Hello I was just wondering when chapter 2 of Careful creatures will drop! If there will be a chapter 2 at all, (I really hope there will be)
Ope, not me dropping off the face of the planet fic writing wise. The depreseeion really gets to you. Anyways, here's FINALLY, Chapter Two 💚💜❤️
Careful Creatures: Chapter Two
Ship(s): Hela x Agatha, Agatha x Wanda, Wanda x Hela, Hela x Agatha x Wanda
Summary: Three powerful beings broken down back to the start somehow find themselves brought together as they relearn themselves and each other.
Word Count: 1.5k
Warnings: angst, descriptions of being burnt, mild gore, mention of sexual assault/non-con/rape, abuse of alcohol/alcoholism/addiction, amnesia, split personality but make it ✨magic✨
Disclaimer: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI!
A/N: Please READ THE WARNINGS before proceeding. If this were on AO3 it would be rated E for explicit material later on in the series, and M for mature material for the heavy content this story deals with.
Hela groans, her head pounding.
The second thing she registers is how much pain the rest of her body is in.
“Sh…” A soft, sweet voice soothes. “You're going to be okay, let me finish cleaning out your wounds.”
Distrust immediately floods the goddess, but her limbs hardly even respond to her internal command, her fingers twitching pathetically as she tries to call forth for her twin blades.
She can't even get her eyes to open.
When a cool cloth is pressed against one of her numerous burns, she nearly whimpers, the pain cutting sharply through the duller agony she is in.
“I know it probably hurts.” The sweet voice says, tone gentle and quiet. “But at least it hopefully won't get infected. I don't know if you're awake or not, but I hope you can hear me either way and that it's helping.” A pause. “I like helping people, I think. It feels… That feels familiar.”
Hela’s head hurts too much for her to decipher what the voice means by that, and instead focuses on the rhythmic motions the cloth is making over her cracked and blistered skin.
More than anything, once the sharp bite of pain fades, the coolingness of it soothes the way Hela still feels as if her skin is aflame, burning and burning and burning.
An unconscious whine slips from her lips when there's a pause, and the sweet voice shushes her again.
“I'm just dipping it into the water again. I'm trying to be very careful, these wounds look pretty bad.”
Hela has enough of her thoughts together to keep herself from whining again, but just barely.
Her lips do part in a throaty sigh of relief as she feels the cloth once more resuming its motions across her heated skin, but the action makes her aware of just how thirsty she is.
“W’er.” She attempts to croak out.
It hurts. Her throat hurts so bad, like the rest of her.
“Hm?” The voice hums in question.
“Wa-er.” Hela tries to carefully pronounce, but her tongue and mouth are so dry, she can't get the ‘t’ sound out.
“Oh, yes! Of course.” The sweet voice sounds… Embarrassed, perhaps? “Let me prop you up, so you don't choke.”
Hela nearly whimpers again as soft hands grasp at her, her skin still feeling as if it's on fire, and the pain spikes as she's manhandled into a more upright position.
How low she has fallen.
No family, no friends, no allies.
None but whoever the voice belongs to.
When water drips down onto her lips, she parts them and greedily sucks down the water being tipped into her mouth.
It hurts to swallow, but everything will hurt worse if she doesn't.
A sigh of relief expels itself after a few minutes, and Hela can feel her head loll back.
“You can rest.” The voice says. “I won't leave.”
Distrusting as Hela generally is, she has no choice but to trust.
If she wasn't suddenly flooded with exhaustion, she would be furious at how helpless she has become.
As it is though, she can barely conjure two words in her mind to string together.
She falls back to darkness.
—»•«—
She leans against the kitchen counter, letting the other woman ransack the cabinets in search of coffee as she smiles viciously, enjoying the enraged yelling coming from the other room.
“Seriously, where's the coffee.”
“You'd have better luck just grabbing a beer, dear.” She replies. “Or a cooler.”
Darcy Lewis lets out an exasperated sigh.
“You can drop the flirty neighbor routine, I just saw you beat up, like, six different guys.”
Agatha huffs, and doesn't deign to respond.
Ralph shouts another threat.
“You're gonna have to do something else with him. You can't just keep him tied up forever.”
Agatha shrugs carelessly.
“Take him into custody for all I care.”
“Oh, um. I don't exactly work with S.W.O.R.D. anymore. Or… Any government branch.” Darcy mumbles.
She quirks a brow, and Darcy blushes harder.
“They might've put Dickward into prison, but they said that crashing a vehicle into him was ‘reckless’ and ‘needlessly risky’.”
“Of course they did.” Agatha snorts. “This is why I've stayed under the radar.”
“You mean until you thought trying to kill a wanted fugitive was gonna be beneficial for you.”
The older woman scowls.
“That was not what I was trying to do.”
“Sure looked like it.”
Agatha scowls harder and distinctly does not look in the direction of any alcohol.
…
Fuck.
She pushes herself away from the counter and opens the freezer, pulling out a margarita mix pack.
“Um.” Darcy sounds a bit startled, looking up from where she's crouched, victoriously clutching at the canister of coffee she finally found. “Do you really think more alcohol is a good idea?”
She ignores the other woman, and wobbles a little as she begins to walk around the kitchen, pulling the various things she needs to make the drink to her liking.
“Agatha..?”
“Agnes, hot stuff! I don't know why people keep trying to call me Agatha!” She smiles brightly, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Darcy seems frozen while Agnes whirls around the kitchen, determinedly ignoring the shouting coming from the other room.
The bubbly woman continues to smile with false brightness as she places the finishing touches on her drink, shrugging good-naturedly when Darcy shakes her head at the offered second glass Agnes holds out to her.
“More for me, dear!” She laughs, before taking a long drink from the first.
“I, um… Hot water?” Darcy asks weakly.
Agnes’s face shifts into a slight scowl that's gone almost as soon as it appears.
“You'll have to boil a pot.” Her tone is pointedly not cheery, and she drains the first cup of alcohol in her hand before moving on to the second.
Darcy steps in her way when she moves to grab another mix.
“I don't think more is a good idea.” The other woman says, flinching nervously as Ralph bellows again.
Agnes trembles slightly and tries not to let her anger get the best of her.
Being angry meant making mistakes and making mistakes meant getting punished.
“It's just a little something to help with the day!” Agnes attempts.
“How about some coffee instead?” Darcy offers.
Agnes does truly scowl now, and she crosses her arms.
“You’re in my home, dear.”
Darcy latches on to that.
“Yeah, exactly. I'm your guest. It wouldn't be polite of you to get smashed while I'm here.”
Agnes’s scowl deepens for a split second before a forced smile returns to her face.
“You're right, hon! I'll take some coffee too if that's what you want to have. Just make mine an Irish.” Agnes throws in a wink for good measure.
Ralph yells a string of crude words from the other room and both women exchange a glance.
“Maybe we should gag him,” Darcy suggests.
Agnes shudders.
“I– no. No, thank you, dear. I don't want my fingers anywhere near his mouth.”
Darcy very clearly decides not to ask.
Not that Agnes would have answered.
Ralph… Well, he is her husband.
Her husband who gave his friends permission to have sex with her. Who didn't care if she wanted that or not.
Agnes hisses with pain as a stabbing pain shoots across her head, right behind her left eye.
“I… I think I'm going to go lay down for a spell, dear.” She mumbles, not completely aware of her surroundings anymore. “I suddenly don't feel so well.”
Agnes doesn't know if Darcy answers her or not. Her ears are buzzing too much to.
—»•«—
…an…y…u…e…ar…me…?
—»•«—
Wanda sits and watches the mysterious woman diligently, her eyes roving over the places where her outfit is torn and burnt.
Pale skin is marred by angry red, and in some cases, a blackened soot color that only causes her to feel nauseated with guilt and fear.
She doesn't know why.
Raven locks, shining nearly blue, are a knotted, tangled mess, the long, straight strands seemingly determined to create a bird’s nest.
Wanda doesn't doubt that well taken care of, her mystery woman would be very, very beautiful.
Her heart twists painfully, and she scowls.
Her memory refuses to return, but not the echoes of the emotions. It's impossible for Wanda to make sense of what she's feeling without the memories attached to why she would be inclined to feel a certain way about any specific thing.
It's stupid.
She groans and thunks her head gently back against the tree trunk she's sitting against.
She hopes the pale woman wakes up again soon.
Wanda is beginning to feel restless, a creeping dread slowly overcoming her.
She doesn't know why, only that something in her, deep down, is pushing her, tugging her feet somewhere not here.
Ship(s): Hela x Agatha, Agatha x Wanda, Wanda x Hela, Hela x Agatha x Wanda
Summary: Three powerful beings broken down back to the start somehow find themselves brought together as they relearn themselves and each other
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: angst, descriptions of being burnt, mild gore, sexual assault/non-con/rape, abuse of alcohol/alcoholism/addiction, amnesia, domestic violence, implied use of roofing drugs
Disclaimer: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI
A/N: Please READ THE WARNINGS before proceeding. If this were on AO3 it would be rate E for explicit material later on in the series, and M for mature material for the heavy content this story deals in
|| next
Chapter One
She falls in a blaze.
Green and gold and black, streaking through the heavens and flames, like some dying star in need of a desperate wish of its own.
Her skin burns and blisters and blackens, smoke filling her lungs, choking off the last vestiges of air they held.
In space, no one hears you scream.
In space, no one sees the last of a once beautiful and powerful empire crumple to nothing but debris and dust, exploding violently outwards as Ragnarok rages its final breath.
Her cheeks become adorn with the cleansing water of her own tears as she mourns, the prophecy she had been bound to at last releasing its shackles on her.
In space, no one sees her cry.
She tumbles through the darkness, with no force to counteract against her initial velocity, and she hurls through the celestial skies.
Eventually, even her godly body cannot handle the vast emptiness of space.
Her eyes slip shut, her breathing slows, and as she falls and falls and falls, she slumbers.
—»•«—
Agnes stumbles up the stairs, her feet tripping over one another as the world seems to spin.
“That you?” Her husband’s voice calls from their bedroom.
Agnes opens her mouth, the words yes, dear on the tip of her tongue, when she suddenly bolts for the bathroom.
As she's heaving her insides out, Ralph’s large hand painfully yanks her hair in a bunch away from her face.
“Get it all out now, I don't want you soiling the bed.” He snaps, impatient.
Agnes shivers as she retches. It was more than the ever-oppressing feeling that something wasn’t right that drove her to stay out drinking until the bars closed.
Eventually, she has nothing left in her stomach to vomit up, and she half collapses against the cool porcelain.
Her relief is short-lived, but she doesn't fight as Ralph manhandles her.
He is her husband. When she married him, she committed herself before the eyes of God that she would be a faithful wife.
Ralph doesn't like it when she's vocal, so she bites her tongue and lets herself get lost in the dizziness her mind is experiencing and doesn't make a noise of protest or pain as he shoves her to the floor and pulls down her pants.
This is her test to bear, for making her mistakes.
You don't deserve this.
—»•«—
Wanda awakens in a cave.
It's not the oddest place she's ever woken up, though how she's so sure of that, she can't really say.
It must be a gut feeling, she decides, as she tries to think.
She knows her name, that's good.
Her age–
She's… Twenty-six? Thirty-two? She can't recall.
That's… Not normal, right?
She places a hand on a rough wall, trying to steady herself as she walks on shaky legs.
Her name is Wanda… Wanda something. Something… Off? Romanoff? No, that's not right. Romanoff was…
Wanda grits her teeth.
She knows enough that her last name isn't Romanoff, but can't remember whose last name is.
That's extremely frustrating.
Wanda stumbles along the cave, trying to find the way out, and wishes Pietro were here.
Pietro. Her brother. Her twin brother. Her brother who–
A stream of bullets hits through her chest, and she collapses to her knees, screaming her pain.
Wanda violently shakes her head, clutching it.
“Get it together, Maximoff.” She reprimands herself, before realizing what she's said.
Maximoff.
Her name is Wanda Maximoff.
That's good. It means she isn't totally amnesic.
She goes over what she knows as she begins to feel a soft breeze against her face.
Her name is Wanda Maximoff. She had a twin brother, Pietro Maximoff, who died by being gunned down. She doesn't know exactly how old she is, but she's somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties. Her parents… She doesn't remember her parents. Possibly dead, almost certainly impossible to find or reach if they aren't. She knows– knew? Knew someone with the surname Romanoff. Someone who… She stole a jacket from? Why was she remembering this and not useful information, like how did she get here? And where is here? And are there people who will be looking for her?
Dread pools in her belly.
People looking for her feels like an ominous statement.
She misses… She misses someone. Someone special. A lover, perhaps? A spouse? A… Child? She’s old enough to have had at least one.
Wanda isn't sure.
Light begins to hurt her eyes.
She's made it to the exit of the cave!
She hobbles, running as best she can, eager, bursting out into open air and freedom and–
Oh.
Oh no.
—»•«—
She burns again, still streaking green and gold and black, but this time, through the atmosphere of a planet.
When she lands, she craters the forest floor and doesn't move.
—»•«—
“Day drinking, Agnes?” Dottie clicks her tongue from behind the brown-haired woman. “I keep telling you we have a decent AA here.”
Agnes does her best to laugh off the comment.
“Oh, you know dear, it's five o’clock somewhere!”
Dottie slides into the seat across from her.
“Look. Your neighbors, I don't know if you know them, the Johnsons, they well… Mrs. Johnson said that late one night when she was just finishing putting the baby back down after a late night bottle feed, that she saw your bedroom window was open–”
“I'm sure whatever she saw she mistaken, Dot.” Agnes smiles as charmingly as she can. “You know how those late nights are with a newborn!”
“She said that Ralph was choking you, Agnes.”
Agnes’s smile slides off her face.
“If my husband,” she stresses, “had been choking me, I would have bruises.”
Dottie’s eyes flick to Agnes’s neck, which is both bare of discoloration, and the tell-tale texture of makeup.
Agnes swings back some of the brunch mimosa in her hand, closing her eyes briefly to gain strength from it.
“Ralph is a wonderful husband. He would never hurt me.” Agnes lies through her teeth. “Is that all why you decided to pay me a social visit during some of my “me” time?”
Dottie shifts, clearly uncomfortable.
“Agnes…” She trails, trying to find the words. “If you ever did need help, Eastwood– I mean, Westview is here for you.”
Agnes turns her smile all the way up to its brightest wattage. “Will keep that in mind, toots! Thanks for stopping by brunch to talk with this ol’ gal!”
Dottie hesitates before she stands and leaves.
Agnes's wildly beating heart doesn't slow until her fifth post-Dottie mimosa has been downed.
The truth is, Ralph does have a habit of choking her… But the bruises always fade by the next afternoon, rapidly going through the stages of healing broken blood vessels startling fast.
Agnes can't recall ever having healed that way before.
No, healing meant fire and death, healing meant agony for days and weeks because she was only ever meant to hurt, not heal.
Agnes shakes her head as if trying to dislodge the sudden pressure she feels.
That's something she has noticed.
Thinking about her past causes her awful headaches and terrible migraines.
It's best to keep to the present.
Agnes smiles at the hostess as she leaves the venue, not worried about paying.
The people of Westview took care of one another.
She doesn't notice the woman with the dark hair and piercing blue eyes who stands up and leaves after her.
—»•«—
It's been two days since Wanda had started off down the rest of what looked like an intimidating mountain, headed towards what looks to be a promising sign of life in the vibrancy of green trees.
Hopefully, there will be water somewhere there.
Wanda knows she has only twenty-four more hours until her body gives out from lack of hydration.
Her heart skips a beat, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Hydration.
Hydra.
Hydra was… Bad.
Hydra is bad.
The word gives her a bad feeling.
She keeps on, not even pausing as the tremors grow stronger from the mountain.
The ruins that lay in pieces everywhere, even so far down from the top where it once resided, make Wanda feel awful enough that she had nearly vomited the first time stepping out into the world and seeing it.
She avoids touching any part of it as best she is able.
She can hear rocks sliding somewhere to her left.
Distant.
Her shoulders drop an inch.
She isn't in direct danger. Not yet.
—»•«—
Ralph’s at the bar.
Ralph’s at the bar and he has all his friends there and she didn't know that the bartender used to date him and–
Agnes is vocal as rough hands grasp at her, groping and tugging and searching as their owners laugh.
“Here, dear.” Ralph’s voice is cold. Mocking. “I know how much you like your alcohol. Drink up.”
She doesn't have a choice, surrounded, as he passes her a cup.
Within moments of finishing it, she knows.
There's more laughter.
“So kind of that Maximoff bitch to leave you a wife.” Someone comments.
“To Ralph, and his whore!” Someone else shouts, to resounding cheers.
Agnes wants to scream for help, but the room is spinning and her limbs won't obey her instructions and her mouth feels too heavy to move and then–
—»•«—
No.
—»•«—
The ground slopes slightly, and grass turns to dirt as Wanda follows the stream she found.
Deeper and deeper it slopes, until she's been walking for at least half an hour, and then she sees a mess of blood and green.
—»•«—
The door bursts open, crashing loudly, just as her hands find their way around the nearest man’s throat, a knee jerked violently up between his legs.
The room freezes. She smirks, throws her head back, and cackles.
Summary: Agatha drops by for a surprise visit, and Eve finally caves to both their desires.
Word Count: 3.3k
Disclaimer: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI
Warnings: smut, (minor) character death, accidental murder, slight mistress kink, multiple orgasms, magical strap use, oral (Eve receiving), fingering, spanking, degradation, praise, breeding kink, Agatha's heavy use of pet names
A/N: I am. So so sorry this took me so long! But here it is, finally!
Eve enjoys her little cottage out in the middle of nowhere.
It's quiet, save for birdsong and the rustling of the trees in the distance from the wind.
It's cozy, with a fireplace in the living room, one that isn't needed even in winter when the oven is on.
The cottage is small.
Eve doesn't mind. There's only one of her out here anyhow.
Eve enjoys her little cottage out in the middle of nowhere, she muses as she sips her chamomile and lemongrass tea on the front porch.
She's a little lonely but…
She won't think about that.
Lonely is okay, Eve has long decided. As long she's a safe distance from everyone.
She tries to source all her needs from right here, out front, with her garden.
Her trips to the nearest town are infrequent and rare, always wearing a hoodie or a hat that covers her face when she wears sunglasses paired with it.
She doesn't want to be recognized.
Even though-
No.
Eve stands and brings her now empty mug inside to wash it in the sink.
“Hey, toots.”
Eve screams.
“Jesus!” She puts a hand over her heart, trembling. “Stop doing this to me.”
Agatha Harkness chuckles, and Eve’s heart seems to speed up, not slow down.
The dark witch has made it a habit to pop by whenever she feels like it, often scaring Eve with her sudden presence, as she did now.
“How's my favorite unwilling witch doing?”
Eve scowls.
“I'm not a witch, Agatha.”
She turns her back to the raven haired woman, and aggressively turns on the sink.
“Sure, hon. Been up to anything exciting since I've been gone?”
Eve shakes her head, scrubbing viciously at the inside of the mug as the water warms.
“You know I haven't.”
“Did you read the books I left with you?” Agatha asks.
Eve shrugs.
“They didn't have anything useful.”
“That's because you aren't applying yourself.”
There's clear derision in Agatha's voice.
“Just because you think I'm a witch, doesn't mean I am.” Eve replies, a hint of bitterness in her voice.
She turns the tap off, shaking the mug free of a few droplets of water before placing it on the drying rack.
“Are you here to stay for a while?”
“Maybe.” Agatha evasively answers.
“Well, if you are, you know where I keep the linens.”
“Now why would I bother with that when you have a perfectly big enough bed to share?”
Eve can't help the shiver that overtakes her at the sudden husky tone Agatha's voice has adopted.
Despite the dark witch’s frustration with her, she has frequently made multiple attempts to bed Eve.
Eve can admit Agatha is attractive.
But she doesn't trust herself.
Not after–
“Like I said, you know where the linens are.” Eve firmly replies, headed to the fridge.
It's nearing lunchtime.
Agatha blocks her way, pouting.
“How long are we going to play this game, buttercup?” She asks.
The nickname sets Eve’s face aflame, and Agatha's touch burns as she cups one of Eve’s cheeks in her hand.
“How long are you going to let the fear of your own magic control you?”
Eve jerks out of Agatha's touch.
“It isn't fear that's controlling me.” She snaps. “It's the fact that it- that I–”
Just as suddenly as it had come rushing to the surface, Eve’s anger dissipates.
The last time she had gotten truly angry she had–
Gentle fingers swipe away at her tears.
“Oh, angel.” Agatha sighs sadly. “Magic doesn't have to be violent, it just often reveals itself in times of great distress. It's not your fault that you hadn't known what blood runs through your veins, or that it reacted to a situation it deemed dangerous to you.”
“But I- I killed him, Agatha. I–”
Soft lips press themselves against her forehead.
“Come, sweetheart.” The dark witch whispers, guiding Eve to the living room couch, pulling her into her lap.
Eve would normally protest at being treated as if she were a child, but the hole in her chest has grown too great for her to do anything other than listen to the one person she talks to anymore.
Soothing circles are rubbed against her back, and Agatha somehow senses Eve needs quiet.
She silently cries, and after a while, feels all dried up.
“I hadn't meant to.” She roughly whispers, breaking the silence. “I hadn't meant to hurt him. To- to kill him. But when I found him in our bed, with another woman- I had asked him over and over if he was upset with me that we were struggling to have a baby. And he lied to me. He- I–”
A dry sob wracks Eve’s body, causing her to shudder.
“I don't know why I keep doing things wrong.”
“You haven't been.” Agatha's voice is soft, but firm. “You can't control other people, superstar. Unless you use a spell, but even then. Your husband made his choices of his own free will. A better spouse wouldn't have treated you so awfully.”
I wouldn't have treated you so awfully.
It's almost as if Eve can hear Agatha speak the words, though her mouth has ceased moving.
Heartbreak and loneliness yawn in the chasam that rests inside of Eve’s chest.
Her stomach rumbles.
“How about lunch, hm, toots?” Agatha laughs, and the sound soothes a little bit of the darkness swirling within Eve.
“That sounds nice.” Eve mumbles, and reluctantly gets off of Agatha's surprisingly comfortable lap.
Agatha won't let Eve help prepare the food, and there's something about watching the witch whirling around the kitchen, making what looks like soup and some sort of small pizza squares that's entirely captivating to Eve.
Agatha presents the meal with a flourish, and though Eve’s smile is muted, she grins wildly in response.
“Talk to me.” Eve quietly asks. “Ramble about your latest project.”
Agatha can sense the request laying underneath.
Speak so I don't have to think.
She happily complies and quickly dives into her favorite subject.
Magic.
Agatha becomes increasingly animated as she talks, and Eve’s attention is easily swept away by the witch.
She continues to listen as Agatha does the dishes while she dries, and when Agatha shuts off the tap, she pauses, briefly.
In the sudden silence, Eve unthinkingly rises to her tippy toes.
Her hand has found warm skin, and it curves naturally around it.
Agatha allows her head to be guided downward.
Her lips are slightly chapped, but Eve doesn't mind.
She doesn't have any thoughts to mind at all, her entire being focused on kissing Agatha.
Her other hand has found soft curls, and Agatha's own are at her waist, pulling Eve closer to her.
It's the sort of connection Eve hasn't allowed herself to entertain for a few years now.
Her knees feel weak.
Her head is spinning.
Oh, air. She needs air.
Gently, haltingly, she parts her lips from Agatha's, breathing heavily.
One of Agatha's hands travels from Eve’s waist to cup her face, and she gently brushes her thumb in a back and forth motion across her cheek, and her eyes search Eve’s.
Eve can't bear how those blue brights seem to pierce her through to her very soul, and so she closes the gap between her lips and Agatha's once more.
This time, Agatha's touch is hungry, and her tongue licks into Eve’s mouth, causing her to groan.
She finds herself being pushed up against the kitchen counter, her wrists pinned by Agatha's strong hands.
Eve’s neck aches with the strain of the angle it finds itself being tilted at, but she pays it little mind as Agatha kisses her so thoroughly she can barely think.
“Are you sure you want this, superstar?” Agatha husks out as she tenderly parts from Eve.
Eve feels dizzy.
Eve feels good.
Agatha makes her feel good.
Eve nods.
“I'm- I'm sure.” She pants out, still attempting to catch her breath.
It's a useless cause, because Agatha kisses her again, hard and eager, and Eve's breath becomes Agatha's, as Agatha's becomes hers.
The older woman's hands guide her as they make out, having Eve settle onto the counter, before they begin the task of undressing her.
As each piece of clothing is discarded, Eve’s thoughts seem to follow, and she's barely aware of the whimpering, moaning mess she's become.
Agatha's touch burns cold, her hands wandering, groping and trailing and teasing as she continues to kiss Eve.
The need for air becomes too great, however, and Eve is forced to push weakly against Agatha in an attempt to pull away.
The witch chuckles deeply in her throat.
“Too much, sweet pet?”
The world spins into unreality, and Eve feels fuzzy. Floating. Untethered.
Agatha chuckles again, and Eve whines when her long, nimble fingers pinch at her nipples.
“Is this why you fought so hard, angel?” Agatha's voice has turned husky.
It's insanely attractive.
“You didn't want me finding out what a cute little whore you are?”
Eve somehow flushes an even deeper shade of red than she already was.
“A-Agatha!” She moans.
The other woman’s lips curve into a smirk as they brush up against the side of Eve’s neck.
“Say my name again.” She orders.
“Agatha.” Eve breathlessly obeys. “Agatha.”
“Oh, good girl.” The witch purrs, and Eve’s need becomes white hot.
A soft whine is pulled from her as Agatha attaches her lips to the soft flesh of Eve’s neck, sucking gently at first before biting down, causing Eve to mewl with want.
A rough tongue gently lavishes its attention to the bite, and Eve tips her head back, making herself more easily accessible.
The soft sting of Agatha's magic that she somehow knows from the handful of times the other woman has used it around her brushes against Eve, and there's the sudden feeling of Agatha’s cool skin against her own overheated flesh.
“Agatha, please.” Eve whimpers.
Blue bright eyes darkened by arousal and need and lust meet Eve’s own sky blues, lips reddened and plush dangerously curved in a wicked smile allowing a chuckle to pass from between them.
“Of course, darling.” Agatha husks out, her hands coming up to cup Eve’s face. “How could I resist when you beg so prettily?”
Eve’s hands encircle Agatha's wrists, and she feels a thrill of excitement, but also a thrill of trepidation.
“Just go slow?” She asks. “I've never… I've only been with men.”
Agatha's eyes suddenly look somewhere between pitiful and eager.
“Oh you poor thing.”
Eve closes her eyes and turns her head away, unable to bear the pity.
“They weren't all… Bad.” She mumbles.
“Tell me, did any of them make you finish without you having to help them build yourself up to it?” Agatha demands, her hands slipping from Eve’s face.
Eve stays silent.
Agatha's hand firmly takes hold of her chin, and gently guides Eve to make eye contact with her once more.
“I can't believe you're this innocent, buttercup.” Agatha says. “You've never known what true pleasure feels like… It makes me want to wreck you."
A whimper gets stuck halfway out of Eve's throat as Agatha slides her hands down Eve’s body, lowering herself to her knees.
Agatha tugs at Eve’s legs, bringing her to the edge of the counter, and Eve’s certain that's not the only edge Agatha will be bringing her to as the witch begins to use her mouth to tease at Eve’s inner thighs, purposefully ignoring her soaking wet center.
Soft curls once more find their way around Eve’s fingers, and Agatha laughs softly.
“Eager now, aren't we, toots?”
“Please, Agatha.” Eve begs. “I need you.”
Agatha's response is to press a kiss in between Eve’s legs, causing her to tremble with anticipation.
“Please.” She breathes out, wide eyed.
A long moan tumbles out of her as her nerves turn to fire when Agatha's warm tongue begins to lick at her, swirling around her clit, shallowly delving into her sopping cunt before licking through her folds again.
Something crashes into the sink as Eve begins to writhe on the countertop, her mind heedy and clouded by bright pleasure, but neither she nor Agatha pay any mind as the older woman sucks Eve’s little bundle of nerves into her mouth.
“Oh, fuck!” Eve cries out. “Fuck! Agatha!”
It's embarrassingly quick, how swiftly Eve’s first orgasm comes crashing over her, and she screams her lover's name.
Agatha pulls away to cackle, and for some godforsaken reason, Eve finds it to be the sexist thing she's ever heard.
“I'm not through with you yet, superstar.” Agatha laughs, and with only that as her warning, two fingers slip into Eve, stretching her out.
“O-oh!” She gasps. “Shit!”
“There we go, toots. Take my fingers, like the good fucking slut I know you are.”
Eve groans as she thrashes.
“M-more! Please!”
“What a greedy little thing you are.” Agatha husks out darkly, withdrawing her fingers to deliver a mind melding slap directly to Eve’s exposed pussy.
“Ah!” She cries, and can feel wetness gush from her dripping hole.
“Did the dumb whore like that?” Agatha cruelly asks. “Does the little princess want her dumb cunt to be spanked?”
A wanton moan slips out from Eve, and she isn't sure when Agatha stood back from her knees, but she's suddenly towering over her, despite the fact that Eve is up on the counter.
“Oh, someone likes the idea of that.” Agatha punctures her words with another slap to Eve’s bare pussy.
“Is that what you still want?” She asks. “For me to take things slow?”
A single long, blackened digit begins to lightly circle Eve’s clit agonizingly slowly, and when she tries to squirm, Agatha's magic pins her down, causing Eve to throw her head back with ecstasy.
Agatha's magic has never felt so… Orgasmic against her skin like this before.
“Oh dear.” Agatha laughs. “I don't think you do want to still take things slow.”
Suddenly, the finger on her clit becomes two, and the pace it's rubbing against her is much faster.
“A-A-A–!” Eve tries to scream Agatha's name, but she can't make it past the first syllable.
“That's it, angel.” Agatha encourages, her eyes focused wholly on how Eve leaks against her. “Come for me. Come for mistress.”
It's the title that does it, it's the title that causes the coil inside of Eve to snap, burning with pleasure.
She comes hard, unable to breathe from the intensity, her body going rigid.
“Oh, Eve.” Agatha breaths out, her voice full of awe.
Eve falls back as her peak drops, panting heavily, eyes closed as her head feels like it's in the stratosphere.
“Baby, have you ever done that before? Or am I the first?”
Eve groans in complaint. She doesn't have any idea what Agatha's saying.
“Eve.” Agatha's voice is firm. “Look at me, dear.”
Reluctantly, Eve scraps together her will power, and peels her eyes open.
Agatha's gaze is intense, burning ice blue fire.
“Has anyone else ever made you squirt before?”
Eve gapes at Agatha.
She must be misunderstanding.
Her head is still spinning, and she's still panting heavily.
She must be misunderstan–
Agatha's rough kiss interrupts her thought, and she thinks she can taste herself on the other woman’s tongue.
“I can't believe what a gift you've given me, darling.”
Oh.
Eve looks up at Agatha, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide.
“I'm never letting you go.”
The statement should scare Eve.
Instead, she finds herself grasping at Agatha's shoulders, bringing her closer.
“Prove it.” She orders. “Show me.”
This time, Agatha's kiss is slow and sweet, and has Eve melting under touch.
“You're mine, superstar.” Agatha says as she pulls away.
Eve bites her lip.
“I'll prove it to you.” Agatha vows.
She begins to pepper kisses all over Eve’s skin, praising every inch of her.
When she reaches the apex of Eve’s thighs, she reverently kisses her clit.
“I'm going to make you feel so good.” She promises, like she hasn't already.
“Please, Agatha. Please make me come.”
Agatha groans, and takes Eve into her mouth, causing Eve to arch her back.
She rapidly builds up to a blinding orgasm, and this time she can feel it when she squirts again, silently screaming from how the ecstasy rips through her.
And then there's something suddenly prodding at her entrance, and when Agatha slides into her with one smooth motion, Eve nearly blacks out.
Never before has Eve ever had a partner in bed who made her feel so good from the simple act of penetration.
Agatha groans.
“Your cunt is so tight around my strap, angel. Just perfect for me.”
Eve whimpers. Could Agatha feel her?
She gets her answer soon enough, as Agatha picks up a steady paste, and it isn't just Eve who's making noises of pleasure.
“Gonna cum in you, gonna make you take all of me.” Agatha growls. “Gonna get you fucking pregnant when no one else could.”
Coming from anyone else, Eve would have felt too bad at that last statement to not be in an instant turn off.
Agatha, it appears, has somehow become an impulsive exception.
“Want you!” Eve gasps out. “Breed me, breed me!”
The strap doesn't twitch, being made of the silicone it is, but as Agatha's eyes roll back inside her head, Eve senses it would have.
And then something is being released inside of her from Agatha, the sensation of being stuffed full of cum causing Eve's own eyes to roll around her skull as she follows Agatha over the edge.
“Fuck.” Agatha hisses, her pace not having stopped for a moment. “Gonna keep fucking this fucking greedy hole of yours, gonna give you all my come, gonna make you milk me dry.”
When Agatha roughly starts circling her clit, Eve begins to thrash about, overstimulated.
And then Agatha comes again.
And again.
And again.
On and on and on, until all Eve can do is just lay there and take it.
A gentle kiss pressed against her nose causes her eyes to flutter open.
The bed underneath her is soft.
The… Bed?
“Wha..?” Eve slurs.
Agatha softly laughs.
“Welcome back, dear.”
Her head feels stuffed full of cotton.
“Wha- where did I go?” Eve's mouth also feels stuffed full of cotton.
Agatha laughs again.
“Don't worry about that right now, sweet thing. Can you sit up for me?”
Eve groans, but Agatha's steady hands help her up, and when her wet hair moves against her still bare skin, her stomach flips.
“You used your magic on me.” Eve accuses.
Agatha clicks her tongue.
“Nothing so paranormal, toots. You just experienced a deep subspace.”
Subspace..?
The word seems… Familiar, somehow.
Agatha sighs.
“I told you, dear, don't worry about that now.” She makes a gesture with her hands. “Turn around, hon, I'm going to braid your hair for you.”
Eve lethargically shuffles around, and as Agatha's long, gentle fingers comb through her hair, parting it, she finds her eyes slipping shut once more.
“Don't fall asleep on me until I've finished, pet.” Agatha's amusedly says.
“Mmm…” Eve sleepily hums as Agatha begins plaiting.
The witch’s hands are skilled, and it doesn't take much longer than a couple of minutes before Eve’s hair has been braided back.
“Come, now you can sleep, superstar.” Agatha whispers in her ear, pulling Eve down to the pillows.
Except… The pillow her cheek is resting on is oddly war– oh!
“You're cozy.” Eve mumbles out.
Agatha's chuckle rumbles.
“I'm glad, my dear.”
“You'll stay?”
There's a brief pause, and for a moment, fear nearly awakens Eve properly, before Agatha's arms squeeze around her.
“I'll stay.”
Eve relaxes again.
“‘Kay, good.”
Agatha laughs, clear and loud, startled.
Eve thinks it's the most musical sound she's heard.
“Yeah, good.” Agatha agrees, and a soft kiss is pressed against Eve’s temple. “Now go to sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up.”
“Promise?” Eve anxiously asks.
“I promise, Eve.”
Eve smiles, and cuddles closer to Agatha, finally allowing herself to rest.
Warnings: masterbation, mommy kink, pet-names, smut, mentions of edging, mentions of ruined orgasms, mentions of straps
Author's Note: This was written for @cthulhus-curse
“Baby, what are you doing?”
Kate freezes at the sound of her girlfriend’s voice.
“Uh… Working out..?” She weakly attempts.
Agatha tsks.
“Is that what they're calling touching yourself these days? Working out?”
Kate cautiously lifts her head up to peer at the older woman.
“Yes..?”
“Hm…” The witch hums, index finger tapping against her chin. “Doesn't look like a work out worthy of a big, strong Avenger.”
“It's just the warm up!” Kate rushes to reassure Agatha.
“Oh, is it now, dear?” The raven haired woman throatily purrs. “Then I suppose the real workout would be all of those pretty fingers of yours stuffed up that tiny little hole that's already dripping wet.”
“Uh…” Kate swallows roughly, caught.
“Well then?” Agatha prompts, a dark gleam in her blue bright eyes. “Go on, superstar. Show mommy how an Avenger works out, since you've been so eager to brag all about making their superhero team recently.”
Kate bites her lip, and tries to ignore how much her head swirls at the tone her girlfriend’s voice has taken.
She strokes nimble fingers through arousal soaked folds, breathless gasps escaping as she prepares to stretch herself out.
The bed dips, and Kate’s gaze refocuses on Agatha.
The older woman’s attention is completely held by her, and it makes Kate feel like her body is on fire.
“Come on, bunny. You're wet enough you can easily slip two fingers in.” Agatha chides, her voice husky, the rasping sound musical to Kate's ears.
She's quick to obey, hoping that if she does, there will be a reward in her future, and groans at the sensation of being stretched, but not being full.
“There's mommy’s good girl, such a slut.” The witch beside her coos. “Add a third… There you go, buttercup.”
Kate whimpers as the sound of her fingers working themselves in and out of her dripping cunt echoes in the room, and her eyes flutter closed.
A sharp smack to one of her thighs causes her to snap them back open, and the dark look on Agatha's face says it all.
“All of them. Now, whore.”
Kate's face screws into a grimace, the awkward angle of having to fit her thumb into herself uncomfortable, but she doesn't dare do anything that will set her girlfriend off.
She has already been caught masturbating without permission, and now she knows she can only look forward to a punishment, and not a reward going off of the look on Agatha's face.
She could make it worse, but it's been a long two weeks of edging, and she doesn't want that time to be doubled.
“Oh, there we go! Now you're working out, bunny.” Agatha mocks as Kate fists herself, amusement dripping from her every word.
“Mommy!” Kate cries out. “I wanna cum!”
Harsh hands grip her cheeks, squishing them up towards her eyes.
“You think whiny brats get rewarded?” Agatha hisses. “Think again.”
Ironically, Kate whines, and Agatha smiles sharply.
“You're going to keep going until I say stop. And then mommy's going to get out that big strap you love so much and ruin so many orgasms you won't even think of “working out” this way without permission again.”
No.
No.
No no no no no no.
Kate wants to cum.
Agatha laughs, clearly being able to tell what Kate is thinking.
“You know it only makes mommy wetter the more desperate you are, angel. Maybe if you're good enough, I'll ride your pretty face. Now.” Agatha's expression smooths out from a smile to an unreadable mask. “Be a good little toy and tell me when you're close. I want to see you beg when I tell you to stop.”
Summary: Agatha always had a complex relationship with the idea of motherhood, given her relationship with her own mother. It takes quite a bit of time for her to figure it out.
Word Count: 9.3k
Rating: M
Disclaimer: This story contains themes that may be triggering for some. Please read accordingly.
Warnings: abuse, whipping, imprisonment, starvation, torture, scars, minor character death, somewhat graphic description of violence/gore, loss of childhood, angst, accidental parental figure, dark themes, dead dove do not eat - what it says on the tin, ambiguously happy ending
Agatha has always known she had wanted to be a mother.
Long before the fear of becoming like hers had settled deep into her bones, she had often been found following the women of Salem around, if they had little ones to care for.
Mother had allowed it, because it made them look good.
Made Agatha look good.
Caring. Nurturing. Future wife material.
Which, as she got older, would have been amusing, to look back on, given her orientation if it hadn't been for… Well.
Agatha was an only child. A lonely child.
Friends were hard to make, and Mother was far too careful of matters concerning the coven to be pleased that Agatha's closest friends were Caitlin and Elise.
It tied their families too close together for Mother's comfort.
So she had turned towards the children younger than she, the infants and the toddlers, who tended to have mothers all too relieved to have a responsible, quiet girl hold their baby for a while and take the break readily given to them.
Agatha was good with them too.
She could play and entertain them for hours if given the opportunity, and had no qualms about cleaning up their messes.
After all, if she wanted children of her own one day, she'll have to get used to it anyhow.
But she had only just been started to be allowed to watch the town's littles ones around the same time Mother had started to-
No.
No, she won't invite those memories back.
Her scars ache, and she rubs her wrists.
Not those scars.
She can't reach those scars.
She had had maybe two, three years before she had fully retreated away from the younger kids entirely, shutting herself out from the bubbles of joy and happiness they tended to form, when she had lost her patience with one of the toddlers and had caused them to cry after shouting at them.
Never mind they had somehow gotten a hold of their father's razor and she had been scared out of her mind.
She had shouted, and they had cried.
Because of her.
Because of something she had done.
And she won't be Mother.
She will not.
So she had retreated. Carefully built up her reasonings, excuses.
Mother needs me more now that I'm getting older. She'd explain. When I marry, my husband will inherit our business, but until then… Just in case, she wants me to know how to run it. It's very time consuming.
But those mothers usually were well versed in being able to sense when a child was lying to them, and they had rushed to assure her that they all lose their temper with their children at some point. That it was natural.
Especially if the child was doing something dangerous.
I don't want to be that sort of person. Agatha would firmly reply. I think it's best that I don't watch them anymore. I apologize for the inconvenience.
Mother had not been happy.
It was easy to avoid accusations and rumors when Agatha had been making herself invaluable to the wives of Salem.
She hadn't punished her for it though.
It almost would have been a relief if she hadn't spent the next few months waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It hadn't helped she no longer had babysitting to fill her time.
That she could no longer find what was a valid reason to Mother to be out of the house.
She supposes she got punished for it everytime she had messed something up in those months.
Mother had finally arranged for Agatha to be kept busy by helping out an elderly seamstress, one who was deeply old fashioned and did not have many kind words to offer.
Luckily, Agatha long since had learned how to hold her tongue and keep her hands working even as she fantasized of all the ways she could shut the spiteful old woman up.
And then she had said the wrong thing about the wrong child.
And Agatha had snapped.
She doesn't recall what she had said, or how she had ended up hiding behind a barn farther out towards the farms.
She had blacked out, in her anger.
Because while yes, Agatha had done her best to distance herself from the children of Salem, she still had a large soft spot for them, especially the ones she helped watch.
And hearing the old bat hiss poisoned words against one of the young girls, one who was a bit slower than the others, a bit more immature, a bit more naïve, lamenting her inability to accuse the child of witchcraft for the simple crime of being a bit simpler than her peers…
Well.
Is it any wonder that she had snapped?
Mother eventually found her, hours and hours later, hands still shaking violently as she focused on keeping her breaths even.
Mother was furious.
Agatha didn't bother to try and defend herself.
At fourteen she already well knew that keeping quiet and accepting whatever fate Mother deemed appropriate would be the best outcome she could hope for, to avoid making things worse for herself.
She doesn't find out for weeks, locked away, but apparently the seamstress had suffered some sort of heart attack shortly after she had chased Agatha out of her shop.
Mother clearly thought Agatha was the cause.
Otherwise, why would she have thrown Agatha into her room, locked in, with too tight bands of metal around her wrists, a constant, deep burning pain?
Agatha would never say anything, but she's sure she did cause the old woman to die.
But from the stress of what had happened.
Agatha would not have used magic, even blacked out in her anger.
Not since she had been nine.
Not since she had left a furiously burning handprint on Caitlin's face, one that Mother herself had to carefully construct a glamor anchored to a simple ring in order to cover.
Caitlin has yet to go anywhere without it, which tells Agatha all she needs to know.
Even at fourteen, she slowly is becoming aware that perhaps she can't be as good as she dreams of being.
Even at fourteen, it's a dream, and not a hope.
Mother doesn't bother to try and arrange for Agatha to be kept busy again.
Instead, she's to stay at home, keeping the house neat and tidy, and to cook all the meals.
She's only allowed out to buy household necessities, and for coven gatherings.
She notices somewhere around age sixteen that the mothers of Salem carefully guide their children away from the now deemed too quiet young woman, that if she even so much as looks at a child too long she'll get glared at.
Agatha isn't certain on the why.
Her best guess is that there's now suspicion that she is a witch, because the seamstress had passed not even an hour after Agatha had been seen running from her store.
It's dangerous.
Especially because Mother has decided that Agatha is irredeemable in the eyes of the town, and that no one would care if they noticed a bruise.
Not that Mother would ever allow her to get away with any of her wounds being exposed.
No, Mother's still carful that the only places Agatha ever sports an injury is her back or wrists.
Agatha doesn't think Mother is even aware of the scarring that her sleeves cover up.
It's not like those were being purposefully inflicted, they were just an unfortunate side effect of a far more painful punishment.
Agatha often loses her right to her magic these days, over the smallest infractions.
Though perhaps it's not that the townspeople suspect she's a witch, perhaps they presume she's ill, given the deep, dark circles she has underneath her eyes, the paleness of skin that rarely gets enough sun, the way it stretches across her bones, giving her a gaunt look.
Magic isn't the only thing Mother denies her.
Once, and only once, does Mother send her out too soon after a particularly harsh lashing, and the innocent cry that stems from a little boy’s lips brings attention to how one of the fresh wounds have been pulled back open, and caused blood to seep through her shirt.
Agatha has to lie on the spot, and says she had fallen onto a particularly sharp tree branch.
She can tell nobody believes her, but they still pretend to accept her excuse.
No one wants to get too involved with her in any capacity.
She's been outcasted.
Still, she finds herself quietly slipping the young boy a handful of blueberries from her groceries in her basket, putting a finger to her lips with a wink.
Children, she finds, are far kinder than adults.
It's why she generally stays far, far away from them.
She will never be the reason for a child to turn cruel if she can help it.
She's relieved to find that no one gossips about the incident, because she's certain if they had, Mother would not have cared that her back is still unhealed from the last lashing.
These scar particularly terribly, and she finds her range of movement vastly limited as she readjusts to the new ways her skin pulls at them, relearns how to live with the pain.
She supposes she should feel lucky that they hadn't infected.
It always was much, much worse when they did, often resulting in days of fevered hazes before Mother finally deemed Agatha ill enough that she required healing.
Every time, Agatha would have rather chosen to die than to experience the liquid fire that spread across her back and settled deep into the muscles there, aching and burning and causing her to black out from it all.
Mother says she should be grateful for it.
She is not.
For a good while, Agatha's days are filled with careful cooking, thorough cleaning, and weekly trips to the market, and her nights filled with practice in her witchcraft, and once a month, the coven gatherings.
And then Mother finally deems her old enough, mature enough, to handle basic dark magic spells, ones that are not forbidden from the coven due to their healing nature.
She can see the instant regret in her when, unlike with the neutral coven magic of witchcraft, Agatha takes to the dark spells like a fish to water.
She can't help it when her shoulders suddenly slump over in relief, not expecting to suddenly feel nearly pain free when she chants the incantation for an internal healing spell, one that should not have worked as well as it did for Agatha's very high levels of chronic pain.
But, more importantly, her wrists stop aching, which means her fingers and hand joints stop aching.
Which means they stop trembling, stop making it difficult to grasp objects and keep her hands steady.
It's like the dark magic is a balm.
Mother makes a motion to snatch the book away, and for the first time in years Agatha willingly touches her mother in order to still her hands.
Don't. She had said, the beg clear and plaintive. Please, Mother.
Perhaps it was the fact that her daughter's fingers were laid atop her own, or perhaps somewhere within Mother there was still a sense of love for her, but whatever it may have been, Evanora Harkness had closed her eyes and sighed, before retracting her hands.
Agatha was then heavily warned against making her regret this decision.
Dark magic… It's what killed your father.
Agatha had only vaguely known that, and the words often bounced around her head in her mother's weary voice.
Mother always sounded tired when speaking of Father.
Agatha doesn't think she had ever stopped mourning the long dead man.
Some days, rarely, when things got particularly bad, Agatha thinks it would've been better if the universe had decided to kill her instead.
Even then, she usually pushes the thought away.
She's always been a survivor.
It's what gets her through the cruelty she experiences at the hands of those around her.
So Agatha pushes on, and she dives deeper and deeper into dark magic, finding it soothing and a respite from the constant pain she's in, though she's disappointed to discover a spell will only do that for so long before she needs to sneak one of the books forbidden to her to find a more intense spell.
Logically, she's aware it's acting a bit like the addictive substances Mother sometimes prescribes to one of her patients, that her body becomes immune to the effects of the rapidly increasingly large doses of something that will eventually kill her.
But she isn't thinking logically, she can't, not when the dark magic not only feels good in a way Agatha has never experienced before, but when it numbs and soothes away the aches of her scars, specifically the ones left from the manacles she's so often forced to wear.
She hadn't even noticed how swollen the joints in her hands had become until now, with the dark magic keeping it down.
Cleaning and cooking and shopping, even practicing her magic, it all suddenly became easier.
Even neutral magic.
Agatha begins to suspect perhaps the manacles have done more than just suppress her magic.
That they have done some sort of irreparable damage to her.
And for that, for screwing with Agatha's ability for magic, however unknowingly, Agatha hates her mother for.
Magic has been her only reliable companion.
No one touches her magic like that and gets away with it.
She's determined to find a way to fix it, to reverse the damage.
Agatha begins to sneak books in earnest now.
She has plenty of free time during the day to do so.
The trick is to never be caught.
She dreads to even think about what Mother would do if she found Agatha delving further and further into the art of dark magic.
Her natural magic. Something whispers to her late at night, when the rest of the town is asleep.
Mother is trying to keep you from what is rightfully yours. Don't let her.
Agatha thinks nothing of it.
Her anger is justified.
As is her fear.
Mother still punishes her with great frequency.
Agatha continues to retreat into herself.
If she appears dull, broken, perhaps Mother will become satisfied with the woman she appears to have become.
Perhaps being so lonely will begin to hurt less.
Even Elise has stopped coming by.
From what Agatha can gather, she has a suitor now.
Her friendship with Caitlin had never quite recovered from when she had permanently disfigured the other woman by accident as a child.
Agatha could hardly blame her.
That does not mean she doesn't hold her loneliness against either of them, however unfair that may be.
Mother is the only other person she sees with certain regularity.
Mother makes for a poor friend.
She makes for a poor mother too.
Agatha turns to her magic in an attempt to combat how alone she feels.
At some point, she doesn't feel foolish for talking aloud to it.
Oddly enough, Mother doesn't punish her for it, when she finds Agatha talking to her magic one day, home unexpectedly early.
She doesn't address it either.
Agatha will take her victories where she can get them.
The years while living them felt as if they had been dragging on, but all too quickly, Agatha rapidly approaches her twentieth.
She's coming of proper age.
Mother grows more lenient with her as the date of her birthday grows closer, her excitement clear.
It makes Agatha nervous.
Agatha is right to be.
A few days before the special gathering Mother had arranged for her birthday, she discovers Agatha pouring over an especially dark tome.
Agatha hadn't even realized she had been caught before Mother's vice like grip was leaving an angry bruise on her arm, yanking her up to her feet and dragging her in silence to the basement.
Panic claws up Agatha's throat.
She knows what it means to be dragged to the basement.
But it's not the wall of Mother's office she's shoved against.
Mother doesn't even go near her office door.
Instead, she drags Agatha through a door she's only ever seen this side of.
Immediately she feels so violently ill, she worries she's going to vomit.
“Mama, what's behind this door? You never let me touch it.”
“You never want to know what's behind that door. It's where we keep witches until they can stand on trial for betrayal to the coven. Promise me, never will you break coven law.”
“Oh. Okay. I promise Mama.”
Agatha blinks away the vestiges of the memory.
She couldn't have been older than seven.
Not if she had been still calling Mother Mama.
Agatha stumbles as Mother shoves her through the door, letting it close behind her, and she shivers from how cold the small stone room is.
She doesn't bother to try a spell to warm herself up.
She doesn't have to look toward the ceiling to know there will be intricate runes preventing her from using her magic.
Agatha picks a corner and curls up.
Something wet slides down her cheek as she focuses on her breathing, on keeping her sudden nausea down.
She lets herself cry.
There isn't a risk of being seen.
Not that it matters.
I'm going to die.
Agatha wishes she could say she felt a sense of peace at the prospect. At least that way, the waiting won't feel so bad.
She only feels more panicked.
I don't want to die.
Her deep, shuddering breaths echo, taunting her.
Weak. It says. Weak.
She feels weak.
Agatha falls asleep.
When she wakes up, she pushes herself back into unconsciousness.
But she can only force her body to sleep for so long, and the cold makes her scars ache.
She doesn't know how long she's kept in the room when Mother returns, carrying a slice of bread and a cup of water.
A prisoner’s fare.
“I don't suppose there's anything I can say to fix the situation.” She rasps out as she accepts the food.
Mother doesn't respond, waiting around only long enough for Agatha to finish her drink so that she may take the cup back upstairs.
It's an answer all on its own.
Not that Agatha had asked it as a question anyhow.
Time quickly loses its measure, and her only way of telling a significant amount of it has passed is when Mother brings her meals.
Or rather, her slice of bread and cup of water.
It becomes a routine, though Agatha feels suffocated by the loneliness.
Unable to access her magic, it no longer sings back to her when she talks to it.
She very quickly stops trying to.
It only serves to exacerbate her loneliness.
And then Mother changes the routine, dangling the manacles Agatha has often experienced from her fingertips.
She knows better than to fight it, when Mother gestures for her to allow her to put them on her.
And then she utters a single word.
“Walk.”
Agatha hates herself for hoping that her trial has finally arrived.
She also hates herself for feeling relieved when Mother leads her to the kitchen, and points clearly to a chair.
Agatha sits.
Mother sits across from her.
And then she proceeds to tell her the most outrageous tale of queens and heirs and magical crowns.
If Agatha wasn't so dehydrated, she would have spat in her mother's face.
It hurts to talk, her voice rough from misuse, but that does not stop her from spitting a different sort of disgust.
After all, if she really was Mother's heir in the sense that the other woman has woven a story of, then Mother should not have mistreated her so grossly.
Agatha's survival instinct flees as she rejects her birthright.
I am no daughter of yours.
She's thrown back into the stone room, but not before she steals one last look at the sunlight through a window, and notes that some of the leaves have started to change colors.
She had been locked away for a while.
Three, maybe four months.
Her trial will be soon.
She had just turned down her one opportunity to escape it.
A part of her feels foolish.
Another feels vicious pleasure at knowing that Mother's legacy will die with her.
She's too old to have another child, even with magic's assistance, and she will never be given someone else's child to raise at this age either.
Oddly enough, that's what brings Agatha a sense of peace.
Mother will not be able to inflict her cruelty upon another innocent.
And Agatha used to be innocent.
Before Mother.
“Mama! Mama, look, I found a flower! I picked it for you.”
“Where did you find this? It's the dead of winter, Ata.”
“Behind the house. Look, it glows.”
“You must be very careful, little witch. You can only use your magic when we have the house to ourselves. But this flower is very pretty. Thank you for picking it for me.”
Her memories of Mama are far and few between, and they hurt worse than anything Mother has ever done.
Perhaps it's because they are the same woman, and Agatha had once known what it felt like to have Mother's love.
Her skin itches.
She finds herself longing for things she should not long for.
She hates herself for that.
Weak. The walls echo again. Weak.
She curls her hands into fists.
Her nails dig into the soft flesh of her palm.
She bleeds where crescent shaped cuts form.
Let it be a sacrifice to the Goddess. She thinks. Let the blood of my suffering appease Her for whatever my past life has done to anger Her so.
Mother doesn't wait long to send two of Agatha's sister witches to fetch her for her trial.
It must be deliberate that she sends Caitlin and Elise.
Suddenly, Agatha's dignity seems to flee, and she finds herself begging, shouting for mercy.
Her childhood friends pay no mind, and it's Caitlin who ties her to the stake.
Poetic, she supposes.
Agatha Harkness, are you a witch.
I am a witch.
It doesn't escape her notice that Mother does not join the coven in casting Agatha in magic that tears at her own, burning and burning and burning.
It always burns.
And then she feels her own magic, angrily pushing against her chest, and something snaps, and she groans with the sensation.
Bright, burning lines of blue turn purple, and Agatha isn't controlling it as it pulls.
She can feel her tears drying on her cheeks.
She pleads.
I can be good.
No, you cannot.
Mother condemns her.
Mother has condemned her the moment she went from Mama to Mother, and Agatha can only feel the rush of her magic as she wins the battle for her life, giving Mother's in exchange for her own.
She doesn't know what to feel, so she doesn't.
She descends the stairs on the raised platform, and makes her way over to her mother's body.
Her brooch catches her eye.
“Why do you always wear that pin, Mama? None of the other mothers wear one.”
“It was a gift from your father. It's one of the only things I have left of him.”
“You have me!”
“I do have you. Now run along, I need to finish this up, and I don't want you to distract me.”
Agatha takes the brooch.
She ends up back home.
For the first time in months, Agatha sleeps in her bed.
When she wakes up, she ransacks the house, using a liberal amount of dark magic to create a pocket space to store all of the things she wishes to keep.
Books, kitchenware, the rocking chair that Mother said Father had made.
The boxes full of love letters between her parents that she discovered underneath her mother's bed.
By the time she's done, the house looks empty.
Hollow.
It matches the feeling in her chest.
She flees Salem before the witch-hunt can make their way to her.
And there will be a witch-hunt, of that she is certain.
She takes Mother's horse, and doesn't bother with the cart.
It will only slow her down.
She makes her way to the city of New York, and spends the increasingly cold nights out in the wilderness for the week it takes to travel there.
She pulls out Mother's carefully kept business papers, and tracks down the man who she had everything handled through.
She sells the horse with his help, and he buys her the small house she wants with her money.
Agatha knows she'll have to replace him very soon, before the news of her being a witch can reach the rumor mills of New York, if she wants to keep hold on her newly inherited business.
It's a bit of a learning curve, but she manages.
Some time passes, and one day some mysterious person demands a meeting with her.
And refuses to accept her new right hand is the one in charge of the business.
They introduce themselves as the Sorcerer Supreme, and somehow manage to wrangle Agatha into a small building they call their Sanctum.
Agatha leaves.
Many times.
And every time, without fail, they fetch her back.
Insist that it's important that Agatha learns from them.
Sorcery is just wannabe witchcraft. Agatha would sneer. I have no use for such… Pale imitations.
And then she discovers a spell, one based in sorcery, that permanently takes away the chronic pain that she lives with from her scars.
Well, the ones on her back are soothed away.
Her wrists are another story, and dark magic continues to be the only remedy.
She's a more willing student after that.
She spends a few years studying under the Sorcerer Supreme, splitting her time between that and running her business.
They finally trust that she will return to the Sanctum willingly, and are content to allow Agatha to once more live in the small house she has now long since called home.
And then one day, while she is walking home from purchasing groceries, a small lad runs by and trips over his feet, panic evident on his face.
Agatha hears an angry bellow, and a man thunders around the corner, the stench of booze wafting from him.
For Goddess sake, it's only noon.
Agatha doesn't think as she scoops the young child up, quickly stepping towards a more crowded street.
“Will your mother protect you?” Agatha asks.
She has no intention of stealing this child.
The young boy shakes as he sways his head back and forth, blubbering.
“Dead?”
Perhaps it's cruel to ask it so callously, but Agatha has always known what it's like to be missing a parent.
The boy nods.
Ah.
“Will anyone look for you?”
The boy shakes his head again.
“Very well.”
She weaves her way expertly through the city, making her way back towards home.
She gently sets the little boy on her couch, and fetches a cloth and dampens it, her long buried material instinct returning.
She wipes his face down gently, the way she used to, years and years ago, when she had watched over the children of Salem.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” She asks as she goes about her task.
“My arm.”
The boy finally speaks, shy and hesitant.
Agatha does not blame him for sounding that way.
“Hold it out, let me see.”
She doesn't know how she missed that the bone was broken, but now that she's been shown it, she bites her lip, before sighing.
“I can heal it.”
The boy frowns, but doesn't say anything.
“What? Spit it out, speak your mind. I won't hurt you for that.”
Agatha regrets her inability to be anything but blunt, but it seems that the directness relaxes the child.
“He'll just rip the castings off.”
He as in the man that had been chasing him.
Agatha wonders if it was the boy's father.
She assumes so.
“I meant I can heal it with magic.”
In the great big city of New York, who will believe a tiny, beaten tyke of an accusation of witchcraft?
The boy’s eyes go wide, but he doesn't scream or try to run.
“Prove it.” Is what he says instead.
So Agatha proves it.
The boy is astonished, and demands she teaches him.
She brings him to the Sorcerer Supreme instead.
“A child, Agatha?” They sigh.
“I won't leave him to his abuser.” She insists. “If you won't take him…”
I will.
But she wouldn't.
She only trusts herself so far around children.
They take mercy on her and spare her a dilemma, finding a nearby family willing to take in another mouth to feed with promises of stipend for their troubles.
Agatha's more than happy to pay for it, and the boy is treated well, his foster family acutely aware of his private tutoring.
His name is Nicholas and he is the first of many.
Agatha's eyes have been open to the hungry children that roam the streets, the little humans who wear decent clothes but suffer from a constant plague of bruises and broken bones, and she has more money than she could ever spend on herself.
Some of the children try calling her mama, before she establishes herself as Aunt Agatha.
She would have preferred sister, but when she ran it by Nicholas he had scrunched his young face up and shook his head.
You're too old for me to just call you by your name, Miss Agatha. He had politely said. How about Aunty Agatha instead?
She had taken his advice, though she had knocked off the “y” at the end of “Aunty”, and ever since she has not once had another panic attack due to a little voice trying to call her mama.
The Sorcerer Supreme teases her about the little army of children that look up to her, and Agatha quietly takes it, never once mentioning why she so infrequently speaks with them properly, or why they are all left craving more of her time.
She'd rather they feel she is a busy, yet kind woman, than a present, menacing keeper.
I will not be Mother.
I will not.
The year Nicholas turns thirteen, she leaves New York for a couple of weeks and travels back to Salem.
It's been ten years since she had killed her coven and mother, and she feels the need to torture herself for it.
The Sorcerer Supreme doesn't say anything when Agatha informs them of her travel plans, they simply hand her a key that opens nothing and tells her it's symbolic when she asks what it was for.
She will always have a home within the Sanctum, with the now growing ranks of sorcerers she has helped cultivate.
Raise. The other would argue.
Whatever helps you sleep at night. She would deflect.
Salem is like a punch to the gut, and memories threaten to break her under its pressure.
It doesn't help the first thing she had done was go back to where she had stood trial, to find her magic had somehow mummified the bodies of her long dead coven.
It's been cordoned off, warnings of proof of witchcraft carved into the wooden fence.
Agatha returns them all to the magic they had been born into, even Mother, and their bodies slowly fade, dissolve.
She thinks she hears them all breathe a sigh of relief at finally being given permission to rest.
She mourns properly then, falling to her knees when her sobs overtake everything else, every ounce of her strength leaving her as she cries for her loss.
Loss of a father before she had even been born, loss of a childhood, loss of a mother, loss of a family, a teacher, a community, her ability to see goodness within herself.
There's plenty more.
She stays in the forest for a long while.
When she's all cried out, red-faced and head aching, she makes her way to her childhood home that has been abandoned.
It's clear there was not one soul brave enough to lay claim to a witch’s house, and Agatha slips inside, careful not to leave signs someone has returned home, and sleeps.
Her nightmares are usually bad.
The dream she has instead is worse.
She dreams of a world where her father had lived, where she had been given a proper childhood, her mother a warm, smiling figure.
She calls them Mama and Papa even at the age of thirty.
She has kids of her own, two of them, with a little one on the way, and she knows in that instant it's an impossible dream her subconscious has concocted because her wife slips her arms around Agatha's round belly and gently kisses her cheek as their children play with the grandparents.
Grandmama and Grandpapa.
That's what the children call them, and her parent’s joy at having grandchildren to spoil is evident.
Agatha doesn't know what sort of man her father truly had been, but the dream is very telling as she watches Mother Mama Mother allow herself to be led in a silly little dance by small hands and big smiles.
It's a dream, with everything she has ever wanted, and it only serves to make her feel more alone than she has in years.
She wakes up silently, and is not surprised to discover that she had been crying in her sleep.
Agatha only stays in Salem for one more day, slipping through the marketplace with well practiced ease.
A bit risky, perhaps. It wouldn't be too hard for the wrong person to recognize her.
But she can't resist returning to the one old haunt she had been granted as a child.
And then she senses a flicker of magic, pitifully small, but overbearingly strong.
Impulsively, she follows it.
There should be no more witches in Salem.
It leads her to an old agemate, the daughter of one of the richer folk in Salem.
Agatha struggles to remember her name, but the instant her hand grasps the other woman’s shoulder, a spark of her magic flares, and it leaves both women breathless.
The woman spins around, eyes wide with fear and recognition.
Agatha Harkness? Are you a witch?
I am a witch.
She leaves with a companion.
Wanda has been struggling with her magic for years now, and she requires a teacher.
She wants to be rid of it, and Agatha does not tell her that through seeking proper control, Wanda will learn to love what is so intricate to her very being.
She suspects it would only hinder, not help.
No one comes after them.
Wanda says she left a letter saying she has ran off to be with some penniless boy, one who held her heart, as an excuse.
Agatha is neither penniless nor a boy, and she certainly does not hold the red head’s heart in her palms.
Still, she cracks a joke about being the other woman’s lover, and Wanda blushes with guilt at the thought.
That's a sin.
Our magic is a sin, if you subscribe to their beliefs.
You don't believe in God?
I believe in the Goddess, and I believe in my magic.
She doesn't say she believes in herself because she doesn't.
That would require trust.
Wanda mulls over Agatha's response in silence.
When they arrive in New York, Agatha is forced to introduce Wanda to the near two dozen children she helped keep off the streets and out of harsh hands, Nicholas having waited for her return every day at her home, and dragged them to the Sanctum to say hello to his sorcerer siblings.
The Sorcerer Supreme smiles warmly in welcome to Wanda, and when the other witch gets distracted by an army of children all vying for her attention, they approach Agatha properly, squeezing her hands in theirs and whispers in her ear I'm glad you found her.
Agatha doesn't know how to feel about that.
The kids draft Wanda into their on going war to convince Agatha to become a bigger presence in their life.
It's a struggle, because Wanda will barter her success in learning witchcraft for Agatha to spend time with the little ones.
Agatha holds her tongue, though she finds it's often a close thing to keep herself from bursting out yelling about all the reasons why this will only end in disaster.
Somehow, it doesn't.
Not for years and years.
The city of New York continues to grow and become a sprawling network of humanity, as does the Sanctum.
No longer does it accept every child into the arms of sorcery, but it does help place them in better homes.
The Sorcerer Supreme has long since passed that task off to people Agatha had hired at their behest, and only the children who have a spark of something more in them ever make it to the Sanctum’s doors these days.
Nicholas comes of age, and requests Agatha fund an orphanage.
Wanda is all for the idea, and she leaves it in their hands to plan out.
When she had said as much, Wanda had excitedly given her a kiss on the cheek, before turning as red as her hair, excusing herself and rushing out of the room, as Nicholas laughed into the shocked silence.
You're good for each other, Ma.
Since when did you call me Ma?
Nicholas had shrugged and given her an easy grin.
You've been the first mother figure in my life. But I promise to keep it just to teasing.
He has the nerve to wink, and Agatha wonders if it's a normal reaction to feel a violent urge in response.
I will not become Mother.
She shoves it away, and offers a pained smile.
I'd rather you didn't at all. She says instead. I'm nobody's mother.
Nicholas just gives her a look, before he too, leaves.
He hadn't been wrong about Wanda being good for her, and she realizes one day that they've been dating for a long time.
She doesn't feel the need to define the relationship, but Wanda does, though it's months and months after Agatha had come to her conclusion.
Wanda brings her a crown made of dandelions and baby's breath, and asks her if she'd like to make it official.
Girlfriends or wives?
Does it look like I have a ring, Harkness?
And then one day Wanda says the wrong thing completely by accident and sends Agatha spiraling into a flashback in front of some of the kids from the orphanage that has been up and running for a few years now, and in her distress, her magic lashes out.
She was never one for a weak stomach, but the sight of seven small bodies is enough to send her running for the nearest trash can.
Visions of tiny child graves dance in front of her, and she's so overwhelmed by it all that she doesn't notice that Wanda has confirmed the little ones are not dead, merely knocked unconscious.
Agatha refuses to go anywhere near kids after that.
I won't turn into Mother, Wanda. I'd rather die.
Her partner drops the subject after that, but there's a noticeable increase of sad looks thrown her way.
Both Nicholas and the Sorcerer Supreme try to talk her around, but she won't hear anything of it.
She chooses, instead, to ask Wanda if she'd be willing to move somewhere quiet with her.
Away from the city.
They're nearing their forty-sixth birthdays, though they don't look a day over twenty-five, and they're been in each other's lives for close to two decades now.
Somehow Wanda can tell Agatha won't stay, with or or without her girlfriend, and so she agrees.
They pack up, and Agatha lets her magic guide her to somewhere that will be healing for her.
She's tired of ignoring how broken she feels.
Wanda pops the question around their little campfire one night, weeks into their travels.
The band is simple, made of strong silver, and matches none of the gold jewelry that Agatha prefers.
My color. Wanda had explained. Because a part of me will always belong to you. But I also bought a gold one. I'll be happy to have either.
Agatha accepts the silver one.
She likes the idea of it standing out in its simplicity.
And she equally likes the idea of Wanda wearing a marital ring in her color.
There's no need for witnesses when they have magic, and when Wanda shows Agatha how much she had delved into the history of witches' marriage rites, she can't help but kiss her, laying her flat on the ground.
But Wanda won't let Agatha show her proof of her love for the red headed witch, instead, insisting on continuing to wait to tie the knot.
The consummation of our vows may not be affected by our purity. She had murmured. But I always thought it was sweet, to save yourself. It's like a gift you give to your love, unique entirely because it's your first.
Agatha would not deny Wanda of her desire.
They marry the next day, calling down on the Goddess as their witness, and She must have been paying more attention than they could have anticipated, because when they perform the magic of the ritual, an unseen, yet unbreakable bond forms, and they realize that they have found their soulmate within one another.
Wanda's magic swirls joyfully, always more powerful with her emotions, and Agatha tilts her head back and moans as Wanda kisses her way down her neck.
There is only one person Agatha will be truly vulnerable to.
They find themselves settling in what will one day be known as Colorado, and they slowly begin to build a life with just the two of them.
Magic pushes at Agatha to build more than the cozy little home she and Wanda so painstakingly created, and they find their days filled with farming and construction, until it feels like they live in a ghost village.
It clicks, one day, when the peaceful quiet is broken by the sounds of travelers.
Agatha feels a rush of panic.
She recognizes them, though they are all much older since she's last seen them, and there are many new, young faces.
Their leader is surprised.
Agatha Harkness?
Cheryl Winston.
Agatha greets the elderly witch mother in a flat tone.
And then Wanda steps forward, her hand protectively laying against Agatha's waist and asks why there appears to be a whole coven misplaced.
Their tale is a long one.
Magic had guided them here.
Agatha welcomes them to what she on the spot calls New Salem and helps them settle into the empty homes she and Wanda have spent months building.
Cheryl, someone who Agatha had picked up had a great deal of animosity towards her mother while Evanora Harkness had been living, requests to talk to Agatha privately.
Agatha is astounded to discover Mother had not been exaggerating all those years ago when she had told Agatha of Atlantis, and of the blood that flows through her veins.
She's outright shocked when Cheryl bows her head and clasps a fist over her heart and swears Agatha as her queen.
She finds magic speaking for her.
She accepts, and somehow, she becomes leader of a safe haven for witchkind overnight.
Cheryl suggests she changes the name of the village to New Atlantis.
One day, it will once more be a thriving queendom. Pay homage to our past.
Agatha doesn't fully trust the elderly witch, but she takes her advice.
Agatha unofficially appoints her as her advisor as well.
Mother. She confesses to Cheryl the next day. Only once ever told me of my birthright.
She does not go into the details, but Agatha is certain it must be well known within the coven circles by now that she had single handedly killed hers.
Wanda is the one who holds Agatha together during the adjustment period.
Agatha finds that she despises being treated the way Cheryl's coven seems to think a queen should be, and she equally despises that the only way to get them to stop is to quite literally lay down the law.
She begins to suffer from routine anxiety attacks.
I don't want this, Wans. I'm scared.
And Goddess bless her wife, Wanda simply holds her through it all, kisses her gently, and reassures her.
Leadership will not be the thing to turn you cruel. She whispers. As long as you remember that your power was given to you by your people, and that it lies in their happiness and well-being.
More covens follow the first, as does the odd lone witch, and both Cheryl and Wanda insist they swear a basic oath of peace to the queen.
To Agatha.
Most eventually swear an oath deeper than that, after living in New Atlantis for some time, and Agatha never stops hating the words of obedience to the crown that fall from their lips.
And then Nicholas arrives, throwing the now bustling town into panic when he steps through the sling ring portal.
Agatha makes a note that New Atlantis will need a place for unconventional travelers to arrive and depart from, even as she hugs the man she had once saved when he was just a small child.
The Sorcerer Supreme has asked that I extend an invitation on their behalf to write up a treaty between New Atlantis and the Sanctums.
Cheryl had started to say something unkind about sorcery and Agatha immediately shut it down.
I have used sorcery every day for decades now, and the Supreme is a long time friend. I would be very pleased to have a treaty between our people.
It's a simple thing, and quickly written up and signed.
New Atlantis gains its first ally.
Cheryl's initial prediction comes to pass as the years move along, and by the time Agatha speaks a eulogy for her at a state funeral, New Atlantis is a vibrant queendom.
New Salem, the original village that had started it all, is its capital city, with sprawling towns that had grown around it.
Agatha and Wanda still live in their cozy home, but several families willingly relocated in order to create a big enough plot of land for a proper palace.
It had not been a Agatha Approved plan, but it had been a state one.
Agatha is very firm about it being a place of work only.
I have no want of such a large, empty home. I have enough ghosts, and there is no need to give them the space to roam. She vents to Wanda.
And then there's an assassination attempt, and the people will not be ignored any longer.
They want to feel that their queen is safe.
She is forced to move into the palace.
She feels spiteful over it, and informs only Wanda that she'll be gone for a week.
She goes to stay at the New York Sanctum.
Nicholas is over the moon to have her nearby for that time.
I miss seeing you in person, Ma.
I am no one's mother, Nick.
She doesn't mention how it's slowly becoming a point of contention between her and Wanda.
Wanda, she is discovering, desperately would like a child, and seems to think Agatha will make for a great parent.
Mother's ghost haunts her, and she rolls her shoulders in an attempt to dispel the phantom pain that pulls at her back.
It doesn't make it worse so Agatha will count it as a victory.
When the week is up, she returns to her new home, and feels significantly more prepared to overcome the change.
Which is to say, she's no longer feeling spiteful enough to abuse her position or power.
It scares her, that it was even a remote possibility, but Wanda soothes away her fears, reminds Agatha that she had done the healthy thing and taken the space and time she had needed.
Reminds her that the people may have raised her above as their queen, but that she is still very human, and is allowed the flaws of her humanity.
Her wife deserves the world, and she tells her as such, and gets a laugh in response.
Her wife is also a manipulative little shit, and Agatha one day finds a young child running around their private quarters.
I told Nicholas we'd foster a kid.
I won't use a child as a test run, Wanda.
Of course not. There are no test runs. You either do, or you don't.
Agatha hates how easily she gets pulled into the kid’s orbit, and she hates how Aunt Agatha sounds the same way coming from them as Mama would.
Their name is Gial and they're four.
By the time they're eighteen, Agatha has allowed them to use her surname, and she has given up trying to insist that they are not her child.
Nicholas is very smug about the whole thing, because he finally won his right to call himself her son as well.
It didn't seem very fair to Agatha to let Gial call themselves her child and not Nicholas.
Not when he had been the first.
And so in the space of a decade Agatha gained two children of her own, though neither of them call her Mama or are of her bloodline.
Agatha finally agrees to try for a baby and Wanda is over the moon.
I have not become Mother. She tells herself. And I will not become her in the future. I won't allow it.
The fear is still bone deep, and she hides her growing panic.
And then she tests positive.
The night she does, she dreams.
Had you meant it?
Even after all these years, something instinctive in Agatha shrinks back from the sound of her mother's voice.
Had you meant it when you said you were no daughter of mine?
Yes. She had.
Really? Because I see a strong daughter of House Harkness, leading as is her natural birthright and legacy.
Agatha may be older now, but she finds herself scrambling for a response like she's a child all over again.
Father was a Harkness before he married you.
Mother frowns, and Agatha flinches back.
Mother frowning was never a good thing, though she had done it constantly.
The Harkness line, as all bloodlines of witchcraft, is matriarchal.
I don't care!
Agatha shouts, long buried fear and anger rushing through her.
I am not your daughter. Let New Atlantis have a new bloodline. I've yet to bear a child and it's not too late for me to take Wanda's name. You think I won't do anything to have your legacy die with you? You were cruel, and vicious, and you don't deserve to be remembered.
The dream swirls around her and it makes her head spin.
She's yanked through warped memories.
Agatha wakes up screaming.
Wanda won't let her discard the Harkness name.
Like it or not, it has too much meaning now. She says. Create a new legacy instead. A brighter, happier one. You're already doing that, even if you haven't realized it yet.
When Agatha goes into labor and gives birth, she does not name her daughter after anyone.
She and Wanda had poured over lists of names and had settled on Claire Elizabeth.
Claire, Wanda had come up with, had said it could mean bright or shining, and they had agreed that it was fitting to name their daughter after their shared joy.
Elizabeth had just… Naturally attached itself to the first name.
Wanda had been happy to inform Agatha that it had roots in her own heritage, that it was derived from the name Elisheva, and Agatha wouldn't trade the beaming smile Wanda had given her in that moment for the world.
Agatha refuses to allow New Atlantis to even catch an official glimpse of her daughter, wishing to protect all of their privacy, until two years later, marking another decade’s pass since she had been crowned queen.
The celebrations start an hour before the little princess’s bedtime, and the cheerful goodnight wishes sound out through the cool night air as both Agatha and Wanda slip inside to tuck their daughter in.
Gial had kindly offered to stay overnight so that Agatha and Wanda could both stay and partake in the celebrations, and once they're sure everything is fine and settled, they return to resounding cheers.
Nearly two and a half years later, Wanda gives birth to their second daughter, and this one is named after those who have passed.
Evalyn, for a part of Agatha still loves her mother, and for the grandmother Wanda has only heard stories of, and Grace, for a father she had never met.
What's a sibling name? Wanda had asked.
Fuck if I know. Agatha had replied. But I like it.
Wanda had startledly laughed at her wife's use of crude language and agreed the name was suiting.
Claire Elizabeth modeled her Big Sister role to Evalyn Grace after how Gial and Nicholas treated her, but she also took cues from her Mama and Ima.
We're raising a good kid. Agatha realizes.
We sure are. Wanda gives her cheek a kiss, and Agatha wraps her arms tighter around her wife.
There's a bit of a fight between Agatha and her people as her girls grow older and they start throwing around the phrase an heir and a spare because neither of her daughters will be seen as lesser than the other, and neither of them will have a crown forced upon their heads should they not want it.
Agatha hadn't wanted it.
She greatly looks forward to retirement.
And then Wanda, half unplanned, half planned, gets Agatha pregnant again, nearly ten years after Evalyn Grace was born, and they welcome Celeste Camille into their family.
Gial brings their husband with them to meet the little infant, and Nicholas pops in for the day.
The Sorcerer Supreme is absent, and Agatha misses her oldest friend dearly, but today is a day of joy and celebration, and not one of mourning.
Agatha has done enough mourning in her long life, and today she is surrounded by her family.
Hey, Ma. Nicholas grins easily as he reaches for his new baby sister.
I just spent a day and a half in labor and you choose to bully me?
Gial’s marriage is still fresh, and their husband looks a bit out of his depth, so Agatha gestures that Celeste Camille should be passed to him.
You're family now, hon. She tells him, and he nervously grins as he immediately starts gently bouncing in order to rock the small infant in his arms.
Gial beams at her, and Agatha can sense a bone crushing hug in her near future.
And then Wanda decides it's okay for her to co-opt the hospital bed Agatha is in for her recovery, and she finds herself distracted trying to shove her wife off.
Children. Claire Elizabeth shakes her head disapprovingly, turning towards Evalyn Grace. Our parents are children.
Evalyn Grace giggles and agrees, and an emotion Agatha can't place settles on top of her chest.
Wanda pulls her close, tucking her underneath her head and pressing a kiss to the top of her skull.
Lucky. Agatha decides. I feel lucky.
She's surrounded by her family, her children and she has not become her mother.
She is now confident she won't ever become like her.
And she feels lucky that Wanda hadn't given up on her, that Nicholas had pushed and pushed, that Gial had come into their lives, and that between the three of them, Agatha had found within herself the bravery to have her own children, to make it a conscious decision instead of something that just happened through circumstance.
She smiles against Wanda's chest.
She has five wonderful, caring children.
She feels warmth spread through her at the thought.
Agatha has always known she had wanted to be a mother.
Summary: You walk in on Eve doing something you that even in your wildest fantasies you'd never pictured her doing.
Word Count: 2.5k
Disclaimer: 18+ ONLY minors dni
Warnings: smut, spanking, fingering, fluff
“Eve?” You call out, knocking in her front door as you twist the knob, opening it. “Are you home?”
You don't hear anything, and shrug, walking in before shutting the door behind you.
You've always had a long standing invitation to make the Fletcher home your home, ever since Eve had spotted you walking home in the pouring rain when you had been in middle school and had offered to drive you home.
You had seen the Fletchers around, and had even gotten asked to babysit for them once before your father had screamed at you for considering it.
The Fletcher house had become your escape from your own oppressive household, and by the time you had hit senior year, you considered Eve to be a good friend, despite the age gap.
You also at that point had developed a budding crush on her, one you had desperately did everything to hide that you had it.
Now that you're older, and already working on your masters, the age gap seems less huge, and you no longer felt any awkwardness with the way you interacted with the older woman, despite the fact you still feel little butterflies whenever you're around her.
The closer you get to the kitchen, the more your ears are able to pick up on the sound of something playing on a device, and you let out a breath of air, relieved Eve is home.
You want to talk to her about possibly helping wi-
You stop dead in your tracks.
Eve is laid across a kitchen table chair, her ass bare as she has her pants and underwear pulled down to around her knees, and from your angle, you can clearly see she's watching porn.
Her hand comes down onto her backside, mimicking what she's watching, and grunts at the impact.
You can't see her face, but you don't have to.
You have view enough.
You've fantasized about your pretty milf friend more than once, but you've never expected to ever witness something like this.
“E-Eve?” You splutter out.
Immediately the laptop slams shut and the older woman nearly topples off of the chair as she twists to look at you.
“Oh my god!”
Her whole face is flushed, and her pupils are blown wide.
“I-” You don't know where to start. “What… What are you doing?”
Eve seems just as caught off guard as you are, and her mouth opens and closes.
“Were- were you just-”
You cut yourself off, unable to bring yourself to utter the word “spank”.
The silence is deafening, and you're both frozen in shock.
Your eyes flick from Eve’s face to her exposed ass, which has ever so slightly pinked, telling you Eve had been doing… Whatever this was for a while before you had walked in.
“You-” You swallow hard, nervous. “You do realize you're not going to get the- the feeling you're after on your own right?”
Eve flushes a deeper shade of red and avoids your eyes.
Your heartbeat is finally starting to even back out, and you're made aware of a steady, pulsing need between your legs.
“Eve.”
Your voice is firmer now.
Something tells you that she has the presence of mind to either kick you out or cover herself up, and that indicates…
Well.
“Is this your first time… Exploring?”
She finally meets your eyes, and she ever so slightly nods, seemingly at a loss for words.
You feel a rush of confidence.
Here's a chance to act on all the fantasies you've ever had about the beautiful woman before you.
“Would you like some help with that?”
Your voice comes out low, sultry, and Eve's breath hitches.
You smirk, and put an extra sway into your hips as you walk over to where she's laying across the chairs.
“Why don't you get up and strip for me, baby? I promise I can make you feel so good.”
Eve's face grows impossibly redder.
“I-I don't- we're not- you're-”
Your laughter at her struggling for words makes her stop trying to talk.
“You’re adorable.”
Eve blinks.
“Do you know how often I've thought about you like this, a hand between my thighs?” You husk out, maintaining eye contact with the older woman.
“You were my gay awakening, Eve. It was like I got run over by a truck one day when I realized how badly I wanted you to kiss me.”
Eve honest to god whimpers.
“Come on… I can see you want to. I bet it's been too long since you've felt someone else like this.”
Eve bites her lip, and after a few moments of consideration, she wobbly stands, pulling off her sweats and underwear in one motion, before shucking her shirt off.
You resist groaning at the sight of her body being bared before you, but it's a close thing.
Never in your wildest imaginings did you even come close to picturing exactly how beautiful she is.
When her bra drops to the floor, you turn the chair around, sitting down in clear invitation.
“Lay over my lap, alright?”
Eve looks extremely nervous, and you smile gently at her.
“I promise sweet thing, I know exactly what you're trying to feel, and I can give that to you, if you let me.”
You aren't sure what it was, but at your words she crosses the room towards you, and stiffly settles herself across your lap.
“Good girl.” You whisper, and you can feel her shiver beneath you, your fingers gently dancing up and down her spine, and some of her stiffness disappears.
“If you need us to stop, just say so, okay?”
“Okay.”
You've never heard Eve sound so small, so vulnerable, and it sends a thrill through you, making you suddenly dizzy with the realization that you have Eve Fletcher bent over your lap, waiting for you to spank her.
“Do you think you'll be able to count for me?” You ask in a low tone, your fingers trailing dangerously close to running over her backside.
Her breath hitches again, before she lets out a low moan.
“Is that a yes?”
It's like her ability to speak has evaporated, and she whines instead of giving you a proper answer, and you can feel yourself growing wetter.
“Awww…” You coo. “Has your brain gone all fuzzy just from being laid over my lap? How sweet.”
“Please!”
The word tumbles from Eve’s mouth, and you can't help but give in.
“Alright, sweet girl. On three, I'll spank you.”
You lift your hand in preparation.
“One… Two… Three.”
The sound of flesh hitting flesh resounds through the room, as does the pornographic moan that comes from Eve, and she involuntarily bucks her hips.
“Liked that, did you? Dirty girl.” You laugh as Eve moans again at your words, and you slap her ass a second time, causing her to squirm.
Your free hand wraps around her middle, keeping her still.
“How many more times should you be spanked, hm? How often have you daydreamed about being turned over someone's lap like a naughty little slut?”
When Eve doesn't answer, she cries out with pleasure as you smack her again.
“Answer me.” You demand.
“I- I don't know!” She gasps out.
“Hm…” You pretend to ponder. “You don't know… Would it be safe to presume that you've fantasized about this at least… Oh, I don't know, twenty times?”
After a moment of silence, you reach over with the hand that's not wrapped around her middle and tangle it through her hair, forcing her head backwards so you can see how red she's turned.
“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Do I make myself clear?”
You can feel how she tries to nod her head, but all she gets for her trouble is you gripping her hair tighter.
“Do I make myself clear?” You repeat, your tone hard.
“Y-yes! You're clear!” Eve forces out.
“Good.” Your voice has turned husky. “Now answer me. Have you fantasized about being spanked like this at least twenty times before?”
Eve whimpers. “Yes.”
“Then that's how many times I'll be spanking you. And I want you to count. Otherwise, I might lose my place and have to start all over again.”
Eve is silent, but you hadn't asked a question, and so you let it slide.
“Count.” You reiterate, before you detangle your fingers from her hair.
Eve moans when you spank her.
“O-one.” She breathlessly gets out.
“Good girl.” You murmur, before continuing.
“Two.” She moans.
With each spank, Eve makes another pretty noise, and she dutifully counts.
It makes you throb with want, especially because you can feel how wet she is. She's dripping onto your jeans, and you're sure when she gets up there'll be a nice sized wet patch.
“S-s-sixteen.” She stutters through her whine, her whole body wiggling as she desperately tries to find some friction.
“You're doing so well, beautiful girl.” You praise, and she whimpers in response.
Your head is practically spinning from the rush you're getting off of this, and you bite your lip as you groan.
You bring your hand down in a firm smack, and Eve gasps out.
“Oh, fuck!”
You gently rub your hand over her ass, humming.
“What number?” You prompt.
“Seventeen.”
Eve's voice is rough, and you can't help but slip your hand a little lower along her ass, and she whines.
“No- don't-”
“Don't what, sweet thing? Feel how wet you are?” You smirk. “I can feel how you're dripping onto my leg, slutty girl.”
She whines, and you decide to forgo the last three spanks, and instead you retract your arm from around her middle so that you can spread her cheeks apart, and you gasp at how puffy her pussy is.
“Oh, Eve. You poor thing. Would you like me to make this feel better for you?”
When you don't get an answer, you shift her a little, giving yourself easier access so that you can spank her directly on her cunt, and the noise that spills from her lips is obscene.
“I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”
Eve whines again, and wiggles.
“I can't do anything until you say yes, sweetheart.” You gently chide, your hand coming back between her thighs, this time to glide your fingers through her folds.
“Yes.”
Her voice is heavy with need, and she sounds like she's on the verge of tears with it.
“How do we ask to be touched?” You remove your fingers, now slick with Eve’s wetness, and slap her ass again.
Her moan echoes in the kitchen.
“Please! Please touch me.”
“Awww… Good girl.” You coo. “You just want to be a fucking slut, huh?”
Eve whimpers, and you laugh.
“You're so desperate, look at you. I'd bet that you're fucking slutty hole will take whatever I'll give it without any problems… Should we test that theory?”
“Please, please touch me. Make me feel good.” Eve begs, and you can feel yourself growing wetter at the sound of it.
“Anything for you, pretty girl.” You say tenderly, before slipping one, two, three fingers into Eve, and she groans, bucking her hips.
You start off at an agonizingly slow pace, relishing in the way the older woman trembles beneath your touch, her plaintive begs and whines making you groan in turn.
“You're so wet, baby. This fucking greedy pussy of yours takes my fingers so well, you're such a fucking whore.”
You speed up your pace, and Eve drips down around your fingers, the sound of her sopping wet cunt filling the air, and your head grows heedy with the scent of her sex.
“God.” You groan. “You're fucking perfect, taking me so well, listen to how fucking desperate you are. Are you going to cum for me? Yeah? You wanna prove to me that you're a slutty little bitch? Gonna cum around my fingers in your fucking kitchen while you're bent over my lap like a dirty little whore?”
You can feel how she starts to flutter around you, can feel how close she is, and you slide your spare hand up and under, harshly groping at one of her tits, and Eve throws her head back and screams as she orgasms hard around you, her hips grinding wildly downwards in an attempt to ride out the waves of pleasure, and the sight is nearly enough to make you cum on the spot as well, despite how untouched you've gone.
“Fuck baby, you're so fucking beautiful like this. Fuck.”
Eve pants as she comes down from her high, and she whimpers when you retract your fingers from where they had been buried deep inside of her.
You bring your fingers up to your mouth and can't contain your wanton moan at the taste of her, and you know with complete certainty that you'll never be able to get enough of her.
“You taste so good, holy shit.” You say to her, and Eve cranes her head around to stare at you with an empty gaze, her face flushed deeply.
You smile softly at her, and run a hand through her hair.
She melts under your touch, her eyes gently fluttering shut, and you can't help the way your heart wells with emotion.
“Are you okay, Eve?” You ask.
“Mhm.” She hums.
“We gotta clean you off, honey.” You say.
“I know.”
“If I promised to stay, will you get up?” You try.
“Mmm…” Eve hums again.
“That's not an answer, sweet thing.”
Eve opens her eyes, and makes a motion to roll over in your lap, and your reaction time is a second too slow, and the older woman goes crashing to the floor.
“Oh my god, are you okay?”
“Ow… Yeah… I'm… I'm okay. Sorry, my head feels… Fuzzy. Not from falling! From… From before.”
It's like a light bulb has been switched on in your head, even as you slide off the chair onto your knees to be sure Eve is really okay.
“Fuzzy like floating?”
Eve’s blue eyes draw you in.
“Mhm. Feels nice.”
You smile before pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.
“You have no idea what you're experiencing, do you?” You guess.
“Do you?”
Eve looks full of wonderment and in that moment you knew you were fucked.
You're head over heels for this woman, you're old crush coming rushing back tenfold, and of all the things to happen in this kitchen today, this is what causes your heart to start pounding in earnest.
“Yeah, honey.” You try so hard not to let your voice crack with your realization. “But we have plenty of time for that later. The floor is cold. And dirty. And a bath will be warm and clean.”
Eve's eyes brighten at the thought of a warm bubble bath.
“You'll run me a bath?” She excitedly asks.
You laugh, and move, gesturing that Eve should follow you.
“Of course I will. Aftercare is very important.”
Eve looks delighted, and you gently pull her close so you can whisper in her ear.
@wandakink here's an excerpt from this genuine royalty au I'm never going to get around to finish writing (I say genuine because of... I mean either you'll find out eventually or you won't. We'll see what happens with my other AUs.)
“What happened?” She asks in a low voice.
“Somebody wants me dead.”
“To be fair most people do, dear.” Agatha cuts in, a frown etched into her face. “That does not, however, excuse you tussling up one of my men.”
“One of your men just tried to either kidnap or assassinate me.” You snap back, tossing the dagger onto his chestplate with a clang.
Agatha’s frown deepens, and a dangerous note creeps into her voice. “Who would be stupid enough to attempted either of those things? Especially within my own walls?”
“You, for starters.” You challenge her, a hard edge to your voice.
“I would never betray my promise.” Agatha says in a low tone, eyes storming.
“Well you sure don't seem keen on keeping it either.” You snap back.
“I see that your time away from court has only proven to dull your manners.” Agatha sneers. “As it is I ordered no guard to be down there.” She states, anger starting to creep into her voice. “As a matter of fact, I am sure that I gave command to the opposite, that those halls and your rooms go undisturbed, that patrols should skip it for the duration of your stay.”
“For the duration of my stay? Don't tell me you are finally ready to uphold your promise, Lady Harkness.” You mock, a hand pressed to your chest.
“That is not what is important right now.” The other woman hisses.
“Then what is?”
“The fact that someone has attempted to harm you under my watch.” She growls.
And then clicks.
Agatha isn't angry at you, she's angry at whoever tried to hurt you.
You startle slightly when she bends a bit closer to you, her voice a sudden whisper in your ear, and you become painfully aware of how quiet the ballroom is. “I would feel better if you would stay in my wing of the palace for the next few nights, if not for the entire duration of your visit.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You know that will only happen if you take action.” You murmur back.
A smirk unfurls on her face as she leans back a small bit, her hands suddenly finding a home for themselves on your waist.
“How is this for action?” She asks, before dipping you into a searing kiss.
