Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader: understood
Summary: It's been months, and Agatha has been oh-so-patient. When your worlds collide—violently—you're offered a choice; continue running from the inevitable, or face what you both know to be true.
A03
Words: 5.1k
A/N: a hugeeee thank you to my beautiful beta readers as always-- @harknessshi & @louisaa-a for giving this a look-over!!
this is a song-based fic so i highly recommend listening to said song while reading or before, as it sets the tone and offers depth to the piece!! enjoy <3
Included: modern setting, assassins & hitmen, ambiguous relationships, dubious morality, mutual pining, mild blood, death, rough sex, choking, begging, biting, dom/sub, anal play (brief but there), possessive sex
Tag List: @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @multifandomfix @escapetodreamworld @imtrashinflames @white--lillies @call-me-no-one
I’m gonna take my time I have all the time in the world To make you mine
It seems in the last few months that every investor in New York has invested in the same cologne; the scent surrounds you like a cloud, tinging the food in your mouth with chemicals. No base notes, no top notes, just overwhelm.
The smell is worse when they open the floor and you’re playfully nudged—forced—into entertaining them for a dance or two. Telling them apart is virtually impossible when the same rancid scent clings to them. You grin and struggle to breathe and ignore the wandering hands of old men.
And the second you see an opening for a blissful, cologne-less moment, you take it.
You glide up a back staircase, careful not to let your heels click on the marble as you ascend to the empty level overlooking the event. A sea of bland tuxedos and grey hair greets your eyes. Toward the back you spot your Father, laughing jovially, his eyes darting the space, no doubt looking to locate you so he may attempt at pawning you off on whoever he’s speaking with.
He’s never picky with who he opens the bidding of your hand to, your Father—one of his few lackluster business strategies. But he’s never been one to sit on tainted goods.
And that’s all you are, aren’t you? Tainted goods he’s attempting to sell for pennies on the dollar.
You scoff and slide toward the balcony this level offers; a small thing with more plants than standing room, but the view is… incredible; the whole of the city skyline spread open for your enjoyment.
It twinkles on cue as you step outside, as if waiting. The cool breeze creates an odd ache in your already tense muscles. A fur had been draped over your shoulders earlier this evening, a mere thirty minutes before it was removed—stashed in a closet you couldn’t hope to find without the help of an attendant—and you long for it now.
You weather the chill, attempting to relax into it as your eyes slip closed.
“Ugh, you reek of them, pet.”
Your heart jumps in your chest. Turning to the sound, you find her encased in shadow at the edge of the balcony. Her eyes glint in the struggling light.
A smile pulls at your mouth, “Occupational hazard.”
“Daddy’s little princess is an occupation now?”
She pushes off the wall, drawing closer with an assured gait. Blue eyes trace over every inch of your form as she closes the barely-there distance—standing far closer than appropriate.
“More like Daddy’s little parasite, the way he sees it.” You scoff.
“You’re not unlike a leech when provoked,” she muses, a smirk pulling at her lips, “not that I’ve ever had reason to complain.”
With a roll of your eyes, you close the scant distance. You wrap your arms around the back of her neck, laying your cheek on her shoulder, and sighing at the warmth soaking into your bones. Any lingering tension leaves your body when her hands settle on your waist.
“Are you looking for a repeat experience?” You whisper.
You ghost your lips along the side of her neck, even letting your tongue out to play.
“Well, if you’re offering.”
Her own lips press a kiss to your forehead. And for the first time in months, you can breathe, melting into the feeling like it’s a key and some part of you has been unlocked. A dreamy little breath escapes your lips.
Why did you ever give her up?
You pull back just enough to take in the vision she makes dressed in shadow and moonlight. Her lips part as she returns the gaze. There’s a glossy sheen to her eyes and you’re reminded of the thousands of times she gazed down on you with that same look, hair wild and skin covered in sweat.
One of your hands guides hers beneath your dress. She needs no further instruction, fingers finding where you have so desperately needed her for ages—since you saw her, felt her last—since Vienna.
You don’t stop her hand, but you drop your eyes, “Who is pulling your strings tonight?”
Two fingers slide slowly, carefully, into your cunt, scissoring apart to open you up for a third. A whimper leaves your lips. Her thumb toys with your clit, tracing soft circles around it. You buck into her hand, desperate for more.
“No one.”
She drops her head enough to lick and suck along your jaw. You allow it, the wet warmth only adding to your growing pleasure.
A scoff leaves your lips in place of a moan, “The payout must be impressive if you won’t even tell me.”
“You forget,” she drawls, beginning to thrust, “that I kill because it’s fun. The money is just practical.”
You did forget. You always do.
That’s what led to Vienna—to you coming home, once again at your Father’s whim, though your heart stayed in that damned city with Agatha. You had let yourself fall, ignoring what she was until you couldn’t any longer. Your heart clenches in time with your core. Tears spring to your eyes.
Everything would be so much easier if you just gave in; your Father is no stranger to death, and you returned to him—what makes them so different?
Your hand closes around Agatha’s wrist and she stops.
“Who is the lucky target tonight?”
“Who says it isn’t you, dear?”
You laugh, softly, “You wouldn’t have stopped fucking me if that were the case.”
Agatha doesn’t deny it. She does pull out of you, though. You wince.
A hand on your jaw draws your gaze back to hers. It is a fight not to close your eyes against everything lingering there—the barely disguised want, the love she usually keeps wrapped up so tight.
It would be nothing to fall into her arms again and let her drag you around the globe, a trail of blood left in your wake—loving Agatha, being with her is as easy as breathing; but it will only hurt more when you remember why you left in the first place.
If you fall again, it will be for good. You won’t taunt her with the what if of tonight when you doubt your ability to give her forever.
You lean your forehead to hers, pressing a kiss to her mouth, “I love you.”
Her breath comes out in a shudder, like she’s fighting to hold herself back. Then, she releases you, composed as ever.
“Of course you do,” she purrs, “I’m exceptional.”
And this time, it’s Agatha who leaves first. You try to breathe around the empty chasm in your chest where she should be.
---
A certain awareness is required of someone so intimate with death. This awareness escaped you endlessly, until Agatha—it had never been a lack of skill leading to your obliviousness, but a lack of desire; you didn’t care much for death then… her, on the other hand...
It’s something almost primal, your cognizance. She sets her eyes on you and some baser instinct lights up. Your muscles subtly tense, the prickling on the back of your neck telling you to run.
(You always ran right into her open arms, like a moth to a flame.)
When your date slams your back into the heft of your apartment door, teeth sinking into the side of your neck, you should feel a different kind of baser instinct, the one that makes you writhe and moan and whimper, subconsciously seeking the biological imperative another woman can’t give you. But even as hands fumble below the waist, something sets that awareness alight.
There’s no scent trailing down-wind or color sticking out from the foliage, but she’s here in some way. Stalking. Hiding.
Your eyes trace along the hall over your date’s shoulder. Every door is firmly closed. There are no shadows peeking from the halls. But there is a camera close overhead, the red light flashing like a signal, and you don’t take your eyes from it.
She’s watching.
Like the feel of her hands on your waist, you know the weight of her stare like it has always been with you. Noises leave your mouth, but they’re muted compared to what Agatha can pull. You blink but don’t dare move your gaze from the camera.
She’s not bad, your date—sweet enough and very willing—but she doesn’t set you alight. Beggars can’t be choosers though, can they?
While someone else's fingers sink into your heat, you mouth to the camera, “I want you.”
And it’s her smirk you imagine behind it when you come.
---
Five blocks—that’s how long you’ve been followed.
You’ve expected an event like this to come on a night that was… well… eventful; shadows sneaking up on you in the wake of some gala or high-visibility date, not on your 2am walk back from the corner store. Perhaps it was the romantic notion that if something happened, it wouldn’t befall you in sweatpants.
But no, sweatpants it is.
They’re lean, the shadow, but not lean enough to be your shadow. You sigh. All you wanted was a snack.
Your apartment building is one block ahead. You keep a slow, leisurely gait, and they don’t speed up; this isn’t a hired hit, this is a spur-of-the-moment desire. Keeping your smile in check just in case, you pull out your key-card subtly. Mere steps stand between you and the door.
They maintain their slow distance.
With a barely-there wave of your key, you slide into the building, and laugh as it locks behind you.
Stepping through the lobby and into the elevator, spoils in hand, a niggling thought plagues you that you should call Agatha, but you shove it down.
When you step into your apartment you sigh. The thought of calling her remains tempting and persistent; her voice offers a calm you can’t replicate alone, but it wouldn’t be right to give her false hope—you’re still not sure where you stand.
An odd, burnt smell lingers in your space and your nose scrunches, attempting to get a feel for where it's coming from. A jolt of fear seizes your chest.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
You forgot to blow out your candles before leaving.
Throwing your snacks on the counter, you skitter through the apartment, not bothering to kick off your shoes as you beeline for your bedroom. The light is on but nothing seems to be brighter—that’s a good sign, right? If things were on fire it’d be brighter.
A hand claps over your mouth before you can reach the door.
On instinct, you shriek, but it’s muffled. Large and unyielding, a body traps you from behind. You thrash pointlessly. The burning smell comes over your senses tenfold.
Agatha is going to be so furious when she figures out who did this to you. And you won’t even get to enjoy watching.
You should have called her.
Words she said echo in your mind, “I’m the only one who gets to snap this pretty little neck of yours, angel. You’re mine.”
You are, aren’t you? Hers. Even though you left all those months ago, putting half a world between you, you never stopped belonging to her. You never wanted to.
You sink your teeth into the hand over your mouth—hard.
A roar of pain fills your ears. They attempt to pull away, but you double down until your lips turn wet, your tongue heavy with the taste of a dozen pennies. You shake your head for good measure and feel a sickening pop.
When you’re filled with a sick satisfaction, you unclench your jaw. The scent of stale cigarettes grows fainter. You hear two heavy steps being taken and a low voice swearing.
That’s all you need.
You throw yourself forward before you can second-guess any movements, fingers wrapping around the first thing you can reach; some metal sculptural piece you bought ages ago that has collected dust on the hall table since. It’s weighty in your hand.
The world feels like a blur when you spin on your heel. It’s like pure electricity is firing in your veins, making everything brighter and clearer and still somehow hazy when you try to recall even seconds before. Adrenaline, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Agatha supplies.
Adrenaline or not, you’re grateful for it. Your assailant barely has time to raise his eyes before you swing the metal sculpture. It makes contact with a crunch.
He drops like dead weight. But you’re not done.
You swing so many times you lose count. The movement feels amazing. You swing until your hand is wet and you can barely keep your grip, but you keep going.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
When you come to, you’re pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around your legs. The body lays utterly still. Crimson dries brown on the sculpture inches away.
Your hands shake as you slide your phone from the pocket of your sweatpants. You don’t even have to look as you dial.
Two rings, then her voice teases down the line, “Feeling lonely, pet?”
“I need you.” Your voice cracks.
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. Then, the barely-there sound of shuffling.
“Stay where you are.” She commands.
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
You’re not sure if you throw the phone or if it simply falls from your grasp—whatever the case, it’s no longer in your hand. And you’re drawn back to the heaping mass of a man lying dead in your hallway.
No civilian could get up to your apartment like this, but he’s not working for anyone special; he’s in a dark suit that doesn’t fit right, attempting to look more sophisticated than he was. You scoff. That’s what they all get wrong—whether dressed in suits or sweatpants, sophistication remains, like an unshakeable layer.
This man wanted to be someone like Agatha. He was a very, very poor imitation.
If you’ve dispatched a poor copy of your lover, then, well, the satisfaction in your chest isn’t so twisted after all.
Your eyes are drawn away from the body by movement. The heart in your chest calms when Agatha traipses down the hall like a queen, hair tied messily on her head. Blue eyes glance at the dead man before locking onto you.
“That was fast.” You comment.
Her brows pinch, something passing behind her gaze, “It took half an hour.”
You blink.
Stepping over the heap, standing between him and you, she half-turns back. Then she kicks the body without ceremony.
“Yup, he’s dead alright.”
You sigh as she crouches to be eye-level with you, “Agatha.”
“What, you want to be extra sure?”
Agatha doesn’t turn away, doesn’t so much as break eye contact as she eases a gun from somewhere you can’t see and cocks it. She aims it behind her with startling accuracy. One long finger hovers over the trigger.
You watch, silent. Her finger doesn’t so much as twitch.
Then, after several long moments, it is turned on you; the end of the barrel nudged under your chin in silent command. You lift your head to give her a better look at you and wonder what she sees. If you did have the time to check your appearance, your mind has blocked out the memory of it.
However you look, familiar pleasure fills her gaze.
Leaning around the end of the gun, you press your lips to the side of the barrel, eyes never once leaving those piercing blues. Pink lips part, ragged breathing filling your ears.
“You liked it, didn’t you? Killing him.”
Shamefully, you nod.
“Just like Vienna.” Agatha murmurs, raising a brow, “Are you going to run again?”
What would be the point? Death will find you again, regardless of where you go. You’d rather watch it befall someone else at her side than for it to befall you.
“It’d be silly to run from the inevitable.”
Agatha discards her gun and falls forward onto her knees. Long fingers pull you in, but rather than her lips finding you, it’s her tongue, trailing warm and wet along your jaw and to your chin. You whimper.
“I was getting so tired of being patient.” She admits against your skin.
Then she twists your body without a change in breath, laying you so you’re front-down on the floor, head twisted to the side. Her hands rid you of your pants in a single heartbeat.
“Agatha—now!?—”
“He’ll be just as dead when I’m done with you,” A hand taps your hip, “Up.”
Your body obeys before your mind can protest. In a moment, your knees are up under you, creating an obscene arch in your back that presents you exactly as she craves.
A flat palm comes down hard on your right cheek. Your face goes hot as a strangled moan leaves your mouth, and you fight the urge to hide. Then another blow lands on the left.
“Fuck!”
The hand moves and Agatha trails down your cunt with the flat of a finger, laughing, “Soaked just from waiting. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you liked me.”
“You’re—fuck—an ass.”
Agatha releases a scandalized gasp, “You want me to fuck your ass?”
Your traitorous cunt clenches at the thought and Agatha cackles. But she makes no move upward. Instead, she probes your core carefully with curious fingers.
“No,” she drawls, “I think you need me here.”
In a single, smooth motion, Agatha sinks two fingers inside you to the knuckle. And then the fucking demon of a woman has the audacity to curl them against that spot that drives you wild.
You are no longer aware of the sounds leaving your mouth—you don’t even care. Nothing has felt this good, this right in ages. She’s playing you like a fiddle and you hope she likes the music.
Desperate, you push back, meeting her thrusts.
“Please, more.” You beg.
Another time, you’ll put up a fight; but right now you need her, completely and truly.
“No one has taken proper care of this cunt of mine, have they?” Her voice is saccharine as she drapes herself over your back and you can’t help the pulse it sends to your clit—which she hasn’t even acknowledged, “Only two fingers and you’re begging.”
It’s been months but your body writhes like it’s been years, and your heart screams in the same way. A trail of heat is left wherever her fingers touch. Tears form when she continues to thrust, but leaves your clit painfully untouched, pulsing in rhythm with your heart.
“No—needed you—“
“Oh I know.”
Teeth sink into the soft flesh of your shoulder and you scream. Part of you jerks away while the other is still pushing back onto her fingers.
Wet warmth spreads over your shoulder and you have the all-consuming desire to kiss her—to feel the weight of her lips on your own, her mischievous tongue in your mouth. You reach back and sink fingers into her hair, turning your head enough to capture her mouth.
Agatha tastes of cinnamon and menthol—and copper.
Freezing for only a moment is long enough for her tongue to slide past your lips, toying with your own, giving you a raw taste of yourself. And when her thumb grazes your clit, you almost lose it.
In the weight of her body draped over you, you feel the increasing movement of her hips against your ass, and ache to slip your hand to where she’ll be just as wrecked for you. But Agatha’s devoted to a purpose and you’re not silly enough to attempt at derailing her.
She breathes against your lips, “All that time making me wait, drowning in your own self-righteousness when we could have been here.”
On the final word, she presses her thumb firmly against your clit, destroying the arguments bubbling up in your throat.
“And you got sloppy,” Agatha continues, slipping a third finger inside, “nearly letting someone take what’s mine.”
Your eyes drift to the body of your would-be killer. It’s a mercy his face is still hidden from your view—keeping whatever lifeless gaze exists from your own.
You owe whoever sent him a gift.
“Take it before someone else can.”
The answering laugh rolls along your skin. Her eyes watch you, mind working behind them at an unfathomable speed. You don’t dare look away, don’t allow yourself to blink.
Except when her free hand slides up, lithe fingers curling around your throat.
“Maybe I should.” She agrees.
The world goes fuzzy at the edges of your vision. You can feel your heart in your throat, pulse beating like it’s caged against her hand as she slowly grips tighter. A thinness builds in your lungs where air should be.
Hazy bliss settles over your mind. Your eyes flutter closed, the vision of her own imprinted on the back of your lids.
Her hand eventually loosens—and at the same time, Agatha’s mouth devours yours, pushing air into your lungs, like she’s offering your life back to you on her own terms. You take it—take her—without reservation.
“Please,” you whisper against her lips, “please, my love.”
“Is there something you need?” She taunts.
What do you need?
After months of lackluster orgasms at other’s hands, you’re desperate for a good one—but it’s more than that, it always has been with Agatha; maybe that’s why everything with her feels so good.
What you truly need escapes you, but you know Agatha can give it to you.
“You.”
Unlike the other times, she doesn’t let you off that easily; she refuses to fill in the blanks your mind can’t, “And what do you need from me, pet?”
You could scream.
She keeps her thrusts painfully slow, ghosting over your bundle of nerves, keeping you clenching and wet but not offering to build you higher to that peak you crave. It’s maddening. It’s pure evil.
What you want is to go back in time and erase ever leaving her. You want to stay in Vienna and accept what she brought out in you, rather than opening the Agatha-shaped chasm inside you. But you can’t turn back time no matter how hard you’ve tried—and what you want isn’t necessarily what you need, though they do inform one another.
You need her teeth in you again, drawing blood. You need her bruises all over your body. You need her name carved into you like a fucking brand, so no one—not even you—can forget who owns you.
“Don’t stop.” The satisfaction in her eyes tells you she understands this request has nothing to do with her fingers but rather the chase—her constant, ravenous, looming love for you, “Own me. Keep me.”
It doesn’t matter if she locks you up in chains and throws away the key, so long as she’s your jailer. You’d live a lifetime in a solitary room with only her name in your mind as long as you feel her ownership over you. You’re tired of drifting, tired of being a lone figure when you’re meant to be part of a pair.
You need her, in whatever way that comes.
Agatha snarls against your mouth, “Finally.”
All at once, the speed of the fingers thrusting inside you reach new heights and her thumb bears down on your clit, grinding in a near-painful motion that makes every muscle tense. Her lips trail from the front of your jaw to your neck and then they’re gone—the weight of her front gone too, as she kneels back to watch her fingers pump in and out.
Her other hand ghosts higher, a finger gently beginning to circle and press over your untouched entrance.
Your breath catches, “A-Agatha.”
“Shh, pet. Let me feel.”
Reassured by the sound of her voice alone, you relax back into the contact, taking every press and push like it is what you were made to do. You’re almost ashamed of the sounds she pulls from your mouth when she stimulates both entrances at the same time—almost.
But you’re climbing closer to that peak with every touch, gasping when the pleasure is paired with a building pressure. Gods—as if one mess wasn’t enough.
“Agatha—” you choke out, “I’m going to—”
She must be feeling sentimental too after your time apart, since all she says is, “Go on.”
When your body goes tight around her fingers, hips pushing back helplessly to deepen the feeling, you feel that pressure release—soaking both of you in your desire. Agatha makes a surprised sound that is nearly lost among your moans.
The high is exquisite, the release settling into your bones like nothing before. You sink against the floor completely and utterly spent. A shadow comes over you and a kiss is pressed to your temple with startling care.
Then, something sticky prods your bottom lip, “Open.”
You do so on instinct. Agatha sheathes her fingers in your mouth. Lazily, you clean her off, tasting your own desire on her flesh. It’s almost enough to get you worked up again.
When she pulls them free, you murmur sweetly, “Thank you.”
“So polite.” The grin is evident in her voice, “You’re almost spoiling me, angel.”
“Let me roll over and I’ll spoil you properly.”
Agatha laughs. But her weight vanishes and you slowly turn over onto your back, taking her in through half-lidded eyes; from the locks of hair that have slipped from her updo to the subtle bite marks on her bottom lip. There’s a stunning flush on her skin that you want to make worse.
Smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you coo, “Have I earned a taste, my love?”
“Hardly,” she scoffs, fingers working at shedding her belt, “but you need to clean up the mess you made, so I guess it doesn’t matter whether you earned it or not.”
She steps out of her pants and your breath catches because you can see her desire. It clings to the tops of her thighs, glistening, beckoning your tongue like a siren call to her pale skin. And it doesn’t matter that your body has gone limp after your own orgasm, you’re suddenly wide awake and ravenous for her.
You reach out for her, desperate, and she swats your hands away. Then she shimmies out of her panties and you can’t help but moan at the sight of how she’s ruined them—for you.
“You’re amazing.” You breathe out.
Agatha scoffs, though there’s a pretty blush high on her cheeks, “I haven’t sat down yet.”
As if the words were a command, you let your tongue loll out, waiting and obedient. Her smirk is electrifying as she comes to kneel over your face—and the scent of her alone is nearly enough to undo you. You shake with the desire to taste, to use your tongue until she’s crying above you, but you wait.
“Oh, good girl.” She laughs, hand cupping your cheek, “Don’t forget to breathe, hm?”
And then everything is Agatha.
She’s wet and sticky and you’re hooked from the first drop. You drag your tongue along the length of her cunt, pulling as much of her as you can, savoring like a fine wine, relishing in the little gasp and roll of her hips. It can be easy to forget she wants you just as bad; but in moments like this, there is no denying it.
Hands clutching the back of her thighs, you feel her muscles quiver beneath your hands when you lick. You gently flick the tip of your tongue against her clit, just to hear her choked moan.
You could continue like this all day—slow, steady, drinking in every pretty sound—but she settles a little more, hips beginning to grind against the planes of your face.
“Give me what I want.” She demands.
The command and the infinitesimal wobble in it make you moan against her, which in turn draws a pained noise from her mouth, even as the hand on your cheek presses you closer; as if you could ever think of pulling away.
You need no oxygen, no sight, just her. Always her.
Flattening your tongue, you rub carefully against her swollen clit, knowing how sensitive she gets and how fast—and above you, Agatha whimpers. Her nails dig into the skin of your cheek. Warmth follows.
One hand slides away from her thighs and up to her cunt, ghosting two fingers at her entrance. She wastes no time in chasing them—impaling herself on you before you can even consider teasing her. You grin against her. With the way she growls, you know she can feel it.
But she doesn’t say a word at first. She chases her high, ascending to that peak with startling speed as she uses your fingers and tongue for all they’re worth, stuttering out a, “Fuck.”
She’s not riding you so firmly that you can’t pull away; you consider it for a moment, just to prolong the experience, to drive her to the edge and leave her there, but it would be bad form to torment her when she allowed you to finish so generously.
You sink another finger into her heat and seal your lips around Agatha’s clit, sucking. And Agatha fucking shrieks.
“Fuck—yes—I’m—“ Is all she chokes out before you find your fingers squeezed tight, and a final gush of wetness spreads down your chin and neck.
You gently run your tongue along her and she jolts. A whine leaves her mouth, hand on your cheek tightening again.
She whines when you do it again, lifting away, whispering, “Enough, pet.”
The idea of getting enough is unfathomable, but you don’t push your luck. You stare up at her in breathless wonder; taking in the beautiful, sweat-slick planes of her body and the pink flush on her cheeks, eyes dark as she meets your own.
Agatha adjusts until she’s draped on top of you. Her low laugh tickles your neck where she’s nipping.
“I needed you,” the words slip from your lips before you can stop them, “even when I thought I didn’t, it was always you.”
There’s something like fondness twinkling in her eyes when she responds, “I know, angel.”
“I love you.”
And that fondness, that soft warmth in her beautiful blues, cracks into something you know always lingers there, buried beneath the hard exterior—love. She leans up and takes your lips with her own, tasting herself there, and the invasion of her tongue in your mouth seems to plant a statement in your mind—
I know.
Don’t say you want me Don’t say you need me Don’t say you love me It’s understood