call-me-mother-darling - Tumblr blog

call-me-mother-darling · 6 days ago

Text

After Hours

Elaine Markinson x Reader

Plot: Elaine’s eye finally meet yours, devouring you. Will you allow yourself to be devoured?

AN: I’m gonna be honest I’m just not in the mood to write Lesso rn. I will get to it but I just might come out with a few fics before that. I appreciate your patience. I hope you enjoy this, it’s kinda a crack fic (if you squint). This fic might be confusing and lowkey sorry for that. I wrote it at like 4 in the morning, yes that’s my excuse if it comes out horrible)

Warnings: d/s dynamics, choking, kissing, no smut, feeling invisible, exhaustion, mentions of men being d*cks, long work shifts, mentions of no family or friends, if you look at the bigger picture isolation. If I missed any lmk 18+

Word Count: 1637

Twenty years I've worked here. Twenty years of still no recognition, no looks. Just utterly invisible. I’ve tried to act out or even go as low as not following dress code and still nothing. No one bats an eye at me. The person I am the most shocked by is Elaine. I watched as she came into this office. A huge bright smile and a sparkle in her eye. You could tell she was so ready to be here, little did she know this place takes your soul. Over the years I’ve seen her sparkle die out and that smile turn into an intimidating scowl. Like she’d devour anyone who dares step out of line.

“Go back to your desk and come back when you can act like an adult!” Her voice rings through the entire office. This used to catch me by surprise but now I don’t bat an eye. I might be the only one that doesn’t react anymore. I look up over my computer watching as everyone increases their typing speed, sweat glistening off their forehead.

“Imbisiles.” I say under my breath. If anything her anger lights a fire in me. I’ve always liked a challenge. The way she commands a space, with a glance the whole room would drop. Whatever she wanted she got. I always wondered what I would have to do to be wanted like that. To have her hands all over me, commanding me. Me, the invisible, the nobody.

The words on my screen are starting to blend together, blinking rapidly, I try to will my eyes to work again. It is currently seven pm, another long day. The only two people left in the office are me and Elaine. People started leaving around five, having families or friends to go meet. Even with the last person leaving only a few minutes ago I miss the company. I may have not been noticed but this silence reminds me of how truly lonely I am. I have no family left, this job took over my life so friends weren't even on my mind, and no pets to jump up excitedly when I get home. I just wanted to be wanted.

I can feel a migraine coming on, I need some caffeine in me desperately. As I get up from my desk almost every part of my body cracks and aches, when they said an office job was taxing I didn’t think they would mean this.

I press my fingers into my back and lean back, stretching my back to the best of my ability. When a soft pop is heard I let out a deep breath letting myself relax in my standing position. My heels click on the packed carpet, I'm sure it is just there for show because it is anything but soft. My feet are killing me right now and this stupid carpet isn’t helping. Nothing to soften my steps.

My hands quickly get to work putting the ground coffee in the filter and water its place. My manicured nails hit the start button and I sit my pretty self down at the table. Letting my head fall into my head. I have found myself here before, asking myself why I do this to myself, Why I will not willingly follow Elaine's commands. Why does my boss hold a special place in my heart when she doesn’t even know I exist.

Just like that the sound of the brewing coffee machine rings through my ears and I lift my head up, my dizziness taking over for a few seconds. But I push through it. The thought of the papers scattered over my own desk and the ones surrounding remind me of how dire this time of year is. Non-stop deadlines, never ending coffee refills, and those more than vocational 3am clock outs. Even as my exhaustion threatens to take over all I can think about is getting some food in my system.

“I need to get some food in me.” I talk to myself as I pour my own cup of coffee. As I turn around, coffee in hand, there stands the boss I secretly hold dearly. The flinch comes rushing in, leaving me even more unsteady. To my surprise, I flinch just enough that steaming hot coffee spills all over my cream blouse.

“Shit.” I say. Not even fazed by the hot coffee burning into my skin. One too many times of this happening and you get used to the steaming hot coffee, from interns getting a little too cocky, or those middle aged entitled brats that belittle women for fun.

“It’s rude to sneak up on someone you know.” I say with a sass I didn’t know I possessed. A small smirk pulls at her lips.

“My dear will you ever forgive me. I can order us food as an apology.” She asks quickly, grabbing a kitchen towel patting my cleavage and chest dry. My breath catches in my throat at her closeness. Her eyes have that sparkle back in them as she eyes my chest.

“Come on now, I know you can speak.” Her finger lifts my chin up to make full eye contact with her.

“I-um. Food sounds good.” My eyes search for her true intention. But I am only met will a smirk and her lip between her teeth.

“Good girl.” She sat walking back to her office. With her not taking over my brain I can think clearly.

“Wait, how do you know what I like?” I shout after her and all I hear back is a low chuckle and four words that almost make me spiral.

“I pay attention, darling.” It’s like my feet were cemented in quick sand.

“That's creepy.” I sass, only to realize what I've just done. She could have me fired on the spot. I could not move.

Then the words hit me if she pays attention how many things has she caught me doing and how do I still have a job? A rush of embarrassment washes over me, my cheeks turn bright red and my hands shake. This can’t be real. There is no way. My feet move quickly before my brain can even process what I'm doing. I’m barging into her office, not even bothering to knock.

“What do you mean you pay attention? You can’t just say that and walk away. You don’t understand, I've been invisible for my whole career. Why me?” I rant, not able to stop the word vomit.

“It surprises me that you think I wouldn’t know ALL my employees like the back of my hand.” She says getting up. Circling around me like her prey.

Oh no.

Her hand touches my lower back as she guides me to a chair, those sharp nails she has on lightly scratching at my spine. Her hands on my shoulders forcing me into the chair within seconds.

“I’ve seen how much of a brat you are. Wearing skirts so short you can practically see how wet you are when you bend over. Not to mention those blouses you wear that leave nothing to the imagination.” Her cold hands run down my shoulders to my chest. Sinking her nails into my skin just to leave ten beet red scratches.

“I set my claim on you as soon as I got this position. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. To know how you would be squirming under me, begging me for more. God I imagined you on your knees for me countless times. Maybe even tying you up just to tell me all your fantasies. How delicious of a thought.” My breath heaves. It feels like my heart is going to explode, like my body is trying to reject the idea of me submitting to her but begging to be used. I try to stand, to run out of there. To not face what I truly desire but her hands are on me before I could fully stand.

“No ma’am you are going to sit and listen to every word I say. Just like how you do in those meetings. Don’t think I didn’t catch you watching my hands, squeezing your thighs together every time my fingers flexed. So desperate to have my hand around your throat. Huh? Pretty Girl.” A quiet whine escapes my lips and I can practically feel her grin behind me.

“Thats my good girl. Now go back to your desk and finish up, I'll let you know when the food gets here. Can’t have my girl hungry and exhausted. Feel free to take tomorrow off, my dear. You can’t keep pulling these super long days. It’s not healthy and I need you in top shape for the christmas party.” Her hand wraps around my throat lightly and lifts my head up, so that I’m looking at her behind me.

“A new contract will be written up by tomorrow, okay?” Her tone is soft now and I hum.

“Yes madam.” Her eyes light up at the honorific.

“Thank you darling. Now, may I kiss my good girl?” She moves around me with elegance I’ve never seen before, hand still glued to my throat. Her lips are close but her eyes search my face, waiting for my reaction.

“Yes please.” Just like that her lips were on my own. My body instinctively pushes further into her hand begging for more. Her lips are so soft, so addicting. I wanted more, needed more. I feel seen and I just selfishly wanted it all, right then and there. But she handles me with such grace.

“Be patient, quiet one, I will have you before you know it.” Her hand around my neck guides me up to her, my body flushed with hers. I can’t help but look into her beautiful eyes.

“Thank you.”

0 notes

call-me-mother-darling · 10 days ago

Text

It’s a Match! | AgathaHarkness x RioVidal x Reader

Summary: a drunken confession lands you in the lair of Agatha and Rio, two women who command power and play with control. In their world, desire is a game, trust a risk, and surrender means everything. How far will you go to belong?

Word count: 6.1k

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, Dom!Agatha, Switch!Rio, implied mommy kink, reader is a mess, implied d/s dynamic, Agatha and Rio are sugar mommies, smut later on, more warnings will be added

You're almost done rereading the same sentence for the third time when the ping of your inbox hits louder than a gunshot

Subject: Re: Page Five, again?

Your stomach sinks.

You click.

Agatha's reply is short, too cold to be angry, just annoyed.

There's a typo in the lead. That makes three errors on this issue alone. I expect better. – A.

You blink at the screen, and your pulse stutters. You triple checked that section last night. You're sure you did.

Except that you were so tired your eyes had started slipping off the words, letters swimming into each other.

Down the hall, someone laughs. A printer jams with a violent whir. The usual office din continues around you, but your brain has gone dead silent. There's just static and shame.

You whisper a curse under your breath and push back from your desk. The legs of your chair shriek loudly across the tile. No one looks, but you wish they would. You almost want the judgement, the acknowledgement that you've fucked up again.

You're halfway through writing a breathless apology draft when another ping hits.

Subject: Print Review – Now. No body, just a time and a conference room number.

Five minutes.

You curl your fingers, nails biting into the palm of your hand, in a futile attempt to ground yourself. You're replaceable, you know that. There's a line of eager juniors ready to step into your role. You can't afford to fall behind.

You don't bother grabbing your notebook. You know this won't be a brainstorming session.

Agatha is already waiting when you arrive.

She sits with a pen stuck between her index finger and thumb. Her posture as straight as a knife, in a burgundy suit that probably costs more than your rent. Her hair is loose today, long and dark. Her lipstick is the same wine-red colour as her lapels. The neckline of her blazer dips low, and your eyes follow the exposed skin.

You shouldn't notice. You shouldn't care. But you linger anyway, and when she looks up at you, her expression unreadable, you feel heat bloom at the back of your neck.

"Do you know how many eyes pass over an issue before it hits print?"

You nod, standing awkwardly by the door. "Six sets, usually."

"And yet the mistake still landed on my desk. From your draft."

You swallow. "I take full responsibility."

Agatha sighs, not dramatically. It's a soft, measured breath attempting to dial down her disappointment. "I don't care about punishment, darling. I care about standards, and lately, yours are slipping."

Darling.

It's too deliberate to be casual, too causal to be anything else. It shouldn't affect you, but it does. It always does.

"I've been balancing some deadlines from campus," you start, and come to immediately regret it.

Agatha tilts her head, lips pressed flat. "Then I suggest you find a better rhythm. Because this–" She slides the proof across the table, the glaring red markup screaming at you. "–isn't rhythm, it's noise."

Nodding, you bite the inside of your cheek until you can taste blood "Understood."

Agatha studies you for a beat too long and for a moment, just a tiny, insignificant moment, you could swear something on her face shifts . You sway uncomfortably, looking away first.

"You may go," she says with a flick of her wrist, like she's already moved on, like you were never really here at all.

You leave with your pride trailing behind you like a torn hem, heart tight in your throat.

The day only spirals from there.

You spill coffee on your notes and on the first-run test print. You order the wrong shades of Hermès scarves for an editorial shoot. You send a rough draft to a freelance graphic designer instead of the polished version. You forget to eat. You almost cry in the office bathroom. You check your bank account and remember that rent is due.

You blink back tears in the supply closet while clinging to a new stack of printer paper.

You're trying so hard to be exceptional. The perfect intern, the smartest student, the first to arrive, the last to leave.

And yet you're still invisible, or worse, a disappointment.

You don't want her to see you as just another intern who can't keep up. You want her to see potential. You don't even know what kind. You just want to be seen.

By the time you make it home, you're trembling. Not from the cold, though the November wind claws down the avenues, but from the ache in your chest that you can't seem to shake.

You don't even make it to your room. You collapse face-first onto the couch.

"Bad day?" Kate asks from the kitchen island, sipping something green and disgustingly healthy.

You lift your face just enough to glare at her. "Is it that obvious?"

"Babe, your aura is black and crackling."

"That's static," Peter mutters, upside down on the armchair, scrolling his laptop. "She's been bottling up cosmic intern rage for weeks."

"Agatha," you mumble, face buried in cushions. "She said I'm slipping."

Yelena gasps. "She spoke to you?"

You twist onto your back and sit. "She always speaks to me. She's my boss."

"No, no," Kate says. "Normally she just judges you through silence and stilettos."

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. They might tear the weariness away if you press firm enough. "Well, now she talked talked. She said my work is noisy. That I've lost rhythm."

Yelena passes you her drink. You drink without asking, face contorting as the burning taste hits your tongue. It's tequila. Of course it is.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," you admit, thumb tracing the rim of the glass. "I'm trying to be good. Good at school. Good at work. Just...good enough. And she just looks at me like I'm small, like I should already be something more."

"You're twenty-three," Peter says, as if that should explain everything.

But it doesn't feel enough. Not when you're outside and falling. Not when everything costs more than you have. Time. Rent. Expectations.

Kate slides her arms around you from behind. "She probably has a marble bust of herself in her penthouse."

You laugh, broken and bitter similar to the drink in your hands. "She's brilliant and terrifying. I just want her to see me. Really see me."

There's a silence. Gentle and understanding.

Then Yelena claps her hands "Get up. We're going out."

"I have a paper due tomorrow."

"You need vodka," Kate corrects.

"I have no money."

"My treat," Peter offers, already grabbing his coat. "You need to be reminded that you're young and hot and powerful."

"I'm literally still in work clothes."

"Powerful and busy," Kate says, grabbing your wrist. "Tonight's about damage control. The mental kind."

You protest weakly, but they don't listen. So the next thing you know you're in a cab heading downtown.

The bar is warm and dim. It smells of old wood and limes. The booths are cracked leather. The music soft and pulsing. It feels safe and familiar.

You're a three vodka shots in and dangerously honest.

Yelena is two shots ahead and holding court, ranting about pantsuits. "You either look like Hilary Clinton or a God. There is no in-between."

"I'd look like both," Kate muses, nurturing her glass with a thoughtful expression.

Peter is striking out with the bartender again. For the sixth time.

And you? You're trying not to talk about her. But you fail, as always. Everything lately leads back to your internship. To her.

"She wore this burgundy suit today," you mutter into your drink. "Tailored to hell with just enough skin to keep you guessing. And her hair was down. Did I ever tell you how beautiful her hair is? Makes you wonder how it'd feel to–"

You cut yourself off, horrified.

Yelena lets out a slow whistle. "You're obsessed."

"I'm not."

"You said her cheekbones could cut glass," Peter says, sliding a new round of shots across the table, "and you'd thank her for the scars."

Kate raises her glass. "If hell is hot, I hope she burns me slowly."

"Jesus." You cover your face. "I need to be stopped."

Yelena grins. "You need to get laid."

"I need a scholarship."

"Why not both?" Peter wiggles his brows. "There are those mentorship apps–"

"No."

"Yes," Kate chimes in. "You need a sugar boss."

Yelena snatches your phone from the table with dangerous intent. "Mentor Match. It's like LinkedIn if LinkedIn were horny."

"You're out of your mind–"

"Let us help you. It's networking. With benefits."

You're tipsy. Spinning. A little reckless, and very easily influenced.

So you let them build it. A half-serious profile with just enough charm to pass as confident. Aspiring writer. Current disaster. Open to mentorship and mischief.

They swipe. At first, it's ridiculous. Men in yachts. Women in shoulder pads. Couples looking for the third act of their drama.

You laugh. You tease. You protests every third match.

Then, they stop.

"Wait. No way."

Yelena leans in, Kate's brows almost shoot off her hairline. Peter forgets his drink.

A profile flickers onto the screen. Two women. Stunning. Sharp smiles. Awfully familiar.

Your breath leaves your lungs with the force of a punch.

"That's– no. That's fake."

Agatha Harkness. Rio Vidal.

The real ones. The power couple who dominates finance and fashion and every fantasy you've tried to repress since day one.

Their photos aren't selfies. They're curated; cropped from Forbes editorials, charity galas, glossy magazine spreads. Posed but not impersonal.

Yelena frowns. "It's a verified account."

"Impossible."

"They're on the app," Kate says, eyes wide.

"They can't be."

You snatch the phone and stare at it. Hand trembling, your thumb hovers over the screen. You don’t swipe left. You don't swipe right. You just stare.

For a moment, you body goes very still. There's buzzing in your ears. Your heart's beating too fast, too loud. It might actually burst through your chest. It has to be fake. Some weirdo with stolen photos. Right?

You close the app with shaking hands.

But later, when it's dark and quiet and your bed feels too big. When the buzz is thick in your blood and the silence of your apartment feels louder than the music before, you open the app again.

And you write.

Your fingers type without your permission, fast and frantic. Every repressed thought, every compliment you were too scared to say aloud. Everything you were to scared to think.

The power they have. The way you ache from wanting to please. How you dream of slipping. What they'd do to you if they ever had the chance.

You write it all.

Desperate. Filthy. A little bratty. A whole lot needy. Topped with: You'd ruin me. And I think I'd let you.

You hit send.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest really loosens. Your shoulders slump. The weight of the world suddenly doesn't seem too heavy to carry anymore.

It's fake anyway, just a fantasy, a release.

Right?

You pass out fully clothed.

The sun slices through your blinds like it has a personal vendetta against you, and maybe it does. Or at the very least, it's the universe punishing you.

You wake up still in your slacks, your top twisted halfway up your ribcage, and the unmistakable taste of bad decisions and cranberry vodka is clinging to your tongue. Your mouth is as dry as sandpaper, your head pulses worse than a wailing siren, and somewhere in the back of your mind, something is screaming at you to remem–

You lurch upright. The room spins.

Your phone is lying face-up on the floor, its screen glowing with stubborn life despite the glaring red battery bar. You grab it, already sinking.

You slide down the notification bar, squinting into the light.

One notification.

✨It's a match!

You stop breathing.

That can't be right. It has to be Daddy Dickens or some other sleazy thirty-nine-year-old with "investor" in his bio that you swiped on for shits and giggles.

Your thumb trembles as you click on the app.

There it is. Your chat. Your profile. Your blackout confession. It's still there in all its unedited glory.

Worse?

It's been seen.

The little "read" checkmark taunts you.

You scream. You delete the message. You delete the the app. You toss your phone facedown onto the bed like it might kill the evidence, like you didn't already doom yourself the moment you pressed send.

"Oh my God," you whisper, hands covering your mouth. "Oh my fucking God."

Your breath hitches. Shame floods your veins. Your fantasies, your frustrations– you called Agatha Mommy, didn't you? You'd give anything to vanish, to be erased.

You start pacing, feet tripping over last week's clothes and unread paperbacks.

"I can never go back to work. I need a new name. A new passport. Witness protection," you mumble, fingers raking through your hair.

Your voice is raw. You’re vaguely aware of someone moving in the kitchen. Peter, probably, boiling his gentle little morning tea.

From the hallways, Yelena yells, "If you're having a crisis, do it quietly! Some of us are hungover!"

You stagger to the bathroom. Splash cold water on your face. Try not to cry, try not to scream. You catch your own reflection in the mirror and flinch.

Back in your room, you take a deep breath.

“Okay,” you whisper. “It’s fine. I unmatched. I deleted everything. It’s fine.”

Your phone buzzes.

You freeze.

It's your work calendar.

New meeting scheduled. Location: Penthouse – 1PM Subject: Mentorship Review Hosts: A. Harkness / R. Vidal

The phone slips from your fingers like it's hot metal. Your stomach drops through the floor. The vodka you drank last night lurches in protest.

No. No, no, no.

Agatha doesn’t schedule things. If she’s unhappy, she summons. Coldly. Without warning. She says your name like a guillotine blade and expects you to bleed. That’s how she operates.

But she works Saturday. She works always. Power doesn't sleep, and neither does she. You've heard stories of back-to-back meetings on Christmas Eve. Email responses at 3AM. No one ever questions it.

But she definitely doesn't host interns in her penthouse.

You yank open your inbox. The meeting is there. Private. Set by her. Locked into your schedule like a goddamn tombstone.

Like a guillotine with an RSVP.

You hit the floor in a crouch, hugging your knees. You can't breathe. Agatha’s voice is ringing in your ears. Crisp, cold, impossible to ignore. Her eyes when she's displeased. Her mouth when–

And then there's Rio. She's not even part of the magazine. She lives in the stratosphere; hedge funds, mergers, whatever language people speak when their emails move millions. She's not supposed to know your name. But she was there. She read it too. You said you wanted to know how her ring-clad hand would feel wrapped around your neck. And she saw it.

You groan, full-body, like a dying animal.

You start trying to think logically. Maybe it's unrelated. Maybe they don't know it was you. Maybe it's about something else. Maybe Agatha wants to ask your opinion on–

No. No, she does not. Agatha Harkness does not need an intern's input. Especially not in her home. Especially not with her wife present.

You screw your eyes shut. Tug your hair. Try to reset your own brain.

You can’t sit still. You need reassurance, someone else’s voice to drown out the one in your head. So you march into the kitchen.

Peter is pouring tea, half-asleep, in pyjama pants with tiny, judgmental frogs on them.

"Why didn't you stop me?" you ask. "Why did you give me alcohol? Why didn't you tackle me?"

Peter blinks. "What's going on?"

"I ruined my life."

He frowns, a deep cleft forming between his brows. "What happened?"

You take a shaky breath, hands like a prayer. “I matched with Agatha Harkness and her absurdly beautiful wife on Mentor Match.”

Peter recoils, drawing his head back hard enough to give him whiplash.

“I’m going to move to Argentina,” you announce flatly. “Change my name. Raise goats.”

“You hate goats.”

“Better than facing her. Pretending I didn't beg her to punish me while calling her Mommy."

Peter makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. “Did you unmatch?”

“Immediately.”

“And delete the app?”

“I’m not deranged, Peter.”

He raises his hands. “Okay. That’s good. Maybe she won’t–”

“She scheduled a private meeting in her home. Today. On a Saturday.”

Peter pales. "Oh."

You pace the living room like a caged tiger. You open LinkedIn. The real LinkedIn. You bookmark out-of-state internships. You check your bank balance. You stare into the abyss.

"I'm going to die."

He tilts his head. “Not necessarily.”

“Not necessarily?”

“She might just want to–”

“What? Make me a cautionary tale? Send me to HR? Offer me a Tic Tac before she tosses me into the Hudson?”

Peter takes a step back. “I’m going to go… check on Yelena.”

You collapse onto the couch. The room tilts slightly. Or maybe that’s just your shame.

You have three hours to prepare for your own execution. You wonder if you should write a goodbye letter. Maybe one to your younger self. The girl who wanted to work in publishing. Who thought ambition was noble.

She was going to change the world with words. She never pictures herself grovelling in front of a woman with enough power to crush her between her fingers, and enough allure to make her want it.

She didn't deserve this.

She just wanted a career.

And now she’s going to be professionally dismembered by Agatha for the things she said about the hands of her wife.

After a lengthy shower that included you rethinking your life choices, you’ve been pacing the apartment, phone clutched in a death grip, lips pressed so tight together they’re going numb.

Peter, Yelena, and Kate are sitting in a sort of half-circle around you in the living room, like you’re a grenade with the pin halfway out. No one wants to touch you. You might explode.

“So,” Peter says carefully, “we actually don't know for sure if it's about the message.”

"No," you say flatly.

"... But it's about the message," Kate adds, drawing her legs closer to her chest.

"Yes."

"That's not a mentorship meeting. That's an execution."

"Or a blowjob," Yelena shrugs. "Fifty-fifty."

You glare at her, but ultimately fold in on yourself, flopping onto the arm of the couch like a person in mourning. "I told them I wanted them to ruin me."

Peter coughs and turns a faint shade of red.

"I said Mommy. Out loud. In writing. I'll never work in this industry again. They're going to eat me alive. Metaphorically–not the fun way."

Silence settles over the room, but your ears ring. Your stomach churns with hunger and shame, a lethal combination after a night of too much liquid courage.

You've worked so hard for this. You wanted to prove yourself, prove that you could do it on your own, but your carefully crafted mask lies shattered at your feet, and the future you've dreamed of is turning to ash in your hands.

And maybe it's not just fear. Maybe there's a part of you that's glad you sent this message because at least now it's out in the world, and when the shame has settled, you'll be able to finally breathe again. Maybe you're actually really relieved that someone knows how you truly feel.

“Okay,” Kate taps her thighs, breaking the deafening quiet. "If you’re gonna burn, at least be hot.”

That makes you lift your head. You blink.

There's still fear, but underneath it, something flickers. You've already humiliated yourself. The worst part has happened. You might as well look good while they ruin you.

Yelena grins. “Oh no. Don’t give her ideas.”

But it’s already happening. You shoot up off the couch and march into your bedroom. A woman possessed, clothes flying.

“No, she’s right,” you call. “If I’m going to die today, I want them to look me in the eye while they do it. I want them to remember exactly what they’re throwing away.”

Because what if Agatha won't fire you. What if Rio won't laugh. What if whatever you're feeling hit some sort of nerve, and that's why they invited you.

You find your best jeans, the ones that hug your hips just right, the ones that make you feel like sin and a little bit of vengeance. Then the white tank top. Braless, of course. You want to look like you don’t care, like you’re too reckless to need modesty.

Then you grab the crisp blue dress shirt, one of the ones you bought to look “professional” for your internship, and shrug it on, leaving it completely unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Careless. Intentional.

Kate pokes her head in. “Okay, she’s feral. She's put on her fuck-me jeans”

Yelena follows, raising an eyebrow. “Hot. Unhinged. But hot.”

You face the mirror and stare at your reflection. Hair: chaotic but sexy. Eyes: puffy, sure, but fierce. You swipe on some mascara, some lipstick, a little concealer to hide the anxiety.

You look like a girl who’s been up all night fantasising about getting wrecked by two terrifyingly powerful women.

Which, to be fair, you have.

Peter stands in the hallway, hovering like he doesn’t know whether to stage an intervention or call an Uber. “I feel like I should tell you not to do this,” he says. “But also, like... if it works out, can we finally replace the fridge?"

You laugh, wild and hysterical, and grab your tote bag. Your phone, a half-crushed granola bar, and the ever-lurking ghost of that 3 a.m. message are the only things you take.

Your heart is still pounding. But there’s something else beneath the fear now.

Thrill. Hunger. Want.

Maybe you’re crazy. Maybe you’re about to walk into your own humiliation and career-ending disaster.

Or maybe, just maybe, you’re about to walk into something far more dangerous.

Something you secretly wanted.

Something that might want you back.

You hate elevators.

Always have. Something about being suspended in a little tin box hurling up a glass spine of steel and nerve. You hate the quiet hum of it, the manufactured stillness, the fact that it always smells vaguely of expensive cologne and recycled air. But most of all, you hate what it does to your confidence.

Because once those doors shut, one the reflective walls throw your face back at you from a dozen different angles, you're no longer the hot, chaotic girl from thirty minutes ago. You're just you.

Alone. Small. Exposed.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrored wall: the high-waisted jeans, the braless tank, the artfully rolled cuffs of your button-down shirt. You look like someone trying too hard not to try.

You look like bait.

You press a hand against your stomach. Not eating l really catches up with you now.

The digital numbers tick up: 47,52,69. And with every floor, the adrenaline thins into something colder, something akin to dread.

They saw the message.

They read the message.

They saw the desperation leaking out between every typo and emoji and shameless little plea.

What were you thinking?

Your palms sweat. Your heart pounds so loud it feels like the walls should be vibrating with it.

By the time the elevator dings at floor 75, your courage has long since abandoned ship. All that's left is raw skin and the sharp smell of panic mixed with your perfume.

You step out because what other choice do you have? The doorman already informed them of your arrival and you might get the embarrassing part over in the privacy of their own home rather than the office on Monday.

The floor is quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet money buys. Thick carpets, glass walls, that hush of luxury where sound dares not to echo.

There's a door at the end of the hall. Black wood, no plaque.

You know it's theirs.

You hesitate, just for a second. You could turn around. You could run. You could write a letter of termination tonight and never show up at the office again.

But you don't move, you don't escape.

Your body betrays you.

You raise your hand and knock. Once, twice. Soft and timid.

The silence that follows stretches so long, you start to think maybe no one's home, maybe you hallucinated the whole thing, maybe–

The door opens.

Agatha Harkness stands on the other side, dressed in soft black slacks and a silk blouse that highlights the particular colour of her eyes. Her hair is slightly tousled, but still looks like there's no curl out of place, like that's exactly what it's meant to look like.

It's the kind of effortlessness you wanted to go for, but failed. Miserably.

She looks at you, and you forget how to breathe. Her gaze sweeps down your body, not lingering, not leering, but slow and deliberate, cataloguing you.

You feel suddenly painfully naked.

"You're late."

You check your phone out of instinct. You're two minutes early.

"I–"

She turns and walks away, leaving the door open behind her, and you follow.

Of course you do.

The hallway smelled of bergamot and clean marble. A smell that's neither warm nor inviting, just sterile. It's money and power and things you've only read about in interviews or whispered about in bathroom stalls at work.

But when you step past the threshold into their apartment, everything changes.

Not just the scent, although that's what hits you first; something smoky and spiced like sandalwood and citrus, and home. No, it's the feeling that changes too. The space breathes.

You toe off your colourful Sambas by the door, suddenly too aware of how loud they are in here, how bright the blue looks against the polished hardwood floors. Your clothes don't feel expensive enough to be surrounded by all of this luxury.

The penthouse is not what you expected. Not even close. It's comfortable. Lived-in.

There's music playing softly in the background, something bluesy and low with a light scratch to it, maybe a vinyl. And when you glance to the side, you spot the player, a sleek black turntable surrounded by stacks of carefully alphabetised records.

There's art on the walls that looks original, messy, modern, personal.

Books spill across low-slung shelves and coffee tables. A few coffee mugs, lipstick-stained, left behind like breadcrumbs. A throw blanket tossed across the couch as if it's only been in use a few moments ago.

Framed magazine covers on the wall: Forbes, Vogue, The New Yorker, and next to them, photos. Candid ones.

Rio kissing Agatha's cheek in Paris. Agatha mid-laugh, windblown on a cliff. The two of them at some black-tie gala, champagne flutes raised and eyes dark.

It looks like them, but it also looks like love. A home made by two people who've survived things together. Who choose each other again and again.

And god, the view.

The windows stretch floor to ceiling, the New York skyline spread out like a promise, or a dare. You can see the river, the glitter of traffic, little ants of ambition crawling though light and shadow.

You don't know where to look. Where to stand. You limbs feel foreign and strange.

"You're staring." The voice is warm, amused.

Your head snaps in the direction of the sound, cheeks heating.

Rio Vidal is barefoot in the open kitchen, her hair half up, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. She's dressed down; dark jeans and a faded t-shirt, but still, she looks like a million dollars.

She watches you watch her, her smirk so charming, it could crack the earth.

You swallow. "I– I wasn't."

She abandons her glass on the counter and walks toward you, slow and deliberate. You try not to squirm, but fail.

“Cute top,” she murmurs, eyes darting away from yours. “Did you wear that for me, sweetheart?”

You stammer, laugh shakily. “No. I– I mean, it’s just clothes.”

She grins with a smile that could make the Cheshire cat jealous. “Sure it is.”

You try not to fidget, try not cover your chest. You force yourself to lift chin and stand straighter.

“Did you eat?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner. Food. Sustenance. That thing humans need to function.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah," you lie, naturally.

She raises a brow, stepping back toward the kitchen. This time, you follow. “When?”

“...Breakfast?”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You hesitate. Rio turns just enough to give you a look. It’s playful, but there’s steel under it.

You sigh. “Yesterday?”

She doesn’t say anything. She opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs and a bundle of herbs. She sets them on the counter, gestures to the stool.

“Sit. You’re not about to faint in my home and blame it on Agatha’s aura or something.”

You sit. Only now noticing that Agatha has disappeared.

“You always cook for potential mentees?” you murmur, keeping your hands on your lap, too scared to disrupt something.

“No. But I cook for girls who forget to take care of themselves and show up looking like that.”

You glance down at yourself. The jeans, the white tank, the blue shirt hanging loose off your shoulders.

You didn't think it was that obvious.

“You’re not fooling anyone, baby. But I like that you tried.”

Your skin heats. Not just your cheeks, but your chest, your belly, the backs of your knees.

There’s space. She doesn’t press, not yet anyway. Although, you know it will come. She talks about music. The record that’s playing. She mentions a concert she and Agatha went to in 2004, that’s where her shirt comes from. The food is an afterthought. Rio moves like someone who doesn’t need to cook, but enjoys doing it when the mood strikes. It’s rhythmic. Confident. Natural.

Suddenly, you realize that she’s giving you time. Letting the dread drain without letting you go. She’s trying to help you adjust to the situation without you noticing it.

“You’re quiet,” she says after a while, sprinkling spices over the pan.

“I’m overwhelmed.”

She laughs, not unkindly, perhaps surprised by your honest. “Yeah, you look it.”

It’s humiliating how much you want her to like you. How much you want both of them to like you. You can’t stop staring at Rio as she moves through the kitchen. Your want is starting to show again and it makes everything look sharper.

Beneath the want is a truth you don’t want to face. You like the way she teases you. You like the subtle control, and you hate that you like it.

You hate how much power they have over you already.

But god, you want more of it.

She slides a plate in front of you. Soft scrambled eggs, toast drizzled with olive oil, a little pile of sautéed greens. It smells divine.

She lifts an eyebrow again. “You gonna eat or make me hand-feed you?”

You grab the fork.

Rio leans on the counter, watching. There’s something content in the way she looks at you now, less teasing, more settled.

She pours orange juice and sets it beside you.

It’s quiet for a while, domestic, almost. Dangerous, even, because you like it.

“She can be intense,” Rio says. “But if you’re still sitting here when she walks in, it means you’re willing to hear her out."

“I don’t know what I’m here for yet."

"I think you do, and it makes your curious." Her eyes sparkle, a smile on her lips as she leans closer. "And I like curious girls."

Agatha enters again from a hallway you hadn’t noticed, holding a thin leather binder and a manila envelope. Like she timed it. Like she knew exactly how long it takes for your guard to soften.

You try not to think about how many layers she’s peeled off since opening the door. She’s still dressed like someone who could ruin a man’s career in ten words or less, but her sleeves are pushed up now, collar loosened. Almost casual. The kind of casual that still holds all the power.

She walks past Rio and brushes her fingers over her wife's hip in passing. A silent conversation exchanged in touch.

“I fed her,” Rio offers, like she’s defending a stray cat she decided to keep.

"I can smell it," Agatha replies, dry but fond. "Did you make her cry yet?"

“Working on it," Rio grins.

Agatha moves to the counter beside, sets the folder down. She looks fully at you now

“I take you’ve met my wife," she says.

You nod, shifting your weight. “Once or twice.”

“More than that, baby." Rio chimes in. "You just never noticed.”

You flinch slightly at the pet name, not because of what it is, but because of how easily it slides in the space between you.

There’s no place in this apartment to hide. There’s no desk to sit behind, no clipboard to cling to. It’s just them and you. And the memory of everything you wrote last night pressing hot against your skin.

“I assume you know why you’re here.”

You mouth goes dry, you panic, you lie. “No, ma’am.”

Rio snorts. Agatha doesn't.

She hums, less amused by your white lie than her wife. “Try again.”

Rio tilts her glass toward you. “Give her points for effort. She looks like she might throw up.”

You nearly do. You can feel it; your carefully crafted composure deteriorating at the edges.

Agatha flips the file open. You recognise the upside down screenshot. Your message. Your mistake.

“You sent us a message,” she says, like it’s a weather report, like she’s not about to strip your dignity for parts. “Would you like me read it back to you?”

You want to die. Right there on the spot. You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“No, thank you.”

Rio's shoulders shake with silent laughter. You glare at her. She's only missing a bucket of buttered popcorn to enjoy the show.

Agatha's lips curve, not unkindly, but wicked all the same.

“You looked so confident in your little message,” Rio says. “What changed?”

“I sobered up," you mumble.

“Pity.”

You glance between them. Rio, relaxed and lean. Agatha alert and impossible to read. You feel like prey. You feel fire licking through your skin.

But also? Safe. Strangely, threateningly safe.

“I didn’t think it was really you,” you admit quietly.

“Well,” Agatha says, taking Rio's drink “We are, and so is what you said." She leans in. “So let's discuss what we can make from that."

You shift, fingers digging into your thigh. "I wanted opportunities. Connections. Stability."

She hums. "That's not the truth."

"It is," you lie, for the second time today.

"It isn't."

Your face is on fire, red and hot. You don't need to see or touch it to know that. You feel pinned, as if her eyes could peel back the truth layer by layer. You want to lie again and say this isn't a game you're dying to play, but the way you stomach flutters gives you away.

You're already in too deep, and part of you doesn't want to climb out.

Agatha slides the binder across the counter. "This isn't a contract. Not yet. Just a roadmap. And this–" she holds up the manila envelope, “–is an NDA."

Your throat tightens.

"Take them home," she says. "Read them. Think about what you want."

Rio leans in, brushing her fingers over yours as she pushes the papers toward you.

"Really think, sweetheart," she adds. "Because if you come back, there's no pretending after that."

“What if I don’t come back?”

“You walk out, and nothing changes.” Agatha straightens, steps back, creates distance. “You’ll still have your internship, you go back to starving yourself in elevators and pretending like you don’t want to be owned.”

Owned. The word knocks the breath out of your lungs.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” she says, voice gentler now. “Take the weekend. Think. But if you do come back–“ She lifts your chin with one finger. “–you better mean i t.”

You don't remember reaching for the folder your hands simply move. Your body is answering questions your mouth can't. The folder ends up under your arm. The envelope pressed tight to your ribs. Rio calls an Uber without asking, already knowing you’d say yes.

The elevator feels colder than before. Wider, somehow. Your reflection blinks back at you, trying to understand what just happened.

You haven't read a single page. Don't know what they want. What they're offering.

It’s not trusting them that scares you. It’s what they might see when you do.

You grip the envelope tighter, tell yourself again and again that nothing's binding yet.

But your heart is acting like it's already signed something.

583 notes · View notes