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Mothel Gothel / FTM Reader | Tangled AU - Gothel might just like this dressed up on the run version of you. But you can cut your hair and change your clothes, you'll always be her flower.
Warning: Blood Play / Mommy Kink / NON CON / Past Non Con / Knife Play / Biting / Pseudo Incest / Outdoor Romp / Pinned / Choking / Hand over mouth / Possessive Gothel / Vouyer Kink / Marking / Gender Humiliation Kink / Gender Degregation / Nipple Play / Threatening Kink / Danger Kink / Knife F*ckin / 18+
“I’m not your flower anymore.” You scowl, and she eyes you carefully, your pinned against a tree. Mother’s fingernails scratch against your jaw too roughly. A small droplet of blood forms like the redness of Gothel's corset.
She moves forward and licks the blood off your face, it’s vulgar, it’s hot and wet. Her muscles mark you as she licks at the crimson treat. Taking her time to savor this.
“No? I don’t know,” Gothe's eyes cast down to your new look. “You cut your hair, run away from being a princess…you truly believe dressing in gentlemen's trousers will stop others from perceiving you?” She aims to hurt, just as before.
You want to ask her how she found you, who she bribed or killed to get to you.
How she found you before the castle guards could.
But it was Mother, and she always did know best.
Gothel's hands moved down to your linen shirt, opening it you try to twist away and she takes out a long dagger and presses it against your sternum. Making sure to keep you unmoving, under her will. Gothel’s blade is so sharp it takes nothing to expose you.
Cutting the binding so that your nipples met the cold air.
The loose ties coming undone, you gulp.
“Little flower,” Gothel muses and the dagger is icy against your skin. Her mane coming closer to you as she moves to lick your nipples.
You fight the urge to respond, not willing to give in so easily, but her smoldering mouth it unrestrained as she sucks and bites.
Letting one go with a pop, you forget the sensation of your chest - and it stirs you deeply.
“You used to do this with me, do you remember?” Her eyes dance with the memories.
Of course you did.
You don’t answer, but sweat drips down the back of your neck.
You can smell your mother's floral perfume and the faint musk of a hard day's work. You recall licking her cunt clean of the sweat, or the labor, all that responsibility. She would climb your hair, and you would dutifully gorge on her juices.
That was then.
After all this time you’d never believed you would be free. Sure life had changed. Hair cut, muscles rounded, body fuller, no magic powers. Just your small pack, the knowledge of berries and mushrooms. And the fear of being found.
Now here you were, after all this time, back under Gothal's spell.
“I’d let you dress up like a pirate, or shoot bow and arrows, you would romp around the tower. Now here you are, all grown, wanting to be a man. Is that it? You ran away to live in the woods like some common recluse.” The light hits the blade in the woods, and the end of Gothel's hair tickles at your chest, and you want to look away.
“You should have stayed home, if you had wanted to be a man I could have easily cast it.”
You try to twist away again, break free but the blade presses - a reminder.
“Get off of me.”
“You are a fool.”
“You never would have allowed me this freedom!” You shout in the only woman who has ever loved you’s face.
Gothel scoffs at you, not moved or perturbed by your display of haughtiness.
“You think so small, Flower.” The witch reminded you, and you found no warmth in your heart for her.
“I’m not your problem anymore, Mother.” You sneer, and you can almost see the villain of your nightmares react to your jab.
But it’s gone just as soon as it might have been there.
“Let me see if you have forgotten everything I have taught you, sweet child.” Mother leans closer, her lips a breath away from your own.
The knife moves to your trousers, and you try to break free, only for the blade to split the front of your fabric open.
“NO!” You shout, but Mother was too fast, and a few of your pubic hairs fall to the forest floor. Her weapon is cold against your pubic mound, but the side of the steel is less than a centimeter from your clit.
You both look to see how your hood pulls back as if to say hello to Mother once more.
Your body is already producing slick for what is to come.
“You do not appear to be endowed as a gentleman now do you, it seems my shaft is longer than yours.” Gothel humiliates, and you hate that your nipples harden impossibly more.
You stay as still as possible, trying not to think of how arousing that was.
Gothel moves her lips to your ear so that you couldn’t hide, couldn’t leave your body. She nibbled on your earlobe and your eyes shut, mouth opening, it worked everytime.
Then Gothel reminds you of your place;
“Did you hear me, Mommys saying your looking awfuling delicate down here.” The blade is moved back and forth, threatening to cut it off, but you know Mother never would.
She enjoys this game far too much to end it on such a sour note.
“M-Mother please don’t-”
“No, if you are to act like a child you shall speak as one, call me Mommy. Go ahead, as I teach you of your body.” Gothel tells you and then bites your neck so hard you moan.
The daggers slip down your lips and your bucking up, eyes rolling in your head like common men play dice.
“MOMMY PLEASE!” You beg, and Gothel uses her free hand to grab at your throat. Her spit mixed with a bit of blood from where her canines have punctured your skin.
“Now does that sound like the cries of a man? Hmm? You know my sweet, let me re-introduce you to your flower. Look at the pedals,” Gothel illustrates her point by using the hand with the dagger to press your lips open.
Demonstrating how the pink of your pussy resembles that of spring time, or gentle, of fertility.
You hated it, but it seemed your body craved this, craved Mother.
“S’n it’s not true.” You pant, and Gothel lets her head lul to the side like she was oh so disappointed.
“You always say no, but here we are once more. Mother is teaching you a lesson. Mommy is making you understand the dangers of the outside world.” Gothel tells you, and then you feel a new sensation.
Your eyes cast down, as far as you could, but Mother's nails dug into the soft flesh of your neck.
“Please Mommy, someone could see us.” You try to reason, knowing her posters were everywhere. Just as yours were for a life you no longer lived.
Gothel gripped your face under your chin like some unruly beast.
“You think for a moment I do not wish your little breeder parents to see us now? To see who owns this royal cunt? I would cast a spell so heinous that they would never blink, only to see what we do in the wood.” The threat made your palms clamy as you pressed them into the bark. Too petrified to retaliate.
“Gothel-Mommy, please don’t.” You whimper again, but your slick is dripping down your thighs already.
Whatever life you had planned of hiding and being a man in the forest was gone.
“Remember when I first taught you how to take Mommy inside?” Gothels eyes darken even further.
You understand why she was cast out as a witch, why the palace walls never could hold her. No one could tame this cast of Lilith, all sin and wickedness.
The hilt of the dagger was bulbas, metal, unforgiving and thick.
“You do not need to do this-we can-”
Mother moves her hand from your throat to your mouth and covers it up, not interested in your words then or now.
She backs up to see your face, to see your undoing.
“Mommy told you to stay inside, but you disobeyed me. You were always a restless, ungrateful child, and now here you are. All grown into a man, well, if it is a man you shall be. Then it will be one who bends for his Mother.” Gothel's tone twists and curdles like the killer she is, as the first bit of metal enters you.
You realize that Mother may allow you in captivity to be a man, but she would never stop touching your flower.
Gothel feasted on the pain as she held the blade end, and pushed the handle inside of you, inch by inch. So cold, so foreign, so wrong. Yet your cunt squeezed and sucked in more.
You had not been stretched in so long that you forgot the way your insides throbbed. Your womb cried out for more, and you knew Mother would deliver.
Your cum rolled down to her wounded hand.
You moan and accidentally push down harder, and Gothel smirks as blood from her hand drips down.
“My flower still blooms, do you not? Hmm? Ruining yourself for Mommy? I will teach you how to be a man. But sweetness never forget how much it hurts to become.” Gothel said and removed her hand from your mouth as you gasped and rode the handle of her dagger.
Ready to be the man Mother would build, desperate to be more than a flower.
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Soulmate Mark - Maya Mason / Innocent Reader | More Maya Fics Here
Warning ⚠️: Short Fic to get out of funk | Soulmate Au | Vulgar Langauge and Subject Matter | edited+wrote on phone - bad edit / fluff / possessive Maya / Tramp Stamp jokes / ps:lower back tattoos can be good/fun no shade just jokes/ Maya Controlling /drunk studio// innocent fem reader kink / 18+
“Oh my god, why? Where is yours, on your tit? ” Sal laughs and you bristle.
No.
It wasn’t.
Yours was…what did they call it?
A Panama License Plate. A Beer Coaster. Ass Antlers, Ho Tag, Slag Tag, a Bitch Tat, Tart Art, Jizz Target, the Mark of The Beast.
But it’s known best as-
“No Sal, my soulmate mark is a tramp stamp.” You state confidently, enough tequila in you that you didn’t care.
Maya's eyes flicked up so fast her head almost spun around.
The first spot your soulmate touched, that’s where that handprint would ignite ablazed.
The issue?
You had been celebrating award season, hands all over you as you guys sprayed champagne and yelled.
You had no idea who it was.
But they’d been daring enough to touch your lower back right over the crack of your ass.
A month later and you could only pray it wasn’t Matt.
You’d never believed in soulmates, and you were very sure that you’d never meet yours.
And you were sure you wouldn’t meet your Mr right at work.
But recently…well your family had told you that soulmates were only straight… but your eyes had begun to wander.
You weren’t sure if gay was the word you’d used. But you were convinced without a doubt heterosexual wasn’t it either.
“Oh shit, that’s hot.” Sal answered and you got the heebie jeebies.
Yeah not straight.
“You're disgusting.” Quinn added and you felt better.
“Can we see it?” Matt asked and you wanted to fall into your seat.
“We just - none of us have ours.” Quinn said quickly like she wanted to smooth it over.
“Don’t.” Maya snaps so angrily that you actually flinch.
Everyone twists to look at her with her thousand dollar scotch cradled in her arms.
The tumblr in her other hand with perfectly killer sharp nails.
“Why do you care Manson. No one loves you.” Sal blabbered making the distinction that Maya was too cold blooded like Charles Manson* to be in love.
“Soulmate marks are meant to be seen by soulmates, and soulmates only.” Maya supplies and you don’t know why her stare warms you.
Your skin feels like tiny pins and needles, you swallow at nothing, your palms are sweaty.
This kept happening.
But every time you got close to her, you bolted like a little lamb.
Something about her stare felt so hungry, like she could see you through your clothes, down to your bones.
You’d been warned about Maya Mason.
To stay far far away from such a psycho.
But the head of Marketing had been extremely tight lipped around you.
Maya had only ever been on her best behavior in your presence.
You hadn’t seen the so called Maya Manson, or Maya Mayhem, or the Marketing Monster.
You’d imagined her like some sort of Miranda Priestly.
But Maya’s been….gentlemenly? That wasn’t the right word.
I mean even at the old school buffet she was shooing you from the fun. Always opening doors and speaking up for your space.
It was…something you hadn’t experienced before.
You broke away from her stare, but still felt the heat of her everywhere.
“Do you have one?” Matt asked Maya now. Though he appeared a smidge green.
“He’s asking if he gave her a soulmate brand.” Sal laughed and Matt reddened.
“Not on your life.” Maya answered and then sneered in disgust.
The table laughed but you couldn’t join in.
Your stomach in your throat.
“So where is it? Huh?” Sal questioned, arching an eyebrow atMason now.
Always with the emotional intelligence of a teaspoon.
“I didn’t see it!” Matt added and Maya snorted before downing the rest of her drink.
“You’ve all drunk too much,” Maya tells the group, taking a gold clip out with wads of 20s she puts a couple in the table to cover your drink and a tip for her own tab.
The heat of her shifts back to you, it’s sweltering.
“Come on, I’ll drive you back.” Maya orders more than asks. But there’s that streak of chivalry again. Always with the awareness, the confidence to guide you. The small actions for you.
“What you don’t trust us together?” Sal slobbered drunkenly and the rest of them chuckled. Like the high pitch wine of people who wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow.
That answers that question for Maya real quick.
She grabs at your chair, pulling it out with strength you hadn’t given her credit for.
Looping your jacket over her arm, she’s Maya is simply nit asking.
You sort of stumble to stand and her hand goes to grab your arm and she stops herself.
It’s a microslip-up, but you notice her hand all the same.
You catch yourself on the table making Matt giggle.
“You guys should go! You’ve met your soulmates! Leave the rest of us to rot!” He hiccups as his voice always tends to resemble the chest rattle of a punctured dog toy.
“I’m going to die single with only a half dead plant to mourn me.” Quin said into her glass. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. The guys seemed to share the sentiment, it was all rather cosmo magazine of them.
“Don’t mind if we do.” Maya answers holding her arm out, guiding you with her body blocking but not actual contact.
“Losers!” Sal yells and Quinn throws her head back. No one was getting out unscathed from whatever they would end up doing for the rest of the evening.
You walk to the door and twist to see Maya. She appears older to you now. All those designer clothes and new age terms are gone.
Her wrinkles crinkle the corners of her. High end makeup faded.
The veins and sunspots in her hands now that she’s given up the bottle for the table.
“You didn’t need to do that. I can find my own way back-“ you try to sound polite, but your voice shook.
You want to be mad, but why does it make you feel differently?
“It’s no trouble.” Maya says without really addressing you. You walk across the hotel bar scene, then enter the endless casinos.
“You could go back, it’s Vegas it’ll be-“ you push, but Maya shakes her head lightly.
“It’s your first time in Vegas, you don’t know this town well. It’s not an issue.” Maya repeated, not listening to you. A step behind you, like a guard dog.
You looked over your shoulder to see her again, a step behind, watching for your needs, for trouble.
“I can-“ you try to interject again.
When you almost collide with a bartender. Who’s got empty martini glasses.
That’s when Maya's hand grabs the back of your belt and yanks you into her arms.
You let out an ‘oof’ but the sensation returns, hotter than before.
This sensation happened before, you know this.
Mayas’ hold on you is firm like tie down straps.
An exhausted man who appears like a penguin in this casino.
That’s when you feel it light you up like a skyscraper at night.
You look up in her arms and you see it.
Your handprint sears her skin right above her heart.
Right on the top of her tit.
That’s funny, and perhaps only fair.
Maya doesn’t have to gaze down at your handprint, she knows.
It’s like falling asleep while the people you love are in the other room, knowing you're completely safe and adored.
It’s fresh air on your face. Its a plunge into a pool. It’s the euphoria of a New Years kiss. Full of promise and light.
And it's all happening as Maya holds you tight.
Your jaw slacks and Maya surges forward to kiss you.
No longer able to wait until you figured out who gave you the mark.
Maya has shown incredible patience, but now your lips were hers.
Soulmates, what an understatement.
Every nerve ending spiked like dynamite.
Whatever was before was gone.
There was only the two of you now.
Everything you’d ever done had led to kissing Maya right here.
Nothing was a regret anymore.
As Mayas hand cupped the back of your head you knew that neither of you could ever do anything to break this.
Whatever unconditional love was before made sense as her lips moved against yours.
Two halves, now whole.
Maya broke the kiss and you let out a sad little noise.
“Shh, I know.” The older woman whispered against your lips. Her nose rubbed against your teasing.
It was tooth rotting sweet, and so unlike the Maya persona you’d known.
You two share little kisses, lips bruised but desperate for just one more peck. And then another, just one more.
The sound of the casino slowly enters your mind.
“We-“ You say as you open your eyes in shock.
Guess you did like PDA after all.
“My room.” Maya responds her fingers caressing the back of your neck, having fun squinting herself with the little baby hairs.
As if Mayas confident touching was her way of reacquainting with a love she’d always known.
“Please,” you whisper as you let hands shake, you don’t want her to go. But you're afraid to reach out and take all the same.
Maya understands on a level no one else ever could figure.
In the middle of the casino she took your hands and placed them on her own hips.
A lifetime of being afraid to ask for basic needs to be met, and Maya was giving you the whole buffet of intimacy like you’d always owned her heart.
“I have so much to teach you,” Maya giggled seeing your reaction. You blushed and then stood on your tippy toes a little more to whisper in her ear.
“I’ve never…” then you faulted.
Maya kissed your cheek and whispered back.
“It’s okay, I prefer it in fact. My soulmates’ all mine.” She added with a darker voice. Her arm pulling you impossibly closer against her heavy breasts.
“No- I mean yes never with a woman but also…” You don’t feel shy per say, I mean this was your soulmate. You knew on a deep level she wouldn’t laugh at you.
But something about saying it to Maya made your desire sky rocket.
And as you remembered you were in a very large venue it made you even more turned on.
People passing by didn’t care for two gay women holding each other, they simply went on gambling.
“Never cum?” Maya says kindly, patiently.
You shake your head and then bury your nose in her neck.
Maya makes a growling noise of appreciation and your knees falter.
It seemed you’d have more than just the soulmate mark before the morning came.
mutuals can always dm me but be warned i talk like your coworker who is trying too hard to get to know you and my response times are akin to the response times you might get if we were communicating by letter
“You want to put your feet on the dash? Elevate them?” Detective Harkness asks, pointing a beef jerky stick at your shoes.
“Eyes on the road.” You insist.
Agatha groaned, her gaze flicked between the road and your bandaged feet.
You kept fidgeting, but you stared down in your lap.
The folder holding documents, photos of evidence. Of bodies, of Peper and Darcey.
That gorey oozing hole where the lobotomy tool entered.
Their eye becoming milky and bloodshot - void.
Agatha chewed loudly and you reached out to grab another cigarette from the convenience store bag and the older cop moved it.
“You just had one.”
“You’re not my Mommy.” You spat back and Agatha had the nerve to move her thighs, sit up a little straighter. Her dick shifting in her pants.
“You’re too young to chain smoke.”
“I’m a detective who’s failing.” You correct her and Agatha scoffs.
“Probie you haven’t failed anyone. The jobs not over yet. We’ll get the assholes.” She says and you don’t miss how it’s plural.
How she’d listened to you saying it was more than one person.
“Tell me Pepper's death couldn’t be avoided, tell me that then?” You add feeling greasy in the car now. The junk food and nicotine seem to leave a layer on everything.
Agatha chews quieter, but doesn’t respond.
“I don’t get you.” You snarl and snap the folder closed.
Agatha’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel again.
But you curl your body to the side, staring out the window.
“What do you want to know?” Agatha offers and you laugh rudely.
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” You say against the side window, fogging it up with your breath.
“It’s not.” She insists.
“I have nothing to say Officer Harkness. I know all I need to know, you didn’t want a partner. You got lumped with me, you had no intrest in being partners or fucking kind to me. Not until someone else wanted your toy. I don’t know your game, I really don’t. Is it some foreplay with Vidal? Huh? Take Rio! She sure as shit isn’t mine.” You grumble the last part under your breath.
Agatha has to turn her headlights on, the suns setting.
“Rio loves you.” Agatha responds and you hate her more.
“Shut up. Anyway, I thought we were discussing you? What do you wanna play now? Twenty questions? Hmm?” You snarl and Agatha sorta misses when you were still trying to impress her.
“I’ve been shot. I’ve also killed someone on duty. I’ve only ever loved three people my whole life. I can’t cook. Can’t remember to shop, I suck at people- uh communication.” Agatha posts, she’s really trying.
But you reach out and turn the music on again. Something 80s blares and Agatha shuts it off.
“Jesus, Probie I know I fucked up. Come on! Let me try! I know I’m not easy but damn it!” Her voice raises.
“After this case I’m not your problem anymore. It’s easier if neither of us get attached okay?” You explain and Agatha’s shoulders sag. She keeps looking out at the road.
“I’m already- I mean.” The detective swallows and eyes you.
Stopping herself from speaking too soon. “You were right, about me being an asshole and not wanting a partner at first. But- but you’re smart. You’re quick and good at this. Your instincts are-they’re… you’re good kid.”
She compliments but it doesn’t sit with you.
You don’t soften, all walls and anger. Chip on your shoulder the size of Texas.
Agatha twists to get a look at you turned away from her.
“I read your personal file…”
You ignore officer Harkness like she’s just said she’s got cooties.
“I’m not- I want you to be my partner okay. I’m it a monster who’s just going to send you back.”
Your thigh moves but you still don't respond.
“Probie I’m a foster kid too okay?”
Now you spin to bite back.
“So we’re supposed to be friends now?”
Agatha actually smirks at your deadly responses.
“Nah, you keep your anger. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe it’ll keep you alive.” Agatha decides and twists the radio up glaringly loud again.
Pulling out a cigarette she lights it and then hands it to you.
You take it and something about this exchanges is like reverse psychology.
You sit back in your seat again and try to ignore how Joe Crocker and Jennifer Warnes sing ‘ Up Where We Belong.’
Your fingers move to change it but your blocked again.
“I like this song.” She shouts and you snort.
But Agatha proves it by singing along, rolling down her own windows.
You’ve never seen her this goofy.
You hate how it pulls on your heart.
As the wind whips through the cabin she actually sings .
“LOVE LIFTS US UP WHERE WE BELONG! WHERE THE EAGLES CRY ON A MOUNTAIN HIGH! LOVE LIFTS US UP WHERE WE BELONG!”
Her voice isn’t horrible, and she shakes her head as her long hair looks like movie magic in the breeze.
You throw out your cigarette, you're laughing too hard to smoke it.
It’s insane how easy it was for her to put you my at ease.
But it works.
A few hours later Agatha slows the car, and you jerk awake.
“Easy tiger, no fight. Just a bad motel.” Harkness says and the red vacant sign is blinding in the dark.
You swallow dryly and rub at your face. Your mouth is bone dry from smoking and Pringles.
Agatha brings out a physical map she’s been scrunching up on the dash.
“The MindPalace place is only two miles up the road. But we don’t wanna spook em. Plus I need some shut eye.” She says slapping the map back into the console.
You make an agreeing noise then think of it and change your mind.
“I’ll drive.” You offer, not wanting to stop.
“You should take a pain med.” Agatha says gently, trying not to start you up again.
“Don’t need em.” You respond too fast and stretch your shoulders.
Her tongue clicks in her mouth.
“God, Probie you’re infuriating ya know that? Take a fucking pill. I can see why Rio's obsessed with you. You can’t listen to anyone.” Agatha answered with no malice. And you don’t respond, just pop out of the car once it’s stopped.
You have stayed at plenty of dingy places growing up.
But this place looks like it’s the Bates Motel. Frozen in time, the bedding probably had enough bugs to move the structure a mile down the road.
“Check out the back, I’ll go in.” Agatha asks and you see her packing her side arm.
“You’re not my boss anymore.” You say and walk into the main office. Agatha shouting your last name but you weren’t taking her shit anymore.
She grabs the glass door with its obnoxious bell to let the front desk know someone’s in.
Agatha’s grinding her jaw and checking exits when a man with an eyepatch who looked to be two thousand years old came out.
“Two rooms available?" You start but Agatha catches up and moves to step in front of you.
“One room.” She says and the old man spits into a Dixie cup that appears older than you.
He looked between the two of you.
You were about to call him homophobic. Or just damn rude, when he lifted an old fashion key with the diamond shaped plastic holding the number on it.
“Towels?” The noise that came out of him must have been the ghost of John Wayne.
“Two” you say glaring at Agatha.
“You gonna say one?” He gave the sarcasm back to Agatha who didn’t flinch.
He shuffled to the back room with the speed of someone who’s got nowhere to be.
Once out of earshot you hissed at Agatha.
“One room?”
“Shifts sleeping, this town's small and suspicious.” The answer makes you want to roll your eyes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You groaned but the cop wasn’t.
“Afraid I’ll bite harder than Rio?” Agatha smiled with her teeth and you considered punching her.
The slit still on her nose, but if dried blood scab from where Rio had.
“I’m not sharing a room with you.” You argue back, voice rising an octave.
“You can be big spoon if it means that much to you.” Agatha taunted back once more and just as you were about to tell her you weren’t a spoon in bed but a steak knife.
The man shuffled back with two towels that were at one point avocado hip green but now were more moldy produce green.
“Thanks,” you say, reaching out for them.
He turned to officer Harkness, somehow deciding she was the top here.
“We take American Express, Visa, and Venmo.”
Of fucking course he did.
When you’d gone back to the truck and lugged out your duffle you eyed how Agatha had her aged duct taped soldier of a bag.
“You just happened to pack a bag?” You can’t help the edge in your voice. She brought the thing everywhere, but you weren’t about to say that, like you noticed. As if you’d cared.
Agatha doesn’t look at you as she closes the car and locks it.
“Foster kid, remember. Always got a bag, rule number one.” The cop said, hoisting it over her shoulder and stepping onto the sidewalk.
You hated how true that statement was.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” You don’t even know why you’re fighting her now.
Agatha used the rusty brass key in the lock and thought about it for a moment.
“No, I’d just hoped we could call a truce at some point. And actually try this partner thing out.” She answered and shrugged like she’d been silly to give such an answer. That honest and raw.
Shaking the sensitivity off and having to use her shoulder to push the storm warped door open.
The room smelt of mildew and had a coin slot to make the bed vibrate.
“One bed.” You stated and Agatha lugged her bag into the small table next to an armchair that had seen too much.
“You sleep first.” Her tone is exhausted.
“I did on the ride-“
Agatha puts a hand out and you stop talking.
“Kid, some things just don’t have to be a fight.” Agatha huffed defeated then grabbed the gross looking plastic ice bucket.
“Where are you going?” you snapped, a little afraid she’d leave you here.
“Ice for your feet.” The officer answered before slamming the door closed so she could go into the hall and take a moment.
In truth she needed her cock not to be near you for a while.
It was getting painful to argue and want you all at once.
You gazed down at your feet, they still hurt. You chewed on the corner of your bottom lip before grabbing your bag and a towel as thin as paper and going into the bathroom.
The tiles and sink were a retro look to match the rest of the motel.
But you started the water and locked the bathroom door.
It felt like the right thing to do, one more layer between Officer Harkness and yourself.
You sat on the edge of the tub as the water splashed against the porcelain and the mildew stain yellowed the plastic curtain.
You groaned and hissed in pain as you untied your left shoe and noticed the blood in your sock.
“Nice job.” You add in the bathroom that was full of all your self hatred.
You felt weak.
Stupid.
A moron for starting to see a life where Rio was a permanent fixture.
Horribly naive for thinking you could solve this case.
Even worse, you were angry at how deep the need to cry in Agatha’s arms was.
God you wanted a hug.
A long one, full of caressing and rubs.
That damn Bomber jacket that smelled like her around your shoulders wasn’t enough.
You wanted to lay on her chest and weep like some wayward child.
Why did Agatha make you feel safe?
Why had Rio?
Why couldn’t you learn your lesson?
A tear fell above your bandaged foot onto the ugly bathroom grout.
You unwrapped the bandages and took a shower.
You’d yanked the knob, having the hot water up as high as possible. Wanting to burn the way you’d yearned for the two of them.
You wanted the heat to boil your flesh and punish you for all of it.
For wanting and for being so dumb.
How could you be so needy while women sat in the morgue.
You hit your head against the shower wall and tried to cry more.
To shed all of these emotions like a second skin.
Once the water ran cold, and you had enough self hatred that you couldn’t breath from the fumes of your despair.
You stepped onto the small bathmat hoping you didn’t pick up another disease. You make faces or discomfort as you brush your teeth and put on blue sweatpants and a ratty grey t-shirt with a Bruce Springsteen album on it. You notice the bruises from ‘fighting’ Rio. The handprints on your bicep now have a yelloweer bruise.
“Hold fucking still and it won’t hurt so bad.” She’d said and you’d kneed her in the stomach. Feeling extra feisty.
The Latina wheezed and doubled over, her stomach toned and strong, still wasn’t ready for the blow.
This wasn’t gentle loving and if Rio kept looking at you like you were her world then you’d break her god damn nose in bed.
But Rio had expected this, known what kind of caged animal you were.
Grabbing her belt she’d slapped it down on your ass checks and the sting of the leather made you falter, your legs wobbling.
The pain making you vibrate like a cartoon.
But you steal yourself, the fight all you know.
You crawl faster off the sofa and Rio grips your bicep like she’s going to take it clean off.
Your shoulder pops, you don’t call a safeword.
And then the FBI agent gets creatively crafty.
Taking the belt and looping it over your head. You’re sure she’s trying to get it to your neck, you’re wrong.
“You want to be a feral animal, then I’ll treat you like one. I’ll break you baby.” Rio reasons as if this fact will soothe you both. Make you better somehow.
Maybe make her stop craving hurting you. And create a version of you that can cum like a normal person.
You twist violently and buck like a bronco.
“Open your mouth, if you aren’t sucking on me you’re biting. Now bite something else.” Rio adds and thrusts the leather belt into your mouth. You bite down on reflex.
You’ve got yourself a bridle.
Your body aches, you’re losing steam and Rio's cock is stiff and ready to fill you.
You are back in the bathroom staring at the handprint. A sweatshirt was indeed in order. Quick to cover the evidence you shift it on over your head.
You’ve stared too long at the handprint like it was a lost love letter to what you’d once had.
You feel one of your cuts opening from the pressure you’re putting on it and you squirm. But you unlock and open the bathroom door with a vacant expression. Agatha who’s changed, got ice out, and raided the vending machine for dinner for two sees you and runs forward.
You’re too shocked to understand that she’s lifted your bridal style off the floor.
“Probie you’re going to get every infection from the 50s to today’s hits from this floor.” The detective lifts you like it’s no big deal.
Then she places you on top of the sheet, she’d pulled back the questionable quilt and jacked up the ac. It makes the mechanical grinding noise of a rusty tractor starting up.
But you can’t focus on any of this overstimulating information.
Because Agatha’s got your feet in the air and she’s blowing on them.
It actually helps the sting and you are too in awe to say something rude.
Agatha’s warm calloused hands hold your calves so that your feet are in her face.
Finally her baby blues meet yours.
“You gotta be more careful, you don’t want scars. Or something worse by being so tough you open 'em up again.” The cop says and you feel like she’s talking from personal experience.
“I’m-“ you stutter but she’s ignoring you and moving over to her duffle. Taking out a first aid kit that appears zombie apocalypse type of prepared.
“You always keep a whole hospital in your bag?” You say less rude but more awkward as you have your toes in the air.
Agatha pours disinfects on a pad of cotton and then blots at your opened cuts.
“Foster kid,” Agatha repeats distantly as she focuses on making sure her cleaning is thorough.
You stay silent, not sure if your voice would waiver from emotion under her tenderness.
You were going to ask more questions, really.
How she’d learned this, who else she’d needed that big of an emergency kit for.
But watching the officer you’d feared only mere weeks ago touching you like this was too much for you to comprehend.
Your lip shakes.
The urge to lose it is not far.
You make a small noise and Agatha mistakes it for hurt.
Her attention snapping to you, eyebrows furrowed.
“I’m almost done, do you need some pain meds?”she asks, a caretaking role easily draped on her shoulders.
You shake your head, feeling strangely shy now.
You sort of understood why Rio got the nickname Daddy but everyone in the precinct called her Mommy.
There was a gentleness to her, a caring, but still that sternness. The perfect mix between butch with her cigarettes and rough jacket. Her glock and thick shaft.
The sharpness of her jaw line.
All of those contradictions to the softness of her. Those lips, the way she caressed you.
The instant maternal way she could take the pain away.
Agatha’s calloused hands in the tips and scars versus her breast and waistline, the gentle curve of her hips.
You kept staring.
Agatha waited, she could have made a joke at your expense. But instead she held your foot carefully. Wrapping new bandages from her pack.
When she was done, her eyes were ablaze back into yours, and she leaned down and kissed the top of your ankle.
You shuddered, like some windswept trashy book heroin.
“Keep off em,” Agatha adds packing her extra gauze back in her duffle and dropping it on the floor.
“Yea,” you try but only a whisper rolls out.
Agatha’s wearing a jersey and her hairs frizzled. You imagine her in college, training to be a cop.
Did she win this shirt in a drinking contest? At a bar?
Was she popular?
“Hungry?”
Officer Harkness you have no idea.
You shook your head.
“Lay back.” Agatha insists and you stiffly hold your elbows to make sure you don’t lay flat.
You open your mouth again and Agatha shakes her head, putting a finger to her lips.
“No more fight.” She takes her fingers and presses right at your sternum until your laying flat.
Her hair moves over her shoulder until she’s flipping off the ugly lantern.
Moving in the low light to the icebuck and using the plastic bag liner.
She comes to the bottom of your foot and carefully sets the ice against your bandaged foot.
“Harkness-“ you start but she shushes you.
The red light of the motel blinks through the curtains. Illuminating the side of Agatha’s face and the gun on the side table.
Your eyelids grow heavy, and knowing that Agatha was there made you feel safer than ever before.
The lazy AC hissed wetly and the ice clinked in Agatha’s hold as she kept them against your bandages.
“Agatha?” You whimper as the cold helps the swelling.
Her dark eyebrows lift, waiting, always waiting for you.
“Thank you,” you murmur as the neon light buzzes outside.
