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aparticularbandit · 11 months

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The Trap

Summary: “Do I look like I’m being tortured, super star?” Agatha gestures to the expanse around them, and as she does, different things pop up to fill it: a table covered with food, multiple bookshelves filled to the brim with books, an intricately carved four poster bed that looks feather soft. “You put me in a dream. I’m just lonely. You, on the other hand.” She smirks, and her eyes light with mischief. “You’re in pain, being actually tortured by a woman who is paying you just so much attention, and unable to really do anything about it.” She scrunches her nose. “Who’s in the better position here?”

Wandagatha Week 2023 Prompt 2: Body Swap

Wanda Maximoff/Agatha Harkness Rating: T.

AO3

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Unfortunately for Wanda, the curse – whatever it is, if there even is one to begin with – is not so easy to break. Maybe it’s simply that it isn’t easy for her to heal at all; even that little burst of magic that had previously come so easily to her sapped her of her strength for days, leaving her unable to speak even if she’d wanted. She catches it, though, the very clear disappointment in Agnes’s eyes when she doesn’t say anything the next day, when she’s barely able to chew the bits of ice she brings to her.

That’s it, then. If she wants to get better, then she has to focus on that, not get distracted enough to reach into Agnes’s all too empty head and expend her very valuable energy trying to get information from an evil witch who only wants to use it as a bartering system. Which also means she can’t poke back in and visit Agatha like she’d said she would. The idea of the older witch sitting in that little space with her arms crossed, lips contorted into a scowl (or a pout, if Wanda wants to make herself hurt by laughing), tapping one foot on that spot’s equivalent of the ground, growing steadily more annoyed when she doesn’t appear amuses her. Not enough to give her the strength to eat more than ice chips for a few days, but enough.

For now.

Agnes continues to dote on her. She rarely if ever talks about anything going on in Westview, although she mentions once with a halting laugh that it would be horrible if any of her other friends realized that Wanda was there. It’s the first – and only – time she mentions other friends, and it leaves Wanda wondering if the laugh was about someone finding out she was there or about the idea that Agnes has other friends. She could reach into her mind to find out; she doesn’t want to waste that strength.

Once, when Wanda gains the gumption to speak again, she meets Agnes’s eyes and asks, voice still rasping with disuse, “Why are you here?”

Agnes stops mid-sentence, stutters over her words, and lets her gaze drop, just the same as it had when she first sat on the edge of Wanda’s mattress. Her thumb rubs over the rag she’d been using to mop Wanda’s forehead, worrying the wet, soft fabric with the tip of her nail. “I…I don’t know what you mean, dear.”

Wanda’s lips brush together, not as parched as they were when she first woke here, but still cracked. She considers her words carefully before trying again. “With me,” she clarifies, hesitating before continuing, “without your…your friends.”

“Oh.” Agnes flushes a bright red, still averting her eyes. “You need me, hon. They….” One corner of her lips lifts in a feigned smile. “They’re fine without me. And you know, they’re used to me not being around.” Her gaze finally lifts, meeting Wanda’s, with that same somber sort of sad smile. She gives a little shrug. “You’re better company.”

Wanda doesn’t believe that in the slightest. She’s just a body in a bed that occasionally talks; the only difference between her and a body pillow is that Agnes needs to feed and water her; she might as well just be a body-sized plant at this rate. She licks her cracked lips and lies, “I’ll be fine, Agnes.”

Agnes searches her eyes, and the light in her own fades. “They say that, too.” She gently places her hand over Wanda’s, careful not to clench her fingers or pat at all, trying her best to avoid causing her pain, and then goes back to what she was doing. “You’re talking, so,” she hesitates, “does that mean you’re ready to try food again? Maybe some pudding? Jello?”

Wanda is sick and tired of Jello, but she nods anyway.

It isn’t until Wanda is able to sit up in bed on her own on a regular basis, until she can eat more than smooth textured food like mashed potatoes, pudding, and the many, many flavors of Jello that she dares reach out to Agatha again. (In the interim, Agnes learns three things: 1) Wanda likes dark gravy with her mashed potatoes; 2) Wanda likes french vanilla pudding best; and 3) Wanda will only eat lime, watermelon, and strawberry Jello – and she’ll only eat the strawberry on a good day, otherwise it makes her already dry lips pucker in a way that, oddly, the lime does not.)

Wanda hasn’t been testing the rest of her magic, finds that on the odd occasion when she stretches out towards it that unbidden it has started stitching her body back together again, much to her initial regret. Now, she only wants it to stitch her together faster so that she can get out of here sooner.

Still, when Agnes finds her sitting up, her face lights up. She brings a tray with two bowls of soup – something still easy to eat, so that Wanda doesn’t choke, and a second bowl for herself, so that they can eat together – and sets it on Wanda’s lap as she settles on the mattress next to her. “Feeling better today, hon? Or are you just happy to see me?”

Agnes’s attempts to flirt still make Wanda uncomfortable, even as, on occasion, they bring a warm flush to her cheeks. “Better,” she croaks out, and she places a hand carefully over Agnes’s. “Hold, please.”

She doesn’t know why she says please. Maybe it’s just the habit of what she’s heard from sitcoms over the years, of characters stuck doing jobs in call centers and having to move one caller from them to someone else. It certainly can’t be that—

Agnes freezes, just as before, and Wanda keeps her hand over Agnes’s as she mentally reaches out and within her.

It’s easier to find the spot in Agnes’s mind where Agatha resides now that she’s been there before, and Wanda floats toward her without near the insistence that she did before, hoping that doing so in this matter might preserve some of her energy and not drain her quite so nearly as it had before. As before, she finds Agatha waiting for her, wild hair pulled back into a mussy half-bun, sitting in a high-backed chair padded with violet velvet, a cup of tea in one hand. Agatha glances up lazily toward her and then returns to her cup of tea and…is that a book?

Wanda’s teeth grit together, her jaw clenching. “How are you conjuring all of this? You shouldn’t have any magic, let alone enough to do—” She gestures to the trapped witch, to the fireplace with a still roaring fire behind her. “How?”

Agatha gives another infuriating shrug. “Not sure, doll.” Then she holds up one finger. “Now, if you’ll give me a minute, I just want to finish this chapter—” She waits for what feels like a ridiculously long time to finish the page, turns it, gives it a quick skim and a nod, and then closes it on her other finger before conjuring it away entirely. Then her lips curve into a near wolfish grin. “You came back. Honestly, hon, I didn’t believe you would.”

Wanda wants to say something about keeping her promises, but she hadn’t promised anything. In point of fact, she had fully intended to never come back, but…. “I needed someone with a little more bite than your,” she struggles to think of a word to describe Agnes, and failing to think of one supplies, “other. person.” She conjures a chair of her own and nearly collapses into it, rubbing her forehead. “I can only take so much of her.”

“That’s the point, hon. Wundagore wants you to suffer—”

“I don’t care,” Wanda groans out. “We had a taste test of Jello. Every kind of Jello and every kind of Jello pudding so she could guess at what I liked. Do you know how horrible some of that is?”

Agatha snorts. “I can guess.” That wolfish grin never disappears. “At least she isn’t making it from scratch. Then your suffering would never end.” She gives Wanda a wink.

Wanda is suddenly glad that Agnes doesn’t have near the knowledge that Agatha does. She was glad before, of course, but she’d thought that where she hadn’t given the woman specific commands, she would draw on Agatha’s mind to fill in the rest. At least this isn’t something that made it through. She sighs again. “You’re supposed to be suffering,” she whines, frustrated. “Why aren’t you suffering?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Agatha glances around the black, blank expanse around them, broken only by the flickering shadows cast by the fire. “It’s very calm in here. You could do with this sort of vacation, hon. Get your mind screwed on straight.”

Now Wanda snorts. She covers her lips with one hand, gives a little bemused shake of her head, and then glances up with sparkling eyes. “You want me to stay in your torture cell.”

“Do I look like I’m being tortured, super star?” Agatha gestures to the expanse around them, and as she does, different things pop up to fill it: a table covered with food, multiple bookshelves filled to the brim with books, an intricately carved four poster bed that looks feather soft. “You put me in a dream. I’m just lonely. You, on the other hand.” She smirks, and her eyes light with mischief. “You’re in pain, being actually tortured by a woman who is paying you just so much attention, and unable to really do anything about it.” She scrunches her nose. “Who’s in the better position here?”

Wanda doesn’t want to consider it. She doesn’t trust Agatha to be telling the truth. She has to be lying. Has to be. Agatha never tells her the truth about anything. At least…not the whole truth.

And yet she came here the first time to ask her for information.

She’s not going to think about that.

“Sounds like I need to make a better torture cell.” Wanda glances up, meets Agatha’s eyes, and refuses to give her the smile she knows the other woman wants. A smile means she’s making a joke. She isn’t making a joke. She’s taking notes.

Agatha holds her gaze, lets it flick away only once, and then brings it back. Her eyes move so quickly that Wanda doesn’t know what she’s looking at and honestly finds that she doesn’t care. Then Agatha rests her head gently on her head, a smug smirk lifting one corner of her lips. “Sounds like you made a perfect one for you, hon.”

Wanda tries not to think about what Agatha said.

She tries. Really really hard.

But most of her days are spent either alone or listening to Agnes’s chatter – and there’s only so many times she can listen to Agnes talk about the same things without tuning out. Every now and again, Agnes tries to draw her into conversation, but more often than not, Wanda feels too exhausted to talk – both from how much effort it is taking to heal and from how much she does pay attention to what Agnes is saying before having to stop.

And the thing about empty days and needing a distraction is that her mind returns to what Agatha said. Returns to the idea of her perfect torture cell. And returns to the thought that wherever she has locked Agatha is not nearly as horrific as she was led to believe it would be.

Agatha’s lonely, sure, but maybe, if she had to deal with Agnes’s chatter from the outside, if she was stuck in bed waiting to heal the way that Wanda is now, that would be a bigger torture for her than the empty blank corner of her own mind where she could conjure whatever she wants. She certainly wouldn’t be able to conjure anything out here.

And maybe, if Wanda plays this right, she’ll get that nice, empty corner of space to sit and think and do whatever she wants while Agatha is stuck out here being forced to—

Wanda tries not to think about what Agatha said.

She tries.

But it keeps coming back, and she can’t keep herself from thinking about it, and the more she thinks about it, the more one corner of her lips creeps up into a smug smile.

It takes more time. More time and more of ignoring Agnes and more food and more sipping at the straw that she places at Wanda’s lips and more conserving enough energy that she can cast another spell, and it takes significantly more time than the last time, takes significantly more time because the amount of magic she will need to cast this spell is significantly more than just pausing Agnes and reaching into her mind and digging in deeper, which is something Wanda’s been able to do since the inception of her abilities, it’s nothing, but this—

This is more.

But eventually, eventually, Wanda has it. Enough magic. She’s sure of it. She can cast this spell, and she’ll be able to sit safe and sound until she’s better, and Agatha will be stuck feeling the weight of her words. Are there risks involved? Sure there are. But Wanda isn’t thinking about the risks. She has thought about them, but the day in and day out of being somewhere she hates gets to her, and then the risks don’t look as risky. As bad.

And the potential benefits? Well. Sometimes the potential benefits are all that Wanda can see.

So one evening, when Agnes is tucking her into bed, fluffing her pillows, and remarking about how proud she is of how far Wanda has come, Wanda reaches out, loops her right thumb and finger around Agnes’s left wrist, and casts. A thin scarlet cord ties their pinkies together – loose at first before cinching so tight that Wanda feels like her pinky is going to snap off entirely.

Then everything goes blank.

Wanda tries to blink.

She can’t blink.

Wanda tries to move.

She can’t move.

Wanda tries to breathe.

She can’t breathe.

The screaming tucked away in that corner of her mind engulfs the entirety of her as she looks down at her own body out of Agatha’s – Agnes’s – Agatha’s eyes, but she can’t scream.

As she – as Agnes looks – Wanda’s body glows with a bright scarlet light. Then her lips curl into a smug smirk that looks wrong on her face because it isn’t her look, it isn’t her at all, it’s—

“Oh, hon,” Agatha says in her voice, “you really shouldn’t have.” She slowly sits up in bed – how she is able to move so easily when it still caused Wanda varying levels of pain to do exactly what Agatha is now doing – because Agatha doesn’t just sit up, she stands, slowly brushes one hand along her arm, and then snaps her fingers, shifts her clothes with another shimmer of scarlet, and then lets out a soft, relaxed sigh. “You really are easy, buttercup.” She taps Agnes’s nose once.

It’s supposed to send me back now, Wanda thinks but cannot say, glaring at Agatha with all her strength, knowing that Agnes is making no such expression. It’s supposed to put me back when I’ve healed. Why isn’t it putting me back?

Agatha gently cups Agnes’s face, brushes a thumb along her own sharp cheekbone, and meets her own eyes. “I’ve got your power now, doll, and you’re just….” She chuckles. “You’re just a doll.” Then she presses a gentle kiss to Agnes’s forehead. “Don’t get my body into trouble while I’m away, dear.”

Away?

“Oh, what’s the old saying?” Agatha stops at the bedroom door and glances over Wanda’s shoulder easily enough. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She gives her a wink. “Be a good girl, Agnes.”

As soon as Agatha says her name in Wanda’s tone of voice, Agnes jumpstarts. “Wanda?” But by the time she tries to focus on that impersonator, Agatha is gone, teleporting away with a cloud of scarlet smoke.

Wanda screams after her. Wanda tries to beat along the inside of the corner of Agnes’s mind where she’s been trapped. Wanda wants to conjure her own magic and make everything right.

Agnes ignores all of this and instead sets about cleaning up the room that had been Wanda’s so-called cell.

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ao3feed-wandagatha · 11 months

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Chapters: 1/7 Fandom: WandaVision (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Agatha Harkness/Wanda Maximoff Characters: Agatha Harkness, Wanda Maximoff Additional Tags: Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, Lesbian Agatha Harkness Summary:

wagatha week 2023 drabbles ft. the musical stylings of ms. swift

day one- villains day two - body swap day three - accidental kiss day four - smut day five - jealousy day six - magical pregnancy day seven - soulmates

#wandagatha #wagatha #harkximoff #wanda x agatha #agatha x wanda #wanda maximoff #wandavision #marvel #disney #ao3 wandagatha #wandagatha week

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lastonthebrakes · 1 year

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guys it’s .........rebekah vardy’s account

#i think about wagatha christie like. at least once a week #rambles

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cissa-calls · 11 months

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Countdown to Coven of Chaos: Day 466

In progress 1950’s episode Wagatha for Wandagatha Week!

#I have not done digital in a while and I’m trying to get the feel for it again #wandavision #agatha harkness #house of harkness #agatha all along #hahndavision #house of harkness counter #marvel #wanda maximoff #agatha harkness x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #coven of chaos counter #coven of chaos #art #artists on tumblr #artists of tumblr #in progress #my art #digital art

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taleasnewastime · 2 years

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Dating advice | Part ten

Summary: It’s been months – ok, it’s been years – since you last went on a date. And you’re sick of it. Sick of seeing couples kissing and holding hands in the street. Sick of your friends settling down. Sick of everyone buying houses and having families. You’re going to do something about it. You’re going to snap up a man, you’re going to tie someone down, you’re going to finally commit, you’re going to – you’re going to need a bit of advice.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: fluff; angst; smut

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, reader gets angry, swearing, low self-esteem, angst, awkwardness.

Authors Note: … It’s a big turning point …

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“And then she leaned over and said that’s never happened before.”

Erik lets out a massive belly laugh, his eyes closing, his head flopping back. You can see his whole chest rising and falling through his shirt.

You don’t find it as funny, but you still force out a small laugh. The sound so low over Erik’s laugh and the background noise in the bar that he probably doesn’t even hear it. By the time he’s looking at you again you’re sipping your drink, he doesn’t seem to read the fact you didn’t find the story funny, or at least doesn’t care.

“How’s the drink? Better than your last?”

His smile is large, kind, makes him look incredibly handsome and yet even while it’s all directed at you, it does nothing to you. Not flutter in your chest, no heating of your face, no desire to shy away from him. Still, you smile back, look down at the half gone pink drink in front of you. It’s your second drink, a French martini.

“It’s my favourite drink, and they haven’t disappointed.”

“Your favourite, huh? I’ll have to make a note.”

You give him another small smile. There’s a beat of silence, not awkward, but you realise he’s leaving it open for you to say something.

“Oh, what’s yours?”

“Probably whiskey.”

Of course. “Ever been to a distillery?”

“No, can’t say I have. Would love to though.”

“Yeah, I’d recommend. Some of the good ones are expensive but you walk out feeling tipsy after all the samples. Plus, you get great discount on bottles at the end.”

His lip curls at the edge as if impressed. “Well, maybe an idea for another date?”

“Yeah,” you say lightly.

Why doesn’t the idea excite you? If this was before you would have been jumping in your seat at the prospect. But now, somethings changed. Maybe the fact he ghosted you and is now acting like nothing’s wrong, like that never happened. But you also know it’s something else, because when he mentioned alcohol all you could think of was the pub and when he said it would be a good date, that you should go together, all you could think about was how much Yoongi would love it. About how much you would love to go with Yoongi.

Yoongi. He's getting in your head. He’s ruining your date.

“Anyway,” you try to steer conversation onto something safer. “I was listening to a podcast about this Wagatha Christie case on the way here. Are you following it?”

“Oh my god. Who’s not?”

You smile, genuine this time. The way his eyes brighten at the thought of two footballers wives suing each other is a sight to see.

“They were saying Rebekah’s agent lost her phone at sea so they couldn’t search it for evidence. I mean how convenient it that?” You carry on, glad to be on a topic you can both get behind.

“It’s ridiculous. The amount they’re spending on legal fees just because of a tweet.”

“Footballers get paid too much.”

“I always wanted to be a footballer growing up.”

You laugh and Eriks smile brightens at the sound. “Come on. Every boy wants to grow up to be a footballer.”

“Yeah, well, like you said it’s the money and fame. For literally kicking a ball around.”

“Yeah, can’t argue with that logic.”

You finally relax back into your seat, take another sip of your drink before smiling at him.

“Come on then,” you say. “Millions of pounds a week, what would you do with it all?”

“Firstly, take you somewhere better than this shit hole.”

You laugh, roll your eyes. “Real smooth.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes dark as he looks at you. Still nothing stirs inside you. The conversation is easy, you like him enough, he’s hot, maybe you just need a little more time.

The conversation carries on for a couple more drinks before you head home. There’s a couple of awkward pauses at times, but nothing major. It feels the same as the first time you met up with him. Fun and you had a laugh, a nice date.

You both head the same way when you get outside, end up chatting and walking. You don’t think too hard about it, end up subconsciously walking towards your house and Erik just follows along. But as soon as you indicate your place and pause by the door you can’t stop thinking about it. Is it weird he didn’t ask to walk you home, just did?

You stand in silence for a bit, Erik trying not to show that he’s fidgeting on the spot, you trying not to overthink this too much. When you don’t open the door or say anything he speaks up.

“So,” he pauses, looks from you to your door.

“It was a nice night. Thanks for asking me out again. And for the drinks.”

“You know,” his voice has dropped, he leans in a centimetre and your eyes naturally fall to his lips. “It doesn’t have to end here.”

“Oh,” you quickly look back to his eyes then over his shoulder, you don’t want to give him the wrong impression.

Your thoughts immediately go to Yoongi, the fact you never invited him back to yours after your date even though you wanted to, the fact that he warned you not to invite men back inside. And then you catch yourself before you can keep thinking down that trail. It’s not the first time you’ve thought of him tonight, and it annoys you that even when on a date with another man, another very attractive man, you still can’t stop thinking about Yoongi.

Your fingers twitch at your side, your jaw working as you grit your teeth.

“It’s alright,” Erik obviously gets the wrong impression, and when you look back at him, he’s already starting to draw away. “If you’re busy we can do it another time.”

He’s giving you an out, you know. He’s misread your annoyance for nerves and has taken it upon himself to retract the invite. Even though he’s got the wrong reason, you gratefully leap on the excuse.

“Sorry, I’m just tired.”

He smiles, nods, and you don’t miss the way his eyes flick to your lips. More annoyance flares within you, a perfectly hot man, clearly wanting to kiss you and yet you’re pushing him away.

“I’ll text you,” he says.

You don’t even make a joke about how that’s what he said last time and yet it took him weeks to do just that. Just wave him off, mind slowly whirling with anger, building up and up into a storm.

It’s ever since you went on that date with Yoongi, he was supposed to be doing it to help you and yet he’s seemed to make you more undatable. He’s constantly on your mind, even when you’re with someone else you can’t stop thinking of him, comparing your date to his. And then that piece of advice, don’t invite any men back to your place, why did he have to plant that in your mind? Why did you have to follow it?

You become more and more irrational until you decide that the only thing to do is go and have it out with him. As if he’s personally sabotaged your date. As if by going and shouting at him will make anything better.

You don’t care. Reason doesn’t come into it. You need to let this anger out at something.

You storm into the pub, are a little annoyed that the door has one of the jams on it which means you can’t slam it shut. But never mind, because as soon as you spot Yoongi your gaze becomes like a tunnel.

He spots you when you’re halfway too him and despite the fact that you must have a face like thunder, he still smiles. You try not to let the way his eyes brighten at seeing you stop your anger. But it’s tough. That cute round face, those dark eyes, his cheeks lifting as his lips curl up. The pure delight in his face at seeing you. And then the realisation that you don’t look happy, that you are in fact storming towards him. His smiles dips and something flashes in his eyes.

“Hey, everything –”

“Your advice is shit,” you cut him off.

“Ok,” he elongates the word, clearly confused.

“Did you say it because you knew it would get in my head? Is that why you did all of this? Am I joke to you?”

“I’m not –”

“It’s that, isn’t it? You saw me that first day and thought you could have some fun.”

“I don’t know what you’re –”

“It wasn’t pity at all was it? Have you been mocking me this entire time?”

“Y/N.”

“Having a good laugh behind my back?”

“Y/N,” he repeats your name, his voice level, his face flat. But you’re on a roll, are deaf to what he’s trying to say. You don’t even fully know what you’re saying, are so worked up that you’re just spouting whatever words come out of your mouth, half of it rubbish, most of it you don’t believe.

“I mean, I don’t know why I listened to you in the first place. I’m a grown woman, I should be able to make my own decisions not just listen to yours. I just can’t believe –”

You finally pause when Yoongi takes a step away from you. You look at his retreating figure about to shout after him before he speaks.

“Priya, you alright to cover me for a bit?”

Your eyes glance to Priya and your heart drops, you’ve never seen the look on her face. Sadness and then such anger when she looks at you. You look back at Yoongi and watch as he continues to walk away. When you speak again your words come out softer and less sure.

“Hey, where are you going?”

He pauses, back still to you and then twists. His features are dark, his mouth a tight line. He doesn’t look happy.

“Believe it or not, I’m not about to stand around in my own pub and be shouted at,” he turns back away from you. “Now, you can either come with me or get out.”

You glance back to Priya who gives you the barest hint that she thinks you should follow him, even then she rolls her eyes at the idiot you are.

As Yoongi slips through the door to the back you make your decision and slip behind the bar. Half jog to follow him, eyes doing a quick glance of the room realising that though it’s not busy, everyone has just watched what’s unfolded.

Ducking your head in shame you head into the back. Think you hear Priya mutter something about how you should be treating him how he deserves and not abusing him. Your shame only deepens. Part of you wants to run away, but you continue to follow; you’re not about to run away from this colossal mess you’ve created.

You’ve never been back here before. A hall with doors leading off, you’re sure one’s to the cellar he took a picture of for you and as you head down the hall you see that the one that’s been left a jar has stairs. You catch Yoongi at the top just before he disappears behind another door at the top.

His flat is not what you expected. You expected dark and moody colours, little to no decorations. But what you find is a bright space, a large comfy sofa facing a large TV. Walls of bookshelves, littered with photo frames and well-read books. There’s a small kitchen at the back of the room, partitioned off by a breakfast island. The space is homely, lived in while also being incredibly clean, not a thing out of place, and not a spot of dust.

And then there’s Yoongi. Stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, face broody as he watches you take in his home.

Even if it wasn’t for the shock of coming up here and seeing all of this, the fight would have already seeped out of you. The short walk here and the looks of disapproval from everyone doing enough to make you realise what a mistake you’ve made.

It’s not Yoongi you’re annoyed at, it’s yourself. And yet you were so caught up in yourself that you came here and took it all out on him.

You are well and truly messing this up.

“I’m sorry,” you start. “I – that – downstairs.”

You take a breath. Yoongi lets you have the time to stop and start again.

“My heads all over the place, and that’s not an excuse. But, I went on a date today and I couldn’t even invite the guy inside my house. He obviously wanted to come in and I said no.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“You told me not to invite anyone back to mine.”

He rolls his eyes, this apology isn’t going very well. His arms remain crossed over his chest, his stance defensive, but he seems to relax a little, as if amused by what you’re saying. It only irks you more.

“It’s not like I forced you. I didn’t stand guard outside your house stopping rouge men from coming in.”

“No,” you huff. “You didn’t”

“So you’re pissed I recommended you do something, and because you did what I suggested?”

You work your jaw, unable to meet his eyes, especially now he has a wider, more obvious, smile on his face.

“You’re right,” you say feeling completely deflated. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Still, you don’t move and Yoongi doesn’t confirm that he agrees with what you’ve said, that he too thinks you should go. You both just stay standing facing each other.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat.

“It was pretty shitty.”

“More really shitty,” you correct him.

“In my own pub too,” he continues to dig, the smile still on his face despite his words.

“I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

You do. It was him, in your mind, which is why you took it out on him. And staring at him now, you feel like you’re cracking at the seams. All this built-up emotion starting to spill out at the seams.

“Maybe I should leave,” your voice comes out hoarser now, the smile dipping on Yoongi’s face. “I mean, I’ve been a complete bitch, treated you like shit – I can’t just stand here, in your flat and pretend it’s ok.”

“Hey,” Yoongi takes a step towards you, his arms dropping to his side. “You’ve apologised.”

“And yet it doesn’t feel like that’s enough.”

“I accept it.”

You pause. He sounds genuine, looks genuine. Yet you still feel so guilty.

You shake your head, eyes flick to the sofa and while you’ve said twice now that you’re going to leave, you slowly move towards it and take a seat. Your head goes into your hands, so you feel rather than see Yoongi come to sit next to you, the cushions dipping down with the extra weight.

“You’re too nice to me.”

“Maybe I’m just nice,” you can still hear the joke in his voice even though it comes out quieter, softer.

You shake your head again, still unable to look up from your hands. You flinch when a hand comes to your back, the contact so delicate you weren’t expecting it. To your relief Yoongi only draws away for a beat before placing his hand on your back just as delicately. When you don’t flinch a second time, he must decide it’s ok to keep it there.

“What’s this really about?” He asks, his hand rubbing soothingly on your back.

How is he always able to read what’s really going on? It’s like a blessing and a curse. You feel embarrassed by the reason, feel like you’ve really built it up and if you tell him the truth it’s going to make it that much more ridiculous. But you’ve never imagined Yoongi laughing when you think about telling him your feelings. He may not return them, but he wouldn’t shoot you down for your own.

You take a breath, sit up straighter so your head is no longer resting in your hands. Your heart is beating a mile a minute and with Yoongi’s hand still on your back you’re surprised he hasn’t expressed his concerns.

In the second or two it takes you to sit straight, you mentally prepare to look at Yoongi. Still the concern etched on his features doesn’t make anything better. You remind yourself of what you thought earlier; don’t run away from this problem.

“It’s not that serious,” you try to lighten the mood even though your smile is forced, and your words feel heavy. “I haven’t killed anyone or anything.”

Yoongi doesn’t crack a smile, just stares you down with those soul eating, yet still soft, eyes.

You feel sweaty, feel like you want to bolt out of this situation, feel like you would literally rather be swimming with sharks then say what you’re about to say. But you try not to overthink it, try not to think of the what ifs and buts. If you truly care about this man, if you truly have feelings for him, then you need to say something.

“I like you,” your voice husky and weak.

You clear your throat, eyes drift and snap back to Yoongi as if unsure where to look, too scared to look at him but feel like you need to say this directly at him. When you speak again it’s clearer and more convincing.

“I don’t mean in the same way I like Priya or Jimin. I mean, I like talking to you, I liked our date together, I like your smile and your hair and I don’t know, I like you. And you don’t have to say you feel the same way, I know the date wasn’t really a date, but I can’t get you out of my head and it’s driving me insane – which you clearly saw tonight.” You pause, take a breath, and then say, “I really like you, Yoongi.”

#yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #suga fanfic #suga x reader #suga x y/n #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi series

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sassyfrassboss · 11 months

Text

So Harry claims he was working with his attorneys up tp three hours at a time.

His attorney, David Sherborne, had rates of £400 per hour in 2018. According to the Wagatha trial, he was charging £800 per hour in 2022.

This case has been in the works since December 2021, perhaps even earlier.

So let's say they have been working on this case for 20 months and have been working 3 hours a week on this case.

That's roughly 85 weeks. At £800 per hour at 3 hours is £2,400; that times 85 is £204,000.

So he has spent, oh the VERY low end, £204,000 or on the high end £1,020,000 on this case if you factor 3 hours at 5 days a week.

If he thinks he is getting millions from this he is dead wrong.

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imdoingsortagay · 11 months

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because @our-blood-is-our-ink said yesterday to expand on my Wagatha x r idea yesterday

Milf!Wanda who’s very much married to Vision ( for tax reasons) and is very lonely in westview til some new neighbors showed up that seem to be in their mid 20’s.

Just be aware SMUT BELOW THE CUT 18+ So if I see anyone below 18 I’m blocking you

Just newly married Agatha and R who moved in to the right of her to “ live the sitcom life” but also due to the fact that you got given money by your company to move to Westview. Your wife of course convincing you it would be so cool to move and both of you pack up whatever you have to move to Jersey.

Milf!Wanda taking a liking to both her new friends but mostly you, finding you do drop dead gorgeous even if she knows you’re gladly taken. Agatha catching onto what the older woman is doing while you’re totally unaware because work and Agatha are your main focus a lot of the time.

Agatha deciding to make this a fun game by setting up a day once a week where the three of you go out to spend time together.

First time you all go out is to see a movie, Wanda being put right in the middle of you too, trying so hard not to seem nervous even when the scary movie makes you hide in Wanda’s arms as “ Aggie really wanted to sit with you I guess >:( so you’ll do to protect me “.

Wanda going crazy with you as Agatha places her hand on Wanda’s Barr thigh( she wore shorts). Leads to poor Wanda going straight home and fucking vision even though she wants the both of you. Once Vis falls asleep , she fingers herself while using a small vibe from the local sex shop to make herself cum.

All three of you hanging out goes on for a couple of months until Dottie decides to throw a little get together at her house, fancy as hell which means Wanda is on edge seeing both of you looking so sexy.

Little does Wanda know Agatha had dragged you an hour into this boring ass party to fuck in one of the empty guest rooms cause she’s always horny duh. She has you on your knees rn sucking your strap.

Not to mention she was packing incase it got boring but also sweet mrs Maximoff would be there with her dumb as hell husband. Vis is talking with his homies while his wife decides to explore the rest of the house. Different old paintings, vases and plants later she hears moans coming out of a room. Out of curiosity, she’s met with the sight of Sweet Agatha fucking you on the bed.

“ look at you bunny , making mommy fuck your needy pussy at this party , imagine if you were caught acting like such a slut”.

Wanda immediately freezing up that she’s been caught right away but she doesn’t realize that one of her hands went to hike up her dress, the older woman deciding to not use underwear.

“ no I’ll be quiet mommy-“

Before she’s shoving her fingers in your mouth 😵‍💫 to let you to be quiet, Wanda doing the same as she covers her mouth with one hand while fucking herself.

But oops!

Agatha heard one of her moans and she decided to have some fun with the three of you.

“ Wanda honey if you wanted to see me fuck my bunny you could of just asked, “ you hear her say and start blushing when want comes to the other side of the room.

“ I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“

“ shut the fuck up Wanda , sit in the corner” Agatha orders the older woman to do which you find hot asf.

“ look at our new friend baby,” she says as she lives your body up enough to see Wanda in the corner of the room already touching herself , no underwear in sight.

“ let’s see how good Wanda can be for you and me bunny”

#liz thoughts 💭#lizs writing #Wagatha thoughts

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toomuchracket · 1 year

Note

thoughts and feelings on the matty/taylor rumours?

(personally i dont believe it but 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️)

given that it's tabloids and deuxmoi... i don't know how much i believe it. i think that if it IS true then honestly good for them, i love him and i love her and they're both hot and the same age (unlike... other people in particularly matty's life) and in the same circles, but i really don't know. there's also the thing of "they could literally both be doing a bit and we won't know for a while" lol. i saw someone on twitter noted that the deuxmoi blinds were said to have been leaked by "a friend of taylor's" and they thought she was trying to see who was snitching on her - fully believe taylor would get matty involved in a wagatha christie-esque test to see who the snitch might be lmao (sidenote if you don't know about the wagatha christie scandal... please google it, it's the most entertaining shit of all time!!)

and not to go all jo march on you guys, but i would also like to say that i am SICK TO THE BACK TEETH of taylor's love life being speculated upon again, literally two weeks after her breakup was announced. give the woman a break!! you've been pulling this shit with her for almost twenty years (🤮 i am Old)!! let her have her peace, let her have a hoe phase if she wants to!! and if taylor wants to make matty be the rebound bitch in a relationship of his for once in his fucking life, good for her!!

also, speaking as a swiftie (i picked up a guitar for the first time because of her!) - some of these jokes people are making about matty are Not Cute. you think the woman who wrote Clean (albeit in a different context to the usual meaning) is going to be cool with you joking about her friend's (because he's her friend at the very least, we know that, if not her boyfriend/situationship/torrid fling) former heroin addiction? nah. you might not like him (and fuck knows there's valid reasons not to), but have a bit of fucking decorum, please, yeah? AND LEAVE HIS TEETH ALONE TOO THEY'RE CUTE!!

basically - idk if i believe it, but as long as they're both happy, then i'm happy for them! if it's not real, it's a good fucking bit of promo for 1989 lol <3

#mads muses #mads answers asks #chatty bits

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our-blood-is-our-ink · 11 months

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—✧Day Three: Accidental Kiss✧—

When Wanda takes a running leap and topples both herself and Agatha off the building in middle of their fight she never thought it would make them wind up here

Here being passionately and angrily making out with the older witch

The first kiss was completely accidental

She had landed on top of Agatha, and their lips had just collided

Wanda isn't certain which one of them turned it into something purposeful

There's a taste of metallic blood, and Wanda thinks she must have split Agatha's lip open with how hard she has bitten down

The other woman growls into Wanda's mouth and flips them over, so that Wanda's on the bottom

Wanda gasps as Agatha's tongue enters her mouth and practically fucks it with the appendage

She's not going to just let it happen though

Wanda tries to fight Agatha

Tries being the operative word

Wanda is sorely inexperienced, and it's clear Agatha is anything but

Eventually, Agatha pulls away, after what seems like hours

Wanda's left panting, breathless

And feeling slightly brainless too

"Bet your toaster oven never kissed you like that, huh, superstar?"

Agatha's so fucking smug

Of course Wanda is going to pull her back down in order to kiss her stupid

It's only fair, after all

Turnabout is fair play, as they say

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deadlinecom · 8 months

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wandagatha-week · 1 year

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Exactly 1 month till the first Wandagatha Week!!!

Submit works to: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/WandagathaWeek2023

#wandagatha #wagatha #harkximoff #wanda x agatha #agatha x wanda #wanda maximoff #agatha harkness #wandavision #marvel #disney #wandagatha week #kathryn hahn #elizabeth olsen #agatha coven of chaos #coven of chaos

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aparticularbandit · 10 months

Text

The Talk

Summary: “Do you have any grandchildren?” Wanda asks, curled up in bed, staring at the wall, unable to fall asleep. Maybe she’s curious, maybe she just wants to hit at Agatha for hitting at her earlier, maybe it’s both and something else that she cannot name.

Either way, she can’t see the way Agatha’s expression screws over her own face when she says, blunt, “No.”

For Wandagatha Week Prompt 6: Magical Pregnancy/Adoption/Creator's Choice.

Wanda Maximoff/Agatha Harkness Rating: T.

AO3

previous chapter

The problem, Wanda quickly discovers, of wearing someone else’s body as your own is this—

Well, truth be told, there are a lot of problems. One of them is that she doesn’t want this body and can’t figure out how to change it back. Another is that she still can’t quite figure out how to get Agatha’s magic to work, despite the fact that she remembers a few runes here and there from her time studying the Darkhold. (And it’s not as though Agatha is helping her with any of this; it’s not as though the other woman has given her any books or new runes or anything at all. Wanda isn’t surprised that Wundagore cursed her, but she doesn’t understand why it cursed Agatha, too. Maybe the curse is to her body, to whomever has the powers of the Scarlet Witch. Maybe, if she wanted, she could leave. (But would that really matter, if Agatha was compelled to find her again?))

The problem, Wanda quickly discovers, of wearing someone else’s body as your own is this:

How do you bathe?

It was different when Agnes was still in control. Wanda had been forced to look and had pretended she hadn’t seen anything at all; she hadn’t had a choice, and she hadn’t had to think about what she was doing. Agatha can make Wanda’s body look however she wants, so Wanda can pretend that she’s made it look like herself whenever she needs to bathe. Or used magic instead of standing in a shower or soaking in a nice hot bath. One of those two options and not any of the other ones, which she doesn’t want to think about. No. There aren’t any other options.

(Except that there is another option and Wanda has to think about it because she’s gone so long without bathing that she is, in fact, starting to stink. And unlike some people, she doesn’t have the ability to shift her form into her own.)

It’s barely a week later, near to noon, when Agatha walks out, scrunches up her nose, and says, “Tell me this isn’t how you’ve been keeping yourself, hon. Studying the Darkhold can be a bore, but it doesn’t keep you from—”

Wanda presses her lips together in a thin line, bites her lower lip, and then interrupts her. “Agatha. I can’t—”

“Sure, you can, toots. It isn’t like you haven’t seen everything already.” Agatha settles onto one of the kitchen stools with another apple – sometimes, it feels like that’s all the other witch eats, even though Wanda knows better; she’s seen Agatha eat more than that (like the peach…but Wanda doesn’t like to think about the peach) – and takes a bite. Flecks of apple splatter about her lips. It’s easier not to look; if anything, seeing herself like that makes Wanda nauseous.

Wanda doesn’t want to ask.

(She has to ask.)

((She’s not going to ask.))

Instead, Wanda squirms, presses her lips together again, and gives a little shake of her head. “No, no, I don’t want to—”

“Wanda. Hon.” Agatha sets her apple on the counter, crosses the distance between them, and tucks a finger under her chin, tilting her head back until their eyes can meet. “If I don’t care, then you shouldn’t care. Got it, love?”

Wanda grits her teeth together and avoids Agatha’s gaze, instead letting her eyes shift to linger on the counter behind her, on the apple with one bite missing. “I care. Don’t you have any concern for decency?”

Agatha laughs, and she drops her finger from Wanda’s chin. “Me? Decent? Whatever gave you that idea?” She turns and sashays away from Wanda, hips moving back and forth in a way that might have been distracting if Wanda weren’t really looking at herself doing it. Now it just makes her sick. Agatha seats herself back on her stool, takes another bite of her apple, and says with her mouth full, “Now go get clean, dear, or I will do it for you.”

“Do it for me?” Wanda echoes, one brow raising. “What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Agatha snaps her fingers, and Wanda disappears.

All of a sudden, Wanda finds herself in a shower, clothes completely gone, the water on freezing cold. She hisses through her teeth, shivering in the freeze, and reaches forward without a second thought, twisting the taps to make it hotter. The water burns at first, and she focuses on getting it to a good, comfortable temperature. That’s more useful than yelling at Agatha, especially since she expects that’s what Agatha wants. She can’t do that; she doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

But now that the water’s warm, now that she’s warming up, Wanda has to grapple with exactly what’s going on. She shuts her eyes tight, so tight she almost sees stars instead of inky darkness. Her arms wrap protectively around herself, but that doesn’t help. She still feels….

Feels her.

Wanda grits her teeth even tighter together. She hates this, hates the situation she’s put herself in with what Agatha called a broken spell, hates that Agatha won’t just reverse it. But of course, Agatha wouldn’t reverse it. Put them back in the positions they’d been in, and what would Wanda do? Lock her back within Agnes. It wouldn’t even be a second thought.

(Would it? She’s lived through Agnes now, and Agatha freed her. Would she really force Agatha to go through something that Agatha, when their positions were reversed, didn’t force her to live through? (She had, briefly, but only briefly. She’d let her go. (She refuses to consider that Agatha might have done something nice for her. Agatha has to have some sort of ulterior motive. She just doesn’t know what it is.)))

For a long time, Wanda just stands there, her eyes shut tight, arms no longer wrapped around herself, hands clenched into fists at her sides, held far enough away from her that she isn’t touching anything, except for the shower wall, except for the shower curtain. She isn’t touching her.

Then she takes a deep breath in. Lets it out. And slowly opens her eyes.

“Agatha,” Wanda asks later that evening, when she feels the weight of the other witch pressed on the other side of the mattress, and then hesitates, unable to get the words out.

In the silence, Agatha responds. “Yes, dear?”

Wanda thinks her voice sounds softer than normal, but she can’t be sure. She tugs the comforter a little tighter about herself. “Never mind.”

Truth be told, Wanda hates that Agatha still curls up in bed with her. She can’t stop her, but she’s made it very clear she doesn’t like it. It’s not like Agnes doesn’t have a guest room; it’s just that Agatha refuses to use it. The one time that Wanda decides to take the guest room for herself, Agatha finds her anyway, perhaps a few minutes later than normal, and curls up just as she always does, with her back pressed against Wanda’s. The guest room is even worse for this; the bed is smaller, so Wanda can’t just move to the edge of the bed and hope to touch Agatha as little possible that way.

Agatha never presses her cold feet up against Wanda, but Wanda frequently presses hers against Agatha. It’s not that she wants the other witch to warm them up (although Agatha had suggested that in the most suggestive way possible); it’s that she wants to make the other witch uncomfortable and annoyed the same way she’d always been annoyed with Pietro when they’d been curled up in the exact same position, when they’d been in the orphanage, when they’d left the orphanage and lived on the streets of Sokovia.

But Agatha never gets annoyed with her, or if she does, she never shows it. If anything, she’s entertained by her. Smug smiles. Smirks. Smooth suggestive snark.

Wanda hates that, too, hates hearing all of that in her own voice, coming from her own lips.

And as much as she hates them, as much as she hates looking at Agatha’s body instead of her own, showers become a bit of a respite. Wanda can be alone there. And when she’s alone, she can think over the many, many questions she has for Agatha Harkness…and whether she will ever ask them at all.

“Hon,” Agatha eventually says, unprompted, “why don’t you let me show you a thing or two? Not blasting, but a few basic spells.” She rakes a hand gentle through her – Wanda’s – auburn hair, leans her head into her hand, and gazes down at her free finger as it traces circles on the kitchen counter.

Wanda gives her a stern, albeit confused, look. “Why would you do that?”

Agatha shrugs but doesn’t look up. “Boredom, mostly.” She heaves a sigh and then glances up with a wicked grin. “I’m interested in seeing how you’ll fuck it up if—”

“No, thank you.”

Eventually, Wanda pours herself a bath, fills it with the good stuff, sinks beneath the hot water and the layers of bubbles until only her nose and eyes creep above them, and sits. Rests. She curves one of the few runes she knows on the inside of the bathtub and notices the way it flickers a soft purple before disappearing. One corner of her lips lifts as she hums with approval.

Not contentment.

Then she stretches out, rests her neck against the curve of the tub, and leans her head back, Agatha’s dark hair a shining raven when wet, dripping onto the tiled floor. It toks as she closes her eyes, listens to it. Not quite like the ticking of a clock, far more squelching and wet.

Plip. Plop.

With her eyes closed, sunk beneath the warm water and the bubbles, breathing in the scent of her soap, Wanda can almost – almost – pretend that she’s still in the Avengers Compound and that nothing that’s happened in the past several years has happened. She can pretend that, in just a few moments, as soon as she gets out of the tub, she can look into the main room and see Natasha curled up in one of the corner chairs with a book while Steve plays one of the movies he’d missed while he was under the ice. She can pretend that, as soon as she’s dried and in something comfortable, she can go into the room with them, can see Natasha looking up from her book with a small smile, can sit next to Steve after he pats the cushion next to him, can point out one of her favorite shows because he hasn’t seen any of them. And of course, as soon as the theme song starts playing, there Vision would be, as though beckoned by the very sound of something she loves—

Then she opens her eyes, and she stares at the ceiling, and she sighs as the water grows increasingly tepid and the bubbles pop and fade.

She can’t be sure if Agatha has been reading her thoughts, but when she leaves the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her, Wanda catches sight of the other witch curled up on one corner of the couch, remote placed on the cushion next to her, as the theme song for The Munsters plays softly in the background. Agatha glances up, and Wanda meets her own, soft as an abandoned forest.

Agatha offers her a soft smile before her gaze returns to the television.

Wanda returns a few moments later in a silken set of pajamas she’d found in Agnes’s drawers weeks ago and settles on the couch next to her. “Still bored?”

“Sure, hon.” Agatha’s gaze doesn’t leave the television. As the characters speak, her lips move with theirs, although no sound comes out. Even though she has it memorized, she still smiles at the familiar joke. “This helps.”

This show is less familiar to Wanda. Her dad only had the set when she was much younger, and she’d been so young that the characters had all frightened her. Now, though, she can see that while they might all look like monsters, they were just a normal family. They didn’t even know what they were or that people saw them any differently than everyone else. It’s oddly—

“Teach me, if you want,” Wanda says when the credits roll. Her lips press together, and she refuses to meet Agatha’s eyes. “I’m getting bored, too.”

Agatha reaches over, oddly hesitant, and then cards her finger through Wanda’s dark waves. “You’re doing a horrible job with this, hon,” she murmurs. “Let me comb it out for you.”

Wanda shivers, gets up, and walks away.

It takes another round of days unnumbered, wherein Agatha slowly but surely teaches Wanda her magical basics, before Wanda gets up the gumption to ask. In Wanda’s mind, it’s easiest to ask this sort of question when it’s dark, when they’re curled up in bed facing opposite walls, when she can feel Agatha’s back pressed against hers, knows she should feel the pain of it through her own back and only doesn’t because Agatha took pity on her. She can ask without seeing Agatha’s expression etched onto her own face reflected back at her. That’s easier.

“Agatha?” Her voice is so small that she can barely hear it herself, but there’s no hope that Agatha doesn’t hear it.

“Yes, dear?”

And still, Wanda hesitates. Tugs the edge of her sleep shirt between clenched hands. Runs a finger along the stomach of the body she inhabits. “You have stretch marks.”

It isn’t a question; it’s a statement, but Wanda asks it with that slight upturn of her voice that suggests a question, even if the words say otherwise.

Agatha stills so completely that Wanda can’t even feel her breathe. Maybe, for a moment, she stops. (Maybe Wanda is so scared of the answer that she’s the one not breathing. She can’t tell.) Then, quietly, she says, “Yes, hon. I do.”

That isn’t the answer Wanda wanted, but if she’s really honest with herself, Wanda doesn’t know what she does want. She takes a deep breath in, stilling herself, and then asks, voice still just as soft, “What are they from?”

Agatha snorts, but not in the way that suggests there’s any mirth to it. “Stretch marks come from a lot of things, hon. Just skin stretching too fast. Might’ve eaten too much all at once. You never know—”

“Agatha.”

Wanda speaks softly, comfortingly – as much as she can with Agatha’s voice, which seems to insistent on being…being other. She licks her lips, rolls them together, and then forces herself to ask, “What happened to your kids?”

“That’s a bit of a leap, hon,” Agatha spits in Wanda’s voice, which somehow makes it hurt more, “assuming I have kids just because my skin’s split, just because you have stretch marks from—”

“Stop, stop.” Wanda curls tighter on herself, pulling away from Agatha’s back, but as she spirals into a more fetal position, she butts up against her again. “We don’t have to…we can drop it.”

For a long, long moment, Agatha doesn’t say anything, and Wanda is convinced that the other witch has done exactly what she’s said – that she’s dropped it. Then Agatha takes in a shuddering sort of breath, lets it out long and hard, and says, “Dead, hon.”

Wanda’s heart grows cold. “What do you mean—”

“Just what I said, hon.” Agatha’s tone is soft in Wanda’s voice. “They’re long dead.”

Wanda waits again, mistakenly assuming that Agatha will continue unprompted, but the witch wrapped in her skin says nothing more. Maybe she should listen to her own advice and drop it. But Wanda’s never been good at listening to anyone’s advice, let alone her own, and so she asks, “What happened to them?”

Agatha snorts. “Like you care.”

In a move that surprisingly shows how much she does, Wanda doesn’t press further and lets the conversation lie.

The first time Wanda lets out one of Agatha’s dark violetly violent blasts, the entire house shakes.

Agatha catches it in one hand and appears to absorb it, although Wanda knows she has no such ability. When Wanda’s eyes narrow, Agatha smirks. “The Scarlet Witch is capable of changing reality, hon. It just never existed.” At her words, the damage done to the house repairs itself – no, doesn’t repair anything; it’s as though the damage was never done in the first place, as though Wanda has blinked and everything is immediately as it was before.

It’s deeply unsettling.

“Can’t you just—” Wanda waves one arm, making a bit of magic thread briefly through her fingers before it flickers away. “—put things back together?”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “I’m not a child, babe, and the world isn’t one of your kids’ Lego sets. Why would I waste precious energy piecing the puzzle of your wreckage together when I can just snap your fingers and—” She snaps, and the interior of the house around them disappears, replaced with the wreckage of Wanda’s childhood apartment in Sokovia; snaps again, and that apartment fixes itself, just as it had been before Stark’s bomb hit, only devoid of any other life; snaps a third time and returns them to Agnes’s house in Westview.

As soon as they return, Wanda pushes past her, knocking her shoulder into Agatha’s, teeth gritting together. “You don’t have to be an ass.”

Neither do you.

Wanda catches just enough of Agatha’s own voice to turn to the other witch before realizing it was spoken directly into her mind. Agatha can’t speak with her own voice anymore. Only Wanda’s.

She shudders.

“Do you have any grandchildren?” Wanda asks, curled up in bed, staring at the wall, unable to fall asleep. Maybe she’s curious, maybe she just wants to hit at Agatha for hitting at her earlier, maybe it’s both and something else that she cannot name.

Either way, she can’t see the way Agatha’s expression screws over her own face when she says, blunt, “No.”

Once, exactly once, Agatha throws a scarlet blast of her own at Wanda, and Wanda, forgetting that she is in Agatha’s body, forgetting that she could absorb the magic thrown at her, dodges out of the way as neatly as she can. The magic itself doesn’t graze her arm, but a fragment of detritus does, and she glares up at Agatha with a hand over her shoulder. “What was that for?”

“You forget who you are, hon,” Agatha says, stitching Wanda’s skin back together without the wave of a hand, “and you forget me, too.”

Agatha only leaves the house by teleportation, and Wanda suspects that has more to do with the way the citizens in Westview would react to her – would react to someone who looks like Wanda – than it does with any real desire to teleport anywhere. She never buys anything, never goes shopping, but she always come back with something stuck in her mouth – usually a lollipop or popsicle, but just as often a strand of wheat as though she could make Wanda’s body look like a cowboy. She does, once, come back with that strand of wheat, with a cowboy hat propped onto her head, with boots with spurs covered with dirt, looking for all the world like a cowgirl and smelling strongly of one, too.

Wanda doesn’t ask because she doesn’t believe Agatha will answer, but she glares at her all the same, hands clenched into little fists. “Don’t use my body for—”

“You put me in this situation, super star,” Agatha interrupts as she pushes by her. “I think that means you don’t get to complain.”

For all that Agatha seemed to be giddy about having Wanda’s body – and therefore her power – something in her tone suggests that she is just as tired, frustrated, exasperated with their arrangement as Wanda herself is. But that can’t be true. If she was, then she would change them back just as easily as Wanda had put them there in the first place. Easier, even.

But she doesn’t.

Wanda does her research before she asks again, goes to the Westview library and runs her fingers through far too many historical books that are likely less than accurate, and uses their computer and their internet to search into the even less accurate parts of the world wide web. (She doesn’t want Agatha reading over her shoulder, but she still feels as though she is.) This time, when she asks, “How did they die?” she thinks she already has the answer.

She has half of it.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you, hon?” Agatha sighs and shifts on the mattress – Wanda has a distinct image of the woman pushing a hand through Wanda’s auburn hair, brushing it back out of her face – before continuing. “The seventeenth century wasn’t good for child mortality. The youngest of my twins, my baby, died before he was a year old. We didn’t know why then, and you still don’t know why now. Sometimes, death just happens.”

The next question leaps far too quickly to Wanda’s lips, and she stifles it down, forces herself to quiet as she waits for Agatha to speak.

“Nicholas made it nearly to three years old before my sister burned him alive.”

Wanda’s breath catches in her throat.

The mattress shifts, and Agatha’s breath comes warm at the nape of Wanda’s – Agatha’s own – neck. “Does that answer your question, hon?”

At her words, the ache in Wanda’s own heart cries out, and she curls up tight in on herself. She doesn’t say it, but she thinks it, an apology not to Agatha and not to herself and not to her boys, but maybe to all of the above.

Silently, Agatha wraps Wanda’s own arms around her waist and sets her chin on her own shoulder. She holds her, says nothing as Wanda shivers silently in her grasp, and then says, finally, “Sometimes, hon, there isn’t anything you do. No matter how hard you try. But you and I? We’re made of the same cloth. You’re strong. And you will make it through this.”

Wanda doesn’t say anything. After all of that, what would she say?

#bandit fic #wundagore punishment with wanda and agatha #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #agatha harkness #wandavision #mcu #wandagatha #wagatha #harximoff #wanda maximoff x agatha harkness #agatha harkness x wanda maximoff #wandagatha week 2023 #chapter five

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