aus, nsfw, sfw, mommy/daddy kink, dom/sub, praise kink, pseudo-incest, step-cest, cheating/infidelity, power play, cnc, somnophilia, breath play, spit kink, dark fics, yandere, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort
disclaimer: i do not condone any types of above-mentioned toxic and inappropriate behaviors in any real-life situation. they are purely fictional and should not be imitated.
please be polite AND patient. i have a life outside this hobby so it might take a while for me to write something.
please send a request through my ask so I can keep track of them easier.
i don’t write in a specific order. whatever inspires me the most would be the first one to finish–not by who requested first and whatnot.
feel free to reblog (highly appreciated!) my fics but DO NOT REPOST them on any other platforms. i only use Tumblr and AO3 (covenofchaos) so if you see them somewhere else, kindly inform me.
summary: Eva calls you over to her office because, just like her cigarettes, she must have her fix of you to decompress.
pairing: eva stratt x afab!reader
word count: 1.7k
rating: +18 this is pure filth mdni
warnings: there's absolute no plot at all, just p0rn. slapping, spitting, fingering, oral sex, hair pulling, HR violations lol, semi-public sex, people can hear you guys btw, fuck-and-go type of relationship. mentions of smoking, condescending eva but it's hot so it's okay
notes: i had the worst writers block and writing straight up filth was the only thing that got me out of it lol enjoy
She starts a 20-minute timer as soon as you step into her office.
Eva had a long fucking day, full of papers to fill out, science to make sense of, and trying to possibly save the world. When, at exactly 8 p.m., she sits on her favorite chair for the first time and lets out the biggest exhale a human could possibly muster, and finally has some peace and fucking quiet, she shuts her eyes for five seconds, and then sends for you.
That's not the usual routine; her day is never over at 8 p.m., and today certainly isn't an exception. Her assistant makes sure to remind her of it when she sees you walking over to her office. Eva knows it, there's not a single second she's blissfully ignorant or procrastinating about the fact that, well, humanity's fate weighs heavy on her shoulders, but just as much as she needs to gulp down two cups of coffee at 6a.m for five minutes, a few ten minutes smoke breaks throughout the day and a fifteen minute session of buying stupid shit before bed in order to function, she also needs her daily fill of you with your legs spread open in front of her, just so she can live in society as a tolerable human.
So you enter, close the door, and she drops the weird analog timer she always carries to keep track of her bad habits-induced breaks, and before you blink, Eva is on you.
She moves with one hand behind your head; there's no time for 'hi' as she kisses you deeply, pressing you against the wall. Eva melts into the kiss momentarily, a deep hum echoing and a soft exhale coming shortly after, accompanied by her leg parting yours and staying in the middle of them, pressing against your core.
She eats up your surprised moan, biting your lip and moving her other hand to your body, quickly exploring your breasts with a hungry squeeze and lingering fingers, passing by your stomach, raking her nails underneath your sweater, and then to the buttons of your jeans, "Can I have you, dear?"
She looks at you with her head tilted down, cocked slightly to the side, swollen lips, and disheveled hair. You nod eagerly, unable to speak, and you start to move to the couch on the side of her office. She grabs you by the belt loops of your jeans, tugging you to her before you even take a step, "I'm asking you again; can I have you?"
You open your lips and breathe out a weak 'yeah', to which she smiles in the most condescending manner, both hands soothing your hips, traveling south to give your ass a squeeze before soothing your hair, "it's a three-letter word, dear, try again. The real word. Speak properly."
"Yes," you tilt your head to chase after her lips again, her beautiful blue eyes boring into your face more as she pulls back slowly.
"Go on, sit down," Eva orders, reminding you she is, indeed, your boss, and how ridiculous this ongoing scheme between you is. You don't complain, how can you complain about being a toy she plays with and gives the softest pats on your cheek after you cum so hard you almost black out? She doesn't ask for much, just exceed expectations on your role in the mission, and you'll be rewarded with wonderful payment, multiple orgasms, and a gorgeous woman fucking you out on her office whenever she deems necessary. In normal circumstances, this arrangement would be an HR nightmare, but oh, aren't you glad you work under extraordinary conditions?
You sit down, quickly working on your pants and discarding them close enough. She kneels down in front of you, her fingers finding your calves and bringing them to her lips, eyes glued on your face and looking for reactions, unconsciously looking for positive reinforcement.
Eva has a soft spot for you, of course, she does, and while it is just sex for both of you, neither of you would mind staying up and talking for hours about nothing. It would never happen, as it has to be strictly casual and she has no time for relationships, but neither of you would, hypothetically, mind.
She licks a streak from your calf to your inner thigh, hands clasping around your legs and positioning them on her shoulders, and then coming to your hips to yank you to the edge of the seat. "Touch me, pull my hair," she murmurs, voice serene and a touch of her subtle accent coming through strategic breaths. You do as you're told, because why the fuck wouldn't you?
You grab a fistful of her orange slash blonde slash whatever hair, you're not very concerned about what hair tone she asks for, not when she nudges your covered slit with her nose.
She applies light pressure, "you smell delicious," she moans with eyes shut as if you're some kind of candy, and you can feel her warm breath on your damp underwear working as a warning before she kisses your center.
With her open lips, she forces the cotton against your clit, lapping her tongue across the entirety of your clothed pussy, the wet muscle providing barely enough friction but teasing you enough that you start rutting against it.
You can't help but let out an incomprehensible noise, tilting your head back on the cushioned seat. She knows there's a whole audience outside her office, poor security guards, and maybe her assistant, and, being the ever considerate and kind boss she is, gives your thigh a light slap. It has the opposite effect, the sharp pain going straight to your core, a strangled whine fighting its way out from your throat. "All this for a slap?" she whispers with a suppressed smirk, mocking you in the calmest voice and taunting eyes.
"Do you like it?" She asks again, genuine curiosity behind her words as she turns her head around to see the timer. Five more minutes, she shrugs, it'll do.
You nod, looking down to see her with two fingers, setting aside your underwear, a deep groan rumbling in her chest.
She blows cool air before bringing a finger to collect slick from your opening and bringing it to your clit, so focused it makes you shy under her gaze.
Eva rubs tight circles on your bud, her lips parted as she occasionally licks them, and you can do nothing but watch. You move your hips on her fingers, adding to the stimulation, short whines falling from your mouth.
She looks at you before attaching her lips to your cunt, attacking your clit with suction and your entrance with a finger. She has no time for teasing; she's aware, but she can feel you tightening when she curls her singular finger, when she releases your clit and gives it kitten licks, so she's okay with enjoying it for a while.
You keep trying to close your legs around her head, sharp pleasure being offered at you whenever a particular movement from her tongue makes you bite down on your hand harshly. She delivers another slap, harsher this time and on your clit, forcing a moan out of you. "That's good," she whispers before latching onto your cunt again.
She flattens her tongue, slurping your slick and inserting another finger into you, and then another. She's satisfied with three fingers pumping in and out as she makes out with your throbbing pussy.
There's nothing else to do but to grind on her face, grabbing her hair to keep her from moving away as her lips work ferociously. With a particular harsh tug, she moans, and that's all you need to pull even harder. In delicious retaliation, she speeds up her fingers and tongue, staggered hums working for her as you feel the vibrations of her noises all over.
Eagerly rolling her tongue on your clit and tilting her fingers so the palm of her hand can also provide friction, you almost bite off your own hand trying to stay quiet, whimpers and desperate moans filling her office with the squelching sound of your pussy. You curl your toes with each eager and breathless, sloppy suck she gives, and how into it she seems, thrusting her tongue and licking all over, nose pressing the top of your clit.
You feel your orgasm creeping up as she presses her fingers against the top walls, flattening the tongue and letting you hump her face, her moans sounding like she's being sent over the edge as much as you, bright blue eyes big and her pupils blown wide as your mouth opens wide and no sound comes out, the warmth spreading all over your body as you cum, desperately grinding to prolong it.
She takes her fingers off you, tongue still out and used by you. With a final sob, you yank her head away from you, your walls clenching over nothing as two of your fingers gather her spit and your cum, placing them inside her mouth. She licks them clean, head bobbing and firm fingers grabbing your wrist, returning them to your own mouth.
She pulls you into a sloppy kiss, nasty and tastes like sex. Eva holds your chin as she stands up, and then bends down to spit on your mouth, a tilt of her head ordering you to swallow. She nods when you do, "there you go. Thank you, give me one more kiss."
You stand up, a sweeter kiss being offered to you as she fixes your underwear back into place. "You can go, now."
You nod, quickly dressing yourself and tidying up your hair. She's immediately back at her desk, writing something in complete immersion. You wave her goodbye, and she answers with a gentle voice.
Someone opens the door for you, but you're not confident enough to look into the eyes of someone who just heard you let out the most pathetic noises a minute before, so you just thank the hand with an awkward smile.
You're not even a step away when you hear the timer go off, and you can't help but giggle before going back to work, panties soaked and a smile on your face.
Eva shuts the timer off, way more relaxed than when she settles for the cigarette
summary: there's a murderer on the loose, and you might be next.
agatha masterlist
It started with a random missed call.
You didn't even pay it any mind. A call from an unknown number, it could be many things. A scam. From the courier who delivers your orders. Someone dialed the wrong number. From a job you applied online. There's just a handful of saved phone numbers on your contacts, and you're someone who prefers to text.
Until you received it again. Every day, at the same time on the dot. 6:00 PM. Always from a different number. You blocked the first ones they used. Even going as far as changing your number.
They always call, but it never rings too long for you to answer it.
You've thought of filing a report, but you've also watched too many horror movies. You didn't push through because you think they'll just shrug you off. Tell you it is a prank. Ignore it. There's nothing that they would say that you didn't do already.
It would be the last thing they would focus on, especially with the brutal murders that started just two weeks ago in Eastview.
The first victim was a police officer. Stabbed inside her patrol car. Mutilated until the body's just a husk of her corpse.
Alice. You’d gone on a date or two with her.
The next one, just a couple of miles outside Westview—the older woman who owns the psychic reading shop. Hanged upside down in her room. No signs of forced entry.
Lilia. You had a tarot reading from her once.
The moment it all changed—the last straw, you're on the couch. Ready to retire for the night, even if the sun has just set. You’ve just locked all your doors and shut your windows. You sit with your legs tucked under you, laptop balancing on top of your thighs as you search for anything to watch and fall asleep to.
It's quiet, too quiet—save for the hum of the fan in the room.
And then, beside you, your phone rings.
6:00 PM
No Caller ID
You watch your phone buzz until it stops.
It doesn’t.
When you don’t answer, they call again. Your now shaking hand picks up the device, and for some irrational reason, you click the accept button.
You don’t speak first. You wait for the person on the other line, but it’s just…their breathing. Heavy and slow.
Every second that passes makes you even more antsy. You couldn't help it any longer. “...Hello?”
There's no response on the other line, and you're scared to hang up. They may be waiting outside your house and waiting for you to drop the call and slit your guts out. Instead, you wait for them to speak again, and this silence has never been more distressing, eating away at your sanity every second.
“Who the fuck is this?!”
You prompt again. Then the line crackles.
“Soon, sweetheart. You’ve been very patient. I’ll see you soon.”
A knock on your door makes you jump, and the phone falls from your hands. Wary of that call you got, you glanced around the room searching for something, anything you could defend yourself with. You spy the baseball bat tucked away and hold it firmly in your hand.
The person outside knocked again.
A woman dressed in a checkered dress turns around, a wide grin on her face, holding a pot of plants in her hands. “Hiya, dear! It's Agnes, your neighbor, just in case you forgot,” she said with a high-pitched, cheery voice, holding the potted plant to you. “Forgive me for not stopping by sooner, but I got you this gift! I figured you must want some company.”
“That's very nice of you, Agnes. Thank you.”
You let go of the bat to receive her gift, and Agnes' hand lingers on yours. The woman's grin turns to a frown. “You're shaking, buttercup. Are you okay?”
Should you tell her? Maybe it was just some stupid prank, and you don't want to look crazy and paranoid in front of your very pretty neighbor. Swallowing the lump down your throat, you say, “I-I'm fine. Did you, um, by chance, see anyone lurking around?”
Agnes’ brow furrows. “I don't think so, hon. But the annual Westview Halloween Bash is coming up. There will be lots of people in their costumes. Teens who might be up to no good with their pranks…Oh well, I gotta get going. It’s very nice to see you again, neighbor!”
With that, Agnes left you with your spiraling thoughts.
Oh, right. That makes sense. Still, how unfortunate to be the one on the receiving end of them. Aside from a murderer on the loose, who has been dubbed Ghostface, there was a series of pranks—you don’t even know what to call them anymore—that spooked Westview over the past couple of days.
It started at the magic show at the plaza. It was supposed to be for the children, but none of the children showed up. Only their parents were in the audience. You weren't there physically, but you've heard that the parents said they didn't know why they didn't bring their kids in attendance. Like somehow, they're…brainwashed?
You didn't think too much of it, chalking it up as some elaborate trick where both the organizers and parents were in on it in an attempt to scare the whole town.
Then there was the Maximoff anomaly. News spread that they received a box at their door with the twins' dismembered pet. (Well, it was really a stuffed toy that looked like Sparky with its limbs cut off, complete with red paint to mimic the blood.) Still, it is too creepy and too violent to be a prank. It's already a threat. You can't think of anyone who could do this to those poor kids.
No one knows if it’s actually related to the Ghostface murders, but for the town of Westview, it's better to pin the blame on an existing killer.
Looks like it's your turn now.
꒰ ･ ｡ﾟ ✦ ･ ｡ﾟ ꒱
Once you let the authorities know about this unknown caller, you know it would spread around Westview like a grassfire. It's a relatively small town, and everyone is acquainted with one another. You fear that they will accuse you of being delusional, having no concrete proof of this creepy caller. You didn't want to be dubbed as the girl who cried wolf.
Except Agnes.
Agnes wouldn't judge you.
Agnes would believe you. Probably. There's something about that woman that just pulls you in. Besides, you’re going to be crazy if you don’t tell at least one person.
Though it's only 7 pm, the sky is pitch black, with little to no stars speckled on the horizon. Most of the light coming from the outside comes from the street lamps; the neighbors are probably already asleep. You tugged your coat around you tighter, feigning a sense of security. Upon stepping onto Agnes' welcome mat, you reluctantly raised your fist to knock at her door.
“May I come in?” you babble as soon as she opens the door, your body slightly shivering from the cold breeze of the night. Agnes opens her mouth, looks at your freezing stature, then closes her mouth. She beckons you into her home wordlessly, one of her hands resting on your lower back. She guides you towards her kitchen, pulling a chair out for you, and tells you that she'll come back in a minute.
You realize you've never been in her house before, so you look around, noticing the furniture from different eras. Your eyes settle on the rabbit cage on a table across the room, Señor Scratchy munching on a vegetable quietly. A small smile appears on your lips, your fear of Ghostface momentarily slipping your mind as you focus on the fluffy animal.
“There it is. That looks so much better on you, hon,” Agnes says as she comes back, a cup in her hand. “I made you tea. It helps me calm down, and you look like you need some.”
Agnes sits beside you, looking at you so endearingly as you take a sip. You immediately feel calmer than before, making a mental note to ask what was in that tea to make you feel so light.
“Just honey sprinkled with love,” Agnes winks, and you realize you've said it out loud. “Now, what brings you here? Not that you're not welcome, angel.”
“I...I can't sleep. Not alone. Not in my room. I feel like someone's watching me...Ghostface. I see him in every corner of my eyes. I-I c-can't, I don't want to be alone,” you blurted out in one breath, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes. “Can I...can I stay here? If that's okay?”
Agnes looks at you like you're a lost puppy, concern painting her features. “You're very welcome here, baby.”
The pet name slips past you as you remember she's not alone in this household. “What about Ralph? Is it okay with him too?”
If Agnes looked like she'd forgotten about her husband, you didn't think much of it. “He's not here, hon. We've got all the house to ourselves.”
You followed Agnes to her room, her hand kept in yours.
Looking around the room, you notice the lack of manly items that would indicate that she shares this room with her husband. Though it looks very lived in, her scent is in the air, on the sheets, even.
Agnes emerged from the bathroom, wearing skimpy satin nightwear. Her nipples protrude on the fabric, and you mentally scold yourself for staring at them inappropriately.
“If it's more comfortable for you, we can put pillows between us–”
“That's not necessary, hon. Do you want to keep the lights on?”
Timidly, you shook your head no. Agnes smiles. “Alright. Well, get in the bed now, darling.”
She turns the light switch off and tucks you in. Agnes has that sickly sweet smile on her lips, and you wish to see it even in your dreams. She presses a kiss on your forehead. “Good night, dear. Sweet dreams.”
꒰ ･ ｡ﾟ ✦ ･ ｡ﾟ ꒱
The bright light piercing through your eyelids roused you from slumber. Blinking the harsh light away, you bring your hand to shield your eyes from it, but it's...tied.
You look around you hastily, seeing all your limbs tied to the bed. Turning to your side, your eyes widened as you saw Agnes' absence. You shudder in cold sweat at all the possibilities that flashed through your mind.
Ghostface.
Don't tell me...he...did he kill Agnes?
You started to cry as the thought swirled in your mind. If she's...if she's dead, it's your fault. It's your fault for coming in here. It's your fault for being a coward. It's your—
Ghostface enters the room, and for an unknown reason, you don't feel...scared, or terrified, when clearly, you should be. Instead, you're calm. Your breathing is fine, your heart is not racing.
You're calm.
There are tears in your eyes, but you're calm. So you braced all the remaining courage in your body, and asked. “Where's Agnes? What did you do to her?!”
He pulls a bloodied knife hidden behind his back, and before you could question him, he straddles your middle and holds your jaw open.
“Taste.”
He says only one word, and you immediately get what it is he wants. You desperately shake your head in protest, in disgust.
It's...Agnes’...or someone else's blood, and you don't—
Ghostface tuts in annoyance, as he holds the knife against your throat. You're still calm, but you could feel your whole body shaking. Why do you feel numb on the inside?
“Taste. It.”
The voice was not as gruff as it was on the phone, and you let yourself believe this was better than that hoarse, low voice that sends the heebie-jeebies down your spine. It almost sounds...feminine.
You nod once, and he moves the knife near your mouth, expecting the metallic smell and taste of blood, but it doesn't come.
You only taste a hint of sweetness as the tip of your tongue hits the metal, and you're confused out of your mind.
“It's corn syrup.”
At the very least, someone isn't dead.
Yet.
Another wave of fresh tears floods your cheeks, and Ghostface tuts once more as he—as she slowly takes off that goddamn mask.
It felt like your heart stopped beating as soon as you locked eyes with those familiar blue ones. Given the chance to actually gaze at them, you notice the darkness, a storm that has always been brewing behind those ocean eyes.
“Agnes...” you hiccuped, out of nowhere.
“Sweetheart, have you been drinking water? Tsk, look at you.”
She has that same worried voice she had earlier as she gets off of you and pours a glass of water from the pitcher she'd set before you slept.
Agnes gently props you up so you can drink. You feel utterly confused about how you would feel about her. Deep down, you know you should yell at her for all these atrocities, demand her to explain why the hell she's been playing with you from the very start, but no word wants to come out of your mouth.
Her hand rests on your jaw while her thumb caresses your lips. “The game's coming to an end, doll. We're almost done, I promise. You wanted to know who I am, right?”
When you don't respond, Agnes brings out a remote of some kind and clicks on it. It must be the voice modulator she used on that one phone call, as it totally matched the voice that shook you to your core just hours ago. “You asked me, ‘who the fuck is this?’ with that whiny voice of yours, and now I'm here. I did say ‘I’ll see you soon’, didn't I? Now what's my name?”
You furrow your brows at how simple the question was. It doesn't feel right, but you still answer. “Agnes. Agnes, please, please...”
You don't even know why you're saying please. Please let me go? Please kill me? Please let me out of here? Please have mercy?
“Oh, how I like you begging...but,” Agnes, or not Agnes, shook her head, a pout creeping in on her pink lips. “Wrong!”
A laugh escapes her lips as your face contorts in turmoil. “If I’m feeling merciful, I would give you another chance, but I’ve waited long enough. I watched you for weeks. I know you couldn't come on your own, not even your toys. I have suffered every time you bring someone home, and even they still couldn't satisfy you—not until you moaned my name…so don't worry, I'm here now. I'm the only one who can help,” she muses as she stands up, her eyes raking up and down your whole body. You shiver under her fiery gaze. “Not Alice, not that old hag. No one. Do you understand?”
Your chest feels tight with her revelation. They're dead because of you, and their only sin was being too close to you for Agnes’ liking.
That's just who the public knows. What if there are more dead people because she's obsessed with you?
“But I know you've always been mine...I know the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking. I know about your silly little crush on Agnes, baby. So imagine how delighted I am to hear you cry out for me.” She walks towards the other side, your lace-clothed pussy all for her to see. You're too embarrassed to admit that you've been wet all this time. She smirks as her gaze falls on your cunt.
“Using that silly Ghostface as a reason to get in bed with her? Oh, my little doll. Don't even get me started with you starting to hump my thighs earlier. Were you having wet dreams? You naughty thing. I've been keeping my hands to myself for a while, touching myself as I think of railing the living lights out of you...but you've really left me no choice. I can't wait anymore.”
Agnes tears your underwear away with the knife, licking her lips at the sight of your dripping wet cunt. “Not when I saw that little wet patch on your cute panties. Look, your fuckhole is practically begging me to touch her. I can tell you're clenching around nothing, sweet girl. But don't worry, I will fill that fucking pussy up shortly. By the way, the name's Agatha, dear. Agatha Harkness.”
Agnes– Agatha discards the black robes, revealing her perky breasts and stiff nipples that you've been ogling earlier, her curvy waist, thick thighs (that you've been humping, according to her), her milky smooth skin that you've once dreamt of trailing your hands on...and the black girthy cock strapped around her hips.
“There, my sweet girl. Now you've got the right name to scream.”
Agatha slips her cock between your folds, collecting your wetness.
Your breath hitches as the strap touches your clit, bucking your hips towards her.
“Look at that, sweetheart. You want my cock inside you?”
You don't answer. You're torn, and you don't know what you really want—but the wiggling of your hips and the burning you feel in your cunt is too strong to ignore.
Agatha answers for you.
She slides into your tight cunt all the way, and fuck, you're so full—you thought she’d stop for a while, but she doesn't, and she rams her hips against you. You can't even catch a breath—not with how Agatha buries herself onto you.
Her fingers leave an indent on your hips, nails scratching on your thighs and tummy. She's taken your nipples in her mouth, grazing her teeth as her tongue swirled on them. Your lips had no escape either—Agatha sucked on your lower lip and bit it, the taste of your blood on her tongue like an aphrodisiac.
Agatha’s relentless, and your body aches. You’ve stopped counting after four orgasms. When she's had her fill, she resumes her earlier position over you. She kneels above your trembling form, eyes glossing over your spread legs. Every slick, every bruise and scratch, and blood.
You stare at her, lips parted, heart racing. This is not the same neighbor you've been crushing on, a far cry from the Agnes persona she'd shown—but as you lie down beneath her, you wouldn't mind her claiming you—even if you won't let yourself admit it yet.
“I knew you'd take me like the good girl you are. Now rest, we still have to catch up.”
summary: there's a murderer on the loose, and you might be next.
agatha masterlist
It started with a random missed call.
You didn't even pay it any mind. A call from an unknown number, it could be many things. A scam. From the courier who delivers your orders. Someone dialed the wrong number. From a job you applied online. There's just a handful of saved phone numbers on your contacts, and you're someone who prefers to text.
Until you received it again. Every day, at the same time on the dot. 6:00 PM. Always from a different number. You blocked the first ones they used. Even going as far as changing your number.
They always call, but it never rings too long for you to answer it.
You've thought of filing a report, but you've also watched too many horror movies. You didn't push through because you think they'll just shrug you off. Tell you it is a prank. Ignore it. There's nothing that they would say that you didn't do already.
It would be the last thing they would focus on, especially with the brutal murders that started just two weeks ago in Eastview.
The first victim was a police officer. Stabbed inside her patrol car. Mutilated until the body's just a husk of her corpse.
Alice. You’d gone on a date or two with her.
The next one, just a couple of miles outside Westview—the older woman who owns the psychic reading shop. Hanged upside down in her room. No signs of forced entry.
Lilia. You had a tarot reading from her once.
The moment it all changed—the last straw, you're on the couch. Ready to retire for the night, even if the sun has just set. You’ve just locked all your doors and shut your windows. You sit with your legs tucked under you, laptop balancing on top of your thighs as you search for anything to watch and fall asleep to.
It's quiet, too quiet—save for the hum of the fan in the room.
And then, beside you, your phone rings.
6:00 PM
No Caller ID
You watch your phone buzz until it stops.
It doesn’t.
When you don’t answer, they call again. Your now shaking hand picks up the device, and for some irrational reason, you click the accept button.
You don’t speak first. You wait for the person on the other line, but it’s just…their breathing. Heavy and slow.
Every second that passes makes you even more antsy. You couldn't help it any longer. “...Hello?”
There's no response on the other line, and you're scared to hang up. They may be waiting outside your house and waiting for you to drop the call and slit your guts out. Instead, you wait for them to speak again, and this silence has never been more distressing, eating away at your sanity every second.
“Who the fuck is this?!”
You prompt again. Then the line crackles.
“Soon, sweetheart. You’ve been very patient. I’ll see you soon.”
A knock on your door makes you jump, and the phone falls from your hands. Wary of that call you got, you glanced around the room searching for something, anything you could defend yourself with. You spy the baseball bat tucked away and hold it firmly in your hand.
The person outside knocked again.
A woman dressed in a checkered dress turns around, a wide grin on her face, holding a pot of plants in her hands. “Hiya, dear! It's Agnes, your neighbor, just in case you forgot,” she said with a high-pitched, cheery voice, holding the potted plant to you. “Forgive me for not stopping by sooner, but I got you this gift! I figured you must want some company.”
“That's very nice of you, Agnes. Thank you.”
You let go of the bat to receive her gift, and Agnes' hand lingers on yours. The woman's grin turns to a frown. “You're shaking, buttercup. Are you okay?”
Should you tell her? Maybe it was just some stupid prank, and you don't want to look crazy and paranoid in front of your very pretty neighbor. Swallowing the lump down your throat, you say, “I-I'm fine. Did you, um, by chance, see anyone lurking around?”
Agnes’ brow furrows. “I don't think so, hon. But the annual Westview Halloween Bash is coming up. There will be lots of people in their costumes. Teens who might be up to no good with their pranks…Oh well, I gotta get going. It’s very nice to see you again, neighbor!”
With that, Agnes left you with your spiraling thoughts.
Oh, right. That makes sense. Still, how unfortunate to be the one on the receiving end of them. Aside from a murderer on the loose, who has been dubbed Ghostface, there was a series of pranks—you don’t even know what to call them anymore—that spooked Westview over the past couple of days.
It started at the magic show at the plaza. It was supposed to be for the children, but none of the children showed up. Only their parents were in the audience. You weren't there physically, but you've heard that the parents said they didn't know why they didn't bring their kids in attendance. Like somehow, they're…brainwashed?
You didn't think too much of it, chalking it up as some elaborate trick where both the organizers and parents were in on it in an attempt to scare the whole town.
Then there was the Maximoff anomaly. News spread that they received a box at their door with the twins' dismembered pet. (Well, it was really a stuffed toy that looked like Sparky with its limbs cut off, complete with red paint to mimic the blood.) Still, it is too creepy and too violent to be a prank. It's already a threat. You can't think of anyone who could do this to those poor kids.
No one knows if it’s actually related to the Ghostface murders, but for the town of Westview, it's better to pin the blame on an existing killer.
Looks like it's your turn now.
꒰ ･ ｡ﾟ ✦ ･ ｡ﾟ ꒱
Once you let the authorities know about this unknown caller, you know it would spread around Westview like a grassfire. It's a relatively small town, and everyone is acquainted with one another. You fear that they will accuse you of being delusional, having no concrete proof of this creepy caller. You didn't want to be dubbed as the girl who cried wolf.
Except Agnes.
Agnes wouldn't judge you.
Agnes would believe you. Probably. There's something about that woman that just pulls you in. Besides, you’re going to be crazy if you don’t tell at least one person.
Though it's only 7 pm, the sky is pitch black, with little to no stars speckled on the horizon. Most of the light coming from the outside comes from the street lamps; the neighbors are probably already asleep. You tugged your coat around you tighter, feigning a sense of security. Upon stepping onto Agnes' welcome mat, you reluctantly raised your fist to knock at her door.
“May I come in?” you babble as soon as she opens the door, your body slightly shivering from the cold breeze of the night. Agnes opens her mouth, looks at your freezing stature, then closes her mouth. She beckons you into her home wordlessly, one of her hands resting on your lower back. She guides you towards her kitchen, pulling a chair out for you, and tells you that she'll come back in a minute.
You realize you've never been in her house before, so you look around, noticing the furniture from different eras. Your eyes settle on the rabbit cage on a table across the room, Señor Scratchy munching on a vegetable quietly. A small smile appears on your lips, your fear of Ghostface momentarily slipping your mind as you focus on the fluffy animal.
“There it is. That looks so much better on you, hon,” Agnes says as she comes back, a cup in her hand. “I made you tea. It helps me calm down, and you look like you need some.”
Agnes sits beside you, looking at you so endearingly as you take a sip. You immediately feel calmer than before, making a mental note to ask what was in that tea to make you feel so light.
“Just honey sprinkled with love,” Agnes winks, and you realize you've said it out loud. “Now, what brings you here? Not that you're not welcome, angel.”
“I...I can't sleep. Not alone. Not in my room. I feel like someone's watching me...Ghostface. I see him in every corner of my eyes. I-I c-can't, I don't want to be alone,” you blurted out in one breath, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes. “Can I...can I stay here? If that's okay?”
Agnes looks at you like you're a lost puppy, concern painting her features. “You're very welcome here, baby.”
The pet name slips past you as you remember she's not alone in this household. “What about Ralph? Is it okay with him too?”
If Agnes looked like she'd forgotten about her husband, you didn't think much of it. “He's not here, hon. We've got all the house to ourselves.”
You followed Agnes to her room, her hand kept in yours.
Looking around the room, you notice the lack of manly items that would indicate that she shares this room with her husband. Though it looks very lived in, her scent is in the air, on the sheets, even.
Agnes emerged from the bathroom, wearing skimpy satin nightwear. Her nipples protrude on the fabric, and you mentally scold yourself for staring at them inappropriately.
“If it's more comfortable for you, we can put pillows between us–”
“That's not necessary, hon. Do you want to keep the lights on?”
Timidly, you shook your head no. Agnes smiles. “Alright. Well, get in the bed now, darling.”
She turns the light switch off and tucks you in. Agnes has that sickly sweet smile on her lips, and you wish to see it even in your dreams. She presses a kiss on your forehead. “Good night, dear. Sweet dreams.”
꒰ ･ ｡ﾟ ✦ ･ ｡ﾟ ꒱
The bright light piercing through your eyelids roused you from slumber. Blinking the harsh light away, you bring your hand to shield your eyes from it, but it's...tied.
You look around you hastily, seeing all your limbs tied to the bed. Turning to your side, your eyes widened as you saw Agnes' absence. You shudder in cold sweat at all the possibilities that flashed through your mind.
Ghostface.
Don't tell me...he...did he kill Agnes?
You started to cry as the thought swirled in your mind. If she's...if she's dead, it's your fault. It's your fault for coming in here. It's your fault for being a coward. It's your—
Ghostface enters the room, and for an unknown reason, you don't feel...scared, or terrified, when clearly, you should be. Instead, you're calm. Your breathing is fine, your heart is not racing.
You're calm.
There are tears in your eyes, but you're calm. So you braced all the remaining courage in your body, and asked. “Where's Agnes? What did you do to her?!”
He pulls a bloodied knife hidden behind his back, and before you could question him, he straddles your middle and holds your jaw open.
“Taste.”
He says only one word, and you immediately get what it is he wants. You desperately shake your head in protest, in disgust.
It's...Agnes’...or someone else's blood, and you don't—
Ghostface tuts in annoyance, as he holds the knife against your throat. You're still calm, but you could feel your whole body shaking. Why do you feel numb on the inside?
“Taste. It.”
The voice was not as gruff as it was on the phone, and you let yourself believe this was better than that hoarse, low voice that sends the heebie-jeebies down your spine. It almost sounds...feminine.
You nod once, and he moves the knife near your mouth, expecting the metallic smell and taste of blood, but it doesn't come.
You only taste a hint of sweetness as the tip of your tongue hits the metal, and you're confused out of your mind.
“It's corn syrup.”
At the very least, someone isn't dead.
Yet.
Another wave of fresh tears floods your cheeks, and Ghostface tuts once more as he—as she slowly takes off that goddamn mask.
It felt like your heart stopped beating as soon as you locked eyes with those familiar blue ones. Given the chance to actually gaze at them, you notice the darkness, a storm that has always been brewing behind those ocean eyes.
“Agnes...” you hiccuped, out of nowhere.
“Sweetheart, have you been drinking water? Tsk, look at you.”
She has that same worried voice she had earlier as she gets off of you and pours a glass of water from the pitcher she'd set before you slept.
Agnes gently props you up so you can drink. You feel utterly confused about how you would feel about her. Deep down, you know you should yell at her for all these atrocities, demand her to explain why the hell she's been playing with you from the very start, but no word wants to come out of your mouth.
Her hand rests on your jaw while her thumb caresses your lips. “The game's coming to an end, doll. We're almost done, I promise. You wanted to know who I am, right?”
When you don't respond, Agnes brings out a remote of some kind and clicks on it. It must be the voice modulator she used on that one phone call, as it totally matched the voice that shook you to your core just hours ago. “You asked me, ‘who the fuck is this?’ with that whiny voice of yours, and now I'm here. I did say ‘I’ll see you soon’, didn't I? Now what's my name?”
You furrow your brows at how simple the question was. It doesn't feel right, but you still answer. “Agnes. Agnes, please, please...”
You don't even know why you're saying please. Please let me go? Please kill me? Please let me out of here? Please have mercy?
“Oh, how I like you begging...but,” Agnes, or not Agnes, shook her head, a pout creeping in on her pink lips. “Wrong!”
A laugh escapes her lips as your face contorts in turmoil. “If I’m feeling merciful, I would give you another chance, but I’ve waited long enough. I watched you for weeks. I know you couldn't come on your own, not even your toys. I have suffered every time you bring someone home, and even they still couldn't satisfy you—not until you moaned my name…so don't worry, I'm here now. I'm the only one who can help,” she muses as she stands up, her eyes raking up and down your whole body. You shiver under her fiery gaze. “Not Alice, not that old hag. No one. Do you understand?”
Your chest feels tight with her revelation. They're dead because of you, and their only sin was being too close to you for Agnes’ liking.
That's just who the public knows. What if there are more dead people because she's obsessed with you?
“But I know you've always been mine...I know the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking. I know about your silly little crush on Agnes, baby. So imagine how delighted I am to hear you cry out for me.” She walks towards the other side, your lace-clothed pussy all for her to see. You're too embarrassed to admit that you've been wet all this time. She smirks as her gaze falls on your cunt.
“Using that silly Ghostface as a reason to get in bed with her? Oh, my little doll. Don't even get me started with you starting to hump my thighs earlier. Were you having wet dreams? You naughty thing. I've been keeping my hands to myself for a while, touching myself as I think of railing the living lights out of you...but you've really left me no choice. I can't wait anymore.”
Agnes tears your underwear away with the knife, licking her lips at the sight of your dripping wet cunt. “Not when I saw that little wet patch on your cute panties. Look, your fuckhole is practically begging me to touch her. I can tell you're clenching around nothing, sweet girl. But don't worry, I will fill that fucking pussy up shortly. By the way, the name's Agatha, dear. Agatha Harkness.”
Agnes– Agatha discards the black robes, revealing her perky breasts and stiff nipples that you've been ogling earlier, her curvy waist, thick thighs (that you've been humping, according to her), her milky smooth skin that you've once dreamt of trailing your hands on...and the black girthy cock strapped around her hips.
“There, my sweet girl. Now you've got the right name to scream.”
Agatha slips her cock between your folds, collecting your wetness.
Your breath hitches as the strap touches your clit, bucking your hips towards her.
“Look at that, sweetheart. You want my cock inside you?”
You don't answer. You're torn, and you don't know what you really want—but the wiggling of your hips and the burning you feel in your cunt is too strong to ignore.
Agatha answers for you.
She slides into your tight cunt all the way, and fuck, you're so full—you thought she’d stop for a while, but she doesn't, and she rams her hips against you. You can't even catch a breath—not with how Agatha buries herself onto you.
Her fingers leave an indent on your hips, nails scratching on your thighs and tummy. She's taken your nipples in her mouth, grazing her teeth as her tongue swirled on them. Your lips had no escape either—Agatha sucked on your lower lip and bit it, the taste of your blood on her tongue like an aphrodisiac.
Agatha’s relentless, and your body aches. You’ve stopped counting after four orgasms. When she's had her fill, she resumes her earlier position over you. She kneels above your trembling form, eyes glossing over your spread legs. Every slick, every bruise and scratch, and blood.
You stare at her, lips parted, heart racing. This is not the same neighbor you've been crushing on, a far cry from the Agnes persona she'd shown—but as you lie down beneath her, you wouldn't mind her claiming you—even if you won't let yourself admit it yet.
“I knew you'd take me like the good girl you are. Now rest, we still have to catch up.”
pillow princess domme eva stratt. she's already carrying the weight of the entire world on her hands, the least you can do is be a good little pet and get your face between her legs. she has so little free time that by necessity, you learn to be quick about making her come. calling you into her office between meetings because she needs a quick release you're always ready and eager to provide.
she takes you with her when she travels around to meet experts and politicians and all manner of important people. introduces you as her assistant, tells them how you've been invaluable to the success of the project, and no one except you two knows that she's not just talking about your organizational skills.
she's not one for talking during sex and lavishing you in praise while you're going down on her, but when you're done, she strokes your hair and tells you you did well and she's proud of you. and knowing you were useful is more than enough.
