no-phrogs-in-hats

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Now that I have your attention:

For the love of all things holy

PUT A KEEP READING IN YOUR LONG FICS!!!

Anything over 900 words needs to be under a readmore. Im serious. This kinda shit will get you blocked by other blogs who frequent the tags your using!

It’s been getting worse & worse recently. It esp sucks on mobile for how long you have to scroll go get passed them.

If you don’t know how either type “:readmore:” (without the quotes) or hit the icon with the squiggly line in the middle (beside the poll icon)

I’m tagging this with fandoms & characters ive been seeing it under in hopes y’all see it.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Hi, I was the anon that requested the AgathaxReader exes fic. I just read it thank you so much it was so good!

I don't mean to sound greedy 😭 but you did leave it sort of open ended, would you consider continuing it? I would personally love to read more of this if you are willing.

Maybe they keep having casual sex and are hiding it from the group and Reader keeps saying it's a mistake it doesn't mean anything, but Agatha wants them to try again and tries to convince Reader to give it a shot (some angst and jealousy could still be involved).

Totally understand if you don't want to write anymore, I just really enjoyed it and was curious to see where this story could go. Thank you again for your lovely work 🙏

I'm glad you liked it! Here is part two :) And sorry, I know you wanted more angst, but I am obviously incapable of writing that. 🌞

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, possessiveness, dirty talk

Tip me 💰if you like my work and want to support me :)

You and Agatha don't really establish rules, but the one thing you agree on is that it's just sex, even though you see the ways her eyes linger on you a little too long before she leaves the apartment or how your heart does somersaults every time you get a message from her.

But officially, it's just casual sex. That's what you agreed on when she finally left your apartment the morning after the club. That’s what you said to yourself when your friends messaged you in the group chat asking you where you disappeared and you answered that you were not feeling well. Because why tell them the truth when the truth is such a simple thing as a casual sex with your ex wife?

The first time Agatha shows up after the crazy morning in the shower, a lazy smirk is playing on her mouth. You barely open the door and she's already kissing you, already walking you backward until your back hits the wall.

Your hands are in her hair and her thigh slides between yours like she never left.

"Missed me?” she murmurs against your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

You grip her tighter. "Shut up."

And then her hand is under your shirt, fingers curling around your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple. Your knees wobble.

"Say you’re mine," she breathes, licking the shell of your ear.

But you won't. You won't give her that. Not when she agreed that this would be casual, not when your heart is still fixing itself up after she broke it.

Instead you drag her dress over her head and drop to your knees, you press open-mouthed kisses up her inner thigh, slow, until your mouth finally finds her and she curses under her breath and her hand tangles in your hair.

She's warm and wet and delicious and you know exactly what rhythm makes her say your name. You suck her clit until her legs tremble and she has to grip the wall to stay standing.

When she comes, she pulls your hair just a little too tight and you love it.

But after, when you both sit on your kitchen floor half-naked and panting, she asks: "this still doesn't mean anything, right?"

You nod and don't look at her face as she mumbles "whatever you say".

~~~

You fall into a rhythm.

Sometimes, it's fast - rough kisses in the kitchen, your thighs hitting the cold surface of the counter, her hand already between your legs before you have even said hello.

Other times it's slower, like when she shows up drunk and quiet, saying nothing until you've pulled her into bed.

It is all casual, but it happens way too often and you have to tell to Olivia that you're busy because between work and Agatha you don't really have time or energy for anyone else.

There is no softness when Agatha shows up at your place or when you come to hers. It's always rough and passionate and needy.

When you knock on her door unexpectedly one time, you feel breathless from the way her eyes twinkle as if she was happy to see you. The door barely clicks shut before she has you pinned against it.

Her hands find your hair and yank your head back just enough to bare your throat. Her mouth is hot and insistent, biting, sucking, like she wants to mark every inch of skin she can reach.

"Do you let her put her hands on you?" Agatha growls suddenly, her voice low and dark, right against your ear. Her thigh presses between yours so hard it almost hurts.

You swallow audibly. "No, I haven't seen her in almost two weeks."

Her hand fists in your shirt, tugging it up, rough. "Good. Because you're mine. Say it."

You don't. Not yet. But it burns in your throat like a hot coal, desperate to get out. To distract yourself you grip her hips, pull her in harder and start grinding on her thigh more desperately.

When she drags you to her bedroom, she pushes you down onto the bed with both hands on your shoulders. There's no asking. There is not checking. She knows what you want and what you need.

You arch up to meet her, gasping as her hands slide down your sides, possessive. She pulls your hands above your head, pinning your wrists with one hand while the other runs down your stomach and slips below the waistband of your panties and between your legs and you moan so loudly it's embarrassing.

"You like this, don't you? Being handled like this."

And god, you do.

Her fingers find a toe-curling rhythm and you become a panting mess.

"Look at you," she whispers against your neck. "Falling apart so deliciously."

She has the power to ruin you again. And you would let her.

You will let her.

~~~

Another time you come it's well past midnight and she opens the door to you leaning against the frame, hair messy from the wind, shirt half buttoned.

She doesn't say anything and just steps aside to let you in.

Once the door is closed you are already undoing the rest of your buttons, moving toward her like it's inevitable.

"Couldn't sleep," you say, voice quiet, but there's a rasp to it that always gives you away, the desperation you try to hide.

"Bullshit," she mutters, already grabbing you by your hips, walking you backward toward the couch. "You just needed this."

You smirk a little bit. "Maybe I did."

The back of your knees hit the couch and you sit, legs spreading automatically, eyes dragging down her body like you own her. Like this isn't casual. Like it never was.

She steps between your thighs and grabs your chin, tilting your head up to look at her. Her hands are warm, her eyes reveal emotions you don't want to admit and the way she's looking down at you like you're her world makes you want to break your own rules. Same goes for her apparently because the next thing you know, she's whispering "say it. Say you missed me."

You hold her gaze, defiant at first. But she drags her thumb across your lower lip, pressing until you part it slightly and your breath hitches. But still, you shake your head.

She pushes you down flat against the couch and turns around to go to the bedroom. At first you lay there, confused, but then she shows up, wearing the strap on. The same fucking strap you used to use together.

You groan at the sight of her. Her hands are rough on your thighs, dragging them open wider as she settles between them, grinding down slowly, letting the tip of the fake cock tease you.

You let your head fall back against the cushion, your nails digging into her waist through her shirt.

She grabs the strap on and pushes it slowly into you and enjoys the way your whole body shudders from the sensation.

"You think about me when you're alone?" she asks, rolling her hips against yours.

Your laugh is breathless. "Don't flatter yourself."

She slides her hand up your chest, under your open shirt, palm flat against your skin until she finds your breast, cupping it roughly. Her thumb brushes over your nipple and when she softly pinches it, you arch up into her hand immediately.

"Liar, you came dripping," she whispers.

She leans down to suck the nipple into her mouth and you gasp.

"Say it," she whispers again. "You missed me."

Your grip tightens on her waist. You shift under her to grant her more access, to make her speed up her movements.

"Say it, Y/N."

"I missed you," you admit finally, voice breaking a little bit.

And that does it.

She picks up a quicker pace and starts fucking you like she wants to make sure you will not be able to walk the next day.

When it's over, you pull her down into you and kiss her. Not soft. Not sweet. But definitely desperate.

~~~ One late afternoon, your office is quiet, people are already slipping out early for the weekend, you're half-asleep at your desk going through emails when a knock comes at your door.

You glance up and Agatha lets herself in before you can say "come in".

She's wearing short dress that expose her creamy thighs and you catch yourself staring.

"I'm working," you say flatly, but your pulse skips when you see the hunger in her eyes.

"Don't care." She shuts the door behind her with a soft click and locks it.

"Agatha-"

But she's already crossing the room, hands grabbing your collar, dragging you up from your chair. Her mouth finds yours and boy, you don't know how you went months without her mouth. It seems almost like a blasphemy.

You stumble back, hands gripping the edge of your desk.

"God, you're impossible," you mutter against her mouth, but don't push her away.

She laughs shortly. "You're the one with your legs already shaking."

She's not wrong.

"Five minutes," she says, already turning you around, pressing you forward until your hips hit the desk edge. Her hands are under your skirt before you can argue, sliding your underwear down with maddening slowness.

"Agatha-"

Then there's another knock and you freeze. Agatha freezes too, hands still on your thighs.

"Hey?" It's Jen's voice. "You in there?"

Agatha grins against your shoulder.

"Once second!" you call out, voice a little too high.

Agatha steps back, only just, but instead of pulling away completely, she slides down to her knees.

"Don't you dare," you hiss under your breath while her hands grip your thighs and her mouth presses right against you.

You slap a hand over your own mouth.

"Seriously, I just need to grab the reports," Jen says through the door.

"Yeah, okay, hold on!" you manage, scrambling to pull yourself together while Agatha is still there, on her knees, dragging her tongue through your folds maddeningly slowly.

You take a deep breath and finally push her away, not without noticing her mischievous wink as she hides under the desk.

When you unlock the door, Jen pokes her head in.

"Sorry, I know it's late, but... are you okay? You look kind of... flushed."

"I'm fine," you lie through your teeth. "Just a long day."

Jen raises an eyebrow at you, but doesn't question it.

She moves into the room, flipping through the files on your desk while Agatha is still under there, silent, uncharacteristically patient. You sit down again, hoping to hide her in case Jen comes around the table. You feel Agatha's breath against your inner thigh. She nudges you with her nose.

You bite your tongue so hard you taste blood.

Jen grabs what she needs and heads back toward the door, pausing just before she leaves.

"Nice lipstick, by the way," she adds casually. "Is that new?"

You can't answer so you just shrug and finally breath out loud when she leaves and the door clicks shut behind her.

"You're insane," you say toward your desk.

Agatha's laugh comes low from beneath it. "You love it."

And then her hands grip your knees, pushing them apart wider, and her mouth is back on you.

When she finally pulls you over the edge, you have to bite your own hand to keep quiet.

Your entire body is trembling while she stands up, looking completely composed.

She grabs your chin and places a kiss on your lips, smirking.

"See you Sunday brunch," she murmurs against your mouth and then she leaves you there, undone, half-dressed, heart racing.

~~~

This is your first Sunday brunch since you started sleeping with Agatha. You had to cancel the last one because the damn woman kept you up until 5AM and you were too worried it would look suspicious if you both showed up sleep deprived.

Agatha sits across from you in white linen dress, hair done up with loose strands framing her face. She looks so good that you almost kissed her when you arrived. Instead you busied yourself with asking Alice about her new project and getting excited by Billy's latest fling.

You're mid-sip of coffee when you feel it. A barely there nudge, the tip of a foot against your ankle.

You glance up at her and she's leaning back in her chair, arm draped lazily over the back of Alice's seat, not looking at you.

You clear your throat and shift your leg away.

Another nudge, this time stronger, her foot sliding up your calf slowly.

You glare at her and she finally glances your way. She has the audacity to look amused.

You press your knees together under the table, trying to focus on your toast, but Agatha's toe brushes higher, over your skin, right up to the inside of your knee now.

You grip your fork harder and then her foot settles against the inside of your thigh, heel digging in just enough to make you ache.

You feel a wave of warmth wash over you and you pull away your shirt from your neck to get some air.

"Okay, seriously," Alice gestures to your neck. "That is definitely a hickey."

You freeze for a split second too long and it takes a tremendous amount of willpower not to glare at Agatha immediately. She sucks and bites on your skin all the time that you can't even keep up with the marks and how visible they are. You honestly haven't even noticed that one.

You pull your shirt back up. "Oh yeah." You feel heat spreading over your cheeks, panicking too much to be able to explain.

"Olivia's possessive," Jen smirks into her mimosa.

"Yeah, she is," you say. And you know it's a mistake the second the words leave your mouth.

Agatha's knuckles go wide from how hard she's gripping her coffee mug and there's another nudge at your thighs. Now more of a kick.

Alice laughs. "Guess she has to mark her territory."

Agatha stands suddenly, not dramatically, but quickly enough to draw the attention to herself.

"Bathroom," she says simply.

You should stay where you are. You really should.

But a minute later, you're excusing yourself too. You push the door open quietly and Agatha's there, arms crossed, leaning against the sink.

"You let them think it's her? That's what we're doing now?"

You shut the door behind you. "Don't start."

"No?" she snaps. "I hate it. You should have said it wasn't her."

Your hands curl into fists. "What do you want from me? We decided it would be casual, I don't want them to-"

"You!" she growls and pushes at you until your back is slammed against the door. "You decided that it would be casual."

This should be a breaking point, a moment where you finally stop this game and part ways, but she's so close and looking at you with the quiet desperation and want that you find yourself dragging her closer and kissing her.

"You're mine, I don't care what you say. You've always been mine," she growls into your mouth. "Tell me she makes you feel like this."

Her fingers find the hem of your skirt and your soaked panties too quickly and she slides inside.

You bite back a moan. "Agatha, please..."

You literally haven't seen Olivia in two weeks, you've been having almost daily sex with Agatha who makes you... fuck.

"Please," Agatha whispers and you look at her surprised. Agatha doesn't beg. But now she's begging, her eyes a little bit watery and you can't do this with her pressed so close and looking so beautiful and she smells like home and- "Tell me you will end it."

You nod because who are you kidding. "I will."

~~~

You break up with Olivia the next day.

You don't say why and she doesn't look surprised. She just looks at you and says "it’s always been her, hasn’t it?"

You don't deny it.

~~~

You don't text Agatha, you simply go to her apartment and when she opens the door and looks at you expectantly, you nod and your mouth spreads into a soft smile.

Agatha's eyes flicker, her face softening and she pulls you inside. Her hand cups your cheek and her thumb brushes just under your eye, as if checking that you're really here.

She kisses you.

Nothing like before - no rush, no desperation. It's slow and warm and her mouth moves against yours like she's savoring it.

"I don't want this to be casual," she whispers afterwards.

You look into her eyes and pull her closer by her waist. "Me neither.” You press your forehead against hers. “But you have to try. No more workaholic stuff.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “I promise.”

And as you’re standing there, foreheads pressed, arms circled around each other, you wonder if in another universe, you don’t get back together. What a fucked up universe that must be…

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Just read your story for the first time and I am hooked. The plot is so refreshing and i love how u based everything around that one kathryn ad/photoshoot(?) so so so so valid lol

thanks for sharing your work <3

Stop omg I just got back from the beach and saw this. You are so kind thank you so much💕💕There’s plenty more to come I promise!!

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Sweet as Sugarcane

Chapter 7: A Shallow Creek

Agatha Harkness x Fem!reader Old West/Oregon Trail AU

Word count: 2,115

Summary: As a New York politician’s daughter, you’re accustomed to a way of life that many people aren’t privy to. But after your mother dies and your father sells everything, the only life you see ahead is on a dusty, deserted trail out west–until you meet Agatha.

Warnings: MDNI; very light NSFW

A/N: Hi, so this did not take as long as I thought it would to write. I'm currently on vacation, so I've had a lot of time to myself for the past couple days. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, I think it's my favorite one so far.

Spotify playlist here

Ao3 here

Masterlist

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

When your eyes flutter open, you only take in your surroundings for a moment before you gasp. You launch yourself out of bed, and in the process you startle Agatha awake.

“What’s got you so rattled?” she says, voice thick and raspy.

You rush around the room, mind racing at a thousand miles an hour. “Um–it is–!” You struggle pulling your chemise over your head. “Dammit! Um–it is almost four.” You scramble for your linen dress. “I guess I–” Your arm slips through the neck hole and you huff. “I guess I dozed off.”

Agatha snickers to herself as she watches you frantically run around the room. After slipping on your boots, you sigh and lean over the bed on your hands. “I’m sorry I can’t stay,” you say, eyes glancing down at her lips. “I wish I could, truly.”

“I know,” Agatha sighs. “Now, go beat clothes against a rock or whatever you ladies do out there.”

You giggle and lean forward, pressing a firm kiss on her lips. “I’ll see you again?”

“I’m countin’ on it, sugar.” And she sends you off with a wink.

By the time you get back to camp, the men and women in your party are slowly rising. The fire from the previous night is now a heap of glowing embers, and a woman from the other family that joined you is beginning to revive it. 

You’re contemplating the choices you have: either sneak back into a wagon, or march in there with nothing to hide. And you suppose the former would be the hardest with how many people are here. The latter, you could come up with an excuse and go with that. But you don’t have long to decide, because the decision is made for you.

“Where have you been?” Your father’s voice is loud and cuts through the warm summer air.

You freeze when you see him, but manage to find your footing and keep calm. “I apologize if I caused worry,” you say, walking toward him. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I went into town to seek remedy.”

"At this hour?” he asks.

“There was an apothecary open,” you say–a bold face lie, and you hope that he believes it. 

He eyes you suspiciously, but he seems to relax. “Alright, however next time, take one of your brothers. There’s all kinds of wildlife out here. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You nod. “Yes, papa.”

“Now, go help the women prepare breakfast.”

The morning passes by and you’re exhausted. And despite how tired you are, you’re thrilled when you and your brothers are sent back into town for supplies. It’s almost like a reflex the way you come up with a plan to separate yourself from your brothers. 

‘A bucket,’ you think. ‘I’ll bring a bucket to get water.’

When you enter the dusty, old town, you feel rejuvenated almost. As you walk through, men tip their hats at you–some you recognize from the previous night. But you don’t want them, you want Agatha.  

And the plan works perfectly. You leave your brothers and they have no suspicion of where you’re off to. 

Because you’re getting water.

Only water.

But the source of your water was never specified. You knock three times on the door of Agatha’s home. Your heart thunders in anticipation–but if you’re being honest, you’re worried that she’s not even home. You don’t want to go back in town with your brothers, and if Agatha’s there, you might not even get to see her.

But those worries are pushed aside, because you hear the click and you’re pulled inside. Before you can register what’s happening, she has you pushed against the wall. Her lips are hot against yours as you giggle, dropping the bucket with a clatter and pulling her closer.

“You’re back a lot sooner than I thought you would be,” she breathes against your mouth.

You kiss her again and sigh. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Agatha looks at you curiously. “Why are you here?”

“Well, I was sent with my brothers to get supplies for the camp, but…” You reach down and pick up the bucket, a sly grin growing on your face. “I thought I’d be far more useful getting us some water, so I suggested they go ahead without me and I’ll go alone…”

“Well, aren't you naughty?” she tuts. 

“I was thinking I could use the water pump out back,” you suggest, “but since my only intention of being here is to get water, it wouldn’t be very fair to use you, now would it?”

“Oh, not at all,” she scoffs, grinning as she braces herself against the wall. You can feel yourself grow warm as she boxes you in. “There’s a creek nearby. I’d be happy to escort you, darlin’.”

“Why, Miss Harkness, what a kind offer!” You smile brightly and she kisses you softly.

When she pulls away you can see a faint blush on her cheeks. Her eyes drift over your body and then back up to meet yours. “What d’you say I pack some grub and we can have a little do by the river?”

Your cheeks warm and you’re almost speechless. “I would love nothing more.”

You stare at the white horse in front of you, hesitant about climbing on by yourself. When Agatha suggested you ride on your own horse, you were open to the idea, but now, you want to be in her arms as she holds the reins.

“What are you waitin’ for?” Agatha calls from her horse. “Climb on!”

You look over at her, and it’s clear there’s a level of worry in the way you do, because she’s dismounting her horse. She walks over to you, hands on her hips. “You need some help?” she asks with an amused smile. 

“Yes…It’s just a lot taller than I thought it’d be,” you explain quickly.

She comes behind you and places her hands on your waist. “Alright, grab onto the saddle and put your foot in the stirrup.”

You do, and she counts to three, giving you a boost onto the saddle. You get yourself situated, but as you do, she puts her hands on her hips and scoffs. “What are you doin’?”

“What?”

“The way you’re sittin’ on that horse!” she snorts.

You look down–it’s the way you were taught to sit on a horse by yourself, with your legs together on one side, back straight, hands on the reins. “What about it?” you ask.

“You can’t ride a horse side-saddle! Swing your legs over!”

You huff, but ultimately do as she says. “There. Better?”

She smirks. “Much.”

With the basket of food strapped to her horse, Agatha leads you away from the houses scattered on the outskirts of town. It’s not the longest trip–shorter than the ride up to the hill Agatha took you to. When you get there, Agatha lets the horses graze after removing the basket from her horse’s tack. 

In the midday sunlight, you walk down to the riverbed with Agatha. Your hand is tucked neatly in the crook of her elbow and you rest your head on her shoulder as you step through the brush.

You come to a tree beside the river, hosting plenty of shade for your picnic. Agatha sets the basket of food down and removes her leather jacket, setting it down at the base of the tree and spreading it out.

“Can’t let your dress get muddy, sweetheart,” she says. “Have a seat.”

You take a seat on her jacket and unpack the basket as she sits beside you. 

“Cheese and crackers, apples,” you point out, and then gasp and smile mischievously. “Wine? Agatha Harkness, are you trying to get me drunk?” 

Agatha chuckles and you could swear that you see a sparkle in her eye. “No, I just figured a girl like you deserves the finest–well, the finest that I’m capable of givin’ you.”

“It’s perfect,” you smile, and lean in to kiss her. “Thank you.”

Your lunch is filled with laughter, broken by stolen kisses and sips of wine. As the summer heat bears down on you and the weight of exhaustion sits on your shoulders, you lay back on Agatha’s jacket. She follows you down with a kiss on your lips and as you smile, your hand reaches up and takes her hat, putting it on your own head. 

Agatha pulls back and when she sees you, she grins. “Hm…I think you look better in that than I do, hon.”

She doesn’t let you protest, and instead parts your lips with a passionate, yet tender kiss. Her hands run over your waist and grab at the layers of skirt you’re wearing. She breaks the kiss, and both of you are panting, but she grins anyway. “Oh, how convenient it is that all you have to wear under this pretty frock of yours is a chemise.”

Your jaw drops and you laugh loudly. “You’re appalling!”

Agatha kisses you again, taking her hat off of your head and tossing it aside. You bunch up your skirts as her hand travels further down and she hums against your lips. “So eager…You know, lust is a sin,” she teases quietly.

With an impatient huff, you pull her back in by the base of her neck. “Then take me to Hell.”

It’s here at the creekbed–with your fingers digging into her hair and your back arched as she holds you–that you decide that this is what you want. 

This is the life you’ve been craving–not the stone streets of New York City, not the dress fittings and tea, and not the love of a man who will only marry you out of pity. 

This glimpse of her world is what you want–dirt paths that lead to creeks, wildflowers and gardens, and the love of a woman who sees you as someone with value and not something to be pitied. You want her soft touches, you want her kisses every morning when you wake up, and every night before you fall asleep. 

You lay in her arms, the both of you slick with sweat and half undressed. Agatha presses soft kisses to everywhere she can reach–your neck, your collarbones, your cheeks and lips. And when she lays down beside you, she lets out a content sigh.

“Do you like it here?” she asks abruptly.

You turn your head to look at her, and genuinely take in her question. “When I’m at the camp, cooking porridge and gathering firewood, I want nothing more than to go back to New York.” You smile sadly, hand running over her waist. “But then I go into town, and I see you, and New York is the furthest thing from my mind. I want to stay here, with you, Agatha.” Your voice cracks and you find it hard to speak. “I don’t want to go to Oregon.”

“Yeah?” she says, smiling softly and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And what would you do?”

You chuckle. “I don’t know…maybe I’d become a saloon girl.”

Agatha’s laugh is loud and she snorts. “You? A saloon girl?” she scoffs. “Oh, darlin’, you and your silk slippers would be eaten alive.”

“But I wouldn’t be in Oregon,” you reason, and as you continue, your throat tightens with emotion. “I wouldn’t be trapped in a loveless marriage with a man, where my only purpose is to bear children until I’m in infertile.”

Your hand cups her cheek and your eyes, aching for sleep, look into hers. “I want to stay here, Agatha. I want to stay with you.”

Agatha takes your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. “Sweetheart, I have nothing,” she says painfully. “Barely a silver dollar in my pocket. You deserve to be spoiled–to have everything that is fine in this world. Silk slippers, parasols, petticoats, I can’t give you any of that.”

“How shallow you must think me, if you believe that what I require in my life is material items.” You shake your head and chuckle. “Do you honestly believe that I’d trade you for a pair of shoes, or nice bedding? That I’d trade you for anything? I want you, Agatha, and everything that comes with.”

Agatha’s lips curl into a grin and she runs her hand along your jaw, cupping your chin. Her eyes search yours and her voice is quiet, “Careful what you wish for, little lady. You might find more than what you bargained for.”

And as you lay in her arms, beneath the tree and beside the running creek, you have only one thought:

If this is Hell, I don’t ever want to see the gates of Heaven.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Hi, love. Any chance of us getting an update on Sweet as Sugarcane? I love that story so much.

Omg yes I’ve been working on it slowly! I’ve been super busy with work, but dw you’ll be getting cowboy!agatha again I promise!!

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Hi! I want to request Agatha Harkness x reader where you’ve had an argument and decide to sleep in different rooms but Reader spends hours trying to sleep but but both of you struggle to sleep without the other 

Sleepless in Westview

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3,426

Content warning(s): Angst, marital disputes, angst with a happy ending, low key a lil toxic

Summary: You've begged Agatha to teach you a spell for months, and it's only when Rio suggests she teaches it to you that Agatha finally caves.

A/N: Hello! Another anon request! I hope you enjoyed this! I've gotten a few requests for a second part to Charlotte's Web, and I've got something planned out, so that should be out in the coming weeks. Anyway, I have less than a month left in Miami rip, but I'm going back to school so I'm actually kind of excited. But I'm on academic probation, so enjoy the oneshots as they come beacuse I will have no free time after August 20th.

Tip Jar of hearts💕

Masterlist

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please, Agatha!”

“You’re not ready for it.”

“Yes, I am!”

You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve asked. You’ve been dying to learn the protection spell she created on her own, but every time she shoots you down. At first it was fun–the game of cat and mouse–but eventually, it built up with every time she underestimated you.

Including when you were the only one left of your coven after falling for her Witches Road trick. 

“You’re smarter than you look,” she had said. 

You were appalled by her crass nature, but still persisted. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well look at you,” she chuckled. “I mean…you’re adorable, really.”

“Oh…Well, I…Umm–”

“Cat got your tongue?” she grinned, raising an eyebrow at your humiliation. “It’s almost laughable that you want me to teach you.”

But you made your case. 

And she taught you…many, many things.

It’s always been more of a pull-pull dynamic rather than a push-pull. The both of you are so stubborn and so hot headed that it’s a miracle you ended up married.

But here you are, fifty years together and newly weds. 

The sun is far below the horizon and the coven meeting is in full swing fifteen minutes after Agatha’s introductory remarks. You sit with Lilia as you practice reading tea leaves.

You turn the teacup slowly in your hands, eyes squinting as you try to make out the shapes.

“The shapes don’t have to be perfect,” Lilia explains. “It’s about your intuition–what do you think the shapes look like?”

You point to a small glob of tea leaves in the cup. “This one kind of looks like an axe almost.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, resting her elbow on the table. “Anythig else?”

You giggle. “Oh, that one sort of looks like a mushroom! It’s cute.”

Your ears tune in to a conversation that Agatha is having. You’re not one to eavesdrop, but your wife is also not one to be quiet. 

“You think I should?” she asks.

Rio, who sits beside Agatha, is in your eyeline and you make eye contact. Her eyes drift back to Agatha and she leans back in her chair, shrugging. “Yeah, why not? She’s ready.”

You sit up straight as a board, fingers tightening around the teacup as Agatha turns to face you. She’s so non-chalant about it, as if she’s the one who brought it up first, as if she wasn’t rejecting your every effort to learn this spell.

“What d’you say, hon?” she grins. “You want me to teach you that spell you’ve been begging to learn?”

“Are you serious?” you mutter, and your tone is anything but excited. 

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I think it’s high time you learn.”

You take shallow breaths and you have to set the teacup down so as to not break it. “Are you fucking se–?” You cut yourself off and stand up abruptly. “Everybody out!” you snap. “Now! Everybody get out!”

As the coven rushes out of the house, Agatha sits back in her chair at the table, confused. “What’s the matter?”

You close your eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. “Are you fucking serious?”

“About?” Agatha says expectedly. 

“About the fucking spell, Agatha!” you shout. “I’ve been begging you to teach me it for months!”

Agatha stands up. “And now I’m teaching it to you!”

“Oh, my gods!” You start ridding the table of used dishes–tea cups and kettles, china plates and crystal glasses–and bring them to the sink. “You really don’t see what I mean?”

Agatha’s jaw drops and she rolls her eyes, “I guess I don’t!”

The dishes fall into the sink with a loud clatter. “Agatha, you didn’t take it into consideration until Rio put in her two cents!”

“Rio is the original Green Witch!” Agatha shoots back.

“Rio is your ex-wife, who you take more seriously than your current wife!”

Agatha scoffs, “Okay, well what about you and Lilia, huh? You’ve been consulting her a lot!”

“Lilia is mentoring me in divination,” you retort. “Lilia has more sense than this entire coven combined! I asked you so many times! And each time you said I wasn’t ready!”

“Well, can you blame me?” she yells. “You’re not even a hu–!”

You hate that your anger rises with tears. Your throat is tight and your eyes burn. “Yes, I can blame you! Since the first day we met, I’ve shown nothing but willingness to learn, Agatha!”

You stomp through the kitchen as you put every herb and spell ingredient back into its proper spot. “Don’t you think I know when I’m ready? I don’t need your ex-wife telling us when I’m ready to learn something that I’ve been wanting to for months!”

“It’s a complicated spell!” Agatha shouts. “How am I supposed to know that you’re ready f–?”

“By trusting me!” you cry. “By being patient! By helping me as we go along, because that’s what we do! We’re married! We help each other!” You’re now in a standoff with each other in the middle of the kitchen. “We’re part of a coven! We’re supposed to help expand our practices! We’re supposed to support each other! Help me grow, Agatha! As my friend, as my partner in the craft, as my wife! I want your support!”

She doesn’t say a word. You scoff and brush past her, hurrying up the stairs and into your bedroom. In your ensuite bathroom, you collect her nighttime routine items. You stop in the bedroom when you see Agatha standing there.

“What are you doing?” she huffs.

“It’s not what I’m doing,” you say. “It’s what you’re doing. And you’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.” 

“Excuse me?”

You force the items into her grasp. “Yeah, here. Tooth brush, hair brush, facial shit, you can sleep in the guest room tonight.”

Her eyes are wide and her jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious, Agatha!” you snap, digging through your dresser for pajamas. “Until you can get your head out of your ass and start supporting me, you can sleep in the guest room.”

“Get my head out of my–?” Agatha stops herself and huffs. “Alright, fine. You want me to sleep in the guest room tonight, I will.”

You hate how quiet it is after she slams the door. You hate how empty the bathroom sink is without her stuff cluttering it. You hate getting into bed and not being met with her open arms pulling you in close. You hate this feeling.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. You reach for your phone and when you check the time it reads 10:22. With a heavy sigh, you turn over, bundling yourself in the duvet and closing your eyes.

It’s going to be a very long night.

When your eyes open again, it’s still dark out. You hate this feeling. You hate that you can’t sleep properly without Agatha beside you–even if she does snore, and even if she does kick you in her sleep. 

You’re supposed to be mad at her, and now you’re regretting your reaction. Now, you’re silently begging that she comes in and crawls back into bed without a word.

But that doesn’t happen. 

Instead, the sun rises and you eventually pull yourself out of bed. You’re the first one downstairs, which is unsurprising–Agatha’s never been a morning person. Part of you hopes that her night was just as rough and long as yours.

At nine, you’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth when you see her again. It’s awkward and unbearably thick with tension.

“Morning,” she mumbles, her jaw tight.

You respond the same, your voice clipped as you finish your morning routine. “I’m going grocery shopping. Is there anything you need that’s not on the list?” you ask, and this time your voice is even and somewhat civil.

“Well, how do I know?” Agatha sighs. “It’s not like you let me touch the list, sweetheart.”

The ‘sweetheart’ is filled with a sour taste that makes you seeth. “Because you always lose the list! The last time I sent you to the grocery store with the list you dropped it in a puddle!”

“That wasn’t my fault!” she snaps as she turns on the shower. “That car almost hit m–!”

“Oh, my gods, I’m not doing this at nine in the morning!” you groan. “If you want something from the store you can get it yourself.”

There aren’t many instances where Agatha has felt remorse. When the bathroom door slams shut–and the front door–an uncomfortable feeling sits in the pit of her stomach. Guilt perhaps? Dread? Fear? 

The last thing she wants to do is lose you over an argument like this, but her pride bears down and the only thing she wants is to win this argument. And she hates it. She hates it so much.

She hates how she is.

She doesn’t know why she is the way she is, but regardless, she hates it.

Most of her shower is spent just standing under the water. No shampoo, no conditioner, no soap, just standing there. Thinking.

Thinking about your words, and how you really are an eager learner. Thinking about all the times she’s consulted Rio instead of you during important decisions. Thinking about your relationship and the foundation it was built on.

She killed your original coven. She’s the reason you had no choice but to stick with her. Because she killed your family.

Yet you somehow have never held it against her. Never condemned her for it. No, instead you accepted her willingness–albeit reluctant–to teach you. You listened to her instructions, her teachings, every piece of advice she had to give you–no matter how convoluted. 

And more importantly, you loved her. You loved her when everyone else said she was unlovable. You stuck by her, not for the benefit of learning to harness your powers, but because you genuinely liked her.

She knows how smart you are. She knows how capable you are of this. She doesn’t know how she let this happen.

Agatha hangs her head, hands rubbing over her face in exhaustion. She wasn’t met with a single wink of sleep last night.

The day is quiet, and not in the peaceful Sunday afternoon way. You put away the groceries in silence–far different from the usual conversation of what you’d be making for dinner. You wash the dishes and clean the kitchen, and then Agatha stands there awkwardly, not knowing if she should speak.

“I’m going out for a couple hours, so I–”

“With Rio?” you interrupt, voice tight with frustration as you focus on the dishes in the sink.

Agatha huffs. “No, not with Rio.”

“Okay,” you shrug. “I trust you.”

And she knows that’s a jibe at her, but instead of fighting back, she sighs. “I’ll be back before five.”

She didn’t think it would come to this, and quite frankly, she didn’t want it to come to this. But here she is, stepping through the frosted glass door of a cafe. And in the back, sitting in a small booth is Jen.

Agatha closes her eyes and sighs before making her way to the table. When she sits down, Jen wears a smug grin. 

“Trouble in paradise?” 

Agatha rolls her eyes. “Gods, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Jen crosses her arms and leans back in her seat. “Alright, so tell me. Why did she flip during the meeting and kick us all out?”

“I don’t know,” Agatha huffs.

“Agatha, I know we have our…disagreements,” Jen says. “But you’re not stupid. And neither is she. Why did she freak out?”

“She said that I don’t support her,” Agatha sighs. “And that I trust Rio more than her.”

“Well, do you?” Jen asks, raising a brow.

“I don’t know,” Agatha groans. “Maybe? No. I just…I don’t know…I guess I just don’t want to burden her with my problems, so I go to Rio instead…”

“Yeah, you’ve been burdening her for centuries,” Jen snickers.

Agatha flashes a warning look before taking a deep breath. “I worry about her so much already. The last thing I want to do is lay all my problems on her.”

“You two are married,” Jen says, taking a sip of her latte. “You’re supposed to lean on each other. Does she go to you with her problems?”

“Yeah,” Agatha shrugs.

“And do you feel burdened by them?” 

Agatha sighs, “No. I’d never feel burdened by h–”

“Exactly,” Jen interrupts. “I’m sure you do trust her–”

“I do.”

“I’m sure you do trust her,” Jen continues, “but even subconsciously, there could be a layer of yourself that you don’t trust her to handle.”

Agatha leans on the table, chin supported by her hand. She sighs, almost like she’s bored of the conversation. “I guess…yeah…maybe that’s a possibility. I don’t know why she doesn’t think I support her, though. I’m plenty supportive.”

“Well, from what she’s told me, it doesn’t sound like you’re supportive in all aspects of her life.”

“Excuse me?” Agatha snaps. “What has she told you?”

“She told me that you wouldn’t teach her the spell that you created,” Jen says simply. “Why not?”

Agatha huffs. “Because it’s my spell!” 

“Oh, so you’re not letting your wife–the love of your life–learn this protection spell because you just don’t want to?” Jen concludes. “Okay, sounds about right.”

Agatha groans in frustration. “Jesus Christ! I don’t know, Jen! It’s a complicated spell, she’s not–I just–Ugh!”

Jen narrows her eyes. “You don’t like being vulnerable, that’s why.”

“I–!”

“No,” Jen cuts her off. “Let me finish.” Agatha slumps down in her seat as Jen continues, almost smug as she reads Agatha. “You don’t like being vulnerable. Not one bit. Not even with the people you love. By creating your own protection spell, you’re giving yourself the upper-hand. You’re giving yourself strength–you’re the one protecting her.”

Jen sips her latte before setting it down gracefully and leaning in. “But by teaching her the protection spell, that gives her the upper-hand. Her casting the spell gives her the strength. If you teach her the spell…you become the vulnerable one.”

Agatha scoffs. “That is not–”

“So you went to Rio for permission,” Jen says.

“Permission?” Agatha repeats.

Jen nods. “Permission to be vulnerable. Even if you didn’t realize it, Rio was once your only lifeline–ironically. You went to her for everything. She let you be vulnerable. So now, your subconscious leans toward her when something serious happens–your ex-wife instead of your current wife. She’s not the one who isn’t ready–you are.”

She ignores Agatha’s eye rolling and continues. “Of course she’s not going to feel like you support her. How can you support her when you don’t trust her? Trust needs to be mutual, Agatha. Stop going to Rio for your problems and start going to your wife. You’re there to help each other grow.”

Agatha glares at Jen. Deep, deep down she knows Jen’s right. And she hates it.

“I see you dropped midwifery and picked up a psychology textbook.” She stands up quickly, clearly annoyed by Jen’s words. “I’ll see you at the next coven meeting.”

Agatha lays in bed, staring at the ceiling. That same dreadful feeling sits in the pit of her stomach again. She thinks back to Jen’s words, replaying them over and over again.

She thinks about the vulnerability you’ve shown her. The times where you’ve been at your weakest and weren’t afraid to show her. It wouldn’t kill her to do the same–maybe. She could always see, and if she’s being honest, this moment might be the best time for that first step.

Because she can’t sleep without you.

And the only way she can describe how she feels right now is…vulnerable. 

She feels like a child. Why can’t she sleep on her own? Why does she need you in order to get a good night’s rest? She hates it. She hates all of it. 

For the past thirty hours, she was convinced the anger she felt was towards you.

But it’s not. This is a deep seated anger. This anger has been lingering for centuries. This anger is at no one but herself.

So, Agatha pushes back the duvet and slowly gets out of bed. She almost has to force herself to open the door. She pads quietly across the hall and hesitates as she opens the door to your shared bedroom.

Your side of the bed faces the door, and when she finally opens it, she’s met with your curled up figure–wide awake with puffy eyes.

Agatha shuts the door behind her and rounds the bed, but she doesn’t climb in. She stands there, hesitant and awkward. 

Finally, she huffs, frustrated with herself. “I can’t sleep…without you.”

“Me either,” you grumble.

“Can I come back?”

Your jaw is tense as you turn over and face her side of the bed. “Okay…but I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” she sighs, climbing beneath the duvet.

“Good.”

Neither of you touch. Neither of you dare to move an inch. 

You close your eyes, but Agatha remains wide awake, facing you. Her voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper.

“I hate…being…vulnerable.”

You open your eyes, heavy with exhaustion. “Yeah, I know,” you mumble.

“No, I mean…” Agatha huffs, trying to explain herself. “That’s why I didn’t want to teach you the spell. Because that means you’d be…protecting me…and…that makes me…vulnerable…”

“You met with Jen today didn’t you,” you say, grinning at her sleepily. 

Agatha sighs. “I did–and never again.”

“You’re allowed to be vulnerable, Agatha,” you mutter. “How are we supposed to trust each other if we don’t let one another in?”

“That’s exactly what Jen said,” she grumbles. 

You hum. “Well, she’s right. It won’t kill you to let me help. I want to help.”

“I don’t wanna worry you, though,” she mutters, shifting uncomfortably. 

“Agatha, I’m your wife,” you sigh. “I’m going to worry about you regardless. At least this way I know what to worry about and how to help.”

It’s quiet for a moment in the dark room. The two of you lay beneath the duvet, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth.

“You know I love you, right?” Agatha murmurs.

You smile softly. “I do. I love you too.”

“I hate that I do this,” she says. “I shut you out and I don’t even realize it. Jen had to tell me. Jen, of all people.”

You sigh, “I just want you to be here, Agatha. You’re not a burden to me. No problem you have is too heavy on my shoulders. If you really don’t want to teach me the spell, you don’t have to. But if you don’t want to teach it to me because you’re scared of losing control…” 

Your hand reaches up, brushing over her cheek softly. “I looked after you all three years that you were under Wanda’s spell. You’re allowed to give up the reins every now and then. I can take it, I promise.”

The kiss that follows is soft, but it’s filled with every unspoken apology and makes up for the past two days. She pulls you in close, leg locking over top of yours. The kiss deepens quickly and you can feel beneath your thumb, a tear slip from Agatha’s eye. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

“For what?” you mutter.

You can see her lip tremble as she takes in a slow breath. “I don’t know…everything? Taking care of me when I didn’t even know who you were, for starters.” Agatha lets out a quiet hum, and even though her lips curl at the edges, there’s nothing humorous in her words. “For letting me in, and trusting me, even though I haven’t done the same. Everything you’ve done for me that I haven’t acknowledged, thank you.”

You smile softly, searching her eyes and softly stroking her cheek with your thumb. “You’re welcome…You actually went to Jen?” you ask suddenly.

Agatha’s eyes close and she rolls onto her back, groaning as you giggle quietly. “Yes, I went to Jen. She psychoanalyzed me the whole time.” Agatha looks down at you–face buried in her neck, one arm curled into you, the other draped over her torso, and your eyes already closed. “Don’t tell her, but I’m glad I did.”

“I’m telling her that when we get lunch tomorrow,” you mumble, just on the verge of dozing off. 

A kiss is pressed to your hairline and she sighs deeply, smiling. “I’m sure you will…I love you.”

And she’s met only with a quiet snore.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

tiny beautiful things, episode 8 "love", directed by desiree akhavan

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

it was supposed to be me | agatha harkness x fem!reader

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: “Because,” she cried, your name falling from her lips like a plea. “It was supposed to be me! If you were going to make a huge fucking mistake loving an older woman, it was supposed to be me!”

Tags: 18+ / age gap relationship(s) / love confessions / toxic relationships (not with agatha) / mentioned uncomfortable sexual encounter (not with agatha) / hurt/comfort / light angst / jealousy / soft sex / oral sex (reader receiving) / top!agatha / bottom!reader / fem!reader / lesbian!agatha / publishing company au / older!agatha / younger!reader / friends to lovers / hickies (not given by agatha) / reassurance / agatha harkness has a soft spot / feminine terms of endearment

Masterlist

taglist: @harknessshi

Agatha Harkness was many things, but quiet was not one of them. If there was anything you had learned about the woman in the last two years, it was that if there was silence, she would fill it. But for the last week, you hadn’t heard her make a single sound. If you walked into a room, she would stop mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-yawn, just so that she wouldn’t have to acknowledge you were there. It was torture, the way she was shutting you out, and you couldn’t help but echo her last words to you on a loop, over and over and over again. 

“Because,” she cried, your name falling from her lips like a plea. “It was supposed to be me! If you were going to make a huge fucking mistake loving an older woman, it was supposed to be me!” 

At first, you thought that Agatha’s cold shoulder was because she was disgusted by the 32-year age gap between you and the woman you started seeing, Gemma. You had met her years ago through a local farmer’s market when you had neighboring booths– Gemma selling jams, honeys, and salves, and your booth filled with crafts that you would make to relieve the stress from your day job. You were acquaintances, nothing more, but your heart had always skipped a beat whenever you saw her or she said hello. It wasn’t until a mutual friend suggested that you were both single and should try it out that she gathered the courage to ask you on a date. 

And when she did, Agatha completely changed.

Becoming Agatha’s friend hadn’t been expected. You worked together at Calderu Publishing, her hand-selecting you to be her assistant when you were fresh out of grad school. After just a few months, however, you were promoted to literary agent for a new imprint geared towards Gen Z authors and readers. It was no secret that the day Lilia retired, Agatha would become the next publisher, but until then, she was enjoying her time as the most sought-after editor in the business. You worked closely with Agatha, often poaching some of her most prized acquisitions for the new imprint, but it was exactly that tenacity that made Agatha want to be your friend. 

It started small, having her new assistant, Billy, bring a coffee to your office a few times a week with an obligatory, “Miss Harkness wanted me to remind you that your old position is still available if you want it,” to humiliate the younger man every time he made a careless mistake. You always laughed and reminded him that he was not that easily replaced and that Agatha was just being mean to make him better at the job. If it were anyone else, you figured they would have quit by now, but Billy seemed determined to be sculpted by Agatha into greatness, just like you had been. 

Eventually, though, Agatha would drop by your office, herself, for idle chitchat on slow days, and you started to do the same. Mid-morning gossiping turned into off-campus lunches that turned into Friday nights at her penthouse, drinking a little too much wine and ordering more takeout than you could possibly eat in one night. Now, you would consider her one of your best friends, and the silence was killing you. 

Even before your first date with Gemma, Agatha tried to warn you against seeing the woman, claiming that you couldn’t possibly have anything in common with someone as old enough to be your mother, claiming that an age gap that large was predatory, especially at your age. It didn’t sit well with you, though, and you reminded her that your friendship had a 25-year age gap, which was almost just as large. In Agatha’s eyes, though, that wasn’t the same thing, not in the slightest. 

“I am just worried about you, that’s all,” Agatha said one night, swirling her wine glass absentmindedly with her left hand. “I already don’t like the way she talks to you. Doesn’t it bother you that you already know so much about her life? Shouldn’t there be some sort of mystery this early?” 

“I don’t know. It feels a little weird, but maybe she’s just trying to make sure I know what I’m getting myself into,” you replied, not wanting to hear yet another reason why Agatha thought that what you were doing was wrong. “She did say that I was mysterious, though, and that I scared her.” 

“What, so she can manipulate you into sharing things you aren’t ready to share? Come on, hon, tell me you can’t see what she’s doing.” Agatha’s voice was sharp and almost incredulous, wavering between anger and disgust. “You need to protect yourself. That isn’t normal.” 

“Or maybe she just wants to get to know me, Agatha. Would that be so bad?” 

Looking back, you knew that Agatha was right. It wasn’t normal to share so many intimate details so soon. It wasn’t normal to tell someone that you’ve been talking to for just a few days that they scared you because you wouldn’t bare your soul to them. But Gemma was so cute and so flirty, and it had been so long since you had something like this, that you were willing to look past it. 

The distance between you and Agatha grew over the few days that you and Gemma were trying things out, but you didn’t know what was wrong until the morning after your first date with Gemma, when you invited Agatha over for brunch and things fell apart spectacularly. 

“Why can’t you just be happy for me, Agatha? I finally have someone in my life who likes my company, thinks I’m beautiful, and wants to have a connection with me. She wants me, Agatha, what is so wrong about that?” 

You searched Agatha’s face for any sign of regret, for any sign that she had heard you, for any sliver of happiness that you were happy. But none came, and you were met with the same cold, steely blue eyes that you had been seeing since this whole thing started. 

“Plenty of people like your company!” Agatha countered after chewing on her thoughts for a few seconds, your name like a weapon as she used it against you. “Why are you acting like it’s revolutionary that someone might think you’re beautiful? You’re a beautiful girl, you’re funny, you’re charming, you’re a great conversationalist. Everyone can see that. Hell, you know that I can see that. Why can’t that be enough? Why do you need some emotionally unstable, teenaged crone to tell you that?” 

“That’s not the same, Agatha, and you know it! You’re my friend! You’re practically my boss. I’m allowed to want more than just girls’ nights and friendly fire flirting. I’m allowed to want someone to actually mean it, to say it like it matters when they tell me I’m pretty. Why is it so bad that someone wants me?” 

Your chest was heaving at this point, anger and disappointment boiling in your veins as you fought with Agatha. It wasn’t the first time you had ever exchanged heated words with the woman, the two of you near matches in your stubbornness, but it was the first time it had felt personal. Agatha meant so much to you, more than a friend ever should, and it was breaking your heart that she couldn’t just accept that something was going your way for once.  

“Because,” she cried, your name falling from her lips like a plea. “It was supposed to be me! If you were going to make a huge fucking mistake loving an older woman, it was supposed to be me!” 

Her words stopped you dead in your tracks, sucking all of the air from your lungs like she had punched you in the middle of your chest. You rubbed your sternum, trying to catch your breath as her admission washed over you. Fuck. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. 

“Why are you telling me this now?” you asked, tears shining in your eyes. “You’ve been my friend for years, Agatha. Why couldn’t you tell me this before someone else found me?” 

Agatha couldn’t look you in the eyes, staring down at her hands like somehow they would be able to save her. 

“You’re not supposed to want someone like me,” Agatha said, shaking her head and laughing wetly. “You’re young and have an entire life ahead of you. I can’t be the one to stop you from having it all. If all I could be was your friend, that would have been enough; it had to be enough.” 

You nodded, a humorless laugh huffing through your nostrils as you sucked your bottom lip into your mouth. “You don’t get to decide what I want, Agatha. I pined after you for years, and I know you’re not stupid; I know that you knew. You don’t get to act like I’m the one that got away because you were too much of a coward to say anything. If you had even given me an inch to believe that you wanted me back, that what I was feeling wasn’t just in my head, maybe this could have been something. But you don’t get to use this as a weapon because you don’t like that I’ve moved on. You don’t get to do this to me, Agatha.” 

That had been nearly a week ago, now, and Agatha had been silent ever since. It weighed heavily on your heart, and you couldn’t help but feel like you had made a mistake. Your emotions had gotten the better of you, and you said things you didn’t mean, cruel things that could never be true. Agatha wasn’t a coward, she never had been, and you knew that better than anyone. You knew the way that she fought against her grief for a sick little boy every single day, you knew how she kept herself alive even when she didn’t know what she was fighting for, how she went to war for every single author that she picked up, even if the board didn’t believe their book would be worth the company’s time, and won. Agatha was brave, she was strong, and she was larger than life.

And now, it was the middle of the night, and you were cradling your phone in your hands as tears streaked down your face because Agatha had been right, like she always was. Her contact card was pulled up, and your thumb trembled as you hovered over the call button. Would she pick up? Would she be angry with you? Would she rub it in your face and say you should have just listened to her when she said Gemma was bad news? 

Before you could overthink it, the phone started to ring, and you brought it to your ear, wiping at your nose. 

“Hon? What’s wrong?” Agatha’s voice was gravelly and low, like she had just been ripped from her sleep. “It’s the middle of the night. What happened?” 

You hiccuped into the microphone. “I–I slept with Gemma and now she’s drunk texting me and scaring me and you were right, there was something wrong with her and I should have listened and I don’t know what to do.” 

The sound of bedsheets rustling in the background was punctuated by Agatha’s breathing as you heard her get out of bed. “I’m coming, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay, I’m on my way.” 

Not even 20 minutes later, there was a soft knock on your door, and you opened it to Agatha still in her silk pajamas and her wild waves sticking in every direction. She was wearing a pair of Crocs that you recognized from your closet, which she must have stolen at some point. 

“Hi,” you said, watery and pathetic as Agatha let herself into your apartment, shutting the door behind her before pulling you into a hug. “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“Shh, sweetheart, don’t apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Agatha cooed into your hair as she tucked your head under her chin. “Come on, let’s go sit, you can tell me what happened.” 

And so, you did. Agatha sat first and pulled you across her lap, tucking your body into the corner of the L-shaped sectional where she knew you felt the safest, and tugged your legs across her own. She rubbed your back and whispered soft comforts until your breathing evened out and you felt clear enough to speak. 

“She-she keeps drunk texting me every single night,” you started, looking at your hands as you played with them in your lap. “And it’s not the fun kind, it’s the awful kind that makes you feel weird and uncomfortable.”

Agatha nodded, encouraging you to continue. 

“I kept getting this weird feeling from her, even before you pointed it out, but I just wanted to be wanted so badly that I ignored it. It’s like I had tunnel vision. But then we fought, and I couldn’t get your words out of my head, and I was going to end it with her because it’s not fair to her, but she was so charming and she looked so good that I took her out for our date anyway. And I shouldn’t have done it. I felt uncomfortable the whole time. But she disarmed me, and I fell for it, and I gave her what she wanted because I wanted it, too. At least, I thought I did, but the longer it went on, the further and further into my head I got, and she started getting frustrated with me, like it was my fault that she wasn’t doing a good job, and it all just felt so gross. I couldn’t touch her back, it just felt wrong, and so I took her home and she got drunk, and this is what she said.” 

It felt like a weight had been lifted off your chest as you told Agatha about Gemma and what had been going on. You unlocked your phone and showed her the last string of messages before you blocked her, each one getting angrier and angrier as she got drunker and drunker, flipping from manipulative lovebombing because she wanted you again to toxic vitriol because you dared to tell her that you didn’t want to see her anymore. She was lying, she was accusing you of using her to get what you want, she was using every play in the alcoholic’s playbook to try and pull you back under her control, and it all felt overwhelming. 

“Oh, I will fucking kill her,” Agatha seethed, holding tighter to your waist. She tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear before tilting your chin up to look at her. “What do you need from me, sweetheart? How can I make this better?” 

You blinked at her, long and slow. “Don’t you want to tell me you told me so? Rub it in my face that I made a mistake?” 

“Absolutely not,” Agatha replied immediately, her nails digging into your sides. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. This is on Gemma. She’s the one in the wrong.” 

A warm hand smoothed up and down your back in long, comforting strokes. You looked at Agatha, taking in every inch of her face, every twitch of her muscles, every microexpression that you were never close enough to truly see. With an unsteady hand, you traced your thumb over her cheekbone, and her eyes fluttered shut under the touch. 

“I’m sorry,” you started, voice low and hesitant. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I didn’t mean them.” 

Agatha nuzzled her face into your touch. “You did mean them, but I deserved to hear it. I’m sorry, too. That wasn’t the right time to tell you, and I should have been more supportive.” 

“You were the only person trying to knock any sense into me. I’m glad that you said what you did,” you admitted, finally having enough distance from the fights to know that even if Agatha had been jealous, she had been right about Gemma. “I wish I had listened to you. Or, to myself, even.” 

“Don’t do that,” Agatha said, tucking your hair behind your ear. “You got yourself out, and that’s all that matters. You’re safe, you’re here, and she can’t hurt you anymore.” 

You nodded and then curled into Agatha, nuzzling her neck and breathing in the sweet, sweet scent of her expensive perfume, of her thick hair, of her soft skin. It wasn’t abnormal for you to hug Agatha, but you had never been close to her like this before, not in her lap as she held you so fiercely you couldn’t fall apart.  

Her hand smoothed up and down your back, and her lips pressed into the crown of your head. You hummed softly at the touch, the warmth like a balm on your skin that felt so, so raw after she had touched you. Every pass of Agatha’s hand felt like renewal, every press of her lips like warm honey, viscous and golden as it glued your hurting pieces back together. 

You wanted more. 

Pulling back, you looked at Agatha, searching her face for anything– a sign, a signal, a fleeting thought that could tell you that she wanted this, too. You touched her face, cupping her cheeks and making her eyelids flutter shut at the soft caress. Touching her hadn’t felt like this, hadn’t felt this right, hadn’t felt this perfect. 

“Agatha…” you whispered, trailing off as her blue eyes met yours again, a warmth in them that you had been missing for so, so long. 

Your name fell from her lips, echoing in the room around you like a prayer, reverent and solemn. 

“Do you– do you still want me?” you asked, unsteady and unsure. 

Agatha bit her lip and you thought for just a moment that it was rejection, that you had ruined everything. She didn’t let you pull away, though, stopping you in your tracks with a voice smaller than you had ever heard from her before. 

“You’re vulnerable right now. You’re hurting. We shouldn’t start like this.” 

Her words were valiant, but you could hear the hesitation in them. She had always been so fiercely protective of the people she cared about, of the people she loved, and you were no exception. 

“Please, Agatha. Please help me forget. Please,” you begged, bringing your face closer to hers, still cupping her cheeks so, so tenderly. “It’s always been you. Please.” 

Those words were the magic combination, and Agatha tilted her head just enough to press your lips together in a sweet, tender first kiss that was nothing like the one you had just experienced a few days prior. There was no aggression, no tongue shoving down your throat, just soft, pillowy lips brushing against yours like you were something delicate, something precious, something irreplaceable. 

Her hands gripped your waist harder, like you would disappear from her grasp if she let go even a little. You pushed your hands back until they were tangled in her hair, wild locks already knotting around your fingers as she sucked in a breath. 

“Are you sure?” she asked, breathless and pupils blown wide. 

“Yes, I want you. Please, Agatha. Please.” 

Agatha looked at you for another long moment before she finally, finally believed you and helped you to stand, taking you by the hand and guiding you back to your bedroom. Her touch was soft, gentle, so, so kind. And when you were finally tucked safely into the room, door shut and bedside lamp on low, she let her hands wander. 

She started with your face, thumbing at your cheeks, memorizing the planes of your face. Her lips found your forehead, your nose, the apples of your cheeks, the curve of your chin, everywhere she could reach. Long fingers danced down the columns of your throat, smoothing your shoulders and tracing your collarbones as she took you in. Her hands pressed into the soft flesh of your arms, pulling down, down, down until her fingers tangled with yours, thumbs rubbing against your knuckles. 

Agatha’s mouth opened, but you stopped her before any words could come out. 

“What can I do to reassure you that this is what I want? That it isn’t a mistake?” you asked, needing Agatha to know that this was everything you had been wanting for as long as you had known her, that you had been in love with her for so long that you didn’t know where the bounds of friendship ended and the beating of your heart began. 

It wasn’t often that Agatha was rendered speechless but for several long seconds, she looked at you, stunned, like she could see every fleck of emotion on your face and almost couldn’t believe it to be true. 

“Tell me how you really feel about me,” Agatha asked, voice strong but stil so, so unsure. “Please, tell me you feel it, too.” 

“I fell in love with you 6 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days ago. It had snowed all night long, and the sidewalks were covered in ice, but you still rode the subway to work anyway. You were wearing a knit hat that was covered in the biggest snowflakes I had ever seen, and the salt was staining not only your boots but the hem of your designer pants, too. Your eyes looked so, so blue against the overcast sky, and I knew in that moment I would never meet anyone more beautiful than you. And what did you do? You looked at me and smiled that brilliant fucking smile and said–”

“Do you think Zeus forgot that he’s only supposed to do cocaine upstate? This city is too dirty for the good stuff, its beauty is wasted on this smoggy wasteland,” Agatha completed the quote, a look of absolute incredulity on her face. “I wouldn’t call that one of my more romantic lines.” 

“Maybe not, but that’s when I knew that there was no one else who could make me laugh like you, and I didn’t want to ever find out what life would be like without you. I wanted to be the person you looked at like that forever.” 

Agatha squeezed your hands tighter. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“You’re notoriously hard to read, Agatha. There isn’t exactly a guidebook that decodes all of your microexpressions, and you’ve never, ever crossed the line.” 

A soft laugh echoed in the room around you, Agatha dropping her head to her chest before looking back into your eyes. 

“I love you, too,” Agatha admitted, saying the words out loud that you thought you would never hear. “Since the day you walked into my office with that blazing inferno in your eyes and stole my biggest acquisition of the year, I have loved you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” 

You pulled Agatha closer, wrapping your arms around her waist. “All that matters is that we’re here now. And I’m not going anywhere.” 

Agatha kissed you, then, firm and full of emotion. Her tongue swiped across your bottom lip, begging for entrance. You opened your mouth, letting her in, feeling the way she treated you with so much care. 

Her hands wandered up to the hem of your shirt, just a loose t-shirt that you liked to wear to bed, and you lifted your arms, letting her pull it over your head. 

“Did she do this to you?” Agatha gasped, fingers immediately falling to the large, greenish-purple bruises that had been sucked into your chest. They were big and ugly, and you felt a wave of shame wash over you. 

“No, don’t do that,” she continued, placing her palms over her chest firmly, like she needed you to listen. “You’re beautiful, baby. Let me take care of  you.” 

Agatha walked you backwards until your knees hit your bed, then she lowered you gently onto the mattress, guiding your body until you rested against the pillows, hair fanning out beneath you. 

She straddled your hips, and from this angle you could see her nipples poking through her silk sleep shirt. Your hands reached for her, smoothing up her waist until they slipped beneath the buttons and found bare skin. She was so warm, so soft, so smooth to the touch. Delicate fingers unbuttoned the fabric, one by one, until her shirt was falling from her shoulders. And when she was finally bared to you, sleep shorts still pulled up to her belly button, you couldn’t help the praises that fell from your lips. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you whispered like if you said it any louder, the world would come crashing down around you and break the spell that was being cast. 

“So are you,” Agatha returned before bending down, bracing her hands next to your head and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. 

Her teeth dragged along your skin, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Any and all thoughts of Gemma flew from your mind as your body was lit on fire, every nerve ending reacting to Agatha’s touch in a way you had never experienced before. She kissed a path down to your chest, dotting her lips along your collarbones, down your sternum, over the swell of your breasts until she found the marks that marred your skin. 

“When these are gone, I want to give you new ones,” she said against your skin, nose digging into the tender flesh of one of the bruises. “The only person who can mark you like this is me.” 

Agatha didn’t put her teeth into the hickies, didn’t suck a darker mark over top of them to stake her claim– instead, she kissed them, she laved her tongue over them, she treated them like battle wounds that only she could heal. You tipped your head back against the pillow, arching up into her touch as her lips found your nipple, pressing further into her mouth. 

“Yes, just like that,” you breathed, fingers finding her hair and tangling at the roots, holding her in place as she sucked on the pebbled flesh. 

A quiet little moan slipped from her chest as your fingers gripped tighter, tugging harder as pleasure flooded your system. The sound shot straight to your core, and you could feel the wetness pooling under your sleep shorts, warm and dripping for the woman you had pined after for years. 

Soft little bites were littered on your skin as Agatha released your nipple with a wet pop and made her way to your neglected breast. She lavished it with the same attention, nipping and sucking and pulling until you were a squirming, desperate mess, so in the moment that you couldn’t think anything except Agatha, Agatha, Agatha.

“You make the most beautiful little sounds,” Agatha said as she came up for air, lips swollen and cheeks flushed a dusty rose. “I love hearing you.” 

Agatha continued her path down your body, kissing from your sternum, down your stomach to where the waistband of your shorts rested. She looked up at you with a question in her eyes, her two forefingers teasing at the elastic. You nodded and hummed, barely able to squeak out a “yes” before she was pulling them and your underwear off your body, leaving you exposed to the room around you. 

Her eyes immediately scanned your body, looking at you like some kind of last meal, ravenous and gluttonous. You wiggled under her attention, and her long, delicate fingers smoothed up the expanse of your tummy, holding you in place. 

“Can I touch you, sweet girl?” Agatha asked, hands running up and down, up and down, up and down until your hips started to buck under the attention. 

“Please, Agatha,” you whined, not caring how desperate you sounded. “Please, I need you.” 

That was all the permission Agatha needed before her lips continued their path down, kissing the soft hairs on your lower stomach and arching onto your upper thighs. She kissed harder, sucked harder, bit harder, but still didn’t leave a mark on your skin. 

It was only when she licked a path from your thighs to your center that your hand flew to her hair once more, needing something to ground you, something to hold on to. 

“Agatha,” you sighed as her tongue pulled through your folds for the first time, collecting your arousal like it was something sacred. 

She hummed against her center in response, making your hips twitch further into her mouth. Strong hands found your hips, anchoring you in place. 

“Are you going to be able to hold still, baby?” she asked, your wetness already glistening on her chin. 

“I– I can try,” you said, not making any promises. Just the ghost of her breath over you was enough to drive you crazy with want. 

“Good girl,” she praised, making you drop your head back and moan a deep, needy moan. 

She kissed you, then, taking your whole cunt into her mouth before sucking one your lips between her own, letting her tongue taste your hot, swollen skin. You were released with a wet pop before she gave the same attention to the other lip, treating your pussy like it was her last meal. She took her time, giving you so much attention that by the time her tongue finally sought your clit, you were a writhing, whimpering mess. 

Her tongue found its target within seconds, wasting no time in pressing soft, slow circles into the swollen, aching nub. Your fingers twisted in her long, dark locks, pulling her further against your center, needing more. 

“Agatha, please, don’t tease me,” you panted, her tongue immediately picking up the pace, pressing harder and quicker against the place where you needed her the most.

She kept at this for long minutes, building you higher and higher and higher until you hit your peak, shattering around her mouth with a loud, strangled cry. Your hips jutted against her, and you could feel her hands fighting to hold you still. She licked you through it, not stopping her attention until you had come back down from your climax and tugged on her hair, pulling her off of you. 

“How do you feel?” Agatha asked, letting her head fall to your thigh, licking her lips from the glistening arousal that was already dripping down her face. 

“So good, I can’t believe you could–” you started before stopping yourself. 

Agatha looked up at you in concern. “You can’t believe that I could what?” 

You closed your eyes and breathed for a moment before letting it all out. “I can’t believe that you could make me come. That hasn’t, that didn’t happen with… It’s just been a long, long time since someone else did that for me, that’s all. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me.” 

Agatha frowned and crawled back up your body, giving you a firm, albeit wet, kiss on your lips. “There is nothing wrong with you. No matter what, no matter how your body reacts to someone touching you, there is never anything wrong with you,” she reassured you, hating that someone had made you feel like it was your fault, like there was something frustrating, something broken about your body when it couldn’t do what they wanted it to. 

“Thank you for saying that, really,” you said, pulling Agatha down until she was lying on you fully, and you kissed her forehead. “I love you, Agatha. So much.” 

“I love you, too,” she returned. “You deserve the entire world. 

And so, there you lay, sweaty and spent with Agatha still topless and in her sleep shorts, feeling so grateful for this incredible woman in your life. She came to you without a single hesitation when you needed her and put all of your broken pieces back together, used her touch to cleanse your body of your mistakes, and held you so reverently that you felt like something holy. 

Agatha was everything you could have wanted and more, and she was so irrevocably yours. 

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Charlotte's Web

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,888

Warning(s): Pregnancy, brief descriptions of childbirth, angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: Five years have passed since Agatha left. When she sees you in public for the first time, she can't help but stop and talk. But what she wasn't expecting to see was a little girl with brown hair and blue eyes, calling you "mom".

A/N: Hello! I've been super busy with work and moving rich kids out of their apartments, so I haven't written a thing since my depressing Avenger!Agatha oneshots. This was def a breath of fresh air from the depressing stuff I've been writing.

This was originally an anon request, but tumblr fucked up my post so here it is: Can I ask a fic with Agatha Harkness x fem! reader where Agatha ends her relationship with Reader - even though she really loves her - to protect Reader from Rio and Rio’s torments without knowing that Reader was pregnant? After recovering her body, Agatha sees Reader with a little girl Who calls Reader “mom”

Tip Jar of hearts💕

Masterlist

When you see the double lines, your stomach sinks. It was only a theory. Only a possibility that seemed impossible. But here you are, standing in your bathroom and holding onto the sink as you cry.

It’s been two weeks since you begged her not to leave.

“As long as you are with me, there will always be a target on your back,” she said. “No rune, no spell could ever keep you safe if you stay with me.”

You cried–whimpered almost–as you held onto her arm. “I don’t care, Agatha. I want you. I want to be with you. Please!”

“I know,” Agatha whispered, and kissed your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

No amount of ‘I love you’s and ‘please’s would convince her to stay. So, you let her go. 

You spent the next two weeks in bed, sick to your stomach–or so you thought. The nausea was frequent, but you truly thought it was because of how much you were crying. But clearly, you were wrong.

Now, you’re conflicted. You know you should tell her–you want to tell her–but she left. She’s gone. 

And as the months go by, as your belly grows, it’s all you can think about. Every morning, you wake up and wonder if you should call Agatha. After all, it is her child too.

The question–the urge–comes up every time.

You think about her picking out baby clothes with you.

You think about her helping you build the crib.

You think about her being a mother:

Cradling your future baby in her arms, holding them and smiling as they wave their hand in her face.

You can almost see it.

And every time you think about that future–that unattainable future–your heart breaks and tears choke you. 

But you live. 

You take care of yourself, because it’s not just you now. You plan every meal and check every ingredient on every package. You schedule doctors appointments and you research everything.

Because you’re scared.

Because you have no one else with you.

No one but the child you’ll hold in your arms.

And you’re going to make damn sure that you don’t screw this up.

When your water breaks, the reality of your situation sinks in. Building the crib, picking out the clothes, taking the vitamins–that was the easy part. Now, you regret never telling her. 

You want her here. You need her here for this. 

It feels impossible doing this by yourself. Even with the epidural, the emotional toll is drowning you–sitting in that hospital bed, doing nothing but waiting and hoping that when you look down at your phone, her name will appear. 

But it doesn’t.

You could call her. 

You could call her and when she picks up, you could tell her everything.

‘I know you left, but I needed to tell you that I’ve been pregnant this whole time and that it’s yours and I’m now in labor, and that I miss you so much and that I need you here with me because I can’t do this alone.’

But that’s a lot for a phone call.

So instead of begging Agatha to come back, you stay quiet. You squeeze a nurse’s hand as you push, and when your daughter is placed on your chest, tiny and squirming, the thought of Agatha is fleeting.

It lingers in your head–having her there with you, seeing her daughter, holding her daughter.

But as the days go by, you forget about her. Your sole focus is on Charlotte. As scared as you were–as you are–you can’t imagine life without her.

Even if you’re doing it by yourself.

Five years goes by quicker than you thought it would. 

You’re woken up on Saturday morning by the pitter patter of little feet and the covers on the other side of the bed being pulled on. Before you can roll over, the bed dips and tiny hands are shaking you. 

“Mama…” Charlotte whispers. “Mom…”

“Hm?” You turn over, eyes still closed.

“It’s Saturday,” she says quietly.

When you open your eyes, your arms quickly grab her and pull her close. “No it’s not,” you tease, smiling as she giggles.

“Yes, it is,” she insists. “We go shopping today.”

In the past five years, you’ve tried so hard to forget. To forget Agatha, to forget that you ever loved her. But when your daughter breaks free from your grasp, it’s hard to. 

Charlotte is every bit of Agatha–from the looks down to the personality. She has the same blue eyes, the same frizzy, brown hair. She has the same attitude and wit, the same way of finding loopholes in everything you tell her to do.

When you told her to clean her room one day, she did. However, when you checked under the bed and found all of the toys she was supposed to put away, she looked at you and shrugged. 

“You didn’t tell me where I should put my toys.”

You practically have to bribe her every time she doesn't want to do something. She’s stubborn beyond belief and too clever for her own good, and you love her endlessly. 

“Are we shopping today?” you ask, acting confused. 

“Yes,” Charlotte giggles. “I can have a book. You said that.”

And the books. So many books. 

She loves toys, but she loves books more. She reads picture books, chapter books, even whatever novel you’re reading at the moment isn’t off limits. If it has words, she’ll read it. 

After a quick breakfast and bickering over what to wear, you buckle Charlotte into her carseat. The drive to town doesn’t take long. The majority of it is spent on Charlotte telling you everything that happened in her dream last night.

“And then–And then she turned into a square!” she gawks as you help her out of the car.

In the book store–the bookstore that you promised her last week that you’d go to–she runs straight to the children’s section, her light-up sneakers blinking with each step. 

She stands on her tippy toes as she reaches for a book and pulls it down. It’s routine at this point–going to the bookstore and letting her look at every book her heart desires until she eventually decides on the first book she touched. You smile as you watch her get excited over every cover.

“Look, Mama, this one has a cat!”

“I see!” you chirp. “What’s that one about?”

You listen with your full attention as she reads out the description on the back. Since having your daughter, you never understood the phrase, “Like a kid in a candy store”.

Because clearly they had never seen your kid in a book store.

A throat clears behind you. “Hey.”

That voice. Your heart leaps–in a good way or bad way, you have no idea. But you turn around quickly, and there she is.

Brown, frizzy hair. Those crystal clear, blue eyes that carry a hint of mischief wherever they look.

You take a quick glance behind you to see Charlotte engrossed in another book. “Agatha, what are you–?”

“Well, I was in here and I thought I heard your voice,” she explains quietly. “H–”

“Mama, look at this one!” You’re both interrupted by Charlotte pulling on your shirt. “Look, my name is on it! There’s a spider too! Can I have it?”

You can see the look in Agatha’s eyes–confusion, shock–and you look down at your daughter. “Yeah, honey, you can have it.��� You dig in your purse for your wallet and take out a ten dollar bill, handing it to Charlotte. “Here, why don’t you go over to the little cafe and get us one of those cookies to share.”

“Can I have my own this time?” she pouts. 

“No,” you say. “We’ll share one.”

You hold the book she chose as you watch her run over to the cafe. “Slow down!” you call after her.

“What’s her name?” Agatha asks, and you look at her.

Your mouth goes dry. “Charlotte. Her name is Charlotte.”

“How old is she?” 

“Five,” you smile. “I just enrolled her in kindergarten for this August, actually.”

And both of you are quiet, because both of you know the next question she wants to ask.

But you don’t let her.

“Do you wanna come over for dinner tomorrow?” you ask. 

“What?”

“You don’t have to,” you say. Your eyes drift to the cafe where Charlotte talks to the barista with dramatic hand gestures.“But I know what you’re thinking right now, and I don’t want to do this in public.”

Your stomach is twisted in knots the entire day. As you stand at the kitchen counter cutting veggies, you glance over at Charlotte every now and then. She’s on the living room floor, TV on with her favorite show as she reads to the cat.

Nothing will be the same after tonight. 

You’re kicking yourself over not telling her. You should’ve told her as soon as you saw those two lines. 

A quiet voice cuts through your thoughts and startles you.

“Mama, what’s for dinner?”

You hesitate, finding your words. “Uh–chicken parmesan and veggies. We’re having someone over for dinner tonight, so go change out of your jammies.”

“Who?” she asks, jumping up and down.

“Just one of my old friends,” you say. “Now, go change. She’ll be here soon.”

Six o’clock approaches quickly and there’s a knock on the door. In her fuzzy socks, Charlotte bounds for the door and opens it. You pour yourself a second glass of wine as you listen to the two of them talk.

“Where’s your mom?” Agatha asks.

And without hesitation, Charlotte responds with a chipper, “Drinking wine in the kitchen.”

You choke on your wine and as you wipe your mouth and take a deep breath, the two of them round the corner. Seeing Agatha in your home, standing beside what looks like a mirror reflection of her, makes your heart thunder in your chest.

“Mom, it’s the girl from the book store!” Charlotte says.

“Well, she wasn’t wrong,” Agatha chuckles. “What glass is this, hm?”

You glare at her, holding back a noticeable smile. “I just poured it, Agatha–but it’s my second. Would you like a glass?”

Agatha sits at the kitchen island with her own glass of wine in hand. Beside her, Charlotte sits on the stool, coloring a page in her coloring book. At one point, she interrupts Agatha, forcing a crayon into her hand.

“Oh, you want me to color too?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Charlotte says. “That’s why I gave you a crayon.”

Agatha raises her eyebrows. “You know, you’ve got a lip on you.”

And without missing a beat, and without stopping her coloring, Charlotte says matter-of-factly, “I got two lips on me actually.”

Agatha looks at you, jaw dropping as you snicker.

“Charlotte, honey, can you help set the table, please?” you ask.

She huffs, “But me and Aggie are coloring.”

“Yeah, we’re coloring," Agatha scoffs, and when she glances up at you, she smiles. 

“Aggie?” you repeat, and sigh. “Wow, I haven’t heard that name in years.” You purse your lips and shake your head as you open the cabinet. 

Three plates.

Three napkins.

Three forks.

Two knives.

The setting at the small table in your kitchen pulls at your heart strings. If you had told her five years ago, this simple sight–this simple act of putting three plates on your kitchen table wouldn’t hurt as much.

There’s never been more than two places at this table. 

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

Easter.

Not a single holiday had more than two place settings. But maybe after tonight, maybe after the way you’ve seen the two of them together, maybe things could be different.

Dinner is filled with conversation–mostly from Charlotte, who explains the plot of her favorite books. At one point, she sighs, almost out of breath from how much she’s been talking.

“Mom, can I have some more juice?” she asks.

You nod your head, and without moving from the table you raise your hand. A soft orange glow wisps around your fingers and the fridge opens. The bottle of juice floats over and Charlotte gasps.

She leans in close, her voice quiet. “Mama, we’re not supposed to use magic with other people.”

“No, honey, it’s okay,” you assure her, taking the juice from the air and pouring it in her cup. You look across the table at Agatha, smiling softly. “We can use magic when Agatha’s here.”

“Is she like us?” Charlotte whispers.

You nod and send the juice back to the fridge. “She is.”

“Really?” Charlotte gasps and turns to Agatha. “Is yours orange?”

Agatha sets down her wine glass and smiles. “No, it’s purple.”

You had never seen your daughter more excited. She’s almost squealing with happiness, and when she turns to you, she’s smiling brightly.

“Mama, she’s like me!”

And when you look at Agatha, you can see the hurt–the longing–in her eyes.

The day that her magic started showing was…rough. The “Terrible Twos” hit her hard. This particular day was harder. 

Every ‘no’ was followed by a wave of tears.

And so was every ‘yes’--because usually when you said yes, something ended up going wrong.

And this particular ‘yes’ for ice cream turned into a tantrum when Charlotte saw that there were chocolate chips in her cookie dough ice cream. Not even offering to pick the chocolate chips out placated her, and in the end, the bowl was thrown across the table and shattered against the wall.

But she didn’t throw it. Neither of you did.

When you saw that faint glow of purple, you couldn’t lie, you were slightly disappointed. The kid looks every bit like Agatha, she could’ve at least gotten your magic. But after the initial shock, your only goal was to prevent magical mishaps. 

They happened frequently, and not just with anger. When she scraped her knee in the backyard, the door on the shed blew off its hinges. On Christmas morning last year, when she got the present she begged for, a bulb in a lamp burst. Every intense reaction came with an equally intense surge of magic.

Dinner carries on with Charlotte placating Agatha with questions about magic. And eventually she’s back in the living room with the cat, eyes glued to the movie you turned on for her.

Now you’re in the most domestic position you could’ve ended up in tonight. Agatha packs the leftovers in plastic containers while you wash the dishes. And when the leftovers are in the fridge, she stands beside you at the sink with a dish towel, wiping the clean plates dry. 

“We could’ve had this, you know,” Agatha mumbles, not looking at you, but focusing very hard on drying the dish you handed her. “If you told me, I would’ve…”

“Agatha you–” You cut yourself off, feeling the frustration rise in your throat. Your eyes dart to the living room where Charlotte is still oblivious to what’s happening. “We’ll talk about this later…when she’s asleep.”

When the kitchen is clean, you and Agatha join Charlotte in the living room. When Agatha sits down, Charlotte immediately runs over to show her the stuffed animal she has.

“What’s its name?” Agatha asks.

“Her name is Ellie. She’s a elephant,” she says. “They’re my favorite, but the book said they’re going extinct.” Her arms open wide as she talks. “It also said that they eat three hundred-thirty pounds of food every day!” 

Agatha’s mouth drops and she gasps. “Wow! That is a lot!”

The rest of the evening is quiet. After listing off facts about elephants, Charlotte climbs up on the couch and sidles against you. As the movie comes to a close, you see her eyes struggling to stay open and you sigh. 

“Alright, it’s time for bed,” you say, and pull her into your arms as you stand up. 

She whines, protesting that she’s not tired, but her head is heavy on your shoulder and her elephant stuffy is slipping from her grasp.

“Yes, it’s time for bed, honey,” you say again, walking toward the stairs with her limp in your arms. “Say goodnight to Agatha.”

She raises her head quickly, seeming to have risen from the land of sleep. “Can she come with us?”

You look back at Agatha and it’s clear she’s hesitant. “Yeah, if she wants.”

Bedtime is much quieter than usual. For once, Charlotte doesn’t argue with anything. In fact, she cooperates, and she and Agatha consult each other on the best pair of pajamas to wear. And you’re almost brought to tears when you watch Agatha crouch down and tuck her into bed.

Her voice is uncharacteristically quiet. And her touch is softer than you’ve ever seen it.

“Where’s Ellie?” she asks. When she finds the elephant, she tucks it beneath Charlotte’s arm and smiles. “There. Now she’s all warm and tight with you.”

Charlotte’s smile is sleepy, but she reaches for the book on her nightstand. “Mama reads me a chapter,” she mumbles. “We’re on five.”

Agatha takes the book. “Charlotte’s Web? This is a good choice.” She opens the book to chapter five. “Alright,” she sighs. “Chapter Five: Charlotte–hey, that’s your name!”

As Charlotte giggles and Agatha begins reading, you leave the room to change into comfier clothes. Even with your bathroom door shut, you can hear Agatha doing silly voices and Charlotte giggling over them. 

With a fresh face and comfier clothes, you stand quietly in the doorway of your daughter’s bedroom. 

Her eyes are heavy, and she’s curled into a ball, but she’s just hanging on to Agatha’s words.

“‘Wilbur was merely suffering the doubts and fears that often go with finding a new friend’,” Agatha reads, her voice soft and gentle as Charlotte's eyes flutter. “‘In good time he was to discover that he was mistaken about Charlotte. Underneath her rather bold and cruel exterior, she had a kind heart, and she was to prove loyal and true to the very end.’”

When she closes the book, you walk over and pull the covers over Charlotte’s shoulders. Your hand smooths back her dark hair and you place a kiss on her temple. 

“Goodnight,” she whispers.

“Goodnight,” you say. “I love you.”

You follow Agatha out of the room, switching the lights off and turning the nightlight on. The mood has seemed to stiffen now that your daughter is no longer there, and you pour the two of you a glass of wine. 

The TV plays in the background as you sit on the couch together, a little too far apart than you would’ve liked–but you would never admit that.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Agatha asks quietly. She sits on her side, elbow resting on the back of the couch as she faces you, and your eyes can’t seem to help but stare at her muscles. 

“I don't know,” you shrug, taking a sip of your wine. “I mean…Agatha you left. With the excuse that I was in danger if you stayed. And if you stayed and we had a child? It–I didn’t think you’d want to…you left, Agatha.”

“I didn’t want to,” she mutters. “Rio was…” She lets out a dry chuckle. “Well, you know Rio. If you had told me…I would’ve come back.”

You take in a shaky breath. “I wanted to, I did. I kept telling myself that I could do it alone, and that I don’t need you.”

“Well, it worked,” Agatha shrugs, smirking into her glass. 

“More or less,” you sigh, and you note how she scoots closer to you. “I tried seeing people, but they…” You try to find words to accurately describe it, but the only words that come out are, “They weren’t you.”

Agatha looks at you and her face softens. She moves just a bit closer and takes a long sip of her wine before setting it down on the coffee table. “You know,” she says, making herself comfortable, “I think this wine is starting to hit me.”

You raise a brow, and knowing exactly what she’s doing, you grin. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” she huffs. “I don’t think I should drive home. That would be very irresponsible of me, and now that I have a child, it would be best if I made responsible choices.”

You can feel your throat tighten. “Do you really mean that?” you ask quietly. 

Agatha moves closer so that she’s now directly in front of you. Your knees press against one another and her hand brushes against your cheek before it rests on your leg. “I do,” she mutters, thumb brushing against your bare skin. “She’s…she’s something,” Agatha chuckles. “That’s for sure.”

“Every time she does something that reminds me of you, I wish I had told you…which is a lot, because everything she does is…” You sigh as you trail off, tears brimming your eyes. “I’m sorry I didn–I should’ve told you, Agatha. I’m sorry.”

She pulls you into her arms and you feel her lips on your head. “It’s okay,” she mumbles, and pulls back to look at you. “It’s okay, really. I’m just glad I’m here now.”

“Me too,” you rasp.

“Now, I’m not gonna be like one of those deadbeat dads,” Agatha says, changing the mood to a much more amusing tone. “Contrary to them, I quite like my child, and I fully intend on being present in her life.”

“She’s exactly like you.” You smile softly as you watch her refill your glasses.

“I might as well have had sex with a copying machine,” she says a little too casually.

Your jaw drops as you laugh and take the glass she’s offering you. “You are terrible!”

“Eyes, hair, magic, it’s incredible,” Agatha shrugs. 

Your laughter fades into a sigh. “How are we gonna tell her?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles, swirling the wine in her glass. “Not anytime soon. She barely knows me.”

“Yeah, we should probably wait a bit.” You lean into her side, head dropping to her shoulder. “I missed you,” you mumble. 

Agatha’s hand runs through your hair and you hear her sigh. “I missed you too.”

It feels natural to be in this position: on the couch, glasses of wine on the table, tucking your daughter into bed together. It feels right. 

It feels normal.

“Do you want this?” you ask, looking up at Agatha. “Do you really want…us?”

Agatha looks at you and smiles sadly. “Yeah,” she breathes, and her eyes dart down to your lips. “I…” You can see her throat bob. “I love you…both of you, and I wanna be here.”

Tears slip from your eyes and you lean in, pressing the softest kiss to her lips. “I love you too.”

And just like Wilbur, you too had suffered from the doubts and the confusions, and jumped to conclusions during the changing tides. But you were proven wrong in good time.

Yes, Agatha is bold and audacious. Her words cut like knives, and she apologizes to no one. But even if she seems cruel to the outside world, you know her. You know that she’s not as cold as she’s made out to be. You know that she holds more love than what she wants others to believe. You know that she’s caught in your web, and that in the end, she’ll always be back. 

Even if it takes a bit of time.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

and now i’m covered in you

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Plot: agatha is not a housewife anymore, she’s your wife and you’re hers. one evening full of wine reveals some secret kinks.

Warnings: +18, dirty talk, dom!agatha, strap on

Tip me 💰if you like my work and want to support me :)

Author’s note: this is an additional piece to the “my house of stone, your ivy grows” universe. you can find part 1 and 2 here and here

It had been a year.

Twelve full moons since the door closed behind Agatha for the last time, a small suitcase, no dramatic goodbye, just her keys dropped on the kitchen counter along with signed divorced papers. She’d walked out in jeans and a coat far too thin for the season, blinking into the pale light of early spring like a reborn woman.

Now, that same woman was your wife and was barefoot on the porch of your small cottage, sipping coffee from a chipped mug, her fingers stained by freshly harvested strawberries, her hair still sleep-mussed and curling in the damp morning air. She was wearing one of your old flannels, too big in the shoulders, open at the throat, and editing a piece for the local paper with her brows drawn together in concentration. You loved her like this. Soft. Focused. Free.

The town had been kinder than expected. Whispers at first, that strange pair living out by the tree line, one of them the wife of that man, but time, it seemed, had a way of silencing people.

Agatha’s first column had been a review of the annual town fair, dry, witty, observant. The editor asked her for more. Then more. Now she had her own column: From the Edge of Town. People read it religiously every Sunday over their eggs and toast. Even the ones who didn’t agree with her liked the way she said things.

You’d found a rhythm too. The herb business had started small, just you, your garden, and a few jars of dried chamomile and lavender sold at the farmer’s market. But it turned out people were hungry for the kind of care you offered. Not just products, but something magical. Soothing salves, teas, tinctures, bath blends. You got a name for yourself. 

You’d built shelves in the back room for drying bundles of lemon balm and rosemary, installed a deep sink for rinsing roots. Some nights the whole house smelled like rosemary.

The house was small, just three rooms and a loft, windows that sometimes required superhero strength to open, floorboards that creaked no matter how careful you were. But it was yours. And hers. And full of light and love. Books lined every wall. Herbs hung from the rafters. A kettle was always on the stove.

There were mornings like this one, where Agatha would glance up from her work and ask without words if you had time to come sit beside her. You always did. And there were nights where you’d close the garden gate behind you, sore and sun-warmed, to find her in the kitchen, barefoot, cooking by the glow of a single lamp, music playing low. She’d kiss you with flour on her cheek and tell you she’d written something today that scared her a little. You’d kiss her again and say good.

You had hard days, too. Times when the bills came too fast or Agatha couldn’t write a word for a week straight. Times when the silence between you stretched a little too long before it softened. But even those moments were worth it. 

Now you were enjoying a quiet Friday evening, Fleetwood Mac playing from the speakers, second bottle of wine empty. 

Agatha was barefoot in her chair, one leg draped lazily over yours, head tilted, cheeks flushed from wine and candlelight. She wore one of your old t-shirts knotted at the waist, no bra underneath, the line of her collarbone soft and visible when she laughed.

“You know,” she said, swirling the last of her wine, “I hated being a housewife.” She didn’t say it with bitterness, just the casual honesty.

You looked up. “Yeah?”

She nodded, gaze flicking toward the window, the night outside all dark, but warm. “Felt like I was playing a role I didn’t audition for. Wake up early. Cook eggs. Smile at the neighbor. Pretend that picking out curtains counts as fulfillment.”

She turned back to you, eyes sharp and glassy with heat. “But… now? Coming home to you, smelling like lavender and dirt, with flour on your thighs and your hands in bread dough… fuck. That’s hot.”

You blinked, then laughed, nearly snorted into your glass. “So what you’re saying is… you’re into housewives now?”

She blushed and looked down. “You know that I love the life we have built together and that we’re equal in every way…” 

“Agatha,” you said and she raised her eyes again. “It’s okay, I’m just joking around.” 

She breathed out and then grinned, slow and wicked. “Well, certain housewives who are not actually housewives are my weakness.” Her toe traced the inside of your calf, deliberately slow. “You, specifically.”

You smirked, setting your glass down. “Is this a kink reveal?”

Agatha leaned across the table, lips parted, the tip of her tongue peeking out just enough to be maddening. “It might be.”

You leaned in too, elbows on the table, your grin matching hers. “So you want me in an apron? Nothing underneath? Waiting at the door with freshly baked cookies?”

Her wine-dark eyes glittered. “Don’t put images into my head, woman.”

You laughed and then your voice dropped. “Would I kneel for you? Or would you want me sweet and flustered, bending over to dust the windowsill?”

Agatha's breath hitched, her fingers tightening on her glass. “Fuck. Don’t play with me.”

“Oh, I’m not,” you murmured, getting up, slowly, and stepping around the table. Her eyes followed every movement, the sway of your hips. 

You stopped beside her chair, trailed a finger down her shoulder. “I could serve you. Every morning. Every night. Take care of everything, let you just write and come home and use me however you want.”

She exhaled shakily, eyes locked on yours. “God, you’re dangerous when you talk like that.”

You brushed your thumb along her jaw. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That you like coming home to me. That you think it’s hot.”

She grabbed your wrist, hard and sudden, and pulled you into her lap. Her mouth was inches from yours, her breath wine-sweet and trembling.

“I love it,” she whispered. “Love coming home to you. Seeing your hands stained from the garden, your lips pink from tasting sauces…”

You kissed her hard.

The chair scraped against the tile as she shifted under you, hands sliding under your shirt, warm and urgent. You felt the heat between you, the air charged now, thick with want and laughter and wine.

~~~

You didn’t rush. You’d been preparing.

You knew it’d been just a wine induced confession, that Agatha loved how equal and independent you both were, but you had seen the way her eyes darkened, the flush in her cheeks, and you’d be damned if you didn’t fulfill all her fantasies. 

The kitchen smelled like fresh bread and roasted tomatoes. A bottle of chilled white wine sweated gently on the table. Every light in the house was low and golden, just the way she liked. But it wasn’t the wine she’d be thirsty for.

You adjusted the apron one last time in the hallway mirror, soft linen, tied at the back, nothing underneath. Just bare skin, freckles, curves, and a mischievous glint in your eye.

The front door creaked open.

You didn’t move from the threshold of the kitchen. You let her see you.

Agatha froze in the doorway.

For a full three seconds she didn’t breathe. Her hair was windblown from the drive, her shirt rolled at the elbows, all of her sharp edges glowing from the sunset behind her.

You tilted your head, slow, teasing. “Hi, darling. You’re home early.”

She dropped her keys.

“I—” She blinked, still standing there like she’d walked into the wrong dream. “You actually…”

You stepped forward slowly, the soft pat of your bare feet on the tile the only sound. The apron swayed open slightly with each movement, revealing the warm, flushed skin of your inner thigh.

“Dinner’s almost ready. But I thought you might want a little appetizer.” You paused in front of her, let her eyes rake over you. “Did you have a long day?”

Her jaw clenched. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this—”

“You were good,” you whispered, dragging a single finger down the open line of your chest, stopping just above the knot at your waist. “You’ve been working hard. Thought it was my turn to take care of you.”

Her breath caught. She reached out and cupped your face. “You’re going to ruin me,” she said softly.

“That's the idea.”

She looked at you like she was ready to risk it all. “You’re playing dangerous games.”

You shrugged, a picture of faux-innocence. “I’m just a devoted little housewife. Waiting all day for her wife to come home and—”

She cut you off with a low growl, fingers tightening at your waist. “Keep talking like that and you won’t make it to dessert.”

Your mouth twitched. “Well, I did bake a pie. But I suppose I can always warm it up later.”

Her eyes sparked. She leaned closer, voice like honey. “Tell me, sweetheart. What exactly does a perfect little housewife do when she’s been left waiting too long?”

You smiled, slow and dangerous now. “She gets lonely. She touches herself thinking about her wife’s hands on her throat. And when that’s not enough, she puts on her prettiest dress and plans a little revenge.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, the surprise flickered in her expression at your words, at the affect they had on her, at the little show you were putting on just because she had drunkly confessed she found it hot coming home to you. 

You tilted your head, lips barely an inch from hers. “Still want dinner?”

“Not anymore.”

She pushed you gently against the wall, your apron crumpling between you. Her fingers slid under the hem of your dress, hot and urgent.

“I should come home late more often,” she murmured, dragging her lips along your neck.

You hummed, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. “Please don’t, wives get lonely, you know? And I’ve been so good for you.”

Agatha pulled back slightly, eyes locked with yours. “Oh, have you?” She leaned closer to your ear and whispered, “I think you’ve been a very bad girl.”

You gasped, but then your mouth spread into a grin. “You can spank me later.“

That earned a laugh, low and wicked. “God, I love you like this,” she said. “Sweet on the outside, filthy underneath.”

You kissed her this time, deep, commanding. 

You didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Agatha had you pinned against the kitchen wall, the scent of baking pie thick in the air, your apron twisted in her fist like she might use it to tie your wrists if you so much as teased her one more time.

Her other hand was already beneath your dress, fingers tracing just inside your thigh, close, but maddeningly not close enough.

“You wore this for me,” she murmured, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. “All sweet and domestic, making dinner and waiting by the door like some 1950s fantasy.”

You arched toward her. “Did it work?”

Agatha’s laugh was soft and dangerous. “Oh, baby. It worked a little too well.”

You leaned in again, lips grazing hers. “Then take what you came home for.”

Something in her snapped.

She turned you around, not roughly, but with purpose, pressing your front to the cool marble of the counter. The dress rode up easily. Your breath caught as her palm ghosted over your ass.

“So polite,” she drawled. “So obedient.”

You smirked over your shoulder. “Only when I want something.”

That earned you a sharp smack, more sting than pain, just enough to make you gasp and shiver.

“You want something?” she said. Her fingers slipped between your legs, finally, and whatever you were about to say dissolved into a choked-off moan.

“Oh,” Agatha said, grinning, “there she is. The real housewife. Desperate. Dripping. All for me.”

You gripped the edge of the counter. “You gonna ruin me before dinner, Mrs. Harkness?”

She leaned down to your ear, voice a dark whisper. “Darling… that’s the appetizer.”

And then her hand moved again, between your thighs, over your hip, pushing your hair to the side just enough for her mouth to find your shoulder.

She took you right there, slow at first, then with a rhythm that stole your breath. Her voice never stopped, praising, taunting, calling you her good girl, her sweet thing, her dirty little housewife, until your knees went weak and your head fell back against her shoulder with a cry.

She held you after, hands still warm, voice soft again.

You were still catching your breath when she turned you around and kissed you, long and slow.

Then she grinned. “Pie’s probably burnt.”

You grinned back, flushed and glowing. “You’ll eat it anyway.”

“Oh, I plan to.” She kissed your neck, lingering. “But first…”

She untied your apron and began unbuttoning the front.

“Dessert.”

She revealed your naked body with slow, deliberate fingers, the soft linen sliding down your front, brushing over your nipples as it fell, its straps still holding onto your shoulders.

Her eyes followed the fabric, hungry, reverent.

You stood still, bare and blushing, the warmth of the oven nothing compared to the heat rising under your skin.

“Wait here and don’t touch yourself,” she whispered against your collarbone and disappeared into your bedroom. When she emerged a few moments later, a strap on hang between her legs and you moaned at the sight. The contrast between the woman in robes surrounded by luxury and your wife with a strap on in your small cottage was breathtaking.

Agatha reached for you again, this time with both hands, palms grazing your waist, thumbs skimming the curve of your ribs. “Look at you,” she murmured. “My perfect little housewife, all naked in the kitchen, offering herself up like a gift.”

You bit your lip, leaning into her touch. “Isn’t that what good wives do?”

She growled softly at that. “I wouldn’t know, I was too busy fucking the gardener.” 

You smirked, turned around again to face the counter, pressing your ass into her crotch. “And the gardener loved every second of it.”

The edge of the counter pressed into your thighs as she grabbed your hips and bent you slightly forward, one hand at your hip to keep you there, the other roaming, exploring, worshipping.

You gasped when her fingers slid between your legs, confident and slow. She hummed, pleased at how wet you were already. “All this for me?” she teased, voice dark and soft. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? About me walking in and bending you over our fucking kitchen counter.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, breath catching as she brushed your clit.

“Maybe,” she repeated mockingly. “You were dripping before I even touched you before.”

Her fingers slid through you again, slow and teasing, not giving you enough. You whined softly, pushing back, aching for more.

“God, you’re needy,” she said. “You act like you’re in control, like you’re just playing the role… but underneath it all? You’ve been aching for this. You want to be used, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. I want you to use me. I want to be your housewife. Just yours.”

“That’s right,” she murmured, her fingers playing between your folds, slow and steady. “My sweet little slut.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut, you’d never get used to Agatha’s dirty talk. “Please…”

Her rhythm stayed maddeningly controlled, measured, built for endurance, for teasing, for making you beg.

“I think you like this,” she went on, fucking you with her fingers while her hand drew circles on your ass. “Being bent over the counter like something I own. Like something I can just take when I want.”

You groaned, arching your back, desperate for more.

She leaned forward, breath hot against your neck. “You want me to fuck you here, like this? While dinner burns?”

“Yes,” you panted. “Yes, Agatha, please.”

She withdrew, and for a moment you whimpered at the loss. Then you felt her coating the strap with your wetness, slowly and your whole body clenched in anticipation.

She pressed against you, the heat of her body anchoring you there. You could feel the weight of her strap, the press of it at your entrance, teasing.

“You going to take it like a good wife?” she asked, voice low and sharp.

You nodded. “Yes. I’ll take whatever you give me.”

And then she thrust in.

You cried out, the stretch, the fullness, the fucking claiming of it, overwhelming in the best way. Her hands gripped your hips, steadying you, holding you open for her as she began to move.

She started slow, letting you feel every inch, every drag and push, every low grunt she gave behind you as your bodies found rhythm. You clung to the edge of the counter, bracing yourself.

“That’s it,” she groaned. “So fucking tight for me. So wet. This is mine, you hear me?”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Only yours.”

She drove into you harder then, the sound of skin meeting skin obscene and gorgeous, your moans echoing in the small kitchen.

Every thrust came with words, filth laced with love:

“Look at you, spread out for me like a perfect meal.”

“My beautiful wife, begging to be ruined.”

“Keep those legs open. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“God, you take me so well. You were made for this.”

Your eyes were wet, not from pain, but from the overwhelming pleasure, the way she saw you, praised you, claimed you.

You were close, so close.

“Touch yourself,” she ordered suddenly, her voice ragged. “I want you to come for me. Show me how desperate my good little housewife gets.”

You reached between your legs, fingers frantic, messy. Her rhythm didn’t slow, didn’t falter. She reached around with one hand, squeezing your breast, biting into your shoulder.

“Come for me, baby,” she whispered. “Come all over my cock. Let the whole neighborhood hear how good I fuck you.”

And that was it.

You came hard, with a cry that echoed off the tile, your body shaking, thighs trembling. You clutched the counter like it was the only thing holding you up. Agatha held you through it, fucking you through it, letting you ride the wave until you were almost sobbing in her arms, trembling from the inside out. 

Only then, only when you’d gasped and begged and gone pliant beneath her, did she slow, easing out of you with a groan that was more possessive than gentle.

Her hands smoothed over your back, down your hips, up your thighs. Worshipful.

You stayed bent there for a long moment, catching your breath. The air was thick with sex, with bread and burnt pie, with the smell of rosemary from the windowsill.

Then you turned in her arms and she held you. 

You buried your face in her shoulder, laughing into her skin, soft and wrecked and completely in love. “I think I ruined dessert.”

Agatha kissed your temple. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, breathless and smiling. “You were dessert.”

You laughed again, dizzy, glowing. “God. You’re such a sap.”

“And you’re still wearing my apron.”

You blinked. “I will never look at this thing the same way.”

She tilted your face up, looking at you like she was trying to memorize you again. “I love you, Y/N.” 

“I love you more,” you whispered and kissed her softly on the lips. 

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

I saw on Twitter in the past that there was an AI prompt that was caught for the fic "The Space Between Notes", which is an Agathario fic on AO3 (I have not read it).

I don't know if there was any confusion with that fic and the AgathaxReader one (you can find me in the space between).

I had read that one and the other series and one-shots the author had on Tumblr and really loved them, but they did delete their account suddenly. I think some people have them reblogged on their Tumblr pages.

To be honest I never caught any AI prompts when reading any of those stories so it's possible the anon that replied to you about the AI thing meant the Space Between Notes fanfic and not this one.

I think I remember that one! I saw on tumblr (maybe??) someone calling it out and I’m like “okay I have to see this” and there was in fact a prompt left in it. I think it was smt like “make all of this in past tense”. It was def an agathario fic. Maybe the two have gotten mixed up, but if they haven’t then it hurts real bad.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

What was you can find me in the space between about?? I know I've read it but I've read so many fics that I can't even remember which is which 😅

It was basically detective reader and attorney Agatha. It was kind of like a rivals to lovers arc and a modern au where Rio’s Agatha’s ex and they share custody of Nicky and then Agatha and reader ended up having a daughter. It was so good and now

It’s ruined.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Yeah the AI thing was true. It really sucks. That author somehow managed to pump out like nearly 100,000 words of fics and one shots a week sometimes so it was already suspicious 😔 then they left in a prompt and were called out on it apparently, then they disappeared. Fanfic is doomed for sure

Yall need to start warning me before breaking my heart this early in the morning. I cannot take this.

I do not understand how someone wants to write fanfiction but doesn’t want to put in the work. Being able to say “I wrote that and I’m super proud of it” is one of my favorite things about writing.

I love seeing how my writing evolves over time and how I start picking up new phrases and new styles. I love sitting down on my couch after working nine hours, with a Google doc open on my laptop and the TV on for background noise. I love brainstorming when I get requests, and I love imagining dialogue between characters. I love filling my notes app with ideas, and I love checking off those ideas as I use them.

I love comments and likes, but I love writing more.

If you use AI to write fanfiction, you’re not a writer. Writers put in work. Writers create. You’re not a writer if you go into ChatGPT and say “write a story using this prompt”. You’re a liar, and you’re a fraud, and you’re anything but a writer.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

The author of You Can Find Me in the Space Between was found to be using AI I think? That’s what I heard anyway :( then they deleted all their stuff

OH DO NOT FUCKING PLAY WITH ME RN IT IS 6 IN THE FUCKING MORNING OH MY GOD

IF I CATCH ANY OF YALL USING AI I WILL SHOVE MY FOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS THAT YOU WILL TASTE IT.

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

11:50pm

It’s been 2 months and I still miss You Can Find Me in the Space Between.

If anyone knows the author who made that piece of artwork, please let me know if they’re okay and if they have a copy of their fic it had literally everything I ever needed in a fanfic

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Something about the Milky Way and Andromeda. Something about that deep, dark void. Something about LCM chapter 50. ✨ 🎥 🪄