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Agatha opens her cupboard door and curses under her breath. Yesterday the shelves were full of Doo-Dads and Ding Dongs; today there’s a box of Fruit Roll-Ups and a handful of Kool-Aid packets. How much power does Wanda have? How can she waste it on parlour tricks like this? Agatha can think of so many better uses.
At least she doesn’t have to go digging for kid-appropriate snacks. She cocks an ear towards the living room, but doesn’t hear any screaming. Eh. She shrugs. The twins are probably fine.
The Maximoff household has been in a state of upheaval for the last few days. Well, getting a new dog, burying the new dog, and then having a long-lost brother-slash-uncle reappear out of thin air, all in one day, is clearly enough to unsettle even the most white-picket-fence of families. Agatha smirks as she dumps fruit snacks into a bowl. Some of her better work, she has to admit. But she barely needs Fake Pietro as her eyes and ears inside Wanda’s house. Billy and Tommy have been over at her place half the time to escape the drama. She should’ve thought about using them as informants earlier—although granted, they wouldn’t have been as helpful when they were younger. She remembers watching them age five years in as many seconds and shakes her head, angry all over again. How has Wanda done it?
And for that matter, what, exactly, has Wanda done? Between possessing Pietro and listening to the twins, Agatha’s heard all about Vision’s little rebellions and the ways he’s needling Wanda. She assumed he was like the boys—a construct of some sort—but he seems to be fighting the spell, not part of it. He seems so real. Unbidden, Agatha thinks of Tommy begging Wanda to bring Sparky back from the dead. Her hand shakes as she tears open a packet of Kool-Aid, spilling bright red powder over her white tile countertop.
Vision is dead. Has been dead, as far as Agatha is aware, for years. Admittedly she doesn’t want to think about how porous the boundary of death has become of late, but she’s pretty sure he was dead dead. If Wanda resurrected him, and in such a way that he still has his own free will, then she must be using chaos magick. And that can only mean one thing. She is the Scarlet Witch.
So much power and poor little Wanda is just frittering it away because she doesn’t know how to handle it. Well, that’s okay. Agatha will take it off her hands. It’s practically a good deed, Agatha thinks, stirring powder and water together. The Scarlet Witch is supposed to cause all sorts of horrors, and not the fun kind. It’s better for the world if she’s taken care of. Based on how quickly she’s unravelling here in Westview, it’s better for Wanda, too. And it’s certainly better for Agatha. She flexes her fingers, imagining it. All that power, hers to command. Maybe, even, the power to conquer Death.
Agatha needs to spend some quality research time with the Darkhold, but she hasn’t had a chance. If she’s not hanging out in Pietro-vision, she’s babysitting the twins. She’s parenting them more than Vision is at this point. And speaking of the twins, it’s now suspiciously quiet in the other room. Snacks and glasses in one hand, pitcher of lurid pink sugar-water in the other, she backs through the kitchen door and takes a breath to announce her return. Her words die in her throat as she takes in the scene in front of her. They’re both asleep—Tommy with his head tipped back, mouth open as if he passed out in mid-sentence; Billy curled up on the arm of the sofa, Scratchy nestled in the curve of his knees.
She forgot how quickly kids can fall asleep. Nicky used to do that. He’d pass out in her lap almost without warning, warm and limp, believing she would keep him safe.
Setting the snacks and drinks down, Agatha takes a quiet step closer, watching the twins sleep. Nicky never got to be this old. She never let herself wonder what he would’ve been like at this age. In the last few days, she’s been reminded of him too often. Tommy has his flightiness, Billy his sweetness, and both of them his too-trusting nature. He deserved so much better than she could give him. They both deserved someplace to come home to. Someplace they could be a family. Someplace all of them—
The front door opens without warning, and for a moment, Agatha isn’t sure who’s going to come in.
It’s Wanda, of course. With Ralph no longer cluttering up the place, Agnes gave Wanda an open invitation to drop by for the kids any time. Good old Agnes, here whenever Wanda needs her. Agatha reaches for Agnes’ mask. Hiya, neighbour! she’ll say. Here for your little sleeping beauties? Better take ‘em home before they start sawing logs too hard and bring my house down! But the faux cheer slides off like the thick eyeshadow she’d packed on that morning, and before she can fix her face, Wanda notices.
“Agnes?” Wanda says, head tilting like she’s trying to replace that quivering mutt of theirs. She’s on high alert for anything else that she can’t explain and Agatha grabs for a distraction. Pressing a finger to her lips, she makes an exaggerated shushing gesture, rolling her eyes frantically towards the sleeping twins. Wanda glances at them, taking her close scrutiny off Agatha, and Agatha lets herself relax a little.
Wanda looks tired. Seeing her in person rather than through Pietro’s eyes, Agatha notices the markers of strain. The puff sleeves of Wanda’s white blouse droop sadly and there’s a dark stain on her acid-washed jeans. Her baby-blue knit wrap belt has threads trailing from it. Even her perm seems to be giving up. Agatha hasn’t seen her in a few days; making a quick decision, she grabs the boys’ empty Kool-Aid glasses, swipes a bottle of cabernet that showed up in her wine rack the other day, and lifts them both, tilting her head towards the stairs. Maybe she can get Wanda liquored up before sending her home to Pietro’s loving embrace. Loose lips sink ships, after all. The more she talks, the sooner Agatha can figure out how to get at the treasure trove of magick boiling within her.
Wanda visibly hesitates, and Agatha pouts, widening her eyes and sticking her lip out. Wine with the bestie should be the perfect storyline for a housewife who’s frustrated at home, and Agatha pushes that belief into the fabric of the spell that’s shaping their world. After a beat, Wanda gives in with a nod. She presses a gentle kiss to Tommy’s forehead, then to Billy’s hair as she rounds the couch. When she gets to Agatha, she keeps going, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek as well. Power sizzles just under her skin, beckoning.
Agatha giggles and gives Wanda the bottle of wine to cover her surprise. How domestic, she thinks, guiding Wanda towards the stairs with a hand at the small of her back.
Agatha would never have chosen the pastel aesthetic of her 1980s bedroom, but at least it isn’t as Laura Ashley as some of the rooms she remembers from that era. She and Wanda cross the green carpet to sit on the ruffled peach bedspread, Agatha silently thankful that the spell resets the space every morning. At least she doesn’t have to field questions about why only one side of the bed is rumpled. The passive way Wanda slumps onto the bed, though, suggests she might not even have noticed. She barely perks up once Agatha uncorks the wine and pours a healthy slug into both glasses.
“Drink up,” Agatha says, handing one glass over, “and tell Agnes what’s going on.” She fixes an attentive look on her face and takes an encouraging sip of her own wine. Ugh. Too dry.
Wanda takes the glass and stares into it. “It’s been a busy few days,” she says dully.
“Oh, it’s hard for today’s mom, isn’t it,” Agatha chirps. “Keeping things in order for the little rugrats. And if Dad isn’t pulling his share of the load…” She trails off, encouraging.
Wanda sighs. “Vision hasn’t been coming home after work,” she says. She gulps her wine like she’s trying to wash the taste of imperfection out of her mouth. “He used to rush back straight from the office. He’d run all the way.” She laughs, memory lighting her face up for a moment, then stops abruptly. “Now he dawdles. I don’t know what he’s doing. I just know he doesn’t want to be home with us.”
Agatha knows something about being the one home alone, waiting for a lover to return. She knows about being the one desperate to leave, too. Still, sitting on the bed drinking, Wanda strikes her as more than a little pathetic, power or not. All that magick can bring Vision back from the dead, but it can’t make him the perfect family man Wanda apparently dreams of. He’s a chink in Wanda’s armour. Agatha can use that. “When do you think he’ll get back?” Agatha asks. Does she need to lead Wanda through a new round of seduction tricks? It’s like they’re in reruns. At least 80s magazines are a little more fun.
“Oh, he’s home now.” Wanda takes another drink. Agatha tries not to react to this revelation—so why’s Wanda here, drinking wine in Agnes’ bedroom instead of home with her husband—but she can’t entirely hide her surprise. Wanda notices and splutters into her glass. “I just, I—I know I shouldn’t be complaining if I’m not trying to be there when he is, but—but catching up with Pietro takes so much energy, and I didn’t want to wake the boys when I know they’ve noticed that things are—are strained, and I hate that, I’m sure I’m scarring them for life—”
“Hey now.” Agatha interrupts the self-flagellation with a gentle hand on Wanda’s arm. If she has to listen to any more of that cliché-ridden dialogue, she might puke. Instead, she flips personas, moving from confidante Agnes to mentor Agnes seamlessly. “No one’s going to tell you not to take a little time for yourself. It’s not selfish. We all have needs.” Shit, the clichés are catching. But that gives her an idea. Maybe she shouldn’t be trying to keep Wanda and Vision together. Maybe the trick is to pull them further apart. She forces a conspiratorial giggle and leans closer to Wanda. “Listen, you know what always helps me relax when Ralph is being, like, a total bummer? Why don’t I run you a bath?”
Hot baths at the turn of a faucet are still one of Agatha’s very favourite modern innovations and the soaking tub in her current bathroom was a pleasant surprise, even if the Pepto-pink tiles and fixtures weren’t. It’s the perfect setup to get Wanda relaxed and maybe a little more drunk. The Scarlet Witch, bare and vulnerable to whatever Agatha desires. A thrill runs through Agatha and she lets herself smile. It comes out on Agnes’ face, bright and perky, but underneath it hums with fierce anticipation.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Wanda says, but she sways towards Agatha as she speaks, as though she just needs to be convinced. “In your bathroom, Agnes! I mean, what if Ralph comes home?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Agatha says with a merry laugh. “He won’t be back any time soon. And besides, he certainly wouldn't complain, if you know what I mean.” She winks broadly and tugs Wanda up from the bed and into the bathroom.
Thank the goddess she threw all Ralph’s obnoxiously-scented bath products into his room ages ago to keep the smell contained. Digging in the cupboard, she pulls out a bag of lavender bath salts. “Lavender,” she says, “for calming, remember?” Wanda blushes, clearly thinking back to Agnes’ jokes about her libido. How interesting. Agatha actually uses the lavender for rituals that require clarity, but Wanda doesn’t need to know that.
Sitting on the tiled edge of the tub, Agatha starts the water running and then looks up at Wanda, deliberately turning on the charm. She all but flutters her lashes. “Come on,” she says beseechingly. “Moms deserve a little something nice on hard days. And you know it’ll feel good.” She’s putting it on pretty thick, but a little seduction never hurt anyone. Well, that’s not true. It’s hurt a lot of people after Agatha’s done with them.
“I guess… okay.” Wanda smiles a tired little smile and Agatha claps her hands in performative delight.
“Oh, radical.” Bouncing up, she dumps a good handful of bath salts in the rising water. “I’ll get the wine. Be right back!” She doesn’t give Wanda time to protest any further. In the bedroom, she grabs a couple of candles as well, in order to make the entire experience as non-threatening as she can. When she gets back to the bathroom, Wanda is peeling off her jeans. The skintight denim leaves indents on her legs where the seams pressed. Agatha glances at the angry red imprints and then looks away.
Wanda jerks up as Agatha swans past, chatting in Agnes’ airiest tones. She plops the wine down on the bath and lights the candles, back pointedly turned. Through the curtain of her hair, though, she can see Wanda’s reflection in the mirror, and she watches Wanda stand frozen, jeans in one hand. It takes a moment before she hears movement again; there’s rustling as Wanda pulls off the rest of her clothes and then a few gentle splashes as she slides into the tub. Success. Agatha’s heart rate quickens in anticipation.
With an Agnes-approved megawatt smile hurting her cheeks, Agatha spins around, candles in hand. Wanda’s body is a pale outline under the opaque waters. Her face is already flushed; Agatha wonders whether it’s the heat of the bath or something else. Wanda twitches as Agatha looks at her, hands coming up as though she wants to cover herself further, and Agatha has to dig deep for something appropriately disarming to say. “Here’s to the men we love,” she starts, perching on the side of the tub. She sets the candles in place and picks up her glass, raising it in a toast. “Here’s to the men who love us. And if the men we love don’t love us, to hell with the men, and here’s to us!” She laughs, a polite tinkling instead of the disgusted cackle clawing at the back of her throat. The absurd statement seems to work, though; Wanda uncrosses her arms and lifts one out of the water to take her glass and tap it to Agatha’s. Froth trails down her bare skin, and the tendrils of damp red hair that cling to her cheeks make her look fragile. Internally, Agatha scoffs.
“So, the boys and I had a great day with Señor Scratchy,” Agatha says, settling in. She leans against the wall and stretches her legs out, parallelling Wanda. It’s chilly against her back where the oversized neck of her white Boy London sweatshirt leaves her shoulderblades bare, but the room is warming quickly. She crosses her legs, admiring how the purple stripe down the sides of her black stirrup pants enhances the curve of her calf. She didn’t mind the 80s the first time around. At least the clothes were fun, unlike some other decades she could name. This look is a far cry from the shoulder pads and sharp-cut suits she favoured at the time, but she can’t say she isn’t comfortable. In fact, it’s all a little too comfortable, the warmth and the scent of lavender and Wanda’s presence by her side casting a spell of its own. She sits up a little straighter. Hopefully at least Wanda’s being lulled into relaxing too.
“They’re good, right? The twins?” Wanda sips at her wine, and Agatha takes the opportunity to top her up. She knows what Wanda’s really asking—am I a good enough mother?—and she knows exactly what she should say to pick at Wanda’s insecurities. To destabilize her.
Instead, the words dry in her mouth as she thinks of the two boys sleeping on her couch downstairs. “Yeah,” she says instead, and can’t help smiling fondly. “Yeah, they’re—they’re good kids, you know? They’re, uh, they’re really gentle with Scratchy. They’re smart, and thoughtful, and—” Words she would have liked to hear about Nicky bubble up. “I know how easy it is to worry too much, but they’re doing great. They’re gonna be okay.”
Wanda’s quiet for a long moment, and Agatha glances down at her, readying another joke. But Wanda is looking back at her, studying her, and Agatha suddenly feels the full weight of Wanda’s power surging around them. She thinks back on what she said and cringes internally. Shit. She got caught up in her own fucking story. Agnes wouldn’t say half those things.
“Agnes…” Wanda starts, still watching her too closely. Agatha panics.
She leans down, sloshing more wine in Wanda’s glass, and then her own. “Do you need anything else?” she asks, laughing too brightly. Her sweatshirt slips further down her bare arm and Wanda’s eyes flicker down from her face, then back up. Huh. Interesting, again. Maybe she should’ve tried the seduction route earlier. 50s repression or 60s permissiveness would’ve been fun to play with. But she’s stuck with the archetype of the power mom. Still, she’s got plenty of room to work. “I know mothers need a lot of pampering,” she continues inanely, “so if there’s something you want, you just let Auntie Agnes know, okay?”
Wanda blinks, slowly, like the wine is just catching up to her. “Are you sure?” she says. “I feel a little bad. Taking up your time, and your bath. Isn’t there anything you want?” Power roils around them like bathwater rippling as Wanda shifts. The spell is looking for holes to fill.
“Oh, please!” Agatha laughs again, the sound cloying to her ears. “I don’t want anything more than I have right here, right now. How could I? I mean, I’ve got the best friend a gal can have.” She flicks her hand through the water, splashing Wanda lightly, and thinks firm thoughts about how much she loves the tiny seashell-shaped soaps and the stacks of eyeshadow at the vanity. She needs to look harmless to Wanda and her magick. A spell like this is almost a living thing. And like any living thing, it can be manipulated by someone who knows what she’s doing. “I’ve got two honourary nephews who are just the sweetest. And a beautiful house!” Cranking up the strength of her smile, she leans further forward. “Oh, and there’s Ralph,” she adds, like an afterthought. “I mean, if you’re asking whether there’s anything I’d change, I guess I do have some notes…”
Thinking of Sweeps Week, Agatha shifts her shoulders, deepening her cleavage. She’s not wearing a bra and her neckline just flirts with obscenity. She can imagine a warning flashing up on screens across the country: this program contains mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised. Wanda’s eyes dip again, and Agatha lets hers wander too. In the bath, the dissolving salts are beginning to clear away, leaving tantalizing glimpses of bare skin. Agatha projects guileless and sweet as hard as she can, but when she reaches to sweep a strand of hair out of Wanda’s face, her hand lingers deliberately.
If Wanda is who Agatha thinks she is… well, Agatha hasn’t fucked a cosmic power in a while. She kinda misses the thrill. And if she isn’t, hey. Agatha’s overdue a bit of fun anyway.
Wanda shifts away from Agatha’s touch and Agatha gets a quip ready in case she’s misjudged and needs to deflect again. But Wanda stands without bothering to cover herself, water sheeting down her body. Agatha’s pinned to the tile for a moment, looking up as Wanda steps out of the tub, over Agatha’s legs. Wanda is thin but lithe, wiry like a ballerina. The draw of her skin over her muscles makes her look more mature. She’s seemed a bit like a child playing dress-up to Agatha, more so with each new decade, but her high small breasts and the reddish-brown thatch of hair between her legs ground her. Make her real. The sight and the feel of power washing around the room make Agatha flush.
“Gee,” Agatha manages, clutching her glass of wine so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t crack under the strain. “How do you keep that hot bod in such great shape? Is this the Jane Fonda Workout in action? Because I might just be a convert. I need all the help I can get.”
With a tug, Wanda frees Agatha’s hair from its high ponytail. The permed curls tumble over her shoulders and Wanda buries a hand in them, drawing them back from Agatha’s face. “Oh, I don't believe that at all,” she murmurs, and kisses Agatha.
Wanda’s touch is tentative, but the surge of power accompanying it isn’t. Electricity practically crackles between them. Agatha closes her eyes and can almost see it, nudging up against her, eager as a puppy. She shivers, hunger and desire building deep in her belly. Forcing peppy happy Agnes thoughts to the top of her brain, she opens her mouth, letting the tip of her tongue brush Wanda’s upper lip. Just a taste.
Wanda gasps softly and breaks the kiss. Her hand stays in Agatha’s hair and when Agatha blinks, Wanda’s face is still close, eyes searching Agatha’s. Agatha rests her fingers on the outside of Wanda’s wrist, not quite holding her in place, and smiles prettily. “Give us a little more sugar, sugar?” she says, tilting her head up.
“Agnes…” Wanda starts, then pauses. Agatha tilts her head into Wanda’s hand, just a little, enough to encourage. “Agnes, are you… is this okay?”
Oh, so this is a step too far, Agatha thinks. Wanda enslaved an entire town to play out her happy-families fantasy, but kissing another woman, that makes her think twice? Agatha’s going to enjoy draining every last drop of power Wanda has. For now, she widens her eyes innocently. She’s got a script to follow.
“This doesn’t need to change our friendship, does it?” she asks, biting her lip. “You know, Wanda, I’ve never had a gal pal like you, and I just feel like we’re so close, and…” She lets the insipid commentary trail off and runs her fingers up Wanda’s bare arm. Power hums around them and Agatha lets a little of her hunger show in her eyes as she curls her hand around Wanda’s forearm. “You deserve a chance to feel real nice, is all. I want to take care of you.” The double meaning sits heavy on her tongue.
To her credit, Wanda looks at least a little unconvinced. But Agatha has a lot of experience overriding a woman’s gut instinct. Setting her glass aside carelessly, she stands, putting herself close enough to Wanda to feel the heat of the bath still radiating from her skin. Their slight height difference makes it easy for her to look up, pleading. “C’mon, hot stuff,” Agatha says, twining their fingers together and leading Wanda back into the bedroom.
Dropping onto the bed, Agatha pulls Wanda down on top of her, heedless of the water still beading on Wanda’s skin. She has to take a firm hold of her own instincts; she wants to bare her teeth and bury them in Wanda’s neck, or to goad Wanda into clawing and biting herself. Instead, she asks herself What would Agnes do? and lets her hands settle gently on the slight swell of Wanda’s waist, urging her to press down on Agatha’s thigh. Through the thin spandex of her stirrup pants, Agatha can feel Wanda’s cunt, hot and wet. She’s so trusting. So easy to take advantage of. “Gosh, you sure feel good,” she says with Agnes’ tinkling laugh.
“You too,” Wanda says, voice unsteady as she starts to rock against Agatha. Agatha’s trying to follow Wanda’s lead instead of take over, but shit, could Wanda move any slower? When Wanda stills entirely, Agatha bites back a growl. “Agnes,” Wanda says, brushing hair out of Agatha’s face with a tender touch. “You’ve done this before… right?”
Agatha thinks fast. She doesn’t want to freak Wanda out. She doesn’t want Wanda to decide that she’s forcing Agnes to act against her nature. She doesn’t want Wanda to stop. Digging up a saucy smile, she purrs, “Oh, honey. Do you want to hear all the details, is that it?” Wanda’s cheeks go a little pink and Agatha laughs for real. “Let’s just say the Summer of Love really lived up to its name, then, hey?” That’s gotta be about on track for Agnes’ apparent age in this era, right? And Agatha does have fond memories of all the hitchhikers and hippies she spent time with during that decade, so it’s not even a lie.
Something in that answer seems to melt Wanda’s last defense. She lets herself fall onto Agatha and kisses her for real this time, tongue curling into her mouth. Power hums around them. Agatha strokes her hands up and down Wanda’s sides, still staying above the waist, and Wanda gives an encouraging moan. To hell with it. Agatha lets a little bit of her aggression take over; she pulls Wanda’s hair out of its sloppy bun and digs her fingers into the curly red mass. It’s rough from the perm. She sure doesn’t miss the days of constant chemical treatment. Hair tangles around her fingers, but that only makes it easier for Agatha to tug Wanda’s mouth to just the right angle.
Wanda gets a little bit bolder, then; she slides her hands under Agatha’s loose top. “Agnes,” she murmurs, fingers teasing over Agatha’s ribcage. Agatha kisses her again to shut her up. At first, Wanda doesn’t venture any higher, her touch barely grazing the bottom of Agatha’s breasts. She seems content to kiss, like she’s starved for even this much. Agatha shifts under her. Does she always take this long to make a decision? Dealing with her for real is going to be simplicity itself. She smiles into the kiss and can’t resist nipping at Wanda’s lip. Wanda sighs in response to that and pushes herself up until she can pull Agatha’s shirt right off.
Agatha moans, head tipping back as Wanda’s breasts press against her own. So much bare skin—when was the last time Agatha was naked with someone whose name she’d bothered to remember? Wanda echoes her, burying her head against Agatha’s neck. She sounds almost as undone. When was the last time she was held by a human instead of a machine?
Wanda’s hand starts creeping upwards again, but Agatha is running low on patience. She flips them over—carefully, still—and tosses her hair over one shoulder so she can beam down at Wanda. “This is about you,” she says, playfully booping Wanda on the nose. She draws her finger down, over Wanda’s mouth, over her chin and along her neck and between her breasts. “And aren’t you so perfect from your head to your toes? Just relax, hon. Let me take care of you.” It’s hard not to roll her eyes at herself. She’s very proud of her restraint.
Lowering her head, Agatha licks along the sharp line of Wanda’s clavicle, tasting the remnants of lavender salts, a hint of sweat, and maybe, just maybe, the tiniest tickle of power, buzzing beneath her tongue. She inhales, breathing it in. The thrill of temptation makes her skin tingle.
Wanda buries her fingers in Agatha’s hair and pulls—hesitantly, weakly, but it’s clear she wants Agatha to stop. She can’t know what Agatha’s thinking, but the timing triggers Agatha’s danger sense. She barely keeps hold of her own power. It takes her a breath before she can raise her head to meet Wanda’s eyes.
“Will you…” Wanda starts, still tentative. Agatha trembles, adrenaline rushing as it settles in that Wanda isn’t trying to stop her. She smiles, urging her on. “Will you take your pants off too? It’s not fair if I’m the only one naked.”
Of course she’s focused on what’s fair. How incredibly heroic of her.
Agatha dimples as she slides backwards off the bed and stands, thumbs tucked in her waistband. “I can’t blame you for wanting an eyeful, babe,” she says, peeling her stirrup pants down her legs. She does a little shimmy as she stands back up and kicks off the rest of her clothes. “Feel better now we’re even?” Wanda looks gratifyingly impressed—as she should—and Agatha settles back to her work, fighting the temptation to slide a hand between her own legs so she can have a little fun.
It’s a challenge to be good, but not too good. So she likes to show off, so sue her. She distracts herself by looking for weak spots as she explores Wanda’s body. Wanda whimpers as Agatha nuzzles the curve of her breast, and Agatha lingers longer than she might otherwise, delighting in the helpless little noises. She takes Wanda’s nipple into her mouth, circling it with her tongue, then sucking slowly until Wanda cries out. Agatha smiles. She wants to hear that sound again as Wanda begs her for mercy.
Wanda is surprisingly responsive, and Agatha starts enjoying herself more than she expected. She takes her time, tracing fingers, then tongue over the curves of Wanda’s ribs as Wanda squirms and gasps. There’s a scar across Wanda’s right side that she would ask about in the real world. She’s pretty sure there’s no place for it in this neon-and-pastel impossibility, though. Instead, she notes it as a potential vulnerability and scrapes her teeth across Wanda’s abs, resisting the urge to bite.
Wanda starts to make impatient noises. Her hand curls in Agatha’s hair again. She wants to ask for more, Agatha can tell, but is still too uncertain. Agatha doesn’t want to be rushed; she noses at the sensitive skin under Wanda’s navel, stroking her thumb over the soft lines there.
“No, don’t,” Wanda says, voice tight. “Don’t, they’re not—”
Agatha blinks and looks up at Wanda’s pinched expression, then down again at Wanda’s bare belly. A sudden burst of anger boils through her veins. Stretch marks. Wanda was pregnant for less time than it takes to binge a box-set. How can she possibly have stretch marks? Much less play it up like she’s self-conscious about them? Agatha can barely catch her breath, but she forces herself to trail her fingers over Wanda’s stretch marks again, deliberately this time. “Honey,” she says, keeping her voice light. “Don’t tell me you don’t think these are beautiful, huh? That’s where your boys were! Don’t they make it all worth it?” The distress on Wanda’s face wobbles slightly, and Agatha chases it away by lying through her teeth. “These are memories to be proud of,” she says, kissing the pale silver lines. Her stomach curdles like sour milk, but she forces herself to concentrate on her goal: wringing restitution from Wanda for everything she's done.
Performative distress soothed, Wanda relaxes beneath Agatha’s touch. Agatha takes advantage, sliding her hand up Wanda’s leg, up over the taut muscles of her thighs, and slipping one finger inside her. She doesn’t want to tease; she wants to win.
“Oh, Agnes.” Wanda inhales softly, shifting to make more space. “Please.”
Agatha keeps her head down, hair screening her face from Wanda’s view. She smirks at the plea. You’ll say that again, she thinks. She speeds her thrusts, crooking her finger within Wanda’s cunt, feeling the way Wanda clenches around her. It’s been too long since she’s had a woman helpless beneath her touch. Holding Wanda in the palm of her hand, she glories in the heady rush of power. Wanda has given this to her. Wanda will give everything to her.
Wanda’s slick enough that Agatha adds another finger. She’s rewarded by a deep groan, and when she scissors them wider, Wanda convulses under her. Her hips chase Agatha’s hand, this time begging without words. For once, Agatha decides to be benevolent. She circles her thumb over Wanda’s clit, slowly at first. She could use her mouth, but she wants to be able to see Wanda go to pieces.
It doesn’t take much longer. Wanda’s pretty little face screws up like she’s in pain. She jerks under Agatha’s touch as though she’s trying to get away. Agatha doesn’t let her. She’s relentless, her fingers driving into Wanda’s cunt with the precision of a ritual casting. And when Wanda slaps her hands over her mouth and screams into them, screams until she’s breathless, screams because Agatha has driven her past her breaking point… Agatha devours the sight.
Wanda slumps back against the bed and lets her arms splay to the side, boneless. She twitches and gasps as Agatha draws her fingers out. Agatha looks at her lying there, so trusting. Then she wipes her hand on the pastel peach bedspread and sits back, looking for her shirt.
“Wait,” Wanda says, struggling to prop herself up on an elbow and reaching her other hand out beseechingly. “Wait, Agnes, I—isn’t it your turn?”
Of course. Agatha almost scoffs. Still so concerned with what’s fair. She curls her lips in a peppy smile. “You don’t have to, hon, this was all about you! And besides, I enjoyed myself,” she adds, a little lasciviously. It’s true, just not quite—or not only—the way Wanda takes it.
“I want to,” Wanda says, determined. She grabs Agatha’s wrist and tugs her closer. “And if this was about me, that means I get to do what I want, right?” She smiles. Agatha can practically see her thinking how daring she’s being.
“Well,” Agatha drawls, letting herself get pulled back down onto Wanda’s body. “I can’t blame you. I know I’m hard to resist.” She leans in for a too-gentle kiss, resigning herself to suffering through a mediocre orgasm. But hey, better than none. And she did get a kick out of having Wanda powerless under her touch, so it won’t be too much of an inconvenience. Wanda rolls them over and Agatha resolves to enjoy the experience as much as she can.
Wanda kisses Agatha’s neck, then her clavicle. She’s basically retracing the same path Agatha took down her body, Agatha realizes. Well, at least she’s got a good example to follow. Wanda’s touch is still hesitant, and Agatha hams it up a bit, moaning loudly as encouragement. It helps a little. Wanda moves on to Agatha’s breasts, mouth hot and teeth sharp, and manages to coax a real gasp out of her. Digging her hands into Wanda’s hair, Agatha flexes her fingers lazily. The Scarlet Witch, desperate for Agatha’s approval. All that power and all she wants to do is make Agatha come. Under the chemical roughness of her perm, Wanda’s hair is wild. Agatha tightens her grip, tempted to pull.
Desire and hunger build as Wanda touches her with more confidence. Maybe this won’t be a complete waste of time. Agatha’s blood sings through her veins like she’s already absorbed all of Wanda’s power and she trembles a little at the thought. Soon, she tells herself, not entirely sure whether she’s anticipating an orgasm or a conquest. She rocks her hips up against Wanda’s belly, barely keeping herself in check. Soon.
As Wanda wiggles further down the bed, between Agatha’s legs, her touch falters. Her hand stills on Agatha’s hip. Figures. The typical surprise of a bi-curious straight woman encountering her first cunt face-to-face, as it were. Agatha knows the signs, though it takes her a minute to translate her response into Agnes-appropriate language. “Just do what you like, hon,” she says breathily, stroking Wanda’s hair back from her face. “It’s okay. I know you’ll make me feel good.”
Wanda doesn’t exactly look reassured, but she nods and keeps going. When she reaches uncertain fingers between Agatha’s legs, tracing over slick folds, Agatha is on the edge enough that she doesn’t have to fake a throaty groan.
“How much?” Wanda asks, teasing at Agatha’s slit. “What do you want?” She presses in with one finger without waiting for a response and Agatha sighs, body undulating in pleasure.
“More,” Agatha demands, grinding down into Wanda’s palm. “Give me more.” Give me everything.
Wanda’s fingers are slim, but two are enough for Agatha to feel a promising stretch. “Harder,” Agatha orders this time, clutching at Wanda’s head. Wanda puts a little of that superhero muscle behind her thrusts and Agatha bites her lip, choking back a cry. “Yeah,” she pants, “keep doing that—don’t stop.”
Somewhat to Agatha’s surprise, not only does Wanda not stop, she bends and presses her mouth to Agatha’s clit, flicking her tongue over it almost in time with her fingers. “Good,” Agatha manages, “don’t stop—” A moment later, Agatha is shuddering through what is in fact a perfectly satisfactory orgasm. It rushes over her like a power surge, sparks shooting from her cunt to her fingertips. Wanda draws it out until Agatha pushes at her gently to get her to back off. Hell. What Agatha couldn’t do with the woman, if she can take direction like this all the time.
“Well, that was all right, wasn’t it?” Wanda asks, crawling back up the bed to kiss Agatha again.
Agatha nods and kisses Wanda back, expecting her to roll off the bed right away. Instead, Wanda curls into her side, laying her head on Agatha’s shoulder. Oh, so she wants to cuddle now? Well… it’s not the worst idea she’s ever had. Agatha gropes towards the bottom of the bed and grabs the mint-and-white-checked knitted throw folded there, tossing it haphazardly over them both. Awkwardly, she settles her arm around Wanda, holding her close. Through the open window, she can hear idyllic small-town life going on: birds chirping, a lawnmower running, the low rumble of a car passing by. Wanda’s breath whispers over Agatha’s skin. It’s peaceful.
“Agnes…” Wanda says softly. So much for peaceful. Agatha makes an interrogative noise and rests her cheek against Wanda’s head. Wanda doesn’t continue for a long moment, her fingers drawing idle patterns up and down Agatha’s belly. “Can I ask you a question?” Wanda’s hand stills, palm flat just below Agatha’s navel. Understanding comes with the blazing fury of a lightning bolt. She’s tracing Agatha’s stretch marks.
“No!” Agatha snaps before she can stop herself. She all but leaps off the bed, pulling the throw with her and whirling it around her shoulders. Panting, she stares at Wanda, who’s sitting on the bed and looking penitent. Power surges in the tips of Agatha’s fingers and she has to fight to hold it back instead of striking out. How dare she.
Agatha takes a breath and hauls the tatters of Agnes around her like the throw. She has to say something. Her mind races as she tries to come up with an appropriate story, Wanda staring at her the whole time. Her fingers tighten on the edge of the throw. “Sorry, hon, it’s just…”
She can’t bring herself to lie. Not about Nicky. Not with two boys who so remind her of him sleeping downstairs.
“It’s not a time I like to remember,” she finishes with painful honesty.
Wanda’s eyes darken and she nods in understanding. Thank the goddess for the 1980s penchant for tragic backstories. This would not have gone well in the 50s or 60s, Agatha knows. But if her story somehow becomes the setup for a Very Special Episode, Agatha will kill Wanda outright. Fuck the Scarlet Witch and her powers.
“You know you can tell me anything, right, Agnes?” Wanda says. She’s moved to perch primly on the side of the bed, knees together and hands clasped like she’s sitting in a church pew.
Agatha simpers, biting back a snarl. “Gosh, I’ve never had a girlfriend like you, Wanda. Best friends forever, am I right? Oooh, we could get those matching necklaces!” Wanda looks confused and Agatha wonders if she’s off on her fashion decades. Were those the 90s? Never mind. “Anyway, hon, do you mind clearing out before Ralph gets home?” She makes an awkward face. “I’d hate for him to walk in on this.”
“Okay, Agnes.” Wanda doesn’t argue or ask about the sudden change in Ralph’s supposed plans. She just gets dressed as Agatha watches, still frozen in place, clutching the thin blanket. On her way out, Wanda stops in front of Agatha. She touches Agatha’s cheek, then kisses it softly. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promises.
“Radical,” Agatha mutters.
She listens as Wanda walks quickly down the stairs. There’s a soft murmur of voices as she wakes the twins, though Agatha can’t hear what they say. The door slams.
Agatha collapses to sit on the edge of the bed like she’s been released from stasis. The air still smells of lavender, heavy in the air from bathwater that’s long since gone cold. The whole room is cold. Agatha rests her hands on her belly, under the inadequate cover of the throw. Her hands are cold, too, and empty. Empty like this fake room in this fake world in her fake life—
The sound of the twins laughing floats in her window from next door. Wanda’s laughter twines with theirs. Slowly, hatred rises in Agatha’s belly, filling her, heating her. She stands, determined, and lets the throw drop from around her shoulders. Turning, she pads naked across the green shag carpet, into the cutesy pink bathroom. It only takes a thought to reheat the bathwater. She empties the rest of the wine into her glass and sinks into the tub, letting the warmth spread through her. Tipping her head back, she sighs in anticipation.
She’s had a taste of the Scarlet Witch’s power now. She can’t wait to take the rest of it.
Mothers deserve something nice for themselves, after all.