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claramelooo · 5 days ago

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WOVEN FATES (5/???)

Happy Valentine, babes!! (1 day late, but that's okay)

I hope my valentines like the gift 💕

Enjoy it! <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Summary: You think you're independent, but Agatha disagrees.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

Domain

The filming of Agatha's new movie was everything you expected and, at the same time, so much more. The set was an organized chaos: people running back and forth, lights being adjusted, voices blending into a sea of commands. You had never worked so hard in your life, and yet, it felt like you were never doing enough.

Agatha was a force of nature on set. Harsh, demanding, relentless. Every detail mattered, every movement was rehearsed to exhaustion, and her voice cut through the air like a blade when something was out of place. Despite the frantic pace, you couldn’t help but admire how she seemed to have absolute control over everything around her.

A few days had passed since you moved into their house, and in that time, the world you once knew felt like it had completely changed. The house, once strange and imposing, now carried a warmth you had never felt anywhere else.

Mornings were peaceful, marked by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the subtle voices echoing through the hallways. But there was something more—something that made your heart race: Rio and Agatha’s attempts at touch. They were light at first, almost innocent, but they were becoming constant, and that terrified you. Not because they were invasive, but because you were becoming greedy.

It was a silent, almost shameful desire.

You wanted more.

More of the warmth of Rio’s fingers grazing your skin as she handed you a cup of tea. More of the way Agatha slightly tilted her head while watching you, as if she already knew exactly what you were feeling. More of the security that came with being there, wrapped in the space they offered you.

That feeling of belonging seemed too new and fragile, as if it could disappear at any moment. And maybe that was what made you crave it so desperately—the fear that if you didn’t hold on tightly enough, it would all slip through your fingers.

They always seemed to need you close. Dinners were long, filled with conversations you sometimes didn’t even know how to participate in, but somehow, you were never left out. Rio smiled in a way that sent shivers down your spine, and Agatha always knew when your mind wandered to places you didn’t dare admit. They were patient, but you saw the anticipation in their eyes, the thread of tension in their unspoken words.

And the nights… the nights were different.

They didn’t sleep as deeply as you imagined. Agatha, especially, was silent but watchful. She told herself there was only one reason for it: to make sure you weren’t overworking yourself, that nothing disrupted the delicate balance you brought into that house. That justification was enough to silence the more uncomfortable questions in her mind.

But in the past few nights, as she watched you sleep, something was changing.

Agatha sat in the armchair in the corner of the room, her hands resting on her lap, but her eyes fixed on you. Your face was serene as you slept, and the way you looked so small and vulnerable in bed made something unsettling stir in her chest.

There was something about the way your hair fell on the pillow, the way your breathing was so soft, the way you looked… beautiful. Not just physically, but in a way Agatha couldn’t define. It was an all-encompassing beauty, something that went beyond appearance. Something rooted in your sweetness, in the way you tried to please, even when you were so scared.

And that was what disturbed her the most. You were sweet, so incredibly sweet, and at the same time, so shy—so eager to do what was asked. Not out of fear, but because you wanted to trust, you wanted to be seen.

And Agatha was seeing it. She was seeing how, little by little, you were beginning to trust her and Rio. You were no longer as hesitant with their touches, even if you still blushed every time they teased you. You were starting to open small windows into your personality, tiny glimpses of courage and vulnerability that seemed tailor-made to break through their defenses.

But one night, a storm raged outside, thunder rolling across the sky as if summoned by something deep and wild. The rain pounded against the windows, casting dancing shadows across the room in the flickering lightning. You were lost in your dream, but to you, it was more than just a dream; it was an echo of something old, a trauma that had never truly healed.

In the dream, you were standing in an empty, gray field, the ground beneath your feet dissolving into nothingness. And then you saw her. Your mother. But she had her back to you, her figure shrouded in a pale light that made it impossible to see her face.

"Mom?" Your voice came out hesitant, like a child just learning to speak. You took a step toward her, but it felt like the closer you got, the farther away she became. "Mom, please, don’t go..."

She didn’t respond. She didn’t turn to you. She just kept walking.

"Please, don’t leave me! I need you!" You cried out, your voice rising in desperation. Tears burned your eyes as you ran, trying to reach her, but every step was harder than the last. It was as if the ground was crumbling beneath you, and with each movement, you sank deeper into the darkness.

"Mom! Please!" You fell to your knees, arms outstretched toward her. She stopped for a brief moment, and you held your breath. Maybe she would look back. Maybe…

But no. Without turning, she took another step and disappeared, dissolving into the void.

You fell. Literally fell, as if the ground had split open beneath you. The wind roared in your ears, the world around you becoming a mass of darkness. And as you plummeted, your voice broke into a desperate scream: "Mommy!"

But just when it seemed like nothing would catch you, that you were destined to be swallowed by the void, you felt something. A warm touch. Firm hands.

You opened your eyes, gasping, tears streaming down your face. You were no longer in the void—you were in your bed. A soft, delicate hand stroked your hair, while a soothing voice whispered, "We’re here..."

It was Rio. Her voice was low, almost a lullaby, and for the first time, you realized how she could seem incredibly strong and gentle at the same time.

"Shh… you’re okay," Rio continued, pulling you lightly into her arms. You clung to her without thinking, as if she was the only thing anchoring you in that moment.

But it wasn’t just Rio. When you lifted your gaze, you saw Agatha sitting at the edge of the bed. Her face was dark with thought, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity you had never seen before.

"You’re safe," Agatha said, her voice low and steady, but there was something more there—something she didn’t let slip easily.

You sobbed, trying to speak, but the words caught in your throat. Agatha hesitated, but slowly, she reached out to touch your tear-streaked face, wiping your tears away with her thumb. It was such a simple gesture, yet so heavy with something you couldn’t quite define.

She should be thinking about your energy, about keeping you stable, about preserving it. At least, that’s what she told herself. But at that moment, with you so fragile before her, your wide eyes filled with fear and your body trembling in Rio’s arms, something inside Agatha shifted.

It was more than just your energy.

More than any convenient justification.

It was you.

It was the way you looked so... theirs. As if you had always belonged there, even if neither of them had the courage to admit it yet.

Agatha didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand linger on your face for just a moment longer, while Rio continued whispering soft words in your ear, holding you as if she would never let you fall again.

And then, right there, you knew.

You knew that this was your place.

In the arms of two women old enough to be your mother.

Maybe Freud would have something to say about it—probably an entire book. But, frankly, it didn’t matter. Not in that instant, as Rio’s familiar scent and Agatha’s hesitant touch surrounded you. No psychoanalytic theory would make sense.

The only thing that mattered was the fact that you didn’t want to leave.

Ever.

[...]

The sun scorched the set, and you were beginning to feel more comfortable with the frantic pace of filming. People talked, laughed, and made jokes, and in a way, you finally felt like part of something. But even in the middle of the chaos, you knew Agatha was watching.

Always watching.

She never made a point of hiding it completely, but she also never showed anything that could be interpreted as favoritism. To everyone there, you were just another production assistant. Just another person trying to please the brilliant and ruthless director.

"Good job, everyone! Lunch break," Agatha’s voice cut through the air, firm and authoritative. For a moment, her blue eyes met yours, but she quickly turned away, already shifting her attention to something else.

It was now or never. As everyone headed to the makeshift cafeteria, you grabbed your backpack and started walking away, feeling your heart race.

"Where are you going?" Yelena asked, crossing her arms as she watched you with curiosity.

"I have something to take care of. I’ll be back before the break is over."

She looked at you suspiciously but shrugged. Before she could say anything else, you were already leaving.

The truth was, ever since you moved in with them, your life had stopped being entirely your own. It wasn’t something spoken in words but felt in every glance, in every careful gesture that seemed to carry more weight than it should.

Agatha drove you to college every morning, always with that heavy silence, but never without adjusting your seatbelt over your lap first, as if making sure you’d be safe. And in the afternoon, Rio was already waiting at the gate, the car engine running, a brief smile on her face, but her eyes scanning everything around, as if expecting something to hurt you at any moment.

Visiting your brother felt impossible. Every time you mentioned it, an excuse came, almost effortless but full of intention. “Maybe after the shoot. It’s better this way, you need to rest.” Or, “We can look into that together this weekend.” And before you knew it, time had passed, and the subject had been brushed aside like dust swept under a rug.

But it wasn’t just that. They were in you, in every thought you had, in every decision you tried to make. It was as if your own will was slowly being erased, diluted into their desire to keep you there, under control, as if leaving was a threat they couldn’t bear. And somehow, part of you no longer knew what you wanted.

When you arrived, the sight nearly knocked you off your feet.

Your brothers were there. All of them. And, to your greater shock, so was your father.

You stood frozen at the entrance for a few seconds, unable to believe what you were seeing.

"What... what is this?" You murmured, your voice low and filled with disbelief.

"Well, well, look who decided to show up!" One of your brothers said, a mocking smile on his lips. "Madam finally stepped out of her castle to visit us mere mortals?"

You frowned, trying to stay calm.

"What are you all doing here? You don’t even live in this state!"

Your father, who was seated at the table, slowly stood up, his eyes as hard as ever. "We are where we need to be. Unlike you, who walks around thinking you’re better than everyone else."

His words hit you like a punch. You took a deep breath, trying to stay in control.

"I just came to see Josh. I thought he was... alone."

Your voice came out colder than you intended, and that made your father’s face harden even more.

"I thought I had given you clear instructions," your father said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if restraining himself. "You were supposed to watch him, put him back on track."

You scoffed, incredulous. Fuck this shit.

"Josh is a grown man. He can make his own decisions, I can assure you of that."

"Decisions?!" He sneered. "That’s deviance!"

The air in the room felt heavier, denser, suffocating. Your father stood there with that same expression as always—full of empty authority, a man who believed his voice was law.

"If only he had someone to guide him... someone with common sense," he said, as if discussing the weather, as if he wasn’t spewing venom against his own son.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, your vision sharpening—like your body knew it was time to fight.

And the sight of Josh, with his face still bruised—some of the marks already fading—and his eyes screaming shame, filled your chest with something painted red.

"Oh, I see," you said, letting out a dry laugh, crossing your arms. "Because following your example would be just great, right? Spending a lifetime playing the tough guy, pretending you have everything under control while destroying everyone around you."

His face hardened. "Watch your mouth."

"Watch my mouth?! Watch my mouth, Dad?! You destroyed this family! You pushed everyone away with your fucking superiority complex! Mom, me, and now Josh. He doesn’t need guidance, he doesn’t need correction, and he sure as hell doesn’t need you! You know what he needs? Someone who loves him for who he is. Something you were never capable of doing!"

The silence in the room was deafening. Your brothers were paralyzed, shocked by your boldness.

Your father was a serious man, a strategist, a relentless worker who worked hard to build the image of the perfect patriarch. They had never heard him yell, never seen him lose control—because control was everything to him. Control over the house. Control over the children. Control over the wife.

Until the wife, who was supposed to serve and submit, disappeared.

You laughed, a dry, bitter sound.

"You never knew your place!" your father shouted, taking a step forward. "You think you’re special? That you can turn your back on your family and it’s all fine? You always thought you were better than us. But you know what you are? A whore, just like your mother!"

His words burned like acid, touching a raw nerve inside you.

"Funny, isn’t it? You, all this time, trying to force us into a mold, shoving your worldview down our throats like it was the only possible one. Like it was sacred. Like it was some fucking religion."

You took a step forward, your voice dripping with venomous irony.

"But you know what makes you and God so... alike?"

He didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with hatred.

"Even He couldn’t keep His woman in paradise."

The slap echoed through the house. Your head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, and the taste of blood flooded your mouth. A searing heat spread across your face, but you didn’t back down. You didn’t lower your head.

Your body trembled with adrenaline, your eyes filled with tears, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here.

Josh was quick. With a firm hand, he grabbed your arm and pulled you back, placing himself between you and your father.

"Enough." His voice was tense but controlled. "You’ve done enough damage," he said to the man, trying not to show fear.

Your face burned, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the humiliation boiling inside you. Your siblings remained frozen, as if the room had been sealed inside an unbearable bubble of tension.

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. Your hands were still shaking as you pulled it out, trying to take a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. When you saw Agatha’s name glowing on the screen, something inside you cracked.

You walked to your old bedroom to answer.

"Hey?" You picked up, trying to sound normal, but your voice came out thick with emotion.

On the other end, the silence lasted only a second before her voice cut through like a blade. "Where are you?"

Your heart pounded. It was impossible to hide that something was wrong.

"I... I’m… it’s fine. I just had to take care of something."

"Take care of telling me where you are. Now." Her tone was low and controlled but laced with something dangerous.

You hesitated, feeling your throat close up. But there was no lying. Not to her.

You finally murmured the address, almost inaudible.

"Wait there. Do not leave."

Before you could respond, she hung up. Your chest tightened even more when the next message arrived.

My driver is on the way. Don’t you dare move.

You put the phone away and looked at your family, your face still burning from the slap. They laughed, exchanging glances as if they had won. But for the first time, you felt something different.

There was someone who cared. Someone watching over you. And somehow, that made everything feel a little less unbearable.

You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears, seeing Josh approach. "Hey…" He lightly tapped your knee, making you look up.

Josh studied you with concern, his eyes focused on the cut on your lip but not wanting to pressure you. You ran your tongue over the wound, tasting the metallic tang of blood still lingering.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly.

You let out a humorless laugh. "Okay is a strong word."

Josh sighed and shook his head. "I should’ve protected you better."

"You’ve done more than enough, Josh," you replied, your voice softer now. "But… I need to tell you something."

He frowned. "What?"

You hesitated, hating to say it at that moment. But he needed to know.

"The building… It’s going to be demolished. You have to leave."

His face twisted in surprise, then into something close to resignation. But then, to your surprise, a small smile appeared on his lips.

"Then I guess it’s perfect timing," he said with a shrug. "The gallery lady… She gave me the job. As a security guard."

Your heart clenched, but this time in a good way. Rio had actually done what you asked—she cared. You couldn’t hold back a smile, even with the pain in your face.

"Josh… that’s amazing!" You jumped up, wrapping him in a tight hug. He returned it immediately, holding onto you as if he knew how much you both needed that moment.

"We’re going to get out of this, okay?" He murmured. "One way or another."

Before you could respond, three firm knocks echoed against the door. Josh pulled away first, looking toward the sound. You took a deep breath, feeling your chest tighten.

"That must be the driver," you said, adjusting your clothes.

Josh raised an eyebrow. "Driver?"

"Long story."

You got up and walked to the door. On the other side, Ralph stood, impeccable as always, with his rigid posture and sharp gaze.

"Miss," he greeted with a slight nod. "Mrs. Harkness requested that I take you immediately."

You cast one last glance at Josh before turning back to Ralph.

"Let’s go."

The ride to the studio was silent. Ralph drove with mechanical precision while you stared out the window at the city passing by, trying to organize your thoughts. But your mind was still stuck in that house, on your father, on the taste of blood in your mouth, on the look in Josh’s eyes when you told him he had to leave.

When the car finally stopped in front of the set, you took a deep breath before stepping out. The warmth of the early afternoon sun hit your already heated skin, but it didn’t help soothe the knot in your throat. You adjusted your clothes instinctively, as if that could prevent people from noticing the chaos inside you.

The set was bustling as usual, with bright lights, cameras in position, and the crew moving back and forth. But your attention was immediately drawn to one single figure.

Agatha.

She stood there, statue-like, arms crossed, back to the crew, her posture firm and impenetrable. One hand held a radio, fingers idly sliding over its edge as she pressed it against her chin, seemingly lost in thought. But you knew.

She wasn’t distracted.

She was waiting.

And then, her eyes landed on you.

It was like an electric wire snapping in the air.

Agatha’s gaze swept over your face in a clinical examination, her attention locking onto every detail. The tension in your shoulders, the way you kept your head slightly lowered, the tightness in your lips. And then, the inevitable—the cut.

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a dark shadow passing through her expression. But it was quick, a flash that disappeared as swiftly as it appeared. Any trace of reaction was carefully erased before anyone else could notice.

"The break’s over!"

Her voice sliced through the air with blade-like precision. Firm, unwavering. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just looked at you and understood everything in a single second.

But you knew Agatha never forgot.

She never forgot.

And as you walked past her quickly, without looking up, something inside her cracked—a feeling she couldn’t name or push away. She turned slightly, watching you disappear into the crew.

The day went on, but you felt crushed by an invisible weight. Your swollen face and the cut on your lip still throbbed lightly, a reminder of what had happened. You tried to focus on work, carrying costumes back and forth, trying to lose yourself in the tasks to push the thoughts away.

You were carrying a long, elegant dress to Wanda Maximoff, one of the most recognized and beloved actresses in the industry. Everyone on set seemed to orbit around her—not just because she was stunning, but because her reputation as sweet and kind made her everyone’s favorite. She was always a delight in interviews, full of smiles and words of support for her colleagues. The kind of person the media described as flawless.

But with you, things were… different.

As you approached, Wanda turned to you, her eyes gleaming as if she had detected something from afar. For a moment, you hesitated, intimidated by her presence. But then you quickly reminded yourself—you were just doing your job.

"Ah, finally." Her voice was colder than you expected, nothing like the warm tone from the interviews you had watched. She took the dress from your hands with a movement that seemed both casual and calculated, and then, her eyes fell on you. "You took your time."

You blinked, surprised by the way she said it. It wasn’t a direct complaint, but there was something sharp in her voice. "Sorry, there was a lot to organize. I figured you'd rather have it arrive perfect than fast."

For a moment, she studied you, her green eyes shining in a way that felt almost… challenging. "Perfect, huh? I don’t know if that’s possible, considering the script I have to work with."

You frowned. "Is there something wrong with the script?"

"Wrong?" She let out a low chuckle, running her fingers over the fabric of the dress. "Wrong isn’t the word. It’s more… weak. My character is predictable, boring. Don’t you think?"

Your stomach twisted. She didn’t know, of course, but you had contributed to that character’s storyline. You had spent nights revising every single line, trying to make her three-dimensional and complex. And now, hearing Wanda dismiss it all as "boring" hit you like a rock.

"Well," you replied, your voice carrying a bit more firmness than usual, "I think characters are only weak when the actor fails to find depth in them."

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly at your boldness. She wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not by someone like you—just a production assistant, practically invisible to her. But instead of looking offended, she smiled, a smile that carried something between amusement and irritation.

"Oh, really?" She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly as she watched you. "So you think the problem is with me and not the script?"

"That’s not what I said." You tried to keep your tone steady, but you knew your answer wasn’t convincing enough.

"It’s not what you said, but it’s exactly what you meant," she shot back, her voice lower now, as if she was toying with the idea of provoking you. "Funny. And who exactly are you to have such a strong opinion?"

"Someone who understands your character’s story," you answered before you could think, feeling your hands begin to sweat.

For a second, Wanda was silent, and then something shifted in her gaze. It was as if she had just figured something out, something that intrigued her.

"Ah." She murmured, her eyes flickering from your face to the dress in her hands. "You must be the anonymous writer Agatha hired. Now it all makes sense."

You didn’t answer, but the heat rising to your cheeks gave you away.

She took a step closer, the smile on her lips softening but still carrying something sharp. "I’ll tell you something, sweetheart," she whispered, so close you could feel the warmth of her presence. "If you really believe this character has any depth, I hope you prove it. Because so far, I haven’t seen anything."

And then, without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, leaving you there with your heart racing and your mind spinning.

Wanda Maximoff was everything they said she was—beautiful, brilliant, talented. But at the same time, she was completely different. She was rude, provocative, challenging. And for some reason, all of that only made you feel even more unsettled.

Later, the atmosphere on set felt heavier by the minute. Agatha was particularly irritable, her jaw clenched as if she were about to explode. Her usually calm and controlled voice was hoarse and filled with irritation as she barked orders at everyone around her.

"More energy in the next scene! And please, listen when I give instructions!"

One of the actresses, already nervous about the tense atmosphere, dropped the glass of water she was holding. The glass shattered on the floor, and the sound made everyone on set freeze.

Agatha closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before whispering through gritted teeth to her assistant. "Clean this up. Now."

The assistant, desperate to avoid any outburst of anger, immediately turned to you. "You. Clean this up now."

Without questioning, you nodded and quickly walked to the small storage room at the back of the set. While you grabbed a broom and some cloths, the door clicked shut behind you.

You turned quickly, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in the small space.

Agatha was there, leaning against the door with her arms crossed. Her blue eyes had an almost cruel intensity, as if they were dissecting you the moment they met yours. There wasn’t a single crack in the control she exuded, but there was something—something dark, something vulnerable—hidden beneath the facade.

"Do you think you can just disappear like that? Without a word? Without an explanation?" Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that made the air feel thicker.

"I was doing what I was told." You tried to sound firm, but your voice wavered, softer than you wanted.

"Don’t give me that." Agatha uncrossed her arms and took a step forward, every movement calculated, predatory. "Talk."

Your chest tightened. "It’s nothing. Just… let me do my job." You tried to step past her, but her hand lifted, pressing against the door, blocking your exit.

"Your face doesn’t look like nothing." She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she examined you with almost cruel precision. "And that cut on your lip? Is that what you call ‘nothing’?"

You felt the heat rise to your face—a mix of shame and anger making your hands tremble slightly. "That’s... that's none of your business."

Agatha let out a low, sharp laugh, devoid of humor. "Everything about you is my business."

"Why?" You lifted your eyes, your gaze defiant despite the knot in your throat. "Why do you care, Agatha?"

The silence that followed was almost unbearable, heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. Agatha seemed to hesitate, her eyes locked onto yours as if she were fighting an internal battle. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower but no less commanding.

"Because you’re my responsibility."

Those words were like a spark in dry grass. You stepped forward, staring at her directly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing.

For a moment, Agatha didn’t respond. The silence hung between you, dense and charged. She seemed to struggle with herself, as if the words were on the tip of her tongue, but something—maybe pride—kept her from saying them.

"Responsibility?" You repeated, letting out a bitter laugh. "I’m not your responsibility, Agatha. I’m a person. Not a project."

Agatha stayed silent, her jaw tightening as she absorbed your words. There was something in her eyes—a mix of anger, wounded pride, and… pain? But her expression quickly returned to a cold, impenetrable mask.

"You think you know everything, don’t you?" She took a step closer, her voice lower but laced with something almost threatening. "You think you can say whatever you want, however you want, without consequences. But let me tell you something, sweetheart—the world doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way."

"Maybe that’s the problem," you shot back, refusing to back down. "You don’t work. You just… control. You want to control everything around you. Everyone. Including me."

For a moment, Agatha remained silent, her breathing heavy. It seemed like she was about to say something, but then, with a sudden movement, she took a step back and opened the door.

"Get back to work." Her voice was sharp, but with a slight tremor that you almost didn’t notice. "Now."

Without waiting for a response, Agatha left, shutting the door behind her with a dry snap. You stood there, alone, your heart still racing, your emotions tangled—anger, frustration, confusion. It felt like a storm had swept through the small space and left everything upside down. And deep down, you knew she felt the same.

You returned to the set with the supplies you had picked up from the storage room—a bucket, a rag, and a broom. Your heart was still pounding from the confrontation with Agatha, but you tried to focus on what needed to be done. It was better to clean up the shattered glass quickly and return to the invisibility that used to be so comforting.

As you knelt to start gathering the scattered shards, the usual hum of activity on set continued, but you didn’t miss the way Agatha, from her chair, was watching you. She sat with her legs crossed, jaw still tight, and seemed more focused on you than on anything happening around her.

"Are you going to take all day with that?" Her voice cut through the air, drawing everyone's attention.

You froze for a moment, feeling the weight of their stares. Trying to ignore the heat rising to your face, you answered softly, "I'm almost done."

"Almost done?" Agatha stood from her chair, the sound of her heels echoing as she walked toward you. "There’s still water on the floor, shards everywhere... Does that look ‘almost done’ to you?"

Your fingers tightened around the rag, embarrassment washing over you. "I... I'm going as fast as I can."

"It's not enough." Agatha stopped beside you, looking down. Her posture was intimidating, every word laced with something almost cruel. "If you can’t handle a simple task like this efficiently, maybe you’re in the wrong place."

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t respond. You knew that any words would only make things worse.

"Need some help, sweetheart?" Wanda’s voice carried from across the set, clearly taunting. A few people chuckled, but you felt your face burn even more.

"No, Wanda. She doesn’t need help," Agatha replied, turning slowly to face the actress. "She needs focus. And maybe a little shame."

Wanda let out a soft, ironic laugh, shrugging as she settled back into her chair.

Agatha turned her gaze back to you, her eyes locked onto yours. "If you don’t finish in five minutes, I’ll do it myself. And I guarantee, you won’t like what happens after that."

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her stare and everyone else's. Everything in you screamed to run, but instead, you lowered your head and kept cleaning, your hands trembling slightly as you hurried to finish.

Agatha stepped away, but not before whispering, just for you to hear, "I hope this teaches you something."

By the time you finished, your hands were red from scrubbing the floor, and your pride had once again been trampled. But you knew this wasn’t about the glass or the water. It was about control. It was always about control.

As you cleaned, a larger shard of glass slipped from the rag and sliced into the side of your hand. A small "ah" of pain escaped, but you quickly muffled the sound, watching the blood trickle down your palm. The cut wasn’t deep, but enough to throb—a physical reminder of what you felt inside.

You held onto the shard, pressing it against the wound, as if the physical pain was a necessary punishment. This is what you deserve, you thought. A failure, a disappointment. To your family, to Agatha, to everyone. When the blood began to drip onto the floor, you let go of the glass and quickly wiped it up, tucking your bleeding hand into your pocket as you finished.

Yelena appeared out of nowhere, as she always did, snapping her fingers at you. "Are you done here? Great, because we need you to adjust the script. Now."

You followed her in silence, pressing the rag against your hand as you walked. When you reached the small table covered in scattered drafts, Yelena barely gave you time to breathe before pointing at a scene. "This dialogue is... how do I put this delicately? Horrible. Fix it."

You looked at the paper. It was a scene featuring the character Wanda had mocked earlier. An unexpected determination filled you.

With your injured hand gripping the pen, you started writing. You adjusted the dialogues, added layers to the character, gave her depth, strength—something no one could call "weak" again. You were so focused that you barely noticed the blood smearing onto the paper, leaving crimson stains along the margins.

By the time you finished, the day was almost over. You handed in the revised script and left for the bus stop, finally letting the cool night air hit your face.

You stood on the sidewalk, the weight of the day's decisions crashing down all at once. Where to go? To your family, who would likely offer only more judgment and disappointment? Or to Agatha and Rio’s mansion, where suffocating control was the only constant in your life?

Before you could decide, the sound of tires echoed down the street, and a sleek black Audi pulled up in front of you. The window rolled down, revealing the two faces that had become a constant torment in your mind.

Agatha, her steel gaze locked on you, and Rio, in the passenger seat, her expression filled with something you couldn’t quite decipher.

"Get in." Agatha’s voice was firm, yet so low it almost felt like a warning.

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. But the two women kept staring, as if there was no other option but to obey.

The Audi came to a smooth stop, but you already had your hand on the door handle before the engine even turned off. You stepped out without looking back, without waiting for anything. You just wanted to get to your room, close the door, bury your face in Lucky’s warm fur, and pretend—if only for a moment—that none of this was happening.

The air inside the mansion felt heavy, or maybe it was just you, carrying the weight of the day on your shoulders. You climbed the first few steps of the staircase, your heartbeat quickening, but a familiar voice pulled you back like a chain.

"Hey, hey, young lady. Not so fast."

Rio stood in the middle of the hall, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at you like she was stopping traffic.

"Rio, please..." Your voice came out weak, barely a whisper, as you kept your gaze lowered.

"Come here." It wasn’t a request.

You sighed, stepping down reluctantly as she approached. Lucky, who had rushed down to greet you, now lingered at the bottom of the stairs, his tail wagging slowly, as if sensing the tension in the air.

"Let me see," she said, tilting her head slightly to the side, indicating she wanted a better look at your face.

"I'm fine." You tried to turn away, but she wasn’t fooled.

Rio raised an eyebrow, her firm hand catching your chin. "That doesn’t look like 'fine' to me."

You bit your lower lip, momentarily forgetting about the cut there—until the sting made you wince. Rio noticed the movement, and before you could react, her touch was already there, right at the sore spot, gentle but firm enough to make you stop.

"Don't do that." She said, her tone low but loaded with authority.

"It's nothing," you murmured, trying to escape her intense scrutiny. "It was just a… mistake."

Rio remained silent for a moment, her brown eyes locked onto yours. Then, she sighed, but she didn’t seem entirely convinced. "A mistake, huh? That’s not what Agatha told me."

The blue-eyed woman stood behind Rio, arms crossed, her posture impenetrable.

"And what does she know?" You growled, resentment throbbing in your head.

"Don't go there, girl." Agatha warned, her tone dangerous.

Before Rio could press you further, Lucky came running down the stairs, his golden fur gleaming under the soft hall light. He leaped onto you with an enthusiasm that made your defenses crumble for a brief moment.

"See?" You crouched to hug him, your voice attempting to sound casual as you buried your face in his fur. "Everything's fine now."

Rio crossed her arms, watching the scene for a moment before shaking her head. "This isn't over, young lady. But... go ahead. I need to talk to Aggie."

The nickname caught you off guard.

You froze for a second, your hand stopping mid-stroke in Lucky’s fur, the background noise of the hall fading into a dull hum in your head. It was an intimate name, sliding from Rio’s mouth with ease, effortlessly, as if it belonged to her. And, well, maybe it did.

Of course, they had nicknames for each other. Of course, there was familiarity between them. You knew that. You had no right to feel anything about it. Yet, a bitter taste spread in your throat, something uncomfortable and inexplicable burning deep in your stomach.

You forced out a light laugh, pushing a smile onto your face as you stood up, ignoring the unease pulsing inside you.

"Good luck with that," you muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

But as you walked away, the word kept circling in your mind, repeating like an irritating echo.

Aggie.

You picked Lucky up and climbed the stairs, relief mixing with the certainty that your confrontation with Rio and Agatha was far from over.

[...]

Agatha was in the office, the silence broken only by the sound of the wall clock. The soft glow of the lamp made the room feel almost cozy, but the tension in the air was palpable. She sat in her favorite armchair, legs crossed, fingers drumming against the upholstered armrest, creating a steady, almost irritating rhythm. In front of her lay the script. A revised version—a text you had worked tirelessly on.

Reluctant but curious, she picked up the page and started reading. Her blue eyes scanned the words with speed and precision, her furrowed brow indicating both concentration and critique.

Wanda’s character wasn’t the conventional heroine everyone knew. She was an antihero—complex, driven by something that transcended a mere thirst for power. She was a devastated woman, determined, relentless.

Before, she had simply been a mother fighting to get her children back. Now, the protagonist was more than just a mother. She was a woman. A woman who would discover her place in her universe—and in every other.

Agatha let out a sigh. Even with her ego bruised and irritation simmering beneath her skin, she couldn’t deny your talent. The words on the page had a depth that had been missing before, as if you had finally grasped what was needed to capture the essence of the story.

She kept reading, fingers lightly tapping against the wooden desk as she absorbed Wanda’s journey. It wasn’t about being a hero or a villain—it was about being human. She was a woman who knew the pain of loss, the weight of failure, and the strength that came from rebuilding—not just for herself, but to reshape the world around her.

She no longer wanted power just for herself. She wanted power to create a space where she could finally exist as she was, without the crushing expectations of who she was supposed to be. To live, to love, to lose—without the world watching and judging. Deep down, the protagonist’s struggle was for freedom—freedom from pain, from obligation, from the invisible chains of someone who had always been expected to save others and never herself.

Agatha leaned back in her chair, taking in the evolution of the story. It wasn’t about the children, or revenge. It wasn’t just about redeeming her mistakes or overcoming her traumas. It was about the simple, yet profound, desire to be whole. A woman who could find her own identity in a universe constantly trying to mold her.

That was when Agatha noticed something different. At the end of the page, where the ideas were scribbled with urgency, there were smudges of ink… and drops of something red.

She raised an eyebrow, bringing the paper closer to the lamp’s light. Blood. Not much, but enough to alarm her.

"What the..." she murmured, her eyes narrowing. She knew you had been intensely focused on rewriting the script, but she hadn’t expected you to get hurt in the process. Or maybe… the wound was deeper than it seemed.

Rio entered without knocking, her gaze immediately landing on her wife. She didn’t need to ask to understand what was happening. She knew that heavy silence, that tension in Agatha’s jaw that betrayed her more than any words could.

"You’re going to tear the page if you keep gripping it like that," Rio said, her voice light but firm.

Agatha dropped the pages onto the desk but didn’t look at Rio. "I don’t want to talk about it." She leaned back in her leather chair, letting out a tired sigh.

"You never do," Rio replied, closing the door behind her and slowly walking to the couch on the other side of the office. She sat down, observing Agatha for a moment before continuing. "But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to."

Agatha let out a short, sharp sigh, picking up her wine glass just to swirl the liquid inside. She hadn’t taken a sip yet. "She should… know her place. Things have rules, Rio. Order."

Rio raised an eyebrow, resting her elbow on the back of the couch and propping her chin on her hand. "Rules? Or is it your wounded ego?"

Agatha finally looked at her, blue eyes flashing with something between irritation and frustration. "You think that’s what this is? Ego? I’m trying to protect her. Everything I do is to keep her safe."

"I know that." Rio’s voice softened. "I know, my love. But you and I both know that’s not the only thing bothering you. You want her to see you, to understand. And when she doesn’t, you shut down. You get like this."

Agatha pressed her lips together, staring back at her wine. Rio was right, but admitting it was out of the question. She wasn’t going to say out loud what she felt—the infuriating need to be understood, to be... accepted by you.

Rio stood up, walking over to her. She stopped beside the armchair and crouched slightly to meet Agatha’s gaze. "Listen, we’ll handle this. I’ll talk to her. I’ll ask her to apologize."

Agatha laughed, but it was dry, humorless. "You think that will fix it? She’ll apologize just to please me, but what she truly thinks won’t change."

"Maybe not." Rio admitted, resting her hand gently on Agatha’s knee. "But she’s trying. You see that. I see that. And maybe you need to be a little less… Agatha Harkness, Hollywood Director with her."

That earned a barely-there smile from Agatha, the corner of her lips lifting for a second before vanishing. She finally took a sip of her wine, looking at Rio with a mixture of exasperation and affection.

"You make me too soft," she murmured.

Rio shrugged, smiling. "Someone has to."

Agatha took a deep breath, shaking her head. “Fine. Talk to her. But if she shows up with that attitude again…”

“I know, I know,” Rio interrupted, raising her hands. “You’re going to remind me that you don’t have the patience for it.”

Agatha didn’t reply. She simply took another sip of her wine as Rio got up. But deep down, Agatha knew it wasn’t just patience she lacked. It was something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

You were sitting on the bed, holding Lucky in your arms as he rested calmly on your lap. Your fingers absentmindedly stroked his soft fur, but your mind kept replaying the events of the day like a cruel film.

You wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come—caught in the tight knot lodged in your throat. Lucky gazed up at you as if he understood the weight you carried, pressing closer, offering the only comfort that felt real in that moment.

A soft knock on the door pulled you from your spiral. You hesitated, turning toward the sound. “Who is it?” your voice came out weak, trembling.

“It’s us,” Rio’s voice was calm, yet filled with concern.

Slowly, you rose from the bed. The black cat leapt off your lap, settling at the edge of the mattress. When you opened the door, they were standing there. Rio held a small stuffed bunny in her arms, her expression shifting between tenderness and barely restrained anger. Agatha stood beside her, arms crossed, her posture rigid—but her blue eyes carried a softness you hadn’t expected.

Rio extended the plush toy to you. “We brought this. Thought it might help Lucky keep you safe,” she said, her voice laced with warmth.

Your eyes welled up as you took the stuffed animal. You hugged it to your chest, as if that simple gesture could shield your wounded heart. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely there.

Rio stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She placed her hands on your shoulders, lowering her head slightly to meet your eyes. “I think you know why we’re here, don’t you?”

“I… I’m fine,” you lied, trying to keep yourself together.

Rio didn’t buy it. Her gaze hardened, but there was patience in it. “You don’t look fine, sweetheart. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

The words got stuck in your throat for a moment, but when they finally came out, they poured in an uncontrollable flood. You told them about the slap from your father, the insults from your brothers, how every word felt like it crushed you a little more, making you feel like you were less than nothing. The tears fell freely this time, and you didn’t even try to hold them back.

You curled into her arms, sobbing softly. “I didn’t want to be a problem… I just… I just wanted him to like me…” Your voice was small, broken, almost childlike. As if, in that moment, the weight of being strong had finally crumbled, leaving only the most vulnerable version of you behind.

Rio stayed silent as you spoke, but her eyes darkened, her jaw clenched tightly. When you were done, she pulled you into a firm embrace—one that felt like both protection and comfort. “He has no right to treat you like that,” she said, her voice low and filled with restrained fury. “If I could, I would—”

“Rio,” Agatha interrupted, her voice soft but firm. She placed a hand over Rio’s, squeezing lightly, as if grounding her back to reason.

Rio exhaled sharply, still visibly furious, but she stepped back slightly, allowing Agatha to move closer.

You clung to her as if she were an anchor, searching for solace in the warmth of her embrace. And that was when you turned to Agatha, who remained silent near the door.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice unsteady. “For the way I acted. For being insolent. I… I was just trying to cope with everything, and I took it out on you.”

Agatha held your gaze, her jaw tightening—but there was something in her eyes that seemed to… crack. She took a deep breath, finally uncrossing her arms. “You had a hard day,” she said, her tone softer than you expected. “But you don’t have to carry this alone.”

Rio smiled beside you. “Exactly. You have us, you know?”

You only nodded, your heart still heavy but starting to feel a sliver of relief. Then, Agatha took a step forward, her eyes locking onto your hand. She seemed to be searching for something.

“What’s this?” she asked, an unexpected hint of concern in her voice.

You followed her gaze and noticed the cut on your finger, the dried blood surrounding it. “Oh, this? Just a scratch,” you said dismissively. “I cut myself while cleaning the set.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes, reaching for your hand before you could pull away. She examined the cut closely, her expression shifting—subtly, but enough that you noticed.

“Just a scratch?” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Yes. It’s nothing,” you said quickly, trying to brush it off. You pulled your hand back.

The tension in the room thickened, pressing down like an invisible force. The air itself felt heavier.

Then, Agatha sat beside you on the bed, her fingers wrapping around your hand with an unyielding grip. The heat of her palm pressed against yours—both intimate and intimidating.

She squeezed your wounded finger, and a sharp sting shot through you as fresh blood welled up again, warm and thick. You inhaled sharply, a quiet hiss of pain escaping before you could stop it. Agatha’s gaze followed the crimson trail, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. It was as if time had stopped. The entire world faded away, leaving only the two of you and this moment—charged with something unspoken, something you couldn’t name.

“Agatha…” you murmured, confusion and nervousness coloring your voice as you searched her face for answers.

She didn’t respond. Her eyes remained locked onto the blood trickling from your finger, mesmerized, as if each drop held some kind of spell over her. Slowly, as if moving through a trance, she lifted your hand to her lips, her breath ghosting over your skin.

Then, she pressed a delicate kiss against the wound—her mouth warm and soft against the sting of the cut.

The pain mingled with something else, something deeper. A shiver ran down your spine, electric and uncontrollable. It was wrong, almost wicked, but impossible to ignore—a pleasure disguised, slipping beneath the surface like a dark secret that refused to stay buried.

You froze.

The gesture was so unexpected, so laced with silent sensuality, that your breath caught in your throat. But before you could process it—before you could react—she did something that stole every ounce of air from your lungs.

Her lips parted, and with slow, deliberate intent, she took your wounded finger into her mouth—sucking softly at the blood.

Your heart pounded, a frantic drum against your chest. Heat surged up your face, burning your cheeks, and a strange, unmistakable pulse began to throb in places you barely dared to acknowledge. It was… confusing. Incendiary.

Why did Agatha look so irresistible with your blood on her lips? Was it wrong to think that?

Agatha let out a low sound, something between a groan and a growl—possessive, predatory. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if savoring a rare and forbidden wine, before opening them again, darker now, more intense.

When she finally pulled her finger from her mouth, her breathing was slightly uneven, as if she herself were dealing with something greater than she could control.

“This…” she murmured, her voice low and husky, each word dripping with satisfaction. “My good girl.”

The satisfied purr in her tone sent a sharp pull through you, heat spreading in an unbearable wave. You tried to breathe, but the air was thick, too heavy with an energy you couldn’t understand—an energy that consumed every inch of your body.

Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.

The words echoed in your mind, spiraling in an endless loop, trapping you in a whirlwind of unknown sensations. A part of you wanted to resist, but the thought of hearing those words again, spoken in that low, possessive voice, made your skin prickle and your resolve waver. It was like a drug you didn’t know you needed, but one you were already beginning to crave.

Agatha leaned in even closer, her face so near that you could feel her breath—warm, provocative—against your skin. She brushed her cheek against yours, like a lion marking its prey, staking her claim, making it clear that you belonged to her. Her scent was intoxicating, heavy, and the way she purred seemed to seep into every fiber of your being.

“You’re so delicious,” she murmured, her voice thick with something impossible to resist.

But the moment shattered when Rio stirred on the other side of the bed. Her body was rigid, as if she were exerting immense effort to restrain herself. Her eyes were fixed on the two of you, lips slightly parted, her breathing heavy.

She looked… torn, as if part of her wanted to stop everything while another part was being dragged into the same current of desire. Her fingers dug into her own arms, but the way her gaze burned was just as ravenous as Agatha’s.

Her breath was uneven, almost panting, and her fingers tightened against her arms as if the pressure could keep the growing heat at bay.

The look in her eyes had changed—raw, hungry, a desire she was trying to suppress but that slipped through in every small movement. Her chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm, and a bead of sweat trailed down the curve of her neck, betraying the effort to keep herself in check.

Rio leaned forward slightly, as if something unseen was pulling her closer, her lips parting as she took a deep breath, trying to regain control. But it was impossible to ignore the way her eyes lingered a second too long on the cut on your finger, on Agatha’s lips, on the glistening sheen still visible there.

Desire hung thick in the air, an undeniable heat radiating from her body, flooding the room.

She let out a rough sigh—almost a stifled moan—and uncrossed her arms, her fingers hesitant but now free, sliding along the side of her thigh as she shifted, as if needing an outlet for all that energy. Her composed facade was unraveling, and the way she wet her lips while looking at you made the space feel even tighter, more suffocating.

It was as if Rio were standing on a battlefield—torn between the need to hold herself back and the irresistible urge to give in to whatever was consuming her. And in that moment, her gaze was so intense that you felt stripped bare beneath it, exposed to something both overwhelming and inescapable.

“Agatha…” Rio finally spoke, her voice low, but thick with something that vibrated in the charged air of the room.

Agatha turned her head slowly, still holding your hand in a firm, calculated grip—her fingers cold against your feverish skin. It wasn’t a gesture of comfort, but of control, of warning. The look she gave Rio was a brewing storm, a silent clash of wills, as if words were unnecessary when so much could be said with just their eyes.

For long, heavy seconds, silence stretched between them—thick with tension, with something that made your chest tighten and the air feel scarce.

Then, abruptly, Agatha let go of your hand, almost as if the contact itself were a threat to her.

What she did next was cold and ruthless. She pushed you back against the headboard, her fingers barely grazing your skin in the process, yet the gesture was enough to make you feel small, vulnerable—like something she could discard with the slightest touch.

The look she gave you before turning away was disorienting—a blend of disdain and something else. Something that made your heart race for reasons you couldn’t explain.

She walked toward the door without hurry, but each step landed like a blow in the silence.

Before leaving, Agatha glanced at Rio—an exchange so intense it seemed to set fire to the space between them. Then, without hesitation, she left, the door clicking shut behind her with quiet finality.

You sat there, frozen, feeling the ghost of her touch burning where her fingers had been.

But Rio didn’t move immediately. She stood by the bed, shoulders tense, her breathing uneven.

There was something in her that looked ready to shatter—a raw need for control mixed with a frustration she had no place to put. It was as if the silent battle with Agatha still echoed inside her, but what she felt for you was something that went beyond all of that.

“Rio, what—” you started, but she cut you off.

"Sleep.”

Her voice was firm, but there was a faint tremor in it, as if holding herself back took more effort than she wanted to admit. Rio turned and left, without looking back, leaving you alone in the empty room.

But she didn’t truly leave—her presence lingered, the warmth of her body, the weight of everything left unsaid.

You leaned back against the headboard, your heart pounding out of rhythm, your thoughts a chaotic mess.

The subtle scent of Rio still clung to the air, blending with something darker, something addicting that seemed to come from Agatha.

Sleep? Impossible.

Agatha’s touch, Rio’s gaze, the heavy silence wrapping around everything—how could anyone possibly find peace after this?

~*~

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