses your forehead, then your lips, then the tip of your nose.

“My baby,” she whispers. “My perfect little thing.”

You nod weakly, eyes closing.

“Yes, Mommy.”

The estate is alive with glittering voices and clinking glasses—another lavish gathering of women who run cities in shadows. Mafia queens, cartel wives, the sort of women who wear blood like lipstick.

Agatha Harkness arrives late on purpose.

She always makes an entrance.

But tonight, she brings something new. Something the others haven’t seen before. Something more precious than money or power.

She brings you.

You cling to her arm in a soft pink dress with puffed sleeves and lace trim. A matching collar is fastened tight around your neck, silver letters spelling out "MOMMY'S". You’re barefoot, and your fingers are clutching a plush rabbit whose ears are worn from obsessive petting.

The room stills when you walk in. Grown women in fur and jewels turn, confused at first—until Agatha says, with her usual smug calm:

“She’s not a pet, ladies. She’s my little girl.”

There’s a hush. A ripple of interest. A few stunned glances. And then a sharp laugh from the red-dressed woman at the bar.

“She’s real?” the woman purrs. “Not just a prop?”

Agatha guides you forward. You nuzzle her shoulder. Your lips are glossy with strawberry balm. You don’t speak unless spoken to—your training is perfect now.

Agatha tilts your chin up, making sure they see your dazed eyes, your obedience.

“Real,” she says. “Trained. Conditioned. And mine.”

The others are watching you like you’re an artifact. One with a collar and soft thighs and no fight left behind her eyes.

“She used to be a woman, you know,” Agatha hums, brushing your cheek with the back of her fingers. “Strong, angry, full of pride. Took months to undo all that.”

The woman at the bar leans in, intrigued.

“And now?”

“Now she wets if I don’t remind her to go potty,” Agatha says with a soft laugh. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

You nod, humiliated and glowing.

The women coo. Some are fascinated. Others are quietly horrified. But none look away.

Agatha pulls you into her lap as she sits, letting you curl against her chest. One hand strokes your hair, the other rests lazily on your thigh.

“She only speaks to me. She doesn’t even remember her old name. But she remembers what I taught her.”

Her fingers slip between your thighs beneath the skirt.

You whimper.

The other women pretend not to see, but they’re all watching.

Agatha whispers into your ear:

“Mommy’s proud of her baby.”

You nuzzle her neck.

_-_-_-_

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