ilovehotactresses

[ilovehotactresses]

Pumpkin x her penis meeting when

ok official riza stavros request! riza x reader in her castle or whatever you want to call it. does it have to be smut? no. preferably

but idk…. i just feel like she has the same kind of sassy vibe as rose the hat. so maybe reader is a mib agent, going to capture riza or something she has (ig you could use the original story from the movie) and then they meet. and riza is a tease, flirt and lowkey a menace. would be kind of fun if she like grabs reader with that third arm, shocking reader.

anyway

🫡🫡🫡🫡

Time of MY Life

Riza’s Stavros x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lonely and caught up in conflict with the Men In Black, Riza finds herself going to desperate degrees to secure companionship. Manipulating the MiB was just the beginning…

Warnings: Contract marriage, mentions of genitalia but no smut

A/N: I tried to make this a smut fic, but I simply couldn’t get the momentum to do that while still making the one shot relatively size-appropriate. It's still cute, fluffy and with room for future one-shot spin offs!

Word Count: 4.7k

Intergalactic armistice between a Tribrachian weapon’s dealer and a long withstanding peace conduit of a remote solar system in the Milky Way should have been a simple, cursory endeavor. Few things were ever simple, or cursory when it came to weapons dealer Riza Stavros. Riza resented the Men in Black, loathed them and carried an eternal animosity that would not be settled by the promise of a ‘better commerce environment’. This wasn’t from previous history, or the tampering of trade in the past. Sure, they’d confiscated weapons, imposed intergalactic tariffs, and even overtly screwed with her business dealings, but that wasn’t why Riza refused to budge. Business was business, there were bound to be a few hiccups here and there. The straw that broke Riza’s arm-sprouting back was one simple negligence. The MIB had fucked with Riza’s love life.

Given the perpetual rivalries between species in the Virgo galaxy cluster, Riza always had business. Weapons were a hot commodity, and she spent every day selling, buying and distributing them wherever weapons were needed, assuming they were well compensated for. Being situated in the Milky Way galaxy had its perks, especially when her main business operation was situated on Earth. A beautiful climate, consistent access to communication lines, trade distribution centers and aliens aplenty kept Riza in a steady hum of both commercial and personal wellness. And if the Men in Black hadn’t removed her from her status as a ‘Red Level Threat’, she’d still be drowning in the luxuries of many, many lovers.

One feature the vast majority of intelligent beings inside the Virgo Cluster shared was the fascination for the ‘bad one’. A certain level of danger, a sultriness that only came from being connected to nothing good, that is what gave Riza her appeal. Eccentric fashion choices aside, three arms, a startlingly sexy accent, and a rough double life had kept her lovers enthralled. But being an Orange Class Threat? What a downgrade. Most aliens were flagged with a ‘yellow’, or minor misdemeanor at least once in their lifetimes. An orange was your average run of the mill criminal, and Riza had spent too long in this business to be considered ‘average.’ 

As the negotiation deals and unanswered calls began to pile up, the Men In Black grew desperate for a solution. They offered increasing levels of leniency in exchange for a simple, upfront answer from Riza regarding her connections to a particularly violent group of Tarantians. She wouldn’t budge. More weapons would be distributed amongst other gangs, each holding their own brand of oppressive disinterest in following the Men in Black’s regulations, and more chaos would ensue. Finally, after six months of no progress through digital means, a representative was sent right to Riza’s door. 

A sweaty, beady eyed agent stood in Riza’s office, seeming to vibrate with anxiety. If it weren’t the pitying sight of such a puny, adrenaline-filled little imp of a man, Riza would’ve killed him before he stepped onto her porch. When she had finally set her eyes on the little agent, she felt… Amused. This was their plan? Personal contact? 

“Eh… Ms… Ms. Stavros. I am here on behalf of the… The Men in Black. I am Agent B.” he choked, appearing to be visibly trembling.

“Relax. You’re an office worker, I can tell. That stun gun isn’t properly attached to your belt.” Riza hummed. “Now, what conditions are you offering?”

The little man seemed to seize up, astonished by her complete disregard for normal pleasantries. Adjusting his spectacles, Agent B pulled out a clipboard from his briefcase, beginning to read the offer. His voice shook as he read, a bead of sweat sliding right along the bridge of his nose, fascinating Riza.

“Following a small meeting with a former organization-designated associate of yours-”

“Just say Henry. Agent Henry.” Riza groaned, massaging her temple.

Agent B looked up, taking a long swallow. He’d tried to be subtle, and yet Riza remained stubbornly dismissive. Riza, for her part, didn’t care. She poured herself a large helping of whisky, not even feigning to offer the agent any.

“Well. Henry said that you were perhaps not upset by the business dealings, but upset with the organization for… Personal histories.” 

Riza rolled her eyes in a long, fluid cascade, her lips pursed and upper lip pulled up in a haughty display of disgust. The little man’s information was correct, she was entirely consumed by the loss of her love life, but it wasn’t the loss of H that had done it. 

“Sure, whatever. We’ll call it a grudge, I have a grudge against the Men in Black.” Riza drawled, taking a slow sip of whiskey in an effort to cool the rising tension in her stomach.

The little man nodded, one of his hands wavering as he turned a page. It would have been too easy for Riza to raise a gun and shoot. Truthfully she didn’t have much respect for humans, aside from how pleasurable they were in bed.

“We have an unconventional proposal for you.”

Riza’s silence was confirmation enough for Agent B to continue.

“Your fascination with human lovers is noted in our database. Following Agent H you dated four human females, all within rapid succession. We offer you… Committed companionship.”

A hoarse wheeze, what would have been a laugh if Riza hadn’t been so startled, clapped the assurance of safety Agent B had been working up to right out of his composure. The rapid trembling started anew, and the sweating, though it had been abating, returned.

“Well, well you see… I have these files… Potential ladies you’d be interested in meeting, to help the, well the stress of this ongoing armistice. I have the file right here.”

Riza slapped the file his trembling hand had been holding out of his grasp, snapping her fingers. Two large ‘yes’ men snagged the agent underneath his shoulders, dragging him out of her fortress. The madness that was Riza’s life had reached a level of abysmality that she couldn’t process. She finished the whiskey in a long gulp, pouring another immediately after re. Halfway into her pity fest, she walked back into her office to snag another bottle of wine, swaying a little from her previous consumption. A good night was about to turn into a better night when she slipped, falling butt first. Her third arm slapped against the ground and atop one of the scattered leaflets to break her fall, leaving her a shaking mess. Looking down and seeing what she’d slipped on, a new inebriated fury came over her. She snatched up the paper her third hand had found, preparing to crumple it.

A pretty human face greeted her, a simple color photo. It gave her pause. Perusing through the various leaflets, she took her time, examining each photo, skimming through the information on the women. Amidst all of the profiles, she saw a brief offer. A marriage contract to any of these women was offered in addition to several dates with all of them, if she was so inclined. It was absurd, blazingly pitiful, but she was lonely and sexually frustrated enough to want it. Especially when she saw the profile still hidden in the folder. Yes. That one. If Riza had a type, the woman in the picture fit it. And her personality description… It was enough to make her toes curl in delight. The flippant disinterest she’d had in the interview questions, the dismissive attitude peeking through her answers…

Riza liked her.

←→

Twenty five hundred thousand dollars in debt. That’s how much you had accumulated by skipping legal repatriation orders to return to Earth. The agent had made your situation clear, it was to be paid in full by the end of the month or legal action would be taken. You were a model, displaying looks for Chanel Galactica every year in rotating shows around the Milky Way. But even if you were a millionaire with galactic currency, the Men in Black was wealthy enough to smash the conversion rate into something abysmal, every one dollar the equivalent to six galactic credits.

“To put it simply, Ms. Radivayon,” Agent N began, using your clan’s name, “You won’t make enough money this month to cover this debt without accepting a secondary offer from the Men in Black.”

A secondary offer, a plea deal. It was common with the Men in Black to seek asylum under special circumstances, and yours was especially, being that you had fled from the Tarantian occupied TRAPPIST-1 system, completely ignoring the usual diplomatic steps of repatriating yourself to Earth. It had been that or… Death by terrorists.

“Alright, I was hoping we could make an agreement.” you smiled, adjusting your collarbones into something more elegant.

It was common to spend time dolling yourself up, and you knew your angles after half a decade in the business. Agent N seemed oblivious to these tactics, however.

“A key diplomatic arrangement with a particularly volatile Tribrachian has been continuously delayed by interpersonal conflicts. To put it simply, Ms. Radivayon, we were hoping with your connections to the TRAPPIST-1 system that you would be willing to fulfill a mission with the Men in Black.” Agent N said, delicately avoiding telling you too much too soon.

“… Which would be?”

“Riza Stavros. Intergalactic weapons dealer.” Agent N said, turning his computer monitor to show you her picture.

Her face was familiar, and you tilted your head, curious. But then you processed the second half of his sentence. Weapon’s dealer, intergalactic. This woman wasn’t just a criminal, but a monster ten times over. She was supplying the terrorists that had attacked your system, and he was… Asking you to do what?

“She likes pretty things,” Agent N gestured to you, “Is easily swayed by them. We would like you to entertain her for a period of weeks, perhaps elevate her mood.”

The look on your face probably singed a few hairs on Agent N’s mustache; the way his face cringed was spectacularly noteworthy. What he was proposing was hardly ethical, and definitely legally dubious, considering prostitution and escorting was widely outlawed across several neighboring star systems, including this one.

“We’ve already made an agreement of sorts with her, you would be handsomely compensated on top of the erasure of your debt.” Agent N said, displaying a currency order of three million dollars, well worth 18 million intergalactic credits.

The money wasn’t convincing enough. You’d been offered similar things in the past, and dating such a volatile individual could put your current and future career opportunities in jeopardy.

“So you’re telling me that you’ve promised, what exactly? That I date her?” you asked, voice rising in pitch.

“Well, this is… Date to marry.”

“Date to what?!”

Again with that insufferable cringe of his mustache. It seemed more of a disdain thing than a fear reaction.

“At least agree to one date, Ms. Radivayon. This is intergalactic peace we’re discussing!”

You stared up at him in absolute shock. You had barely wrapped your head around the idea when he dropped another bomb.

“I’m afraid that if you do not accept this deal, we will be unable to cancel your fine and you will be deported come the end of the month.” 

Blackmail. Of course. You’d heard rumors of shady deals within the MiB, but considering how large its tourism and immigration sector was, you’d written it off as exaggeration. Large organizations didn’t last long if they were shady in other star systems. It appeared you’d been grievously misled.

“Now. We are not going to marry you off right away, Riza might not like you. There is hope yet, so don’t go all moping and wilting dreams on me just yet.” Agent N said in response to your shell-shocked expression. “You are a bright young lady, and we will not allow your career to be impacted in the adjustment periods.”

For as many words as this man routinely used, he said a whole lot of nothing.

“So. When is our first date?” you mumbled, leaning back into your chair with a dull glare.

The man seemed to brighten a little, completely ignoring the apathetic aura that hung over you like a dark cloud. You were screwed, not even just a little, but a lot. And if this Riza Stavros was as bad as she appeared to be, you’d be doing some literal screwing, regardless of how exploitative the dynamic was. Agent N gestured you up, opening a side door in his office. 

“That is up to her.” he said, making a simple gesture towards a figure inside.

Standing tall and proud in a large meeting room stood the most humanoid alien you’d stumbled upon yet. She looked exactly like the picture, her appearance glaringly zany, and over the top, but she had such well placed features that it only made her natural beauty more prominent. If she hadn’t been labeled as a Tribrachian, you would’ve glazed right over her cape and assumed those visible limbs of two arms and two legs summed her up into a human. She turned slowly, conversation dying around her as her blue-gray eyes landed squarely on you, like she’d drawn a target right on your face.

The room was silent. She stepped closer, feet clacking audibly over the concrete floor. Riza wasn’t afraid to get close, stopping six inches away from you, taking a moment to look. You looked at her, noting the faint signs of freckles under what you assumed to be full coverage foundation. Her hair felt too tall for her head, and it might’ve been the straight line of the bangs, but it also could’ve been a wig. She looked human. This close and you couldn’t tell a single difference from a human face to hers. Given how aesthetically pleasing she was, given the appearance she put out, the care she seemed to take in the way she presented herself, it made sense. Riza was desperately, painstakingly trying to appear as familiar and alluring as someone from your own race would be.

“Yes.” Riza sighed out, one of her hands reaching up towards you.

The hand stuttered, suddenly withdrawing. You looked down, trying to see which hand had been the culprit, but the rush of her cape gave it away. Riza had reached out with her third hand, one of the most vulnerable parts of her body, being that it wasn’t attached to the front, where she could see it. The soft crumple of her brow gave away the anxiety that came with such an impulsive gesture. It was… Human. Or intelligent, you supposed.

“Sorry, Ms. Stavros, yes as in…?” Agent N asked.

“Yes, as in I want her.” Riza replied, squaring her shoulders, the faux pas forgotten.

She’d appeared to brush off whatever the brief moment of familiarity had been. But she didn’t look away from you, her eyes remained locked on you, analyzing your expression, gauging whatever personality she could distinguish from the unconscious cues of your body.

“Well, let’s schedule the date-”

“Maybe I was not clear, Agent N,” Riza abruptly turned, the edge of her cape brushing over your heels, “I want her. I want the marriage contract.”

The room went quiet again. Your breath stuttered in your chest, and you fought to maintain your composure, but it was all too sudden, too authoritarian for you to refrain from objection.

“Ms. Stavros, your eagerness is noted, but Ms. Radivayon is to be protected with diplomatic immunity, the period of dating is mandatory.” 

All Riza did was pick up a contract from the table, tearing it right down the middle.

“Then it’s no deal.” she said, much to your immediate relief.

The other men in the room, all dressed in identical black suits converged, quietly discussing with themselves. Agent N turned, taking a fresh contract off of the printer. Time stretched on, and you felt awkward, entirely ignored by everyone, even Riza who made a point of keeping her back turned.

“An exception can be made, with limits. There will be an escape clause for Ms. Radivayon, but a pro bono marriage contract will be permitted.” Agent N cooley said, offering the both of you two crisp contracts.

You stared down, noting the ‘escape clause’ outlined. Only in the case of abuse, violent threats or special circumstances made at the Men in Black’s discretion could this contract end. Nothing about your career, about your freedoms, and to your horror, your signature was already printed. Beneath the line was an asterisk, “The above party has consented by assumption of citizenship.” Assumption of citizenship… Assumption of.. What? It was all too complicated and vague, it was happening too fast…

“Excuse me, but since when was there no ‘I do’ in this equation?” you snapped, voice betraying  the barest twinge of anxiety.

The men in the room looked at one another, each displaying their own subtle signs of discomfort. Riza herself raised a brow, displeased. Agent N’s mustache twitched again.

“Your ‘I do’ is a stipulation of your sanctuary on Earth. Otherwise you will be deported without due process. You are now legally, intergalactically recognized as the lawful spouse of this Ms. Riza Stavros.”

Whatever words of protest you had, the clever, spiteful, colorful phrases you were about to throw at every single one of these agents died. You didn’t have a choice. Without due process you had no way of extending residency on Earth, of seeking political asylum. The intergalactic courts had limited jurisdiction over Earth, and a plea would take… This was simply your only choice, blackmail or otherwise.

Riza had turned, looking at you slyly as she signed the contract in front of her. Agent N took it, nodding at Riza to move forward. She turned, sauntering over towards you with a pleased expression on her face.

“Well. Let’s skip the doom and gloom, come on love.” Riza hummed, extending one of her front hands for you to take.

It was too much for you to process both your arranged marriage and now the expectancy of touch. You clasped your hands together, completely avoiding her eyes. Her hand could shrivel and fall off, you’d never take it anyways. 

“I need to gather my things from the hotel.” 

Your voice sounded as shaky and unsure as you felt. The excuse was weak, she knew it was weak. Riza’s face twitched. It could have been a tell for a thousand different thoughts and emotions, but you didn’t know Riza. Not one bit. But she, for better or worse, held the reins in your union; you were married until she got bored. You prayed it would be sooner than later.

“... You don’t seriously believe you’ll need anything, do you?” Riza’s face crinkled.

The face twitch was a tell of anger, a tell you picked up on too late.

“I understand you’re impatient-” you tried.

“I am. There’s nothing to wait for, no reason to delay.” Riza huffed, crossing her three arms in an almost pretzel-like shape.

Agent N gestured to Riza from behind her back, looking at you imploringly. Everyone was being affected by your delays. 

“You can’t make one allowance for me? Everything I own is in that hotel. I am tempted to make an ultimatum.” you said, glaring up at her sourly.

Riza took a long breath in, her face set into an unblinking mask of consideration. She adjusted her cloak on her shoulders, reaching up to fix her bangs.

��Fine. Can her things be sent for?” Riza asked, pursing her lips.

“Yes. I will have them sent to your ship by the hour.” Agent N said, opening the door and departing.

The agents frantically shuffled out, leaving you alone with this perfect, dangerous stranger. The room grew awkward. You didn’t make conversation, both out of spite and sheer incompetence. What do you say to a weapons dealer that’s more or less bought your hand in marriage? Could you say anything casual, or even mildly conversational without growing sarcastic or cynical? Probably not. She must have felt that same barrier, because she just stared. Her blue eyes looked almost inhumanly piercing when they were framed in the dark kohl. It made the very action of opening your mouth to speak impossible. There was a five pound bag of sand atop your tongue, and it filled your throat with grainy substrate until the very act of breathing felt like defiance. 

“This isn’t the ideal way to meet the person you’re supposed to be married to.” Riza drawled, examining her nails.

You let out a deep breath, letting out a tired laugh. She seemed moderately pleased with the reaction, stepping closer.

“No it’s not.”

Once again she sighed, making a motion for you to follow her as she made her way out of the door.

“Come on.” Riza tiredly gestured, hardly sparing a backwards glance.

←→

Riza lived in paradise. A beautiful island, tropical weather and enough employees to keep her fortress supplied with all of the necessities a girl could wish for. But since yesterday you hadn’t seen her. The marriage contract had been signed, you’d taken a residential air ship out to her island… And then she’d disappeared into her office. You were left to unpack your things, to fill a small section of the master bedroom you were to share with Riza. That was the only direction she’d given, to make yourself at home. Underneath a palm tree, sipping a mojito… It was as good as it was going to get for you. Riza’s voice broke the silence before her presence did.

“... Yes, I know. We had an agreement, I was to ship those blasters out last Wednesday, but supply is low, and I have to find new channels for weapons distributions. I’m in an arrangement with MiB and the Intergalactic councils… Well that’s not my fault is it?” Riza drawled, slipping beside you on the padded swingset without sparing a glance.

Her third arm snaked around your middle, pulling you close without even hinting at a request to do so. Her argument with her client had ripped whatever sense of relaxation from you, and the continued argument, the touching, the lack of boundaries was enough for you to start seeing red.

“No, I don’t do contracts by word of mouth. No. I said no. I’m forwarding you to my secretary.” Riza finished, hanging up her phone and dropping it a moment later. 

The tribrachian gave a long, exhaustive sigh, slumping back into the cushions of the swingset. She finally turned to look at you, a pleased hum rumbling from her chest. The glare you were giving her didn’t seem to phase her one bit, merely giving a sympathetic frown in response.

“I know. I’ve been neglecting my little wife because of work.” Riza cooed, entirely assumptive regarding your feelings. “I’m here now. I promise we’ll be able to get in some time for a proper honeymoon in a month or two.”

Honeymoon. You almost gagged. Riza outright laughed at your disgust, curling closer to you instead of pulling away.

“You’re my wife, dear. Not my slave. I know it’s early yet to be having intimacies.” Riza said, taking a sneaky whiff of your hair. “And yet I’m quite impatient. You’ve been on my mind since I got the booklet.”

The booklet? Had the MiB given her a catalogue, some sort of ‘mail order bride’ in exchange for her cooperation with diplomatic relations? The thought felt both nauseating and ironic. She’d had a choice, so much so that you’d been her first choice. And yet what were you but a pawn? Choosing between death or arranged marriage.

“Darling, we are going to have the time of our lives here pretty soon.” Riza promised, trying and failing to counter your resistance against her caresses.

“The time of your life.” you snapped, abandoning your mojito in the hopes of slipping out of her unwanted clutches.

Riza let out a plaintative groan, something distinctly childish, spoiled. 

“Come on, I just sat down!” 

She followed you through the garden, making repetitive swipes at your arms until you were practically running from her. Birds cawed and screeched in alarm as you took a detour through a large cluster of foliage, navigating the bark dust in flimsy house shoes. She caught up quickly, practically outpacing you even with the various tree branches smacking at her face. Her arms encircled you, a growl of victory against your ear when a tree root caught your ankle, sending you careening into a patch of fancy azaleas. Riza’s desperate grasp, the unbalanced attempt to stop your running brought her crashing down with you, crumpled in a heap of fancy azaleas.

Her elbow, met your ribs, your skull her chin, and your leg her crotch. The two of you were left groaning, tangled in each other’s limbs as the world spun. Riza was the first to move, gently untangling her arms from you until she could rest on her side. Your head had smacked against a stone paver. Not hard enough to be concussive, but hard enough to hurt. 

“Bitch. I hit my head.” you whined, trying to slip out of her arms.

“Yeah? You kneed my crotch. Asshole.” Riza wheezed, face scrunched up in immense pain.

You wanted to laugh, to find vindication at her complaint, but a part of you paused. There was something about the Tribrachian species, an old joke you’d heard about their culture. ‘Even if the men have strong arms,  the women have bigger dicks to compensate.’ It had been vulgar, a bit weird and what you assumed to be a metaphor. But now…

“You don’t have anything… Delicate down there, do you?” 

Riza stared up at you in pained anguish, letting out a laugh that turned into a moan of pain.

“Just… The family jewels.” she gasped, her third arm wrapped protectively around what you assumed to be her pubic bone.

It wasn’t a rumor, not at all. Tribrachian woman had… Penises. Full on appendages dangling between their legs. Riza’s breathing only got more labored, and she rolled you onto your side, slumping against you.

“Get… Get off!” you groaned, trying to push her off with no success.

Your head hurt like a bitch, and putting pressure on it lying on your side was making it worse.

“Stop, stop. Let me…” Riza groaned, finally adjusting her pelvis until your knee wasn’t poking into it. 

An arm slipped beneath your neck, elevating your head. The pressure went away, replaced with only dull throbbing. The fight had left you, all that remained was exhaustion and a bit of pain.

“You hit your head?” Riza broke the silence, carefully bringing her third hand down, stroking over the tender spot.

Her voice was so low, genuinely concerned instead of performative. You met her eyes, looking beyond the dark kohl, beyond the strange hair… Riza was quite pretty. As pretty as the first glance, but now you were recognizing it again.

“Yeah.” 

Riza gently pulled you closer, making herself comfortable in the patch of trampled flowers.

“I’m not as shallow as you think I am.” Riza began, gently tapping your nose. “I have an eye for beauty, for beautiful things, but I was given a choice between twenty beautiful humans. I liked the way you stare at the camera, like you’re challenging it.”

Every word spoken seemed to bring her lips closer, her eyes tender, but hungry. It filled you with a spike of excitement, seeing her so focused on you. The attention was flattering, at the very least.

“Your attitude is….” Riza began, breaking off into a flustered chuckle, leaning in until your foreheads were a few inches apart. “Don’t let me scare you away, okay pumpkin?”

You rolled your eyes, picking up on her desire for closeness. One gentle tilt of your head was all it took for Riza to finally kiss you, lips meeting in a tender, searching smooch. 

“You gonna let me up now?” you whispered against her lips, opening her eyes to catch her staring softly. “Absolutely not.” she snorted, bringing you to straddle her lap as those three arms wrapped tighter around you. “I’m having the time of my life.”

[ilovehotactresses]

YAYAYAYAY

peliz give me some MoM (evil??) wanda headcanonc or thoughts!!!!

- MoM wanda still makes tea every morning, and she’s decent at it but the tea leaves at the sanctuary aren’t the same ones she’s been using while living where she was after wv, so she keeps making it too bitter or too diluted

- has sprained a finger at some point and for some reason can only fixed sprained things on others, like the sheep she was living with at the beginning of the movie, but not on herself, so she’s been trying to find a way to cast it up diy style

- every night since being corrupted she hasn’t been able to dream. during the day she moves between multiverses so often that her actual subconscious dreams come to her when she’s awake, since her body sleeps and her mind goes elsewhere. so her reality is basically all mush and a mess

- anyone around her, say, wong while he was captured, would witness her often in a state of confusion, feeling unsure what parts of her memory were from other multiverses or her present one. she might forget facts or misremember which multiverse she recalls things from

- isn’t a very reactive person. anger isn’t often expressed externally or physically, and any mental or emotional turmoil is kept internal. in many ways it contributes to what a mess her perception of time and reality are, since on the outside she seems entirely organized

[ilovehotactresses]

i love me a crazy woman AND BELLALALAALLALAALLL

Gentle Hands Part Four

Ilsa Faust x Fem!Reader

Summary: The mundane has overtaken the life you once knew. Have things changed for the better?

Warnings: Emetophobia warning- R vomits, mentions of nausea/vomiting

A/N: ... Long time no see. I hope this olive branch meets your needs! I plan to open my inbox in the near future, (YIPPEE!), more series updates coming soon!

Word Count: 3.3k

She groans in the morning, her hair falling over her shoulders like a pelt, a living part of an animal with pearly teeth and brush sculpted features. Her hands dig into your thighs, first unconsciously, and then a little harder as she wakes. Ilsa’s breathing is distinctly feminine, much softer than her blunt nails that tend to leave marks in your flesh to match her desperation. It’s been almost six months since the imprisonment began, since you watched the last bits of your autonomy fall away at the hand of this angel-faced machevellian, this elfin maiden with brutality built into her every action. But on this morning she’s much softer, her nails receding, pulling away from your flesh not unlike the claws of a cat receding into their paw. Ilsa nuzzles, presses soft kisses to your neck where dark bruises were forming.

You’d caved, done the one thing you’d promised never to do after the first intimate encounter. And then the second, the third, and so on until you knew that this particular promise rang hollow like the rest. Her kisses were fire, her tongue the water that cooled them. It had been just as sexually fulfilling as every other, you couldn’t resist the way she touched your body. Guilt followed, like it always did. Freedom was a point in the distance, a benchmark that moved further and further away the more you gave in; allowed her to maintain her control. So when she started kissing your throat, her hand creeping down to stroke over your pubic bone, you tensed like always.

“Don’t.” Ilsa whispered, sounding more pleading than demanding. 

It gave you pause, hearing just how sad she sounded, genuinely exhausted with the dance you two played after every bi-monthly encounter with each other’s bodies. So you took a breath in, opening your mouth to argue. What came out was a weak squeak, a warble that sounded too indecisive to be a cough or a wheeze.

“We don’t have to go again.” Ilsa continued, that wandering hand cupping your hip instead. “... I just want more time holding you. I never get all that I want.”

Never got all that she wanted. You didn’t laugh at it, the irony of her words had lost all comedic light for some time. Ilsa was never satisfied, always whiling somewhere around the house, finding ways to improve the routine that had become your hell; her purgatory.

“Ilsa, I want to call my Mom.” you said, tapping her shoulder mindlessly, feeling all too fragile in the moment.

Ilsa didn’t respond for a moment, choosing to nuzzle into your neck, her mouth half open, like she was trying to taste you and smell you all at once. It felt like she was trying to devour you, sizing you up to devour your flesh like she’d devoured your time, energy and hesitant affection.

“... You can call her whenever, I told you that you have access to your phone whenever you’d like.” Ilsa replied, trying to be placating, the ‘good cop.’

“No, I want to call her unsupervised. My access to my phone is always supervised, you’ve completely revoked any true autonomy I have.” you said, more hollow than argumentative.

A low growl came from Ilsa’s throat, one you knew not to fear. Silence was the indicator of Ilsa’s rage. If she was still voicing her frustrations in one way or another, she could be reasoned with. 

“Don’t say that awful word. I monitor you for your safety, nothing more.” she replied, sing song.

Again her nails dug into your thighs, a pain so normal that you were sick of it, willing to indulge her in intimate touch if she would simply stop. Your hands slid up her neck, beginning to stroke at her tense muscles, coaxing her anger down, bringing out the soft purr that seemed to vibrate from her whenever she was pleased.

“You know I’m too tired of fighting to tell her anything silly.” you murmured, scratching her scalp now.

Maybe it was the dullness of your tone, or the fact that you’d skipped the usual cleansing cold-shoulder routine you pulled after sex, but Ilsa seemed to relax, to believe. 

“... Alright princess.” she murmured, using the one nickname that still felt genuine. “One call. If I listen back and hear anything amiss there will be consequences.” she cooed, entirely too patronizing.

The muscles of your throat spasmed, tightening up as bile crept up your throat. You felt suddenly very sick, very certain that you were trapped forever in Ilsa’s grasp. The anxiety hadn’t come from nowhere, it was the air. You’d woken up fighting nausea. She must’ve heard the pained grunt you let out, or noticed that sallow hue to your skin because she was just as quickly sitting up, pulling you until your head was between your knees.

“It must’ve been the Chablis.” Ilsa murmured, blaming the alcohol instead of herself, like she usually did. “We should cut it out of your diet.”

The thought of diet restrictions only made that anxiety worse, your nausea doubling. The control she had, the way she continuously hooked her fingers into all aspects of your being was sickening, more than any wine or food.

“No! Please.” you whimpered, trying to move, to slip out of the bed and make it to the toilet.

Ilsa was faster, capitalizing on your vulnerability to guide you to the bathroom, hands under your arms that you didn’t need, hands pulling your hair back that you didn’t want; didn’t ask for. You vomited, emptying everything out of your stomach, tears slipping down your cheeks in sobs. It was therapeutic in a way, the emptying of your body, the relief that came when it was over. Ilsa was there, gently pulling you back, rocking you in her arms as she cooed softly. 

“It’s alright, we moved too fast for morning, I know, I know.” she murmured, kissing the bridge of your nose with suffocating tenderness.

Vulnerability had clawed an open cavern inside of you, aching for any sort of affection, any sort of love. You were clay in her hands, lying soft, limp. You shut your eyes so you didn’t have to look at her, to meet crystal blue eyes and know she saw you for the mess she’d made you. But no judgement came, just the soft wipe of a moist towelette, the smell of baby powder and cleansing balm. 

“What do you want for breakfast, princess?” Ilsa murmured, speaking into the crown of your hair.

“… Pancakes.” 

<->

Something seemed off about you. Ilsa had noticed it early on, the way you seemed so apathetic towards her morning advances. The breakdown had made sense, she’d overwhelmed you, pushed her luck too far. But the vomiting was extreme, a sign of psychological distress Ilsa didn’t like. She resolved to be delicate, sensitive to your needs, the needs of a girl too brittle for much more poking.

For the last few months Ilsa had been looking into therapeutic techniques to help those adjusting to stressful environments. Routine was a huge factor for comfort, reliability of conditions and health both played a role. So Ilsa started with minimal talking in the mornings, let you get up and brush your teeth, wash your face, even put on music.

Doomscrolling was a no. Excessive gaming, reading, engaging in social media… Ilsa had put restrictions on those from the get go. You’d benefited from the routine initially, growing physically fit, continuously engaging in home improvement and even spending quality time with Ilsa, and the monitored calls with friends and family.

The past month? A plateau. 

This breakdown seemed to be rock bottom, one Ilsa was almost sure she didn’t have the expertise to navigate. She cooked the pancakes one handed, the other wrapped around your back. For whatever reason you hadn’t let go of Ilsa since the bathroom, another alarming change. 

The closeness was nice, but the abrupt shift in behavior felt… Troublesome. 

“Blueberries in your pancakes?” Ilsa asked, hoping to dispel her own anxiety with the mundane.

“… Yes.” you decided after a moment, decision fatigued.

Ilsa hummed once, sneaking a few kisses in between pancake flips, hoping to stir any reaction out of you, even disdain. Your eyes remained listless, your face entirely too blank. She set the cooked pancakes to the side, cupping your face in her hands.

“… (Reader).” *she said, using your name.

You seemed to see her now, and the exhaustion in your eyes was clear.

“Can I call my Mom now?”

<->

You were curled in Ilsa’s lap, not because you had to but because it was the closest to steady you felt. The phone call with your Mom hadn’t helped much. You explained your new part time job, let Ilsa talk about the home renovations a bit and adamantly assured them both you were doing just fine.

It wasn’t true, you weren’t fine. But the best you had was Ilsa’s lap, a TV buzzing in front of you to dull out what touch didn’t. Something had shifted, perhaps it was your perspective, or maybe the fight had drained out of you. Ilsa’s body was warm, her heartbeat steady. You could bury your nose in her neck and know the smell before you breathed it in. Confusing familiarity and affection was dangerous, but to an extent they were related. It was you that broke the silence.

“… Can we just stay in our pajamas today?” you murmured, face squished against her bare collarbone.

Ilsa turned, looking down at you with an uncharacteristically gentle expression on her face.

“Would that make you feel better?” she murmured, her tone coaxing for once.

The attentiveness she was showing didn’t feel performative, the stiffness of her body betraying just how nervous she was about being so close, so comfortable with you. Preservation made her placating. The two of you were finally hearing each other.

“Yeah. I just need an off day.” you sighed, resting your head against her shoulder.

A low chuckle came from Ilsa, and she pulled you tighter, pressing soft kisses to your hairline. 

“We all do sometimes. We’ll have an off day, maybe an off week. As long as you’re feeling more like yourself.”

Yourself. A person you hadn’t felt the space to be in sometime. The depression, the extreme anxiety and fits of nausea were all connected to something so simple, you realized. Ilsa had taken such an autocratic approach to your life, it was a form of abduction after all. If you were able to learn how to be yourself in it, accept that Ilsa was an inevitable cornerstone in this new way of living…

This had to be Stockholm’s slipping into your brain and delicately tweaking the wires a day at a time. The awareness that you were trauma bonded with Ilsa didn’t make the truth any easier to swallow. It was guilt that kept you from making use of your freedom.

Guilt, of course. That’s all it was, and as you say in Ilsa’s lap, hearing the distant explosions of the tv in the background, you resolved to feel a little less guilty about enjoying Ilsa’s presence in your life.

<->

“No please… Uhhh… I can’t take anymore… Please! I can’t…!” Ilsa moaned, clutching at the bed rails.

You giggled, digging your fingers into the awful knot in her back. She’d been putting off physical therapy for some time, and now she was paying for it, scented oils aiding the slip of your hands as you brutally worked out all the lactic acid in her muscles.

“You’re such a baby. If you let me take care of this every other day it wouldn’t hurt so bad.” you cooed, nibbling at her trapezius as your thumbs dug into her lower back.

A disgruntled whine was her nippy response. Ilsa didn’t want to admit you were right, especially when she was at the receiving end of your attention, and witness of her wrongness.

“It hurtssssss.” 

“I said I would kiss it better after, just let me finish these muscles.” you coaxed, eyeing the ripple of her back as she belligerently winced away from your massage.

True to your word you rained kisses down along her spine, earning a soft sigh from Ilsa. She languidly rolled around, torso exposed as she yawned. It was late, probably two am on a Thursday. Ilsa had been tossing and turning, too sore to sleep. Ibuprofen hadn’t shut her up, she’d been too frustrated to try anything else.

“Can’t sleep…” she whined, pulling you down against her chest. 

It was hot enough that the two of you had elected to sleep naked, the simple sheet clinging to your back. Ilsa smelled just a little stinky, the kind that was comforting instead of repelling. You amused yourself with kissing her belly, tracing over lightly defined abs and soft skin.

“Tease.” she hoarsely whispered, hands slipping into your hair.

That was no reason to quit, but you knew she was warning you. Push further and the two of you would be awake until morning. So you crawled up, curling in her arms until your face was squished in her boobs.

“Favorite place?” Ilsa smirked.

“Maybe.”

“Mrrrrrrh?” Bella chirped from the foot of the bed, curious as to why you were awake.

“Nosey Nelly.” Ilsa stuck her tongue out at the black and white fuzzball.

Instead of scolding Ilsa, you opted for a direct response, scraping your teeth at the underside of her boob.

“Heyyyyyyyy.” Ilsa whined, tugging at your hair in response.

It was all fun, and you curled into her arms properly, head on the pillow.

“Be nice to my baby.” you murmured, no bite to your tone.

“… But I’m your baby.” Ilsa pouted.

“No.” you smirked. “Bella is the baby. She’s my baby, has been longer than I’ve known you.”

Ilsa let out a long, dramatic sigh, milking the performance for sympathy she wasn’t likely to get,

“I hate it when animals come between us.” 

“There’s a lot more than just a cat between us.” you sardonically quipped, earning a cackle of delight from Ilsa.

“Still sore over the kidnapping thing?” she preened, showing not one ounce of remorse.

“I’m an adult, it’s abduction.” you said, fighting off that nagging frustration that rose to the surface whenever your situation was made so transparent.

Sensing your emotional discomfort, Ilsa pulled you closer, soothing with soft kisses over your cheekbones and the bridge of your nose until those lingering upsets faded back into subconscious.

“Goodnight, my love.” she whispered.

You hummed once, mulling over those words as sleep crept over you like a bandit in the night. ‘My’ implied possession, a degree of ownership that should’ve felt as discomforting as candidly referencing the truth of Ilsa’s relationship with you. Instead it felt tender, remotely true. It stirred something lovesick and hopeful in you, breaking out the softest of truths in your psyche.

“I love you too.” you whispered, barely audible against her neck.

It wasn’t what she had said, but you suspected it had been the closest Ilsa was ever going to come to uttering a similar confession. Her breath hitched all the same and she held you crushingly tight, breathing unsteady.

“Oh princess…” she rasped. “I’m the luckiest woman alive.”

And then her chest heaved, a spasm that was too close to a sob to be intentional. Wet tears slipped into your hair, mingling with her rapid breaths. It was you who bridged the gap, tilting your head up to meet her lips in a messy, uncoordinated kiss. The rhythm came slowly, your lips slipping into a familiar dance. She tasted like the salt of her tears, cherry tobacco that still lingered after brushing her teeth. 

Ilsa was a tender animal, capable of immense destruction and immeasurable patience. It had won your heart, this earnest commitment to waiting until you were able to love, to get past the birth of your relationship and appreciate the person behind the wrongdoing.

If it had stayed this simple, the two of you might’ve been set for life.

<~-~>

The computer screen blared blue-white in the dark bedroom. Ilsa was gone, out on an early morning jog, something she’d picked up now that the seasons were changing, the weather more fair. It was insufferable, the computer turning on and off at seemingly random intervals. You resolved to set it right, hauling yourself out of yours and Ilsa’s bed to fix the issue.

Spamming the space bar a few times brought up the log in information. You yawned, clicking on Ilsa’s account out of curiosity. A password, three step verification appeared. There was an option to log in via a mobile device,  Ilsa’s phone buzzing on the desk. You clicked at the notification, typing in Ilsa’s phone password twice. It worked, immediately opening the computer. 

The mouse moved aimlessly around the computer as you searched for a button to mute notifications, at least temporarily. There was nothing about this computer that seemed to be commercial, but the documents and folders made no sense. Abbreviations, odd nicknames for files… It was Ilsa’s madness you assumed. Until you found a file titled with your initials. It wasn’t your business, it could’ve been coincidence. 

You decided to click on it anyways. 

Videos. Loads and loads of videos all organized into files. Your neck prickled in alarm, foreboding, the cursor slipping towards a file titled ‘Best hits’. The door creaking open didn’t stop you, your finger double clicking the file and displaying video after video titled with a location and a date.

Ilsa’s face went white, her hands moving too fast, and yet not fast enough. She was panicking, mumbling words, demands, pleads all at once.

“Stop… Stop, don’t click… (Reader) please! I can explain everything…”

The first video loaded just as soon as her hand grasped yours in a painfully tight grip. ‘December 22nd, bedroom’.

You’d been right all along, she did have cameras. And she recorded everything, every intimate encounter, compiled into files. It wasn’t a minor breach of privacy, of trust and consent… Ilsa had a colorful past, even if she did know how to encrypt files there was no guarantee that she was keeping these videos private.

Moans came from the speakers. You remembered this night, remembered the sex faintly, moreso the Christmas decorating that happened before it. It wasn’t disgust you felt, there was no urge to vomit, even if it made you slightly queasy to know she’d video taped it all. Calmness flowed into your body, a sure sign of adrenaline. Ilsa’s face was the first thing you saw when you turned your head.

Blue, teary and terrified eyes stared back at you, her hand was shaking over yours, her entire body was shaking. Silence stretched between you.

“… I’ll delete it all, every file, I can wipe the computer.” she hoarsely whispered, lip trembling with suppressed sobs.

Your response felt… Outside of yourself. You didn’t recognize the head shaking, the sudden conviction you felt. It was certainty, relief. Things had been too good to be true for too long, and now the pin had dropped. This was what you had known all along, and the relief to be right outweighed the emotional distress that would come later.

“I’m moving out tomorrow.” you said. “This isn’t something that we can come back from, and deleting the files is the bare minimum.”

You stood, ignoring the way Ilsa clawed at your midsection, holding you with strength you’d only theorized she had.

“No, no, please.” she sobbed, pressing sloppy, revolting kisses to your neck and shoulder. “I’ll fix it all, I’ll fix this, we never have to have sex again!”

She dropped, bringing you down to the floor with her. Her grasp, her wails and sobs were like the wallpaper, boring, known and routine. Light was creeping through the windows, inching towards your toes. Hands were no longer gentle, she no longer had any power.

Tag List: @bjoerkumlaut, @lovelyy-moonlight, @coffee-is-my-oxygen, @appparadox407 @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange @itsfleetwoodmac

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[ilovehotactresses]

A Mother With No Heart Will Give Love

pairing: mentor!Agatha x reader

summary: you always believed your mentor had a heart. one lonely night, you find yourself with the proof that agatha harkness can be just as vulnerable as anyone.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

It was nighttime. You were both outside, in the small wooded area surrounding Westview, slowly finishing up the day’s lesson. It was on Earth magic, Green Craft-- as you’d read in the books, and you wondered briefly why Agatha had saved it for last. Almost as if she were avoiding it. It had gotten dark, slowly but surely, the sun setting behind the small town, the last of its rays disappearing from your face in a slow, bleeding backdrop of color and light as you watched Agatha pack up all your stuff. You were feeling good, content with the day’s outcome, maybe because it was a little different from what you considered the usual.

You were used to staying in the basement and listening to her talk about spells, enchantments, how to channel magic and do useful things, how to defend yourself. But today when you came down with a mug in your hand and your notebook in the other, your mentor shot you a coy smirk, and said to finish your tea and get your jacket. You’d be having a lesson outside today.

So, as you sat on a tree log, shoes shuffling absentmindedly in the dirt, you couldn’t help but notice that Agatha, usually composed, formidable and proficient, seemed slightly off tonight. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing maybe, but she seemed softer towards you somehow, more gentle. You’d take all the affection she gave of course, but you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying a little. It wasn’t like her.

You watched her stacking the few books you’d brought with you, dusting off her dark blue coat.

“Agatha?” you asked carefully.

She looked up at you, “Yes, pet?”

“Is everything okay?”

She smiled at you. Smiled. “Of course, dear. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Don’t know. “ you murmured, “You just… seem a little… I don’t know. Nicer.”

She scoffed. “Please. I’m not nice.” A tad of her usual snark returning.

You gave her a smile, short, nodding, and coughed a little. It was getting cold, and you wished you’d brought a better jacket. Something warmer maybe. A sweater to keep you from freezing on the walk back to the house.

Agatha paused.

You could’ve sworn her hand wavered, the book she was holding almost slipping from her grip. You frowned. That was an odd reaction. Especially for her. Before you could ask anything else she was there beside you, shrugging off her coat and draping it around your shoulders. The words you had died in your throat. One of her hands ghosted across your shoulder, smoothing down the fabric there and sending a wave of warmth from her touch down your arm.

You looked up at her, trying to gauge her expression.

“Thanks.” you murmured softly.

She didn’t answer right away, but her hand stayed on yours, moving lightly to your back, ghosting across your hair.

You didn’t move. Didn’t dare to, not wanting to break the moment of sudden tenderness.

She sat beside you. You stayed still. Then she spoke, her voice still holding a hint of her knowing confidence, but there was warmth there too, a soft, gentle something coating every word of her tone.

“I need you to promise me something, pet.”

You turned to look at her. “Promise what?”

“That this...what we’re doing, what I’m trying to teach you, you take it seriously. I know it may not seem like it but—”

“I take it seriously.” you said, quiet, “You’re a good teacher.” It was a half-truth. She was teasing and tough on you sometimes, pushing you to do things over and over until you felt like there was no magic left in your hands, but she could be kind, too. Sometimes. Rarely. In her own, Agatha way. You knew that she cared more than she let on. And you wouldn’t have anyone else teach you but her.

You watched some unspoken emotion drift behind her blue eyes, somehow bright against the dark twilight that surrounded you.

“Good.” she said. “Flattery won’t get you everywhere, dear, but it’s good you’re listening. You’ll need it all one day.”

“I know.” you said, “I want to learn magic, and you’re amazing at it, and—”

“It’s not just about learning it. It’s about protecting yourself.”

You stayed quiet. “I’m safe here.” you said, “I’m with you, and—”

“And one day I might not be there to come save you from whatever mess you find yourself in.” she spoke, each word sharp and clear. “I won’t be here forever, you know. And it’s vital you learn as much as you can while I’m here to show you how to do it right, to survive—”

You frowned a little. “The world isn’t going to eat me. I don’t go looking for trouble, you know.”

Again, it was a half-truth.

Yes, you didn’t go looking for trouble, but also yes, trouble did seem to find you, maybe because it was one of the many perks of being around Agatha Harkness for long.

“You say that now, but you being a witch is more than enough to land you into danger.”

“Do witch hunters still exist?”

She sighed. Deep.

“It’s not just that. You can’t trust anyone. Even other witches. Especially other witches.”

And you realized what this was. You always knew, of course, how could you not do the simplest research on the person you’d ask to teach you magic, but you never dared to ask.

Your eyes went to the brooch dangling on her necklace, the thin golden chain, three white figures on a dark slab of oval stone. And of course, she noticed at once. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

No snark, no sarcasm, no deflection.

Instead her hand, one that wasn’t still playing with the ends of your hair, rose slightly, the tips of her fingers brushing against the pendant.

“It was my mother’s.” she said, quietly. “A useless thing, really, passed down in our family, some dusty heirloom she never intended to give me. I only took it after—”

She didn’t have to finish for you to understand.

You didn’t speak yet. Just thought.

How that must have felt for her, young, maybe as old as you were now, alone, standing in the middle of the aftermath of her own power, the only people in her life dead by her hands, her magic, her own fear and power. How alone she must have felt, you thought. How angry, how afraid. Of course she wouldn’t show it. But you knew. If anyone did, you supposed it was you, knowing that Agatha Harkness did have a heart. You saw the proof every day, soft pats on the head, a tea or coffee handed to you in the middle of studying, the warmth of a mug pressed into your hand, the quiet, soft, gentle hum of her magic washing over you every time she did something sweet, even if she would deny it when asked.

“She wasn’t a loving person.” she murmured. “She was cold, always seeing magic as something to be controlled, same as people. Same as her coven. But she couldn’t control me.”

You didn’t say anything.

“I’m telling you because I need you to know, hun. People always betray you. You can’t trust anyone, even if they’re your coven. Your family. Your sisters. And having too much knowledge or power can make them turn against you like that—”

She snapped her fingers, so suddenly that you flinched.

“And no matter how much power or magic or knowledge you get, you always end up alone. You need to learn to deal with it. Get used to that feeling. Don’t let it control you.”

“But you’re not alone.” you murmured.

She tilted her head to look down at you. “You say that now, but—”

“No.” you interrupted, suddenly feeling the urge to let her know just how much her presence means to you, “I’m not. I mean it. I’m not going to leave you. Or betray you, I wouldn’t, ever—”

“I know, hun.” she murmured. “I know you wouldn’t. I believe you. But I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.

That surprised you.

“W-what?”

She just shook her head, a distant look in her eyes, “The things I’ve done dear, they’re not decent. They’re not good in any way. And I don’t regret them. Any of them.”

And yet you saw a glimpse of something in her eyes that made you think otherwise.

And then you thought maybe, maybe you were just as twisted as her, because you didn’t care. At that moment, looking at her through the soft moonlight, seeing her look so vulnerable for once, so different and alone, you didn’t have it in you to resent her.

You knew what she’d done. Killed other witches, took their powers, fought so many people, but--

All you wanted to do was reassure her somehow, make her feel safe.

Make her feel as safe as she made you feel.

So you hugged her.

She stiffened immediately, shoulders tensing at the sudden contact, a soft huff escaping her in surprise. “Uh—”

You didn’t let go. Held on tighter. Her arms, hovering hesitantly around you, lowered a little, just barely brushing against your back.

“You’re not bad, Agatha.” you told her quietly. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, and I’m not leaving you-- ever—”

She huffed again, but you went on.

“No. I mean it. I promise. I’ll stay with you, and learn more magic, and-- and I’ll stay until you get bored of me and kick me out.”

You thought you felt her smile against you. Just faintly. Just a little. “Get bored of you, hun? Now that’s impossible.”

It made you smile in return. And, since this was apparently turning into some sort of heart-to-heart talk, the kind that Agatha Harkness never does, well, you thought, might as well--

“Thank you for looking after me.” you made out.

She didn’t reply right away.

“Don’t say it like that darling, you’re making me sound like some sort of-- caring—”

You giggled. She gave you an offended look, pulling away a little, and you couldn’t help but pout. She snorted. “You’re so needy.”

“No, I’m not-”

“Oh, yes. You are. Needy and clingy and must you be so affectionate all the time, honestly it’s like watching a baby kitten.”

“Kittens are cute.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. Quiet fell upon you for a moment, and you didn’t let go of her arm, just listening to the soft stillness of the woods around you, the gentle movements of leaves against the late-night breeze. A gust of wind swindled past you, making you shiver slightly. You felt her arm shift to pull you just a bit closer. Though you knew she wouldn’t admit it. You leaned against her, silent, feeling slightly shy at the emotional moment this was turning into. You ducked your head against her, rested your chin against her arm. She didn’t move away.

“You know,” she said softly, “sometimes… Sometimes I wonder why you’re still here. Why you insist on staying with me. You should be running away.”

“I’d never run from you. Not like that.”

And you meant it. You couldn’t imagine yourself running away from her, not in fear like she was expecting you to.

She sighed, the sound reverberating against you. “You’re far too sweet for someone like me, you know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because…” another sigh, soft, almost sad, “You make it really hard not to care for you. And I don’t do that. Not ever. Not since…”

“Since what?”

“Not since… since my son.” she murmured softly, so quiet you almost missed it. “My… Nicholas. And those last few days...”

You didn’t move. You weren’t sure what to say, how to--

“You remind me of him so much sometimes, you know?” she said, still so quiet, “You’re both so happy, so innocently optimistic and carefree and-- you don’t-- see me like everyone else does. You look at me like-” she paused again, “like I’m…”

You looked up at her and were taken off guard to see tears in her eyes, a rare sight, and you wondered how many had seen her like that and lived.

“Like what?” you whispered, softly.

“I’m not good for you sweetheart. You shouldn’t be spending your time with a cynical old witch like me, looking at me like that—like you think there’s some good left in me. Trust me there isn’t.”

Your heart hurt.“That’s not true.”

Agatha chuckled wetly. You reached up to hold her hand before she could pull away.

“Truth is, hun, you make me feel things I thought I buried-- with—” she turned away. “It’s not good for my-- my reputation.”

You hugged her again.

She hugged you back, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close, more tightly than you’d felt in a long, long while.

“You make me want to be less… cruel, hun.”

“Is that really so bad?” you murmured softly.

She shook her head, just barely, pressed her face into your hair. You felt tears, warm, wet, sliding down her cheeks and into your hair, to your face. You didn’t move. Just held on tighter.

“I’ll always stick with you.” you murmured. “I...I won’t leave you. Ever.”

She exhaled against you, breath trembling slightly. “You stay safe for me hun, okay? I need to know, I need to know you’re listening to me when you’re here, when—”

“I’m listening.” you said, soft but firm. “I promise I am. And you’ll teach me more about protection spells, and about runes, and-- and we can haul up in your basement if something comes for us, and you can kill it and save us.”

She chuckled tearfully.

You could her her sniffling, her hands momentarily leaving your back to presumably wipe her eyes. You didn’t turn, letting her pull herself together. When you thought she did, a little at least, you pulled your head back slightly and glanced up.

Her blue eyes were wet with tears, slightly red and glassy, seeming more pale than usual.

It scared you a little, seeing your Agatha, usually so composed and tough, reduced to tears over-- what?

You?

Her son?

Her-- grief, and--

“I worry about you, pet.” she said finally, her voice frail for once. “Sometimes I look at you and think you’ll change your mind one day, that you’ll see how… how I really am. How b—”

“I won’t. I see you, Agatha.” you told her softly, in the best comforting voice you could muster, “I see through what others don’t, and I won’t leave you. I don’t even know where I’d go if I did. You’re… you’re all I have left.”

There was a moment that seemed to stretch forever, where she simply held you and didn’t let go. And then-- as quickly as it started--

She shook her head, and stood up abruptly.

“We should head back. It’s late.”

That was it then. Moment over. You knew she would probably do this but something pulled in your chest as you stood up as well, her coat still draped around your shoulders. You bundled it into your arms.

“Do you...want this back?”

She looked at you. Then the coat. Then she shook her head. “Keep it until we get back.” she told you, voice already returning to her old self, “I know how much you’d whine otherwise. And dress better next time. I won’t waste all that time and effort on teaching you magic just so you can die of a simple cold. Hopeless.”

You smiled faintly, and looped your arms through the sleeves.

The coat was warmer than it looked, and you immediately felt a wave of comfort wash over you, mixed with a faint whiff of her perfume and laundry detergent, a soft and floral scent, something you associated with her house.

When she picked up the books and started to walk, you caught up with her, following silently in the slightly-oversized coat, feeling way too snug. You tried to loop your arm through hers. She gave you a pointed look, one eyebrow raised, but let you do it anyway.

“Just this once.” she muttered. “Don’t get used to it.”

You knew it was a lie. She knew it was a lie. Neither of you acknowledged it. You knew neither of you probably ever would.

So you walked, quiet and content, with your hand resting on hers, the paved road firm and grounding beneath your shoes. She didn’t speak more, didn’t mention what she told you, but when the two of you stepped into her front yard she leaned down, hand on the door, and said softly into your ear.

“If you tell anyone about that I will turn you into a bug and feed you to Senor Scratchy.”

You stilled. The words were whispered with such an honest threat, and yet you couldn’t help but smile. You weren’t sure she’d ever really do anything she so often threatened you with, but you’d keep her secrets either way. Of course you would.

You tried to look up at her but she was already inside, disappeared into the kitchen or upstairs, leaving you alone on the doorstep. You followed, stepping in and basking in the warmth of the place, then lightly closed the door behind you.

You found her in the kitchen, making tea on the stovetop and waiting for the water to boil.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at you. But as you sat down, her coat still around, keeping you warm, you noticed the two mugs she’d set out on the counter. You felt her hand ghost over your hair as she went into the living room. A barely-there gesture. Perhaps a silent thank you. But it was enough. You knew, and she knew, and that was more than enough. You were there with her. You were home.

A/n: this wasn't proofread. please don't come at me, I'll edit if I find any mistakes. The title is from Aurora's song Heathens. I'm not sure if I managed to write soft Agatha in a way that's line with her character but I rewatched episode 9 today so that's where the idea came from. Thanks for reading, y'all. Love you. <3

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