carnagewidow

[carnagewidow]

🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

tail between my legs, head on the floor || lap of luxury au

ship: agatha harkness x puppygirl reader

summary/request: agatha takes puppy to the vet. featuring dr. monica rambeau and dr. darcy lewis

word count: 3391

notes/warnings: 18+, pet play, slight smut, medfet, inspections, the pretty vets touch puppy, no sex just teasing <3

masterlist | ao3 link | lap of luxury table of contents

read more luxury au

It’s a perfect day.

Agatha’s taken off of work and promised a special day for the two of you. The weather is perfect, a warm spring day with a comfortable breeze that brushes through the fur of your ears as you stick your head out the car window.

A plethora of smells fills your nose as Agatha drives you to the park. The radio plays softly, but Agatha isn’t humming along like she normally does. Maybe she hasn’t had enough coffee yet.

“Are you okay?” You pull your head back into the car to ask. Her hand has been on your thigh as always when she drives, and you take it in your own, squeezing it. “You seem quiet.”

“Hmm?” Agatha turns to glance at you before turning her attention back to the road. Lips pursed, you watch her face as she considers her answer. “Oh, it’s nothing, puppy. Just thinking about work.”

A small frown settles on your face. “Are you missing something important by taking the day off with me?”

“No, pup. I’ve been planning this day for a while,” Agatha smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You furrow your brow at her.

Something’s fishy. She’s hiding something from you.

You lean over the center console, putting your face next to hers. Agatha rolls her eyes as she feels your breath against her cheek, unwavering as she focuses on the road. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” She looks at you offended, her lip curled into a sneer. “No. You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re being weird.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Agathaaa,” you whine and give her the biggest, most pathetic puppy eyes you can.

“Sit right in your seat before you fly through the windshield. I don’t want my girlfriend to become roadkill today.”

Puppy eyes ignored. She’s an immovable object.

You slump back in your seat, pouting. Agatha glances over at you again and sighs. Her hand comes up to your head, scratching behind your ears affectionately. “Don’t worry that pretty little head about anything. You trust Mommy, right?”

“Yes, Mommy. But--”

You sit up in your seat as you look out the window again. Beautiful trees in full bloom fly past, stray petals from the flowers on them dancing in the breeze. Agatha’s car flies by the park.

“Agatha, you drove past the entrance.”

“Did I? Silly me.”

“…where are we going?”

The car blinker clicks rhythmically as Agatha makes a turn. Your eyes widen as you recognize the street that she’s turning onto.

“No.”

“Puppy.”

“No. I don’t wanna.”

“Don’t act like a child,” Agatha rolls her eyes. “It’s just the doctor.”

“It’s the vet.”

As much as you enjoy Agatha embracing your puppy side, this is one of your least favorite parts of it. More independent puppies would go to the doctor as normal, but Agatha likes to have control over your visits. Likes to make sure that everyone knows that you’re owned. Plus, the vets tend to be better for puppyfolk anyway, since they’re more specialized.

The car idles as she parks in the lot. Your ears flatten back in disgust as you look at the sign. Dr. Rambeau and Dr. Lewis. The old vet must have left, you don’t recognize these names from the last time you were here.

“Hey, don’t get upset with me when you brought this on yourself,” Agatha points at you accusingly. You try to nip at her finger but she’s too fast, yanking her hand back.

“I didn’t do anything,” you lie, knowing damn well what you did. This has been an ongoing argument for weeks.

“I left it up to you, hun. I gave you my doctor’s name and everything, but you never made an appointment.”

You start to retort but she cuts you off.

“I even offered to make it myself and you said, and I quote, ‘No, Mommy. I can do it. I’ll do it this week.’” She mocks your insistence with an exaggerated whine in her voice. A growl rises in your throat, but she ignores it. “How many weeks ago was that, hmm?”

A few months.

“Like, two.”

“Bull.”

Agatha steps out of the car and walks to the passenger side, opening the door and caging you in so you don’t run. She grabs her purse from where it sits near your feet, taking your leash from it. Before you can protest, she clips it to your collar, tugging it in a gesture that means don’t try me. “Come on.”

You don’t budge.

“Puppy. This isn’t a debate. You’re going to the vet today.” Agatha tugs the leash harder, yanking your face close to hers. She lowers her voice to that husky whisper that makes you shiver, her lips so close that they brush against your own. “I need to make sure my puppy is in good health. You love when Mommy takes care of you. Will you let Mommy do that?”

Pouting, you get out of the car. Agatha flashes a triumphant smile as she leads you in the building.

The lobby is about the same as you remember, pretty standard layout, chairs lined up against the walls with some plants as decor and a lot of posters and pamphlets talking about puppy health. Agatha tugs you along, not waiting as you try to sniff a potted fern near the door.

Behind the reception desk is a teenage puppygirl, her beaming smile lighting up the room. Her ears perk up, and you see her tail start wagging as Agatha approaches.

“Hi, we’re here for-”

“Oh my god, you’re Agatha Harkness!” The girl practically squeals.

A small, amused smile tugs at Agatha’s lips. “So I’m told.”

“You’re even more gorgeous in person. I love your designs. And that interview you did with ELLE? Where you talked about how you’d never thought about how designer clothes didn’t always fit puppies until you met--you! Hi! I’m Kamala!” Kamala looks at you now, just as excited to greet you.

“Hi,” you give a small wave, slightly distracted as you hear barking coming from across the room.

Agatha reaches her hand across the counter, clearly gesturing for Kamala to hand her the clipboard she’s holding. “I can go ahead and fill that out--”

“So, are those rumors true? The ones about why you were banned from the Met Gala this year?” Kamala asks, still clutching the clipboard in her hands.

You half listen to their conversation as you pace as far as your leash lets you. The barking’s coming from a particularly upset looking puppygirl sitting on the ground next to her owner. She’s muzzled and growling to herself. There’s some bloodied gauze around her arm, so she must be worked up from the pain.

“I wasn’t banned. I just wasn’t invited.” Agatha scoffs, snatching the clipboard.

“But it seems really weird to not invite someone who’s such a big name right now.”

“Yep, really weird. So, I just fill these out right?” Agatha doesn’t let Kamala answer and starts walking over to the waiting area to sit down. “Great, thanks.”

The chair Agatha unceremoniously drops into screeches as it slides backwards a bit, making every puppy’s ears flatten. You shake your head as Agatha seems undisturbed by the glares she receives, simply getting out her reading glasses so that she can see the painfully small print on the files. The floor is chilly, but you kneel next to her seat obediently while she fills out your paperwork.

The injured puppy you were watching earlier looks at you curiously. Now that you’re closer, you can see that she’s shaking a bit, her eyes looking fearful. You crawl a bit closer, approaching slowly so you don’t startle her. When she doesn’t back away or lunge aggressively, you sit yourself in front of her.

“What happened?” You point at her arm.

“Got in a fight,” she answers softly. That explains the muzzle. “Played too rough at the dog park.”

“Puppy,” Agatha’s voice is stern as she calls you back over. She raises an eyebrow, and you take the hint, crawling back to her side. “You know I don’t like you getting in another pup’s face like that. Especially one with a muzzle on.”

“She seems nice, Mommy,” you insist, resting your chin on Agatha’s knee. Agatha gives a noncommittal hum instead of a response. She finishes the paperwork and gives it back to Kamala, walking away swiftly before the girl can ask any more questions.

Not too long later, you see a door swing open and a woman in a doctor’s coat steps out and calls, “Harkness?”

Agatha sets the magazine she had started flipping through and stands, tugging on your leash. You grunt, following obediently but definitely dragging your feet a bit.

“How are you guys today?” The woman asks as she leads you to one of the exam rooms.

“Someone’s not exactly happy to be here,” Agatha says. You pout, letting out a disgruntled growl. Agatha rolls her eyes and gives you a swift smack on the rear. It isn’t nearly hard enough to hurt, but it makes you yelp. “Hush.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to make them comfortable. Name’s Dr. Lewis, by the way. You can call me Darcy if you want,” Darcy gestures for you to enter a room and closes the door behind you. The smell of the room is sterile. Even though you know that other puppies have been in here, you can’t make out any fun scents.

Darcy looks between you and Agatha. “Alright, how are we doing this? I assume that you’re in charge?”

“Yes,” Agatha nods. She unclips your leash and watches as you pace the room and start messing with things on the counter. “I’m very much in charge.”

“Cool cool.” Darcy flips through your paperwork, humming to herself. “Okay, Agatha, I’m just going to do some preliminary stuff with them first. Height, weight, all that jazz.”

She steps over to the scale in the corner of the room, gesturing for you to follow her. You look over at Agatha who’s sitting in one of the chairs against the wall. “Go on, puppy. Do what the doctor says.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Ah, the puppy speaks!” Darcy grins. She holds her hand out for you to sniff as you approach. When you don’t pull back, she scratches under your chin. Her fingers tracing your jaw makes you let out a little content noise without even realizing. “Not as nervous now, huh? Alright, up.”

You step on the scale, watching as Darcy writes down your measurements. After she’s satisfied with that, she pats the exam table. “Agatha, if you could get them up here while I get Dr. Rambeau that would be awesome.”

“Another doctor?” You tilt your head.

“Yeah, Monica and I like to work as a team,” Darcy explains, reaching behind your ears to scratch affectionately. She leans closer to Agatha and whispers even though she knows you can hear. “It helps with squirmy puppies if one person distracts while the other does the real work.”

“I have a feeling my pup will need that.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yuh-huh,” Agatha mocks. You stick your tongue out at her.

“You two are adorable. Okay, I’ll be right back!”

Darcy leaves out of the back door. You hear lots of people talking and hear some barks from other rooms before the door shuts and the room falls into relative silence again. Agatha stands and helps you hop onto the exam table. The paper under you crinkles as you shift and try to get comfortable.

“You’re so easy, you know that?” Agatha says under her breath.

“What?”

“You were throwing such a fit about the vet’s earlier. But a pretty lady pets you and gives you compliments and suddenly you’re the picture of obedience.” Agatha rolls her eyes affectionately. “Ridiculous.”

“I can throw a fit again, if that’s what you want.”

“You can certainly try. If you want to end up locked in your cage this afternoon instead of going to the park.” Agatha boops your nose as if she’s not threatening you.

The door squeaks as it swings open again, and you turn to see Darcy and a woman who must be Monica. The two are quite the pair, and you don’t even attempt to hide your ogling. Agatha snorts.

“Hi, puppy,” Monica moves to stand in front of you, holding her hand out like Darcy did. You sniff it and your tail wags approvingly. She smells like the sterile scent of the office but with a little hint of her vanilla perfume under it. “I’m Dr. Monica Rambeau. Darcy already told you, I’m sure.”

“I did!” Darcy says over her shoulder while she gathers a few things from a drawer.

Monica hums, cupping your jaw with her hands. They’re a bit cold, which makes you shiver and squirm a bit, but her touch is gentle and you can feel her fingers prodding lightly against your throat. “Thyroid seems normal.”

You hadn’t even realized she was doing doctor stuff. Something is passed to Monica over your shoulder. You feel Darcy’s hand scratch at your ears from behind you. Monica rubs her thumb encouragingly against your jaw. “Can you open wide for me?”

You open obediently, sticking your tongue out as Monica presses a tongue depressor against it so she can check your throat. The woody taste makes your face scrunch up in disgust, but Darcy coos and rubs your back so you don’t close your mouth and squirm away.

The sound of gloves snapping against skin makes you tilt your head, but before you realize, Monica is running her fingers along your gums and teeth. Darcy’s hands are on your jaw now to make sure you don’t get any ideas about biting.

“Very nice,” Monica smiles, pulling away and switching her gloves out. “Agatha must make sure your teeth stay in good shape, huh?”

“I don’t invest in expensive treats and chew toys for nothing,” Agatha says, her posture straightening a bit with pride for her pampered pup.

“I’m sure keeping these canines nice and sharp never backfires,” Darcy grins. You giggle as Agatha rolls her eyes, no doubt thinking about all the times you’ve sunk your teeth into her just to be a brat.

The checkup continues with Monica doing all the actual work and Darcy keeping you under control. You yelp when the cool metal of the stethoscope presses under your shirt, but Darcy quickly quiets you with an encouraging hand on your back.

Agatha watches you intently the entire time, amused at the way you preen under the attention of the two vets. Her body tenses slightly when she sees Monica start preparing a needle. Darcy glances over and notices Agatha’s apprehension, fully aware that this is going to be the hardest part of the day. She purses her lips, not pausing petting you, as she leans over to Monica.

“Think this one will be more receptive if we do our secret method?” Darcy asks with a pointed look. Monica observes how your eyes are closed happily with Darcy’s hands on you.

“Oh, definitely.” Monica sets the needle she was about to prepare down and turns to Agatha. “Agatha, you said you wanted to do a full physical, correct?”

Agatha nods, her eyebrow quirked. “Yeah, doc. I need to make sure every inch of my puppy is healthy.”

“Will you help them undress?”

“What?” You furrow your brows, puzzled. Agatha stands and moves over to the exam table, already tugging your shirt over your head. “What’re we doing, Mommy?”

“The vets are just gonna do a little inspection, puppy,” Agatha explains as she tugs your pants off. “On all fours, baby. Present.”

You blush a bit as you shift to follow Agatha’s command, getting your hands and knees on the table and spreading your thighs apart, tail held high. You’re thankful Agatha’s left your panties on, but the relief doesn’t last long as Monica moves behind you.

Her hands tug the fabric aside gently, gloved fingers tracing along your folds. You squeak, instinctively pulling away. You know it’s just part of the routine, but having someone that isn’t Agatha touch you there feels weird.

Not…bad though.

Monica’s touch is gentle and clinical, spreading your pussy and running a finger through the growing slick. Agatha sees your nervousness and comes over to your face, standing as close as she can and holding your head to her chest soothingly.

“Shh, don’t worry, puppy. The nice vet’s just gonna check and make sure that everything’s looking okay down there. Mommy’s right here with you, sweetheart.”

You relax a bit, closing your eyes and letting Monica rub her thumb over your clit. The sensation makes you whimper, and the three women all give each other an amused look.

“Sensitive,” Monica declares casually.

Darcy, who had been observing, steps closer again. Her hands find your chest, and you gasp as her fingers prod and poke. “Always good to check for lumps.”

Her hands are gone almost as quickly as they made contact, and you whimper softly when she moves away. The wetness between your thighs has grown now. You bury your head in Agatha’s chest to hide your embarrassment.

“Aww, is someone feeling shy?” Agatha coos with faux sweetness in her tone. “Poor puppy.”

Monica and Darcy give each other a nod, satisfied with how I’ve melted into compliance. You don’t even notice Darcy applying alcohol to your shoulder with a cotton ball, because you’re far too distracted by Monica slipping a finger into your wet heat. Slow, deliberate thrusts and twists of her finger inside of you, rubbing against your walls with almost thoughtful movements.

A slight sharp pain pulls you out of the moment. You wince. A dull throb settles in your left shoulder. Suddenly, your cunt is left empty, and Agatha’s pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Good girl,” Agatha hums against your skin. She moves away from you to grab your clothes and help you back into them.

Everything happened so fast that you sit there with a dumb look on your face as Darcy asks, “Which band aid do you want?”

“Band aid? For…?” You look at the options. The Bluey one is cute.

“Your shot, pup.” Darcy taps the shoulder that’s aching a bit.

“Didn’t even notice,” Monica laughs, patting your thigh.

“Another successful mission!” Darcy grins.

Agatha tugs your pants on, and Monica goes over your exam with her. The smell of food hits your nose, and you turn to Darcy who’s opening a jar of treats. She holds one out for you, laughing as you eagerly take it.

As you say goodbye to the vets and Agatha leads you out to the lobby again, you try to ignore the wetness that clings to your underwear.

You don’t pay attention to the back and forth banter between Agatha and Kamala as she tries to get you signed out as quickly and with as few prying questions as possible. The waiting area and other puppies are much less interesting than they were an hour ago. Right now, all you want is to leave this damn vet’s office and beg Agatha to stuff her fingers inside of you.

When Agatha gets you to the car finally, you try to tug her into the backseat for a quickie, but she just rolls her eyes.

“One finger for like, two minutes got you this worked up? Really?” Agatha scoffs, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the car. “And here I thought you were only that desperate for me.”

“It’s not my fault! I was caught off guard…” You pout.

“Yeah, sure.” Her voice is that fake-mad tone that she likes to use to mess with you.

“At least I didn’t bite anyone this time.”

“What do you want, a medal?”

“No, just a treat. Or an orgasm. Either one.”

“I thought you wanted to go to the park.”

“We can fuck there, sure.”

“You’re actually ridiculous.”

“And you’re dating me, what does that say about you?”

“Shut up,” Agatha says, but she has a genuine smile on her face now. You lean over to kiss her cheek, smiling against her skin.

“So, park sex?”

“Oh no, honey. We’re going home so I can remind you who that pretty cunt belongs to.”

“Perfect.”

[carnagewidow]

scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that

[carnagewidow]

[carnagewidow]

so beautifully written

Hi, hope you’re having a good day! I was wondering if you could write an au Agatha x reader where R is in love with Agatha but Agatha is still hung up and chasing Rio and then R finds Agatha and Rio hugging and that’s when she finally snaps. Reader cries over Agatha and then her friends (maybe Jen, Lilia and Alice) tells her that it’s time for her to let Agatha go because she deserves to be loved the same way that she loves and Reader goes and does that. R starts to become distant from Agatha and starts talking to Wanda and Agatha started wondering why R is behaving like this and Lilia eventually tells her and now Agatha can’t help but feel jealous and possessive over R and now the tables have turned— Agatha is now chasing R after she realizes that she loves R. The angst and the pinning 😩😩😩 plus the fluff that comes after when Agatha finally won R back plus claiming R as hers ehem ehem… smut :> thank you so much!!!

The One Who Stayed

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader, Past Agatha x Rio

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Feelings, Hurt, Angst, Pining, Past Toxic Relationship, Comfort, Minors DNI 18+, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 17k

A/N: BRO OH MY GOD ?!? This request was insane but absolutely phenomenal— ✋🏽😭 I’ll warn you now there is slight pov switching but it’s not too bad. I had a few days off and as soon as I read this request I was OBSESSED and started IMMEDIATELY :)))

Taglist: @harknessshi

Masterlist Link

The worst part wasn’t the hug. It was the way Agatha melted into it. Like her body still remembered what it was like to hold Rio. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to fall back into arms that had once broken her.

Because even though Agatha never kissed you—never reached for you the way you reached for her, she never pushed you away either. She let you stay close. Let you love her in the quiet, unseen ways. Bringing her coffee when she forgot breakfast , staying late to help her organize lecture notes, listening when her voice shook after difficult conversations with the board.

She never really asked for any of it. But she never told you to stop. And so, you hoped. You hoped in the way people do when they have nothing else to stand on—carefully, foolishly, hungrily. Maybe, just maybe, if you stayed… she’d look your way fully. She’d see it was you, not Rio, who had stayed behind all this time. Who had loved her through every shadow, but in that hallway, all your hope cracked.

The sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting golden lines on the stone floor, and there they were—Agatha and Rio. Just ahead. Just close enough. Agatha’s eyes were closed. Her arms looped around Rio’s waist, her cheek resting on her shoulder like it was some long-awaited exhale. Like comfort. Like home. Your heart didn’t break all at once. It caved in slowly, like a house collapsing under the weight of what was never reinforced.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your body locked in place, your chest burning with something sharp and wild, your hands curled into fists to stop the tremble that threatened to give you away. Maybe if you didn’t move, they wouldn’t notice you. Maybe if you stayed still enough, the moment would rewind itself. But it didn’t. So you turned—quietly, carefully—before either of them could see the way your face had started to crumple.

You made it out of the building. You even managed to smile at a student who passed you on the steps, their voice distant and muffled, like you were underwater. It wasn’t until you were home, safe behind the familiar click of your door, that the dam finally broke.

The tears came in waves. Silent. Angry. Inescapable. You slid down the door like it was the only thing keeping you upright, burying your face in your hands as your chest heaved in uneven bursts. It felt humiliating and cinematic all at once—like one of those scenes you used to scoff at in movies, thinking no one really fell apart like that.

But here you were. Cracked wide open on your hardwood floor, mourning something that was never really yours. And still…Still, in the back of your mind, curled in the small, deluded corners of your heart—You hoped she’d see you one day. Not as the friend who was always there. Not as the quiet support.

But as someone she could love. Because love wasn’t supposed to be something you had to earn. But with her, you’d been willing to try anyway and maybe that was the real tragedy. Not the hug. But the way you still wanted her, even after.

Your phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

You didn’t have the strength to look. Not right away. You were still curled on the floor, eyes red, throat raw, limbs heavy with grief you hadn’t earned the right to feel—not really. Not when Agatha had never been yours. Not when you had walked yourself into this heartbreak like it was inevitable. Eventually, with shaking fingers, you reached for your phone

Lilia: We’re coming over. Jen saw Rio leaving with Agatha.

Lilia: No arguing.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just sat there, knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves damp with tears that wouldn’t stop coming even though your body felt like it had nothing left.

Fifteen minutes later, the knock came. One sharp rap—Alice. Then three more, lighter and spaced—Lilia’s pattern. The last was a full open-palm impatient thump—Jen, impatient as always. The door creaked open. You hadn’t locked it. You heard the shuffle of shoes, the quiet gasp from Alice, and Lilia’s breath catching in her throat. Jen cursed under her breath.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Alice murmured, already kneeling beside you. Her hand reached to gently cradle the back of your head, guiding you up enough to rest against her shoulder. You let her. You didn’t have the fight in you to pretend you were fine.

“I’m here,” she whispered, soft and maternal. “We’ve got you.” Jen lowered herself to the floor in front of you, crossing her legs. Her tone wasn’t soft—it was never soft—but it was steady. Grounding.

“You give so much love,” she said, brushing your hair away from your damp cheeks with care that didn’t match her sharp voice. “To the wrong people, maybe. But you do. You love with your whole heart, and it’s beautiful.” She paused. “But you can’t keep giving it to someone who only sees you when it’s convenient.”

You flinched. Jen sighed, then leaned forward and took your hand “You deserve someone who doesn’t treat you like a backup plan.”

But it was Lilia—Lilia who’d been with you through every bad decision, every whispered hope about Agatha in the middle of the night—who finally shattered something inside you. She didn’t speak right away. She stood silently in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes rimmed red like she’d been crying too. Like she’d been holding it in for your sake.

When she finally stepped forward, her voice was quiet. Controlled. Like she didn’t trust herself to speak loudly “She’s not going to choose you.” You looked up, startled. Your lips parted, but no words came “Not while she’s still haunted by Rio,” Lilia continued, voice beginning to tremble. “She says she’s trying to let go, but she keeps going back. Over and over. And you…” Her voice cracked “You deserve to be loved like you’re it. Not like you’re next.”

You blinked, and the tears started again, silent and unrelenting. Lilia dropped to her knees in front of you, gripping your other hand tightly. “I’ve watched you shrink yourself for her. Wait for her. Make excuses. You deserve someone who doesn’t need time to realize what they have.”

“She doesn’t even see it,” Jen added quietly. “Doesn’t see what she’s doing to you.”

Alice held you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to let her keep hurting you to prove you’re loyal.” And you broke. Not like a dam, but like a thread finally snapping—tired, frayed, done.

The sobs that came weren’t gentle. They were full-bodied, aching, sharp enough to leave your ribs sore. You felt Lilia’s hands tighten, Jen’s forehead press gently to your knee, Alice’s arms wrap fully around you like she could keep you from falling apart completely.

None of them said anything after that. Not for a while. They just stayed there. On the floor. With you. Later, they moved you to the couch, wrapped you in a blanket, and passed around mugs of tea no one really drank. Jen put on some quiet, wordless music. Alice braided your hair like she used to when you were in grade school. Lilia sat beside you in silence, her hand never leaving yours.

And still, you couldn’t sleep. Not even when the tears stopped, Not even when the house fell quiet. Not even when the weight of your friends anchored you enough to stay in one place. You just stared at the ceiling. Aching in places you didn’t have names for. Wondering how long it would take for hope to die. Wondering if it ever really would.

Over the next few weeks, you did the only thing you hadn’t tried yet. The thing everyone had told you to do long before you were ready. You let Agatha go. Not in some grand, cinematic way. There was no big confrontation, no dramatic goodbye. Just quiet choices. One by one. Until all that was left between you and her was silence.

You started with the emails. Her name used to make your heart skip—a flutter, a jolt, that electric ache of possibility. But now, every time her name lit up your inbox, it felt like a bruise being pressed. So when she sent another message about the joint lecture—“Need your input on the ethical paradox section. Thoughts?”—you stared at it for a long time. Then you hit “Forward.”

To Lilia. You typed out a single line: “You’re better at handling her anyway.” Then you closed your laptop. After that, it got easier. Or maybe just more mechanical. You stopped sitting beside her in the faculty lounge. There had always been this unspoken arrangement—you’d grab her favorite tea, she’d save you the spot by the window. That spot sat empty for a few days before another professor took it. You started eating lunch outside, even when the air turned sharp with cold. At least the wind didn’t pretend to care.

When Agatha passed you in the hallway, you didn’t look. She called your name once. Softly. You kept walking. You didn’t stop loving her. You just stopped letting her hurt you. It was raining the day you met Wanda. One of those gray, quiet rains that made the whole world feel a little softer around the edges.

You wandered into a bookstore on 9th and Langston, the kind of place that smelled like old pages and warm wood, a safe little cocoon from everything outside your chest. You headed straight for the poetry section, tucking yourself between narrow shelves and pretending the ache inside you could be soothed with Rilke and Dickinson.

You were holding a worn copy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet when a voice beside you spoke—light, curious, like a breeze slipping through an open window “That’s my favorite translation.”

You turned, startled. The woman standing beside you had soft auburn hair pulled into a loose braid and kind eyes that didn’t pry. She smiled, and it wasn’t the kind of smile that demanded anything. It just… was. Gentle. Honest. Patient “Oh?” you managed. Your voice was scratchy from disuse.

Wanda nodded, her gaze flicking to the book in your hand. “The Mitchell version. There’s something about the way he keeps the longing intact. Doesn’t dilute the pain, just… frames it.”

You blinked. Then, almost without meaning to, you whispered, “Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.”

Her smile widened, softening the curve of her lips. “See?” she said, tilting her head. “You get it.”

You almost laughed. Almost. But it caught in your throat “Sorry,” you said instead, hugging the book to your chest. “I’m not great at—”

“Talking to strangers in bookstores during rainstorms?” she offered, still gentle. “I’m Wanda.” You nodded, too shy to give your name yet.

She didn’t push “Well, mystery poet,” she said, “if you ever want a recommendation, I practically live here.” She tapped her fingers on the shelf once, then turned and disappeared down the aisle.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the space where she’d been. You didn’t expect to see her again. But the next week, she was there—sitting on the floor near the fiction section, flipping through a novel, her thumb absently stroking the spine. She looked up when you walked by. This time, you smiled first “Hey,” you said.

Wanda grinned. “Took you long enough.” You ran into her again the week after that. And again the week after. Always in that little bookstore, always like fate didn’t need to announce itself to be real.

Each time, she asked more questions. Not the invasive kind. Just the curious, open-ended kind that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t invisible anymore. And little by little, you started breathing easier around her. Wanda was warm in the way that didn’t burn. She didn’t make your heart race with fear or doubt or longing. She didn’t keep you on a leash of half-promises and maybe-one-days. She just showed up. And stayed. And for the first time in a long, long while…That was enough.

Agatha noticed your absence almost immediately. At first, it was subtle—just a shift in the air. A missing presence in the faculty lounge. A silence where your laugh usually lived. She told herself you were just busy. Stressed. Needing space. But even as she said it in her head, she didn’t believe it.

What she hadn’t known—what she hadn’t wanted to know—was that you had found solace in someone else. She saw it for the first time one crisp morning outside the lecture halls, when the autumn chill had started biting at the edges of the breeze. Agatha was walking back from a meeting, preoccupied with thoughts of an upcoming board presentation, when she heard it

Your laugh. Clear. Bright. Free. It froze her mid-step. Her head turned instinctively. And there you were—shoulder to shoulder with someone unfamiliar. A woman with auburn hair, soft features, and eyes that never seemed to leave your face. You were holding a to-go coffee, smiling so widely your eyes crinkled at the corners. The woman reached out and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. Gesture small. Intimate.

Agatha’s stomach turned. She hadn’t seen that smile in weeks. Hadn’t been the cause of it in even longer. The redhead—Wanda. She remembered Lilia vaguely mentioning her as the new hire in the science department. She was standing a little too close for Agatha’s liking. Your arms brushed, and neither of you moved away. Wanda said something else, too quiet to hear, and you laughed again, head tipping back with ease.

It was that ease that gutted her. The absence of tension in your shoulders. The way your eyes softened without hesitation. That used to be hers—or at least she thought it was. She didn’t mean to speak, but your name slipped out—softly, uncertain “(Y/N).”

You looked over. Just slightly. Just enough to acknowledge her then, calmly—coldly—you said, “Professor Harkness.” A nod. That was it. Like she was a stranger. A colleague. An echo.

You turned back to Wanda before the ache in Agatha’s chest had time to bloom fully, and walked with her into the building, laughter still lingering in the air like smoke. The following weeks were quiet. Too quiet. And in place of your voice came sterile, clipped messages from someone else entirely.

Her inbox began to fill with updates about the joint philosophy lecture series. Lesson plans. PowerPoints. Adjusted timelines. But none of them were from you. They were from Professor Calderu. The fourth message read: “Please review the attached materials. I’ve also edited the speaker notes for clarity.”

The fifth one was worse “I’m handling all future collaboration at Professor (Y/L/N)’s request. Please send any correspondence to me directly going forward.” Agatha stared at it for a long time. Her hand hovered over the mouse, rereading it. Again. And again. As if the meaning might change. As if she might have misunderstood. But she hadn’t. You weren’t coming back. Not to the work. Not to her.

And it made something in her unravel—quietly, steadily. A slow rot of regret creeping through her chest like ivy. Jealousy was a cruel thing. Especially when it wore the face of someone you’d ignored too long. She started asking around. Casually. Or so she thought “Anyone seen Professor (Y/L/N) lately?” she asked one of the admin staff, feigning nonchalance.

“Not really,” came the reply. “Think she’s been working in the bio wing a lot. With that new hire—Wanda something?” Wanda. She tried again later with a colleague at lunch. “How’s that new biology professor everyone’s whispering about? The redhead.”

The response was knowing. “You mean the one always seen with (Y/N)? Yeah. They seem close.” Too close. It wasn’t until Lilia caught her lingering outside your department office that she finally snapped.

Agatha was standing there, staring at your nameplate like it might reveal something. Her arms were crossed, jaw tight, and she looked… lost. Like she couldn’t decide whether to knock or turn away. Lilia rounded the corner, stopping short “Seriously?”

Agatha blinked. “What?”

Lilia crossed her arms, brow arched with irritation. “Stop.”

Agatha frowned. “I’m not—”

“Yes,” Lilia said sharply, stepping closer. “You are. You’re hovering. You’re lurking. You’re doing that thing where you suddenly remember she exists only when someone else does too.”

“I’m not trying to make her feel guilty,” Agatha defended, but it came out weaker than she intended.

“You don’t have to,” Lilia shot back. “Your silence already did that. She waited for you. So long. She let herself hope, Agatha. And all the while, you kept her just close enough to hurt her.” Agatha’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked away.

Lilia’s voice softened, but only slightly “She stopped waiting. And someone else saw her. Someone who actually wants to be there.”

Agatha’s hands clenched at her sides, Lilia’s eyes narrowed. “Just let her be happy.”

Then, without another word, she walked past her, heels clicking decisively down the hallway. Agatha stayed there for a long time. Still. Small. She didn’t know how to stop the feeling. It crept up on her slowly, like water seeping into cracks she hadn’t known were there. It made her heart race at the worst times, left her staring at walls too long, and made her fingers twitch toward her phone only to hesitate—hovering, uncertain, ashamed.

It hit her the hardest in the quiet spaces. The ones you used to fill. But sometimes, it roared. And sometimes, it burned. Like the day she saw you in the quad, sunlight in your hair, eyes crinkled in laughter as you sat beneath one of the sycamore trees with Wanda. Your knees were nearly touching, and Wanda’s fingers brushed yours—light, casual, familiar. And you didn’t pull away. You leaned in.

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked away too fast, like the sun had blinded her. It happened again outside your office two days later. She’d lingered longer than she should have—told herself she was passing by on her way to the lounge. But then she heard it.

Your voice. But not the version she remembered. Not the soft, hesitant tones that wrapped around her like fog. Not the careful, deliberate quiet you always used when speaking to her, afraid to be too much or too open. This was different. You were laughing. Bright and free. Mid-conversation with someone—Wanda, probably. Your words spilled out without restraint, animated and unfiltered, and Agatha felt something twist deep in her chest. She turned before you could catch her there. Again.

You pass her in the hallways now and didn’t even blink. No pause. No hitch in your step. No hopeful glance her way like there used to be. You didn’t flinch from her silence because you no longer expected anything at all. You’d stopped looking for her. And for the first time, Agatha realized… she’d miscalculated everything. She’d spent so long chasing shadows of a woman who didn’t know how to love her properly, obsessing over the wreckage Rio left behind. She kept you close enough to feed her ego, to ease the loneliness, to feel adored. But she never let herself see what was truly in front of her.

Somewhere between the quiet coffees and the midnight drafts of lecture slides, somewhere between your soft smiles and the way you always stayed—Agatha had fallen in love with you. And she hadn’t even noticed. Not until you were gone. Not until she felt the ache of your absence like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing. She remembered how you used to look at her. Like she was something sacred. Like you were memorizing her in case she ever disappeared. Now, you looked past her. Like she was nothing more than a closed chapter.

Agatha Harkness was unraveling and quickly. Not publicly, of course. No one would dare suspect it. She was still the sharp, composed professor everyone respected, the woman with perfectly constructed sentences and biting wit. She still walked the halls of the university with her usual air of intellectual detachment, a storm wrapped in silk and sarcasm.

But underneath it all—behind the neatly lined eyes and the cool voice that never wavered—she was falling apart. Cracking like old porcelain. Quietly. Where no one could see. Every forced smile, every hollow “let’s catch up soon,” became another thread fraying at the edges of her composure. She moved through her days like a ghost trapped in her own body, her mind elsewhere—always chasing moments she had no right to miss.

It gets worse every time she sees you again almost unavoidably it seemed, this time tucked away in a quiet corner of the campus café, bathed in soft afternoon light. You were sitting across from Wanda—legs crossed beneath the table, hands loosely cradling a cup of tea. She was reading aloud from a book you clearly didn’t need help with, but you were smiling anyway. Beaming, even.

You had your chin in your palm, the other hand resting near hers on the table. Your eyes were warm—happy—focused completely on the woman across from you. And Agatha felt something lurch inside her. It was subtle at first. A dull ache at the back of her ribs. A weight in her throat. But then it bloomed into something heavier, something darker. She had to look away before she could see Wanda reach for your hand.

That night, she sat at her desk long after the sun went down, staring at the glowing screen of her laptop. The shared lecture folder—the one she hadn’t dared open in weeks—blinked up at her like a challenge. She clicked it open. Still nothing from you. Only Lilia’s updates. Sterile. Efficient. Lacking any of the life or banter that once filled the margins. Gone were your ridiculous subject lines, your poorly timed memes, your “I made edits but they’re probably terrible so feel free to mock me later” notes.

Gone was the quiet intimacy of your collaboration. The quiet presence of you. Her gaze drifted to the email thread between you two. Hundreds of exchanges. Lesson drafts, scholarly articles, late-night musings, questions about conference panels. Memes. Inside jokes. A string of life lived together in pixels and paragraphs.

She scrolled. Slowly. Searching for the moment everything shifted. She didn’t realize she was crying until a single tear splashed onto the keyboard, trailing across the spacebar. Another followed. Then another. Her breath caught.

It shouldn’t have hurt this much. Not when she’d chosen this. Not when she told herself she needed space—needed time to sort things out with Rio. To close that chapter properly, before she could start another. But it wasn’t Rio her heart ached for. It was you. It was always you. Why couldn’t she just see that before.

Every time you walked past her without a glance, it scraped across her like glass. Every time she saw you tucked into conversation with Wanda, fingers brushing or hands lingering a second too long, it sent her stomach into freefall. Not because she hated Wanda. She didn’t even know her.

But because Wanda knew what it was to make you laugh now. Because Wanda knew what it felt like to be the center of your world—something Agatha had taken for granted. Something she only realized she needed when it no longer belonged to her. And the worst part? You didn’t seem hurt anymore. You seemed happy. Genuinely, quietly, peacefully happy.

And Agatha hated how much it made her want to scream. How much she envied the ease in your eyes, the way your shoulders had uncurled. The way you no longer carried her absence like a wound. You had healed. And she—who once believed she was immune to this kind of ache—was breaking. Piece by quiet piece.

Still, something inside her refused to accept that this was the inevitable ending. Not when she hadn’t said it. Not when you hadn’t heard her mean it. Not when there was still time left to fix this. So she made herself a promise. This wasn’t how your story ended. Not if she could help it. Not when she’d finally figured out who she couldn’t live without.

She started showing up in your orbit more often. At first, it was subtle. Innocent, almost. A book “accidentally” left in the faculty lounge—one she knew you’d been meaning to borrow. Her favorite annotated copy, spine worn and pages lined with ink.

A quiet afternoon spent in the back corner of the library, not even pretending to read, just hoping to catch a glimpse of you grading papers near the windows where the sun hit just right. She’d linger by the entrance of your classroom when your door was open, asking Lilia vague questions about curriculum structure she already knew the answers to. Anything for a few extra seconds of proximity.

But you never looked up. Not once. And if you noticed the book in the lounge, you left it untouched. If you saw her in the library, you never let it show.

If you heard her voice in the hallway, you didn’t flinch or pause or react—not anymore. If anything, you moved further away. Deliberate. Careful. Like someone who’d been burned and had learned their lesson far too well. Still, she kept trying.

Until one day, she stood just outside your office, palms clammy around the coffee cup in her hands. It was your usual order—half sweet, a splash of oat milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Your name was scrawled on the side in her handwriting. She had to rewrite it twice because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She rehearsed what she might say.

Hey, I was just passing by—

No. That sounds too casual.

I just wanted to check in—

No. You’ll sound pathetic.

She settled for silence. Maybe if she just handed it to you, it would say enough. Maybe the look in her eyes would do what words had failed to but before she could knock, the sound of heels clicking down the corridor caught her attention. Jennifer Kale rounded the corner and stopped short, eyes narrowing instantly “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding fucking me.”

Agatha blinked. “Professor—”

“No,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do this now.”

Agatha straightened, tightening her grip on the cup. “I just want to talk.”

“She doesn’t want to talk,” Jen bit out. “Not to you. What can you not grasp here? You broke her Agatha, you don’t get to come in once she’s finally found her footing—.”

Agatha’s breath caught. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” Jen’s voice was low, sharp. A blade dulled only by the effort it took to keep from yelling. “You didn’t slam the door in her face, Agatha. You just… kept it open just enough for her to hope.”

“Im not trying to hurt her,” Agatha said, quieter this time.

“Yet you did.” Jen’s arms folded across her chest. “She waited. For months. Holding on to the scraps you gave her. She gave you everything, and you looked right past her. Now someone else is putting her back together.”

Agatha’s throat tightened, a sudden ache clawing up her chest. “Is she happy?” she asked before she could stop herself. Her voice came out hoarse. Small.

Jen stared at her. “Yes. For the first time in a long time.” Silence. The kind that filled too much space and not enough. Agatha dropped her gaze to the coffee cup in her hands. It was already cooling. The lid felt too tight. The warmth was fading. And so was the excuse to be here.

“She’s not a placeholder, Agatha,” Jen said, softer now but no less firm. “She was the one who stayed. She showed up. For everything. And you didn’t even look at her until she finally stopped waiting.” Agatha looked up “That’s on you.”

Jen stepped past her without another word, her shoulder brushing roughly against Agatha’s. The hallway swallowed the sound of her retreating footsteps, leaving only the quiet hum of a nearby vent and the muted beat of Agatha’s own pulse ringing in her ears.

She stood there for a long time. Still. The coffee in her hand was lukewarm now. Her fingers clenched it like a lifeline, but she didn’t move. Her legs felt heavy. Her chest felt tight. And the truth settled over her like dust on an old memory. She had pushed you too far. And you weren’t going to come back this time. But the thing was—she didn’t want to let you go.

Not this time. Not now that she finally knew what she was losing. Not when her heart, after all this time, had finally stopped whispering Rio’s name—and started crying yours. It took three days before she got the courage. Three days of pacing her apartment, rehearsing the words she should’ve said months ago. Three days of deleting half-written emails she couldn’t bring herself to send, heart pounding like she was twenty and stupid again.

On the third day, she didn’t turn away. She waited. Outside of the building , the wind carried the scent of late autumn—crisp, sharp, tinged with the promise of winter. The golden light from the setting sun cast long shadows across the pavement, and Agatha stood tucked beneath the overhang by the door, coffee in one hand, uncertainty in the other.

Through the glass, she watched as you neared the entrance. Slowly. Methodically. The curve of your shoulders was familiar, even now. But there was something different about the way you moved—measured, self-contained. No longer reaching for anything.

You looked tired. But calm. You looked… steady. The way you used to when you leaned into her side after long meetings, laughing under your breath at the way her notes were always color-coded but never organized. The way your fingers tangled in her scarf that one winter morning she let you walk her to the train, stealing her coffee and kissing the lid instead of her cheek.

The way you once touched her—without hesitation, without expectation. Back when she hadn’t even kissed you yet, but you made her feel like she was already loved. When you stepped outside, the glass door swung closed behind you with a gentle thud, and she stepped forward instinctively—like gravity itself pulled her.

You stopped. Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag, fingers white-knuckled in the fading light. You didn’t step back. But you didn’t move forward, either. The silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut. One wrong breath, and it would snap.

You looked at her like someone you used to know and it broke her “(Y/N)—” she began, voice low, tentative.

You raised a hand gently, your voice firm but not cruel. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Agatha’s throat tightened. “I just need—” she tried, but her voice cracked. She closed her eyes for a second, steadying herself. “Please. Let me say this.”

You hesitated. Not because you were waiting for her. But because some part of you wanted to believe that whatever she was about to say wouldn’t hurt anymore. She swallowed hard “I was scared,” she said, the words pulled from somewhere raw. “I kept chasing what I thought I needed to fix—what I thought I had to fix—before I could deserve anything new. Before I could let myself have something good.”

She took a step closer “And by the time I realized that what I needed… what I wanted… was already standing in front of me—” her voice dropped to almost nothing, “you were gone.”

You didn’t speak. Your eyes didn’t soften. But they shimmered. Just slightly. As if the weight of her words unsettled something still healing inside of you “I never meant to hurt you,” she said. “But I did. I see that now.”

Agatha took another step. Close enough now that she could see the way your lashes flickered, the way your breath hitched “Wanda seems lovely,” she added softly, unable to stop herself. “But she’s not me.”

You let out a slow breath, no bitterness in it—just quiet finality. “No,” you said. “She isn’t.” You met her gaze then, steady and clear. “And that’s a really good thing.”

The words hit her like a blow. She flinched, visibly. Still, she stayed. Her fingers trembled at her sides, but she didn’t look away “I love you—” Agatha whispered.

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Don’t—”

“I’m in love with you.” She cut you off, her voice was trembling now, stripped of all pretense. “I think I always did. I just didn’t know it until I saw you loving someone else the way you used to love me.” The air between you stilled. You didn’t answer.

She took another step, cautiously, closing the space inch by inch like one wrong move might scare you off. Her voice dropped again, nearly breaking “I should’ve said it before. Fuck— I should’ve chosen you before. I should’ve seen you before. I’m not here to make promises I don’t deserve to keep. I just…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the rest “I really needed you to know…..in case”

You stared at her for a long moment. The breeze picked up slightly, catching the ends of her coat and your hair as the silence thickened again, more intimate this time. More vulnerable. And your eyes—those eyes she used to think she could read like poetry—were shining. But unreadable. Not angry. Not forgiving. Just full of something she couldn’t name. Not yet.

You stared at her in silence, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. The wind shifted again, lifting a few strands of your hair across your cheek, but you didn’t move. Neither of you did. Finally, your lips parted. And your voice came out low, measured—but far from calm.

“You don’t get to just say that,” you said, not venomously. Just… honestly. “You don’t get to show up and tell me everything I’ve wanted to hear after months of silence. After watching you cling to someone else like I never even existed.” Agatha opened her mouth, but you cut her off with a hand raised again—this time sharper “No!” you said. “You don’t get to speak until I’m done.” Her eyes widened, and she nodded—silently.

“I waited for you,” you continued, the emotion catching in your throat. “I made excuses for you. I told myself you needed time, or closure, or space, or whatever stupid fucking lie helped me sleep at night. I stood right next to you every damn day, offering everything I had—everything—hoping maybe, one day, you’d finally look at me like I wasn’t just some… background character in your story.”

You took a breath. A shaky one “But I wasn’t enough. Not until I was gone. Not until someone else made me laugh. And now that you’re not the center of my world anymore, suddenly I’m what you’ve been missing?” Your voice cracked. Just once “Worst of all— I still want to believe you,” you said, softer now, with something closer to defeat. “God, I want to. But I don’t know if I can—”

Agatha took a trembling step forward, voice thick with desperation. “Then let me prove it. However you need me to.” You stared at her, blinking slowly. Like you were trying to see her for who she really was—who she might be now. But the ache behind your eyes didn’t budge.

“Sure,” you said with a tired shrug, tone flat. You didn’t believe her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. You ran a hand over your face, exhaling hard into your palm. The weight of everything—the past, the love, the loss—sank heavy in your shoulders “Nothing’s going to be fixed tonight—” you muttered. “Maybe not ever.”

Agatha’s face fell, but she didn’t argue. You stepped back, one foot behind the other like your body was already preparing to leave her behind again. And you did. You turned. Walked away slowly, expecting—hoping, in some quiet corner of your heart—that she would drop it. That she’d let you go this time. That this would be the end.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t the end. Because Agatha Harkness, for the first time in her life, refused to be silent. Refused to let go. The next morning, she showed up outside your class before you even got there—shivering slightly in the early cold, her breath fogging in the crisp air, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers and three pastries from the tiny café you used to love.

She offered them with a sheepish smile, her hair wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold “I didn’t know which one you liked best anymore,” she said, not quite meeting your eyes, “so I got them all.”

You blinked at her, at the awkwardly wrapped flowers, at the grease-stained paper bag she held out like a peace offering. You took the bag with numb fingers. Said nothing. Just opened the building door and stepped inside without a word. She didn’t follow.

Three days after that, you were attending a faculty-wide meeting, half-listening to the usual droning updates about semester projections and departmental budgets, when Agatha raised her hand and stood—unannounced. Her voice was clear. Unapologetic “I’d like to speak on the importance of collaborative trust,” she said, gaze scanning the room before landing briefly—pointedly—on you. “How sometimes… we don’t realize what we’ve lost until the silence becomes unbearable.”

The room went quiet. All eyes turned toward her. You didn’t look up. Not really. But your heart thudded painfully behind your ribs, as if your body knew she was speaking to you—only you—even if no one else caught it.

Then came the mailbox note. Folded neatly and tucked between your department memos. Her handwriting was scribbled across the outside: For (Y/N). Inside, in hers—steady, familiar, honest—was the quote you had once used to open your very first co-lecture together, almost a year ago

“We build trust in inches, not miles.”

“Let me earn every inch.”

You sat at your desk holding it for a long time. Long enough that your tea went cold. Long enough that your chest started to ache. You didn’t know how to process any of it. Because it wasn’t grand gestures you were used to from her. Not affection in daylight. Not vulnerability spelled out like that.

You’d been the one who stayed. You were the one who waited. And now, she was chasing you—and it felt like standing in the middle of a storm you no longer knew how to brace for. Wanda noticed the shift. She noticed everything. It was in the way you paused now when she spoke. How your eyes sometimes drifted over her shoulder, like you were listening for a voice that never came. How you smiled at her, but less often with your whole face.

You didn’t mean to, and Wanda never once accused you of it. She was too gentle for that. Too intuitive. But that Thursday, the dam finally cracked. You were eating lunch together in your office, both of you tucked comfortably in your usual seats—your salad mostly untouched, your fork resting limp in your hand.

Across your desk sat the poetry book Agatha had left behind. Somehow, it always ended up back in your line of sight. This time, it was open to the inside cover. Your fingers moved without thinking—tracing the familiar ink of Agatha’s handwriting. You weren’t even reading the words anymore. You were just remembering the way she wrote in the dark, half-asleep, mumbling about Rilke and how he “had the audacity to romanticize longing.”

You didn’t notice Wanda watching you until she gently asked “Where’d you get that?”

You blinked and looked up. Her eyes weren’t cold. Just… curious. But you had the overwhelming feeling that she already knew. You considered lying. Or deflecting. But something in her expression—something kind, but quietly firm—told you the lie wouldn’t land. So you didn’t, you swallowed. “Agatha left it. A while ago.”

Wanda was silent for a long moment, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to solve a puzzle she’d been working on for weeks. The muted hum of the campus café filled the space between you—clinking mugs, soft chatter, the hiss of espresso machines. Outside the window, students passed by in pairs or clusters, laughing, lost in the rush of late afternoon sunlight and deadlines. Then Wanda nodded once, as if confirming something she’d already suspected. Her voice came quietly, almost too gently “She’s in love with you, you know.”

You blinked, not quite processing. “What?”

“She loves you,” she repeated, softer now, like she was afraid saying it any louder would shatter you.

You stiffened, instinctively falling back behind old defenses that had served you well—especially lately. “No,” you said, shaking your head with more force than necessary. “She’s trying to fix a mistake. That’s not remotely the same thing.”

Wanda’s lips curled into a small smile—not mocking, not smug. Just… sad. Knowing. The kind of smile someone wears when they’ve seen this play out before and already know the ending “You’re sitting here touching her handwriting like you’re afraid it’ll disappear,” she said. You looked down without meaning to, hand still resting on the edge of Agatha’s note—creased and well-worn from how often you’d unfolded it, stared at it, folded it again. You hadn’t realized you were doing it. Not consciously. But Wanda had. Of course she had.

Your silence stretched. You didn’t look up. Wanda shifted, voice quieter but still firm, like she was laying down a truth that had no edges to argue with. “You can’t fake that kind of love. Not for this long. Not with this much… heart.” You swallowed hard, throat dry. Her words lodged somewhere deep, scraping against old wounds you weren’t sure had ever healed right.

“And I’ve seen her,” Wanda continued gently. “Asking about you. About us….. Around campus. Like she’s trying to find the right shape for something she’s never been brave enough to say.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. The truth pressed heavy in your chest, stealing your breath before you even had a chance to protest “And you,” Wanda added, tipping her head with something like sympathy, “you’ve got that look in your eyes lately. Distant. Like you’re always somewhere else. Like you’re trying to remember how not to miss someone who isn’t really gone.”

You sat back slowly in your chair, fingers curling away from the note. The breath left your lungs in a tired exhale—soft, frayed at the edges. The kind of sound that didn’t quite resemble defeat, but something perilously close to surrender.

And then, softly, “I’m sorry.”

Wanda tilted her head. “For what?”

“I don’t know.” You swallowed thickly. “For still feeling something. For letting her get to me again. For not being able to stop hoping.”

Wanda reached over, placed her hand gently on top of yours “You don’t have to be sorry,” she said. “Not with me. You loved her. Maybe you still do. That doesn’t make you cruel.” You didn’t say anything else. You just sat there, eyes fixed on the handwriting beneath your fingertips, trying to convince yourself it was just ink on a page. And failing.

—————————————————————————

You were seated at the head of the long conference table in the university’s main staff hall, surrounded by colleagues from nearly every department. The another interdepartmental meeting—a logistical nightmare—was always exhausting. But today? Today you were distracted in a way that had nothing to do with curriculum updates or budget allocations.

Lilia sat two seats to your left, already sensing something was off. Jen and Alice were tucked together near the back, passing a clipboard between them and whispering under their breath like the world’s most discreet gossip channel. Wanda, steady as always, was next to you, pen poised over her notes, her eyes occasionally flickering your way.

Rio was here too, of course. Sitting perfectly poised on the other side of the room, lips pursed, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. You could feel her watching you from time to time, but you didn’t look back. You’d just been called to speak. You cleared your throat, standing with your notes in hand, palms slick with nervous energy that didn’t come from public speaking. You weren’t thinking about the faculty. You were thinking about Agatha. Your eyes scanned the room hoping to see her, but she wasn’t there yet.

Over the past several weeks, there hasn’t been one morning that you haven’t woken up to a sickeningly sweet text or two. Some reminding you to have a good day, but most on just how much she loves and appreciates you. She, true to her word was relentless. Sending notes, pastries, music, poetry, flowers even—each one worse for your heart than the last.

“For the philosophy department, I’d like to propose a revised approach to cross-disciplinary collaboration that emphasizes a more reflective framework for—”Then a voice cut in from the back of the room

“Excuse me.” It was strong. Clear. Familiar. Your blood ran cold. You turned slowly. Agatha Harkness stood in the doorway, dark coat draped over her arm, hair swept back like she hadn’t rushed here—but the wildness in her eyes said otherwise.

You could feel every person in the room turn to look at her. Conversations died mid-sentence. The university president leaned back in their chair, brows raised You blinked. “Agatha—”

She stepped forward “I know this isn’t the time,” she said, voice trembling just enough to betray how fast her heart was beating. “And I know you hate when I make things messy. But I can’t do quiet affection anymore.”

You froze. Jen sat upright, eyebrows shooting up. Alice nudged her so hard she almost dropped her tablet. Lilia’s eyes widened in horror. And Wanda—Wanda didn’t move. She just watched. Calm, but unreadable. Like she’d been waiting for this. Agatha continued “I’m irrevocably in love with you.”

The room froze—no one said anything, but the collective reaction was unmistakable. You stared at her, heart thudding in your throat “I’m sorry it took losing you to see it,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I’m sorry I let you feel like you were never chosen. That you were never enough. You were. You are.” Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “You’ve always been.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. You could feel Rio’s glare without even looking. Lilia’s mouth hung open. Alice was covering her face with both hands. Jen whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Holy shit.”

Agatha kept going “I don’t care if this is unprofessional. I don’t care if this is foolish. I’ll spend every day proving it, even if it takes the rest of my life. You told me nothing would be fixed overnight—and you’re right. But I’m not walking away again. Not now. Not ever.”

You were burning. Skin hot, ears red, every nerve in your body alight. Your heart said run to her. Your head said what the hell is happening right now? Someone in the back coughed. A few people exchanged whispers. The silence thickened again. You rubbed your temple. Your voice came out low, tired, and entirely human “What the hell are you doing?” It wasn’t cruel. Just… raw. Unsteady.

Agatha stepped forward once more “Whatever it takes,” she said. And she meant it. You could see it in the way her jaw was clenched, in the way her hands were balled into fists to stop them from shaking, in the way she looked at you—like you were the axis her world turned on.

She had done the impossible. She had made herself vulnerable, truly, and in front of every witness that mattered. She had chosen you—loudly. Undeniably. You stood there in the dead center of a full room, feeling more exposed than you ever had in your life.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to feel. Wanda gently reached over and touched your arm, as if reminding you she was still there. Still beside you. Not pressuring. Just present. And even Rio, across the room, had fallen eerily quiet—her expression unreadable for once.

All eyes were on you. And all you could think was: Is this really fucking happening? Agatha Harkness had set the room on fire for you. And now the whole world was watching to see if you’d step into the flames. Your skin burned. Not just your cheeks—your entire body. From the base of your neck to the tips of your ears. You could feel the heat crawling up your spine, tight and suffocating like your own pulse was punishing you for staying still.

Every eye was still on you. You swallowed, lips parting like maybe a response would come, but nothing did. The silence was excruciating. Endless. Then, mercifully—A voice. One of the senior administrators stood and cleared their throat in that awkward, bureaucratic way that screamed damage control.

“Well,” they began, smiling too widely as their gaze darted nervously between you and Agatha, “thank you for that… spirited moment of honesty, Professor Harkness. Let’s go ahead and wrap up today’s meeting, shall we? Department heads, we’ll follow up next week on remaining items via email.”

You didn’t wait to be dismissed. You were already slinging your bag over your shoulder before the words had finished leaving their mouth. Your breath came fast, shallow, like your body had gone into flight mode without asking permission. As you turned sharply toward the exit, your hand reached out without thinking—fingers curling around the edge of Agatha’s sleeve.

You didn’t even look at her. You just dragged her with you. Gasps and whispers followed. You could feel them more than you heard them. Lilia’s muttered “Jesus Christ.” Alice whispering a “Go get her” under her breath. And Wanda— You didn’t even want to know what Wanda was thinking.

Your fingers didn’t release Agatha’s sleeve until you burst through the double doors at the far end of the hall. The cool air of the corridor hit your face, but it did nothing to calm you. You dropped her sleeve , she stumbled slightly behind you but didn’t stop.

“(Y/N)?” Agatha’s voice was uncertain now. Less sure. “Where are we—?” But you didn’t answer. You just kept walking. Fast. Determined. Past bulletin boards and closed doors and startled colleagues peeking out of their offices. You didn’t stop until you reached your own office door.

You flung it open with more force than necessary, storming inside. The space was warm, cluttered, familiar. Books stacked in uneven piles. A half-drunk mug of tea still on your desk. Papers scattered like leaves across every surface. You threw your bag onto your desk with a heavy thud, the strap knocking over a pen holder as it landed. Agatha lingered in the doorway behind you.

Still.

Silent.

Waiting.

You turned on her then. Slowly. The air between you heavy, electric, and almost unbearable. And for a long, painful moment—You just looked at her. Like you were still trying to decide if she was real. If this was real. If the woman who had once made you feel like you were asking for too much was really the same woman who just declared her love in front of half the university.

You stood there, facing her, chest still rising and falling too quickly. Hands clenched at your sides like they didn’t know what to do now that the storm had moved inside the room. Your lips parted. “I—” But Agatha moved first.

She stepped forward quickly, quietly—shutting the door behind her with a soft click that sealed the space between you and the rest of the world. The echo of it was louder than it had any right to be. She took another step toward you, slow and cautious, like you were a wild thing she was afraid of spooking. You flinched slightly at her closeness but didn’t back away. Not this time. She lifted a hand—not to touch, but to steady herself—and whispered “I’m so sorry baby.”

The words hung there. Simple. Soft. But weighted with everything she hadn’t said for months “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you when it mattered most,” she continued, her voice trembling now. “I was so caught up in fixing the past that I didn’t see the future standing right in front of me.”

You stared at her, every muscle in your body pulled tight, like you were waiting to fall or fly “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” she said. “But I did. And then I told myself it was safer to keep things quiet. To keep you quiet. Because the truth is, I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. And that terrified me.”

Your heart clenched. She took one more step forward. Her hands were shaking now. “You made me feel… seen. Held. Real. And I threw that away chasing closure that didn’t matter anymore.” You looked away for a moment, jaw tight, trying to gather every defense you’d built brick by brick.

But her next words cracked them clean open “I never looked at Rio the way I looked at you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I was with her again, all I could think was, why doesn’t it feel the way it used to. Why doesn’t this feel right? How was it possible that you’d only sit beside me in silence and still make me feel more than she ever could with words?”

You blinked quickly, throat burning. Your eyes stung, and you hated how easily the emotion cracked through “And now I’ve embarrassed you,” she added with a soft, sad smile. “In front of everyone. Because I couldn’t keep pretending not to feel what I feel.”

You swallowed thickly. “Agatha…” She stepped even closer now, hands still not touching you—but her presence was overwhelming “I love you,” she said again, like the first time wasn’t enough. “I love you in a way that terrifies me. But I will learn how to love you in a way that never makes you question it again.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. You didn’t know how to. Because your heart… your heart was melting. And it hurt. It hurt because it was real. Because this wasn’t some flippant apology or half-meant attempt to win you back. This was Agatha. Really Agatha. Standing in front of you with her armor off, her voice shaking, her pride left somewhere back in that conference room. And somehow, even after all this time, she still knew the exact words that could unravel you.

It hit you all at once. The weight of her words. The way she stood there trembling, eyes glassy and voice raw with truth. The silence that had dragged between you for months suddenly shattered under the force of something you’d tried so hard to ignore. You opened your mouth to reply—but nothing came out. Nothing could come out. The ache had climbed too far up your throat. Then, like a dam breaking, a soft whimper escaped you—barely a sound, really. Just breath caught on grief and longing and relief.

And before you even realized what you were doing, you moved. You crashed into her like gravity had finally won. Your hands fisted the lapels of her coat, dragging her down to you with a desperation that had been years in the making. Agatha gasped softly, caught between surprise and instinct, before her arms came around you in an instant—holding you like she was terrified you’d disappear. Your noses bumped, your breaths tangled, and then—She kissed you. And you kissed her back. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was everything you’d both been too afraid to say. It was breathless and aching, desperate and unrefined. Her lips were warm, trembling against yours, like she couldn’t believe this was happening. Like she was terrified you’d change your mind mid-kiss. Your fingers slid into her coat, clutching at her shoulders, her back, her hair—anything that would pull her closer.

Agatha cupped your face in her hands, thumbs brushing tears you didn’t even realize had started to fall. Her mouth moved against yours like she was pouring every unsent email, every unsaid apology, every late-night memory into it. She kissed you like she was claiming something that was never hers to take for granted. You kissed her like you were finally letting go of all the pain. And in that moment, neither of you breathed—afraid even that would make it vanish. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together. Both of you panting, eyes closed, lost in the space between now and what comes next “I still don’t completely trust you,” you whispered, voice hoarse, breath brushing against her lips. “But I want to.”

Agatha’s eyes opened. There was no fear in them now. Only something fierce. Steady “I’ll earn it,” she swore. “Every day. Every damn inch.”

You held her gaze, fingers still curled into her coat. The world outside your office might’ve still been reeling, gossiping, whispering about the scene she caused, but in here—it was just the two of you “…If you’re going to leave me again,” you said quietly, eyes guarded “don’t you dare fucking come back—”

Agatha’s expression shifted. Her grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you to her chest, her heartbeat racing against yours “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, voice fierce and clear, like a vow. “Not without you.” And this time… you almost believed her.

You stared at her, breath still uneven, heart rattling like it didn’t know how to settle inside your chest. Agatha’s eyes were locked on yours—wide, dark, shining. Her hands still cupped your face, fingertips trembling as if she was afraid to let go, afraid this whole thing might dissolve if she so much as blinked. And then she kissed you again.

No hesitation this time. No permission asked. Just need. You gasped softly into her mouth, arms instinctively rising to loop around her neck, fingers tangling in the ends of her hair. She groaned low against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deep in your stomach. Her hands slipped from your face, down to your waist, gripping you tighter like she could pull you closer—closer still—until there wasn’t even space for doubt between you. She kissed you like she was trying to make you remember her. Not the version who broke your heart—but the one who knew how to worship it.

It was intense. Fierce. Possessive. You barely registered her moving, only that your body was suddenly shifting—guided. Her hands pressed against your lower back as she walked you back, step by step, until the edge of your desk bumped against the backs of your thighs. You pulled back just long enough to look at her, lips swollen, chest rising and falling fast “Agatha—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, eyes dark with heat and something deeper. Something reverent. “Let me show you.” And then she lifted you. Just like that. Her hands curled under your thighs and hoisted you up with surprising ease, setting you down on the edge of your desk. Papers crumpled beneath you. A pen clattered to the floor. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t. Because she was kissing you again—deeper this time. Hungrier. Like she’d been starved for the taste of you and was only now realizing how much she’d missed.

Her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to her like you might try to leave again. And maybe she didn’t blame you. But this? This was her proving something. To you. To herself. To the version of her that had let you slip away. You clutched at the front of her coat, yanking her impossibly closer, your legs bracketing her hips instinctively as you pressed into the kiss like it was the only thing keeping you upright. She pulled back for just a breath, forehead pressing into yours, lips brushing. Her voice was wrecked “I should’ve done this months ago…”

Your hands moved to her collar, thumbs stroking along her neck. “You didn’t. But you’re here now.”

Agatha nodded, jaw tightening. “And I’m never letting you forget it again.” She surged forward, capturing your mouth once more—this time slower but no less consuming. Like she was claiming every inch of space she’d once given up. Like she needed you to know: this time, there would be no halfway.

Only everything. She didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Not that you wanted her to. Agatha kissed you like her life depended on it—like if she stopped, you might vanish again. Her hands never stilled, slipping beneath your coat, gripping your hips with a pressure that sent sparks straight through your spine. You arched into her without thinking, your fingers tugging at her collar, pulling her closer until there was nothing but heat and heartbeat and the ragged rhythm of your mouths colliding again and again.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Agatha groaned into you—low and wrecked and full of a hunger you’d only ever dreamed she might feel for you. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t soft. This was months of repression, of longing, of wrong timing and broken chances, spilling out all at once.

Her lips trailed down to your jaw, then your throat, her breath hot against your skin as she whispered your name like a prayer. You gasped, nails dragging lightly down her back. She bit back a moan, her hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your coat open as she kissed her way back to your mouth, taking it with a fire that made your whole body ache.

You didn’t even know when your hands slipped beneath her sweater, but you needed to feel her—her skin, her warmth, the solidity of her being here, finally, now “God,” you breathed between kisses. “You—Agatha—”

“I know,” she whispered, forehead pressed to yours, her voice shaking. “I know. I missed you too.” You kissed her again. Hard. And she kissed you back like she was trying to carve her name into your bones. And you let her. Because for the first time, she wasn’t kissing you in secret. She wasn’t holding back. She was here. Present. Wanting. Yours. Her coat had slipped down her shoulders, your legs locked around her waist as her hands explored your waist, your ribs, anything she could reach.

The desk creaked under your shifting weight, but neither of you noticed. Her teeth grazed your bottom lip and you gasped—only for her to chase the sound like it belonged to her. You didn’t want to stop. Not when she felt this good. Not when her mouth made you forget the ache she’d caused. Eventually—reluctantly—you pulled back. Breathing hard, your fingers still tangled in the fabric at her waist, your lips swollen, flushed, dazed.

Agatha looked at you like she was lost in a dream. Her lips were kiss-bruised, pupils blown wide, her hands still resting on your thighs as if she didn’t quite trust this moment wouldn’t dissolve between heartbeats. You brushed your nose against hers, trying to slow the rush of it all. You let the silence fall between you for a beat—just long enough to ground yourself in what this really was “This doesn’t fix everything,” you said softly, voice still trembling. “We’re not… whole. Not yet.”

Agatha nodded slowly, her fingers squeezing gently at your hips. “I know.”

You licked your lips, still tasting her. “But maybe… maybe we can build something better. Not perfect. Just… real.” Her gaze locked onto yours, and something softened behind her eyes. Not sadness. Not regret. Just hope.

“Real sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted,” she said. You rested your forehead against hers again, your hands finally stilling where they curled at the sides of her neck. You both stayed like that—breathing each other in, hearts pounding, clothes rumpled, promises unspoken but understood.

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. And this time, it wasn’t a false start. It was something new. Something earned.

The next morning felt… strange. Not in a bad way. Not exactly. Just heightened. Like the air around you had shifted. Like the world had tilted a few degrees off center, and now you were watching everything from a slightly different angle.

Agatha had left your office late the night before. Late enough that the hallways were empty. Late enough that neither of you had to face the lingering stares—yet. You hadn’t talked much after. Just sat together, curled up in the quiet aftermath, her hand resting over yours on the desk like she was still afraid you might pull away.

You didn’t.

But now?

Now it was daylight. Now it was real. And the university hadn’t forgotten what it saw. Not when your inbox had three unread messages by 7 a.m., all vaguely worded inquiries from staff members wondering if you were “alright” or “needed time.” Not when Lilia sent you a single line of text—“I support you. I also might murder her if she hurts you again.” And certainly not when you walked into the faculty lounge and every single head turned.

You paused in the doorway, gripping your mug a little too tightly. Agatha was already there, seated at the long table near the back. She looked up when she sensed you, and for a moment—just a flicker—you saw uncertainty in her eyes. But then she smiled. Small. Tentative. Real. And you smiled back. It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t cross the room and kiss her. You didn’t drop your things and run to her side. But you walked over. Sat down across from her. Took a sip of your coffee. Her fingers brushed yours beneath the table, barely a touch. You didn’t pull away. That was enough for now.

Later that week, Wanda dropped by your office. She didn’t say much at first—just leaned against the doorframe, watching you grade papers with that quiet, knowing calm she always carried. You looked up, smiled cautiously “I didn’t expect you to still check in on me considering….”

Wanda tilted her head. “I didn’t come to check in.” You arched a brow “I came to make sure that you’re happy,” she said.

Your breath caught. But you nodded “It’s… new. Fragile. But yeah. I think I am. ”

She gave a soft smile. “Good. She’s fighting for you now. Don’t let her forget to keep doing that.” And then she was gone, leaving you with a warmth in your chest you didn’t know how to name. Wanda truly was a remarkable woman, she helped heal something in you. You’re just sorry she wasn’t the remarkable woman your heart desired.

Lunch with Alice and Jen was a little different that day as well “That was possibly the most dramatic workplace confession I’ve ever witnessed,” Alice said around a bite of her sandwich. “Ten out of ten for entertainment. Subtracting one point for public humiliation though...”

Jen grinned. “I gave her credit for not crying. Or begging. She kept it just on the right side of tragic romantic comedy.”

You groaned. “Can we not do this now or ever?”

“We love you,” Alice said, bumping your knee under the table. “And we just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.” You did. You were still figuring it out. But yes—you knew. Agatha was more cautious now. Every glance she gave you in the hallway came with a question in her eyes. Every shared meeting, every brief moment between classes—she made space for you to decide what this was, what you wanted it to be.

She didn’t push. She didn’t perform. She just showed up. Consistently. Quietly. The way you always wished she had before. When your hands brushed in the lounge, she didn’t yank away. When you laughed at something she said during a meeting, she smiled like it meant everything.

The whispers died down eventually. People always moved on. But your story didn’t go back to what it was before. And that was the point. It grew into something different. Something gentler. Slower. Deliberate. Agatha brought you coffee most mornings. You never asked—she just remembered. You sent her poems again. Slipped under her door like they used to be. You ate lunch together twice a week, sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter.

It was rebuilding. In inches, not miles. But this time, the foundation was better. Because now, every choice was made with clarity. With care. Not fear. Not guilt. Just want. And that? That was enough. That was everything. It had only been a few weeks since her very public display. Just long enough for the chaos to settle. Just long enough for the gossip to fade into the background, for people to stop pausing when you walked into a room, for Rio to stop pretending she wasn’t still irritated by the entire spectacle.

And in that time, Agatha had been… everything. Attentive without being overbearing. Present without pressure. She never asked for more than you could give, but she always gave more than you expected. Her affection came in quiet gestures—warm drinks slid into your hand during early meetings, scribbled notes tucked into your books, half-sarcastic, half-sincere texts late at night that made you smile even when you didn’t want to.

She was learning. You both were. And somewhere between the surprise lunches and the shared office hours, somewhere between stolen kisses behind closed doors and whispered apologies in passing—You realized you were in trouble. Because it was getting harder to pretend you weren’t head over heels in love with her. Not when she looked at you like you held the entire sky in your eyes. Not when she touched you with reverence, like she was still amazed you let her at all. Not when she said your name like it meant something holy. You hadn’t said it yet. I love you. Not back.

Not out loud. But you felt it. Every time she held your hand across the center console while she drove you home. Every time she waited outside your office just to walk you to the lounge. Every time she looked at you like you were still her favorite secret—even now that the world knew.

And it was making you reckless. You caught yourself staring more often. Letting your fingers linger just a second too long on her arm. Smiling at her with something softer than you meant to reveal. Letting your guard slip piece by piece. You tried to hide it. To keep some part of yourself tucked away in case this still fell apart. But when she leaned against the doorway of your office one Friday evening, holding a little box of your favorite chocolates, her hair tied back in a loose waves, exhaustion in her eyes—your heart ached with just how much you loved her.

She stepped inside like she’d done it a hundred times, closing the door behind her, dropping the box on your desk before sitting on the edge of it “I figured you’d need a bribe if I was going to steal you away from work tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Steal me?”

She shrugged, leaning closer, voice low and teasing. “Kidnap. Woo. Spirit away. You can pick the language. I’m flexible.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Agatha grinned, but then—her expression shifted. Softened. “But I mean it. I want time with you. Not as an apology. Not as a fix. Just as… us.” Something in your chest squeezed. You stood slowly, rounding the desk until you were standing between her legs, her knees brushing your hips.

She looked up at you like she didn’t dare breathe. And you—God, you wanted to say it. You love her. But instead, you cupped her jaw gently, brushing your thumb over the corner of her mouth, and said, “I’m already yours. You don’t have to steal me.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands found your hips. You leaned in. Let your forehead rest against hers. And though the words sat right on the edge of your lips, you still didn’t say them. Not yet. But you were close. You didn’t even get to argue. The second your laptop closed, Agatha was already tugging your coat off the back of your chair and draping it over your shoulders like she’d been planning this for days. Her hands lingered at your collar. Her smile was bright, but the look in her eyes? That was something else entirely.

Something hopeful. Something deliberate “Come on,” she said softly, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve been working too much. And I’ve got reservations I may or may not have bribed someone for.”

You blinked. “You made reservations?”

Agatha smirked, leaning in to whisper against your ear. “It’s called courting. Let me romance you, please darling.”

You flushed. “I—okay.” And just like that, you let her take your hand and guide you out of your office, down the long corridor, past whatever mess still lingered in the whispers of your colleagues. You didn’t care. Not with her fingers intertwined with yours. Not when she looked at you like this.

Dinner was stunning. The kind of place with soft candlelight flickering off crystal glassware, live jazz humming through hidden speakers, and a panoramic window view of the city skyline. Agatha had requested a table near the edge, just slightly tucked away, as if she wanted to show you off without making a scene.

She was effortless—her blazer sharp, her perfume warm and clean, her gaze never straying from you for long. And you… you spent most of the meal falling apart inside because she kept saying things like “Do you remember our first joint lecture? You made me look like I had a soul.” Or— “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who makes me feel this grounded.” And then the worst of them, whispered low as her hand brushed yours across the table “You make me want things I thought I couldn’t have anymore.”

By the time dessert came—some soft, elegant thing layered in chocolate and berry—you were certain your heart was no longer in your chest but somewhere at her mercy, resting between your empty wine glass and her folded napkin. But the night wasn’t over “I have one more surprise,” she said as you walked outside, cool air curling around the collar of your coat.

You gave her a look. “You’re spoiling me.”

She lifted your hand to her lips, kissed your knuckles. “That’s the plan.”

She led you to a nearby private elevator with a keycard she definitely shouldn’t have had access to—but knowing Agatha, she could charm just about anything out of anyone. When the doors opened at the top floor, she stepped aside with a slight bow “After you.”

You stepped onto the rooftop and your breath caught. The city stretched out in every direction, glittering and alive beneath the stars. String lights wrapped around the edge of the railing, flickering like fireflies, and a soft breeze tugged at your coat as you walked forward, stunned “Agatha…”

She came up behind you, wrapping her arms gently around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I used to come up here when I needed space. To think. To remember who I was.” You leaned back against her, heart already aching “But lately,” she continued, her voice softer now, “I come up here to think about the future.”

You turned slightly, just enough to look at her. “Yeah?”

She smiled, almost shy. “I’ve been thinking about what it might look like… if you were always in it.” You froze. Her eyes searched yours. “Not just this. Not just now. I mean something bigger. Permanent.” A pause. “Lifelong.”

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. The words slipped out before you could pull them back, before fear could catch up “I love you.” Agatha’s breath hitched. Your heart felt like it had burst open in your chest. You blinked, lips parting, because you hadn’t even planned to say it. But it was true. God, it was so true “I love you,” you said again, quieter this time, eyes shimmering.

Agatha’s hand cupped your cheek so gently, it nearly undid you. She didn’t say anything for a moment—just stared at you like you’d rewired the stars. Then she kissed you. And this kiss was different. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It wasn’t tangled in grief or longing or guilt.

It was full.

Whole.

Loving.

When she pulled back, her voice was thick with emotion “I love you too. I’ve never been more certain of anything.” You rested your forehead against hers, your fingers tangled in the lapel of her coat, and for the first time since everything began—You felt like the story was finally beginning. And this time, it was yours to write together.

You didn’t pull away. Not after the kiss. Not after the way she said it—I love you too—like it was the only truth that had ever mattered. Instead, you leaned in closer brushing your nose against her own, your breath still shaky from everything that had just been said “Say it again,” you whispered, voice low, almost daring.

Agatha’s lips curled. “I love you too.”

You didn’t let her finish the breath after it.

You kissed her—hard. It was different from the tenderness before. This kiss was heat and hunger, the kind that rolled up from somewhere low in your stomach and took over completely. You grabbed the front of her coat, tugging her closer with a force that had her stumbling forward with a breathless laugh against your mouth. Her hands were on your waist immediately, gripping through the fabric of your coat like she didn’t care you were still out in the open air, surrounded by string lights and stars and the city humming beneath your feet.

You deepened the kiss, your body pressing fully against hers, and she melted into you without hesitation—like kissing you was something she was born to do. Agatha pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, her voice a rough, teasing whisper. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m going to forget we’re on a rooftop.”

“Good,” you murmured, catching her bottom lip between your teeth before you let it go. “Because I’m very much done being on this rooftop.”

She blinked at you, pupils blown, breath catching. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly, fingers sliding down the front of her coat. “Let’s go. Now.” Agatha didn’t need to be told twice.

She laced her fingers with yours, pressing one last kiss to your cheek, and with a smirk that promised trouble—the kind you’d dreamed about for years—she whispered “Your place or mine then?”

You smirked back “Whichever’s closer.” The moment you both slid into the car, it was clear: keeping your hands to yourselves wasn’t going to happen.

Agatha had barely fastened her seatbelt before you leaned over the console and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, just below her jaw—slow, lingering. She let out a sharp breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel “You’re going to make me crash,” she muttered, half warning, half prayer.

You grinned, brushing your lips over the shell of her ear. “Then drive faster.”

She did. The city blurred past, lights streaking through the windows like stars in motion, but neither of you could focus. Your hand never left her thigh, your fingers teasing slow circles over the fabric of her slacks. She kept sneaking glances your way, her jaw clenched, breathing uneven—like she was using every last bit of control to keep from pulling over and dragging you into the back seat.

You couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her knuckles when she reached for the gearshift. Tugging on the collar of her coat to pull her toward you at red lights, nipping her bottom lip teasingly between each slow kiss. By the time she pulled into her building’s parking garage, she was visibly shaking “You’re a damn menace,” she said, voice dark and rough as she threw the car in park.

You just smirked and leaned across the console one last time. “And you love it.” Getting upstairs was a blur. She didn’t even bother pretending to be patient. Her hand was locked around yours from the moment you stepped into the elevator, and when the doors finally opened on her floor, she yanked you down the hallway with a kind of focused urgency that had your knees going weak.

And when the door clicked open—barely, just barely—Agatha was already pushing you inside. The door slammed shut behind you. And then she had you. She pinned you against it before you could say a word, her mouth crashing onto yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. You gasped into her, and she swallowed the sound greedily, her hands already fisting in your coat, yanking it open with impatient fingers.

“You drive me insane,” she muttered between kisses, one hand pressing flat to your waist, the other sliding up to cradle your jaw. “Do you know what it’s been like—watching you, wanting you—and not being allowed to touch you like this?”

Your only answer was a moan as she pressed harder into you, her thigh sliding between yours, your hands scrambling at the button of her slacks with all the subtlety of someone on the edge of ruin. You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Then stop waisting time.”

Agatha’s eyes burned—lit with something hungry and possessive and worshipful all at once “Oh, I have no intention of waiting anymore.” She kissed you again—deeper, hotter—her body molding to yours as if trying to prove every promise she’d made on that rooftop with the press of her mouth and the drag of her hands. Her teeth caught your bottom lip and you gasped, legs tightening around her thigh where it slotted between yours.

Whatever came next, whatever words were still waiting to be said, could wait. Right now? She was going to make up for lost time. Clothes hit the floor in pieces—buttons popped, shoes kicked off in a stumbling blur of mouths and hands and half-choked laughter between kisses that never stayed gentle for long. Agatha guided you backward down the hallway, lips never leaving yours, her hands greedy and unrelenting as they skimmed over skin she’d once only dreamed of touching again.

By the time your back hit her bed, you were breathless. Dizzy. Her name fell from your lips like a plea. She crawled over you slowly, like she was savoring it. Like this moment had been carved out of time just for her to memorize every part of you all over again. Her eyes were dark with desire, yes—but behind it, something more reverent. Tender.

“You’re even more beautiful now that I’m allowed to keep you,” she whispered, pressing a trail of kisses down your collarbone, her fingers dancing down your ribs, teasing your skin until you arched into her touch with a gasp. Your hands found her back, fingers dragging down until she shivered above you.

“You always had me,” you murmured, pulling her down into another kiss. “You just didn’t know what to do with it.” Agatha growled softly into your mouth, one of her hands sliding between your thighs teasingly.

You inhale sharply as her touch ignites your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your eyes darken with desire, gaze boring into hers with an intensity that steals her breath. She shivers under the weight of your stare, heart hammering wildly in her chest.

"Show me," you breathe, voice heavy with want. Your hands skim back up her sides, settling on the dip of her waist. She inhales sharply, arching into your touch. Free hand roaming greedily over your chest, tracing the curve of your breast, committing them to memory.

She leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I'm going to take my time with you," she whispers, her voice low and sultry, dripping with unspoken promises. "I want to taste every inch of you. Make you feel things you've never felt before."

Her tongue traces the lobe of your ear, drawing a shuddering breath from you. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hips, urging her closer. She chuckles softly, a sound of pure sin and sweet seduction. "All night long," she purrs. "Until the only name you remember... is mine."

Then she kisses you. And it's not gentle. It's hungry. It's impatient. It's everything you've been craving since the moment you walked through her door. It's a promise of pleasure. A guarantee of completeness. A vow of eternal, unforgettable devotion. It's everything you've ever wanted. Everything you'll ever need. You hummed into the kiss hips snapping forward, you could feel yourself growing wet “ please—”

Agatha's head dips, her lips trailing down your neck, over the slope of your shoulder. Your skin prickles with heat and anticipation. She inhales, breathing in your scent, a mix of desire and desperation "I know," she murmurs against your skin. "I can feel it."

Her hand slips further between your thighs, fingers gliding over your slick folds. They dip inside, stroking your inner walls, curling and pressing against that sensitive spot that makes your toes curl "Look at you baby," she coos softly, almost reverently. "So wet for me. So ready." She circles your clit with the pads of two fingers, teasing the swollen bud. Your hips buck upwards, chasing her touch. Wanting more.

"Yes, you need this, don't you?" Agatha whispers. "You need me to fill up this pretty little pussy." Her thumb flicks over your clit, a hard, fast, intense press. You cry out at the sudden jolt of pleasure, hands fisting in the sheets beneath you as you but you lip stifling a whimper.

"Don't hold back, baby. I want to hear you." Her fingers pump faster, the obscene sound of your arousal echoing through the room. Her palm grinds against your clit with each thrust, the pressure building, your climax chasing faster than before. Your thighs tremble on either side of her hips, every inch of you drawn taut and coiled, waiting, yearning, craving...

"Please," you whimper brokenly, your grip tightening on the sheets, nails digging into the fabric. "Please baby, I need... I need..."

"I know." Agatha's voice is a low murmur against your ear. Triumphant. Assured. "I know exactly what you need, sweetheart." And then she pushes two fingers deep inside you, curling against that hidden spot, grinding against it ruthlessly. Her thumb presses down hard on your clit, rubbing unmerciful circles around the sensitive bud.

Your climax hits you with the force of a tidal wave, crashing over you, drowning you. You scream her name like a prayer, like a mantra, like the only word you know how to say. Your vision goes white as ecstasy pulses through every nerve ending, your body shaking and jerking in her grasp.

She holds you through it, murmuring praise and adoration, stroking you down as you float back to yourself. When you finally open your eyes, sated and sleepy, she's watching you with a soft, tender smile "That's my good girl," she whispers, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. " My everything."

You whimper softly, hips grinding helplessly against Agatha's hand as a powerful climax crashes through you like a tidal wave. "Please... I need more," you beg, your voice raw and broken as ecstasy pulses through every nerve ending, every cell in your body screaming for more of her touch.

Agatha doesn't hesitate. She continues pumping her fingers deep inside you, curling them hard against your spasming walls, stroking you with ruthless precision as you ride out the aftershocks of your release. At the same time, leaning down and closing her mouth around one of your nipples, suckling greedily, hissing softly as you buck against her touch.

You can feel her fingers slick with your arousal, dripping with your need as she thrusts them in and out of your fluttering channel, fucking you through your orgasm until you're writhing against the sheets, mewling helplessly as overstimulation threatens to overload your senses “Whatever you need my love—," Agatha whispered breathlessly as she releases your nipple with a sharp nip, continuing the path down you torso. Her free hand grips your hip, spreading your thighs wider to slip down and position herself comfortably between them, opening you up fully to her relentless touch. "I want to feel you fall apart sweetheart. I want to taste you come undone like only I can make you do..."

She leaned down sealing her lips around your clit, suckling hard as her fingers drive into you, pounding your sensitive flesh. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure so intense that it borders on pain. But you don't want her to stop. You never want her to stop "Yes, yes, yes!" you chant deliriously, fingers clawing at your own hair as you arch your back, pressing your chest against her mouth. "More, please more..."

Agatha doesn't let up, her fingers plunging deep as her tongue swirls and flickers over your swollen clit. She's determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body, to push you past the limits of endurance until all you can do is feel the raw, electric pulse of your own pleasure.

She can feel your walls starting to flutter around her fingers, your body tensing as another climax builds deep in your core. She moans against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pure bliss radiating outward from your throbbing sex "That's it, baby..." Agatha breathes, pressing a kiss to your clit before releasing it from the hot prison of her mouth. "You're going to come for me again, sweetheart” she whispered almost commandingly “I need to hear you scream my name..."

Her fingers drive up into you, hard and fast and deep. The heel of her palm grinds against your clit as she feels your body start to seize, to clamp down and squeeze her fingers. "Now, baby. Give it to me now," Agatha demands, and you have no choice but to obey. Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sensation, ravaging you with the force of your pleasure.

Your scream echoes off the walls, reverberating through the room like a war cry, a demand, a desperate plea. You writhe and convulse beneath Agatha as she milks your climax for every Agatha continues her relentless assault, lapping and suckling at your gushing, twitching sex until the last waves of your climax subside. She doesn't stop until your hips start to rock into her touch once more, craving more of that sweet friction, that exquisite pressure.

Pressing a final, possessive kiss to your sensitive flesh, Agatha trail her lips up your thigh, pressing nip after nip into the delicate skin. Each bite sends a fresh spark of arousal through you, stoking the embers of your desire back into a raging inferno. Rising languidly from the bed, Agatha saunters over to the dresser, her hips swaying with a seductive rhythm. She pauses for the briefest of moments before reaching into the bottom drawer, pulling out a vibrant purple strap, larger than anything you’ve used on yourself most definitely.

Her eyes clash with yours, burning with a hunger that steals your breath. You bite your lip, nodding softly as you spread your thighs wider in clear invitation, a silent plea for her to take you, claim you, fill you... complete you. Agatha groans deeply at the sight of you splayed out before her, a carnal offering awaiting her touch. "Fuck, baby. Look at you. So gorgeous. So perfect..."

Within moments, she has the harness secured snug around her hips, the thick cock protruding obscenely from her waist. Your eyes widen and a shudder wracks down your body as she stalks back towards you. Mounting the bed, she settles between your thighs, the thick head of the toy nudging against your slick, swollen entrance.

Ducking her head, Agatha swallows your gasp of anticipation with a deep, claiming kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with yours. As she kisses you, she rolls her hips forward just once, pushing slowly into your welcoming heat. Your back arches at the exquisite stretch, the delicious pressure of being filled, claimed, taken. You can feel every rigid inch of the toy as it parts your walls, delving deeper, reaching higher, stroking your most sensitive places.

"You feel that, baby?" Agatha whispers when she breaks the kiss, her lips brushing yours. "Feel me stretching this perfect little cunt? Making her mine?" She punctuates her words with a subtle thrust of her hips, driving the strap-on a little deeper, a little harder. Your walls flutter and squeeze around the firm length, drawing her in, begging her to fill you utterly.

"Yes—" you gasped eyes rolling back, nails digging into her back, anchoring her to you. "Yes, I feel it. It's so big. It's...ah! Fuck—"

Agatha smirks at your breathless praise, a wicked glint in her eye. "That's it, sweetheart. This pussy was made to be stretched by me. Made to be stuffed full of my cock, again and again..." She starts to move then, rolling her hips in a slow, steady rhythm. The toy drags along your walls with each thrust, stroking your sweet spots, igniting sparks of pleasure that build and grow and consume you from within.

Your head falls back against the bed, a pillow of tangled hair and sweat-sheened skin, as Agatha begins to thrust with purpose, each drive of her hips a claiming motion intent on owning every inch of your most intimate space "Oh fuck!" you cry out, voice breaking on a whimper of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "So fuckin' deep..."

You can feel the strap-on delving into you, splitting you open, reaching places no one else ever has. It's a delicious invasion, a beautiful claiming, a relentless pressure that borders on pain but brings only ecstasy. Your hips rise to meet hers, matching her fervor, her desire, your body desperate to be filled, to be used for her pleasure. The room fills with the symphony of your coupling - the slap of skin on skin, the slick glide of the toy plunging into your dripping sex, your wanton cries and breathless moans.

"That's it, baby," Agatha pants, braced above you, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, "Take it . Take every fuckin' inch..." She leans down to capture your nipple between her teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you jerk and clench around the thick length spearing you open. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure and pain blending into a heady cocktail that sets your nerves alight.

Your hands claw at her back, nails raking down the sweat-slicked flesh as your body bucks and writhes beneath the force of her thrusts. You can feel yourself losing control, succumbing to the sheer, primal bliss of being possessed so utterly, you wailed, walls starting to flutter and clench around the plunging length as your climax builds at the base of your spine. "Harder baby, fuck me harder..."

Agatha complies with a dark chuckle, slamming into you with renewed vigor. The bed creaks and shakes with the force of her thrusts, slamming against the wall as she takes you with wild abandon "You want it harder?" she growls, the words vibrating through you. "You want me to ruin this hungry little cunt?"

"Yes, fuck yes!" you scream, too lost in sensation to care how desperate you sound. "Ruin me, baby. Fuckin' wreck me..." Your climax hits you like a freight train, tearing through you, shattering you from the inside out. Your vision goes white, your scream echoes off the walls as ecstasy crashes over you in overwhelming waves. Your sex clamps down rhythmically, squeezing and milking the strap-on as your orgasm rips you apart, chest heaving and breasts bouncing with each powerful clench.

Agatha slows her thrusts to a languid, sensual pace as she feels your walls start to flutter and quiver around her pulling her deeper, your climax building to a fever pitch. She wants to savor this moment, to linger in the exquisite feeling of your body yielding to her touch, accepting her completely. Leaning down, she claims your mouth in a slow, deep kiss, her tongue languidly stroking yours as she rocks into you one last time before slowly, reluctantly pulling out.

You gasp softly into her mouth, a hiss escaping your lips as you feel the loss of her, the emptiness inside you a stark contrast to the pleasure still coursing through your veins.

Agatha slips off the bed, your slick dripping down your thighs and onto the rumpled sheets. She makes quick work of unfastening the strap-on, tossing it carelessly to the floor before striding towards the bathroom, her lithe form a study in sin and satisfaction.

She returns a moment later with a small, damp washcloth, the fabric cool and soothing in her hands. Sitting back down between your trembling thighs, Agatha starts to clean your soft flesh, gentling you down from your erotic high with a tender touch.

You shiver as the cool cloth brushes over your sensitive sex, your skin still hot and aching from your intense coupling. But the sensation is also soothing, the knowledge that she cares for you, for your pleasure and your comfort, in a way that no one else ever has "That's my girl," she murmurs softly as she wipes away the last traces of your climax, the last remnants of her claim on your body. "Such a beautiful girl, so responsive, so perfect..."

Setting the washcloth aside, Agatha leans forward to press a single, reverent kiss to the apex of your thighs, the meet of your sex. Her lips linger there, breathing in the scent of your arousal, your pleasure, searing it into her memory. Then she's climbing back into bed beside you, pulling you into her arms, cradling your trembling body against her own. Her hands stroke down your sides, soothing the last little flutters and twitches from your climax.

You lay tangled in her sheets—limbs draped over limbs, hearts pounding slower now but still synced. Agatha’s arm was tucked under your head, her other hand tracing idle shapes along your spine. The moonlight through the curtains cast soft shadows across her bare shoulder, her lips swollen and parted, breath evening out.

You were both drifting, on the edge of sleep, but still tethered by the press of warm skin and the taste of lazy kisses passed back and forth without thought You shifted slightly, your nose brushing hers. “So… this is what making up looks like?”

Agatha hummed, pressing a barely-there kiss to your cheek. “Only the beginning.” You smiled into her neck, eyes heavy. Her hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, anchoring you gently to her chest.

“All mine.” she murmured. And in that quiet, sacred moment—intertwined, tangled up in love and sheets and everything you’d nearly lost—you believed her. You let yourself fall asleep in her arms. Because this time, she was staying. And so were you.

[carnagewidow]

This is phenomenal omg

She’s with the Director

Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: When Hollywood’s strangest new director begins quietly shopping her next script, Matt Remnick loses his mind trying to find her. Mysterious, brilliant, and barely reachable, she’s the kind of director that could give him his Rosemary’s Baby… if he can track her down.

Maya Mason isn’t worried.

Because the strangest woman in Hollywood that the studio is chasing? She already has her.

Word Count: 9K

Warnings: explicit smut, strap-on use, MDNI

A/N: This is just a quick little Maya fic I wrote while catching up on The Studio finally, I definitely want to write more Maya so any suggestions would be great xo

Matt Remick bursts into the conference room like he’s just come from war… or worse, a breakfast meeting with Griffin.

He’s got that look. Wide eyes, rumpled blazer, the smell of overpriced oat milk clinging to him like defeat. But he’s grinning like he just found the last golden ticket in Hollywood. “Big news,” he says. “Huge news.”

The team’s already waiting, Sal is sprawled in his usual seat with a breakfast burrito and a hangover, Quinn tapping away on her tablet with one AirPod in, and Patty Leigh sipping tea like she’s three seconds away from biting someone.

Sal doesn’t look up from his phone. “You always say that and it’s never huge man.”

“No,” Matt says, too pumped to be insulted. “No, this is real.”

Patty sighs and sets her tea down with careful grace. “What is it Matthew? You look like you’re about to wet yourself.”

Matt drops his phone on the table, screen facing up. It’s paused on a still from Wolves at the Well, that shot, the one with the lake and the antlers and the girl screaming underwater. Instantly recognizable. Instantly iconic.

“She’s looking for a studio,” Matt announces, reverent. “She’s looking for a studio.”

Quinn looks up. “Who is?”

Matt lets the silence drag just long enough to be dramatic. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

A pause.

Quinn straightens. “Wait. Seriously?”

Patty’s brows raise, skeptical but intrigued. “She’s leaving her indie? I thought she was some kind of cursed forest nymph who only works with companies run out of moss-covered cabins.”

Matt is glowing now. “Nope. Word is she’s looking for a studio. Not an indie label, not some moody investor with a fetish for Icelandic grief dramas. A studio. She wants scale. Reach. And after Wolves exploded? She’s got leverage. She wants to tell bigger stories and still keep control. We can offer that.”

Patty leans back, calculating. “How sure are you?”

“I’ve got three sources,” Matt says. “And her agent’s being cagey, which means it’s real.”

Quinn stares at him. “She’s the biggest thing in film right now. Her movie’s still breaking streaming records. If she’s even considering going big…”

“She is,” Matt says. “And I want her here.”

Silence.

Patty lifts a brow. “You really think she’s going to give up witchy obscurity for a studio boardroom?”

Matt grins. “Not for any studio. But this one? If we pitch it right? We can blow A24 out of the fucking water.”

Patty leans back, amused. “And who, pray tell, is going to convince her?”

Sal whistles low. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the plan?”

Matt points around the room like he’s handing out weapons in a war room.

“Quinn- I want everything. Press, panels, podcast interviews. Get inside her head. I want to know what she wants before she does.”

“On it.”

“Sal- find out who else is sniffing around. What they’re offering, who she’s talking to. No one moves without us knowing about it.”

Sal nods, already typing on his phone.

Matt turns to Patty. “You’re producing the pitch. She’s not a ‘take her to lunch and flatter her’ type. She’ll want vision. Integrity. Respect. Sell her on what we aren’t.”

Patty gives a slow, dangerous smile. “I do love a challenge.”

Then Matt turns to Maya.

And the energy shifts.

She hasn’t spoken. Head to toe in Louis Vuitton streetwear, tight ponytail, three rings on each finger, legs crossed like she’s not even paying attention. But her jaw tightens at the sound of your name.

She’s already read your new script. She read it in bed while you lay next to her, legs tangled with hers, chewing the end of a pencil and asking if she thought the ending was too kind. She didn’t answer. She kissed you instead.

“You marketed Wolves at the Well,” Matt says. “She loved that campaign. She said it was the only time her work didn’t feel… diluted.”

Maya says nothing.

“She trusted you,” Matt continues. “You get her tone. You get her weird, terrifying mind. If anyone can figure out how to bring her in, it’s you.”

Maya exhales slowly. “She doesn’t do meetings. She doesn’t do people.”

Matt shrugs. “Then don’t make it feel like a meeting. Make it feel like whatever the hell she needs it to be. We just need her to talk to us.”

Maya tilts her head. “You want a horror film with a ten-minute silent sequence where a woman stares into a mirror and rips her teeth out one by one, and you think I’m the key to selling it?”

Matt grins. “Exactly. And I think you’ve still got a line to her.”

Her eyes narrow. “What makes you think that?”

Matt shrugs. “Because if I were her, and I trusted anyone in this hellhole, it’d be you.”

A beat.

Maya leans back in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

~

The boardroom becomes a war room.

Matt’s pacing again, sleeves rolled up like that helps him think. He’s surrounded by stacks of folders, half-eaten pastries, open laptops, and a terrifying number of Post-it notes.

“We can’t find her,” he says, hands in his hair. “I mean, what the fuck, we cannot find her. Where does she go when she disappears between projects?” he demands. “Nobody just vanishes anymore.”

“She does,” Quinn says, flicking through a spreadsheet. “She doesn’t have a personal Instagram, hasn’t been seen at a public event in eight months, and there’s literally one known address on file, some cabin in Northern California that may or may not exist.”

“She’s not completely off the grid,” Sal argues, waving his phone. “She liked a tweet two weeks ago.”

Matt spins on him. “What tweet?”

“It was about practical effects in horror. But the tweet got deleted, so…”

“So she’s alive, but elusive.” Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

Sal doesn’t even look up from his screen. “No publicist, no assistant, no active socials. Her website is literally a black screen with a Latin quote and a candle that burns out if you hover over it too long.”

“That’s performance art, not contact information!” Matt snaps.

Patty sips her tea. “She’s a ghost with awards.”

Matt slams a file down. “I promised Griffin we were talking to her this week. I called her the next big thing. The anti-Marvel. The future of smart cinema. He said, and I quote, ‘We need her in the building before A24 eats our souls and pisses out another Oscar.’”

Patty doesn’t blink. “And you told him you had this in the bag didn’t you?”

“I panicked!” Matt throws his arms up. “And now we’re screwed.”

He turns, wild-eyed, to Maya, who’s lounging in her chair with one knee up, chewing on the end of a pen and looking like this is the most fun she’s had in months.

“You marketed her last movie,” Matt clings to the one link he has to you. “You got her. You understood her. You got into her head. If anyone knows where she might be, it's you.”

Maya stretches slowly, deliberately, and shrugs. “Maybe she’s just… busy. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

Quinn blinks. “Isn’t she developing something?”

“She’s always developing something,” Sal mutters. “The question is where. And with who.”

Matt’s pacing again. “We’re talking about the woman who made a horror movie about intergenerational trauma and demonic taxidermy and made it a hit. She’s brilliant. She’s unstable. She’s perfect. And she’s missing.”

Patty tilts her head. “She’s not missing. She’s choosing not to be seen.”

Matt points at her like she just unlocked the final puzzle piece. “YES. Exactly. She’s choosing. And we need to give her a reason to choose us. We need bait. Blood in the water. Something that says, ‘We get it. We’re not like the others. We won’t sand down your edges.’”

Sal sighs. “You’ve got a weird artsy cinephile boner for this woman haven’t you?”

Quinn looks toward Maya. “Seriously though… no leads at all?”

Maya shrugs again, slower this time. “Maybe I didn’t leave the door open far enough.”

Matt groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. We are so fucked.”

Maya just smiles. Calm. Knowing. Not offering anything. Not rushing. Not helping. Not yet.

Hours pass.

The conference room gets darker as the sun goes down, but no one bothers with the lights. The glow from laptops and phones and half-dead chargers is enough. A shrine to failure, if you asked Maya, which, blessedly, no one does.

Quinn ks scrolling with the intensity of someone hacking into the Pentagon. “Okay, I found a podcast she did anonymously five years ago under a fake name. I think it’s her because she mentions a childhood fear of mirrors and references a book no one else ever talks about-”

Matt cuts her off. “Is there an email?”

“No,” Quinn says, without missing a beat.

Sal’s got three tabs open: Reddit, IMDbPro, and a very messy spreadsheet titled WITCH LEADS. “Someone swears they saw her in Prague. Someone else thinks she’s living in a commune in upstate New York.”

Matt looks physically ill. “I told Griffin we had momentum.”

Patty snorts from where she’s taken up residence at the head of the table, reading over a dog-eared draft of one of your old scripts. “She is actively avoiding being found. This is artful silence. Intentional disappearance. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s playing divine to be untouched.”

“She has to want something,” Matt insists, like he’s trying to manifest you. “People don’t vanish unless they want to be chased.”

“Or left alone,” Quinn offers gently.

Matt groans and flops into a chair. “Why does she have to be like this?”

Maya, still perched like a cat on the edge of her chair, flips her pen between her fingers. “Because if she wasn’t like this, you wouldn’t want her half as much.”

The room stills for a beat.

Matt narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

Maya lifts a brow. “A little.”

“You know something,” he says, sitting up straighter. “You’re being weirdly calm.”

“I’m always calm,” she lies.

Quinn glances over. “Seriously, Maya, no old contacts? No secret email? No unlisted number?”

Maya yawns. “If I did, don’t you think I’d have used it by now?”

Patty side-eyes her. “Would you?”

Maya doesn’t answer. Because the truth is: she hasn’t even tried. Not really. She could send one message. Just one. And you’d answer. But where’s the fun in that?

~

Three long, caffeine-stained, sleep-deprived days since Matt declared, loud and confident, that you were in play.

You were not in play. You’re hovering above like a spectral deity, ignoring every pitch deck and soft outreach like none of it matters, which, to you, it probably doesn’t.

Griffin is starting to hover. “Any updates?” has turned into “When will I see something?” and now it’s morphing into That Tone—that sharp, glossy warning that means the countdown has started.

Matt is in executive hell.

So he does the only thing he can do to cope: gets drunk and high with Sal and spirals through someone else’s movie.

Before the film, though, they hit up a spot Sal swears will “cure all emotional disease”, a high-end Italian place in West Hollywood that’s all mood lighting, rich velvet, and wine lists the size of novellas.

They meet at a high-end Italian place with dark velvet booths, moody jazz, and wine lists thicker than a studio script rewrite.

“I can’t believe she’s ghosting us,” Matt says, sinking into the booth. “Us, Sal. She makes one demonic deer movie and suddenly we’re not worthy of her divine witch vibes?”

Sal takes a sip of red wine and shrugs. “You knew what you were getting into. This is why I date Pilates instructors.”

Matt ignores him. “You know what the worst part is? It’s not even rejection. It’s- it’s nothing. She hasn’t even acknowledged we exist. It’s like trying to cast a fucking spell and getting static.”

Sal leans back. “You’re mixing your metaphors, man. You need carbs. Or a Xanax.”

Matt raises his glass. “Or both.”

Matt waves for a martini like it’s a sedative. “She’s out there somewhere. I know it. And we’re gonna lose her. I can feel it.”

Sal shrugs, flipping open the menu. “Then let her go. Find another terrifying gay auteur.”

Matt glares. “She’s the terrifying auteur. There is no one else.”

But before Sal can mock him further, something shifts in the room.

Matt glances up and freezes. There, in a deep velvet booth lit by a golden sconce, sits Maya Mason.

All sharp cheekbones and matte lipstick, black Gucci suit jacket slung over her shoulders, wine glass in hand. Her posture says I’m relaxed, but her eyes are calculating, ever so slightly narrowed.

Matt freezes. Elbows Sal.

Sal glances over and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t peg her for this level of bougie.”

Matt perks up. “Oh my god. Maya’s here. Should we go over?”

Matt starts to stand.

And then… you appear.

A soft, sudden presence moving through the space like perfume flitting over from the bar like a dream or a hallucination or some kind of punishment designed specifically for Matt’s crumbling sanity. You’re wrapped in silk and leather, a drink in one hand, your expression easy and unhurried.

You’re glowing under the amber light, glass in hand, lips glossed. You walk toward the booth without a second of hesitation. You slide in beside Maya, lean in, and press a kiss to her cheek. She murmurs something, barely audible, but her arm wraps around your waist. You settle into her side like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.

Matt’s mouth falls open. He grabs Sal’s arm, white-knuckled. “Is that…?”

“That’s her,” Sal breathes. “That’s her.”

“She’s been in the city this whole time?”

“In Maya’s lap.”

Matt blinks rapidly. “She’s the mystery of the industry. The director no one can contact. She communicates in riddles and metaphors and one-word emails and now she’s just… she’s just- here?!”

They both duck slightly behind the wine rack like two deeply uncool spies.

“Do we go over there?” Sal whispers.

“I can’t,” Matt hisses. “I’m wearing H&M.”

He peeks again. You’re laughing now, soft and warm, gently nudging Maya’s shoulder as you sip something golden from a heavy crystal glass. Maya says something and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. You smile up at her like she built the sky.

Matt slumps back down, clutching his drink. “We’re dead. Griffin’s going to turn me into a chair.”

Sal mutters, “Holy shit.”

Maya glances up and sees them. Her smile drops a millimeter. Her eyes narrow. Fucking hell. She takes a long, slow sip of her drink. Not because she’s thirsty, but because she needs a second to breathe through the coming wave of Matt’s voice, emails, frantic walk-and-talks, and existential screeds about visionary cinema.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

Maya smiles at you, soft but thin. “Yeah. Just spotted something annoying.”

You turn, casually following her gaze, eyes landing on the two stunned men standing by the maître d’.

You clock them instantly.

Maya exhales, like this is exactly the kind of nonsense she’d been trying to avoid. She rubs your thigh under the table, gently, grounding.

“Listen…” she mutters. “Continental studio… Matt and Sal over there, they want to make your next movie.”

You blink again, surprised but not rattled. “They do?”

“They’re fucking gagging for it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is that why they look like they’re about to pass out?”

“Yup.”

You giggle softly and kiss her cheek. “How flattering.”

Maya sighs, resigned. “So much for a quiet night.” She holds Matt’s gaze for a beat. Then lifts her glass.

A quiet, unreadable toast.

Across the restaurant, Matt stares into the middle distance like he’s experiencing ego death. “I’m going to throw up,” Matt mutters.

Sal raises his wine. “To lesbian espionage.”

You’re halfway through dessert, some ridiculous tower of hazelnut praline and dark chocolate that Maya ordered “because you deserve nice things”, when the shadows shift beside your table.

You glance up.

Matt Remick is standing there, eyes wide, smile tight, like he’s just come face to face with a god and doesn’t know if he should bow or cry.

Sal’s with him. Two steps behind. A little too much wine, a little too confident.

“We’ve been trying to reach you!” Matt says, breathless.

Maya groans under her breath.

You blink. “Clearly.”

Matt laughs nervously, motioning at the booth. “Can we- uh- join you? Just for a minute. We don’t want to interrupt. Well, we are interrupting. But we don’t want to.”

You glance at Maya. She doesn’t say anything, just leans back, arms crossed, watching with the calm of a lion in tall grass.

You nod and gesture to the other side of the table. “Go on then.”

They slide in like two college freshmen sitting down with the headmistress.

Matt clears his throat. “First of all, let me just say… we’re huge fans. Everyone at the studio is. Your work is… it’s revolutionary.”

You give a polite, noncommittal nod. Maya sips her drink, unmoved.

Then Sal leans in, far too casually. “Didn’t know you were a lesbian!” he says, grinning. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that- I mean, honestly it’s my most searched porn tab.”

Matt physically recoils.

You blink. Once. Slowly.

Maya does not react. At all. Just shifts, placing her hand casually on your thigh under the table.

Sal keeps going, like a man joyfully flinging himself off a cliff. “No, seriously. I mean, it’s hot, right? You two together. Power couple. You got that dark academia meets streetwear vibe. Like if The Craft had a PR department.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head ever so slightly. “This,” you say flatly, “is who wants to make my movie?”

Matt slaps Sal’s shoulder hard enough to shake the table. “Ignore him. He’s… he’s not usually like this.”

Maya leans in then, finally. “Oh, no,” she says, voice syrupy with sarcasm. “He’s exactly like this.”

Matt’s smile stretches thinner. “We just wanted to let you know- if you’re developing something new, we would love to talk. No pressure, obviously, but our door is wide open.”

You study him for a moment, sipping your drink. You don’t answer right away. You just… let the silence grow. It stretches long enough that Matt starts to visibly sweat.

Then finally, you look at Maya. “I thought they were gonna be taller,” you say.

Maya snorts into her glass.

~

Maya’s been smirking the whole ride back. She kicked her heels off in the car, feet in your lap, your fingers tracing slow circles against her ankle while she casually recounted every second of Matt and Sal’s implosion over dinner like it was the highlight of her year.

“‘Didn’t know you were a lesbian!’” she says, mimicking Sal with a cartoonishly terrible voice. “‘It’s my most searched porn tab!’ Babe. Babe. I almost choked on my fuckin wine.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head against the leather seat. “You loved it.”

“Oh, I loved watching you scare the shit out of them. I could feel Matt’s soul trying to exit through his eyeballs.”

You hum, smiling to yourself. “He really looked like he was meeting the cryptid he’s been chasing for years.”

Maya grins, sharp and smug. “And she was just sitting in my lap the whole time.”

Later, at home, you’re curled up in bed together. Maya’s shirt is unbuttoned, her skin warm against yours, one arm thrown over you like she’s never letting go. The lights are low. The city hums far below the windows.

She’s scrolling idly on her phone, probably reading headlines about someone else’s PR failure, when you shift closer, pressing your cheek to her collarbone.

“Maya?”

She hums in response, not looking away.

You trace your finger along the inside of her wrist, gentle. “Want me to pick your studio?”

That gets her attention. She lowers the phone and looks down at you.

Your eyes are soft, wide, full of something quiet and real. “Give you complete control over the marketing?” you ask, voice like silk. “Let you run the campaign. Do it your way. No committee. Just you.”

Maya stares at you for a moment. “You’d do that for me, baby?”

You nod, nuzzling into her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Of course I would.”

She exhales, long and slow, like she wasn’t expecting that to hit her so hard.

“Fuck,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “I really got you, huh?”

You nod again, smiling, utterly gone for her.

She kisses your forehead, her lips lingering. Then she pulls back just enough to look down at you with a slow grin. “Yeah?” she murmurs. “Alright, baby girl. I’ll set up the meeting.”

You smile, nodding, and then lean in again, just a little, just enough to brush your lips along her collarbone.

She freezes for a second.

You press another kiss, soft and slow, just below her throat.

“Baby,” she says, voice a warning, a whisper.

You don’t answer. You just kiss higher, up the slope of her neck, the angle of her jaw, your breath warm against her pulse. You feel the way her arm tightens around you, like she’s trying to stay cool, trying not to let on that she’s already halfway gone.

Then she turns her head, catches your mouth with hers. It starts soft, slow and indulgent, her fingers slipping into your hair as your lips move against hers in lazy, exploring rhythm. You tilt into her, pressing yourself closer, one hand slipping under the open edge of her shirt to rest against her stomach.

Maya deepens the kiss like she’s claiming it, her hand sliding down your back, pulling you more fully into her lap.

She breaks away just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. “You get like this when you make big promises?” she murmurs, smiling against your mouth.

You smile back, lips brushing hers. “Only for you.”

She kisses you again, hungrier now. Less patient. You’re still curled into her lap, fingers splayed across the bare skin of her stomach under her unbuttoned shirt, your lips brushing slow, reverent kisses up her throat like you’re praying to her body with your mouth.

She lets you.

Lets you worship her like this, patient and slow, kisses trailing higher, deeper, lips barely parting, breath warm against the spot just below her jaw that always makes her shudder. And when she does, when her fingers tighten in your hair just a little, you smile against her skin.

“Fuckin’ brat,” she mutters, voice thick, but she’s already tilting her head to give you more.

You kiss her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

Then you pull back just enough to whisper, soft and saccharine, “Want you.”

Her hand slides down to your throat, not rough, just there. Just holding. “Yeah?” she murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin, tipping your face up to meet hers.

You nod, lips parted, eyes wide and open in that way that always makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Want me to take care of you, babygirl?”

“Please.”

She kisses you hard this time, no patience, no softness. Just heat and teeth and tongue. Her grip on your throat tightens a little as she pushes you back into the pillows, climbing over you, her knee parting your thighs with practiced ease.

“You offering me your film and this sweet little body in the same night?” she growls, voice low and dangerous, mouth dragging down your neck now. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You gasp as her teeth catch your collarbone. That makes her laugh, deep and warm, before her mouth returns to your skin.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, hot against your chest. “Mine to kiss, mine to fuck, mine to show off when the studio begs for your name and you’re sitting in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into her back, hips rising to meet her. “Yes, Maya…”

“You gonna be good for me?”

“Yes/ yes, I’ll be so good… ”

“You are good,” she purrs, trailing her hand down between your thighs, fingers slipping under your panties like you were made for her. “Always so fuckin’ good for me.”

And when her fingers finally slide into you, slow and deep, you cry out for her, high and sweet and already undone, and Maya grins like she just won. Because she did.

Her fingers are already inside you, deep and slow, dragging along that perfect spot that makes your thighs tremble and your breath catch in your throat. Maya’s body is draped over yours, shirt half-off, hair falling over her face as she watches you like she’s memorizing the way you fall apart.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me,” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “So sweet, baby. Can’t believe this perfect little thing belongs to me.”

Your hips rock up to meet her hand, helpless and greedy. “Maya…”

She curls her fingers just right and you gasp, eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back against the pillows. “Uh-uh,” she says, voice sharp, dominant. Her free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Eyes on me.”

You do. Because how could you not?

Her smirk softens at the edges. “Look at you,” she whispers. “So powerful out there. Untouchable. And now you’re under me, legs shaking, begging to come.”

You nod, desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, baby,” she coos. “I’ve got you.”

She fucks you with deliberate, punishing strokes that make your back arch, your nails claw at the sheets, your voice turn to broken little moans that only she gets to hear.

“Who makes you feel this good?” she demands, her mouth at your ear now, her pace unrelenting.

“You do,” you gasp. “You do, Maya!”

“That’s right.”

She doesn’t let up. Her thumb finds your clit, circling in slow, sinful rhythm as her fingers thrust deeper. You’re close. So close. And she knows it. She feels it.

“Come for me,” she commands, voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

And when you do, it crashes over you like fire, white-hot and consuming, your whole body shaking as you sob her name. She holds you through it, fingers still moving as you writhe beneath her, overstimulated and soaked.

You’re gasping, lips parted, body trembling and she still doesn’t stop.

“Again,” she says, quieter now. “I want one more.”

“M-Maya…” You’re already wrecked, legs weak, tears in your lashes.

But her hand doesn’t leave you. Her mouth kisses your throat, your cheek, your lips. Her eyes stay on yours.

“You said I had control, didn’t you?” she whispers.

You nod, crying out as she thrusts again. “Yes- yes- fuck- yes!”

“Good girl.”

You’re shaking.

Your chest is heaving, thighs soaked, voice cracked open into raw little gasps. And Maya still hasn’t let up. She hasn’t stopped touching you, hasn’t moved from where she’s curled against your body, fingers still inside you, lips still on your neck.

“Fuck, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and wrecked with praise. “You’re so good for me. So perfect like this.”

You can’t speak. Your throat is raw from moaning, your body so sensitive that even the smallest movement makes your hips twitch. But Maya isn’t finished. She licks into your mouth when you try to cry out again, muffling your moans with her kiss, letting your broken little sounds melt into her tongue as she keeps her rhythm steady.

“Come on, babygirl,” she says, voice molten. “One more for me. Just one more. You can do it. I’ve got you,” she purrs. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?”

You nod, tears spilling over as your eyes squeeze shut.

“That’s my girl,” she says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Fucking take it.”

Your climax hits harder this time, like lightning, like something primal cracking loose inside you. You sob her name, the sound helpless, wrecked, as your body arches into hers and the pleasure rips through you like fire.

Maya doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling, gasping, pleading for her mouth instead of her fingers. She finally slows, eases her hand out, kisses your cheeks, your wet lashes, your trembling lips.

“Shhh,” she whispers, wrapping herself around you. “I’ve got you, baby. You did so good for me. So fucking good.”

You collapse into her, boneless and broken and safe. She pulls you close, her hands now stroking soft and slow down your back, murmuring against your hair, “I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you.”

The room is still hazy with the aftermath, your body soft, spent, sprawled across Maya’s chest as she strokes your hair with slow, possessive fingers.

You’re trembling in that delicious, floating way. Your skin feels fever-warm, your lips swollen from her kisses, your thighs aching from being held open so long. Every inch of you is humming, fucked out and fully hers.

And Maya?

Maya looks like a goddess. Lipstick smudged, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with satisfaction.

She presses a kiss to your hairline.

You breathe out her name like a prayer. “Maya…”

She hums, low and amused, fingers still stroking your spine. “That was sweet, baby. You took it so well.”

You nod, nuzzling closer. “Wanted to be good for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You were. You always are.”

There’s a pause. Then her fingers tighten a little in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. “But I think someone forgot her manners.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs instinctively press together.

“You gonna thank me properly?” she purrs, tilting your chin up to meet her eyes. “Or you gonna make me ask again?”

You whimper. “Want to. Want to thank you.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous, and shifts onto her back, guiding you between her thighs with the smooth confidence of someone who already knows what you’ll do. Who owns what you’ll do.

“Show me, then,” she says, voice all velvet and command. “Show me how grateful you are.”

You settle between her legs, kissing her thighs reverently, softly at first, until she threads her fingers through your hair and tugs you where she wants you.

She’s soaked for you. Already aching. And when your tongue finally drags over her, slow and sweet, she lets out a low, shuddering moan that makes your heart stutter.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, voice shaking now. “My good fucking girl.”

You lick into her like she’s holy, like this is your altar, and your worship is earned. You’re gentle, focused, letting her control the rhythm, her hand guiding your mouth, her hips twitching up against your tongue as she gets louder, messier, more desperate.

You moan against her, the sound sending vibrations straight through her.

“Fuck… fuck, yes- don’t stop, don’t you dare- ”

She comes with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clenching around your head, her voice shattering into a gasp of your name like it’s the only word she knows.

You stay there.

Kiss her through it. Lick her clean. Keep your mouth soft and open on her until she’s twitching, panting, tugging your hair to pull you off with a sharp hiss.

You look up at her, eyes shining, and whisper: “Thank you, I love you.”

Maya groans. “Fuck. Come here.”

She pulls you up, kisses you filthy, tasting herself on your tongue and rolls you into her arms, both of you ruined and radiant in the glow of it.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, warm and golden, casting a soft glow over your skin as you stretch slowly beneath the sheets.

You’re still a little sore. Your thighs ache in that perfect way, your lips are swollen from kissing, and there’s a faint, delicious hum still rolling through your muscles, reminders of everything Maya did to you last night. How she took from you. How you gave her everything.

She’s already awake.

Propped against the headboard, hair mussed, one arm lazily draped around your waist as she scrolls her phone with the other hand, wearing only her open silk robe and a smirk that spells danger.

You blink up at her, sleep-heavy. “What’re you doing?”

She doesn’t look away from the screen. “Texting Matt.”

You groan and bury your face in her hip. “Poor man.”

She grins. “He’s fine. I’m giving him the gift of hope.”

You peek up. “What’d you say?”

Maya hits send with a little flourish, then turns the phone toward you.

<Maya: You’re getting your meeting. Wear something that doesn’t scream ‘desperation.’>

You burst into sleepy laughter, curling closer to her. “You’re so mean,” you mumble against her skin.

She strokes your hair. “He’ll live. Probably already printing t-shirts that say I Met Y/N Y/L/N and Survived.”

You giggle again, then go quiet.

Maya glances down. “What?”

You look up at her, eyes soft. “I’m glad it’s you.”

She pauses. Smile fading into something warmer, deeper.

“I know,” she says, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Me too.”

Then her phone buzzes. A message from Matt.

<Matt R: OH MY GOD. WHEN. HOW. WHERE. WHO DO I CALL. I’M READY.>

Maya sighs dramatically and locks her screen. “This is what I get for letting the masses know you’re mine.”

You hum, smug. “You love me.”

She kisses you. “I fucking do.”

~

The conference room is spotless. Brighter than usual. Like someone turned up the lights to overcompensate for the impending dread.

Matt Remick is pacing again.

Quinn’s at the end of the table, calm on the outside, but absolutely sweating through her blouse. Sal’s already had two coffees, half a croissant and is fidgeting so hard the table rattles.

And Maya? Maya’s lounging in her chair like this is a boredom exercise, one leg crossed over the other, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses still on even though they’re inside. Her expression is unreadable, cool and calm, the faintest smirk playing at her lips.

“She’s late,” Matt says, not for the first time.

“She’s not late,” Maya replies, not looking up. “She’s theatrical.”

Quinn eyes the door like it might explode open at any second. “Do we stand when she comes in?”

Matt actually considers it. “I don’t know, do we?!”

“She’s not the fucking Pope,” Maya mutters.

Sal’s bouncing his knee. “I think I’m gonna throw up. What if she hates the pitch? What if she says nothing and just leaves?”

“She won’t leave,” Maya says, now finally pulling off her sunglasses, revealing that infuriating glint in her eyes.

“How do you know?” Matt asks.

And that’s when they all hear it: the elevator ding.

Everyone freezes.

Maya uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. “She’s here,” she says.

Sal stands so fast he knocks his chair back.

Matt smooths his blazer, then immediately un-smooths it, then just gives up and wipes his palms on his trousers.

The footsteps echo down the hallway.

Quinn breathes out, once. “Okay. Show time.”

Maya leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee from her obnoxiously big Stanley cup like the goddess of chaos she is. “She’s gonna eat you alive,” she says, deadpan.

Matt doesn’t know if she’s joking.

And then the door opens. You enter the room like a shadow falling over water, quiet, poised, the kind of still that makes people hold their breath without realizing it. The moment you step through the door, the air shifts. Matt bolts upright. Quinn straightens her notes. Sal tries to stand but mostly fumbles his coffee.

Maya’s already sitting back in her chair, legs crossed, wearing a black Gucci hoodie layered over a YSL T-shirt, obscenely expensive sneakers up on the edge of the table like this is a meeting she couldn’t care less about. But her eyes don’t leave you. Not once.

You take the head of the table. Say nothing. Let them sweat.

Matt starts first, of course. “We are thrilled you’re here. Honestly, this… this means a lot.”

You blink.

He keeps going. “We’ve been talking internally about what kind of slate makes sense for where film is heading, where you’re heading. And your voice? We think it defines the next era.”

Quinn jumps in. “Your work doesn’t compromise, and neither do we. You’d have creative control, a team that gets the tone, the language, the darkness.”

“We’ll protect your process,” Matt adds quickly. “We want to empower you, not get in your way.”

“We’ll give you whatever you want,” Sal says, before realizing how that sounds. “I mean, not whatever, but like… most things. Within reason. Or- outside reason, if it’s, like, cool.”

You stare at him.

Maya pinches the bridge of her nose.

You sit at the head of the table, spine straight, legs crossed, eyes focused on a fixed point in the distance like you’re seeing something no one else in the room can.

The others: Matt, Sal, and Quinn, are still mid-pitch. Words flying, ideas piling up on top of each other, offers and promises and desperate energy all funneled toward you.

And you’re still.

Maya clocks it immediately. She hasn’t said a word since you walked in. Just sat quietly off to the side in her usual luxury streetwear combo, arms folded, eyes locked on you.

But when your fingers twitch on the armrest, barely, like a flicker of static, she moves. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just real. She stands, walks over, and places her hand on your back. Palm flat. Warm. Steady. Her other hand rests on your forearm. No words. No looks exchanged.

And you exhale.

Barely a sound. But Maya feels it.

Your shoulders loosen. Your eyes slip closed. Not all the way, just enough to quiet the noise. You lean into the touch. Just a little.

And that’s when Quinn sees it.

It clicks, not in some cinematic, revelatory way. Just quietly. All at once. You’re not mysterious because it’s your brand. You’re not untouchable because you’re trying to be.

You’re just… different.

Your silence isn’t curated. It’s instinct. The long pauses. The blank stares. The way you drift just slightly outside the rhythm of a room. You’re not avoiding them because you’re a diva. You’re avoiding them because you’re anxious.

Quinn glances at Maya who is now gently running her thumb along your arm, still facing forward like she doesn’t want to make a scene, and sees it for what it is.

This isn't a strategy. It’s care. Maya’s anchoring you while the others scramble to impress you. And it’s working.

Matt hasn’t noticed. He’s still going, talking fast, trying to pivot into something with buzzwords. Sal keeps jumping in with half-formed ideas.

But Quinn watches the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re finally able to breathe again.

And Maya? Maya just mutters, quiet enough for only you to hear: “You’re good, baby. They’re just noise.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Matt is mid-sentence, something about festival reach and global rights, his voice hitting that slightly manic pitch of a man dangling off the edge of a dream.

“- we’d leverage the marketing momentum of Wolves at the Well, of course, but frame this next project as your arrival. The next evolution of your vision, scaled but intact, and-”

“Matt,” Quinn says, calmly but firmly.

He falters. “What?”

She holds up a hand. “Just… give me a second.”

Sal blinks. “Wait, what-”

“No, seriously,” Quinn says, her eyes never leaving you. “Let’s stop. Right now.”

Everyone turns.

You haven’t moved. Still sitting there, Maya’s hand resting gently against your arm, your fingers now loosely curled into hers beneath the table. Your eyes are half-lidded, face soft but unreadable.

Quinn sees it again, the stillness, the disconnect, the focus. But also the touch point. Maya’s presence. The grounding.

Quinn leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s speaking across a sacred line. “We don’t want to pitch at you,” she says. “We want to work with you. However that looks.”

You blink slowly.

Matt looks confused. Sal is squinting like he’s missed half a conversation.

Maya says nothing. Just lets her thumb glide against your wrist again.

And that’s when you speak.

Quiet and measured like every word has to come out slowly, or else you’ll lose your nerve. “I want Maya to have everything she wants.”

Matt frowns. “What?”

You lift your gaze. Steady now. Direct. “I want her to have whatever she wants.”

A beat.

“I know you want me,” you continue, voice calm but unwavering. “But I only trust her.”

Silence. Not dramatic silence. Loaded silence. The kind that settles into every corner of the room and stays there.

Matt runs a hand through his hair, laughing, just once, like it escaped him. “Okay. Okay. Fine.”

Maya squeezes your hand under the table.

You sit there, spine straight, Maya’s hand still tucked gently over yours on the table. Matt looks stunned. Sal’s blinking like he missed a scene. Quinn is unreadable, but watching, always watching.

Then Maya clears her throat and stands. “Now give us the room.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

She jerks her head toward the door. “Out. Five minutes.”

Quinn nods immediately, dragging Sal by the arm. Matt hesitates, glancing at you one last time before sighing and following.

The door clicks shut.

And no one hears footsteps retreating because of course they don’t leave. They stay just outside. Pressed up against the glass wall like they’ve got a right to any of what’s about to happen.

Inside? Maya turns to you, arms crossed, eyes soft, but still sharp enough to cut.

“You were fucking incredible,” she says, quiet and sure. “You know that, right?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. You’re up before you know it, rising from the chair like you’re being pulled to her.

Maya barely gets her arms open before you’re on her, hands in her hair, mouth on hers, kissing her like you need it to live. It’s not graceful. Not curated. It’s messy. Desperate. Honest.

She catches you easily. One hand on your waist, the other fisting in the back of your shirt as your mouth moves hot and hungry over hers.

You mumble against her lips, voice cracking, “I was shaking. I was shaking, Maya.”

“I know,” she says, kissing you again. Slower this time. “But they didn’t see it. You held the room. You made the call. You were fucking brilliant, baby.”

Your hands are everywhere, cupping her face, grabbing her shirt, trying to climb into her skin. “I hate meetings,” you breathe. “I hate rooms like this.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to hide.”

“I know,” she says, grounding her palm at the small of your back. “And you still did it.”

She kisses you again, rough and claiming, and you melt into it, letting her hold your weight like she always does. Her hand slides up your spine, holding you tight, kissing you like she’s proud. Like you’re hers. Like you always have been.

Outside the door, Matt whispers, “Are they… are they making out right now?”

Sal nods, reverent. “I think she just cried on her a little.”

Quinn’s smirking. “She chose Maya, not us.”

And inside?

Maya breaks the kiss only to murmur against your lips, her voice hoarse.“You want me to tell them you’ve made your decision?”

You nod, breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Tell them I’m yours.”

Maya grins. “Oh, they know.”

The door swings open.

Maya strides out like a woman who’s just pulled off the heist of the century. She’s grinning. Smug. Unbothered. Lips a little redder than they were ten minutes ago.

Sal looks up, stunned. Quinn raises an eyebrow, already clocking the lipstick situation.

Matt shoots to his feet. “Well?”

“She said yes,” Maya says, without ceremony. “You can unclench now.”

Matt nearly wilts with relief. “Holy shit. Okay. Amazing. What do you need? What do we need to-”

“I want a proper budget,” Maya cuts in, already gathering her bag like she’s about to leave a crime scene. “None of this pretend-support bullshit. I want a full team, proper spend, launch runway, and I want control of the marketing. Not a taste. Not a ‘collaborative’ voice. Control.”

Matt nods, fast, desperate. “Yes. Fine. Whatever she needs.”

“Good,” Maya says, slinging her bag over her shoulder, grin spreading. “You can tell Griffin she’ll be in touch with a script by the end of the week.”

Sal blinks. “She’s already finished it?”

“She’s already writing a sequel,” Maya says, breezing past.

“And where are you going?” Quinn asks, voice amused, arms crossed.

Maya flashes a wicked grin as she opens the door. “I’ve got a meeting with Mackie and Ron Howard at the Sunset Tower in twenty. And then I’m taking my girl home.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “You’re- wait, what?”

But Maya’s already gone.

And behind her? You trail after her quietly, your fingers brushing hers. Head down. Lips kissed raw. You don’t say anything to the room as you leave.

You don’t need to.

Because Maya already said it all.

The SUV is silent, the tinted windows shielding you from the chaos you just left behind. The studio’s glass façade disappears behind you like a fading mirage.

Maya’s sitting beside you in the back seat, legs wide, arm slung lazily along the backrest behind your shoulders. Her other hand rests firmly on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, idle circles through the fabric of your trousers.

You haven’t said much since leaving.

You don’t need to.

She breaks the silence first. Voice low. Warm. Slightly smug. “You were a fucking machine in there.”

You laugh softly, head dropping to her shoulder. “I was shaking.”

“And still owned the room,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You didn’t just say yes to the deal, you dictated the terms. You looked Matt Remick in the face and said, ‘I trust her, not you.’ You could’ve spat in his latte and he still would’ve thanked you.”

You smile against her neck, quiet and dazed.

“I was just trying not to cry.”

Maya scoffs. “Yeah, well. You made me want to cry. Proud tears. Or maybe power-hungry tears. Still unclear.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, harder now.

“Seriously, though,” she says, glancing at you. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then her voice drops even lower. “You know what happens to good girls who hand me entire marketing budgets and creative control?”

You lift your head slowly, lips parted, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

“What?”

Maya leans in, grinning like the devil. “They get fucked stupid.”

~

The house is quiet when you get in.

Your shoes are off before you realize it. Your hands are a little shaky, your breathing shallow like you’ve just finished running, but it’s not fear. It’s the come-down. The crash after the biggest high of your life.

You’re going to direct your film. With a real budget. With real backing. And with Maya’s studio. You’re going to make your movie. And you didn’t cry. Not once.

You’re in the middle of the living room, fingers pressed to your lips like you’re still trying to convince yourself it’s real, when you feel her behind you.

Maya slides her arms around your waist from behind, her mouth at your neck. “You did it,” she whispers, low and sure.

You nod slowly. “I didn’t cry.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I talked. I said what I wanted. I told them to trust you.”

“You were perfect,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in it.

You turn in her arms to look at her, eyes wide and glossy. “I didn’t think I could-”

Maya cuts you off with a soft kiss. Then another. And then she pulls back, eyes dark. “You didn’t just do it,” she says. “You owned it. You handed me a whole fucking studio’s trust, like it was nothing. And you know what, baby?”

You shake your head, dizzy with her voice.

“I’m gonna make you feel everything tonight.”

She kisses you again, slower now, hands moving down your back to squeeze your ass as she walks you backward toward the bedroom.

“You trust me?” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Good. Strip.”

Your breath catches.

Maya steps back just enough to pull her gucci hoodie off. Her bra’s black, expensive, perfect. Her eyes never leave yours.

You pull your shirt off slowly, fingers fumbling slightly, body humming. By the time your clothes hit the floor, she’s already reaching into the drawer by the bed.

When she turns back, she’s got the harness on, low-slung, black leather, heavy with promise. Her eyes burn into you as she adjusts the straps, slow and practiced.

You’re already trembling.

“Get on the bed,” she says. “Hands above your head.”

You obey.

You always obey for her.

She climbs on top of you, straddling your hips, kissing you deep, one hand cupping your jaw, the other tracing down your throat. “Still with me, babygirl?”

You nod, lips parted. “Always.”

And then she takes her time. Mouth on your neck. Then your chest. Her tongue curling around each nipple, licking and sucking until you’re whining, arching up into her, begging already and she hasn’t even touched you where you need it.

“You gonna let me fuck you slow?” she whispers, kissing down your stomach.

“Yes… please… ”

“Gonna let me take care of you?”

“Yes, Maya…”

She kisses your thighs reverently. Then slips a hand between them, parting you gently. She leans down, kisses your clit once, softly. Then again. Then sucks it just hard enough to make you gasp. By the time she slides the tip of the strap into you, you’re already panting, needy, hands gripping the sheets. And still she moves slowly. Inch by inch.

“You’re so tight for me, baby,” she murmurs, watching you fall apart. “So fucking wet.”

You moan, high and desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, babygirl. I got you.”

She fucks you with long, deep strokes, no rush, no teasing. Just possession. Her hand on your stomach to hold you down, her strap dragging against every perfect spot inside you as she watches you lose yourself beneath her.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours…I’m yours, Maya- fuck!”

“That’s right,” she growls, picking up the pace just slightly, her hips rolling into you in smooth, relentless rhythm. “All fucking mine.”

And when you come, crying out her name, back arching off the bed? She doesn’t stop. She kisses you through it. Fucking you deep and slow until you’re trembling, overstimulated, wrecked. Only then does she slow down, hands soft again, kisses returning to your chest, your face, your lips.

“Breathe, baby,” she murmurs. “You did so good. My perfect girl.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you collapse beneath her.

Safe.

Home.

And completely hers.

~

The room is low-lit and warm, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes after. After the chaos. After the fight. After the fuck.

You’re both in bed.

You’re curled into her side, skin bare but for the threadbare Stevie Nicks tee you stole from her weeks ago and never gave back. Legs tangled under the sheets, arms wrapped around her waist like you’re anchoring yourself to something real.

Maya’s already half reclined, propped against a velvet pillow, silk YSL pyjamas buttoned down just enough to flash the edge of her collarbone. She’s got a facemask pulled up on top of her head like she forgot she meant to use it. Her phone’s on the nightstand. She hasn’t looked at it in an hour.

The only light comes from the old black-and-white horror film flickering across the flatscreen, The Haunting, or maybe Carnival of Souls, something you love with too much reverence for anyone else to touch.

You’re transfixed. Eyes wide. Body relaxed in the way it only ever is when Maya’s hand is resting between your shoulder blades, fingers moving in lazy, absent circles.

She watches the screen for a minute. Watches you watch the screen. Then she laughs softly under her breath. It’s affectionate. Disbelieving.

“Jesus,” she murmurs, lips ghosting against your hair. “I’m dating the next big name in cinema and she’s still just a little cryptid watching ghost films in my bed.”

You don’t even look at her. “I heard that.”

“I meant it.”

You hum, small and smug.

She shifts slightly, brushing her nose against the crown of your head.

You’re not talking. But your hand’s curled into the silk at her waist, absentmindedly twisting the fabric between your fingers like you’re grounding yourself there.

It makes her chest ache.

There are meetings waiting in her inbox. Contracts to finalize. An entire launch strategy to sketch out for a movie that doesn’t even exist on paper yet.

But none of it matters right now.

Because you, her strange, brilliant, batshit little artist, are asleep in her arms, breathing slowly, dreaming vividly, probably whispering storyboards in your head as you drift.

She smiles, slow and full, and tightens her arm around you.

And for a moment, just a moment, Maya Mason, queen of twenty-city press runs and million-dollar deadlines, just lies there. Holding her girl. Breathing in your soft weirdness. Letting herself be still.

And as the film plays on, grainy and echoing with ghostly screams, you mumble something into her neck. Something half-formed and sleepy.

“Fog machines…”

She stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, baby,” she whispers. “You can have fog machines.”

[carnagewidow]

made me cry

More Than You Will Ever Know (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: For most of your time at college, you've been in a relationship with your sugar mommy, Agatha Harkness. Everything is going great except for the fact you are about to graduate and with that comes change

- OR -

What happens when you turn up at her door months later. It's sex, sex happens.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, alcohol, sugar mommy Agatha with a few grey hairs 😍, sugar baby Reader, established dynamic, Mommy kink, strap riding (R recv), squirting, angst, a little hurt/comfort, both Agatha and Reader are switches, fingering (R recv), oral (both recv), multiple orgasms, soft aftercare

Words: 5.9k

A/N: This probably isn't the fic y'all were expecting when I said I was doing a sugar mommy Agatha post... but I hope you enjoy it anyway my lovelies ;) requested fic

AO3 | Masterlist

The restaurant you were at was one of those exclusive places with no menu—just a personal chef curating a bespoke experience, each dish a masterpiece plated with precision. You weren’t sure what half the things on your plate were, but Agatha, ever composed, swirled a glass of deep red wine and explained each one with a knowing smirk.

She sat across from you, effortlessly elegant in a dark silk blouse, her silver streaks catching in the dim candlelight. You’d barely sat down before she leaned forward, her fingers brushing over yours, and said, “You look stunning tonight, darling.”

You did, of course, because she’d made sure of it. The dress you wore—a sleek, custom-made piece in a colour that suited your skin perfectly—was her gift. She had it delivered earlier that day, instructing you to wear it to your graduation as well. “Something beautiful for someone extraordinary,” she had hummed as she held it up against your body, assessing the fit before insisting on getting it tailored just a little more.

Throughout dinner, she was her usual indulgent self, ordering the best of everything and ensuring you never had to lift a finger. When the waiter poured more champagne into your flute, she merely tilted her head with amusement and said, “We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

And celebrate she did—showering you with praise between bites of delicacies, her voice rich with something dangerously close to pride.

“I always knew you could do it,” she said, her thumb lazily tracing the stem of her wine glass. “You’re brilliant, and I’ve seen it from the very beginning. Your mind—fuck, it’s a wonder and a privilege to witness. I hope you know that.”

Warmth spread through you, not just from the alcohol but from the way she looked at you—as if you were the only thing worth admiring in this whole damn place. You ducked your head, feeling the heat creep up your neck, but Agatha wasn’t having any of that. She reached across the table, tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet her gaze.

"None of that, baby," she chastised softly. "You’ve worked so hard, and now you're finally here. I am so proud of you."

Your heart squeezed, and before you could even form a response, she was placing a small velvet box in your hand. "Not yet," she hummed when you made to open it, her lips curling in amusement. "Save it for later."

You didn’t press, instead slipping the small box into your bag—another thing Agatha had insisted on buying for you.

And, in this moment, life was perfect.

—

Heat. Skin against skin. The soft rustle of silk sheets as your body moved against hers, your fingers digging into toned muscle. Agatha beneath you, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you, encouraging you, worshipping you in the way only she knew how. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and sex.

"You take me so well, baby," she rasped, her voice hoarse with want, nails dragging down your spine, leaving trails of pleasure in their wake.

Your head was spinning, pleasure pooling in your stomach, tightening unbearably. She always did this to you—reduced you to nothing but need, left you craving her touch even when she was already giving you everything. And right now, you could feel her inside you, the stretch of silicone filling you so perfectly it had you trembling, your body fluttering around the unyielding length with every slow, deliberate roll of your hips.

"Mommy," you mewled, your voice high and breathless, and Agatha groaned in response, her grip on you tightening.

"That’s right, baby," she purred, voice molten. "Come on, let me hear you. Let me feel you."

A desperate moan left your lips, your thighs shaking as she bucked up into you, her hands guiding your movements in a way that made you dizzy with need. Every stroke had you gasping, the friction deep and deliberate, hitting your g-spot over and over again. But it wasn’t just that—Agatha’s mouth was on you too, hot and wet, her lips closing around your nipple as she sucked, her tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, sending another sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"So fucking perfect," she praised, letting her fingers slide up to cup your jaw, tilting your head down until your lips were only a breath away. "You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?"

"Y-Yes, Mommy," you gasped, barely coherent, but she swallowed your sounds with a kiss, deep and possessive.

The pressure coiled tighter, impossibly so, your body alight with sensation, every nerve ending sparking under her touch. You could feel another orgasm building, stealing the breath from your lungs, your nails sinking into her shoulders as you chased that final, devastating peak.

"That's it, my love," she groaned, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Cum for me, baby."

And you did. A shattered moan, body arching, the pleasure tearing through you like fire. The intensity was blinding, overwhelming; your entire body tensed, then gave way to the sheer force of your climax. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as the pleasure burst free, your thighs trembling violently as you soaked the strap buried deep inside you.

Agatha groaned low, feeling the warmth spread between her legs, the slick mess you had made drenching the harness, the sheets, and her own skin. “Fuck, baby,” she husked, her voice thick with satisfaction, her hands gripping your hips as if to steady you. “Look at you... so perfect.”

Your breath came in rapid pants, your limbs weak, your body still wracked with aftershocks. The evidence of your pleasure was undeniable—your arousal staining the sheets beneath you, glistening against Agatha’s stomach just above where the strap had pressed flush against her. She let out a pleased hum, her fingers tracing soothing circles on your back as you collapsed against her, utterly spent.

“There you go, baby,” she whispered, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “You did so well for Mommy.”

Her hands ran slowly, worshipfully, over your spine, grounding you as you shivered against her. She pressed lazy, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, anywhere she could reach, while both of you struggled to catch your breath. The world beyond these walls didn’t exist; there was only the warmth of her embrace, the way she murmured your name like a prayer, the soft hum of contentment vibrating against your skin.

You belonged here. With her. Always.

And yet, you didn’t notice the way her expression shifted, the way her hold tightened just a fraction, as if she were memorising the feel of you, as if she were already preparing to let you go.

—

The sun dipped below the skyline as you sat on the edge of Agatha’s expansive marble countertop, feeling a familiar weight in the air. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you had been wrapped in her arms, your body trembling with pleasure, her voice thick with praise as she called you perfect. She had spoilt you rotten—an extravagant dinner, a new dress, a reminder that she was proud of you, that she always knew you’d make it. Things had felt so whole, so right.

But tonight? Tonight felt like the cruellest contrast.

Agatha’s penthouse, usually brimming with her presence, warm and commanding, felt cold and distant. She was pacing the living room, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes avoiding yours. There was no teasing smirk, no playful remark about how well you took her the night before. The tension in the air was suffocating, pressing against your chest like a vice.

Finally, she broke the silence with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re about to graduate, Y/N,” she began, her voice smooth yet clipped. "I think it's time we stop pretending that this... arrangement... still serves either of us."

You blinked, your stomach plummeting. Just last night, she had held you so tightly, whispering sweet nothings against your skin. And now she was speaking as if the last three and a half years were nothing more than a fleeting indulgence.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the words came out too sharp, too raw.

Her eyes flickered toward you, her lips twisting into a teasing smirk, but it didn’t carry the same warmth it usually did. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, darling. You have a great job lined up and a whole life ahead of you. You don’t need me to be your sugar mommy anymore."

The words stung. You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat, masking it with a hollow laugh. "I don’t need you? Is that what you think?"

"You don’t need a sugar mommy," she corrected, her voice carrying that sharp edge that cut deeper than you wanted to admit. “I’m saying it’s time for you to grow up. To live your life without being bound to anything—or anyone.”

The finality in her words left you breathless. This wasn’t a joke. There was no hint of her usual playful cruelty. 

She really meant it.

“I don’t want that, Agatha,” you said softly, your voice cracking just a little, but your pride wouldn’t let you break. “I’m not ready for it.”

“Oh, I know you’re not,” she replied smoothly, turning away to pour herself a drink. The sound of liquid hitting glass was deafening in the quiet room. “But you’ll be fine. You’ll forget about me and find someone more your speed. Someone young and eager to be your equal, not just someone who's... well, who’s old enough to be your mother.”

A sharp sting bloomed in your chest, a dull, aching wound. Three and a half years down had come down to this. It started as just a simple arrangement—she took care of you financially, and you gave her company and affection in return. But somewhere along the way, something deeper had blossomed between you two, something neither of you had been brave enough to admit. And now she was discarding it like it had never meant anything at all.

She turned back to face you then, and for a brief moment, there was something else in her eyes—something softer, maybe even hesitant. But then it was gone, masked by that familiar smirk, the one she always used when she wanted to hide her vulnerability.

“Look, sweetheart, I’m doing this for you. You don’t need me holding you back. Go out there. Find yourself. It’ll be better for the both of us.”

Your chest was tight, the weight of her words suffocating. “I don’t want anyone else,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “I only want you.”

She scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but like I’ve said, you'll get over it.”

You let out a hollow, defeated scoff of your own, staring down at your feet as you willed yourself not to cry. When you finally spoke, your voice was eerily indifferent. “Okay.”

You grabbed your bag, turned on your heel, and stormed out, slamming the door behind you with a force that rattled the walls.

The moment you stepped onto the busy street, the cold air hit you like a slap in the face, but it wasn’t enough to stop the sting behind your eyes. You blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears, refusing to let the world see you like this.

But when you finally made it back to your apartment, the second the door clicked shut behind you, everything crumbled.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud, but you barely noticed as your knees gave out beneath you. You collapsed onto the hardwood, your entire body shaking, the weight of it all crashing down on you at once. The tears burnt as they spilt over, hot and unstoppable, rolling down your cheeks in thick, messy trails.

It wasn’t just crying—it was full-body, gut-wrenching, ugly sobbing. The kind that left your chest aching, your throat raw, and your limbs trembling. It felt like your heart had been shattered, and now it was cutting your hands to shreds as you desperately tried to gather the pieces.

You gasped for breath, curling in on yourself, hands clutching at your arms as if you could physically hold yourself together. But nothing could stop the pain or the gaping void that Agatha had left behind.

Your fingers reached for the armrest of your couch and found the hoodie she had bought for you last month, and you clung to it like a lifeline, burying your face into the fabric that still smelt like her. Just a few weeks ago, you would have never imagined this—never imagined she’d leave you, that she’d end things so cruelly.

You thought it would never end.

But it had.

And as you lay there, curled up on the floor, crying yourself to sleep in a hoodie that smelt like the woman who just broke your heart, you failed to notice how the small velvet box she had given you had slipped from your bag and slid under the couch, out of sight.

—

The days following Agatha’s decision felt like a blur. You tried to move on, to focus on your future. The job offer you’d received was a great opportunity, and Agatha had made a valid point about your independence. You told yourself this was for the best, that you could do this, that you could build a life outside of her.

But no matter how much you tried, every minute without her felt like a slow death.

Your apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt hollow. The bed was too big and too cold without her beside you. Mornings were the worst—waking up alone, reaching instinctively for her only to be met with empty sheets. You used to wake to the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the warmth of her body pressed against yours, her voice teasing as she coaxed you into wakefulness with slow kisses and whispered praises. Now, silence stretched endlessly, suffocating in its vastness.

You kept yourself busy, throwing yourself into the final few weeks of college life as graduation loomed closer. You accepted invitations to go out with friends and tried to lose yourself in the crowds, in the laughter, in the distractions, but it never worked. Conversations blurred together, nights out felt dull, and no matter how much you smiled or how much you laughed at someone’s joke, you felt empty. It wasn’t just loneliness. It was Agatha.

You missed her. Desperately.

You missed the sound of her laughter when she was genuinely amused—not the polite, calculated chuckle she gave in social settings, but the real one, the one that made her eyes crinkle and her entire body shake, a soft snort escaping her. You missed the way she would kiss your forehead absentmindedly, as if it were second nature, the way she’d roll her eyes at you but always, always indulge you. You missed the way she touched you, not just in the heat of passion but in the quiet moments—her hand on your lower back as she guided you through a door, her fingers tracing soothing patterns against your thigh as she read, the way she’d brush your hair back just to get a better look at you.

But most of all, you missed the way she saw you.

Because no matter how much success came your way, no matter how proud your professors were, no matter how many congratulatory messages you received, it all felt muted. Distant. Like something was missing, like a shadow had been cast over every achievement. And you knew exactly what it was.

It was Agatha.

She was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

You reckoned she had completely moved on, that she was thriving in your absence. You convinced yourself of it because what other choice did you have? The world wouldn’t let you forget her. She was too deeply woven into it.

Her name popped up in conversations—friends of friends mentioning her in passing, mutual connections keeping her name alive. And then there was social fucking media.

You didn’t follow her, of course. That would’ve been masochistic. But that didn’t stop her from appearing on all of your feeds, no matter the platform—through tagged photos, through shared articles, through snippets of interviews that made their way into your timeline.

She was back in full force, attending galas, closing deals, and commanding every room she stepped into. She was radiant, powerful, and untouchable. The world saw her as she always had been: composed. And it made you sick.

Because if she could move on so effortlessly, why couldn’t you?

—

It only got worse after graduation.

You should have been happy. You had finally done it—achieved everything you had worked so hard for. Your professors beamed with pride, and your family sent messages filled with love and admiration. Your friends celebrated you, taking you out, making toasts in your name.

And yet, through it all, the joy never felt whole.

Your graduation gown felt wrong without Agatha there to see it. The dress she had bought you clung to your body like a second skin, but instead of making you feel unstoppable, it felt wrong. Hollow. As if the fabric itself had been stripped of its magic, leaving behind nothing but an empty, uncomfortable reminder of what you had lost. What once made you feel desired now only makes you feel abandoned. 

As you stood on that stage, accepting your degree, you couldn’t help but scan the crowd, your heart foolishly hoping, just for a second, that you’d see her there. That she would be watching, pride shining in her eyes, just as she had promised.

But she wasn’t there and that should have been your final sign, the last nail in the coffin.

And yet it wasn’t.

Because you still needed her.

Not for her money, not for the extravagant gifts or the lavish lifestyle. You needed her. Her wit, her sharp tongue, the way she challenged you, pushed you, believed in you even when you didn’t believe in yourself. You needed the way she made you feel—cherished, adored, hers.

But she was gone and the world just kept on turning.

—

It took a few months, but eventually, the truth hit you like a freight train.

You couldn’t move on. You couldn’t picture a future without her. Your job was exciting, sure, but it was nothing compared to what you had with Agatha. The thought of another person touching you, holding you, even kissing you—it felt wrong. You only wanted her.

You had only ever wanted her.

You were cleaning your apartment when you dropped a pen and it had rolled beneath the couch, disappearing into the shadows. With a huff, you crouched down, reaching blindly, fingers brushing against something soft. Velvet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The box.

You pulled it out slowly, heart hammering in your chest. The moment you saw it, the memories rushed back; the dinner, the way Agatha had smiled at you with something unreadable in her eyes when she handed it over, the way she told you not to open it yet.

You swallowed hard and flipped the lid open.

Inside sat the most breathtaking ring. It was perfect. A piece so intricate and unmistakably you that it stole the air from your lungs.

Agatha had listened. She had remembered.

You had mentioned it once, maybe twice, in passing. About how you could never find anything quite right, how everything in stores always felt too impersonal, too generic. And yet, here it was. Commissioned. Designed just for you.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted it from the box, your eyes catching on the engraving along the inside.

"More than you will ever know."

Your breath hitched.

What did it mean? More than you would ever know… what? That she cared for you more than you realised? That she—

Your heart surged and shattered all over again.

How could she give you this and then break things off a day later?

It didn’t make sense.

And suddenly, you had to see her.

You barely remembered throwing on a coat, stuffing the box into your pocket, and hailing a cab. The moment you arrived at her building, you asked the concierge not to alert her. The doorman, who knew you after the countless times you came here for Agatha, hesitated before nodding, letting you up without question.

Your pulse was deafening as you knocked loudly on her door.

The seconds stretched unbearably.

And then—

The door swung open, revealing Agatha in silk loungewear, her hair in soft waves, her expression unreadable.

She was poised as always, but something was different.

Her eyes were tired. The dark circles beneath them barely concealed, her sharp features softer than you remembered. And suddenly, you wondered, had she actually moved on? Or was she just keeping up appearances?

Her lips curled into a familiar smirk, but there was no bite to it this time. No amusement.

"You look like hell, Y/N," she noted, voice unexpectedly soft.

You blinked, realising only now that fresh tears had fallen from your eyes on the way up to her apartment.

"Thanks," you replied, forcing a humourless smile. Your throat tightened. "I’ve missed you."

Agatha hesitated. Her gaze flickered over your face, searching, but for what, you weren’t sure.

"I thought I told you to move on," she said, voice quieter this time.

"I can’t," you confessed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

She didn’t stop you.

"I’ve tried. You’re all I want, Agatha. I don’t need anyone else, and I don’t want to."

She sighed, crossing her arms, tapping her fingers against her sleeve in that way she always did when she was thinking too much. "This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, you know."

Her voice was weary, laced with something close to regret.

"You’re supposed to live your life. You deserve someone who can give you what I can’t–"

"You give me everything," you butt in.

The words left you without hesitation, your feet carrying you closer, your heart pounding as your fingers brushed against the silk of her robe. "I don’t need anything else. I never did."

Her eyes darkened.

The breath between you was charged, heavy, thick with something you both had been suppressing for far too long.

"Y/N, don’t say things you don’t mean," she whispered, but her voice wavered. "I’m not going to–"

But she didn’t get a chance to finish. You leaned in, and the moment your lips met, the world shattered.

She gasped softly, just before her hands found your waist, pulling you flush against her. The kiss was desperate, urgent, and needy. A collision of everything unspoken between you.

Agatha responded immediately, claiming your mouth with a hunger that sent a rush of heat straight to your core.

"Fuck," she breathed against your lips before kissing you deeper, her grip tightening, pulling you impossibly close. "You’re going to be the death of me."

Your only response was a soft whimper, fingers tangling in her hair as you pressed yourself against her, already drunk on the feeling of her after so long apart.

"I missed you," you murmured between kisses, hands slipping under the robe, palms pressing against her warm, bare skin. "I missed you so much."

Agatha groaned, walking you back toward the bedroom.

"Show me how much."

The second your back hit the bed, Agatha was on top of you, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone. She tugged impatiently at your shirt, and you helped her strip it away before her hands slid down, claiming you as if she never wanted to let go again.

Your legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer as she kissed down your body, teasing, tasting, until all you could do was whimper and beg.

"Mommy," you moaned, arching beneath her as her mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over sensitive skin before her tongue soothed the sting.

She groaned at the sound of the title slipping from your lips, her fingers gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

"That’s right, baby," she murmured, voice dripping with want. "Let me take care of you. Let me remind you exactly who you belong to."

You gasped as her hands roamed lower, her touch setting every nerve in your body alight.

But before she could go further, your fingers curled around her wrist, stopping her.

Agatha’s brow furrowed slightly as she looked up at you, lips parted, eyes burning with desire but shadowed with something else.

"Why did you give me the ring?" You asked, your voice a whisper, fragile but demanding.

She stilled.

Her breath slowed.

For a long moment, she didn’t speak, her gaze searching yours as if trying to decide whether to run or to finally give in.

You swallowed hard and continued.

"You had it made just for me. You knew exactly what I wanted before I even knew myself. And then you gave it to me, only to leave the next day."

A crack formed in her carefully constructed mask.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," Agatha admitted finally, voice raw. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"By breaking my heart?"

Her jaw tensed. "By letting you go before I ruined you. Before I kept you."

Your fingers tightened around her wrist. "I wanted to be kept."

Her eyes flickered with pain, but before she could protest, you reached into the pocket of your discarded coat and pulled out the small velvet box.

You flipped it open between you, revealing the ring—the proof that she had always known you, had always loved you, even if she had never said the words.

"Then tell me what it means," you whispered.

Her throat bobbed as she looked at the engraving.

"More than you will ever know."

Agatha exhaled sharply and sat up, running a hand through her tousled hair. 

"It means..." she hesitated, then shook her head with a self-deprecating chuckle. "It means I’m a coward."

You frowned, shifting onto your side to face her fully. "Agatha–"

She cut you off with a sigh, her fingers ghosting over your wrist, like she needed to touch you to ground herself. "I was going to explain it all that night. Before I—before I convinced myself you were better off without me." She scoffed lightly, as if irritated at her own foolishness. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier for you to move on. That it would be easier for me."

Your breath caught. "And was it?"

Her gaze softened, and she gave you a small, sad smile. "No. It was hell."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers together, grounding yourself in her warmth. "What does the engraving mean?" You ask again.

She let out a breath like she had been holding it for months. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it, she said the words you had been waiting for all along.

"It meant... it means I love you, Y/N." She shook her head, laughing bitterly. "I love you more than you will ever know. I should have said it a long time ago, but I didn’t know how. So I put it in a gift instead, hoping you’d understand without me having to say it."

Your chest ached, but this time, it wasn’t just pain. It was overwhelming, all-consuming relief.

"I love you too."

Agatha’s breath caught.

"Say it again," she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You sat up, reaching for her, cupping her face between your hands.

"I love you, Agatha. I never stopped. I never could."

The tension in her body melted as she exhaled shakily, leaning into your touch.

Then she kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or frantic.

It was slow. Intentional. Reverent.

Agatha laid you back down with deliberate care, her hands trailing over your body like she was memorising you all over again. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered "mine" against your skin was a promise.

The rest of your clothes were shed in a haze of need, the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor drowned out by breathless moans and desperate hands mapping out familiar territory. Agatha took her time with you first, pinning you beneath her as she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your body, her tongue flicking over sensitive skin, her fingers following in its wake. When she finally dipped lower, parting your thighs with a knowing smirk. She took you apart with practiced ease—driving you to the brink again and again until you were a trembling, pleading mess beneath her.

But you wouldn’t let her have all the control tonight. With a sudden shift, you flipped her onto her back, straddling her hips, drinking in the sight of her flushed and breathless. You kissed like you wanted to drown in her, dragging your tongue down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts, sucking marks into her skin, and staking your claim the way she always had with you. 

And when you finally settled between her legs, when you pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh and felt her shudder beneath you, you didn’t tease; you devoured. The taste of her, the sound of her moans, the way her fingers twisted into your hair as she cried out your name—it was everything, and you never wanted to stop.

Agatha’s hands tightened in your hair, holding you in place as she rolled her hips, grinding up against your mouth, chasing her release with unrestrained need. She was completely lost in the sensation, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps, her thighs trembling around your head. 

"Just like that—fuck—don’t stop, baby," she groaned, throwing her head back as her body tensed. And then she shattered, her orgasm hitting her in waves, her grip tightening as she rode it out against your tongue, moaning your name like a prayer.

Agatha was wrecked by the time you pulled away, her chest heaving, her lips parted as she reached for you, pulling you back into a bruising kiss. "You’re insatiable," she panted, her nails raking down your back. 

"And you love it," you teased, grinning against her lips. 

She flipped you once more, settling herself over you with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I do. But  now it’s my turn again.” She trailed her lips down your neck, across your collarbone, then lower, nipping and sucking at your chest, your stomach, your thighs—leaving her marks all over you. 

Agatha hovered over your dripping cunt, her hands trailing possessively over your thighs, making you tremble, your body taut with anticipation. She took her time, lips and tongue teasing along the sensitive skin, her breath warm as she moaned something low and indulgent against you. The first slow drag of her tongue had you gasping, fingers fisting in her hair, and she hummed in approval, pressing deeper, savouring every reaction.

Her tongue worked you over with aching precision, lapping and circling before closing around your sensitive clit, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. The pleasure was almost too much, the heat pooling in your stomach threatening to spill over as she pressed her fingers inside, curling them perfectly to have you crying out. Every movement was deliberate—slow and deep, then quick and teasing, keeping you on the edge but never quite letting you fall. 

Meanwhile, you could hear the subtle, desperate rhythm of her own hips grinding down against the mattress, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as she lost herself in you, the friction bringing her closer and closer.

"You're shaking, baby," she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as she glanced up, her chin glistening, her expression utterly wrecked. "You gonna fall apart for me?" 

She didn’t wait for an answer, just sealed her mouth around you again, her fingers pressing deeper, relentlessly coaxing you toward that inevitable bliss. And then she gasped against you, her body tensing as she shuddered, her own release crashing over her from the way she had been grinding down against the bed. 

The realisation that Agatha was cumming while fucking you sent you spiralling, your orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that left you gasping, back arching as a broken moan spilt from your lips. She groaned at the feeling of you coming undone, drinking in every last wave of pleasure before finally pulling away, her hands smoothing over your shaking thighs, her own body still trembling as she pressed one last lingering kiss against your oversensitive core, a satisfied smirk curving her lips.

Agatha collapsed against you, her breath warm against your skin as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, both too lost in the haze of pleasure and the weight of everything that had led to this—every moment spent apart, every unspoken feeling, every stubborn refusal to admit what had always been so painfully obvious.

You carded your fingers through her damp hair, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, letting the steady rhythm of your heartbeats fill the silence. Agatha exhaled slowly, her hands smoothing over your sides, grounding herself in the feel of you, as if she still wasn’t convinced this was real. 

Without a word, Agatha stood, her movements graceful and purposeful as she left the room for a brief moment. You could hear the sound of water running in the distance, the soft splash of it filling the silence before she returned. She didn’t need to say anything; the warmth in her eyes, the gentle press of her lips against your temple, told you everything.

She guided you to the enormous, luxurious bath—spanning the width of the penthouse’s bathroom—an almost surreal oasis of warmth and comfort. The water was a perfect temperature, fragrant with oils and salts, designed to soothe the soul. She lowered herself into the tub first, pulling you into her arms as if you were weightless, holding you close.

The space around you was immense, but it felt like it was just the two of you in this intimate world. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, soothing the tension in your muscles as she softly kissed your shoulder, your neck—anywhere her lips could find. Each tender touch seemed to speak of something deeper, an unspoken vow of care that settled around you like the warm water.

You let out a contented sigh, resting your head against her chest as she kept you in her embrace, the steady rhythm of her breathing grounding you. Your hand lazily traced over her skin, lost in the softness of her touch, the comfort of her presence.

“You’re not leaving this time,” you murmured, the words more of a gentle plea than a statement. Agatha’s voice was soft but unwavering as she kissed your forehead, her arms tightening around you, pulling you even closer.

“Never again,” she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m exactly where I belong.”

And in that moment, with the water lapping gently against the sides of the tub and the soft warmth of her embrace surrounding you, you knew—this time, she meant it.

-----

this fic had been teetering on the edge of my imagination for a while but I got a sudden burst of inspiration after daydreaming about it all day—lemme know what y'all thought :D

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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @jujuu23 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19

[carnagewidow]

god damn

How Many Secrets Can You Keep

Pairing : Professor!Agatha x Fem!Reader

Words : 4.5k

Warnings : Mention of Porn, face sitting, toy sucking, hair pulling, smoking (brief)

You're sitting across from Professor Harkness at the student-teacher mixer, the last one you'll ever attend. You had been in her class during your freshman year, and even now, years later, her words of praise still lingered in your mind. Late at night, when you were alone, they echoed in your head, fueling fantasies you barely allowed yourself to acknowledge. She had never really left you.

"You know," she muses, swirling the remnants of her drink, "you were always such a joy to have in my class."

Your fingers tighten around the cheap plastic cup, the punch sloshing slightly as the material crinkles under your grip. "Oh… thank you," you say, feeling the warmth creep up your neck. "I really loved the class."

Agatha hums, watching you with something unreadable in her expression. Then, her eyes darken, sweeping over you in a slow, deliberate motion. She shifts, crossing one leg over the other, sighing as if mildly bored—though the intensity in her gaze says otherwise.

"Also," she continues, her voice a sultry purr, "I have to admit, I’ve looked up your exact features when I’ve been alone."

Your brow furrows. "What?"

She smirks, leaning back in her chair, the picture of ease, though the tension crackling in the space between you is anything but. "And no one… quite fits the bill," she muses. "They’re not needy enough. Not as desperate for approval in the way my favorite student was."

Your breath catches. There’s no misinterpreting her words, no mistaking the low, knowing lilt in her voice. Heat pools in your stomach, your mind scrambling to process what she’s implying.

"I—" you start, but she interrupts with a quiet chuckle.

"Tell me," she murmurs, tilting her head, "did you think about me, even after you left my class? Did you let my words keep you warm at night?"

Your face burns, the air between you thick with something dangerous, something exhilarating. Agatha watches you like a cat with a trapped mouse, waiting, seemingly devouring your reaction.

Your breath comes a little quicker now, the warmth creeping down your neck, settling low in your stomach. You can’t meet her eyes—not directly, not with the way she’s looking at you, like she already knows the answer to the question she just asked.

Agatha hums again, and you hear the slow, deliberate tapping of her nails against her cup. "Oh, sweetheart," she sighs, amused. "You don’t even have to say it. I can see it all over your face."

You swallow hard, gripping the plastic cup like it’s your only tether to reality. "That’s not—I mean, I don’t—"

She tilts her head, watching you flounder. Then she leans forward, elbows resting on the table, voice dipping just for you. "You were always so easy to read. It was adorable, really."

Your pulse thrums in your ears, your thighs clenching under the weight of her words. She knows. She’s always known.

She smirks, like she’s enjoying your torment “Did you think I never noticed? The way you used to stare? The way your breath hitched when I praised you in front of the class?" She tsks, shaking her head. "Poor thing. You must’ve been so frustrated."

You exhale sharply, shifting in your seat, trying to find something—anything—to say. But Agatha gives you no room to recover.

"Did you touch yourself to the thought of me?" she asks again, this time more bluntly, her voice feather light but razor sharp. "Let me guess… my voice? My hands?" She watches your throat bob as you swallow. "Or was it the way I used to lean over your desk, close enough that you could smell my perfume?"

Your fingers dig into your cup, the plastic nearly collapsing under your grip. She’s relentless. Unforgiving. And worst of all—you don’t want her to stop.

Agatha smiles, slow and knowing. "I bet you still do," she whispers, and God, you hate how easily she unravels you. "Don’t you?"

Your breath shudders as you exhale, fingers twitching. You should deny it. You should laugh, shake your head, pretend like she’s wrong like she doesn’t have you pinned under her gaze, exposed and unraveling by the second.

But you don’t. Because she isn’t wrong. And the slow, victorious curl of her lips tells you she already knows your answer.

"That's what I thought," Agatha murmurs, tilting her head like she’s studying something fragile, something delicate—something she wants to break apart just to see how it looks in pieces.

Your thighs clench again beneath the table, your whole body betraying you. The room hums with low conversation, laughter from students and professors alike, but it all feels miles away, like nothing else exists except this. Her. The space between you, crackling like a lit fuse.

"You know," she continues, tone almost thoughtful, "it’s funny. All these years, and you still look at me the same way you did back then." She leans in just enough for you to catch the faintest hint of her perfume, something warm and sharp all at once. "Like you’d do anything I asked."

Your breath catches once more, could you have an asthma attack from shock? All she does is smile. God, she’s enjoying this.

"You want me to tell you what to do, don’t you?" she muses, tapping a nail against the rim of her cup. "Just like before."

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your body betrays you, your lips parting, something helpless and wanting caught in your throat.

Agatha watches the struggle flicker across your face, then sighs, shaking her head like she’s disappointed—but her smirk says otherwise. "Finish your drink, sweetheart," she says, voice like silk, like a command wrapped in velvet. "Then meet me outside."

Your stomach flips.

She stands, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse like she didn’t just dismantle you piece by piece, like she isn’t leaving you breathless in her wake. Then, just before she turns, she leans down, her breath warm against your ear.

"And don’t make me wait."

Then she’s gone.

Your hands are trembling as you drain the last of the punch, the artificial sweetness clinging to your tongue, but it’s not the drink making your head swim. It’s her.

You shouldn’t go. You know you shouldn’t. But you will. You always do.

Discarding the cup, you push back from the table, your legs unsteady as you weave through the crowded room. Conversations blur into meaningless noise, the bright fluorescent lights above suddenly too harsh, too real. But none of it matters—because outside, past those heavy doors, she’s waiting for you.

The cool night air bites at your skin when you step outside, but it does nothing to settle the heat simmering beneath it. You scan the dimly lit courtyard, your breath still uneven, pulse thrumming beneath your ribs—

And then you see her.

Agatha stands by one of the brick pillars, bathed in the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. She’s lighting a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face before she takes a slow, deliberate drag. She exhales, tilting her head back, looking every bit like a woman with all the time in the world.

And then her eyes find yours. A smirk tugs at her lips as she gestures with a tilt of her head. Come here.

You hesitate for half a second—half a second where you could turn back, where you could remind yourself of every reason why this is a bad idea. But then your feet are moving. You stop just short of her, your breath catching as she looks you over, exhaling another slow stream of smoke before she speaks.

"You always were such a good little thing," she muses, tapping ash onto the pavement. "Always so eager to please."

Your stomach tightens.

"Tell me," she continues, gaze heavy, deliberate, "are you still my good girl?"

The air stills between you. The words sink deep, curling around something inside you, something that’s been waiting, aching, desperate for her to say it. And when she steps closer—so close that the heat of her body seeps into yours—you know there’s only one answer.

"Yes."

The smirk on her lips is slow, satisfied. "Mmm. I thought so." Then, before you can take another breath, her fingers are curling beneath your chin, tilting your face up, her touch searing, intoxicating. Her other hand has abandoned the cigarette.

"Now," she purrs, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "why don’t you show me just how much you missed me?"

You nod gently and you lick your lips, leaning in just a bit more, her thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, her breathing shallower now, the teasing smirk on her lips faltering for the first time.

She was always the one in control, always the one pulling the strings—but right now, standing so close she could feel the heat of your skin, the power was shifting.

Her fingers tighten under your chin, her pupils blown wide as she wets her lips, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth like she’s at war with herself.

"You have no idea," she murmurs, voice rougher now, like she’s forcing the words out before she loses her nerve. "No idea how long I’ve wanted to—"

But she doesn’t finish. Because she can’t. Because she’s already closing the distance, crashing her lips against yours in a way that’s nothing like the Agatha you remember—nothing slow, nothing teasing.

This is hunger. This is desperation.

Her hands are firm, almost rough as they frame your face, fingers sliding into your hair like she needs to hold you there, needs to feel you, needs proof that you’re real. She groans into your mouth—low, needy—like she’s been starving for this, for you, for longer than she’ll ever admit.

You barely have a second to breathe before she’s pressing deeper, her teeth grazing your bottom lip, her own lips parting like she wants to devour you.

And God, she’s needy.

She kisses you like she’s trying to make up for lost time, like every second without you was a second wasted. Her body presses closer, chest flush against yours, her breath ragged as her hands slide down, grasping, clutching at your waist like she’s afraid you’ll pull away.

But you don’t.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Her nails dig in, her hips pressing forward in the faintest, instinctual movement, and when she pulls back just enough to drag in a breath, her forehead pressing against yours, she whimpers.

The sound alone nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

"Fuck," she exhales, breathless, her voice wrecked. "You’re—" She swallows hard, her hands still gripping you, grounding her, anchoring her in something real.

You don’t let her finish.

Instead, you crash forward, swallowing whatever she was about to say as you kiss her again—deeper this time, harder—because if she’s desperate, if she needs this, then so do you.

And from the way she moans into your mouth, trembling against you, you don’t think she’ll ever let you go.

You fist your hands into the lapels of her jacket, yanking her closer until there’s nothing between you but heat and shallow breaths. Your thigh slots between her legs, pressing just enough to make her gasp against your mouth.

Her breath stutters, her grip on you tightening, and you take the moment to tilt your head, brushing your lips over hers—soft, teasing, just to feel her tremble.

"You should take me home," you murmur, your words ghosting over her lips, your thigh pressing just a little harder.

Agatha shudders. A sharp inhale, a quiet curse under her breath.

X

As soon as you step foot into Agatha’s home, she’s on you.

The door barely clicks shut before she’s pushing you up against it, her hands gripping at your waist, your jacket, anything she can get her fingers on. Her mouth crashes against yours, all teeth and heat, nothing careful, nothing restrained. She’s starving for you.

Her hands roam—impatient, desperate—as she presses into you, hips slotting between your thighs. She groans, low and needy, as your fingers tangle in her hair, tugging just enough to make her whimper.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," she breathes against your lips, hands sliding under your shirt, soft palms against bare skin. "I—God, you don’t—"

"Don't what, Professor?" you husk out, your voice low, teasing, as your fingers find the hem of her blouse. You tug it up, pulling it free from where it’s neatly tucked into her trousers, your knuckles grazing the bare skin of her stomach.

Agatha shudders. Her breath stutters against your lips, her grip on your waist tightening like she’s trying to ground herself, trying to hold onto some semblance of control—but it’s slipping.

"You don’t—" she starts, but then your fingers splay across her stomach, pushing beneath the fabric, and whatever she was about to say dissolves into a sharp inhale. She swallows hard, her forehead pressing against yours, her breath ragged. "Fuck."

You smirk, slow and deliberate. "Didn’t catch that, Professor," you murmur, your nails scratching lightly against her skin. "You were saying?"

Agatha growls, something deep and guttural, and then suddenly you’re the one being pushed back, her body pressing into yours like she needs to consume you.

"You have no idea what you do to me," she rasps, her hands already tugging at your clothes, her lips dragging down the side of your throat, hot and desperate. "But you’re about to find out."

"Show me," you whisper, your voice barely a breath, laced with challenge, anticipation, and something darker, something you both can’t escape.

Agatha’s hands freeze for a split second, and in that pause, the air between you crackles, tense and thick with unspoken desires. Her breath is shallow, her body trembling with the weight of your words. Then, without another thought, she pulls you in, her lips crashing against yours in a fierce, hungry kiss that burns everything else away.

X

You’re first inside her bedroom, and agatha is holding your lower back with a firm hand, she sort of freezes and you’re wondering why before you see it. She left a toy on the bed. it’s purple, as big as two of your fingers. And there’s probably a button on it somewhere to turn it on. It’s laying on top of the rumpled duvet. “Naughty girl.” You tease before walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed before picking it up, it’s not been washed since earlier and you can tell because the cum that was on it has dried, and your eyes look up at her before you part your lips.

Agatha freezes, her breath hitching audibly, her entire body going rigid. Her eyes flick from the toy to your lips, back and forth, like she’s caught between wanting to stop you and being completely unable to.

Her jaw clenches, and when she finally speaks, her voice is lower, rougher—strained, like she’s barely keeping herself together. "What do you think you’re doing?" she asks, but there’s no real authority in it, no true reprimand. If anything, it sounds like she’s daring you to continue, like she wants to see just how far you’re willing to push her.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, and her breath is heavier now, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured movements—an attempt to control herself. But the way her pupils are blown wide, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips? She’s already lost.

You move the toy upwards, “Did you do it right before the mixer?” You speak as if you’re discussing the weather and you lick the tip of the toy, a soft breath leaving your lungs. it’s dried, but agatha tastes so good

Agatha swallows thickly and you can hear it from where you’re sat on the bed.

Her fingers flex at her sides like she wants to reach for you, stop you—or maybe she just wants to steady herself, because her knees look moments away from giving out. Her breath is sharp, unsteady, her entire body frozen in place, locked in a war between restraint and pure, unfiltered desire.

Her eyes track every movement—how your tongue flicks over the toy, how your lips part around it just enough to tease. She swallows hard again, her throat working around it, and when she finally exhales, it’s shaky, almost desperate.

"You—" Her voice catches, and she has to force the next words out. "You have no idea what you're doing I think I need another fucking cigarette.."

But she’s wrong. Because from the way she’s gripping the doorframe now, like she needs to anchor herself, from the way her pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any color left—You know exactly what you’re doing to her

You slide the full length into your mouth, cleaning it with a happy moan in the back of your throat. Your eyes watch her the entire time as you do it

Agatha whimpers then The sound is quiet, almost choked, like it slipped out before she could stop it. Her grip on the doorframe tightens until her knuckles turn white, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her eyes fixed on you—on the slow drag of the toy past your lips, on the way your throat hums with that pleased little moan. She looks utterly wrecked, torn between restraint and the overwhelming need to do something, anything.

"Fuck," she breathes, her voice wrecked, barely there.

She sways slightly, like she might move toward you, but she doesn’t—not yet. Instead, she watches, completely transfixed, her pupils swallowing the last hints of blue in her irises.

And when you finally pull it from your lips with a soft, satisfied sigh, your tongue flicking over the tip one last time—

She snaps. Agatha moves before she can even think.

One second, she’s frozen in place, barely breathing, and the next, she’s on you—crossing the room in a few quick strides, her hands gripping your face, your jaw, anything she can hold as she crashes her mouth against yours.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a claim.

She groans against your lips, deep and guttural, like she’s been starving for this, for you. Her fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and she takes full advantage—licking into your mouth, tasting herself on your tongue.

"You’re—" she pants between kisses, her breath ragged, desperate. "So—fucking—dirty."

But there’s no disapproval—just raw, unfiltered hunger.

Her hands are everywhere now—gripping your thighs, your waist, shoving you further up the bed as she follows, crawling over you like she won’t be satisfied until there’s nothing between you.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her pupils blown, her lips red and kiss-bruised. And then, with a wicked smirk and a voice dripping with promise, she whispers—

"Let’s see if that mouth of yours is just as eager when it’s on me."

Agatha doesn’t give you time to respond. She grabs you, her fingers digging into your jaw as she kisses you again, hot and urgent, like she’s trying to drown in you. Her body presses into yours, her weight pushing you back against the mattress, her thigh slotting between yours in a way that makes you gasp. She grins against your mouth at that, a pleased little sound slipping from her throat as she rolls her hips forward—just enough to tease, to taunt.

"You wanted to put on a show, sweetheart?" she murmurs, her lips dragging along your jaw, down your throat. "Wanted to see how far you could push me?"

Her teeth graze your pulse point, and she bites. Not hard—just enough to make you feel it, enough to make you whimper beneath her. She soothes the mark immediately after, her tongue flicking over the skin before she pulls back to look at you.

And God, the way she looks at you. Like she’s about to ruin you.

Her hands move with purpose, slipping beneath your clothes, her fingers tracing fire along your skin. "You were so bold a minute ago," she taunts, tilting her head. "What happened, darling? Cat got your tongue?"

She leans in, lips brushing yours as she whispers, "Or are you just waiting for me to put it to better use?"

A slow, knowing smirk spreads across Agatha’s lips as she watches you—eyes dark, pupils blown wide with want. She knows she has you now, right where she wants you.

Her fingers trail lower, teasing, skimming over your heated skin as she presses her thigh just a little harder between yours, reveling in the way your breath stutters, in the way your body reacts to her.

"You were so eager to use that pretty mouth before," she purrs, tilting her head. "Go on."

She grips your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet her gaze. "Show me just how much you missed me." She repeats the same exact phrase from earlier and it feels like an electroshock to your system.

Then, without another word, she shifts back onto her knees, watching you expectantly, her breathing heavy, her chest rising and falling with every shaky inhale.

The moment stretches, charged, waiting. And then you move. You grip her hips firmly, fingers digging into the fabric of her trousers as you murmur, "Take these off."

Your voice is low, commanding, and it sends a shiver down Agatha’s spine. She exhales sharply, eyes locked onto yours as she unbuttons them with deliberate slowness, like she wants to see you squirm.

The moment she slides them down and steps out of them, she’s back on you, straddling your lap, her heat pressing against your stomach. Your hands find her hips again, guiding her closer, your breath hitching as you take in the sight of her—her thighs trembling slightly, her black lace panties soaked.

A groan rumbles in your chest. You let your head fall back against the mattress, your grip tightening. "Now sit on my face."

Agatha stills for a beat, her breath uneven, her pupils blown wide. She licks her lips before smirking. .

"You’ve got such a filthy mouth," she muses, reaching down to run her fingers through your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

And before you can even respond, she shifts, crawling forward, her knees bracketing your head, her thighs warm and soft as they cage you in.

"Be good for me, sweetheart," she breathes, voice wrecked, as she finally lowers herself onto your waiting mouth. Agatha shivers the moment your mouth meets her, a ragged gasp slipping from her lips as her fingers tighten in your hair.

"Fuck—"

Her thighs tense around your head, but she doesn’t pull away. No, she presses down, like she wants to drown in the heat of your tongue, like she can’t stand even an inch of distance between you.

You groan against her, the sound vibrating through her, and her hips stutter forward instinctively, grinding just a little as she chokes on a breath. Tasting Agatha on a toy was one thing, having it straight from the source was another.

"God—just like that," she pants, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes. The sight alone nearly undoes her the way you’re staring up at her, desperate, hungry, needy to please her.

She grins, sharp and wrecked, dragging her nails lightly across your scalp as she rolls her hips, letting you guide her movements with the palms still pressed into her hips . "Such a good little thing for me," she breathes, her voice breaking on a moan. "So eager—so fucking perfect—"

She’s losing herself in you, the control she usually holds slipping with every flick of your tongue, every needy little sound you make beneath her.

And when you whimper against her, pulling her down even harder, she cracks.

"Fuck—" Her head falls back, her grip tightening, her body trembling as she grinds against your mouth, chasing the edge you’re so eagerly pushing her toward. "Don’t you dare stop—"

Agatha shakes above you, her thighs trembling as she grinds down harder, chasing the pleasure you’re so eagerly giving her. Her breath is ragged, breaking on every moan, every gasped-out curse.

"God—" she whimpers, her voice wrecked, "you’re— fuck, you’re gonna make me—"

Her nails scrape against your scalp as she tries to hold herself together, but she can’t. She’s unraveling, coming apart in your hands, and she likes it—likes the way you let her use you, the way you want this just as badly as she does.

She looks down at you, and fuck, the sight nearly finishes her off right then and there your blown-out eyes, your flushed cheeks, your tongue flicking just right against her.

"Don’t you fucking stop—" she gasps, her hips stuttering, desperate now.

And when you moan against her—when you pull her down even harder, like you want to drown in her and you start sucking and sucking.

She breaks.

Her whole body seizes up, her breath catching as pleasure slams through her. A sharp, choked moan rips from her throat, her thighs squeezing around you as she falls apart, shaking and whimpering above you.

"Fuck—fuck" she gasps, riding it out, riding your face, her entire body trembling as aftershocks ripple through her.

It takes her a moment to come back down, to breathe, to remember where she even is.

And when she finally looks down at you again, still trapped between her thighs, her release shining on your lips, your chin, your smug little expression—

Her breath hitches. And then she grins.

"Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, reaching down to cup your jaw, her thumb swiping across your slick-covered lips. "You did so perfect for me.”

You smile and it’s bright, “Thank you professor.”

You don’t miss the sharp intake of breath, nor the way her thighs clenched at the term.

[carnagewidow]

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

Elizabeth Olsen Elizabeth Olsen and Alicia Vikander Play Tumbling Towers

[carnagewidow]

tbt aaa being house of harkness coven of chaos darkhold diaries etc 🥀🥀

House of Harkness is now Coven of Chaos?

[carnagewidow]

Y/N: Without you, 60 minutes feels like an hour.

Wanda: Aww.

Yelena: The fuck?

[carnagewidow]

the message is nice but the poem sounds ai generated icl LOL😭

this poem. bro

(by joseph fasano)

[carnagewidow]

Real

Billy: Where are you going?

Agatha: I feel a wave of sickness coming on and I want to be standing on my mother's grave when it hits.

[carnagewidow]

Y/N, to Wanda: You have so many fucking psychological problems.

Y/N: [starts making out with Wanda]

[carnagewidow]

Agatha x Male Reader headcanons!

• She leaves you for a woman.

[carnagewidow]

Agatha + holding sorrow in her hands

"Three of Swords: Heartbreak, Sorrow, Grief"

[carnagewidow]

I’m recovering from the finale and trying to pretend nothing happened. Like my hyper-fixation still has this new episodes every week.

Yeah, I have very little time. And I’m lazy.

Don’t mind me.

[carnagewidow]

i have literally prayed for this day.