You didn’t buy any gifts this year. It was fine, it was just you for the holidays, anyway. However, when you come down the stairs this morning, there is a stack of small presents under the tree. All of them addressed to you.
*:ꔫ:*The Third Stocking*:ꔫ:*
♥︎Ex!Agatha♥︎
There are only two stockings on your mantle. One for your and one for your dog. This morning, there’s a third. It’s withered, seemingly hand crafted, and moving ever so slightly. Almost as if it’s alive.
⋆❅₊⁺⋆˚Footprints in the Snow˚⋆⁺₊❅⋆
♡Stalker!Wanda♡
You fall asleep watching the snow float softly outside. When you wake up, there are footprints leading to your bedroom window. None leading away. The window is open. Just enough to let something slip through.
⋆❅₊⁺⋆˚Down the Chimney˚⋆⁺₊❅⋆
♥︎Dark!Girlfriend!Rio♥︎
You were alone for the holidays, so the thud in the fireplace makes you freeze. Ash spills across the floor, followed by a gloved hand gripping the hearth. Then, a voice low, cheerful, and wrong asks, “Were you good this year?”
Prompt: There are only two stockings on your mantle. One for your and one for your dog. This morning, there’s a third. It’s withered, seemingly hand crafted, and moving ever so slightly. Almost as if it’s alive.
Wanrnings: 18+ MDNI noncon- reader under a spell, mental manipulation, womb tattoo, alluded stalking, pocket dimension, enchanted strap, spit as lube, riding
Please proceed with caution
series masterlist
It’s late in the morning. The sun has climbed the sky casting a soft light through your windows, painting the living room in warm rays.
Your dog stretches out on the rug, his tail thumping lazily as you move around the living room picking up the clutter from the last few hours: your scarf haphazardly tossed over the back of the sofa, a slightly read cookbook left on the coffee table, and the TV remote stuffed halfway underneath a blanket. You hum along to the holiday music playing quietly from a movie on television.
You were on your way to the kitchen with an empty mug when something catches your attention out the corner of your eye. Pausing, you turn back toward the fireplace. Your eyes widened as a prickle began to climb slowly up the back of your neck.
You’ve only ever put up two stocking for the holidays. One for you, and the other for your dog. Yet now, you stand still, your brain not quite processing what your eyes are seeing. There are now three stockings hanging from your mantle.
The mug was forgotten in your hands as you cautiously approach it. The movie continues in the background, fading away. The new stocking is hung snugly between yours and your dog’s. As if it has always been there.
It’s traditional looking red stocking, but faded, and worn down by time. Your stomach twists in disbelief at the stitching. The obvious deep purple thread that painstakingly decorates the whole stocking. You know these stitches, because you watched the very same thread being sewn into it years ago. All the while, accusations of cheating were hurled at you for talking with the store cashier longer than expected.
The moment you realized how obsession and love can look the same when you’re naïve enough to trust the wrong person.
Agatha has never been able to let you go. For many months after you left her, she harassed you. Over the phone with calls and messages, no matter how many times you blocked her different numbers. She even had to gall to repeatedly show up at your workplace. Finally, after abruptly moving across the country, life slowly returned to normal.
Her name echoes inside your head like a curse. Now the air feels charged and you can’t shake the feeling of you aren’t alone anymore.
Your dog lets out a small, uncertain whine. When you glance back at him, he’s standing rigid with hackles raised, staring at the mantle. Turning back to the stocking there is now a faint glow coming from the inside of it, slightly twitching on its own.
Inching closer, the light intensifies, seeping out of the edges beneath the thread. You jerk backward as the light flares in a sudden, blinding burst swallowing the corners of your vision. The mug slips from your grasp, shattering on the floor. Your dog is barking sharply, but it feels like he is far away as your ears begin to harshly ring.
—
You shake your head, trying to clear away the fog in your mind.
The world sways, blurred colors sharpening into the sterile off-white of a laundry room. Sunlight is shining, coming from the square window above the washing machine.
You were standing folding towels that were freshly pulled from the dryer. Your hands move habitually, like this is what you always do at this hour. The dryer hums lowly beneath you, vibrating against the front of your thighs. The rhythmic whirring is soothing, muting your thoughts.
Setting aside the previous load you bend down and open the dryer. More warm clothes automatically spill into your arms. You don’t remember loading the dryer or where these clothes came from, but your body moves with brisk efficiency. You can’t bring yourself to willingly stop until you hear shuffling from behind you.
Before you could turn around you felt heat sliding along your spine, arms wrapping around your torso. Calmness bubbles in your chest, melting into the hold.
“I missed you.” Agatha states, pressing a light kiss to your jaw. Her long, dark hair falls across your shoulders as she buries her face in your neck.
You’re confused as to why she’s acting like she hasn’t seen you in a long time, but you brush it off chuckling out, “You just went to the store. You weren’t gone long, honey.”
“I still missed you, my love.” She mumbles, tightening her arms around you. Her hands sneak under your knitted sweater, until her cool fingers are resting against your abdomen. Her lips are peppering your neck, teeth occasionally grazing against your skin.
Agatha peeled your top off dropping it on the floor. Unclasping your bra, Agatha groped your breasts pressing herself against you. This time you could feel the hard outline on her strap on your ass. Like an instant reaction, you felt a small wet patch form in your panties, you groaned, “Agatha-”
She huffed, pulling away to take her own shirt off. “Just put them in the washing machine. I need you. Now.” Her tone was definitive, leaving no room for argument.
When you both shimmied out of your jeans you picked them up, dropping them into the machine. Her hands find your breasts again, gently pinching your nipples between her fingers. You bit your lip at the slight pain. Slipping the toy between your thighs, the tip precisely nudges against your clit. Dragging her hips back gazing at the wetness gathered on the shaft she reminded, “You know— I love that your body is trained to me.”
Turning around you surged forward, throwing your arms around Agatha’s neck, bringing her closer. Planting your lips on hers, your bodies curved into each other out of desire. Agatha hands held your back as she lowered you both to the floor. Straddling her hips you cupped Agatha’s face in your hands, lips moving more frantically.
Agatha breaks with kiss with a moan, her pupils blown wide. She spits on her cock, spreading it all over. Holding the dildo you sink down onto her, Agatha holding you steady to ease your descent. Moans filled the space as she bottomed out, your clit meeting her pelvis.
Your hands braced on her chest as she lied back for your stability. You started slowly moving, testing the waters. Agatha groaned feeling every inch of your cunt. Beforehand, she had enchanted the strap to be an extension of her, to where she could feel everything.
“—so good!” You gasped out, hands balling into fists, speeding up your bounces. Agatha slides her thumb in between your bodies, letting you rut your bud against her finger pad.
She smiles watching the purple tattoo stretch from below your navel outward towards your sides, pulse in sync with your thrusts. Heat settles and grows in your core urging you to chase the pleasure. Her tip reaches deeper inside when Agatha meets your rhythm with her own, hitting new spots. The room is filled with your moans and periodically Agatha’s.
“Fuck, baby,” Agatha throws her head back feeling you tighten around her, “You look so pretty riding me.” Desperately rocking your hips, you close your eyes as your mouth drops, the most guttural noise you could muster falling out. Your eyes roll back as waves crash over you, body stuttering above her. Agatha’s ego fills with pride feeling your arousal drip down her cock. Her own high quickly following yours.
You vaguely register Agatha sitting up. Her hands coming up to your shoulder blades, a tremor in her body as well. Coming down from your high, your chest heaves. The both of you sit there in each other embrace as you try to control your breathing, a lull of silence falling over the two of you.
“You wouldn’t leave me, would you?” Agatha spoke up, breaking the quietness. You leaned away from her, brows pulled together at her question.
Something feels wrong. You can’t quite place it but it nags at the back of your mind. Distant memories of a life away far from Agatha.
Your hands are positioned like you are about to push her away. She cups your face with a hand, fingers tactically digging behind your ear. Agatha watches a flash of purple light gloss over your eyes, before noticing you visibly relax again.
No. No, you’re okay. Of course you never left. Never will. Your home is here. Agatha keeps you safe. Without her, this awful world would swallow you whole.
“No, of course not. Why would you think that?” You shake your head at her absurd inquisition. Placing a lengthy reassuring kiss on her lips to ease her worries.
“Nothing.” She holds you closer, looking deep into your eyes, “Just can’t imagine my life without you.” You smile at her confession, Agatha matching a smile of her own.
prompt: You fall asleep watching the snow float softly outside. When you wake up, there are footprints leading to your bedroom window. None leading away. The window is open. Just enough to let something slip through.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, noncon touching, stalking, light dacryphilia, needles/forced sedation, freeze response, threats, Wanda is a bit delusional.
Please proceed with caution
series masterlist
The bell above the door rings lightly and as soon as you step inside the warm air rolls over you like a wave. The small, hole-in-the-wall bookshop provides a temporary haven from the bustling streets of everyone out shopping for the holidays.
She looks up from behind the counter, glancing at you. Auburn hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, some strands falling to frame her face.
“Back so soon?” she asks, lips curving into smile. Her voice is low as to not disturb the quietness of the shop. Wanda looked to be around late thirties, possibly early forties. When you first found her quaint bookshop it was around the same time her sons had gone off to college.
You smile nodding your head, “I finished the last book already. It was too good to put down.” Wanda hummed softly in response, her gaze lingering on you as you began traversing the aisles.
The shop is narrow but deep, stretching farther back with shelves rising high on both sides against the walls and two lower shelves in between. The aisles are just wide enough for two people to pass if one of them turns sideways. They are organized by the delicate handwritten tags that hang from the shelves.
Forgotten classics, Old Poetry, books that are hard to find in a big brand bookstore. Some are crooked, some yellowed with age.
The lighting is deliberately dim. Mismatched shades of small lamps glow between stacks instead of overhead lights, their bulbs warm and forgiving. Shadows gather in themselves in corners and between the shelves.
There’s a couch tucked against one wall near the back, upholstered in deep green velvet. The left arm is permanently indented from usage. A blanket is folded neatly over the back, frayed at the edges. A low table in front of it holds a stack of books that change every week.
“Oh! I saved something for you.” she leans over the desk to tell you, “It’s up here when you’re ready.”
You gave a quick thanks, continuing to peruse. After finding nothing of interest you made your way back to the front desk. The book she hands you is slim with a soft black cover. No summary on the back or author photo. Just a title that is embossed, faintly.
“Be careful, tonight,” she says cautiously, sliding the book and receipt toward you. Nodding her head toward the large front window showing the snow falling heavier now.
“Thank you.” You take your stuff and hold it close to you, “you be safe as well.”
—
That night, you read the book in bed. Except for the soft hum of the heater, your home is quiet. Snow drifts past your window in lazy spirals, catching in the backyard light. You tell yourself you’ll read one poem. Only to find that the poems aren’t dated or titled.
Your eyes start to droop, and you struggle to keep them open. You do long enough to put the book on your nightstand and sink deeper under the covers.
Through the window Wanda watches your face soft as you sleep. Her stomach did flips when she saw you have left your curtains open. The pale moonlight spills across your floor, casting her shadow along with it.
Wanda tightens her gloves before shimmying at the weak spot of your window, carefully raising it enough to slip through. Planting her feet on the floor, she stood still watch you for a moment. Tentatively, she walks around your bed, eyes on your face for any movement.
She recalls the first time you walked into her shop. Late summer, still hot enough to sweat from just standing outside. The air conditioner was working overtime in the shop, with little effect. Wanda has placed many small fans around the shop to circulate the air better.
When you walked in there was sweat along your forehead and brows from the heat, but Wanda immediately thought you were so cute. Shyly, you approached her, expressing that we’re having trouble looking for a specific book, that you had no luck at any other store in the city.
Luckily, she had just gotten a few copies of the exact book. She admired how polite you were when she showed you the book making sure it was the right one. ‘Sweet thing.’ Wanda thought as you kept thanking her, repeatedly. She watched you look around, seemingly enjoying your time here. She smiled when had ended up walking out of her shop with two more books in your hand.
That was a year ago. Routinely, you would come in on the same day around the same time, she had come to expect your presence. She wished to fill her time, her life, with you. So she bought that couch so you can relax and stay longer or she’d stocked the shelves with more books she’d know you love. On the nights you stay late, she’d follow you home, until she heard the click of your door lock. Not long after she found herself in your backyard, each visit drawing her closer and closer.
She watched you stir and backed up deeper into the shadows.
You blink slowly as you begin to wake up. Your eyes land on the open window as the whistle of the wind grows louder. You sit up slowly, your heart beginning to pound.
Your gaze drops to the floor beneath it, and your stomach twists. Wet, half-melted boot impressions on the vinyl wood. They lead from the window inward, disappearing just behind the foot of your bed.
Freezing, your pulse roars in your ears. Every instinct screams at you to run, to grab your phone, but something holds you still. A firm pressure is on your shoulders. You took a shallow breath about to yell.
“Don’t.” She warned. Her fingers press harder into your shoulders, palms pushing you back down into the mattress.
Wanda climbed on top of you, straddling your hips. Her hair is loose falling over her shoulders. Tears pricked at your eyes as your hands curl into the blanket, fingers numb.
“Wan..?” Your voice breaks. You try again, shaky, “H-how? Wh-”
“Shh.” She smiles gently, leaning over to caress your face, gloves are tucked into her back pocket. Her hands are cool as her thumb wipes a fallen tear. More tears fall involuntarily. You feel her hips jerk above your thigh when she kisses them away, her breath fanning over your face.
Your body trembles underneath her, your hands gripping the blanket harder. A gentle kiss was planted in your forehead, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Her weight became lighter, shifting back over your hips, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I just wanted to be sure my little girl was safe.” She reach for one of your hands pulling it into hers, “I know you been having trouble sleeping and this nasty weather doesn’t help.”
You have had trouble sleeping or staying asleep, but you never told her that, let alone anyone else. Your mind is screaming at you to move, but your body chooses stillness as the safest option.
“Don’t worry.” Wanda pulls the blanket back enough to slip in bed beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress. She lies down beside you, arms wrapping itself around your torso. Fear coils tight in your chest as she pulls your back against her front tightly, “I’ll stay right here so you can sleep.”
As if any sleep is possible now. Your body remains tense as her own breathing evened out. One of her legs tangle with yours unconsciously, her soft socks rubbing against your ankle. A cold realization that she probably doesn’t even see this as crossing a boundary.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Your muscles ache from holding still. You’re acutely aware of the rise and fall of her chest against your back. You stare at the wall eyes burning, dry and unfocused.
Soon sunlight starts to bleed into the room and your throat tightens around a silent sob.
“Morning,” she says softly, voice still thick with sleep. You don’t answer.
She then notices your rigid posture and tension in your shoulders. “Oh,” she murmurs, propping herself up on one arm concern flickering across her face. “You didn’t sleep.”
Her fingers trace a small, absent-minded circle against your arm. “That’s okay,” she says, reassuring. “I can give you something to help with that.”
You feel her body heat dissipate. The rustling behind you doesn’t quell your terror.
Wanda makes her way over to her boots. Bending down she unzips the small compartment on the side of her left shoe, pulling out a small syringe. She jumped through so many hoops just to get her hands on this, regardless of whether she had to use it or not. Now she’d rather use it to help you sleep than to get you to comply.
“Alright, sweetheart.” She calls from behind you. You watch her enter your peripheral as she rounded the bed frame coming to sit in front on you. She leaned over you placing you on your back again. She pulls your arm into her lap, holding it firmly.
You heard a cap popping off of something. Your eyes land on the tiny, silver needle, then flicker up to find Wanda giving you a small smile, “Small pinch. Breathe.”
At her words your eyes widened. Sharp pain blossomed in the slope of your arm, then dulled. She withdraws it immediately, pressing her thumb to the spot. “Good girl. You took that so well.” Wanda praised, setting the syringe aside. She intwines her fingers with yours, rubbing her thumb on the back of your hand. Your eyelids flutter despite trying to fight it.
“There you go,” she whispers, “you just needed a little help.”
Your body relaxes and sinks. The last thing you hear is her in your ear, “Don’t forget. I know where you live.” A telling threat. Signaling for you to not mention this to anyone when you wake up.
Prompt: You didn’t buy any gifts this year. It was fine, it was just you for the holidays, anyway. However, when you come down the stairs this morning, there is a stack of small presents under the tree. All of them addressed to you.
You awoke to quietness. A gentle breeze moves past the window causing the tree limbs to graze against the window. The room is dim, bathed in the soft light of the winter morning, and the air is cold enough that the tip of your nose is cool to touch. When you sit up, the sheets fall away from you with a soft hiss of static. The quiet hum of the heater kicking on fills the silence.
You slept alone, just as you expected. The holidays don’t mean much when there’s no one to share them with. Ever since your mother passed, you’ve grown estranged from your stepmother, Natasha.
In the beginning, you both had tried to keep in touch and look after each other, but over time, work buried the both of you, and the connection faded. Not that you had wanted it to. You were close with Natasha, had a good relationship with her, so losing contact stung more than you’d like to admit. Last year was the last time you saw her before you moved a few states away for your job.
You lie back down and stare at the dull ceiling, listening to birds sing outside. Their shrill chirps urging you to get up and drag yourself to the kitchen for coffee. The wooden boards creak slightly as you pad down the stairs, the coolness of the floor sending a shiver through your body.
Stepping into the living room, you froze in your place. The tree you had put up and decorated out of obligation was shining brightly in the corner, even though you had unplugged it last night.
What really caught your eye was the neat stack of small, glossy red gifts wrapped in thin twine left beneath the branches. Gifts that definitely should not have been there.
You inch toward the tree, eyes wide, staring at the gifts, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t real. You shakily kneel down, fear creeping up your throat. On all of the tags of the three gifts was your name. It was carefully written as if the writer took great delicate care.
You pick up the first package noting how it fits in your palm. Untying the twine the paper falls away with a whisper. Lifting the lid of the box you find a Polaroid inside, facing down. Briefly, you recalled how Natasha liked to take photos of family events with her Polaroid, but how in the world these boxes got inside your house you have no clue.
You glance over at the front door. Still locked. The deadbolt turned, the security chain still in its place. Your eyebrows furrowed flipping over the film. It was a photo of you from your twenty-first birthday. You were sitting at the kitchen table at your old home with your cake in front of you. Below the photo was written:
What a fun night ♥︎
You remember Natasha had snuck you your first shot that night behind your mother’s back. Regardless of being an adult your mother would have flipped to see you drinking. After she had gone to bed you and Natasha drank together, until you were both giggly messes. You could still feel the warmth of her when you rested your head on her arm.
As sweet as the memory is, it does little to shake the eeriness of how these gifts got here.
With trembling fingers you tear into the second box. Another Polaroid facing down. A prickling sensation crawls up your neck, your hairs standing on their ends.
It was you in your bedroom. The date of last night written in black sharpie. Your sleeping form. A limp, curled shape under the blanket, one bare foot sticking out to the side because you always get too warm. You can practically imagine your own steady breathing from the image.
Someone had stood in your doorway. Close enough to capture the angle, close enough to watch your chest rise and fall. You quickly glance toward the stairs, half expecting to see someone standing there, but nothing, no one is there. You swallow hard, you throat beginning burn.
Your fingers are numb as you rip open the last box. Your heart plummets, and a freezing chill runs through your bones. The last picture was you in the pajama set Natasha had given you the last time you saw her. A soft, light red almost pinkish, satin tank top with mid thigh length shorts to match. The very one you were currently wearing.
The bottoms were gone, and the top was pushed up far enough that your breasts were spilling out. Two fingers were buried in your cunt, your wetness shimmering from the flash of light of the camera. The special burgundy leather bracelet around your assailant’s wrist was a tell tale sign of their identity. You distinctly remember gifting that very same bracelet for Natasha on her birthday a few years ago. Since that day she has never taken it off.
Tears ran down your cheeks at the message:
You were so wet for me.
Your stomach knots so violently that you ball the photo in your hands before you tear it in half. The air feels so thick and heavy. To the point where you can physically feel it pressing against your skin. Almost suffocating.
You’re overly aware of how quiet the house was. Blinking hard, your vision stung. You picked up the slightest sound of a low hum coming from the kitchen. Slowly, you turn your head over your shoulder, body locking up out of fear. You can’t bring yourself to find the strength to get up.
Your breath caught in your throat watching Natasha float about your kitchen with ease, as if she’s been there multiple times. Her red hair cascading down her shoulders as she reached up into your cabinets and rummaged in the fridge knowing exactly where everything was.
Your mouth dries out as Natasha’s chartreuse orbs lands on your form. Natasha takes measured steps towards you rolling up the sleeves of her bluish-grey sweater, showing off her toned forearms and bracelet. A soft smile was plastered on her face, only for it to fall once she spotted the edge of the crumpled Polaroid sticking through your fingers.
“Detka..” she tsks, crossing her arms, “those gifts were meant to be opened after breakfast.”
Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out everything. Gifts? Evidence of her violating you were gifts? You force yourself to question her, “How… how did you get in here?”
“You didn’t close your window.” She laughs lightly, motioning to the window on the far end of the room, “you know it’s dangerous to forget something like that. I have been here all night, making sure you were okay.”
She’s standing over you now. Swiftly, you glance over at the front door, your actions not unnoticed by Natasha. “Malishka,” she gently warns, “don’t. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
You don’t think, just move. Acting on instinct you sprint towards the door. Heart hammering in your chest, and your legs shaking from adrenaline. Behind you, her footsteps quicken. Reaching the door you unlock the locks, fingers fumbling with the chain.
And then you feel it. Her, more precisely. The warmth of her body at your back. Her hand wrapping around your mouth, nails digging into your cheeks.
You try to twist away, but she pins your wrist against the door with a strength she’s never shown before. Her face is close enough that you can see the way her pupils dilate with something that almost looks like joy.
“Though you’ve gotten strong,” she murmurs, praising you. “you’re still my sweet little thing. You always will be.” Then you feel a sudden sharp, pinch in your neck.
You want to scream and tear yourself from her grasp, but the hand over your mouth clamps down harder. Watching your limbs gradually move slower than your thoughts, you feel like a ghost inside your own body.
“Shhh, detka.” Natasha cooed, holding you close to her. Your tongue feels heavy and your head grows fuzzy. A surging heat washes over your body as you fall back into her chest. Your head lulls onto her shoulder as Natasha picked you up bridal style, carrying you into the kitchen. Placing you in a chair she cups your cheeks in her hands with a sweet smile on her face. Far too sweet compared to her current horrifying actions.
One of her hands ghosts down your neck, sliding over your shoulder, dragging the strap of your top with it. Running the back of her hand down the front of your chest, she reminds you, “I told you Mommy would look after you. One way or another.”
Her other hand lands on your thigh. Slipping two fingers beneath the edge on your shorts her hand travels up your thigh, dragging up the shorts as well. Natasha’s soft lips press a long kiss on your forehead, “I have missed you so much, detka.”
Once her fingertips reach your slit, she slowly circles with your clit. More tears well up in your eyes as arousal steadily builds in your core. As your pussy grows wetter, your eyelids become heavier.
With your last shred of consciousness you feel her lean in, her breath flowing along the shell of your ear, “After today.. you’ll never be alone again.”
Could you do a Dark! Agatha Harkness x female reader fic who is in a long distance relationship. During her last physical visit, Agatha set up hidden cameras in the reader's apartment to keep an eye on her?
Warnings: MDNI 18+ non/dub-con, non consensual recording, stalking, heavy intoxication, pervy!agatha, fem!bodied reader, cunilingus, fingering, strapon
a/n: happy Halloween :)
As the wheels of the plane touched down the runway, Agatha watched you scramble around your home decorating for your Halloween party tonight. Through the clear footage of the hidden camera she could clearly see a frown painted your pretty face as you try to tack generic black and orange streamers to your living room walls.
Two months since she’d last physically seen you, felt the warmth of your skin beneath her hands, tasted you on her tongue with your thighs tightly wrapped around her head. Of course she’d get private pictures every so often, but that pales in comparison to secretly watching you stuff your cunt with her dildo—one that she personally had custom made for you. Thick, bubbled texture and her signature shade of purple. She feels that she stakes her claim on you every time you use it.
She trusted you with her whole being, no doubt. The only reason she placed cameras around your house in the first place was to keep you safe. If anything happened to you she’d have proof. For your protection. Her getting to watch you get off, seeing the way your features twist in pleasure, was just an added bonus. So she tells herself.
—
The night starts off bright and loud—music pulsing through fake cobwebs and colored lights, laughter spilling over the rim of red cups. You lose track of how many drinks you’ve had; the air tastes like sugar and smoke. Someone hands you another, and you take it without thinking. The world softens at the edges. You dance, laugh too hard, feel the floor tilt. Everything blurs into flashes of color—costumes, glitter, the bitter burn of alcohol that feels more like freedom than it should.
Hours later, silence replaces the music. The house is wrecked—cups overturned, puddles of something sticky, masks abandoned on furniture. The air is heavy with stale alcohol and the ghost of laughter. You move through the mess, the quiet ringing in your ears louder than the party ever was, realizing how quickly the magic dissolved.
The fun’s gone, the people gone—and all that’s left is you, a throbbing headache, and the hollow calm that always comes after too much. Opting to leave the mess for the morning you make your way to your bedroom. Changing into a simple shirt and shorts, you let out a deep sigh with your body hitting the bed; practically floating in comfortability.
Agatha sat in her car watching the last partygoer leave your driveway. Watching your lights go out she adjusted the toy in her pants, clit aching in excitement at the thought of what she’s about to do.
Pulling out her phone, she opened the app that controls the cameras and has them begin recording. Approaching your door she fished out a copy of your house key. Stepping inside Agatha silently shut the door behind her, slowly making her way to your bedroom.
Hearing your bedroom door creak, you groggily moved your head in its direction. Through half-lidded eyes familiar brunette hair caught your sight. Scrunching your face in confusion, you softly called out, "Aggie?"
Gliding over to the bedside Agatha didn’t utter a word, before leaning down and capturing your lips. The mattress dipped further under her added weight. Her hand fell to your shoulder pushing you on your back.
Maybe your subconscious was manifesting this dream. Your yearning for your girlfriend was so powerful that it bled into your dreamscape. You had invited her to the party, but she said her busy schedule wouldn't allow it. Your disappointment and longing had only grown since then.
Nevertheless, her lips on yours felt as real as ever. You could even imagine smell of the warm, light-spiced perfume she typically wears wafting off of her. Wrapping your hand around the back of her neck you pulled her closer deepening the kiss.
“I missed you, baby,” she husked out, ducking to kiss at the pulse point on your neck, holding back the urge to mark your neck, “So much.”
Quietly moaning you pawed at her sweater, pulling at it. “So impatient.” she remarked, sitting up to toss her to sweater away. With her breasts revealed she fiddled with her black bra straps making them bounce. Noticing that you were staring Agatha grinned, leaning over you to give you a better view, “Is this what you wanted, sweet cheeks?”
Eyes locked on her chest you involuntarily reached out a hand. Before your fingers could brush against her soft skin, Agatha’s grip tightened around your wrist. Observing her ice blue orbs you knew what she wanted. Your eyelids grow heavy as you gaze up at her, you mustered out, “please, mommy.”
With her other hand she cupped your face, thumb swiping over your bottom lip. “Oh come on, I know you can do better than that, my girl.” Instinctively, you opened your lips sucking in her thumb to which Agatha smiled. Your brain was swimming, tongue heavy. Even more so with Agatha’s digit in your mouth, unable to form a thought. Agatha tilted her head in thought, you looked so malleable in this state. Removing her thumb she wiped it across your bottom lip, leaving a thin layer of your spit.
Tugging your shirt and shorts off Agatha exposed your naked body to her, your nipples pebbling from the cool air. “My beautiful baby,” Agatha breathed out, running her hands along your body before capturing your lips again.
Agatha curled her arms around you switching places, pulling you into her chest to combat the sudden spin of the room. Agatha pressed her clothed strap up against your core, eliciting a sharp gasp from you.
Agatha shoved two digits in your mouth making you lightly gag. Agatha reveled in the way your eyes watered when she pushed down against the wet muscle, her fingertips brushing the back of your throat. Drawing her fingers back, there was a string of spit connecting them to them to your lips.
A moan fell from your lips when her fingers swirled around your clit, running them through your slit. Sinking into your fluttering hole she felt your warm walls tighten around her digits; your slick dripping into her palm.
You lurched forward into her chest when she curled them, just grazing that spongy spot inside. As she pulled her fingers away from you, you nipped at her skin in protest which earned you a light seat on your ass and a tsk from Agatha.
Lifting your hips she undid her zipper, freeing her strap from her pants. Still made in her purple color, yet smaller and purposely curved to hit your sweet spot with every stroke. Using her wet hand, she coated her dildo using your arousal as lube, the tip gliding through your folds teasingly.
Your mouth fell open into a silent ‘o’ as her cock sunk deeper, your eyes rolling back. Slowly, she lowered you down, until she bottomed out.“Mmm,” she rasps out, the feeling of her harness rubbing against her clit. Agatha started slow, testing your reaction to a few shallow thrusts. You mewled out, wrapping your arms around Agatha; resting your head in the crook of her neck.
Her hot skin anchored you to something solid in a room that won’t stop tilting. Your thoughts come in fragments now, slipping through your fingers before you can catch them. There’s a low coo in your ear— maybe some words or your name— but it all blends together, like the world’s been submerged under a constant flow of water.
Agatha held your hips steady as she increased her pace. Your low moans gradually becoming louder. Heat burst in your lower stomach when Agatha swirled small circles on your clit in tandem with her thrusts. A proud grin was displayed on Agatha’s face as she caught the tiny blinking red light peaking out from the corner of your bedroom.
“Ag.. aaa,” you whined out, Agatha’s thrusts becoming faster and rougher. Your pussy pulsed around her cock as she fucked you deeper. The circles on your clit drew tighter. Agatha felt your juices soaking through the front of her pants. That sweet spot inside you was hit repeatedly with each drag of her strap. Your hips bucked to each thrust, chasing the pleasure.
Agatha’s breath grew ragged with each rock of your hips pushing back against her clit. The coil in your stomach began to snap, body convulsing, cunt clenching around her cock. With one final deep thrust Agatha followed right after, stilling to let you both catch your breaths.
Everything feels distant. The air is thick, syrupy. You try to lift your head, but it’s too much effort, and the warmth beneath your cheek feels too inviting to leave.
—
‘Watching you doesn’t beat the real thing, sweetness.’ Agatha thought, her back pressed up against the wall of the airport waiting area. With the privacy protection on her screen she didn’t worry about other people seeing what she was watching. A privilege no one else gets to have.
Agatha watched herself eat you out after you passed out. Her fingers pumped vigorously into your sopping wet hole. She could even hear the faint squelch of your cunt coming from her headphone audio. The video automatically paused as your contact popped up with an incoming call from you.
“Hey, you.” Her voice picked up, smooth and sultry, sending a small jolt up your spine.
“Hey.” Agatha notes that you sound half awake— words sluggish, thoughts still tangled in the haze of your hangover, “I had a strange dream last night. It felt… so real.”
“Strange? Tell me about it.” Agatha switched from her headphone, adjusting the phone against her ear. Agatha hears you shifting on the other end of the line.
“You had showed up after the party last night and we had sex. Silly, right?” you inquired. You knew it wasn’t possible since she was halfway around the world.
“It happens, baby. You had fun though, right?” A small smirk played at her lips awaiting your answer.
“Yes. The party and the dream,” You clarified, lightly giggling.
“Well, I’m glad you had fun.” Agatha chuckled along with you, her eyes glancing up at the flight time board showing her flight back to London is about to board. “My meeting is about to start so I have to go, but I’m super excited to see you next month, baby.”
After saying your quick goodbyes and love yous Agatha made her way to her plane with a few pairs of your underwear tucked away in her suitcase and new footage to get off to on her phone.
Would you be willing to write Agatha x fem!reader? With an age gap? (Reader is late 20s)
Agatha and reader are in an established (but hidden) relationship and reader is so in love with Agatha but they go to some kind of event or dinner etc where Agatha is constantly being hit on. And mostly she’s deflecting, but there’s a couple of people she indulges and it hurts reader’s feelings
So reader tries to leave Agatha and Agatha goes after her and tells her she loves her and that she will stop hiding them either right then, or gives a solid day of when they can stop hiding based on whatever the circumstances of them hiding are. And that she can’t live without her. And that she only wants reader. And so we get angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending and maybe some smut at the end?
a/n: Happy New Year everyone! May it be happy and gay! Tumblr glitched out on this ask. Also I apologize for how late this is :(
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, angst/comfort, age gap, insecurity
The invitation alone had been intimidating.
Thick, cream cardstock with gold embossing and edges. Agatha’s name printed in an elegant serif that carried weight, and granting her an option to bring a plus one. When she had handed it to you this morning, still barefoot, half-draped in her robe, she’d kissed your temple and murmured in her sleepy voice, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
Of course you would go.
Now, standing beneath a vaulted ceiling dripping with crystal chandeliers, you wonder if this had been a mistake.
The venue is held in a restored historical hall. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine, columns carved with ancient motifs, walls lined with oil paintings of people who once stood on the cusp of innovation. Soft classical music hums beneath the chatter, violins and quiet vocals thread through conversations like a pulse. Everything smells and looks expensive.
Agatha stands there in the center, looking like she belongs here. She always wears black at events like this. Her posture is impeccable, showing the dress off. The fabric moves when she walks, fluidly catching the light just enough to draw the eye. Her dress has an open-back slit, a dangerous temptation you’ve traced with your fingers in the dark.
You stood a few steps behind her, dressed beautifully, but inconspicuous. Agatha had helped you choose something that wouldn’t invite questions or attention. You are her in shadow tonight.
Not because she was ashamed of you, but because the moment your name gets attached to hers, you became visible. Something someone could use against her.
Agatha is one of the best Attorney Generals the city had ever appointed. A relentless public figure whose name appeared in news headlines next to words like reform and uncompromising. Several careers have been toppled due to her prosecutions. She became the target of many enemies. Praised in public, scrutinized in private, every expression dissected, and every association logged.
Agatha had explained it to you one night, many months ago, while you lay tangled together in the dark, her voice exhausted, “If they know who you are,” her thumb tracing idle patterns into your arm, “they’ll dig. I know they will target how young you are… I won’t let that happen.”
She glances back at you as if she can feel your thoughts, her eyes softening for half a second, before she turns back to greet someone new. That look is for you alone, and you savor it as the evening unfolds.
People orbit her constantly. A man with silver hair and a too-tight smile. A woman, with eyes lingering far too long. They come in waves, drawn to Agatha’s gravity, each one angling for her interest and favor.
She handles them all with practiced ease. Politeness edged with sharp intelligence. You watch her hands as much as her face. The way her hands gestures as she speaks. The way she accepts a glass and passes it off to you without looking.
At first, you’re okay. You remind yourself why you’re here and why you’re hidden. The room is crowded, and lively with many conversations going on. Eventually, something shifts as the night goes on.
It wasn’t anything at first. A tall woman, wrapped in a striking, silk emerald gown approaches Agatha, dripping with confidence. She doesn’t hesitate to step into Agatha’s space, nor pay any attention to the other people in the vicinity. Instantly, you she the change in Agatha stance, the way she squares herself.
The woman says something that makes Agatha laugh. Not her civil, public laugh but her real one. The low, surprised sound that usually happens when it’s just the two of you curled up on the couch watching some cheesy comedy movie.
Your fingers curl around the stem of your glass when the woman’s hand finds Agatha’s arm, fingers brushing her bare skin. Agatha doesn’t flinch or step away. She even goes as far as to lean closer as they talk, heads inclining together.
You feel like you’re watching from a distance. You know this is not betrayal, but the fact that she is allowing this stirs something in you.
Then a man joins them. He’s clearly enjoying himself, basking in Agatha’s attention like it’s sunlight. He overly flatters her to the point where you can see his mouth form words like brilliant and extraordinary multiple times. Agatha smiles and lets it to stretch longer than necessary.
Something inside you fractures. You try to breathe through it. Telling yourself that this is politics and standard business dealings. Agatha has never once given you reason to doubt her love for you, but that doesn’t erase the hurt you’re feeling. The room feels smaller, the chandeliers suddenly too bright.
You catch Agatha’s eyes for a second and her smile falters. You set your glass down on a passing tray and turn away before she can excuse herself. You move quickly, weaving through clusters of conversation, past towering arrangements of white flowers and gilded mirrors.
By the time you reach the terrace doors, your chest feels tight. The cool night air hits you immediately as you throw the door open. Outside, the city stretches below, lights scattering and twinkling everywhere. The terrace is quiet compared to the noise inside, the stone beneath your palms is cold as you grip the balustrade.
You close your eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. The terrace door opens and footsteps approach behind you.
“Hey,” Agatha says softly, concern etched into her voice. You continue looking over the balcony, not turning towards her. She comes close enough that you can feel her warmth at your back, her spiced perfume wrapping around you as her hand falls to the small of your back. “Talk to me,” she insists.
When you finally turn you catch the city lights framing her, and outlining her sharp silhouette. Without the crowd or the mask she puts on for the public, she looks vulnerable.
Before you say anything you notice her jaw tighten, “I was working.”
“It didn’t look like work.” You blurt out, frustrated.
Agatha steps closer but you take a step back. Regret flashes in her eyes, “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she apologizes immediately. “I swear.”
“I know,” you whisper, “ but it doesn’t make it easier to watch people touch you like that. To watch you let them. That woman looked like she wanted to do more than business with you, Agatha.”
Her breath stutters, back straightening out. “I didn’t think—”
You interrupt her, gently, “No. You didn’t.” You turn away again, staring out at the city, your words hang raw in the open air. “I love you and I can’t keep pretending that I don’t.”
Agatha closes the distance then. Her hands come to your arms, thumbs steadily brushing soothing circles into your skin.
“I love you,” she admits, fiercely. “I only want you. No one else. Do you understand me?”
You swallow hard, “Then don’t hide me, anymore.”
She exhales, a sound that’s almost a sob. Her forehead presses to yours. “I thought I was protecting you, I see that I’m just hurting you instead.”
She lifts her head, meets your eyes. “Tomorrow, at the press conference.“ Agatha assures you, “I’ll stop hiding us. I’ll tell everyone.”
Your heart stutters as you choke up. “I mean it.” Her hands reach to cup your face, “We won’t live like this anymore.”
The words land deep, reverberating through your body. Slowly, you nod echoing, “Tomorrow.”
Her relief is immediate, shoulders falling noticeably. She slowly kisses you. One that shows her possessiveness of you. Her hands slide to your waist, anchoring you against her body. When she pulls back, her voice is low. “Let’s go home.”
You just take her hand as she walks out the back way of the venue towards her car.
—
Her apartment is dark when you arrive, the city glow filtering in through floor-to-ceiling windows. She doesn’t bother turning on the lights. The door closes behind you with a soft click.
Agatha’s hands are on you again instantly, backing you against the door. Her mouth finds yours with the hunger she’s held back all night. Her kisses is deeper now, edged with frustration and need, her hands palming at you as if she needs you as close as possible.
“I should have chosen you louder,” she declared. Pulling away she looked at you directly, “I won’t make that mistake again.”
You reach for her instinctively, fingers sliding into her hair. Agatha exhales as leans into your touch immediately, eyes fluttering shut.
She laughs softly, placing warm kisses down your jaw and neck, lingering over places she knows that sends a shiver down your spine. She leads you toward the bedroom, fingers laced with yours.
Tomorrow, the world will know, but tonight she will make sure you never doubt her love for you again.
May I request Serial Killer! Agatha x innocent victim! Reader? Agatha falls in love with reader, her next victim. Agatha plans to secretly leave that side of her and start a new life with Reader, but when they both go to spend time together at Agatha's cabin, Reader discovers Agatha's torture room
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, TW: SH, graphic depictions of violence/gore/blood, kidnapping/held hostage, mentions of hunting animals, non sexual/sexual sadism, masochism, somnophilia, fem!bodied reader, strapon, cunilingus, handcuff
a/n: please take caution and do not read if you are uncomfortable with any topics listed.
Schadenfreude noun
Malicious enjoyment derived from observing someone else’s misfortune.
This textbook definition is deeply ingrained into Agatha’s Harkness’s mind. A word she feels that perfectly summarizes her being.
Growing up Agatha was under constant scrutiny and ridicule. Never feeling worthy; How could she when her mother always criticized her for things she did. Even things she hadn’t done. Incessantly, complaining and comparing Agatha to other young women her age, constantly having the highest of expectations. Agatha could be the best in her classes and her mother wouldn’t spare a glance at her, just spat that she could do better.
Agatha was her own person. She could never understand why her mother couldn’t see that and accept her for it.
It was a bitter struggle for Agatha to make or keep friends. Her mother always said that they will find better. Unfortunately, that saying twisted and imbedded itself into Agatha’s psyche, they will always find better.
However, when people close to her experienced some form of tragedy, Agatha would stand there with a deadpanned facial expression unable to curb the elation she felt internally.
She doesn’t try to justify it. She doesn’t think she can.
As the years passed she no longer wished to sit by passively watching bad things happen. She evolved into craving, needing to inflict pain on others to satisfy the burning ache that had been brewing within.
When she’s standing over her victims all those emotions she was denied in childhood had amplified and exploded. Releasing all her frustrations and anger as she works away.
Agatha likes when they beg. Enjoys it, really. When her victims are on their knees pleading for their lives with fat tears falling down their faces. She just stares knowing that’s she’s already locked in their fate, no amount of pleading can or will change that. Then, the next moment the euphoric feeling she gets when she watches the light drain from her victims eyes. Her sadistic, twisted smile the last thing they see. Pride, self appreciation rising as she watched the blood baths she’s created, admiring her artwork.
She enjoys watching the news broadcasts about her victims cases. Tuning in like it’s a daily reality show. In a sense she feels a sort of recognition.
This will sate her bloodlust for a good few months until that itch desperately comes crawling back.
—
Walking into the bank one day to open a new account and make some deposits, Agatha had spotted you. Plastering a smile on her face Agatha approached you, asking for help; you were so eager as did your utmost to assist her. Her eyes narrowed at the slight smile displayed on your face. A disposition Agatha yearns to have, envies it in others. She thought you were so easy, that she could charm you into her clutches. She bet you would scream so prettily for her when her knife sinks deep into your abdomen.
However, when you laughed at one of her jokes, a genuine laugh, one warranting you to cover your mouth to stifle it; it’s like a switch had unexpectedly gone off. She suddenly couldn’t find it in herself to hurt you, despite the incessant urge to hurt something.
Agatha even surprised herself when she didn’t follow you home that night. Of course, she camped out until you got off of work. Closely watching you walk to your car, driving away, but she made her way home in silence. Monotonously crawling into bed Agatha thought about actually getting to know you in a genuine form; a far cry from her usual stalking methods.
Stepping into the bank again for another deposit, a smile on appeared on Agatha face when she saw you. Annoyance flared up seeing that you were with someone else, but she shoved it down waiting on a nearby bench until you were finished.
When you called for the next person Agatha jumped up hastily, a bit of a lilt in her step as she approached the counter. Handing you her paperwork, she observed as you worked away. Your deft fingertips dancing across the keyboard, the minute twitches in your facial muscles as you focus on the screen in front of you.
Reaching out for the receipt Agatha fingers gently brushed over your hand. Pulling her hand away Agatha bit the bullet.
“Would you want to go on a date with me?” She blurted out.
The way your face dropped in shock made Agatha think she was wrong about you. She could see you were thinking of what to say, your eyes mixed with something she can’t place. Pity? Maybe you thought she was a some kind of freak. Agatha’s hands shook at her sides, while her face remained composed. She could feel her stomach drop, along with sweat starting to bead on the back of her neck as she anticipated your rejection.
Your eyes widened realizing you are taking too long to respond, “I’m sorry. That question was just so sudden.” Pulling out a slip of paper you wrote your number down sliding it to her, “I’d love to.”
Now, it was Agatha’s turn to be shocked. She was so used to being rejected, pushed away, discarded. You’re actually giving a her a shot.
—
Like a godsend, you’re her angel. Agatha can’t get enough and much to her delight, neither can you.
Early on in the relationship you noticed that Agatha had to keep her hands busy. Whether that’d be holding on to you anyway she could or dabbling in her little hobbies. Eventually, you convinced her to try painting, easing her worries. Unbeknownst to you that painting helped channel Agatha’s urges.
It always puzzled you why she heavily used various shades of red, but she’s happy when she paints and that’s all you could ask for. She shows you her work as if she was a child showing off a sketch to their parents. Agatha has such a talent you can’t help but to praise her and get the canvases framed.
You also saw how possessive Agatha is towards you. When you two are out together she’s always next to you, holding your hand a little too tightly. When your friends would ask you to hang out Agatha would put on her best puppy eyes to get you to stay with her. If she reluctantly let you go, she’d litter your neck in deep, bruising hickies.
Agatha is hot with a different feeling when you beg. Instead of empowerment, Agatha feels desire, lust. When you so sweetly bat your lashes at her, grasping at her arms, pleading for her. For her.
“Aggie, I need you,” Effortlessly falls from your lips and she’s on you not a second later. Clumsy and frantically kissing you anywhere she could reach. You just chuckled guiding her lips to yours. Agatha ground her cloth cunt down on your thigh, moaning into your mouth, setting her core alight. Holding on to her hips, you helped her rock herself to orgasm above you.
Agatha tries to curb her sadistic tendencies around you, but when you came to her one day asking her to paddle you, she swore her panties were immediately soaked. That night with you perched on her lap, instructing her to use the back of her hairbrush, that first swing resulting your pleased whines, she felt liberated. Each hit she made was harder than the last, her clit tingling with each smack that resounded. Your own wetness shimmering on your inner thighs.
She does get you to scream for her, eventually. Though instead of her knife, it’s her strap sinking into your greedy pussy as you pull her towards you. Excitement licking up Agatha’s spine as she tightened the straps of the newly purchased harness. Slowly thrusting her hips trying to find your sweet spot. Her face pressed into the crook of your neck taking in your scent. Listening to you melodically chant her name as if it’s a prayer, an anchor to keep you on earth as she works you through intense orgasm after orgasm. In the haze of the afterglow you cling to her as if she’ll disappear in a moments notice.
She admires your form as you sleep next to her. Softly kissing your forehead, quietly thanking you for coming into her life. A small smile on your face as you slept, lightly tracing her fingertips over your red, bruising butt cheeks, a little warmth still radiating. Agatha proceeded to climb between your legs, slotting them over her shoulders. Her tongue glides over your cunt licking up your juices. Sucking on your bud, she quickly brought you to the edge of another orgasm, your body convulsing in your slumber.
The next night you had offered to cook dinner for her, since Agatha has a tendency to periodically skip meals. Unfortunately, due to Agatha’s workplace being understaffed she had to stay late. Agatha entered her home near midnight, slow movements with slumped shoulders like she was forcibly dragging herself. Stumbling into her bedroom Agatha eyed you sitting up in her bed, barely fighting your sleep. Shedding her shoes and jewelry Agatha crawled on top of you, resting her face in the crook of your neck. Her hands played at your sides, a slight frown tugging at your lips at her actions.
You’ve come to realize that this is one of her ways of coping with her stress. Many times she came home just to spend the whole night tucked into your side tracing patterns on your skin, unwavering. Sometimes she’ll open up about her problems, and you’ll listen, supporting her but most of the time she’s silent, in her head.
“Do you want to talk it?” You gently inquired.
Agatha remained silent, just pulling you closer to her body. Reaching your arms around her you started running circles on her lower back; you could feel her shoulders instantly relax.
Agatha tensed, pulling away from you. Sitting up she turned around, gazing at the look of confusion on your face. She finally broke the silence, “Let’s go away for a week.”
—
The weather was rapidly plunging as the arranged week approached. What better way to spend it by cuddling with Agatha by the fire in her cabin outside the city.
Agatha had picked you up after work, taking the day off to pack for you both. The car ride was filled with plans of what movie franchises to binge or what to cook for dinner. It wasn’t long before Agatha turned on a solitary dirt road. You awed at the quaint, rustic styled cabin nestled in the middle of the clearing.
The interior emitted a cozy, warmth that immediately enveloped you. Hand knitted blankets lied on the back of the russet couch, along with crocheted pillow covers. Setting down your travel bags you kicked off your shoes, falling on top of the queen-sized bed that sat in the middle of the bedroom. The plush white duvet covered the cool satin sheets hidden underneath.
“Shit.” You heard Agatha grunt loudly. Before you could get up to investigate you heard her footsteps growing louder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, Agatha entered the doorway of the room, a disappointed look on her face, “I forgot something things at the store. There’s a small market not too far away, I’ll go there.”
“I won’t be long.” She called as she walked away from the room. Scampering after her you caught her at the door as she was picking up her keys from the hook. Placing your hands on her shoulders you kissed her cheek, bidding her a see you soon.
Watching her car pull out of the gravel driveway, you decided to surprise her with the fire already started. Padding over to the kitchen you searched the cabinets. The cool tile beneath your feet as you walked around until you found a utility lighter in the island drawer. Striding over to the fireplace, you kneeled pulling open the mesh screen. A frowned tugged at your lips upon seeing no firewood.
Glancing on the sides of the fireplace you saw nothing but a short, neat stack of newspaper beside the pokers. Agatha had told you she came up here to chop some before the trip, now it’s just the matter of finding where she put it.
You stood up, thinking of where she could’ve stored the wood. Across from the kitchen you spotted a door that was slightly ajar. Opening the door you noted that it was unusually heavy, and thicker than the others.
Flicking the light switch you descended the staircase into the basement, the smell of rusted iron invading your sense. The stench made your eyes tear up at the smallest inhale. Pulling up the collar of your shirt you used it to cover your nose to prevent the odor from making you retch. Reaching the bottom of the stairs you glanced along the walls, shoulders dropping from no sign of any firewood.
A wooden table was pushed against the back wall. Dark spots were splattered across the table top, various knives and carving tools hung above it. A small rack along the right wall was filled to the brim with multiple seasonings, gloves, and an assortment of cleaning agents at the bottom; a deep freezer right next to it. Eyeing the black streaks that ran down the metal legs of the table, you stumbled backwards.
“Come upstairs.” You gasped jumping back, grasping at your chest in an attempt to soothe your pounding heart. Turning your head you spotted Agatha at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the doorknob tightly.
Slowly trodding up the steps and out the basement, Agatha closed the door behind you. “Agatha what is-”
“When I’m up here for a while, l’ll hunt the local wildlife. I didn’t have to time to do a thorough clean down there.” Agatha remained stiff, her voice coming off coarse. The muscles in her neck were twitching, her hands rigidly falling to her side, fingers flexing.
“I was just looking for the firewood. I thought maybe it would be down there. I didn’t mean to snoop,” you apologized.
Nodding, she acknowledged your statement pointing to the screened porch on the other side of the cabin.
Finally, retrieving the firewood you returned to the living room. In the kitchen Agatha was chopping vegetables, her jaw set as she focused. Setting up some logs on the grate you grabbed a newspaper, tearing off enough to make sufficient kindling.
Lighting the fire, you closed the screen. Walking back to the kitchen you cleared the island of the few grocery bags Agatha had left. The succulent aroma of the kitchen was much better than the basement.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” You rested your elbow on the island, cheek in your palm.
“Just sit down and look pretty for me,” Agatha threw a smile over her shoulder, motioning to the couch, “Dinner will be ready soon.”
—
The evening passed quietly. After dinner Agatha moved the coffee table out the way of the sofa, pulling the sofa closer to the fire. Picking a movie you lied back Agatha embracing you, holding you close.
As the movie progressed Agatha hands inched up underneath your shirt, coming up to cup your breast. Every now and then she giving you little pecks in the crook of your neck. Hearing Agatha’s breathing even out your gut twisted. Something felt off. Your mind went back to the basement, the black streaks running down the table. Shoving the feeling aside you tried to ignore them, only chalking it up to Agatha’s claim of hunting animals.
At some point you must have fell asleep. Waking up to the flat ceiling of the bedroom rather than the sloped one in the living room. Turning your head Agatha was sound asleep next to you. That pit in your stomach only got heavier as you laid there. Even if you were overthinking and everything was fine, that it was just blood from animals, you weren’t going back to sleep until you found out.
You took your time quietly climbing out of bed, to avoid waking Agatha. Guilt gnawed at you for invading her privacy, not trusting her, but curiosity got the better of you. Slipping down the hallway and across the living room you stood before the basement door once again.
Slinking down the stairs, the smells was not as pungent as before, luckily. Creeping closer to the blood stained table, sure enough there were scattered tufts of animal furs trapped between the splintered wood. Sighing, you started back towards the stairs, stopping in your tracks seeing a metal door on the far side of the room, below the staircase. That pit in your stomach returning again, sinking deeper, heavier as you inched closer to the door.
please just be a storage closet, you mentally chanted, repeatedly.
Opening the door, the sight that met you had your throat tightening in horror. There’s no way that Agatha, your Agatha, could have done this.
Dried, bloody sickles, scalpels, daggers and other weapons. Pictures of people that had gone missing in recent years before they were taken, matched with Polaroids of their decrepit, mangled bodies. Trophies like jewelry or licenses were hung next to the pictures.
A small pool of blood in the corner of the closet caused your stomach to knot. The back of your shirt was harshly yanked, the door closing in front of you with a loud slam. Your back slammed against the door, your eyes meet Agatha’s. A fire raging behind her azure orbs.
“Why the fuck are you down here, again!?” She roared, hitting the door next to your head.
Agatha had never raised her voice at you, it only elevated the situation more. Your heart was beating so fast it deafened your hearing.
Tears prickled your eyes as you pleaded, “Agatha. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”
Her shoulders fell as backed away from you. Her eyes full of hurt, in disbelief that you would ever think that, “Baby, I- i would never.”
Sliding down to the floor you looked up at her. The terror evident in your eyes, your breathing heavy.
She tried approaching you like you were a wounded animal, but you only coward away. Towering over you her hands twitched at her side. Teary eyed Agatha swayed from one foot to the other before collapsing to her knees in front of you, face falling into her hands, ”I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out. I was trying to be good,” she gritted out like she was physically hurting, “I’m trying to be good. For you.”
Your eyes widened. Agatha looked like a mad woman, clawing at her shoulders tears flowing down her cheeks. In this moment you are afraid of her, not knowing what could set her off, if she saw you any more terrified it might make her tick. Taking a deep breath you did your best to compose yourself.
“Agatha, I can see you want to get better. I want to help you.” You swallowed reaching out to cup her face, her tears wetting your fingers as they slid down her face. Her features relaxed upon feeling your hands. Bringing her hands up to your wrists, she pressed herself into your chest. Shakily, you wrapped your arms around her, “Let’s go back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”
You can not keep this to yourself. Knowing that the guilt by association and remorse will consume your entire being until you burst. The fact that you now know the very person that is culpable of all those crimes. That’s she’s ruined so many lives and families, still denying justice from them. You just needed to safely bide your time until you could get away.
Agatha pulled away from you, a hard look casted on her face. She stared at your eyes as if she was trying to pry into your thoughts.
“You can help me, you will. All I need is you by my side.” Agatha abruptly stood up, dragging you with her.
“Wh- ugh,” your world upside down as you were slung over Agatha shoulder. Her steps heavy and decisive as she climbed up the stairs and across the cabin. Landing on the mattress the whole room was spinning.
Before you could collect your bearings heard the clinking and registered you arm being raised above your head. Cool metal snuggly wrapped around your wrist you finger touching the brass of the bed frame. When your vision clarified Agatha was standing above you with her head tilted, observing you.
You lied there sobbing, chest heaving, fighting against the cold metal of the cuff. Agatha tucked herself into your side, hand splaying across your sternum. observing the tears streaming down your face.
“Other than this, I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me, right?” Agatha planted a languid kiss on your cheek, licking your salt tears from her lips, “It will all be okay.”
helloo, please could you write a dark!agatha x fem!reader where agatha has been enchanting the reader for months to become a perfect docile housewife? maybe the reader is a neighbour and every time agatha comes over, the reader starts falling more deeply into the housewife dumbification? until one day the process is done and agatha makes the reader hers? thank youu
Warning: 18+ MDNI, enchantments, so psychological manipulation, conditioning
It begins the way all neighborly things do. A simple courtesy at first. The kind neighbors share without meaning to start anything. A wave over the fence, the lending of sugar, the cycle of domestic exchange that makes the world feel smaller, safer.
Then she’s there on your porch with a casserole in hand. “Just because,” she says with a wink. You tell yourself it’s just neighborly kindness, the sort you’re supposed to repay. So you do. A bottle of wine and a quick thank-you note written in a hurry. She smiles when she takes it, one that reaches her eyes.
Her name is Agatha. It fits her like something ancient dressed in something new. The name sits on your tongue, sweet and familiar, though you don’t remember ever hearing it before.
The first time she steps over your threshold, it feels inevitable. She insists on helping you with dishes, drying plates that aren’t even wet. Her movements are slow and deliberate, as though she’s measuring the air between you.
Her laughter lingers after she leaves. Lilting, as though it’s caught somewhere in the walls. Soon, her scent does too: lavender and with a hint of smoke. You notice it the most at night, when the house is quiet and your thoughts begin to soften around the edges.
Weeks pass. You had started leaving your windows open in the evening. You tell yourself it’s for the cool air, but really, it’s the sound of her humming you’re waiting for. Low and steady, a thread that winds through your dreams.
Then your dreams begin to change.
In them, Agatha is always near. Sometimes behind you in the mirror, smoothing out your clothes, her fingers cool but tender. Other times she sits at the edge of your bed, eyes glimmering like candlelight through mist. Her touch leaves a warmth that seeps into your bones, heavy and pleasant. You wake with her voice echoing faintly in your head: “You’re doing so well, love.”
There’s a a firmer rhythm to her visits now. Something unspoken, but perfectly timed. She comes at the same hour every few days. At first with excuses: returning a dish, sharing a recipe, asking your opinion on a fabric swatch. Then, with none at all.
You had even started checking the clock before her usual hour, making sure the house looks just right, and the kettle is already warm. Hospitality, you tell yourself, you’re just keeping her company. A good neighborly thing to do. It’s only good manners.
But good manners become expectation, and expectation becomes ritual.
You find yourself waiting, setting out two cups without thinking. The tea she likes, bergamot and rose, is consistently stocked in your cabinets.
You don’t quite remember when you decided to stop locking your door, but she’s always there in the mornings helping herself to tea, moving through your kitchen like she’s always belonged there. Her robe brushes your arm as she leans past you for the sugar. The air thrums with her presence, your body freezes up.
She laughs when you notice. “You shouldn’t be so tense, darling,” she chuckles, patting your cheek. “We’re neighbors, practically family.”
Her perfume clings to your skin after she leaves. When you wash your clothes, it doesn’t come out. It just fades into something subtler, something like your own scent. You find a small smear of lipstick on your teacup, and something inside you misses her. You’d start cleaning it less quickly. Sometimes, you leave it there until morning.
You start wearing the color she likes— deep plum. She notices, of course. At first you think it looks too dark, but the soft, pleased grin she gives you when she sees you in it immediately changes your mind. She reaches out, tracing the edge of your sleeve between her fingers. “This suits you,” she compliments softly with a tilt of her head.
Eventually, you catch yourself humming her melody while you cook, moving with her tune. She praises you for small things now: the way you pour her tea, the way you remember how she takes it, the way your voice softens when you speak to her. The murmuring approval in her tone gently slides beneath your ribs and settles there, warm and narcotic.
“See? You’re learning,” she praises, like a teacher proud of her favorite student.
Sometimes, when she speaks, your pulse jumps before you realize why. You begin to anticipate her voice. The tone, the cadence, the way it stills the noise in your mind. You stop noticing how often she finishes your sentences. You stopped wondering how she always knew when you’re lonely.
—
You wake sometime before dawn, the kind of waking that feels accidental. Shallow and uncertain, as though something brushed against the edge of your dream and tugged you up. The room is still dim, heavy with that quiet feeling right before dawn.
Initially, you thought it was the wind that stirred you, until you hear the faintest sound at the door. Not knocking. Not exactly. More like the soft drag of a fingernail against the wood.
Your body doesn’t move. You’re still too deep in sleep’s grasp, your limbs weighted and sluggish, mind caught between sense and surrender. You don’t open the door. You don’t even think to.
The latch clicks by itself.
A quiet sound, like the sigh of metal, and the air shifts. Gentle. Deliberate. Her smokey, lavender scent arrives before she does; a tinge of something metallic and sweet beneath it now.
Agatha steps through the threshold. Not with any dramatics, just the quiet certainty of someone who belongs there. Her outline glows barely, as if the light from another room, or another world, is following her in. There’s no candle, but the shimmer clings to her anyway, soft and gold at the edges.
She moves to your bedside, and you think for a moment that you’re still dreaming. The sheets rustle and then she’s there, sitting beside you, close enough for the mattress to dip under her weight.
You should be startled. You should sit up, ask why or how. But the thought doesn’t come. Everything feels slowed, muffled, wrapped in thick cotton. You can only manage to turn your head, eyelids heavy. There she is, watching you with those clear, piercing blue eyes.
Her hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Her touch is cool, steady; grounding, though the world sways slightly around her. Her thumb traces the curve of your jaw, stopping just beneath your chin.
“You’ve done beautifully, my dear,” she muttered, the words tenderly hung in the air between you. Her breath smells of honey, “Look how naturally it came. How easily you’ve let me in.”
You think she means the dream, or the house. However, she looks at you as though it’s deeper than that, as if she’s talking about the most hidden parts of you. The ones you didn’t realize you could have. Your eyes flutter closed without meaning to, and a glow behind your eyelids deepen.
When you look at her again, she’s smiling. Her thumb still under your chin, tilting your face toward hers.
“You’re mine now,” she whispers, the sound not quite spoken, more like breathed. Her words hold a tone a definition, “My sweet little wife.”
The words ripple through you like a pulse. You should feel alarmed, scared, but what you feel instead is calm. Safety, even. When she leans in, her lips are cool against yours. It doesn’t feel like intrusion. It feels natural, like you’re supposed to be here. With her.
And as the kiss deepens, you drift back into sleep, the warmth of her hand at your throat, her breathing steady against your skin. The world softens, folding inward.
Morning comes with the kind of light that feels fragile, that too much movement might break it. Drifting through the curtains it lies across your sheets, catching on something shiny near your hand.
Still caught between sleep and waking, you blink against the light, slowly lifting your fingers. A ring sits there. A Silver, simple thin band, set with a stone so mutely colored, it could almost be mistaken as clear. It’s small, delicate, and radiates a faint warmth, as if it’s been resting in the sunlight for hours. It fits perfectly. Effortlessly. You flex your hand as you squint your eyes at it.
You don’t remember putting it on. Nor do you remember anyone giving it to you.
But somehow, deep in the recesses of your mind, you knew it was from her.
Agatha is still beside you. The sheets are tangled between you both, soft with heat. Her dark brunette hair spills across the pillow like ink through water, her lips a little even in rest. Her scent clings to the pillow, to your skin. She looks peaceful. Familiar. Like she has always been here.
When her eyes open, they find yours immediately. Her smile spreads drawn-out and indulgent.
“Good morning, love,” she says softly, voice still velvety from sleep. Her hand finds yours with unerring grace, thumb brushing over the ring’s smooth surface. She brings your hand closer to her face, “It looks perfect on you.”
You start to ask when, how, but the words dissolve before they reach your lips. They don’t seem important. Everything feels quiet, settled.
Agatha’s fingers linger over yours. A touch so light it almost feels reverent. You feel your heartbeat steady, in time with her pulse where your wrists meet. She sways your hand slightly, admiring the stone in the light’s rays. “There,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “Now it’s real.”
She rises then, moving through the room with unhurried ease. Her presence fills the space completely.
The house feels different now. Like every sound was gently muffled as if cushioned by her will. You realized that the air smells like her, not just the room, or the bed, as if the whole house had absorbed her scent.
When she returns back to you, the morning light catches the brown undertones in her hair. She leans down, close enough that her perfume wraps around you again. Nearly consuming you. Her lips brushed your forehead, placing a languid kiss in between your brows. Your eyelids fall with ease.
When you look again, she’s gliding out the bedroom, humming under her breath. The melody winds through the room, through you. You rise without a thought, padding softly across the floor, right on her trail. Two cups are waiting on the counter. One already steaming, one waiting for your hands.
You take your place beside her at the table. She glances at you, smiling, eyes bright with something that feels like pride. Heat surges in your chest as you smile back at her.
The ring catches the sunlight when you lift the cup. You turn it once with your thumb and feel something stir, then settle inside you.
Agatha hums again, that same melody, and the air seems to vibrate around her. You don’t realize you’ve started humming along, until she glances over, smiling again.
And as her hand comes to rest over yours, her thumb brushing the ring once more, you understand with a rush of clarity that she isn’t leaving.
