theballadofharkness

[theballadofharkness]

Adventures in Babysitting ~ Part 2

Adventures in Babysitting Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: explicit smut warning, unprotected, dirty talk, so as always MDNI xo

It had been a rough morning.

Agatha’s name had lit up your phone at 10:17, followed by a rapid string of texts from both her and Nicky’s preschool. Asthma attack. Not severe, but enough to scare him. Enough to get Agatha, already stressed from her faculty meeting, to call you in a panic.

The preschool’s front office door clicks shut behind you with a mechanical buzz, and then you’re in the hallway, with fluorescent lighting, kid-height coat pegs, and laminated posters about sharing.

You spot him instantly.

He’s in the corner of the little waiting nook just past the front desk, sitting on a bench that’s too big for him, goat plush clenched to his chest, sneakers untied and pink around the eyes. One of the staff members kneels beside him, murmuring something in a soothing voice, but it’s not working.

You step closer.

“Hey, baby bat,” you say softly.

He looks up. Blinks once. Then his whole face crumples.

“Rough day?” you ask gently, already crouching down.

He doesn’t answer. Just launches himself into your arms with a broken sob.

You catch him easily, all tiny limbs, goat plush and shaky breathing and hold him close. He’s still in his tiny school sweatshirt, warm and a little damp with leftover tears. You rub your hand down his back.

“It’s alright,” you murmur into his curls. “I’ve got you.”

The staff member gives you a relieved nod. “He’s been a little overwhelmed.”

You nod, still holding him. “Yeah. I’ve got it from here.”

It takes a few more minutes to gather his things, his little backpack, the inhaler tucked into the side pocket, his water bottle shaped like a dragon. He doesn’t let go of you once, his little hands clutching your shirt when you shift him to one hip and carry him out.

Outside, the sky is overcast and heavy. Spring rain on the horizon.

You buckle him into the back seat, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of your coat. He looks up at you with big, tear-glossed eyes and whispers, “I thought I was gonna die.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say, brushing his hair back. “You’re okay. You did so good. And your mom sent me the second she heard.”

He sniffles. “You came really fast.”

“Course I did,” you say, tapping his nose. “You’re my favorite little bat.”

A watery giggle. Then he leans into you again, needing one more hug before the drive home.

~

The apartment is quiet when you unlock the door, a hush hanging in the space like the walls are listening. You step inside, carrying Nicky on your hip, his arms looped around your neck, goat plush dangling from one hand. He’s finally stopped crying, but he’s still sniffling, his little body soft with post-sob exhaustion, curled against you like he never wants to let go.

You leave your boots by the door and nudge it closed behind you with a soft click. The rain has started, just a whisper of it against the windows, and the air inside smells faintly like the lavender cleaner Agatha uses and the cedar candle she always forgets to blow out.

“Alright, baby bat,” you murmur, kissing his curls as you set him gently down onto the ottoman. “Let’s get you into your comfies.”

He nods, still blinking up at you, cheeks pink and lashes damp. “Like sweat pants,” he mumbles.

“You got it.” You nod.

You help him change in the quiet way you’ve learned works best, gently, slowly, narrating each step like a little ritual. Tiny navy sweatpants, a faded purple hoodie with a cartoon goat on the chest, socks with pumpkins on the toes. He holds your hand the entire time, like if he lets go, he’ll float off.

Once he’s dressed, he tugs your sleeve and looks up. “Can we watch witches?”

You smile. “Obviously.”

You settle him on the couch, tucking a soft sherpa blanket over his lap as he curls in with his plush and waits, wide eyed, for the screen to glow. You know exactly what he wants.

You put on Hocus Pocus without needing to ask.

The second the Disney logo appears, he exhales like his whole chest is relaxing for the first time in hours. He doesn’t even wait for you to sit, he just reaches a hand out, wanting to hold on before you move around the kitchen.

You squeeze his fingers as you pass and lean down to press a kiss into his curls. “Grilled cheese?”

He nods without looking away from the screen.

“You got it.” You smiled softly, giving his shoulders a final squeeze.

You move through Agatha’s kitchen like it’s your own now, butter in the pan, the good cheese from the little glass tub in the fridge. You hum as you cook, keeping one eye on him, watching as he mouths along with the lines, tiny lips forming the words “book” and “broom” with quiet reverence.

He’s obsessed lately. Ever since that first week you started staying late and told him casually, that you used to study witches for school, he’s been entranced. Movies, books, questions. He treats you like a walking grimoire. Like a very important magical grown-up.

You’d die for him.

You cut the grilled cheese into stars, because you know he’ll ask.

By the time you set the plate down beside him on the couch, he’s already half-asleep again, blinking slow and dreamy as Winifred Sanderson screeches on the TV.

“Thank you,” he whispers, curling in tighter.

You kiss his head again. “Always.”

~

Agatha’s key scrapes against the lock.

She’s barely kicked off her heels before she’s moving, swift steps across the hardwood, heart jackhammering. Her chest still feels tight from the moment she got the call. Even after you texted to say he was okay, that you had him, that he was calm now, her hands hadn’t stopped shaking. She hadn’t stopped picturing his little face twisted in panic, those small lungs straining for air.

She’s barely breathed herself.

But now she’s home.

“…so people used to believe black cats were familiars,” your voice says, soft and low from the living room, “which is like a magical best friend. The cat helped the witch do spells, but they also protected each other. Like a team.”

Agatha pauses in the entryway.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

You’re on the sofa, curled into the corner like you were born there. One arm around Nicky, who’s nestled against your chest again, a half-eaten grilled cheese star on the plate beside him. He’s relaxed with no signs of distress, no tears. Just wide-eyed, mesmerized, and totally safe.

You don’t notice her yet. You’re mid-story.

“Some people thought black cats could turn into witches,” you say, fingers stroking his curls absently. “Or that witches could become cats to sneak around. Either way, they were misunderstood. Like a lot of magical things.”

Nicky’s voice is sleepy and small. “I want a familiar.”

“You already have one,” you murmur, kissing his hair. “Your goat plush is basically enchanted. Haven’t you noticed how she always knows where you are?”

He giggles, a soft, hiccupy thing, and Agatha feels her knees threaten to give.

She watches you for another few seconds. Just breathes you in. The way your voice lilts like old stories. The way her son looks at you like you hung the moon. The domestic glow of it, grilled cheese and witches and rain against the windows.

She’s in so much trouble.

“Hey,” she says finally, voice quiet but full of warmth.

You look up.

“Oh hey,” you say, instantly softening at the sight of her. “He’s okay. It was a rough morning, but he’s eaten, rested, and watched Hocus Pocus twice.”

“I needed it,” Nicky says, half-asleep again.

Agatha drops her bag gently by the table, eyes still on you. “Thank you. For everything.”

You smile, brushing your fingers along Nicky’s temple. “Always.”

She crosses the room slowly. There’s a thousand things she wants to do, gather up Nicky in her arms, kiss your hands, sink onto the couch beside you, cry. Instead, she kneels in front of her son, resting a hand on his knee.

“Hey, bug.”

He blinks at her. “Hi, Mama.”

“You feeling better?”

He nods, then glances at you. “Y/N is teaching me everything about witches.”

Agatha raises her brows. “Oh, is she?”

You shrug modestly, smirking just a little. “Some things.”

“She said I already have a familiar,” he whispers.

Agatha looks from him to you. Your eyes meet.

Something warm and dangerous sparks in her chest.

“You’re lucky,” she says softly. “Not everyone finds theirs so young.”

Agatha lingers near the edge of the couch, her hand resting on her son's socked foot like she’s afraid to break the spell.

You’re still curled up with Nicky on the couch, and he’s drifting now, little fingers still loosely holding your dress, his breathing gone slow and steady. You stroke his hair without thinking, eyes soft on the screen.

Agatha swallows. “Would you…” Her voice comes out quieter than she expects. “Would you want to stay for dinner?”

You blink, looking over at her which makes your cheeks flush, that warm, pretty pink she’s been trying not to dream about.

“I’d love to,” you say, a little breathlessly.

Nicky perks up at that, eyes fluttering open. “Yay Y/N’s cooking!”

Agatha laughs under her breath. “Wow. Thanks, bud.”

“She’s better at dinner than you,” he mumbles.

“Oh is she now?” Agatha raises a brow, shooting a look between the two of you. “Since when are you a food critic?”

He shrugs, cuddling in again. “Yours is always kinda… burnt.”

You cover your mouth to hide the giggle that slips out, shoulders shaking a little.

Agatha glares at you with no real venom. “Don’t you dare agree with him.”

“I would never,” you say, voice teasing, eyes shining. “But I can cook. And I’m already here. So…”

She leans one hand on the back of the couch, just above your shoulder. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off your body. Her gaze dips to your lips. Then quickly back up.

“Then it’s settled,” she says, trying to sound casual. “You cook. I pour wine.”

“Deal.”

And there it is, that flicker between you, not quite spoken but charged. It hovers in the space between her mouth and yours, between her fingers and your wrist. Nothing has happened yet.

But it will.

And it’s going to ruin her.

You’re already halfway into the kitchen, sleeves rolled and eyes scanning the fridge, when Agatha clears her throat.

“I’m just going to get changed,” she says quickly. “I uh…I spilled coffee on my blouse earlier.”

You glance back, still smiling from the surprise dinner invitation from her. “Go ahead. I’ve got him.”

She nods, too fast, and disappears down the hallway.

The moment her bedroom door clicks shut, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since walking in.

Jesus Christ.

She leans against the door, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers. Then pushes off, pacing barefoot across the room. Peels off her blouse, throws it toward the hamper. Unhooks her bra with one frustrated motion and yanks open a drawer like it offended her.

You’re in her kitchen.

You’re cooking her dinner barefoot and humming some old folk melody under your breath. You kissed her son’s curls like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were already halfway hers and she hadn’t even touched you.

Agatha runs a hand through her hair.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Harkness,” she mutters.

She crosses to the mirror and stares at herself.

Forty-five. Divorcing. Overworked. Frazzled. High-functioning and emotionally constipated.

And falling completely, helplessly in lust, and something far more dangerous, with her twenty-six-year-old babysitter.

A classic.

A fucking cliché.

She scowls at her reflection, then rolls her eyes and slips on a soft black sweater. Something that clings just right. If she’s spiraling, she might as well look good doing it.

Back in the living room, she hears the low flicker of Kiki’s Delivery Service. Nicky’s favorite backup movie. You must’ve put it on while you started prepping dinner.

She grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses from the sideboard and steels herself before heading back out.

Because tonight, the house smells like garlic and fresh rosemary, and you’re glowing by the stove with soft music playing from your phone.

And she’s in so much fucking trouble.

The sound of chopping and the faint lilt of your playlist draw her in like a spell.

Agatha moves toward the kitchen quietly, wine bottle in one hand, two glasses in the other, sweater sleeves pushed to her elbows. You’re barefoot on the tiled floor, humming as you stir something in the pan, garlic and butter, the start of something good. Your hair’s pinned back messily, collarbones peeking through the neckline of your black dress, and you look like every soft dream she’s never allowed herself to have.

She clears her throat.

You glance over, smiling. “Back from the war?”

“Just the bedroom,” she deadpans, placing the glasses on the counter. “Though it was a battle getting out of my bra.”

You laugh, light and bright, and it does something to her. Something low and dangerous.

“Wine?” she asks, uncorking with practiced ease.

“God, yes. Please.”

She pours you a glass and hands it over, eyes tracking the way your fingers brush hers. The way you tilt your head just slightly as you take a sip, lip print blooming on the rim.

“What are we making?” she asks, nodding toward the pan.

“We?” you tease.

Her mouth curls into a slow smirk. “You think I can let you do everything?”

You raise a brow. “You’ve seen what I do to grilled cheese.”

“Fine.” She steps closer, eyes glinting. “I’ll be your sous chef. Tell me what to chop.”

You lean forward a little to grab a bunch of fresh herbs off the counter and fuck. Her breath catches.

Your body brushes hers lightly, not intentionally, not dramatic. Just the soft, subtle press of your chest to her shoulder, the whisper of your hip skimming her own. Warm. Unthinking. Familiar in the way that kills her.

Agatha freezes for a millisecond too long.

You don’t seem to notice. “Parsley, rosemary, basil,” you say, handing them over with a smile. “All for the sauce.”

“Right,” she mutters, forcing her brain back into motion. She turns to the cutting board, gripping the knife tighter than necessary. “Sauce.”

You move beside her, stirring again at the stove. The scent is intoxicating, food and rosemary and you. She can feel you at her side, and it’s too much.

You hum under your breath. “You’re quiet.”

Agatha doesn’t look up. “Concentrating.”

“Mmm. You always get quiet when you concentrate?”

“Only when there’s a risk of losing a finger.”

You lean closer, brushing her arm, completely innocent. “You’d just grow it back.”

She huffs a laugh, low and dangerous. “Not that kind of witch, sweetheart.”

The endearment slips out before she can stop it.

You pause, eyes flicking to her face. And Agatha, who has never been good at subtlety, watches the corners of your lips curl just slightly.

You liked it.

Of course you did.

She turns back to the chopping board, jaw tightening. “Don’t distract your sous chef,” she mutters.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper.

But the brush of your fingers on her back says otherwise.

Agatha leans her hip against the counter, watching you over the rim of her wineglass. She hasn’t said a word in a full twenty seconds.

You’re stirring the pan like it’s the most important task in the world, but you can feel her gaze on you, heavy, amused, unreadable. It makes your stomach flutter.

“Y’know,” she says at last, voice smooth and low, “I’ve had a lot of people in my kitchen.”

“Oh?” You glance over. Your voice comes out a little too high.

She smirks. “Nicky’s friends. My colleagues. Rio. Billy, sometimes, when he thinks I can’t make toast.”

You snort. “Can you?”

“Debatable.”

You glance at her again. “And?”

Agatha takes a slow sip, eyes not leaving yours. “And no one’s ever looked like you while doing it.”

Your hand stills on the spoon. “…Like what?”

She cocks her head, eyes gleaming. “Like you belong here.”

Your throat goes dry.

She steps closer. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that her voice feels like a hand on your jaw.

“You’ve got this whole… barefoot domestic thing going on,” she murmurs, voice dipping. “Witch in my kitchen. My son in your lap. Smelling like rosemary and making pasta from scratch. It’s almost dangerous.”

You swallow. “Is it?”

Her eyes flick to your lips. “You have no idea.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out breathy. “I mean, I-I’m just cooking. It’s not a spell.”

Agatha doesn’t blink. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You turn back to the pan just to have something to do, hands slightly trembling now. She takes another step closer, coming up beside you again.

“Careful,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll burn the garlic.”

“I… oh. Shit.”

You reach for the salt instinctively, but she’s already there, her hand brushing yours as she grabs it first. She doesn’t pull away.

“I’ve got it,” she murmurs.

Her fingers linger against yours for half a second too long.

You don’t breathe.

Agatha leans in, placing the salt gently down beside the pan. Her body doesn’t quite touch yours, but you feel her. Like heat. Like gravity.

“Is this okay?” she asks suddenly, soft but firm.

The question shocks you a little. Not what she says but how she says it. Not hesitant. Just… making sure. She’s watching you closely now, that dominant stillness coiled in her frame.

You nod, heart rabbiting in your chest. “Yeah. I just…” You pause, helpless. “You’re really…”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Intense?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “That.”

A flicker of a smile crosses her lips. “You’ll get used to it,” she says. “Or you won’t. Either way, you’re still in my kitchen.”

You giggle, a little dizzy. “Is that a threat?”

“Depends.” She lets her eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate. “How brave are you feeling?”

You don’t answer, you can’t, not with the way your legs have gone weak and your brain has been turned into something vaguely soup-adjacent.

Agatha reaches around you, not subtle, her arm grazing across your back as she picks up a ladle.

Her mouth is near your ear.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

She hums, smug. “You are.”

The worst part is: you are. Completely flustered. Aching in a place between your thighs and your throat.

Agatha leans back, finally, and tastes a bit of the sauce like nothing happened. “Mmm,” she murmurs. “Perfect. Almost… sinful.”

You blink at her, red all the way to your ears.

“Dinner,” she says smoothly, “is going to be delicious.”

The sauce simmers quietly. The kitchen is warm now, not just from the heat of the stove but from the low light, the wine, and her presence beside you. Agatha’s not hovering, exactly. Just near enough that you can feel her at the edge of your body.

You slide the wooden spoon toward her, trying to stay casual. “Wanna taste?”

She sets down her glass. Moves closer. Takes the spoon from your hand without a word and brings it to her lips. You watch her. You can’t not.

She closes her eyes. “Mmm.”

It’s not a big sound. Just a hum. But it wrecks you.

She licks her lower lip. “Holy shit, that’s good.”

You blink. “Y-you think so?”

She looks at you, eyes warm. “Sweetheart, you’re lucky I didn’t propose just now.”

Your face flushes. Full, uncontainable warmth from chest to neck. You turn back to the stove and stir, trying to play it cool.

Agatha leans her elbow on the counter, still watching you. “You should cook for me more often.”

You snort, still flustered. “You say that like I don’t already make half the meals here.”

She hums again, softer now. “Yes, but I mean… just me. No four year old attached.”

You freeze for a beat. A flicker of something you don’t know how to name stirs low in your stomach. When you look up at her, she’s already sipping her wine, like she didn’t just casually short-circuit your brain.

You manage a breathless, “Maybe I will.”

Agatha glances at you, one brow raised. “Is that an offer?”

You stammer, “I-I mean, if you wanted!”

Her smile deepens. “I want.”

You nearly drop the spoon.

She doesn’t move. Just watches you like she’s measuring something.

You try to steer back into safer territory. “Do you always flirt with the babysitter?”

She tilts her head. “Only the ones who make homemade arrabbiata and blush like that when I compliment them.”

You laugh. A little too loud. Agatha chuckles too, softer, eyes still locked on yours.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse gently, half-hiding behind your wine.

“Immensely.”

You shift your weight, trying to steady your pulse. “You’re very…”

“Intense?” she offers, almost bored. It’s not the first time someone’s said it. You can tell.

“I was gonna say… hard to read.”

“Mmm.” She sets her wine down. “That’s because I haven’t decided what I want to say to you yet.”

You blink. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

She steps a fraction closer, slow and unhurried, brushing a loose hair behind her ear. “I suppose that depends on how brave you feel.”

You swallow.

The air in the kitchen is thick now, not uncomfortable, just charged. Like a storm hasn’t broken yet. You look back to the stove. The sauce bubbles quietly.

You murmur, “Well… I didn’t run screaming when your four year-old threw up all over my Docs, so…”

Agatha chuckles. She’s so close you can smell her perfume now. Earthy. Expensive. Soft heat under spice.

“You’ll do fine,” she says.

And for a second, it almost feels like she’s not talking about dinner at all.

You’re plating the pasta, the sauce rich and red, curls of steam rising from the bowls, when your foot catches on the corner of the mat. It’s stupid, really. Just one small misstep. But you stumble forward, and her hand is already at your waist. Quick. Instinctual. Commanding.

“Careful,” Agatha murmurs, catching you firmly before the plate can tip.

You gasp. Both hands splayed against her chest for balance. Your face is right there, close enough to feel her breath.

Time stops.

You’re not thinking about dinner anymore.

You’re thinking about how soft that cashmere feels beneath your fingertips. How strong her hand is at your waist. How her eyes flick down to your mouth and then back up again and linger.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

For one suspended second, the air between you crackles, not quite contact, but almost.

Your lips part. Just slightly. She smells like wine and warmth and something dark, like vetiver and smoke.

“Mamaaa?” Nicky’s sleepy voice calls from the couch.

You jerk back like you’ve been electrocuted.

Agatha steps away too, a sharp breath through her nose, fingers brushing her thigh like she has to shake it off. You quickly grab the plate and set it on the counter, heart thudding.

She runs a hand through her hair.

“I’ll check on him,” she says, voice a little lower than usual.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll… get the parmesan.”

She disappears down the hall, and you clutch the edge of the counter, burning.

You nearly kissed her.

You nearly kissed your boss.

The mother of the kid you babysit. The (technically) married woman going through a divorce.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Your hands shake as you reach for the cheese grater. And all you can think about is the feel of her chest under your palms. The way she looked at your mouth like she was considering breaking every rule she’s ever lived by.

And God help you, you wish she had.

Dinner is quiet. Not awkward, just soft, worn-in. Comfortable. Nicky sits beside you on one of the counter stools, feet swinging, wrapped in a fluffy navy blanket printed with tiny stars. His pasta is mostly sauce, very little heat, just how he likes it. You’ve already cut it into neat pieces, and he’s half asleep between bites.

You sit to his right. Agatha takes the other stool at the end of the island, glass of wine in one hand, fork in the other, her curls pinned up in a loose twist that’s starting to fall apart around her temples.

She looks like she should be somewhere else. On a stage. In a gallery. Lit by candlelight. Not in a dimly lit kitchen at 8:42 p.m., elbow on the granite and socks mismatched.

But she’s here. And she keeps looking at you.

Not always directly. Sometimes it’s from beneath her lashes, or when she lifts her wine. A glance. A flicker. Like her eyes don’t mean to linger on your hands, your mouth, the curve of your shoulders, but they do.

You focus on Nicky. On chewing. On acting normal.

“Is it okay?” you ask quietly, watching the kid shovel pasta into his mouth.

He nods enthusiastically, tomato sauce on his chin. “So good.”

You grin, dabbing at his face with a napkin. “Glad you approve.”

Agatha smiles too, soft around the eyes. “He’s a good critic. Honest. Brutal, even.”

“Terrifying,” you say solemnly. “I live in fear.”

She lets out a quiet laugh and it does something to you. Softens something you didn’t realize you’d been holding all evening.

“Don’t let the curls and Star Wars pyjamas fool you,” she murmurs. “He’ll tear a soufflé apart with zero remorse.”

“Don’t know why I thought I could impress him.”

Agatha leans her chin into her palm, fork lazily turning on her plate. “You impress me.”

The air thickens.

You look up slowly. She’s watching you now, head tilted, lips curled into something between amusement and challenge. She doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t soften it. Just lets it hang there between you, like smoke.

Your chest goes hot. You take a sip of your wine to hide your face.

Nicky yawns loudly. “Mama, I’m sleepy.”

Agatha stands immediately, brushing crumbs from her sweater. “Okay, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

He blinks up at her, then leans sideways into you.

“Will you say goodnight?” he mumbles into your arm.

You smile. “Of course I will.”

Agatha watches the two of you, the boy curled into your side, your hand stroking his hair gently, and something in her face shifts. A softness, yes, but deeper too. Like longing.

She lifts him up effortlessly, blanket and all. He wraps his arms around her neck.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, glancing down at you over his head.

You nod. “Take your time.”

When they’re gone, you sit for a moment in the quiet. Then you exhale. Stand. And start to wash the dishes. It’s meditative almost, the clink of porcelain, the warm water, the sound of the faucet. You take your time, letting the moment settle around you. Letting yourself breathe. The door clicks open behind you. You don’t turn around right away. You don’t have to.

You feel her presence before she speaks.

“He’s out cold,” she says softly.

You smile to yourself. “No surprise. He barely made it through dinner.”

Agatha comes to stand just beside you, not quite touching. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” you say, rinsing the last plate. “You had a long day.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You’re good at this.”

You glance over. “At dishes?”

She huffs a soft laugh. ��At… this. Him. Everything.”

You shake your head. “I’m just trying to help.”

“You are.”

You dry your hands and reach for a towel, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she is. Her arm brushes yours when she moves to pick up a mug. She smells like rosemary and heat and something more earthy, almost smoky, the scent that clung to her sweater earlier, when she caught you.

You dare a look at her.

She’s already watching you. Her expression is unreadable. Lips parted. One hand resting lightly on the counter.

You speak before you can stop yourself. “About earlier…”

She doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

“I didn’t mean to… fall into you,” you say weakly.

Her brow arches. “Didn’t you?”

Your breath catches.

She steps a little closer.

You clutch the dish towel tighter. “I just meant…”

Agatha’s voice drops, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to pull away.”

The air between you crackles again.

You stare at her.

And she doesn’t move. Doesn’t close the distance. Just gives you the space, and the option.

“I should probably go,” you murmur, but it doesn’t sound convincing.

Agatha doesn’t answer right away.

Just tilts her head, eyes on yours, expression unreadable.

Agatha’s eyes flick down to your mouth. “Probably.”

You freeze.

Bite your lip.

It’s instinct. A nervous tick. But the second you do it, she notices. Her gaze drops to your mouth like a magnet.

And you see it happen, that exact moment something in her snaps.

She steps in. Not hesitant. Not gentle. One hand cups your jaw, the other anchors at your waist and she kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s all heat and need and weeks of watching you stir sauce and kiss her son’s hair and fold yourself so effortlessly into her life. It’s her dominance finally breaking through the tension, claiming the space between you with zero apology.

You gasp into her mouth, a soft, wrecked sound and her hand tightens at your waist.

You grab at her like you’ve been starving, clutching her sweater, pulling her in. She walks you backward until your spine hits the fridge. You whimper when her tongue slides against yours, when she exhales like she’s been dying to taste you.

Your fingers curl into her shoulder. Her hand slides up your side, firm and possessive, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast. You moan into her mouth, high, needy, and embarrassing. She groans in response, deep in her throat, like she feels it.

When she breaks the kiss, it’s only to breathe.

Her forehead presses to yours. You’re both panting. Her thumb brushes your lower lip.

“Tell me to stop,” she says, voice rough.

You can’t. You won’t. You shake your head, eyes fluttering open.

“Good,” she murmurs.

And she kisses you again, deeper this time. Like she’s making up for every moment she held herself back.

Your back hits the fridge with a soft thud, and she kisses you like she’s starved for it, her mouth hot and commanding, hand at your jaw to tilt your face just how she wants it. You whimper into her, already breathless, your fingers twisting into the collar of her sweater.

Agatha breaks the kiss just enough to look at you, her eyes dark, lips flushed, breath ragged.

“Fuck,” she growls, more to herself than you.

Then her hands are on your thighs. And before you can say a word, she lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing, and carries you out of the kitchen.

You gasp, legs wrapping instinctively around her waist. “Agatha!”

“Shh.” Her voice is low, urgent, dangerous. “I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t make it far, just to the sofa, but it feels like the earth has shifted underneath you. She drops onto it with you still clinging to her, your thighs around her hips, her hands possessive on your back.

You’re straddling her now, knees pressed to the cushions on either side of her, your dress bunched up around your hips. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and claiming, and you shudder.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” she breathes, kissing down your neck, voice like velvet and smoke. “Every night. You in this kitchen. That dress.”

You moan, your voice high and soft, grinding down without meaning to. Her hands tighten on your hips.

“Oh, you like that?” she murmurs against your jaw. “You like being on my lap like this?”

You nod, helpless. “Y-yeah… yes.”

She grins against your skin, her smile cocky and pleased, like she knew it.

“God, you’re sweet when you squirm,” she says, voice going darker, rougher, one hand splaying across your lower back to pull you flush against her. “I could keep you like this forever.”

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Your hands are in her hair now, your hips rolling against her thigh, your body burning. She’s so solid underneath you, so calm even as you come apart, her touch firm, guiding, controlling. It makes you ache.

You press your forehead to hers, gasping. “Agatha… please… ”

Her eyes flick up, smoldering. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

You can’t even speak. You’re so needy, so wet, you could sob. You just move against her, desperate, mouth parted in pure want.

She laughs, low and wrecked, brushing her thumb against your cheek. “That’s what I thought.”

Then she kisses you again, deep and slow, all tongue and dominance till your whole body melts into hers.

Her mouth moves over your jaw, your throat, dragging slow and hungry as you writhe in her lap. Your dress is pushed up, your thighs spread over hers, bare skin sliding against expensive fabric.

Then you feel it. A thick pressure between your legs, hard, hot, and undeniable, pressing up against your soaked panties through her trousers.

You freeze. Barely. And then you grind down, just slightly. Testing it.

She groans, the sound deep and low in her chest, and her fingers dig into your hips.

“Oh,” you whisper.

That’s not her thigh. She’s hard. She’s so hard.

Your breath stutters out of you. “Agatha…”

She lifts her head, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. Her voice is dark and steady and devastating.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You flush all over, thighs twitching around her. “Y-you… have a… ?”

A smirk tugs at her mouth, sharp and wicked. “Mhm.”

Your lips part. She watches you, watches the heat rise in your face, the stunned, breathless arousal that rushes through you like a flood.

“Something wrong with that?” she murmurs, tilting her head, one hand sliding up your back beneath your dress.

You shake your head too fast. “No. No, I just…”

She rocks her hips up, just once, and your whole body jerks.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, clutching her shoulders.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice rough now, hungry. “You feel that, baby? That’s how much I want you.”

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Her cock is thick and hard beneath you, perfectly placed, and you’re already soaked through your panties, grinding helplessly like some desperate thing.

She kisses you again while her hands hold you steady, pressing you down right where she wants you. The friction is heaven, blinding, and your thighs shake as you rock against her.

“You gonna make a mess all over me, sweetheart?” she mutters against your mouth. “Soaked through these panties for me already?”

You whimper. You can’t help it. It’s all too much, her voice, her mouth, her hands, the way she fills out beneath you, her cock straining through her slacks, demanding your attention.

“I’ve got you,” she breathes, kissing you again, rough and slow. “Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You press your forehead to hers, panting, hips rolling in frantic, shaky circles. “Please, please!”

“Fuck, you’re needy,” she groans, dragging her hands up under your dress, holding your waist tight. “You gonna let me fuck you, baby? Let me wreck that sweet little body?”

“Yes,” you whisper, barely audible. “Please.”

She laughs low, reverent, and possessive. “That’s my girl.”

And then she’s guiding you down again, right onto the thick ridge of her cock, your soaked panties catching on the friction, your whole body trembling.

You’re both still half clothed, your dress is hitched up to your waist, your panties pulled to the side. Agatha’s slacks are open just enough to free her cock, flushed, thick, aching, as she fists it slowly, watching you tremble above her.

“C’mon, baby,” she murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. “You’re ready for me.”

You are.

God, you are.

You hover just above her lap, thighs shaking with need, her hands guiding you, one at your hip, the other at the base of her cock.

“Look at me,” she breathes. “I want you to watch.”

You do.

And then she’s guiding you down.

The stretch makes your mouth fall open, so deep, so full, your nails digging into her shoulders as you sink inch by inch onto her cock.

“Oh my God!” You gasp, body tightening around her.

She groans, head dropping back, jaw clenched. “Shit. So fucking tight.”

You bottom out on her lap, thighs trembling.

She’s deep. It’s obscene. You’re both still mostly dressed, the only sound your breath, the creak of the sofa, and the wet noise of your cunt clenching around her.

You move, just a little, and moan.

“Shhh,” she warns, hand flying up to cradle the back of your neck. “Baby, you have to stay quiet.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, wrecked.

“You can.” Her voice is dark, commanding, but her eyes? God, her eyes are soft. Hungry. “You’re gonna be good for me, yeah?”

You nod, lip between your teeth.

And then she fucks up into you.

Your whole body jerks.

The sofa shifts beneath you. Her hands grip your hips and guide you, slow, dirty little circles that make you choke on your breath.

“Ohhh fuck, Agatha…”

She hushes you again, mouth close to your ear now, breath hot and ragged.

“That’s it,” she pants. “Just like that. Take it. Fuck, I knew you’d be like this.”

You’re grinding now, hips rolling to meet her thrusts. Every time she pushes up into you, it knocks the air out of your lungs. Her cock fills you so deep you can’t think, can’t breathe, everything clenching around her.

Her hand slips between you, fingers brushing your clit. You cry out too loud so she grabs your face with one hand, kissing you hard to swallow the sound.

“You want my cock?” she whispers against your mouth. “Want me to ruin you on my fucking sofa?”

You nod into the kiss. You’re shaking, whining. You’re so close it hurts.

Her thrusts get faster, deeper, still trying to stay quiet, still careful, but she’s losing it. She kisses you again, moaning against your mouth, grinding up into you harder now, more desperate.

“Let go, baby,” she whispers. “Come for me.”

You do.

You collapse against her, shaking, whining, buried in her arms as your cunt pulses around her cock, tight, soaked, everything clenching so hard it rips the air from your lungs.

She fucks you through it. Slow, deep, reverent now. Her lips at your temple.

“Good girl,” she breathes. “You did so good for me.”

You’re panting. Blushing. Completely ruined in her lap. And she hasn’t even come yet. You feel her cock still twitching inside you, her jaw tight, her hands flexing at your hips.

You lift your head. Kiss her jaw. You’re still in her lap. Still full. Still trembling.

Agatha strokes a hand down your back, possessive, almost tender, but her cock is still hard inside you, and you can feel it twitch every time you shift in her lap.

She kisses your jaw. Your cheek. Then your mouth, slow and deep. “You’re not done,” she whispers.

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No.”

Her voice drops. “You want me to use you, sweetheart?”

Your pulse skips. You nod, wide eyed. “Yes.”

She groans, low in her throat. “Good girl.”

Then she shifts beneath you, hips tilting, and thrusts up.

You cry out, nails digging into her shoulders, thighs twitching as her cock drives deeper.

“That’s it,” she pants, fucking into you now, slow but hard. “This pretty pussy’s already mine, isn’t it?”

You nod again, helpless.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you gasp. “Fuck, it’s yours, Agatha!”

She moans at that, a low, guttural sound, and her hands grip your waist tight, guiding you as she starts to fuck you properly.

Each thrust punches a breath out of your lungs. You cling to her, shaking, letting her move you how she wants, grinding, bouncing, rolling her hips up into you with filthy precision.

“You feel what you do to me?” she groans, cock slamming into you again. “I’ve been hard for you for weeks.”

You whimper. You can’t handle it. You’re soaked, stuffed, ruined all over again and she’s not letting up.

“You make the cutest little noises,” she murmurs, lips at your neck, biting just enough to make you shiver. “You’re so fucking needy.”

“I-I can’t help it…”

“That’s my girl,” she growls. “You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

You’re crying out softly now, buried in her shoulder, your cunt clenching around her cock. She fucks you harder and faster, one hand between your thighs again, thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your legs shake.

“Look at me,” she demands, voice low and dark.

You lift your head. Barely. She kisses you hard, her tongue in your mouth as she slams up into you again.

“You’re gonna come again,” she whispers. “And you’re gonna milk my cock.”

You nod, eyes glassy, moaning into her mouth.

She fucks you through it, her voice in your ear, telling you how good you are, how tight, how sweet, how fucking perfect. Your body is already on edge again, twitching, overstimulated and slick and desperate.

“You want my cum, baby?” she pants. “You want me to fill you up?”

You whine. “Yes. Please.”

That’s all it takes.

She growls your name and slams up into you one final time, burying herself deep as she comes. Hot, thick pulses inside you, and you feel it, the warmth, the twitch of her cock, the low moan in your ear as she holds you tight.

You come again just from that.

Your body goes soft and shaking in her arms, clinging to her like it’s the only thing holding you together.

She kisses your temple, breathing hard, cock still twitching inside you.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your cheek is pressed to her shoulder.

Her sweater is damp with sweat, yours and hers, and your body is so loose, so wrecked, it barely feels like your own. Her cock is still inside you, pulsing faintly, keeping you open and full and claimed.

She strokes your back in long, lazy sweeps. One hand tangles in your hair. The other rests low on your thigh, her thumb grazing the soft flesh just beneath your ass.

You’re both quiet. Breathing together. Anchored to each other.

Then after what feels like forever, she murmurs, “we should move.”

You don’t answer. You don’t want to.

Her cock twitches inside you again.

“Sweetheart,” she says, lips brushing your temple. “I gotta pull out.”

You shake your head against her shoulder. Mumble, “No…”

She smiles. You feel it against your skin, that warm, crooked thing she does when she’s trying not to let her affection show too much.

“Baby girl,” she whispers, voice like honey and sin. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not,” you breathe. But you are.

You feel it coming before it happens. Her arm tightens around your waist, her mouth finds your cheek, soft and reverent, and then, slowly, gently, she starts to slide out of you.

You whimper. Soft. Broken. Wrecked.

“Shhh,” she coos, catching your chin and guiding your face to hers. “I know, I know.”

You can feel it, the leak of her inside you, sticky and warm between your thighs. You’re sore, stretched, trembling, your whole body clinging to her like you’ll fall apart otherwise.

She kisses you.

Not like before, not hungry or desperate, just soft. Slow. Like she’s tasting the version of you that belongs to her now.

When she pulls back, you’re still shaking.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower now, gentle. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You try to stand, but your legs give a little.

She scoops you up. Just like that. Strong arms beneath you, one hand on your thigh, the other cradling your back. You let out a soft, sleepy sound, tucking your face into her neck.

“Mm,” you hum. “You’re really strong.”

She laughs, low and pleased. “You’ve only just noticed?”

“No,” you mumble. “Just… appreciating.”

She kisses your hair. Carries you to the bathroom like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And for once, you let someone take care of you. Because you’re sore. And used. And a little messy.

And absolutely hers.

The bathroom is warm, quiet, and low lit. You’re perched on the edge of the marble counter, legs parted, dress bunched around your hips, your panties long forgotten on the living room floor.

Agatha stands between your knees, damp cloth in hand, gently wiping you clean, her movements slow, precise, and utterly smug.

You flinch when the cloth grazes your inner thigh, still oversensitive.

She smirks. “A little tender, are we?”

You glare at her, but it’s pathetic, your bottom lip’s caught between your teeth and your whole body’s shivering every time her fingers barely touch you.

She wipes another streak of her cum from your skin.

You whimper.

Agatha hums, soft and indulgent, and leans in to press a kiss just below your navel.

“You make the sweetest sounds when you’re wrecked,” she murmurs. “I might keep you like this.”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Your hands are gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Then she kisses higher, along your ribs, between your breasts, up the line of your throat, until her mouth meets yours again.

It starts soft.

Just her lips brushing yours, her hand smoothing along your outer thigh, teasing but careful.

But when you sigh, when your mouth opens for her, she deepens the kiss.

And just like that, you’re needy again.

You clutch at her sweater, legs wrapping weakly around her waist, chasing her mouth like you’d let her fuck you right there on the bathroom sink. Her tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive, her hands firm on your hips now.

“Agatha…” you breathe, dizzy. “I should…I need to…”

“Mm,” she hums, dragging her mouth down your jaw. “What is it, baby?”

Then you’re interrupted by a ‘buzz buzz’.

Your phone, abandoned on the counter.

The screen lights up.

*Billy: Where are you??? Are you okay??*

You blink at it. Groan.

Agatha follows your gaze, peeking at the screen, and then laughs.

“Oh no,” she smirks. “Little brother’s worried.”

You bury your face in her shoulder, groaning louder. “God. He’s gonna kill me.”

“Not if I kill him first,” she mutters under her breath, kissing your hair.

You sigh. “I have to go.”

Agatha pulls back just enough to look at you. Her smile softens, still smug, but now with something warmer underneath. “I know.”

She brushes your hair behind your ear, then kisses the corner of your mouth again, slower this time, almost reluctant.

You climb gingerly off the counter, thighs aching, and she steadies you with both hands on your hips.

“You’ll text me when you’re home?” she asks, casual but not really.

You nod.

And before you leave, before you even pull your dress down properly, she kisses you again. One more time. Just to be sure you remember who you belong to.

At the door, she kisses you again.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… lingering.

One hand on your lower back, the other under your chin, tilting your face to hers as if to memorise it. Like she’s trying to brand this moment into both your skins before it disappears.

She pulls away just enough to speak, her lips barely brushing yours. “Text me when you’re home.”

You nod.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

Then she’s gone, retreating slowly into the glow of the apartment, sweater slung off one shoulder, her hair a little mussed, lips kiss bitten, and you’re standing in her doorway like a ghost.

Still full of her.

Still aching.

Still trembling.

The drive home is a blur.

You sit in the car, hands at ten and two, legs still shaking, panties long gone, body wrecked. You can feel her still, you can feel the stretch, the soreness, the way she filled you and touched you like she owned you. And she did, didn’t she? You didn’t just let her fuck you.

You offered yourself to her.

And now you’re driving through Westview with her taste still in your mouth, mascara smudged, the faint scent of her perfume caught in your hair.

Your phone buzzes again.

You ignore it.

Because now it’s sinking in.

What you’ve done.

You slept with your boss.

With Agatha Harkness. The most intimidating, brilliant, dominant woman you’ve ever met. The one who barely lets anyone in. The one who trusted you with her child. The only person who’s made you feel like you’re not completely broken since you dropped out. Since everything fell apart.

And you let her fuck you on the goddamn sofa.

You squeeze the wheel.

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself. “What the fuck did I just do.”

It was supposed to be a job. A lifeline. A way to feel useful again. The only thing that got you out of bed, that made you do your hair again, wear pretty dresses, feel something other than despair.

And now? Now your thighs are sore from riding her cock.

You want to sob. You want to laugh. You want to turn the car around and let her fuck you again.

You don’t know if you’ve ruined everything.

But you know one thing for sure.

You’re in deep.

And there’s no going back.

You barely get the door open before Billy’s voice cuts through the hallway. “There she is.”

You sigh. Drop your keys in the bowl. Try to fix your hair in the mirror before he sees you properly… too late.

He’s already in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows sky high.

“You good?” he asks pointedly. “Because I texted you three times and all I got was a thumbs up and radio silence.”

You blink at him. He’s wearing a faded Twin Peaks tee and eating Cheetos straight out of the bag like he hasn’t moved from the sofa all day.

“I was working,” you mumble, toeing off your Docs. “Nicky had an asthma attack. I picked him up early. He was clingy.”

“Right,” Billy drawls, following you with narrowed eyes as you wander to the kitchen. “So clingy that you were gone for hours.”

You open the fridge. Stare into it blankly. You’re not even hungry, you just need something to do with your hands.

“He wanted me to stay for dinner,” you say. “Didn’t want to let me go. So… we made pasta. And then Agatha and I talked for a bit.”

Billy lets out a slow, suspicious hum. “Talked.”

“Yeah.”

“Talked?”

You turn. “Yes.”

He takes one long look at you, your flushed cheeks, slightly puffy lips, the faintest shadow of a hickey beginning to bloom just beneath your collar.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m always blushing.”

“Not like that.”

You snatch a can of Diet Coke and shut the fridge with unnecessary force. “Drop it, Billy.”

He raises his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’ve got that wrecked but dreamy look going on. It’s giving… scandalous kitchen counter moment.”

Your face burns. “Nothing happened.”

Billy squints. “Mmhmm.”

You crack the can open. “I’m serious.”

He flops dramatically onto the couch. “Fine, fine. You stayed for dinner. You talked. Totally normal. Just a totally normal, not at all insanely hot forty something MILF boss having a totally chill post pasta heart to heart with her mysterious goth babysitter.”

You take a long, long sip of your Coke.

He watches you, waggling his brows.

You stare back, deadpan. “Billy,” you say slowly, “shut the fuck up.”

He smirks.

And even though your whole body aches, even though your skin still smells like Agatha’s perfume, you let yourself smile just a little as you shuffle to the sofa and collapse beside him.

You survived.

For now.

But god, you’re in trouble.

You close your bedroom door gently behind you.

Billy’s still out in the living room, binging something loud and obnoxious. You left him with a sarcastic “goodnight” and a pillow tossed half heartedly at his head. But now, alone in the soft quiet of your room, the ache in your body returns all at once.

Your skin still tingles.

You crawl into bed, oversized sleep shirt dragging over your sore thighs, and flop onto your belly with your phone clutched like a secret.

You hesitate.

Then, thumb hovering over your screen, you send it.

*Y/N: Home safe. Thank you for dinner*

And… everything else.

Your heart is pounding. You stare at the message. Consider unsending it. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe she’s…

Agatha Harkness is typing.

You sit bolt upright.

*Agatha: Good. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.*

You bury your face in your pillow and kick your legs.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. You let out a helpless, giddy little sound that would absolutely mortify you if Billy heard it.

Because sweetheart???

You roll onto your back, phone clutched to your chest like a diary.

You should sleep.

But you don’t.

You just lie there, aching, glowing, wide awake, knowing one thing for certain:

You are absolutely, hopelessly, in trouble.

[theballadofharkness]

A note:

Claire Debella IS COMING I just have fics on the go I want to get ahead of before I start anything new!

[theballadofharkness]

I am so fascinated by your new story.

I think most of the time writers are too scared to give reader a personality and she ends up feeling so flat, but I'm a bit in love with how you managed to make her feel so dimensional and unique.

Needless to say i can't wait to see where this is going!!

Oh, I'm also in love with Nicky pls, please. He is such a precious child, we must protect him at all costs!!! Thanks for sharing your work Xx

Thank you so much!! It’s so good to have such sweet feedback - I was really nervous to post this becuase even tho I also adore little Nicky, I haven’t ever really written a fic that included a kid and have not been near a 4 year old in a long time 🤣 so it’s nice to know I didn’t totally fuck up 🤣xx

[theballadofharkness]

I love all your works especially "Make me a Mommy" I've been rereading it almost everyday.I hope you'll write more of Agatha like this!

I am!! I decided to start a series with gp!Agatha, the first part is out which has no smut but believe me that will not last xo

Read the first part here! Adventures in Babysitting pt.1

[theballadofharkness]

Adventures in Babysitting Series Masterlist

Agatha Harkness Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.

Warnings: explicit smut, GP!Agatha, breeding kink (more to follow xo)

🪻 = smut

Part 1

Part 2

[theballadofharkness]

Adventures in Babysitting pt.1

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: eventual smut warning so as always minors DNI xo gp!Agatha

A/N: So this is the first part in a new Agatha series I’ve been working on, enjoy! Xo

You haven’t left your bedroom in days. The air is stale, thick with the smell of unwashed sheets and the faint sourness of a cup of tea that went cold on your nightstand three mornings ago. The curtains are drawn tight, leaving the room dim and grey despite the late morning light leaking around the edges. The only movement comes from the dust drifting lazily in the air, caught in the faint breeze of the ceiling fan overhead.

Your laptop lies open on your blanket covered stomach, screen dim, blinking on the login page. You haven’t logged in for over a week. You’ve thought about it, just long enough to feel sick. The half-written doctoral dissertation still sits on the desktop, frozen in time, as if by ignoring it long enough you could unmake it entirely.

Your phone buzzes against the cluttered nightstand, cutting through the silence. You don’t move at first. But then it buzzes a second time, then a third, longer this time. A call. You sigh and reach for it with a sluggish hand, blinking against the glare of the screen.

<Billy: calling…>

Ugh.

You consider ignoring it again, but he’s persistent. Always has been. You swipe to answer and pull the phone to your ear without speaking.

“Oh thank god,” Billy says, voice already in motion. You can hear clattering behind him, doors, shoes, probably some frantic first-year being barked at in the hallway. “You’re alive. Listen, I need a massive favor. Like, big sister saves the day and my ass, kind of a favor.”

“I’m not alive,” you mumble, face pressed to the pillow. “I’m horizontal and decaying.”

“Cool, love that for you. Anyway, I need you to babysit.”

You blink. “What?”

“I can’t babysit. And I was supposed to babysit. And if I don’t find someone in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to get murdered by my boss.”

You frown up at the ceiling, still trying to climb out of the fog in your skull. “What are you talking about?”

“I was supposed to take care of Nicky this afternoon, you know, Nicky? Dr. Harkness’s kid. Four years old, long-ish hair, obsessed with goats? I’ve been watching him every Tuesday and Thursday since the divorce started. But I just got roped into presenting at this stupid colloquium prep thing with Dr. Harkness and I can’t cancel. You’d be saving my job and maybe even my actual life.”

You close your eyes. “So call someone else.”

“You are someone else. Please, Y/N. I wouldn’t ask if I had anyone else.”

“I’m not even dressed,” you mutter.

“That’s okay. He won’t care. He doesn’t know what shame is yet, he’s four.”

You sit up slowly, wincing at the way your spine protests. “Billy, I’m not… this isn’t… why would I babysit someone’s kid? I don’t babysit. I don’t even know him.”

“He’s literally a toddler. He eats string cheese and watches Bluey. He’s low-maintenance and extremely cute.” He tries to convince you over the phone. “And you’re literally doing nothing else right now, you’ve been in that room for like two weeks straight, and I’m worried about you? Also, money. This pays. Well.”

You swing your legs out from under the covers and plant your feet on the floor. It’s cold against your bare toes. “Billy, I’m not in a place to–”

“You’re in bed, that’s the place you’re in,” he cuts in gently, but firm. “Come on. You haven’t left the house since I don’t even know! Just… please? Do this. For me. For you. For the child.”

You stare down at the floor, aching and exhausted and too drained to argue.

“Fine,” you mutter.

“YES,” he practically yells, then quieter, “okay, okay, I’ll text you the preschool’s address and Agatha’s apartment. The kid has a key in his backpack. Pick him up at two, walk him home, just hang until Agatha gets home. He’s super easy. And cute. You’ll be amazing!”

“I don’t want to be amazing. I want to stay in bed.”

“Too late! I’m texting you the address. Preschool’s two blocks away from her apartment. He’s got a key in his backpack. Just be there at two. I told her you’d come.”

“Billy!”

“You’ll be fine! Put on something that doesn’t smell like despair and go. I owe you a whole dinner. Bye!”

The call ends before you can protest.

You stare at your phone, blinking like maybe this is a weird joke. But no, there’s the message already lighting up the screen.

<Billy: Preschool: Little Fern Early Years, 52 Winthrop

Apartment: 38B, Wexley Building

Kid’s got a key.

You’re the best big sister in the world. Go get ‘im 🖤>

You lower the phone into your lap and sit there in silence.

Babysitting. For a four-year-old. For a child you’ve never met. The child of your brother’s boss, no less. A woman you vaguely remember hearing about once. Dr. Agatha Harkness, professor of comparative literature, terrifying, brilliant, going through a divorce with another terrifying woman named Rio Vidal, and apparently desperate enough to allow a depressed stranger to take care of her child.

You look around your room. Books stacked in leaning towers. Your half-unpacked suitcase. A worn hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. Your dissertation notes are scattered, crumpled, and forgotten.

You haven’t worn real clothes in two weeks. You aren’t sure you even have clean underwear. But somehow, it’s easier to drag yourself out of bed than it is to call Billy back and say no. So you stand. Slowly. Let your arms stretch, bones creak, blood rush back into your legs. You cross the room like something emerging from hibernation and open the curtains just a sliver.

Outside, the world is still moving. And for the first time in weeks, so are you.

You don’t have time to overthink the situation you’ve been thrust into.

Billy said an hour, and that was already ten minutes ago, and everything in your body aches from stillness. Your spine pops when you stretch, your knees crack like old floorboards. It’s not pain, exactly. Just the dull stiffness of too many days in bed, too many hours curled in the same position under the same blanket, thinking the same thoughts over and over until even thinking feels pointless.

You let the water run too hot at first. It scalds your shoulders and fogs the mirror before you can blink the sleep out of your eyes. You stand there, eyes closed, until it stops hurting.

Getting dressed feels like an exercise in pretending. But you find something suitable folded deep in your drawer, nearly forgotten, the soft black milkmaid dress with the square neckline and puffed sleeves. It falls just below above your ankles, the fabric light and floaty, something you bought in a hopeful spring. Over it you throw your long black wool coat, the one that cinches at the waist that you wore to death last autumn. You lace up your Docs and feel the weight of them anchor you to the floor.

You glance at yourself in the mirror on the back of your bedroom door and barely recognize the reflection. You still look tired, still with that hollow-eyed look you haven’t been able to shake, but dressed. Human. Like a person who might belong somewhere. Or at least pass through unnoticed.

Your phone buzzes again as you head downstairs.

<Billy: Pickup line’s on the east side of the building. He’ll be with Ms. Marcy. Full name is Nicholas Harkness-Vidal, I let the school know you’d be coming. Text me if you need anything but please don’t need anything. THANK YOU.>

You swallow, stuff your phone into your coat pocket, and step out into the light.

Westview is irritatingly cheerful this time of year. Spring has started to wake the lawns again, daffodils leaning into the sunlight, pastel bunting strung between porch rails, kids on scooters wobbling down the sidewalks while their parents call after them with voices that sound too bright and cheery to be sincere.

You walk like a storm cloud through it all. Your coat flaring out behind you, your boots heavy against the pavement, the breeze catching the hem of your dress just enough to lift it as you go. A woman walking a goldendoodle actually pauses to watch you pass. You hear her mutter something into her phone and laugh to herself.

At least she didn’t cross the street.

Little Fern Early Years is a cheerful building painted in soft greens and yellows, with handmade signs in every window, finger-painted stars, alphabet animals, rainbows with names in shaky crayon underneath. You hesitate at the gate. There are SUVs parked haphazardly along the curb, engines idling, and a cluster of moms in bright gym wear already chatting outside the pickup line.

Their voices drop a little when you approach.

You keep your eyes forward, posture straight, coat drawn tight around your waist. You don’t look at them, but you feel them watching you, the witchy girl in black, clearly not a parent, clearly not from here, arriving like some kind of omen to collect a child they all assumed had normal people around him.

At the front desk, the woman behind the clipboard blinks at you.

You clear your throat softly. “Hi. I’m here for Nicholas Harkness-Vidal. I’m Billy Kaplan’s sister.”

Her expression changes instantly. “Oh! Yes. We’ve been expecting you. You’re the babysitter, right?”

You nod your head, half-smiling. “That’s me. Where is he?”

“Out back in the play area. Ms. Marcy’s with him. He’s already packed up.”

You nod your thanks and walk through the school’s side gate, passing a painted sign that reads GROW YOUR MAGIC HERE! with stars and glitter glue. The cheerfulness feels absurd.

The play area is quieter than expected, a handful of kids on colorful mats, winding down from whatever craft or chaos came before. You spot the teacher instantly: a tall woman in a denim shirt and sneakers, kneeling beside a small boy with curly hair and a green backpack resting at his feet.

He’s sitting cross-legged, one knee bouncing, head down like he’s tracing something in the rubber mat with his finger. His curls are wild, soft at the edges, and his little socks are mismatched, one blue, one covered in dinosaurs. He looks tired, or maybe just thoughtful in that way very small children get, like he’s seeing something in his head the rest of the world doesn’t.

The teacher looks up and spots you, then stands with a gentle smile and waves you over.

“You must be Billy’s sister,” she says quietly.

You nod, stepping closer, suddenly self-conscious of your boots thudding across the turf, the way your black coat and dress might come across as intimidating for someone as tiny as Nicky.

She crouches beside the boy again, touches his shoulder. “Nicky? This is Y/N. She’s your babysitter today.”

He looks up at you with wide eyes. Cheeks flushed from earlier play. He blinks once, twice, processing. Then he slowly rises to his feet, backpack slung over one shoulder, and just… looks at you for a long moment.

“Hi,” you say, softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just steps a little closer, peering up at you with the kind of quiet intensity only kids seem to have. His eyes travel from your coat to your dress, to your boots, then up to your face again.

“You look like a witch,” he says finally. Quiet. Not scared but curious. Like it’s a compliment.

You blink, surprised. “Is that… okay?”

He nods seriously.

Then he reaches out and takes your hand.

You glance at the teacher, startled.

She grins. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Nicky tugs your hand gently. “C’mon.”

And just like that, you’re being led out of the play area by a tiny stranger who’s decided, without a single ounce of hesitation, that you’re safe.

As you pass the playground fence, one of the moms in yoga pants actually gasps. You catch it out of the corner of your eye, the hand to the chest, the squint of judgment, like you’ve just kidnapped him to take back home to your coven.

You hold his hand a little tighter and walk on.

The sidewalk is warm beneath your boots, sun cutting through the clouds just enough to cast long, faint shadows across the neat lawns and cracked driveways. You keep one hand in your coat pocket, the other still held gently in Nicky’s, his tiny fingers curled around yours like it’s nothing unusual at all. Like he’s done this with you before.

He doesn’t talk at first. Just walks beside you, his backpack bouncing slightly with each step, curls catching the light. His legs are short and quick, a soft shuffle-shuffle of his shoes on pavement.

You glance down once, unsure if you should say something, but he beats you to it.

“Do you know any witches?”

The question is so quiet you almost miss it.

You blink. “What makes you think I’d know witches?”

He shrugs, still watching the cracks in the sidewalk. “You look like you do.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Fair enough.”

He’s waiting now, expectant but patient in that very serious four-year-old way, like he’s asked something sacred and is trusting you not to waste his time.

So you tell him the truth.

“Well,” you say, adjusting your grip on his hand as you recant some child friendly facts about the very thing you almost got a doctorate in, “I actually interviewed some experts on witches in the past. Most people think witches ride brooms and cast spells and wear pointy hats. But real witches? Real ones were usually women who knew things. About plants. About healing. About the stars. People were scared of them because they were different.”

“Like weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

You nod. “Yeah. A little weird. But good weird. Smart weird.”

He considers that for a moment. “Did they have pets?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Cats. Crows. Frogs. Some people said those were their familiar, which were magical animals that were meant to help them do spells.”

“Cool,” he whispers, eyes wide now.

You smile. “Some witches could supposedly curse people, but a lot of that was just stories made up by scared villagers. Most of the time, witches were just people who knew how to survive. That’s a kind of magic too.”

He’s absolutely still beside you now, feet moving automatically but gaze fixed on your face, soaking in every word like it’s a bedtime story no one’s ever told him before.

“Do you have a familiar?” he asks.

You glance down at him. “No. But I used to have a cat named Banjo who hated everyone except me. Maybe that counts.”

He beams. “I think it counts.”

You walk another few steps in silence before he says, “I’m gonna be a witch.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Yeah?”

He nods firmly. “I’ll have a bunny and a hat and I’ll be nice. I won’t do curses.”

You squeeze his hand. “That sounds like the smart kind.”

He looks up at you, eyes squinting against the sunlight. “Are you a witch?”

You think about that. Not about magic, not about spells. About the last few weeks. The books under your bed. The ritual of making tea you never drink. The stories of accused and persecuted women throughout history you’ve memorized like scripture.

You look down at him. “Sometimes,” you say softly.

He nods again, like that was the only acceptable answer. And for the first time in weeks, something in your chest flickers. A spark. A breath of warmth. Like maybe you haven’t been completely invisible after all.

The Wexley building comes into view at the end of the block, ivy climbing the brick, windows bright with early afternoon light.

Nicky squeezes your hand and says, “That’s my house.”

You nod. “Let’s get your key.”

The key is in a little zippered pouch shaped like a bat. You find it in the front pocket of Nicky’s backpack after a few gentle prompts and a lot of zipping and unzipping. He watches with mild interest, then gasps dramatically when you finally pull it free, like it’s a magic artifact.

“That’s the one,” he declares. “It has sharp teeth.”

You hold it up. “Very spooky.”

He grins and skips ahead, climbing the three shallow stairs to the front door of the Wexley Building like he’s done it a hundred times, and he has. You’re the one hesitating.

The building is gorgeous. Brick and glass and ivy-covered stone, tucked just far enough from the main street to feel exclusive. There’s a small brass plaque next to the entrance: WEXLEY RESIDENCES – EST. 1891, polished to a high shine. You push through the heavy door and into a lobby that smells faintly of eucalyptus and money.

You glance down at Nicky. “Elevator or stairs?”

“Stairs,” he says immediately. “Racing game.”

You do not race him, but he sprints ahead anyway, stomping up the carpeted staircase with all the chaotic force of a tiny kid who’s had fruit snacks in the last two hours. You follow slower, your coat swishing around your legs, heart thudding a little from the climb.

He waits at the landing of the third floor, bouncing in place.

“Thirty-eight B,” he says, pointing. “That one. With the wreath. It’s a real wreath. I don’t think witches do fake wreaths.”

You smile and walk with him to the door, then lift him to let him turn the key himself. The key clicks easily, and the door creaks open into quiet.

You step in, and Nicholas Harkness-Vidal steps in behind you like it’s second nature. He kicks off his sneakers and shrugs off his backpack, letting it slump to the floor just inside the threshold.

The apartment is… palatial.

Polished hardwood stretches across the living room like something out of a magazine, anchored by a wine-colored velvet sofa and a sprawling antique rug. There are real paintings on the walls, not prints, not knock-offs, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that dominate one entire side of the room. Their contents are dense and varied, everything from thick academic tomes to slender novels in French and Italian, a few worn paperbacks stacked on their sides like someone had paused mid thought and left them there.

A grand piano rests quietly in one corner, its lid closed, a pale linen cover draped over it like someone was trying to forget it exists.

You step further inside, coat still buttoned, and scan the space. It smells faintly like orange blossom and cedar, like expensive perfume and warm wood polish. A little cold, a little curate, but unmistakably lived in. It’s the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to flaunt itself. It just is.

“Come see my room,” Nicky says, already tugging at your hand.

You let him lead you down the hallway, a corridor lined with more books and framed black and white photographs that look like they were taken on actual film.

His bedroom door is painted navy blue. Inside, it’s cozy and chaotic in a way only a four year old’s room can be: a blanket fort half-collapsing in the corner, crayons scattered beneath a tiny table, a small corkboard covered in scribbles and glitter glued construction paper.

He points immediately to the bed. “That’s my goat.”

A large, plush goat is propped up against the pillows, white and curly and wearing a lopsided purple bow around its neck.

“What’s their name?” you ask.

“Professor Goatly,” he says with complete sincerity.

You nearly laugh. “Of course it is.”

He climbs up onto the bed to retrieve the goat, then holds it under one arm as he hops down again. “She likes pizza,” he adds. “She’s not allowed to eat it anymore, but she likes it.”

“Tragic,” you say. “What happened?”

“She choked on a mushroom. But she got better.”

“Good to know.”

The kitchen is just as sleek as the rest of the apartment with high end appliances, marble counters, minimalist design with dark wood cabinets and brass fixtures. The kind of space that screams I don’t cook here myself, but someone might.

You open the fridge, half expecting to find nothing but wine and mineral water. But it’s stocked: berries, hummus, cut-up vegetables in glass containers, organic juice boxes, fancy yogurt with French labels. You spot a small sticky note stuck to the top corner of the fridge, written in sharp, angular handwriting:

Pasta or quesadilla. No ice cream.— A

You glance from the note to the gleaming stove, with its intimidatingly modern interface and five separate burner knobs. You have no idea how to use it. It looks like it might launch something.

You turn to Nicky. “Do you want pizza?”

He gasps.

“You’re allowed to say no,” you add.

“Pizza,” he whispers like it’s a forbidden word. “From the place with the garlic crust?”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

He scrambles up onto one of the stools at the island, Professor Goatly tucked under one arm, and watches you pull out your phone like you’re doing something deeply illegal.

“You’re a rule breaker,” he says.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “You didn’t want pasta either, huh?”

“No,” he says gravely. “We had that two days ago. Billy makes it too spicy. And once he burned it.”

You smile, fingers tapping through the delivery app. “Then I think we’re doing the right thing.”

He leans his elbows on the counter and rests his chin in his hands, watching you order like it’s the most fascinating ritual he’s ever witnessed.

“What’s your favorite animal?” he asks.

You pause. “I think ravens. But I also like goats. They’re smart. And weird.”

He beams. “Like me!”

“Exactly like you,” you agree, and he laughs so hard he nearly falls off the stool.

You help him back up, gently steadying him with one hand.

“Okay,” you say, confirming the order. “Pizza will be here in thirty-five minutes. Garlic crust secured.”

“YES,” he hisses, doing a quiet little victory punch in the air.

You lean on the counter across from him.

He stares at you like you’ve just performed some kind of spell. “You talk to me like I’m big,” he says.

You nod. “You act like you’re big.”

He shrugs, all matter-of-fact. “I am four and a half.”

“Well,” you say, “that explains it.”

He giggles again and leans in conspiratorially. “I like you.”

You smile. “I like you too.”

And it’s true.

The space between you stretches comfortably now, a kitchen too big for two people, filled with a quiet that isn’t awkward for once. He hums a little tune to himself and pets Professor Goatly’s ears. You lean on your arms, watching him with a soft sort of detachment, something like peace starting to creep in around the edges.

You haven’t felt that in a long, long time.

You’ve barely had time to push yourself off the kitchen counter when Nicky, still perched on his stool with Professor Goatly now tucked beneath one arm like a secret, announces, “I think I have homework.”

You blink. “Wait, seriously? You’re four.”

He nods solemnly. “But I’m in the dragonfly group. We do the most learning.”

“Of course you do,” you murmur, already fighting a smile.

He slides down from the stool and trots off, curls bouncing, disappearing down the hallway. You hear him unzip his backpack, a thump as something heavy hits the carpet, and then the gentle rustle of paper.

He comes back clutching a folder that’s been decorated within an inch of its life with stickers, scribbles, and one vaguely unsettling glitter crayon goat. Inside is a single worksheet and a very chewed pencil.

You sit together at the island again, this time side by side. He places the paper down with the reverence of a scholar presenting a thesis.

The instructions at the top read:

“Circle the things that start with the letter B.”

Below are a series of crude cartoon images: a banana, a boat, a sock, a bee, a lion, a ball.

You glance at him.

He’s concentrating so hard it’s adorable, lips pursed, tiny brow furrowed like he’s decoding ancient prophecy.

He circles the banana. Then hesitates at the sock.

“Does sock start with B?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “What sound does ‘B’ make?”

He looks unsure. “Buh?”

“Right,” you say gently. “And what sound does ‘sock’ start with?”

“Ssss,” he says, and his face crumples a little. “I forgot. I thought it was B. I’m not good at it.”

You slide your hand across the table, resting it lightly on top of his.

“Hey,” you say, voice low and calm. “That was a very tricky sock. It’s in disguise.”

He sniffs, trying not to cry.

You nudge him. “You know what happens when someone figures out a hard puzzle?”

He looks at you, eyes big.

You lean in like you’re telling him a secret. “They get to watch a movie and eat pizza.”

He gasps. “Really?”

You nod solemnly. “It’s a little known academic tradition.”

He breaks into a giggle, that high, fluttery kind of laugh kids do when relief washes over them. You feel it too, like the air just got lighter.

He presses the pencil into your hand. “Can we do the rest together?”

“Of course.”

You finish the sheet with him, taking your time, letting him sound out the words while you whisper encouragement. Every time he gets one right, you make a little drumroll on the counter with your hands, which he loves. He gets especially excited at ‘bee’ and circles it three times for good measure.

When the worksheet is complete, and thoroughly wrinkled, Nicky lets out a huge exhale and flops forward across the counter, arms splayed.

“I’m tired," he says quietly.

You grin. “Academia is brutal.”

He lifts his head. “Now movie?”

“Yes,” you say, already grabbing the remote. “We’re going to celebrate that dangerous sock situation with carbs and cartoons.”

Nicky cheers softly under his breath and slides down off the stool, grabbing his goat plushie by the neck and trotting off toward the living room like it’s a red carpet premiere.

You trail behind, coat now hung neatly on a hook by the door, sleeves pushed up, hair damp at the ends. You feel… lighter. The apartment, once cold and curated, now hums gently with domestic energy, the kind that lives in quiet moments and soft conversation, in a child’s giggle and the echo of your own voice not sounding so damn hollow anymore.

You sink into the velvet couch beside him, and he throws himself dramatically across your lap, goat and all. You start scrolling through the kid’s section of the streaming app as he leans his head against your arm.

“What movie are we watching?” you ask softly.

He squints at the screen, then at you. “Something spooky,” he says. “But not too scary.”

You hum. “How do you feel about Scooby-Doo?”

His whole face lights up. “I love Scooby!”

You scroll through the menu until you find The Witch’s Ghost, and his breath catches a little when the title appears, cartoon gravestones, purple mist, bats. You glance down at him.

“This okay?”

He nods quickly. “I can be brave.”

You smile. “It’s a classic. You’re gonna love the Hex Girls.”

“Who’re they?”

“You’ll see.”

You press play. The music starts, bright and spooky, and Nicky settles in closer. He’s warm against your side, his curls soft under your hand when he leans his head against your arm. You don’t move.

Outside, somewhere in Westview, a delivery driver is probably pulling onto your street.

Inside, it’s quiet. Peaceful. Just you, a strange little boy who decided to trust you, and a haunted cartoon soundtrack humming through the speakers.

You watch the screen, and wait.

~

Agatha shifts in her chair for the third time in as many minutes, legs crossed, brow furrowed, eyes flicking between the heavy conference table and the clock mounted above the door. It’s late afternoon and the faculty meeting is dragging like the seventh circle of hell. Her planner lies open in front of her, half full of notes and scrawled reminders in her tight, slanted handwriting. She hasn’t heard a word in the last ten minutes.

She checks her phone again.

No texts. No missed calls. That should be good news. But still.

The department head is still speaking, something about publication quotas and end of year funding allocations, but the words are dissolving into static.

Her jaw clenches.

She should be home by now. Nicky should be having dinner, possibly smeared across his face, telling him about his day. Her stomach twists at the thought. There’s a custody drop in the morning. She can’t afford a late night. She definitely can’t afford a last-minute babysitting disaster.

She glances down at her phone resting screen-down beside her notes, resisting the urge to check it again.

“Agatha?” comes a clipped voice from across the table.

She looks up sharply. Professor Klein is staring at her expectantly.

Agatha blinks once, then raises an eyebrow.

“Do you have any notes on the proposed restructure?” he repeats, a little too smug.

She smiles. It’s not kind. “Yes. Burn it down and start over.”

A few snorts from the younger faculty. Klein does not laugh.

Beside her, Billy shifts awkwardly in his seat, hands folded in front of him like a child in church. He’s been sitting in on these meetings for months now, part research assistant, part unofficial translator between Agatha and the rest of the department.

She glances sideways at Billy.

He’s sitting beside her with a laptop open and a pen in one hand, typing notes with the calm indifference of someone not juggling a child, a divorce, and three overlapping syllabi.

She nudges him with her elbow.

“Have you heard anything?” she asks under her breath.

Billy glances at her. “About…?”

“You know what.”

“Nicky?”

She gives him a look.

He leans in slightly, keeping his voice low. “Everything’s fine. I swear. Y/N picked him up on time. All good!”

Agatha gives him a flat look.

“Y/N is amazing with kids,” he insists. “Seriously. She was like my second mom growing up. She’s basically the reason I survived puberty.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “And why haven’t I met her?”

Billy shrugs again. “She just moved back. Stuff happened. She’s been having a rough year.”

Agatha taps her pen once. “Define ‘rough.’”

“She dropped out of her PhD. Moved home. Kind of… went quiet.” His voice drops, softer now. “She’s not a mess, I swear. Just… quiet.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “She still lives with your parents.”

“Temporarily!” he hisses. “She’s just… figuring things out.”

“Is she responsible?” she asks, blunt.

“She’s the best person I know,” Billy says, with no hesitation.

Agatha’s expression doesn’t move, but her fingers still against the pad of paper. Something about the shift in his tone sticks with her. Protective. Honest. Familiar.

Agatha presses a finger to her temple. “She knows where the emergency numbers are?”

“Yes.”

“She knows he’s allergic to kiwi?”

“Yes.”

“She knows he hates orange cheese but likes white cheese if it’s in the shape of a triangle?”

Billy sighs. “Agatha.”

She crosses her arms. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m responsible.”

“You’re anxious,” he corrects gently. “Which is fair. But she’s good. I promise.”

That stops her.

For a moment, the room quiets around her, voices continuing, papers rustling, the endless drone of departmental politics fading behind the low hum in her ears.

She sighs.

“Fine,” she says under her breath. “But if I come home and find the curtains on fire, it’s your funeral.”

Billy smiles, smug. “She doesn’t even like fire. She’s more… cold breeze in an empty hallway. She writes poems about graveyards and puts salt in her windowsills. Nicky’s gonna lose his mind over her.”

Agatha rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches, almost despite herself.

~

Agatha doesn’t even wait for the meeting to end properly.

The second the department chair’s voice starts wrapping up with “so, moving forward,” she’s out of her seat, snapping her folder closed, and giving Billy a look that says you’re responsible for whatever I find at home.

She takes the stairs two at a time, heels clicking hard, phone still clutched in one hand. No texts. No missed calls. Which should be reassuring. Should.

She tells herself she’s just being thorough. Not nervous. Not spiraling. Not imagining a total stranger leaving her gas stove on, or letting her son lick an outlet.

Agatha doesn’t run. She walks… quickly, professionally, with purpose. The way women like her are trained to move in high heels. But by the time she reaches the front steps of the Wexley Building, her pace is just shy of a sprint and her keys are already out in her hand.

There’s no reason to be nervous. Nicky’s fine. You would have called if something went wrong. She’s being dramatic. Controlling. Overbearing. Ridiculous.

She reaches the front door of the apartment.

And stops.

There’s laughter coming from inside. High-pitched, delighted. Nicky’s voice, bright and easy in a way she hasn’t heard in… weeks, maybe.

She slides the key into the lock as quietly as she can and opens the door.

And freezes.

The apartment is… glowing. Dim with late afternoon light, warm and lived-in, the kind of domestic quiet she hasn’t come home to in months. There’s a cartoon playing, Scooby-Doo, of all things, the soft, tinny music floating in from the living room. Her sofa, her velvet sofa, is covered in crumbs and throw pillows and one very giggly four-year-old who currently has half a slice of pizza in his hand and zero intention of eating it properly.

But she doesn’t register any of that right away.

Because then she sees you.

And the floor tilts.

You’re curled into the corner of her sofa, legs tucked under the hem of a soft black dress, hair undone around your face in loose, tired waves. Your hand is resting on the back of the couch, just near his shoulder, not touching, but close enough to feel protective.

And when you laugh at something Nicky says, soft and melodic, Agatha forgets to breathe.

You’re not what she expected. Not some frazzled undergrad in leggings. Not Billy’s quirky sister with questionable time management. You are beautiful. Quiet and composed and just the slightest bit tired around the eyes, like someone who’s known real silence.

You look up as the door closes behind her. Like you felt her before you saw her. And then you smile.

And that’s it.

That’s when it hits her.

Oh. I’m in trouble.

She doesn’t move. Can’t. Just stands there like a fool with one hand still holding the keys and the other clenched too tightly around the strap of her bag.

You’re young enough that she immediately resents herself for how hard you’re hitting her. And god you’re beautiful. Not in the way Agatha’s exes have been, polished and sharp and high maintenance like her. You’re something else. Something undone. Your beauty sneaks up on you. It lives in the curve of your mouth and the patience in your voice. It’s not performative. You’re just… real. Too real. Too kind. Very witchy and good with her son.

And suddenly, Agatha’s brain goes completely blank.

You rise slightly when you see her, nothing dramatic, just enough to acknowledge her presence. You move like you don’t want to disturb anything. Like you’re aware you’re in someone else’s space, but not afraid of it. Not afraid of her.

She’s the one who’s afraid.

Nicky, oblivious to his mother’s spiral, perks up immediately. “Mama! Y/N knows everything about witches!”

Agatha blinks, still staring at you.

You smile again, warmer this time, and say, “Hi. I’m Y/N. Sorry for the pizza. I couldn’t figure out your kitchen.”

Your voice is low. Gentle. Touched with a smile that somehow isn’t performative at all. And Agatha feels something in her ribs shift. Just a little. Just enough to panic her.

She realizes, all at once, that she is not prepared for you.

Not for your voice, your face, your calm, your kindness. She’s not prepared for how easy you look next to Nicky. For how her apartment feels softer with you in it. For how, in just a few hours, you’ve made the place feel like a home.

And Agatha Harkness, professor, mother, nightmare woman of the faculty lounge, suddenly doesn’t remember how to speak.

Agatha doesn’t know how long she stands there before Nicky jumps up from the couch, crust still in one hand, and runs full-speed toward her.

She drops her bag just in time to catch him.

“Hi, baby,” she says, her voice hoarse. She folds him into her arms automatically, holding him like he’s a lifeline. He smells like cheese and apple juice and that lavender spray from his pillow. Her heart slows a little just having him close.

He wraps his arms around her neck and whispers, muffled against her shoulder, “Mom… can we keep her?”

Agatha goes still.

She pulls back just enough to look at him.

His face is flushed from giggling. His hair is sticking up in all directions. He looks utterly at ease. Safe. Happy.

She swallows hard and brushes his hair back. “Go finish your movie, baby,” she murmurs, voice gentler than she meant it to be. “I’ll be right here.”

He nods, kisses her cheek, and runs back to the couch, shouting something about how “it’s the part where they find the witch!”

And then it’s just the two of you again.

You’re standing by the kitchen island, fingers loosely clasped in front of you, gaze flicking between her and Nicky. You don’t speak first. You just exist there, calm and grounded and faintly glowing in the light of her stupid dimmer switch.

Agatha crosses the room slowly, peeling off her coat, buying herself time. “So,” she says, and it comes out a little too sharp, a little too measured. “He’s clearly fond of you.”

You smile a little. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is,” she says, hanging her coat over the back of a chair. “But he’s shy, he doesn’t usually warm up this fast. And certainly not to strangers.”

Your expression softens slightly. “I guess I’m not that strange after all.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re barefoot. In my house. Watching Scooby-Doo and letting him eat pizza on my vintage couch.”

You glance over at the couch, where Nicky is now very seriously offering Professor Goatly a crust.

“I can Febreze it,” you offer.

Agatha snorts. It shocks even her.

Silence stretches for a moment. Not uncomfortable, but weighted. She looks at you again, really looks. The soft dress. The quiet confidence. The way your eyes follow Nicky like you’re still listening to him, even now. Even without words.

She clears her throat. “Do you want the position?” she asks. Straight to the point. No performance, no diplomacy. Just a question, low and quiet and far more vulnerable than she meant it to be.

You blink. “The babysitting job?”

Agatha nods once.

You glance at Nicky, who’s now lying sideways, curled into a corner of the couch with the goat plush under his chin. His eyelids are starting to flutter.

You answer without hesitation. “Yeah. I do.”

That does something to her chest. Something she doesn’t have language for. Not yet.

“Fine,” she says. And then, with all the weight of someone trying not to sound too invested: “Come over tomorrow. We’ll talk then.”

You nod once, and your mouth curls up just slightly. “Okay.”

She starts to turn away. Then pauses. Looks back at you. “Thank you,” she says.

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For…” she gestures vaguely toward the couch, the crumbs, the soft quiet joy that’s settled over the apartment like a spell. “…all of that.”

You just smile.

And she’s doomed.

~

You close the front door to your parents’ house quietly behind you, your toes aching slightly from the walk and the heavy Docs you wore all afternoon. The house is dark, save for the warm pool of light spilling from the kitchen. You smell tea. Basil. Someone reheated pasta and didn’t clean the microwave tray again.

Billy’s voice floats in before you’ve even made it to the threshold. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mary Shelley herself.”

You groan, dropping your bag on the hall table. “Don’t.”

You turn into the kitchen to find Billy leaning over the table with his laptop open and a spoon halfway into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s like he’s solving an academic crime. He glances up when you enter the room.

“Oh good,” he says, deadpan. “You lived.”

You drop your coat onto the back of a chair and step out of your boots. “Barely.”

“So? Are we still alive? Is the child intact? Is the sofa ruined?”

You toss your coat over a chair and sigh. “Nicky’s a dream. He fed pizza crust to a stuffed goat and we watched Scooby-Doo.”

Billy clasps a hand to his chest. “Oh my god, he let you pick the movie? That’s like sacred territory.”

You glance at him as you fill a glass of water. “He liked me.”

Billy stands up properly, watching you carefully. “So… how’d it go? Really.”

You grab a glass from the cabinet and turn back toward him. “Actually… she offered me the job.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Agatha,” you say. “She offered me the babysitting job. Like, for real. She wants me to come back tomorrow and talk about it properly.”

Billy sits up straighter, eyes wide. “Wait like permanently?”

You nod.

“Holy shit.” He grins. “That’s amazing.”

You stare at him. “You’re not surprised?”

“Oh, I’m deeply surprised. But also? Not really.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He gestures at you with his spoon. “You’re clearly great with him. And she’s been so stressed she might actually start combusting if someone doesn’t step in. Also, if you’re taking over, I am free to do my actual job.”

You snort, sipping your water.

“No, seriously,” he says, softer now. “This is good. For both of you. You need to get out, she needs help, and Nicky clearly loves you if she’s offering you the job.”

You nod slowly. “It felt… good. Being there. With him. He’s funny. Smart. Kind of weird in the best way.”

Billy smiles. “Yeah. He gets that from his mother.”

You glance over at him, carefully neutral. “She’s… not what I expected.”

“Ohhh no,” Billy says immediately. “Don’t you dare. You have a crush.”

“I do not have a crush.”

“That’s not what your face says.”

You blink. “What face?”

“That face,” he says, pointing. “You’ve got your ‘I just met someone wildly attractive and I’m trying to act normal’ face on. It’s giving internal screaming. It’s giving disaster lesbian.”

You sigh, setting the glass down. “Billy.”

He grins wider. “Oh my god. You really liked her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, laughing under your breath. “She’s just… she’s nothing like I thought she’d be.”

Billy folds his arms. “In what way?”

“She’s intense. Sharp. Like… too sharp. And she just looked at me like….” You break off, shaking your head. “I don’t know. She’s terrifying.”

“And hot.”

You pause.

Then, quietly: “Stupidly.”

Billy gasps. “I KNEW IT. I KNEW YOU’D FOLD.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warming. “I didn’t fold.”

“You folded like origami,” he says, gleeful. “You’re already blushing.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You’re blushing like you watched Portrait of a Lady on Fire twice today.”

And just like that, you’re fifteen again, and he’s your annoying little brother, and somehow he knows everything you feel before you do.

You glare at your drink. “Shut up.”

Billy grins. “I’m proud of you.”

That throws you. You glance up at him.

He shrugs. “I am. It’s been a hard year. And you could’ve said no. But you didn’t. You said yes. You showed up.”

Your chest aches in that warm, fragile way that means maybe you needed to hear that more than you realized.

You murmur, “Thanks.”

“I’m gonna officiate the wedding,” he says brightly. “I’m gonna wear a cape.”

You walk past him toward the stairs. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m telling Mom!”

“Tell her you’re adopted.”

He stands, stretches, and steals your glass just to annoy you. “Now go to bed, Miss Nanny. Big day tomorrow. First step toward domestic witchhood.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you head toward the stairs.

~

The morning is quiet with the soft scrape of spoon against ceramic as Nicky picks at his oatmeal, curls pressed flat to one side of his head from where he slept hard, tucked into Agatha’s side until sunrise.

Agatha leans against the kitchen counter, coffee cooling in her hand, and watches him without speaking. He knows what day it is. She didn’t remind him. She didn’t have to.

He hasn’t spoken since he got up.

The only sound is the slow tick of the antique wall clock, a piece she bought years ago, back when she thought things like statement timepieces could make a space feel more like a home. Now it just feels loud. Condescending. Counting down.

Nicky stirs the oatmeal again. Doesn’t eat it.

Agatha wants to cry. Or scream. Or call Rio and say no, not this time, not this week, not now, he’s too small and I haven’t had enough of him yet.

But instead she sips her coffee and watches her son not eat his breakfast.

They get dressed slowly. She brushes his teeth and pretends not to notice when his eyes get glassy. She kneels to tie his shoes and pauses longer than necessary, forehead resting lightly against his knee, like maybe she can hold him there with her body alone.

She breathes in the scent of his hair and presses a kiss there, then another. “I love you,” she murmurs. “So much.”

He nods against her shoulder. His voice is muffled. “I don’t wanna go.”

Agatha closes her eyes.

“I know, baby,” she whispers. “I know.”

The doorbell rings at 8:00 a.m. on the dot.

Agatha’s hands are shaking. She crouches to zip Nicky’s little jacket, smoothing it twice more even though it’s already perfect. His curls are fluffy and clean, goat plush clutched in one hand. He hasn’t said a word since breakfast.

“Ready, baby?” she asks softly.

He nods without looking up.

She presses a kiss to his forehead then opens the door.

Rio stands on the other side in black jeans and a cropped leather jacket, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, one hand clutching her keys. No sunglasses today. Just tired eyes and perfect red lipstick, like she’s already had the morning she didn’t want.

“Hi, baby,” she says at once, smiling as she bends to Nicky’s level. Her voice melts like honey. “There’s my boy. I missed you.”

Nicky doesn’t answer. Just hugs her waist.

Rio crouches. “Hey,” she murmurs, touching his cheek. “I’ve got juice boxes in the car and I downloaded the whole new series of Bluey, remember?”

That gets a tiny nod. A small sniffle.

Agatha swallows.

Rio glances up. “Did he eat?”

Agatha nods. “Oatmeal and fruit. His inhaler’s in the front pocket.”

“Thanks,” Rio says. Not unkind, but curt.

They stand slowly. Nicky’s arms go up and Rio lifts him with practiced ease. He settles against her, quiet and heavy, thumb tucked in his mouth.

“You’ll call him?” Rio asks, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

Agatha crosses her arms. “Of course I’ll call him.”

“Not too late, please.”

“He’s my son too.”

That snaps between them.

Rio’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

They stare at each other.

Years of history. Months of divorce lawyers. Too many nights alone in separate rooms, pretending they weren’t falling apart.

“I’ll drop him back Friday,” Rio says finally, turning toward the hallway.

Agatha nods. “I’ll have his things ready.”

Rio shifts Nicky higher on her hip. “C’mon, bug. Say bye to Mama.”

Nicky lifts his head, sleep-creased and warm. “Love you.”

Agatha smiles, chest burning. “Love you more.”

He rests his head back on Rio’s shoulder.

And then they’re gone.

The hallway stretches empty. The door clicks shut. And the apartment feels cavernous again.

Agatha leans against the door with her eyes closed.

Seven days.

~

The doorbell rings just before four.

Agatha checks the mirror. Again.

Her lipstick’s already perfect, a muted oxblood red, and her curls are pinned back in a loose knot that somehow looks accidental and sculpted all at once. She’s in black again. Slim slacks. Silk blouse. Gold jewelry. Professional. Composed.

Dangerously close to unraveling.

She exhales and opens the door.

You’re standing there in the hallway, slightly flushed from the walk, wearing another soft black dress. Long wool coat, fingers curled around the strap of your tote bag. Hair windblown. Eyes a little wide like you’re not sure she’ll remember inviting you.

She remembers.

She remembers everything.

“Hi,” you say, a little shy.

Agatha doesn’t move at first. Her breath catches. Because you’re here, and it’s worse than she thought, you’re even prettier in the daylight. You have this quiet, haunted kind of beauty, like something out of a dark storybook. Like a siren.

“Hi,” she says back, voice husky before she clears it. “Come in.”

You step past her, and she catches the scent of your shampoo. Something herbal. Clean. Witchy.

It does things to her.

The door shuts behind you.

“You can set your bag down,” she offers, gesturing toward the console table. Her fingers twitch slightly as she pulls them back like she nearly reached out to help you out of your coat.

You shrug it off, revealing the flutter of fabric underneath. Milkmaid neckline, cinched waist. Not revealing, but somehow intimate. Lived in.

She swallows hard.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit early,” you say, fidgeting with the strap.

“It’s fine,” she says, too quickly. “Better. I was just–” She cuts herself off. “I’m glad you came.”

You smile a little. “Nicky okay?”

Agatha hesitates. “He left this morning.”

Your brow furrows gently. “Oh. Custody switch?”

She nods. “Week on, week off.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward. Just quiet.

“I miss him already,” she says, before she can stop herself.

You glance at her, softening. “I’m sure he misses you too.”

God, your voice. Low. Careful. Kind.

Agatha looks at you and her hands ache to do something, brush your hair behind your ear, reach for your wrist, something. But she doesn’t. She can’t.

Not yet.

She clears her throat. “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea would be lovely,” you say. “If it’s not a bother.”

It is a bother. She has twenty types and only likes two, and now she’s trying to remember if she shoved the stupid blood orange sachets to the back or threw them away completely.

“I like black tea,” you add helpfully, smiling. “Bitter.”

She laughs. Just once, startled.

And that’s when she is reminded.

She’s in trouble.

The kettle whistles low and sharp as Agatha pours the water into two wide ceramic mugs. You’re seated at the island, hands folded in front of you, watching her move with that kind of soft, fascinated stillness she hasn’t been looked at with in years.

She sets the mug in front of you. “Billy mentioned you were working on a doctorate,” she says, circling around the island to lean against the counter opposite you. Casual. Controlled.

You wrap your hands around the mug. “Yeah. I was.”

“Was?”

“I dropped out,” you admit, quiet. “A few months ago.”

Agatha tilts her head, voice gentle but direct. “What were you studying?”

You smile, small but sure. “Folklore. More specifically, the historical perception of witchcraft. How fear shaped narratives. How women were rewritten into monsters.”

Agatha goes still.

Your fingers trace the rim of the mug as you talk, heat curling around your words like smoke. “I was looking at how certain archetypes show up again and again: the crone, the seductress, the child-eater, the midwife. All variations of the same thing: the woman who knows too much. The woman who can’t be controlled.”

Agatha can’t take her eyes off you. She shifts, one hand curling slightly against the marble. “That sounds… incredible.”

“It was,” you say, meeting her gaze.

“What made you stop?” she asks carefully.

You shrug one shoulder. “The usual.”

She doesn’t push.

You glance up at her over the rim of your mug. “But I still love it. I still think witches are one of the most fascinating mirrors we’ve ever made of ourselves.”

Agatha smiles, the real kind. Lush and slow and sharp at the edges. “Is that why you dress like you stepped out of a Gothic horror novel?”

You laugh, startled. “Maybe.”

She leans in slightly. “It suits you.”

There’s something electric in the pause that follows. You sip your tea. Her eyes don’t leave your mouth.

“Most people don’t get it,” you say eventually. “The whole… witch thing. It makes people uncomfortable.”

“They’re afraid of what they want,” she says, too quickly.

You blink.

Agatha clears her throat, looks down at her mug. “People project onto the idea of witches. Desire. Power. Punishment. You start peeling back the layers and it’s never about magic. It’s about control.”

You stare at her. “You sound like you’ve read my thesis draft.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I have.”

That makes you laugh again, and she feels it land in her chest like a punch. You in her kitchen, smiling over tea, talking about forbidden women and history and fear like it’s nothing, like it’s natural. Like you belong here.

“Do you read folklore?” you ask, voice dipping slightly.

Agatha shrugs, a little too casual. “I’ve dabbled.”

You tilt your head. “You dabble?”

She smirks. “I’m a woman. Of course I read about witches. Comes with the territory.”

You hum, amused. “You strike me more as the kind of woman people write folklore about.”

That stops her.

Dead still.

She swallows. “Is that a compliment?”

You sip your tea. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And just like that she’s gone again.

Wrecked.

Absolutely gone for you.

[theballadofharkness]

Harken the Shadows: Chapter 1 ~ The Awakening

Harken the Shadows Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x FemVampire!reader

Summary: In 18th-century Calderuport, you were the mysterious daughter of the Calderu family: beautiful, brilliant, and just a little too obsessed with the dark arts. Under the watchful eye (and wandering hands) of local witch Agatha Harkness, you dabbled in forbidden rituals and very unladylike desires. But when a jealous rival named Rio Vidal discovers the depth of your bond, she unleashes a cruel curse: turning you into a vampire and locking you away beneath the earth, ensuring Agatha believes you abandoned her. Two centuries later, you escapes from your tomb unchanged, undead, and aching with two centuries of longing. You find 1972 Calderuport a very different place. His once-grand estate has fallen into ruin, and the dysfunctional remnants of your family have fared little better. You’re undead, unbothered, and back to reclaim your estate, your family , and most importantly… your witch.

Word Count: 9K

Warnings: blood, eventual smut for future chapters so as always MDNI xo

AO3 link

Calderu Port, Massachusetts. April 1972.

The digging had been slow all morning. The earth was hard-packed and mean, riddled with old roots like grasping fingers. But the crew kept going, working in sync to hollow out the ground behind the neon McDonald’s sign that had gone up last week. Westview was finally getting a drive-thru. The future had arrived.

And then the backhoe struck metal.

“Jesus,” the foreman muttered, waving the machine to a halt. The digging stopped. “You hear that?”

The foreman wiped sweat from his brow and squinted down into the trench. “That’s not rock,” he muttered, flicking his cigarette into the dirt. “That’s… iron or something. Rusted all to hell.”

One of the younger guys climbed down into the trench with a crowbar and a grin. “We dig up a war bomb or what?”

“Could be an old tank,” one of the younger workers said. “Civil War maybe?”

But it wasn’t a bomb. Or a tank. It was a coffin.

Long and narrow, shrouded in rusted iron chains layered so thick they looked grown into the wood. Symbols etched deep into the rusted steel surface, alongside carved letters configured in a language no one knew. The lid bowed slightly at the center, as though something inside had struggled once, long ago.

“Nah,” another one grunted, dragging the bolt cutters from the truck. “Looks like a damn iron casket.”

They all laughed at that. Nervous, hollow laughter. Because the thing was coffin-shaped. Long and narrow. Black with age, sealed in chain upon chain upon chain. There were iron sigils burned into its corners. Marks no one could read.

The youngest crouched beside it, running a gloved hand over the chain. “It’s got a lock. Think it’s valuable?”

The bolt cutters clamped around the old iron. Snip.

Something moved inside.

“Holy shit,” one of them whispered. “Did you hear that?”

“Maybe we should call this in,” someone said, but the others laughed. Nervously.

The second chain came off. Then a third.

“Don’t open it,” said the foreman suddenly, backing away. “I don’t like this. Leave it for county cops.”

A crack echoed through the trench. A chain snapped like a bone breaking under pressure.

The air shifted.

The foreman took a step back. “Don’t–”

But it was too late.

The fourth lock snapped with a metallic shriek. The coffin lid cracked, just a sliver. Long, cold, blackened fingers curled out.

The second the aged metal snapped under the bolt cutter, the coffin lid sprang open with a sound like the splitting of the world. The lid flew across the building site, embedding itself into a crane.

You sat up like a puppet yanked by its strings.

Your skin was corpse-white, blue-tinged, slick with dew. Pale as death. Skin glistening like hoarfrost, eyes sunken deep in shadows, lips dark with blood already not your own. Your hair was damp with centuries of rot. Dirt clung to your cheekbones like ash. You were starved. But alive in a way none of them had ever seen. More a revenant than a woman. More wretched than divine. You did not breathe. You did not blink.

The first man screamed. The second didn’t get the chance.

You tore out his throat with your teeth.

Blood exploded across the trench wall. He staggered backward, hands clasped to his neck as it pumped between his fingers, red and desperate. He gurgled something, something small and soft, like a prayer or a mother’s name. Then he dropped.

You climbed free of the coffin like a spider, slow and elegant. Your bare feet touched the earth for the first time in over a century. You could feel it hum. The world had changed, but the blood tasted the same.

The third man swung a pipe at you.

You caught it midair. Bent it in half without effort. Then you sank your claws, those long, elegant, sharpened fingers, into the soft patch just beneath his jaw and ripped through his jugular. Bone cracked. He made a noise like a baby bird, and then there was silence.

Two tried to run. You were faster.

You tackled one into the mud, straddled his chest, and plunged your teeth into the soft skin where his neck met his collarbone. He writhed. You held him down until he stopped. The blood was warm. Rich. It dripped down your chin as you raised your face to the gray sky.

The last one fought. A teenager, barely grown, eyes wild with terror. He threw a rock. You didn’t even flinch.

He fell back against a truck bumper, slipping in the slick of someone else’s entrails, having been torn in half after you threw the body like a ragdoll once you’d drained them dry. He crawled backward, one arm scraped raw, the other waving as if it might ward you off.

You approached slowly.

There was grace in your hunger, and a terrible, terrible beauty.

Your eyes caught his, wide and watering, and you tilted your head just slightly, voice soft as velvet.

“I am terribly sorry,” you murmured, crouching in front of him, reaching out to gently stroke the blood-soaked hair from his forehead.

“But you cannot imagine how thirsty I am.”

You fed.

Deeply.

Slowly.

When you were done, the trench was a charnel pit. Bones and viscera strewn like flower petals on a marital bed. The machines sat still, dusted in gore. The air buzzed with silence, interrupted only by the low hum of a broken generator still sparking somewhere behind the wreck.

You stood there, drenched in crimson, skin glistening like marble pulled from the tomb.

And then you turned your face to the wind. Something was calling. Not a voice. Not a name. Just a feeling. A place.

Home.

~

The road was unfamiliar, but you remembered the familiar curve of the surrounding trees. They arched over the cracked path like mourners in black lace, their branches brittle with early spring frost. Fog curled low across the ditches, veiling the earth in smoke. You moved steadily, your long coat trailing behind you, the hem damp with morning dew and blood that was not your own.

The world stank of gasoline and industry, but beneath it, you could still smell the soil. Still feel the pull.

Home.

At the edge of the forest, a crumbling stone wall announced itself with a rusted iron gate, barely hanging on its hinges. Beyond it: a long, winding drive, overgrown with weeds and slick with moss. At its far end stood a house you half-remembered.

Calderu House.

Once regal. Now withered. Its white stone exterior now a sickly gray, its shutters hanging askew, a rotted balcony sagging like a snapped rib. Ivy had devoured half the structure. The past had not been kind.

You stepped through the gate.

In the garden just beyond, a woman was humming merrily at a rose bush.

She was unnaturally chipper, wiry with age, and dressed in oil-stained overalls. A battered coat hung open over her frame. Her silver curls were tied back in a pink headscarf, and a dented flask hung from one hand. She hadn’t noticed you yet.

You stepped into view with quiet authority.

She jumped, dropping her flask. “Christ on a cracker!” she barked. “You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

You regarded her calmly. “Pardon the intrusion. I’m… disoriented. Would you be so kind as to tell me what month it is?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The month? Lady, are you high?”

You moved closer.

Her breath hitched.

“Look into my eyes,” you murmured, your voice lowering like a curtain.

Her gaze locked with yours. Her pupils dilated. The world went still.

“What is the month?”

“April,” she whispered, entranced.

“And the year?”

“Nineteen seventy-two.”

A rush of something cold and thrilling coiled in your chest.

“And tell me,” you said softly, a shadow of a smile on your lips, “does the Calderu bloodline… prevail?”

“Yes.” Her lips barely moved. “There’s three. Miss Lilia Calderu… she’s the matriarch. Her niece Alice and nephew Billy live here with her.”

“Good,” you breathed. “Very good.”

You reached forward and cupped her face between your long fingers, cold and sharp at the tips, and whispered the words directly into her mind:

“Until the time I release you, you shall be my loyal servant. My shadow. My eyes and ears. You will do as I command without question or complaint.”

A flicker of red passed through her irises. She went still.

“Now. Take me to my bloodline,” you said.

Without hesitation, Sharon turned, picked up her flask, dusted off her knees, and started walking toward the house.

You followed, regal and wraithlike.

The Calderu bloodline had not ended. It had simply forgotten you. But it would remember.

Calderu House had once been a monument to American Industry and endurance. Every inch of it had been built not merely to impress, but to last. And it had.

The heavy front doors moaned open under Sharon’s hand, and you stepped inside with a slowness born of reverence, or perhaps restraint. The air within was cool and stale, touched by salt and the faintest trace of rust. Dust swirled in lazy spirals through the dim hall, catching on faded beams of light filtered through rose-stained glass.

The interior had the feel of a mansion that had once been profoundly beautiful and had not yet accepted its decay. The wallpaper was peeling in strips like shedding skin, the once-rich green damask now faded to yellow and mold-rubbed gold. A chandelier of blown glass sagged from the ceiling, one arm broken, casting fractured prisms onto the warped parquet floor.

You passed beneath it without pause.

The drawing room opened up in a hush of air, a space that had once hosted evening dances, pipe smoke, strings of pearls and stolen glances. Now, it smelled of mildew and long-dead flowers.

But the bones were still there.

A great marble hearth carved in the likeness of sea-foam and tide wrapped itself around the far wall. Two seahorses, rearing on either side, stood sentinel with their necks arched and fins flared. The detail was exquisite, each curling joint of their carved spines cradled a single black pearl, still gleaming despite the dust. Their empty eyes seemed to follow you as you crossed the room.

You took one slow breath, teeth set behind bloodstained lips.

“This was carved,” you murmured, eyes tracking the curling wooden archways, “by a French artisan gifted to my grandfather by the Duc de Richelieu. He worked three summers without pay to perfect the spirals. Do you see them, Sharon? The symmetry? That’s not machine made. That’s reverence.”

Sharon said nothing. She stared, slack-jawed, as you drifted toward the center of the room.

“The chandelier,” you whispered, eyes rising. “Imported from Prague. Encrusted with real pearls, each one strung by hand. My mother said it was the perfect marriage of European elegance and American industry. And now…”

You looked down at the cracked marble beneath your boot. Someone had dragged furniture carelessly across the floor, scarring the stone.

“Now it’s been left to mildew and dust. They’ve let it rot. Like a carcass.”

Your boots whispered over a moth-eaten Persian rug, passing a glass-topped coffee table ringed with old cigarette burns and forgotten glasses.

And on the sofa, a modern eyesore of orange corduroy, a boy sat slouched, staring blankly at the flickering blue screen of a squat television that buzzed in one corner of the room.

Billy Kaplan looked up once the door creaked shut behind you and the sound of your steps reached him through the static.

He was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with dark curls and sharp, clever eyes that narrowed immediately. A spoon hung halfway to his mouth, cereal forgotten, as he stared at you.

He blinked. Sat upright. Eyes squinted. Mouth half open. “Uh…” His voice cracked. “Who the hell are you?”

You studied him calmly, the long limbs, the unruly curls, the quickness behind his eyes that he couldn’t quite hide even beneath the suspicion.

“I might ask you the same,” you said softly.

There was a long beat. The cereal sogged in the bowl.

“…Are you stoned?” he asked.

You smiled, just barely, blood still tacky at the edge of your jaw. “They tried stoning me once, my dear boy,” you recounted. “It did not work.”

The boy stood up slowly, still staring, the spoon clinking into the bowl as he dropped it. You tilted your head slightly, almost curious, like you were examining something fragile in a museum case. He had the eyes of your bloodline. The same shape, the same heat behind them.

You were pulled out of your appraisal of your youngest living relative from the sound of movement above.

A stair tread creaked.

You turned your head.

At the top of the stairs stood a woman.

Sharp, severe, dignified. Her blouse was crisp white, high-necked, sleeves rolled to the elbow, slacks pressed, hair pulled back in a knot that was too fashionable to be practical. There was a gun in her hand, a revolver, old but clean.

Her voice rang clear down the bannister. “Step away from him.”

You looked up at her fully now, your spine uncurling to its full height, clawed hands loose at your sides. Your gaze swept her from head to toe, measured, regal. Then you inclined your head, just enough to be courtly.

“You must be the lady of the house,” you said.

She didn’t answer.

The revolver didn’t lower.

Billy swallowed hard and stepped back toward her instinctively, but not without glancing again at you, wide-eyed and unsure whether he should be afraid or fascinated.

You remained still, the light from the TV screen flickering at your back, painting your silhouette in soft static blue.

The woman on the stairs, you assumed must be Lilia Calderu, did not lower the revolver. Her eyes were level and clear, pale brown shot through with steel. She looked at you the way one might look at a stranger standing too close to a lit match.

Billy shifted beside the couch, fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater. He looked from her to you, then cleared his throat. “She says she’s called Y/N.”

Your head snapped around.

Slow, deliberate. Animal.

You hadn’t told him that.

You hadn’t told him anything.

He recoiled half a step at the sudden attention, brows drawn, blinking like he didn’t understand why he’d said it. Your gaze held his, and for a flicker of a moment beneath the blood and fog and centuries of rot… you felt it. A pull. Faint, but unmistakable.

There was magic in him.

Raw. Untrained. Crackling just beneath the skin.

You took a slow, curious step toward him but before you could speak, Lilia’s voice rang out sharp and clipped from the stairs. “A word. Please.”

She was already turning, her heels clicking once against the hardwood landing before she disappeared from view.

You glanced once more at the boy, at the strange, ancient glimmer behind his modern eyes, then turned without another word and followed.

The hallway was dim, lined with family portraits that had long since dulled to shadows. Lilia was waiting at the end of the hall beside a half-closed door, one hand resting on the dark brass knob. She didn’t speak until you reached her. Then she opened the door and stepped aside, holding it just wide enough for you to pass.

You crossed the threshold and entered the study.

It was a cave of books and discontent. Walnut paneling crawled up the walls, framing shelves that sagged under the weight of generations. A worn leather armchair crouched behind the massive desk. The fireplace here had been used more recently, it still smelled faintly of smoke and wood sap. The room was cold, but it had the feel of a place that had once burned brightly.

You took in the space without hurry.

Lilia shut the door behind you with a careful click.

And then the two of you were alone.

Lilia Calderu circled behind the desk, spine straight, eyes sharp as glass. She did not sit. Instead, she placed both hands on the back of the leather chair and watched you like you were something still steaming on the forest floor.

“If you’ve come sniffing around after tales of the Calderu fortune,” she said coolly, “I can inform you now that you’re sorely mistaken. Whatever money this family might have had dried up before the 40’s. There is no trust. There is no land. There’s certainly no inheritance. If you’re here to stake some fraudulent claim, I suggest you leave the way you came. Quietly.”

You said nothing at first. You let your gaze drift around the study, the ticking wall clock, the scarred desk surface, the curling edge of a newspaper dated last Tuesday. When you spoke, your voice was gentle.

“I understand,” you said evenly, “that when a strange woman appears at your door, claiming to be a long-lost relative, a question of motive is expected.”

Her chin lifted half an inch.

“But as a Calderu,” you continued, turning back to her, “you must know the family curse.”

Her expression didn’t flicker. Not exactly. But something behind her eyes shifted warily. “Yes. Witches. Ghosts. Vampires.” She leaned forward slightly. “All myths. I’m surprised you didn’t show up with a fog machine and a Ouija board.”

You smiled, slow and blood-warmed. “I assure you… they are all true.”

A pause.

She folded her arms. “And I suppose you’ve come to rid us of this curse.” She tilted her head. “For a fee, of course.”

Your laugh was soft, not mocking or cruel. Something older. You stepped forward, just slightly, the candlelight catching on the faint glint of blood still dried at your collar.

“I am not here seeking money,” you said. “I am here, rather… to provide it.”

That stopped her.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

Lilia’s eyes narrowed, her tone less cutting now, more precise. “Who are you?”

The silence between you and Lilia stretched thin. But you didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, you stepped forward, unhurried and graceful, your hands folded at your waist like you were still in a ballroom, not a forgotten New England manor weathered by time.

“Tell me,” you said softly, “what you know of Y/N Calderu.”

“Not much,” she said after a moment, her voice careful. “Legends, mostly. Family nonsense. A girl born sometime in the late 1700s, vanished before she could inherit anything of value. Went mad, apparently. Said a witch had cursed her. Turned her into a vampire.”

She paused, watching your face for a reaction.

You gave her none.

“And what of her death?”

Another pause. Then a short, dismissive shake of the head.

“Nothing. As I said, it was a long time ago. No record. No grave. Just stories passed down and half-forgotten.”

You took one step closer. The floorboards creaked softly beneath your heel.

“That,” you said, “is because she never died.”

The air in the study seemed to grow thinner. The fire’s low glow caught in your eyes, made the shadow beneath your cheekbones darker, the paleness of your skin more unnatural.

“My name,” you said, voice smooth and resonant, “is Y/N Collins. And I have come to restore this family to the power and prominence it once held. To return the Collins name to its former glory.”

Lilia didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. But you could see it now, the minute tightening around her mouth, the faintest tremble in one finger curled around the arm of the chair. Her posture was taut, her eyes locked on yours, sharp with something between disbelief and ancestral dread.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. Not weaker. Just colder. “And I suppose,” she said with a sarcastic tilt of her head, “that would make you what? A vampire?”

“Whilst I am here,” you continued, your voice silk over marble, “none of you need fear my cursed nature. I intend no harm to the house. I intend only to provide. For you. For all of you.”

You stopped a few paces from her.

“My family.”

Lilia stood stiff and silent behind the desk, the fire snapping gently in its grate. Her arms were still crossed, her face a portrait of icy composure, but the edges were fraying. She was a woman accustomed to control. You could feel the tightrope of it trembling beneath her heels.

“Then prove it,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t waver. “Prove that you’re her.”

You inclined your head. No irritation. No triumph. Only that same composed grace.

“Very well. As a Calderu I know every inch of this house as well as I know my own body.”

Your gloved fingers reached out to the carved edge of the mantel. You caressed it slowly, almost lovingly, until they found a small dip in the wood, a notch shaped like a teardrop. You pressed till you heard a click.

The fireplace groaned softly.

Then, with a soft hiss of stone on stone, a panel of the adjacent wall slid inward, revealing a narrow passage, black as pitch, cool air exhaling out like a secret.

You froze as you saw your hidden room once containing your fathers collection of jewel encrusted swords and daggers now covered in…. Yarn?

Lilia’s eyes flicked from the hidden door to your face. “I use that room,” she said slowly, “for my crafts. Needlework. Flower pressing.”

You turned your head toward her, ever so slightly, and stared. “A gross misuse,” you said flatly.

She didn’t speak again.

You stepped forward until the heel of your boot struck a hollow patch of stone.

You stopped. Drew yourself tall. Your shoe struck the floor once, the sound of a crack ringing through the room like thunder in a tomb.

“No matter,” you murmured. “If the sanctum’s been defiled, we shall go straight to the vault.”

Lilia’s brows knit. “Vault?”

You raised your chin. “You weren’t aware of it,” you said calmly. “How quaint.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again.

And for the first time since you walked through that door… she looked small in her own house.

A breath of air hissed outward as a sliver of shadow cracked open in the paneling. Lilia stared as the seam widened, revealing a narrow doorway behind the wall.

You stepped through without invitation.

The passage was narrow and dark with stone steps winding down to the vault, the air oddly untouched by time. The walls were lined with mirrors, tall and thin, set into the wood like sentinels. The floor beneath your boots was smooth black tile, cool and pristine. Your reflection did not follow you.

Lilia stepped in behind you and looked directly into one of the mirrors. Looked again.

Then she saw herself. Saw the passage. The candlelight behind her. But not you. Her breath caught audibly. And still, you walked forward.

At the end of the staircase, you placed your hand against another panel, this one warmer, older. The wall groaned as it gave way, opening into a chamber carved into the stone beneath the house.

Lilia stepped inside behind you and gasped.

The chamber glowed golden in the torchlight.

Stacks of gilded picture frames leaned against the far wall. Ornate paintings in thick rococo gold leaf, some of them centuries old. Tapestries. Velvet-lined trunks filled with coins from six vanished empires. Sapphire brooches. Diamond earrings. Goblets carved from obsidian and rimmed in rubies. Shelves of leather-bound tomes, gilded and bound with protective runes in languages long erased from polite society.

A full suit of armor stood guard at one end, and at the other: a mirrored cabinet filled with crystal bottles of perfume and venom, indistinguishable.

Lilia was slack-jawed.

“We’ve been…” she stammered. “We’ve been sitting on a fortune.”

You ran your gloved hand along the edge of a lapis lazuli box, eyes distant. “My father once told me,” you murmured, “that our greatest wealth… is the love of our family.”

You turned toward her. The corner of your mouth curled, a dry smile full of old amusement.

“He obviously wasn’t opposed to other forms of wealth.”

Lilia stared at you.

The silence stretched between you like a string pulled taut.

And then you saw it, the moment it caught up with her. The flicker of memory. The portrait. The stories. The voice. The impossible presence in her house, in her vault, with a knowledge of this estate deeper than even her own.

Her breath caught. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “You’re… you’re Y/N Calderu.”

You offered her a weary smile, like a queen too tired to gloat. And then you extended your hand. Long fingers. Pale skin. Nails dark and sharp as onyx.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

Something fundamental had shifted. The scales were tipping, and she knew it.

Her voice came low. Controlled. But reverent now. “What do you want?”

You took one step toward her, the hem of your coat whispering against the stone.

“Merely to provide for my family. To rebuild the Calderu name back to its former glory”

You lowered your voice, just above a whisper. The promise curled around the edges of the room like fog on the moors.

“But let it be known.”

A pause.

“I mean to stay. And I mean to be a member of this family again.”

Lilia stood in the center of the vault, surrounded by the legacy she hadn’t known was hers.

The candlelight flickered across her face, not softening it, exactly, but revealing something underneath the frost. Not fear. Not even shock anymore. Just thought. Calculation. The weight of inheritance settling into her spine.

She looked at you, truly looked at you. Not as a stranger. Not as a threat. But as something she understood now, if only slightly.

“I’ll allow you to stay,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “You may be part of this family again. If that’s truly what you want.”

She turned slightly, one hand brushing against a velvet-lined chest of rubies. Her reflection in the nearby mirror was alone.

“But this,” she said, gesturing around the chamber, “all of this: the family fortune, the… vampirism…”

Her gaze met yours again, steady and sharp.

“This stays between us.”

You inclined your head with grave precision. “Your terms are acceptable.”

A long silence passed between you. Heavy, but not tense. The kind of silence shared by those who now carry a secret together, blood-soaked and ancient.

Something shifted then. Subtle. Unspoken. It wasn’t warmth, not quite. But it was kinship.

Lilia exhaled, her posture easing just slightly. She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a silver cigarette case, flipped it open, lit one with steady hands. She took a long drag before offering the case to you.

You smiled faintly. “I’m afraid I no longer indulge.”

She gave a dry little laugh. “Of course not.”

She looked down at the coins, then back at you. “You could have taken this, disappeared into the world, then started over anywhere. But you want to stay?”

You stepped forward, gaze steady. “This house is my home,” you said softly. “This family is mine. I intend to see it thrive.”

Lilia studied you a moment longer, then nodded once, not a dismissal, but an agreement. A pact.

Then she turned and led the way back up the mirrored hall.

Your reflection never joined her.

But something else did.

The bond had been made.

And neither of you would forget it.

~

The dining room at Calderu House still held its shape, though time had gnawed at the edges. The chandelier flickered faintly overhead, one bulb dimmer than the others, casting long shadows across the worn wallpaper. The mahogany table stretched long and narrow, its varnish dull from decades of candle wax and citrus polish. At each place setting, silver cutlery had been laid out with rigid care, the forks slightly tarnished, the napkins precisely folded.

You sat at the head of the table.

The high-backed chair had once belonged to your father, you remembered the feel of the carved lions under your fingers, the smell of brandy on the wood. Now it creaked softly beneath your stillness. Your hands rested elegantly beside the plate, fingers long and pale, nails faintly gleaming. You regarded the meal before you made by Sharon without touching it: a slab of pot roast, dry and shriveled around the edges, overcooked carrots, beige potatoes curling in their skins.

The steam had already begun to die.

Lilia sat opposite you at the far end, a glass of red wine in her hand, her expression unreadable. She wore the same crisp blouse as earlier, sleeves now rolled higher, a faint sheen of tiredness across her brow. She hadn’t spoken since you’d entered the room. She didn’t need to. The pact had been made. The game had begun.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Billy entered first, dragging his feet, a sweater slung too loosely over his shoulders. He froze the moment he saw you.

Behind him came Alice. She was older, raven-haired with a flash of orange, barefoot despite the cold tile, a black silk scarf knotted around her wrist. Her eyeliner was smudged, her gaze sharp. She looked you over once, head tilting.

“Uh… She’s still here?” Billy said, glancing between you and Lilia. “Did I miss something?”

Lilia didn’t flinch. She simply lifted her wine glass and spoke with the precision of someone deeply used to being obeyed.

“Billy, Alice, I would like to introduce you to Y/N Calderu,” she said, nodding toward you, “she’s a distant relative from England and has come to stay with us for a time.”

Billy blinked. Alice’s brows rose. You smiled, a small, pleasant expression that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Bit of the family tree we missed, I guess,” Alice murmured, sliding into the chair to your right.

Billy dropped into the seat on your left, still staring. You turned slightly toward him, hands folding neatly over the linen napkin in your lap.

“It’s a pleasure to dine with you, William,” you said gently.

He stared. “Nobody calls me William.”

You smiled, just a touch wider. “No? But William is such a fine name for a young man.”

Across the table, Lilia cut into her roast with military precision. She did not look up.

The cutlery clinked gently. Steam rose half-heartedly from the pot roast. Alice had abandoned the carrots entirely and was now tearing off small pieces of bread with the distracted air of someone who regretted showing up on time.

Billy still hadn’t picked up his fork. He was watching you from the corner of his eye like you might suddenly start speaking in tongues.

It was Alice who broke the silence first, her tone ficticiously bright.

“So! Uh…” She glanced over at you with the kind of strained cheer reserved for strained family dinners. “Y/N. What do you… do? You know, for a living?”

You turned to her with that same composed stillness that had already begun to unsettle the room. Your posture perfect, your voice calm. You smiled, politely.

“Well,” you said, “as you know, the Calderu family have always had ties to the fishing industry. But after two centuries of careful consideration, I’ve decided to devote myself fully to family.”

Billy blinked.

Alice let out a single soft laugh, unsure if it was a joke or not. “Right. Okay. That’s… wow. Two centuries, huh?”

Before the silence could stretch, Lilia cut in sharply, her fork scraping against the plate. “She means it felt like two centuries.”

You turned your head slowly toward Lilia, just a touch, and the smallest flicker of amusement passed between you both. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.

Billy pushed his food around with a knife, muttering under his breath, “Okay, this is officially the weirdest dinner we’ve ever had.”

No one disagreed.

The roast was cooling. The potatoes had collapsed into dry halves. A green bean slid from Billy’s fork and landed with a quiet plop on the tablecloth.

You dabbed the corner of your mouth with the linen napkin, folded it with delicate precision, and looked up with the kind of calm civility that made everyone sit just a little straighter, like a headmistress deciding who to dismiss first.

“I must say,” you remarked gently, “I hadn’t realised the full extent of the family’s financial troubles.”

You glanced at the cutlery beside your untouched plate. “It seems you’ve sold all the family silver.”

Alice let out a faint snort of laughter, relaxing just a fraction. “How could you tell? My mom swore the replicas were exact.”

You tilted your head, the motion smooth and unhurried. “Ah. You see, if I were to touch even the smallest piece of genuine silver…”

You held her gaze as you lifted one pale hand over the knife at your place setting, never quite touching it.

“…my skin would burst into flames.”

Billy’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He stared. “Wait… what?”

Lilia didn’t look up from her wine. “Oh yes,” she said crisply. “You were telling me about your terrible metal allergy.”

Your eyes flicked to hers, a sliver of amusement again, the quiet kind that never quite reached the surface.

“Oh yes… quite tragic,” you murmured. “Makes antique shopping very difficult.”

Alice was frozen with a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. “So… is that, like, a deadly allergy, or…?”

Billy leaned in slightly, squinting. “Are you actually allergic to silver or are you fucking with us right now?”

You said nothing. Only smiled, slow and unreadable. The candlelight shimmered in your eyes.

And the table fell quiet again.

Billy had given up pretending to eat. He was leaning back in his chair now, arms folded, watching you like he couldn’t decide if you were a con artist or an alien. Probably both.

“So…” he said, dragging the word out, “what are you even doing here? Like, actually.”

You folded your hands neatly on the table. “I’ve returned to see the Calderu family flourish again. I intend to involve myself in the family business, such as it is.”

There was a pause.

Alice snorted into her wine. “Good luck with that.”

You blinked once. Slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

Alice rolled her eyes. “You’re about two decades too late. Agnes bought out almost everything. The ports, the shipping routes, the canneries. The Calderu name’s a joke now.”

You tilted your head. “Tell me who is this… Agnes?”

Lilia set her wine glass down with a faint click. She spoke without looking up. “Agnes. From Maiden Bay.” She let out a quiet sigh through her nose. “She and her wife have spent the last fifteen years absorbing nearly everything from Portland to Boston. Just about every port, every cannery and every trade line on the East Coast. If it moves fish, it moves for them.”

You frowned. A crease between your brows, elegant and faint. “And what remains to us? Surely we have something.”

Lilia looked at you for a long moment. Then she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “We have one cannery,” she said. “And three boats no one uses.”

There was a pause.

“Four, technically,” Billy added. “But one’s been underwater since ‘68.”

You sat very still for a moment. Processing. Measuring. Then you turned to Lilia with quiet conviction. “Well. That aside… I should still like to see the cannery we have left.”

Alice blinked. “You wanna see our cannery?”

“Yes.”

“It’s mostly rust and pelicans.” Alice added.

“All the better. I’ll need to assess its condition.” You were undeterred.

Billy looked at Lilia like do we say something?

Lilia only reached for the wine again. “Very well. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

You nodded once, satisfied. “Excellent.”

A long silence.

Billy finally muttered, “This is the weirdest Tuesday of my life.”

No one argued.

~

The morning fog hadn’t yet burned off the coast when the little red sports car came screaming around the bend on the highway, tires singing against the cliffside curve.

Rio Vidal was at the wheel, hair tied back with a crimson scarf, cat-eye sunglasses perched on her nose. She drove like someone who didn’t believe in consequences. The wind tore through her curls, and the hem of her deep green blazer flapped behind her like a flag of conquest.

Beside her in the passenger seat sat Agatha Harkness, or as the town knew her: Agnes.

She wore black, as always, cigarette trousers, sleeveless blouse, a sharp blazer that cost more than most of her workers monthly pay, and designer sunglasses that hid half her face. Her hair was pinned immaculately back. Lipstick the colour of crimson. Diamond studs at each ear. She wasn’t looking at the road; she was examining her nails, filed to a perfect almond point and lacquered in a deep, plummy red.

“Do you have to take the corners like that?” she said calmly, not looking up.

Rio grinned without turning. “You love it.”

Agatha said nothing.

They crested the last hill, and Maiden Bay came into view, the whole town arranged like a postcard below them, sleepy and sun-washed and utterly owned. Warehouses, canneries, docks, shops… all of it theirs.

Rio downshifted. The engine purred.

They pulled into the main street like royalty. And just like that, the town awoke.

“Hi, Rio!” someone called from the butchers.

“Morning, Agnes!” waved the baker’s wife, her apron already dusted with flour.

Agatha offered a cool smile through the window, raising a gloved hand in that perfect wave she’d mastered across the centuries, half saint, half starlet. The people adored her. She’d made sure of it.

Rio leaned back in her seat, one hand loosely on the wheel, sunglasses glinting in the sun. “I just love it here,” she said, watching Agatha’s reflection in the side mirror. “Don’t you love it here?”

Agatha finally looked up. Her smile stayed in place. But there was something hollow behind it. “I appreciate that it’s quiet,” she said.

Rio reached across the gearshift and laid a hand on Agatha’s thigh. “I just love that you’re here,” she murmured. “With me.”

Agatha flinched at the touch but didn’t reply.

They drove past the harbor, where the seagulls cried overhead and the flags snapped sharply in the breeze. Every ship, every crate, every rusted chain on the dock belonged to them now. The Calderu name was long since scraped from the signage. Now it was only MAIDEN BAG SHIPPING CO., painted in elegant green letters, anchored to the town like a brand.

Rio turned toward the main cannery, the largest of them all. It loomed at the end of the bay like a great iron beast, humming with industry.

“I want to check the inventory on the west end,” she said. “Last week’s shipment was short.”

Agatha nodded, but her gaze had drifted out toward the sea. Toward the far cliffs. Toward the place where the Calderu estate once ruled the horizon.

She could still feel it, sometimes. Like the ghost of a melody she couldn’t un-hear.

Rio’s hand slid to her wrist, thumb brushing over her pulse. “Hey,” she said. “We’re here. We won. Whatever’s left of that bloodline, it’s practically dust now.”

Agatha smiled again. Carefully. And allowed Rio to lean forward to press a kiss to her cheek. “Yes,” she said softly. “Dust.”

But even as she said it, her fingers curled slightly in her lap. The wind had changed. Something was stirring.

She felt it.

But she didn’t know yet what.

The red sports car peeled into the gravel lot, tires skidding slightly as Rio Vidal swung it into a crooked park beneath the MAIDEN BAY CANNERY sign.

She killed the engine and slid her sunglasses back up her nose, grinning like a wolf in red lipstick.

Beside her, Agatha Harkness adjusted the broach pinned to her blazer jacket and stepped out of the passenger seat with fluid grace. Her heels clicked across the cracked concrete with perfect rhythm, her expression unreadable beneath her oversized sunglasses.

A gull screeched overhead. The sea wind tangled in Rio’s curls as they made their way toward the factory doors.

Inside, the cannery floor was a cacophony of metallic groans, conveyor belt squeals, and the low rumble of fish being processed by machines too old and too fast. Workers in rubber boots and damp smocks moved sluggishly between stations, their glances furtive, their pace… off.

Agatha stepped onto the factory floor like it was a stage, black heels clicking on concrete, sunglasses still perched on her nose despite the low gray light overhead. She was magnetic, meticulous. Regal even here, among fish guts and rusted bolts.

Rio followed at her side in her dark green pantsuit, hair perfectly pinned, her presence more commanding, more dangerous. Where Agatha moved like smoke, Rio moved like fire, sharp, direct, always just barely held back.

Agatha paused near the production line, one gloved hand on her hip. She turned her head slowly toward the cluster of men gathered near the back wall.

Two floor managers came hurrying to greet them, wiping their hands hastily on their aprons. One of them, the older man with the clipboard and weather-worn face, bowed his head slightly as they approached.

“Why is everyone moving at half speed?” she asked flatly, peering over the rims of her sunglasses. “It’s ten past nine. I expect industry, not a funeral procession.”

“Apologies, ma’am,” the older man stammered. “It’s just… folks are a little spooked this morning.”

Rio frowned. “Spooked by what?”

He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. “Didn’t you hear? About last night?”

Agatha raised one perfect brow. “Do I look like I spend my evenings with a police scanner?”

Rio folded her arms. “Why?”

The foreman hesitated, glancing at the younger man beside him.

The older foreman cleared his throat. “Didn’t you hear? Eleven construction workers died just off Route 9. Last night.”

Agatha blinked. Then rolled her eyes.

“Oh, please,” Agatha scoffed, lips curling. “Accidents happen every day. That’s no reason to bring the entire operation to a near standstill.” She turned toward the belt, inspecting a crate of half-sealed sardine tins. “If every highway fatality warranted a slowdown, I’d only be processing a can of fish a day.”

The foreman didn’t laugh. He looked pale.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he said.

That made Rio turn. “What?”

“Their throats were torn out. Ripped open. Like a maniac got to them. Their throats were gone.” His voice dropped. “Police said it looked like an animal, but… not one anyone’s seen before.”

Agatha scoffed, brushing a fleck of dust from her coat. “Good lord. You’d think none of you had seen a deer mangled on the side of the road before. Get a grip.”

Rio had gone very still.

Her jaw twitched once, barely perceptible.

“Where off Route 9?” she asked, voice low.

The foreman looked up, confused by her tone. “Couple miles outside Calderu Port. That clearing near the old billboard. Real isolated.”

Agatha was still half turned toward the workers, still irritated.

But Rio didn’t move. She stared straight ahead, eyes locked on something that wasn’t there. Her hand curled slowly into a fist at her side. The blood drained from her face so subtly that only someone who knew her well would notice. But Agatha didn’t catch it, she was too busy brushing dust from her jacket, already preparing her next cutting remark.

Rio was frozen because she remembered exactly where she buried you.

She remembered the clearing. The iron coffin. The way she’d marked the ground so that no one would go digging there.

And now eleven men were dead. Torn open.

Her voice cracked slightly when she asked, too quiet for anyone but herself, “…No.”

Agatha eventually tilted her head toward Rio with a raised brow, finally noticing her silence.

Rio’s throat worked. She nodded once, absently. “Right. Yes. That stretch is… wild. Could be coyotes.” Her voice was distant. “Or a bear.”

But she wasn’t hearing herself anymore.

She was remembering the trees.

The mud.

The iron coffin and the runes she carved herself into the ground.

The body.

Your body.

The one she turned. The one she buried. The one Agatha must never know about.

And now something had ripped eleven men apart.

Right where she put you.

Agatha’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, lips pursing, curious and faintly annoyed. But she said nothing.

Rio forced a bright smile, brushing a hand through her hair. “Well,” she said too lightly, “whatever it was, I’m sure it’s long gone by now.”

But her eyes had already gone glassy with dread.

Rio waited until Agatha was deep in conversation with the new logistics manager, talking about quotas, shipping delays, taxes, and town diplomacy in that patient, lacerating way of hers.

Rio stood just behind her, nodding when necessary, smiling when expected. But her pulse was racing. Her eyes flicked to the side exit. Her palms were damp against the inside of her blazer sleeves.

She hadn’t felt this sick since… No. No. She wouldn’t think it.

She waited for the moment Agatha’s back turned, for the man with the clipboard to start talking about fish oil again, and then she slipped away. Down the metal stairs, past the rusted gear stacks, out the fire door that hadn’t properly closed in years.

The ocean air hit her like a slap as she slid back into the red sports car, one hand already trembling as she jammed the keys into the ignition.

She didn’t peel out. That would be suspicious.

Instead, she pulled out of the lot with smooth, practiced grace, sunglasses low on her nose, one perfectly manicured hand tight on the wheel. Her other hand clutched her phone, her thumb hovering. Should she call someone? The mayor? The local police? Agatha? No. Not yet. Not until she knew for certain.

The drive along Route 9 twisted through pine and salt and early morning fog, the kind that clung low to the shoulders of the road. Radio static filled the silence, not even music, just noise, but she didn’t turn it off. Not until she was affronted flashing lights.

Blue and red pulsing against tree trunks. Patrol cars. A van marked COUNTY FORENSICS. Yellow police tape strung between the trees like garland at a wake.

She slowed. The site was still cordoned off, though the bodies were long gone.

Two officers stood by a barricade near the shoulder, one with a clipboard, the other drinking from a steaming thermos.

Rio pulled up smoothly, rolled down the window. She gave them that signature Vidal smile, the one that turned mayors into lapdogs and bank managers into yes-men.

“Morning, officers,” she purred, voice honey-sweet. “I’m Rio Vidal. Maiden Bay Canneries. Some of those men were ours. Mind if I take a look?”

The older cop blinked, then quickly stepped forward. “Of course, ma’am. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you’d be coming out in person.”

“Of course I am,” she said smoothly, killing the engine. “It’s a tragedy. I just need to see it for myself.”

A younger local officer hesitated. “They said not to let anyone near the scene.”

The older one elbowed him. “She’s fine. Don’t you know she owns the damn town?”

Rio stepped out of the car, heels crunching softly against the gravel. She ducked under the police tape without a second glance and walked into the clearing like it didn’t already live in her nightmares.

But when she reached it her breath caught in her throat.

The grass was soaked dark with dried blood. Boot prints everywhere. Evidence flags. A chalk circle where the bodies had been clustered. And in the middle of it all, half-buried in churned-up soil… The coffin.

Your coffin. The one she had forged with hexed iron and covered in runes she’d written in blood.

The lid was gone, flung fifteen feet across the clearing, split down the center like a peeled fruit. The chains were snapped. The wards she had etched around the site were gone. Burned out. Dispelled.

The coffin gaped open like a silent scream.

Rio staggered forward, just a few steps, blinking rapidly. “Fuck,” she whispered.

One of the officers called from behind her, too far away to hear. She didn’t turn.

You were gone. You had risen. And you had fed.

The blood in the dirt wasn’t just proof, it was a warning.

Her stomach lurched. Her pulse jackhammered. And in that moment, standing before the grave she swore would hold you forever, Rio Vidal felt the one thing she hated more than anything in the world.

She felt fear.

Because she knew it was you. She’d known the second the foreman said throats ripped out. She’d known the second he said Route 9. And now the box was open. Her worst secret. Her worst mistake.

And she had no idea where you were.

For a moment, Rio could only stare. The coffin lay wide open before her, a gaping maw, a grave undone. The scent of old earth, blood, and broken magic curled into her lungs like smoke. Her hands twitched at her sides, the fingers already curling into fists, nails digging crescents into her palms.

She was supposed to have buried this. Buried you.

You weren’t supposed to come back.

Her jaw clenched. The color drained from her face, then bloomed back in a slow, creeping flush, not of fear this time, but fury.

Her eyes narrowed, a sharp glint slicing through her irises like silver. Her whole body went taut. The kind of rage that tasted metallic at the back of the throat.

“You’re not doing this,” she whispered. “You are not ruining this for me.”

She spun on her heel and stalked back toward the car, heels cracking against the gravel, hair whipping in the wind. She barely acknowledged the officers, barely heard them call after her. Her blood roared in her ears.

She slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and floored it. The tires screamed as the car peeled out, kicking up a spray of gravel and blood-soaked dust. She gripped the wheel with white knuckled fury, eyes locked on the road, hair flying around her face, the wind ripping into the cabin through a window she hadn’t fully closed. The coastline blurred past her. Pine trees. Telephone wires. The Ocean.

None of it mattered.

You were back. And you would go straight to Calderu House. Of course you would. The old estate where you were born, where your portrait is still hung in the ballroom looming over all who enter.

You’d go there first. To them. That pathetic excuse for a legacy that all knew of Agatha as Agnes...

A jagged breath tore out of her chest. She pushed the car faster, engine howling around the curves of the cliffs. “No,” she hissed. “No. No. No.”

She’d built this life. She’d rebuilt Agatha.

She had given her everything. And maybe Agatha didn’t love her, maybe she had never loved anyone the way she had loved you. But Rio had stayed. And she had made sure that she got rid of you. She had made sure. She had made sure she eliminated the only thing Agatha had ever loved so she could have her for herself.

She knew Agatha didn’t love her. But she had manipulated her into staying and that is all she needed.

And now, centuries later, the very thing she’d buried was clawing its way back to the surface, threatening to shatter the illusion she’d spent a lifetime perfecting.

The cliffs rolled into view.

She could see it now, in the distance… Calderu House.

The silhouette against the mist. That crooked roofline. Those windows like watching eyes.You were in there. She knew it. And this time… she would make sure you stayed gone.

The red sports car skidded to a halt in front of Calderu House, gravel spraying in all directions. The engine cut sharply, and for a moment the only sound was the ticking of cooling metal and the distant shriek of gulls.

Rio slammed the car door shut and stormed up the steps, heels striking the stone with purpose, wind catching the edges of her blazer like wings.

She didn’t knock.

She pounded.

“Open the damn door!”

Inside, the sound echoed down the old hallways, making one of the framed portraits tilt on its nail.

After a beat of silence she heard footsteps. Shuffling, irritated footsteps.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Sharon’s voice snapped from inside. “Keep your damn panties on!”

The door creaked open.

Sharon blinked up at her from behind a mug of coffee and a stained bathrobe. Her pink headscarf was slipping sideways, and one of her house shoes was missing.

Rio stared at her, face like thunder. “I’ll do my best,” she said flatly.

Sharon took a long, slow sip of her coffee. “W-what do you want?”

Rio’s jaw flexed. “A word with Y/N Calderu. Please.”

Sharon blinked. “Oh!” She smiled, far too brightly. “Well, she’s just um… she’s…” she suddenly paused, remembering Lilia’s strict instructions to keep your arrival a secret. “…Who?”

Rio’s expression didn’t change. Didn’t need to. It was the kind of look that made glass crack and interns cry.

“Oh, I think you know who I mean,” she said softly.

She stepped closer.

“Pale skin. Delicate features. Strange clothes. Covered in fresh blood.”

Sharon’s smile wilted like a daisy in acid.

“Oh. Her.”

[theballadofharkness]

Reading "She's with the director" had me going, I LOVED IT SM and since you asked for suggestions, I'm gonna make mine.How about the director (since it was implied she has anxiety) gets an anxiety attack,or gets overwhelmed?And Maya has to calm her down and bring her back to the present?Maybe a little angst,some fluff and all?If that's not your thing it's totally okay!

Good job again on your stories!

🌀

Thank you 🌀 Anon for the inspiration!! Next Maya fic incoming…

[theballadofharkness]

Hey just wanted to say I really miss your Whiskey and Wine story it was so great! Are you planning on any updates soon?

Also do you have any more Agatha stories in store? I really enjoy your work overall but have been really missing Agatha and Claire. ☺️

Hi love! Yes lots more Agatha and Claire! I’ve been finishing my second parters to my Maya fics but rest assured my main love will always be Agatha and I’ve got multiple fics on the go for her x as for Whisky and Wine, I honestly didn’t think many people were interested in me continuing! I have a few one shots planned in that universe but I’ll definitely get back on it! Xx

And also - if anyone has any ideas for Agatha or Claire fics, my asks are open! I’m already working on some people’s asks xo

[theballadofharkness]

… Stays in Vegas (pt.1)

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x HorrorExec fem!reader

Summary: When you, the horror queen of Continental Studios, accidentally eat 14 grams of shrooms at a Vegas suite party, your girlfriend Maya Mason, marketing genius, streetwear icon, and the only thing keeping this presentation together, must wrangle her melting girlfriend, a missing studio head, and a PR nightmare in the making.

This is a continuation from my fic: What happens in Vegas…

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: Not explicit sex in this one but there will be in part 2, talks of cunnilingus with a marble statue

A/N: Aaaaand I’m back! Well my loves, I forgot I can’t put the whole fic here as it’s way over 10K words so I’ve broken it up into two parts! Part 2 should be here within a couple of days if that x then I’ll be posting with a lot more frequency again now work has calmed down xo

Maya finds the others near the minibar, all of them gathered like survivors at the end of the world. Matt’s pacing in frantic circles. Sal looks like he’s aged ten years in twenty minutes. Quinn is chewing her cuticles. Patty is sipping tequila out of a wine glass with the calm, dead-eyed detachment of a woman who’s seen too much.

“I swear to god,” Matt mutters, “if he’s in a fountain doing interpretive dance I will throw myself into traffic.”

“We don’t even know where the fuck he went,” Sal hisses. “Tyler said he was talking to a fake ficus and then just evaporated.”

Maya exhales, fingers on her temples. “Okay. Okay. If Griffin shows up at CinemaCon tomorrow looking like an E! True Hollywood Story, we are fucked.”

Sal’s pacing. “This is exactly how the press takes you out! One photo, one headline: ‘Continental Studios Presents: Chaos and Ketamine.’”

Patty nods solemnly. “The press will destroy us. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she adds, shaking her head. “It’s disgusting. And I’m someone who did lines off Kevin Spacey’s toilet.”

They all pause.

Matt stares at her. “That… explains so much about you.”

“I was twenty-four.” She shrugged.

“What the fuck is wrong with all of us,” Sal breathes.

Quinn waves her hands. “Okay! Focus! Griffin’s on something nuclear and loose in a media-packed hotel. If even one journalist sees him trying to snort glitter off a bar mat, we lose the entire slate.”

Maya groans. “We need to find him. Now. Get him into a hotel room, lock the door, get him an IV, and pray.”

Behind her, someone calls her name.

“Maya?”

She turns and sees you on the couch with your head in Zoe Kravitz’s lap, giggling as you play with her hair.

Maya’s whole soul leaves her body.

You’re high as fuck, face flushed, pupils enormous, fingers delicately twirling a dark curl around your finger. “You’re so pretty,” you murmur. “You look like a haunted doll. I wanna put you in a jar and keep you in my backpack.”

Zoe glances over at Maya like what the fuck is going on with your girlfriend and gently says, “She’s… really nice.”

Maya’s jaw clenches.

“Oh hell no,” she mutters, already marching across the suite. “Get the fuck up, baby.”

You blink up at her. “Maya, I made a friend!”

“She’s not your friend, she’s Zoe Kravitz. And you’re mine.”

You barely have time to blink before Maya is there, pulling you, gently but firmly, out of Zoe’s reach.

“Hi baby,” you smile. “She’s soft.”

Maya wraps an arm around your waist, anchoring you. “You’re so lucky you’re high right now.”

You nuzzle into her shoulder. “You smell better.”

“Damn right I do.” She kisses your hair, muttering through clenched teeth, “You’re coming with me.”

You pout. “Where are we going?”

Maya grabs your hand and yanks you to your feet. “We’re finding Griffin before he destroys our entire presentation.Congratulations, you’re coming on the search party.”

You hum happily, already wandering toward the door with her arm around you. “I love when you talk corporate.”

Quinn mutters, “Oh great. High and horny Scooby-Doo. This’ll go well.”

Maya doesn’t even look back. “Say one more word and I’ll leave you with the Kool-Aid Man.”

~

Back at the party, the energy is off. The Kool-Aid Man has stopped dancing. Someone is crying in the hallway. Maya’s arm is a curled tight around your waist to keep you from floating off like a horny balloon.

Zoe Kravitz is gone now, escorted back to her room and watched over by Matt’s receptionist who once managed a Rite Aid, so she’s seen worse. Matt is somewhere nearby trying to call Tyler on three different phones. Quinn’s checking the size of her pupils in a mini mirror she fished out of her bra. Sal looks like he’s halfway to a breakdown.

And that’s when Dave Franco strolls up, blissed out, holding a water bottle filled with what is absolutely not water. “Yo,” he says cheerfully, “Griffin just shoved his entire hand into a nacho cheese fountain at the executive lounge.”

Everyone turns.

“What?” Patty says flatly.

“Whole. Hand,” Dave says. “Up to the wrist. Like he was baptizing himself in it. It was so gross. Then he whispered ‘the cheese will know’ and ran.”

“Jesus fuck,” Maya mutters, rubbing her temples. “Okay, we need to find him before the press does.”

“Do we have any idea where he went?” Quinn asks.

Dave shrugs. “I dunno. He was headed toward the elevators. Probably left a trail. Of, like, cheese.”

The group makes a b-line for the door, rushing out into the hallway of the hotel. You’re all stumbling down it, Quinn, Maya, Sal, Patty, you tucked under Maya’s arm, eyes wide, clutching her shoulder like she’s your emotional support animal.

“There!” Sal points. “That has to be Griffin cheese.”

There are handprints. Sticky, shiny, radioactive orange cheese smears down the wallpaper in giant, greasy arcs.

“Yup,” Quinn says, stepping up to the wall and, without warning, licks it.

Everyone screams.

“YUP,” she says again, voice disgusted. “That’s cheese.”

She pauses. “Ew. Why did I do that?”

You blink slowly and stare at her, completely deadpan. “Quinn. You just ate wall cheese.”

“Griffin’s wall cheese,” Patty adds.

Maya groans. “Oh my god.”

Quinn’s face twists. “EWWWW! Fuck, he probably put his fingers in it after he licked the ashtray. I have Griffin molecules inside me.”

You lean against Maya, giggling helplessly, then start pressing your lips to her neck. Once. Then again. Then again.

“Baby,” she whispers. “You’re making out with me in front of Patty.”

“I don’t care,” you mumble against her skin. “I need you. You’re so hot. I wanna ride your thigh in the elevator.”

“Oh my god,” Sal says, turning away.

“You’re supposed to be the scary horror lady,” Quinn says. “You’re like the goth queen of death.”

You moan softly against Maya’s neck. “Not when she touches me. I turn into goo.”

“She’s so high,” Patty says, sipping something bright green. “It’s cute and disturbing.”

Maya tightens her grip on your waist, jaw clenching as you start sucking a hickey into the side of her throat. “Okay,” she mutters, voice ragged. “If you leave even one visible mark, I’m cancelling our trip to Florence next month.”

“I’ll wear a turtleneck,” you breathe, licking up her pulse point. “A sexy one.”

“Oh my god,” Maya hisses, eyes fluttering. “Find Griffin. Someone find Griffin before she tries to eat me out in the elevator.”

“Oh can I?!” You gasp, eyes wide.

“NO” you flinch at the almost perfectly synchronised yelling of the rest of the continental team.

The elevator doors ding open and the whole group steps out into the main casino floor, and it hits all at once. Flashing lights. Alarms going off. Slot machines screaming. Someone winning. Someone losing. A mechanical coin-pouring noise that sounds like an animatronic animal throwing up. There’s an Elvis impersonator in the corner singing Suspicious Minds in a minor key that definitely wasn’t hired by the casino.

You immediately squint and mumble, “We’ve entered the devil’s pinball machine.”

Maya has her arm around your waist like she’s trying to physically restrain your soul from drifting off. “Stay close. No licking anything especially what could be Griffin’s hand cheese. I swear to god—”

“I want to live in the carpet,” you whisper dreamily. “It’s whispering.”

Quinn’s already looking around. “Okay. If he’s here, he’s either screaming at a roulette wheel or trying to get adopted by the Blue Man Group.”

Matt squints toward the high-limit slots. “He loves power. If he sees the $1,000 machine he might be trying to fuck it.”

Patty’s scanning the floor like a detective on her fifth unsolved murder. “He has cheese fingers. We need to look for smears. Residue. Anything yellow and sticky.”

Sal’s chewing his thumb. “If he ended up at the buffet, I’m not going in there. I don’t want to see him drooling on a shrimp tower.”

Maya pulls you in tighter. “Okay, we split up. Groups of two. Patty, you’re with Matt. Quinn, Sal. I’m taking her. ” She nods at you, then whispers, “God help me.”

You grin up at her. “Are we gonna make out behind a slot machine?”

She leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Only if you don’t bite any strangers.”

You beam.

Everyone starts fanning out, walking deeper into the neon labyrinth. Alarms are going off every few seconds. There’s a woman in a wedding dress sobbing near the ATM. A man in a glitter suit doing backflips. A child that may or may not be real holding a glowing lobster plushie.

You’re clinging to Maya’s arm, trying to walk in a straight line. “Do you think we’ll find him?”

She sighs. “God, I hope so.”

And then… you see it. A greasy handprint on the glass panel beside a high-roller poker table.

Cheese.

You gasp. “Cheese. Maya, he’s here.”

She groans. “I hate this job.”

You and Maya spot the cheese handprint and follow the trail like detectives if one of the detectives were high, horny, and emotionally unraveling, until you reach the high-stakes blackjack table.

And there he is. Griffin Mill. Studio head. Face of the company. Architect of Continental’s billion-dollar slate.

Currently trying to bet a lobster.

“Sir… that is not currency,” the blackjack dealer says, absolutely flat.

Griffin is wide-eyed, flushed, swaying gently like a sea captain hallucinating a siren. “She’s alive, Jerry,” he whispers. “She knows the cards.”

The dealer exhales through her nose. “My name’s Rachel.”

“She’s psychic,” Griffin continues, stroking the lobster’s shell like it’s a cherished family heirloom. “I found her in the buffet. She whispered blackjack in my ear.”

“She’s a crustacean,” Rachel mutters. “You can’t bet seafood.”

Griffin slams a hand on the table. “What the fuck happened to this city?!”

You’re gripping Maya’s arm, half-laughing, half-horrified. “I want what he’s having,” you murmur.

“No you don’t,” Maya mutters, pulling out her phone and already texting. “Tyler needs to get down here right now.”

Griffin’s voice is rising. “Vegas used to mean something! You used to be able to walk into a casino with a dream and come out with a bag of shrimp, and a woman named Desiree, now it’s all rules and judgement!”

He lifts the lobster over his head like an offering. “This is my legal tender! This is my fucking truth!”

Just then, the rest of your team stumbles into view, Matt, Sal, Patty, and Quinn, out of breath, faces lit by the neon hellfire of a casino gone wrong.

“Is that Griffin?” Matt wheezes. “Is he holding a lobster?”

“Of course he is,” Quinn says, looking ready to die.

Patty doesn’t even blink. “Still better than Sundance 2016.”

The pit boss approaches the table. “Sir. Put the lobster down.”

Griffin clutches it tighter. “Make me.” Then, he runs.

“HE’S RUNNING!” Sal yells.

“AFTER HIM!” Maya barks, already moving.

And just like that, the heads of Continental Studios take off, sprinting after their feral studio boss through the flashing maze of Las Vegas casino floor, dodging blackjack tables, ducking under neon signs, chasing the man responsible for the possible downfall of their entire CinemaCon presentation, and who is currently on mushrooms and carrying a lobster.

You glance sideways at Maya as you run, breathless. “This is completely insane,” you say.

She doesn’t even look at you. “Welcome to show business, baby.”

You follow the trail of chaos, discarded playing cards, a shoe, a full shrimp cocktail still in the glass, and it leads you across the casino floor, out the side entrance, and onto the fake-Venetian bridge.

And that’s where you find him.

Griffin.

Standing on the bridge.

Licking a melted ice cream cone with so much tongue it’s offensive. It’s not even lascivious, it’s clinical. He’s working it like it owes him rent.

“Oh my god,” Patty whispers.

“Why is he doing that?” Quinn hisses.

“It’s… it’s almost like he’s trying to go viral,” Matt mutters, stunned.

You flinch, watching as Griffin moans softly and flicks the tip of the ice cream like it’s a clitoris. “I don’t like it,” you whisper. “I don’t like that he’s good at it.”

Maya groans. “Okay. That’s it. We’re putting him in a car and pretending this never happened.”

“Do we tase him?” Sal asks, voice breaking.

“No one is getting tased,” Patty says. “We’ll get sued.”

“You guys,” you interrupt, wide-eyed. “He’s using two hands. TWO HANDS.”

Everyone groans in unison and turns around, forming a huddle like it’s a war room meeting on the fake cobblestones of the Venetian.

“We need to distract him,” Maya says, already strategizing. “Maybe I offer him a decaf espresso and say it’s from The Rock.”

“He responds to prestige,” you nod, dead serious.

“Or we tell him his New Yorker profile is running early and he has to approve a photo,” Patty suggests.

“We could—” Matt starts, and then… a splash.

You all freeze.

Turn.

He’s gone.

“Where…?” Sal begins.

And then you hear it:

“WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!”

You rush to the edge of the bridge and look down. There he is. Griffin Mill. Studio executive. Billion-dollar slate shepherd. Floating on his back in a fucking gondola. Still licking the ice cream. Dripping wet. Shoes gone. Pants half-unbuttoned. Laughing like a boy at Disneyland.

You all stand there, silent, stunned, dripping in secondhand humiliation.

“Oh,” Quinn says faintly. “He fell.”

“Griffin,” Maya yells, cupping her hands. “GET OUT OF THE GONDOLA.”

He waves up at you like the Queen.

“I’ve never wanted to quit more than I do right now,” Matt whispers.

You step closer to Maya, resting your chin on her shoulder. “Can we pretend this is a horror movie and we’re all about to get eaten?”

“I wish,” she mutters. “That would be less embarrassing.”

The moment Griffin disappears into the gondola abyss like a deranged studio-funded merman, the whole team scrambles. You, Maya, Sal, Matt, Quinn, and Patty are now in full pursuit mode, running through the casino like it’s a war zone.

“There’s no way he got far!” Matt pants, already sweating. “He’s soaked! And still somehow holding dairy!”

“Check the cab line!” Sal shouts.

“I’m going to fucking murder him,” Maya growls, heels clicking furiously.

You’re stumbling behind them all, giggling, half-delirious. The lights are so bright. Everything’s so sparkly. Maya’s hand is locked tight around your wrist, dragging you with her like a mom pulling her kid through Target.

“I feel like I’m in Barbarella,” you mumble. “Or, like, a dream about drag queens and capitalism.”

And that’s when you run face-first into a showgirl.

She’s tall. She’s statuesque. She’s wearing a red glitter corset, towering heels, and a feathered headpiece the size of a motorcycle. She looks like a cross between Cher and a firework.

You stare up at her, completely transfixed. “Oh my god.”

The showgirl smiles. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You clutch your chest, eyes wide. “I respect you so much. Like so much. Your job is performance art and you are divine.”

Before you can launch into a full monologue about the intersection of horror and burlesque, you feel two hands grab you under your thighs and suddenly you’re airborne.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Maya snaps, picking you up bridal-style like you’re about to be kidnapped back to hell.

You squeak. “Maya!”

“She’s mine,” Maya says flatly to the showgirl, who just laughs and winks.

“I wasn’t gonna take her,” she says.

“Well, she wanders.” Maya adjusts her grip, ignoring the way you melt against her. “And she’s very susceptible to rhinestones right now.”

You giggle into her neck, grinning like a fool. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m efficient,” she mutters, storming past a row of blinking slot machines. “We’re in the middle of a crisis, and you’re out here trying to join the cast of Burlesque.”

“She was so beautiful,” you sigh dramatically. “I think I saw God.”

“You’re going in my suitcase,” Maya deadpans. “Right after I find Griffin and skin him alive.”

You finally catch sight of him through the glass doors leading out to the inner courtyard. There’s a fountain. It’s supposed to be tasteful.

It’s not.

Because Griffin Mill is in it. Socks floating. Pants soaked. Shirt undone. Tongue deep in the thigh crease of a stone statue like he’s trying to awaken it with cunnilingus.

“Oh my god,” Matt breathes. “Is he eating her out?”

“WHY,” you shout, flailing in Maya’s arms, “IS HE ALWAYS EATING THINGS OUT?!”

“Statues,” Quinn whispers in horror. “Ice creams. Possibly a lobster. Who hurt him?”

Patty covers her mouth to hide her smile. “This is so much worse than the time he tried to marry the wax Gwyneth Paltrow at Madame Tussauds.”

Maya is fuming, clutching you like a feral cat she’s trying to keep from biting someone. “Okay. We need to get him out of there before someone gets a picture.”

You watch, mesmerized and mortified, as Griffin moans, arms wrapped around the statue’s legs like he’s trying to anchor himself to her divine marble femininity.

“Do you think he’s in love with her?” you whisper.

“I don’t want to know,” Sal says, looking visibly aged by the past twenty minutes.

Matt is pacing now, fully sweating. “If TMZ gets a shot of him eating out Aphrodite, we’re done. That Kool-Aid drop will be DOA.”

Maya passes you off gently to Patty, “hold her”, and wades into the fountain like she’s storming Normandy.

“Griffin!” she barks.

He looks up, water dripping from his bangs. “I found her,” he whispers. “The mother of cinema.”

“You’re LICKING HER,” Maya screams.

“It’s a gesture of devotion!”

She grabs his arm. “It’s second base with limestone! Get. The fuck. Out.”

Between Maya’s unholy strength and Matt’s panicked flailing, they drag Griffin out of the fountain like a slippery, deranged merman. You help carry his shoe.

~

You all stand in the hallway, soaked, shivering, exhausted. Griffin’s safely locked in the hotel room, clutching a piece of the statue like a prize from a nightmare.

No one speaks for a moment.

Water drips from Matt’s blazer. Patty’s false lashes are hanging on by a thread. Quinn looks like he just saw God and didn’t care for it.

“What the fuck do we do?” Sal finally says, rubbing his temples.

“The presentation is in…” Maya checks her watch. Her voice goes flat. “Four hours.”

You wince. “I thought it was tomorrow.”

“It is,” Matt mutters. “But Griffin bumped it to 7 a.m. central so he could hit the spa before Variety arrives.”

Patty exhales through her nose. “We just dragged a fully grown man out of a fountain where he was making out with a statue, and now we’re expected to roll out a billion-dollar slate at the fucking Venetian ballroom like we’re the picture of stability.”

“Do we cancel it?” Quinn asks, almost hopeful.

“No,” Maya says instantly, voice steely, eyes bloodshot. “We don’t cancel. We don’t flinch. We do what we always do at this studio.”

“Make it look like it was intentional all along?” you offer, teeth chattering.

Maya doesn’t smile. “Exactly.”

You lean into her side, still trembling slightly, the adrenaline crash mixing with the comedown from the chocolates. “We can’t let the Kool-Aid Man win.”

Matt nods solemnly. “We ride at dawn.”

Sal makes a wounded noise. “I haven’t even slept yet.”

“I haven’t even showered,” Patty snaps.

“I haven’t even come down,” you murmur, eyes wide. “I might still be in the fountain.”

Everyone groans.

Maya clears her throat. “Alright. We go upstairs. We dry off. We drink electrolyte packets. And in three hours, we’re back down here in clean clothes, smiling like our entire slate doesn’t depend on the man currently whispering sweet nothings to a statue hand.”

You all nod, barely.

The elevator dings. No one moves.

“Okay,” Maya says finally. “Let’s go try to look like people again.”

It takes all of you to get Griffin moving.

He’s sprawled on the hallway floor outside his room, mumbling nonsense into the detached statue hand like it’s a microphone.

“We have to get him in the room and keep him there,” Maya snaps, crouching to grab one of his arms.

Matt grabs the other. Sal is hovering nearby, looking like he’s about to either vomit or cry. Quinn holds the door open, muttering prayers under her breath. Patty is just… resigned.

You grab Griffin’s legs. “Wow. I always wondered what it would be like to drag a dead body around Vegas. But this is actually really heavy.”

Sal freezes mid-step and just stares at you. “You… terrify me.”

Maya barks out a short, breathless laugh. “I know, right? It’s so fucking hot.”

You glance up at her, lips curling into a dreamy little smile despite the chaos. “Thank you, mommy.”

Sal almost drops Griffin’s wrist. “Oh my god what?!”

“Move!” Maya snaps, eyes wild.

You and Maya haul Griffin over the threshold of the hotel room like you’re about to toss him into a grave. He’s giggling now, statue hand clutched to his chest.

“Cinema is a woman,” he whispers. “A slippery, stone-cold, beautiful—”

Maya cuts him off, shoving him the rest of the way into the room. “Yeah, we know. Get in there before I lose my fucking mind.”

Quinn slams the door shut behind him and locks it.

For one horrifying second, all you can hear is heavy breathing and the faint sound of Griffin singing My Way off-key through the door.

Finally, Patty straightens her soaked blazer and sighs. “Alright. We have, what, a couple of hours before we need to be downstairs?”

Matt’s wiping his face with his sleeve. “I’m exhausted.”

You tilt your head. “I feel like we just buried a body in the desert.”

Sal’s staring at you again, pale. “You are the scariest person I’ve ever met.”

Maya leans back against the wall, grinning at you like you just handed her an award. “God, you’re hot when you talk like a serial killer.”

You beam at her, high and blissed-out, hair still sticking to your forehead. “You always say the nicest things.”

Maya pushes off the wall and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you toward the elevators. “Come on, freak show. Let’s go make you look like you didn’t just drag a feral executive out of a fountain.”

The team splits like war survivors stumbling off a battlefield. Matt and Sal peel off toward the bar to dry out and panic quietly. Patty mumbles something about needing twenty minutes alone with a bottle of Advil. Quinn’s muttering “I licked cheese off a wall” over and over like a mantra as she drifts toward her room. Griffin is still locked in the suite. Muted murmuring behind the door. You think you hear him whisper “Venus” to the statue hand.

Maya half-drags, half-guides you down the hall to your suite. Your hair is stuck to your face, your dress clings to your body in clammy patches, and you both reek of chlorine, cheap perfume, and whatever the hell that statue was leaking.

She kicks open the door with her foot, still gripping your wrist like she’s worried you’ll float away again.

“Shower,” she mutters. “We both smell like an abandoned aquarium.”

You giggle, head lolling as she shoves you gently toward the bathroom. “I thought the fountain felt kinda nice…”

Maya just groans, flipping on the shower and peeling off her soaked windbreaker. “Yeah, well, you can go marry the fountain later. Right now, you’re mine.”

You’re still giggling as she pulls your sticky dress up over your head, tossing it somewhere across the marble floor. She peels off her own tank top and sports bra, then steps into the shower first, pulling you in behind her.

Hot water rushes down, immediately flooding the space with steam. You squeal, pressing yourself into her chest.

“Maya,” you gasp, tilting your face up under the spray. “The water… feels weird.”

She blinks, half-laughing, half-exhausted. “It’s… water, baby.”

You frown deeply, blinking at the tiles as you wave your hands in the stream like a curious sea creature. “It’s, like… sharp. But also like… a hug.”

Maya snorts, wrapping her arms around your waist to keep you steady. “Congratulations. You just described water.”

You pout, forehead against her collarbone. “Will you hold me?” you whisper.

She softens immediately, arms locking tighter around you. “Always, baby. Always.”

The water pounds down, steaming up the mirror outside. You press your ear to her chest, feeling her heartbeat, and for a few moments, the whole universe is just hot water, her skin, and the quiet promise in the way she cradles the back of your neck.

You’re pressed up against her in the shower, trembling slightly under the hot water, your eyes wide and huge from the trip.

Maya reaches for the body wash, but you just… stare at her chest. For a moment, it’s like you forget to breathe. Your pupils get even bigger, if that’s even possible, and your mouth falls open a little.

“Maya…” you whisper, voice cracking like you’re confessing to a priest.

She pauses, soap bottle in hand. “Yeah?”

You lean in closer, fingertips ghosting up the curve of her ribs, until you’re practically nuzzling the side of her breast.

“I need to suck on your tits,” you say, deadly serious. “Like… need to. It’s a spiritual experience I need right now.”

Maya stares at you. Her jaw drops. “Babe…”

“No, like…” You cut her off, breathless. “I feel like they’re calling to me. Like a church bell. Like… like they’ll cure me.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Maya mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand, trying so hard not to laugh.

You whimper, gripping her hips now, desperate and reverent all at once. “Please, Maya. Please. I promise I’ll be so good. I’ll pray after. I’ll… I’ll do anything.”

She looks down at you, shaking her head, a wild grin breaking through the exhausted exasperation. “You’re literally insane.”

You look up at her with wide, pleading eyes, water dripping down your cheeks like tears. “Please.”

She groans, head dropping back against the tile for a second. Then she looks back down at you, a slow, dangerous smile curling across her lips.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But we’re making it quick, and you’re drinking three electrolyte packets after.”

You nearly collapse in relief. “Thank you, thank you, holy fuck…”

And before she can change her mind, you lean forward, lips wrapping around her nipple, sucking greedily like you’re starved for it, like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth.

Maya gasps, her hand flying up to grip your hair. “Jesus fuck,” she breathes. “You’re… unreal.”

You hum against her, eyes fluttering shut, so blissed out you look like you’re about to ascend.

“Best… church… ever…” you murmur between licks.

She laughs, low and wrecked, her free hand stroking the back of your neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me, spooky girl.”

You keep sucking, slow at first, reverent, almost shy, but then it builds. Your hands start to slide up her sides, trembling, fingers digging in like you’re trying to hold on for dear life.

Maya’s head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezed shut. Her free hand fists in your hair, knuckles white.

“Holy shit, baby,” she gasps. “We… we can’t… you’re too high.”

You pull off her nipple just enough to speak, but your lips hover, eyes wide and pleading. “Can’t I touch you?” you whisper, voice breaking on the edge of a sob. “Please? Please, Maya… I want to make you feel good… I need it… I need you.”

Her eyes snap open, locking onto yours. You look utterly wrecked, water streaming down your face, lips swollen, pupils huge and shining with devotion.

She looks down at you, her breath ragged, caught between pure want and fierce protectiveness. “Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough, almost pained. “Baby… you don’t know what you’re asking me right now…”

“Yes, I do,” you whimper, hands sliding lower, nails biting into her hips. “I do, Maya, please… please let me… I’ll be so good, I promise…”

She flinches at the word good, like it hits somewhere deep and raw inside her. Her grip on your hair tightens. Her other hand trembles where it hovers near your jaw, like she’s debating whether to pull you closer or push you away.

For a second, it feels like she might break. Like she might give in, let you have her, let you worship her exactly the way you’re begging to.

But then, her jaw clenches and she exhales, hard. “Baby… I want to. God, I want to. But not like this. Not when you’re this high.”

You let out a tiny, broken sob, forehead pressing to her sternum. “But I feel so full of you… I need to let it out… please…”

She closes her eyes, her forehead dropping to rest against the top of your head.

“I know,” she whispers, voice shaking. “I know, my girl. But you’re gonna wait. You’re gonna wait for me. And when you come down… I’ll give you everything.”

Your fingers flex against her hips, your whole body shivering with need and frustration. But even through it, there’s a tiny flicker of relief that she’s here, that she’s strong enough to hold the line for you both.

You choke out a small, shaky laugh, tears mixing with shower water. “You’re so mean…”

She huffs out a wet, ragged laugh against your hair. “I know. You love it.”

You’re perched on the floor of the hotel room, wrapped in a giant fluffy towel that keeps sliding off one shoulder, hair damp and wild around your face. You’re still a little floaty, eyes big, your chin resting on your knees as you watch her.

Maya stands in front of the mirror, pulling on that olive corset top, adjusting it with a sharp, practiced snap of her fingers. Her bomber jacket shimmers in the low hotel light, half-zipped over her chest. You watch her slide in the chunky gold chain necklace, hoop earrings glinting as she tosses her hair back.

She looks like she’s about to take the stage at a sold-out show or lead an army straight into Hell.

You blink slowly, mesmerized. “You look like a war goddess,” you murmur, voice small and awed.

She snorts, looking over her shoulder at you with a crooked grin. “Yeah? You gonna sacrifice a goat to me, spooky?”

You nod immediately, too sincere. “Yeah. Or, like… my soul. Whatever you want.”

She laughs, deep and warm, pulling her hair forward to fix the ends. “Jesus Christ, you are still so high.”

You hum softly, eyes following the line of her arms as she slides bracelets onto her wrists, smoothes the satin bomber again, checks her hairline one last time.

“You’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen,” you whisper, eyes glossy.

She freezes for a beat, her expression flickering into something softer, deeper. Then she shakes it off, smirking, and tosses you a little travel bottle of electrolytes.

“Drink that,” she orders. “We need you conscious enough to glare at the press when I drag Griffin onstage.”

You grumble, hugging your towel tighter. “Don’t wanna glare. Wanna worship you.”

She chuckles as she slides on her final chunky ring, then steps over and crouches in front of you, her eyes catching yours and holding.

“You can worship me later,” she murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Right now? You’re my scary horror queen. You’re gonna pull yourself together, put on your best ‘fuck off’ lipstick, and stand next to me like we own this town.”

You swallow hard, leaning into her touch, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Yes, ma’am,” you whisper.

She smirks, leaning forward to kiss you quick and sharp. “Good girl.”

Maya’s crouched in front of you, thumb still brushing your cheek, and then, without warning, she hooks an arm under your knees, another around your back, and lifts you clean off the floor like you weigh nothing.

You squeak, clinging to her shoulders. “Maya!”

“Shut up,” she mutters, grinning, striding toward the bed. “You’re not gonna get ready sitting on the floor like a little wet cryptid.”

She deposits you on the edge of the bed and turns towards your suitcase, “let’s see… What's the scariest thing in here?” she muses, flicking through your all-black wardrobe.

You watch, wide-eyed, towel slipping lower. “You like when I’m scary?”

She throws you a look over her shoulder, one brow raised. “No shit.”

Finally, she pulls out a sleek, black tailored dress with structured shoulders, the one that makes you look seven feet tall and possessed by a 17th-century widow’s ghost.

“This one,” she says, tossing it onto the bed next to you. “Put it on.”

You scramble into it, half-shivering, half-thrilled, while she grabs your black heels and sets them on the floor by your feet like she’s dressing a doll.

Next, she grabs your deep red lipstick from your makeup bag. “Come here.”

You shuffle closer, knees brushing hers as she twists the tube open.

“Open your mouth,” she orders.

You obey, eyes locked on hers as she leans in, steady and precise, painting your lips a violent, luscious red. The color pops against your pale skin, makes your eyes look even darker.

When she’s done, she smirks, admiring her work. “There she is. My elegant little horror executive.”

You stare at her, breathless, your lips parted just slightly. “You’re gonna kill me one day,” you whisper.

She laughs, low and delighted, slipping the lipstick back into your bag. “Yeah. And I’ll look hot as fuck in the true-crime doc.”

She stands, offers her hand. You slip your fingers into hers, and she pulls you up, looking you over head to toe.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, gaze lingering on your red lips, your sharp silhouette.

You feel electric. Like you could swallow the whole casino and still be hungry.

She squeezes your hand once, firm and warm. “Let’s go scare the living shit out of everyone at CinemaCon.”

You and Maya stalk down the hallway like you own the place, her in an olive corset and bomber jacket, you in your black tailored dress, red lips, heels clicking like gunshots on marble.

At the door to Griffin’s room, Matt, Sal, Quinn, and Patty are already gathered.

Matt’s tugging at his hair. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this. I feel like I’ve been awake since the Bush administration.”

Maya claps her hands sharply. “Okay, enough. Everyone shut up. We’re getting him out. Now.”

She pushes open the door and you all peer inside to find Griffin is sprawled across the bed like a Renaissance painting gone horribly wrong. He’s still in his damp pants, half a shirt, eyes red and vacant, the statue hand clutched to his chest.

Matt gags. “Oh god, he still has the hand.”

Quinn looks like she might start praying.

Maya huffs, folding her arms, glaring at the bed. “Get up, Griffin.”

He barely moves, muttering something about “the marble queen” and “brand synergy with the void.”

You watch him for a beat, head tilted, red lips parting as something clicks behind your eyes. Then, slowly, you turn to face the others. Your eyes are huge and glassy, your lipstick perfect, your voice low and even, “I have an idea.”

Everyone freezes.

Matt looks like he’s about to faint. “I… don’t like the way you said that.”

Sal stares at you, terrified. “Oh no. No no no.”

Maya’s lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh, fuck yeah,” she mutters. “Let her cook.”

Everyone stares at you.

Matt’s hand hovers over his mouth like he’s trying not to throw up. Quinn looks seconds away from a full religious conversion. Patty lowers her phone, raising an eyebrow.

You pause, glance back at Griffin slack-jawed, muttering about “limestone wombs” then you turn back to the group, your expression suddenly sharp, your voice smooth and eerily steady “One word…” You let it hang in the air for dramatic effect. “…Cocaine.”

“YESSSSSS,” Quinn gasps, slamming her thermos down. “That’s it! That’s literally the only thing that will work!”

Sal starts nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “Yes. Yes! We reverse the shrooms. We jolt him out.”

Matt’s eyes go huge. “Oh my god. She’s a genius.”

You just tilt your head, watching them all spiral, and flash a tiny, unsettling smile. “Like necromancy.”

Maya stares at you, jaw slack for a beat, and then she lets out a full, hysterical laugh, throwing her head back.

“Fucking yes,” she barks, stepping forward to wrap an arm around you, kissing your temple hard. “That’s my girl. That’s my creepy girl.”

Sal fumbles in his jacket pocket, pulling out a small vial with shaking hands. “I have, uh… I have medical grade cocaine. I only keep it for emergencies…”

Patty squints. “What kind of emergencies?”

Sal shrugs, wild-eyed. “Like this one!”

Quinn grabs his wrist. “Open it. Right now.”

Griffin groans from the bed. Sal cracks open the vial. Maya leans in close to you, voice low and rough in your ear. “I don’t know whether to fuck you or elect you president of the world right now.”

You smile, unbothered, eyes still glued to Griffin. “Do both later.”

Sal kneels by the bed, hands shaking as he lines it up. He leans forward, gently prying Griffin’s slack jaw open. “Okay… okay… here we go…”

There’s a horrifying beat of silence as the white powder disappears up Griffin’s nose.

And then… Griffin jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

His eyes snap open. He gasps, a deep, rattling, monstrous sound. “LET’S FUCKING GO!!!” he roars, fists shooting into the air.

Everyone jumps back in shock.

Quinn squeals. “OH MY GOD IT WORKED!”

Matt clutches his chest like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest. “He’s… he’s ALIVE!”

Patty claps once, sharp. “Brilliant. Let’s move. Before he codes again.”

Griffin swings his legs over the bed, standing with an almost demonic energy, nostrils flaring. “WHERE ARE MY SLIDES?! WHO HAS MY GODDAMN CLICKER?! CINEMA IS THE FUTURE, BABY!!!”

You blink slowly, deadpan. “Wow. Necromancy does work.”

Maya is cackling, doubled over, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh my god, he’s like a cursed puppet!”

Griffin starts pacing, yelling at no one in particular. “I NEED THREE OAT MILK LATTES, A FOG MACHINE, AND A BULLWHIP — WHERE IS TYLER?! I NEED TO REWRITE THE ENTIRE CINEMA SLATE RIGHT NOW!!”

Sal fumbles around, shoving a half-dry blazer over Griffin’s shoulders. Matt is shoving slides into a binder. Quinn’s fixing his hair.

But then Griffin suddenly slumps like a deflating parade balloon. His knees buckle, eyes roll back, and he collapses onto the bed in a pathetic heap.

Silence.

You stare at him, sighing, and shrug. “Okay,” you murmur, voice flat. “I guess he’s dead.”

Matt makes a strangled noise. Quinn is on the verge of tears.

You just tilt your head, calm as ever. “Can we still Weekend-at-Bernie’s him onstage?”

There’s a beat of total, stunned silence as Griffin slumps, half-dead on the bed. Then Quinn’s eyes light up.

“Yes! Weekend at Bernie’s!” she shrieks, clapping her hands. “We get a wheelchair, prop him up, throw some sunglasses on him, let’s fucking go!”

Matt chokes. “Are you… Quinn are you out of your mind?!”

Quinn grabs Griffin’s arm like she’s about to start dressing a mannequin. “We literally just reanimated him with cocaine, Matt. The bar is gone. It no longer exists.”

Sal starts pacing, wild-eyed. “This is insane. This is so insane. I love it. I hate it. I’m going to vomit.”

Patty, ever the veteran, shrugs and pulls out her phone. “I’ll text Tyler to grab a wheelchair.”

Maya looks up at all of you with murder in her eyes. “Fine,” she snaps. “Just get him in the fucking chair. We have to go downstairs NOW.”

Quinn and Sal scramble to lift Griffin, basically flopping him around like a rag doll. You step back to watch, arms crossed elegantly over your chest, red lips curling into a small, delighted smirk.

Matt hovers behind them, sweating bullets. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god…”

Maya stalks over to you, hair still damp at the edges, cheeks flushed, adrenaline blazing in her eyes. She stops right in front of you, grabs your chin, and tilts your face up sharply.

“You good?” she demands.

You just grin, pupils huge and gleaming. “I’ve never been better.”

She lets out a hoarse laugh, forehead dropping to yours for a second, breath shuddering. “You’re so fucking weird. God, I love you.”

Patty sweeps past, tossing a pair of big sunglasses onto Griffin’s slack face. “If anyone asks, he’s conserving energy.”

Quinn pushes the now-draped Griffin forward in the wheelchair, yelling, “LET’S FUCKING GO!” like she’s leading a halftime show.

Maya straightens, grabs your hand, and starts pulling you after them. “Welcome to the worst day of our lives,” she mutters.

~

Backstage at CinemaCon Maya is in full general mode, her headset on, clipboard under one arm, bomber jacket half-zipped, barking orders at terrified stagehands and red-eyed execs.

“Tyler, now, not in five minutes! We are not going out there with a blank screen!”

You’re standing slightly off to the side, your black dress clinging to your damp skin, hair still a little wild, lipstick perfectly intact. You’re swaying slightly, eyes big and glassy.

Matt’s pacing in tight circles. Sal is basically chewing his own sleeve. Quinn is adjusting her earpiece, whispering prayers to whatever higher power might be listening.

Then you scream.

A sharp, piercing, genuine horror-movie-level scream that rips through the chaos.

Everyone jumps. Maya nearly throws her headset across the room. “What?!” she snaps, whipping around to face you.

Your hand flies up, finger trembling as you point.

“HIM!” you shriek, voice trembling.

Everyone’s eyes snap to where you’re pointing. And there, stumbling toward the group, is Dave Franco. His face is covered in blood. His hair is a mess. His suit looks like it’s been through a wood chipper.

Matt rushes over, eyes wide. “Dave! What the fuck happened?!”

Dave holds up a hand, wincing. “I’m good, it’s okay.”

“You’re not good!” Matt shouts. “You look like you got run over by a Segway tour!”

Dave coughs, spitting out a little blood, then gives a lopsided, dazed grin. “I tried to use my Now You See Me 3 magic tricks at the casino,” he says proudly. “I was doing this misdirection thing and I, uh… got caught.”

Quinn chokes. “What?”

Dave shrugs weakly. “Turns out, people don’t like it when you cheat to win at blackjack. Or poker. Or dice. Or… really anything.”

You just keep staring, eyes huge, hand still up. “He’s… he’s leaking…” you whisper, horrified.

Maya storms over, yanks your hand down, then looks Dave up and down, seething.

“We can’t let him go out there like that!” she hisses. “He looks like he just lost a cage fight in a Carl’s Jr. parking lot!”

Dave holds up a shaky hand, towel still pressed to his forehead, breathing hard. “No, no, no, listen to me, I got this. I got it.”

Matt shakes his head, horrified. “Dave, you’re bleeding. You need to go to a hospital.”

Dave’s eyes spark, wild and alive beneath the blood. “No, man. No. I go out there like this, it’s character. It’s my Alphabet City guy. They’ll think it’s intentional, raw, gritty, real… they’ll eat that shit up.”

A beat of silence.

Then Quinn’s jaw drops. “…Oh my god. He’s right.”

Maya exhales sharply, eyes darting to the stage entrance, then back to Dave. “Fine. You’ve got two minutes. You sell it, you get off, we move to Zoe. We have no time to clean up your murder cosplay.”

Dave nods once, sharp, adrenaline buzzing through him like lightning.

He straightens his tattered suit jacket, smears the blood a little more evenly across his cheek like war paint, takes one last breath and storms out on stage.

Meanwhile, you’re still trembling against Maya’s side, clinging to her jacket.

“Are we sure he’s not dead?” you whisper.

Maya snorts, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “No, baby. Just extremely stupid.”

You all rush over to the monitor.

The moment he steps into the lights, the audience goes silent.

Dave throws his arms wide, grinning like a madman.

“WHAT’S UP, VEGAS?!” he roars, voice cracking just enough to sound unhinged but still strong. “It’s me, straight from the streets of Alphabet City! You think this is blood? This is my life, baby!”

A slow, stunned ripple… then the crowd goes insane.

Maya lets out a strangled, relieved laugh, hands braced on her knees. “Holy shit, he did it.”

Quinn starts hyperventilating. “Oh my god… it’s actually working…”

You just watch, eyes huge, whispering like it’s a prayer: “He’s so weird. I like it.”

After a quick, electric set Dave finally stumbles back offstage, staggering toward all of you. He barely makes it three steps before collapsing against Matt, eyes rolling.

“Dude,” he wheezes, voice hoarse. “I need a hospital.”

Matt catches him, wincing. “Oh my god, okay. Okay, buddy. We got you.”

Maya shoves a fresh towel into Matt’s free hand, barking, “Tyler! Call the medic team NOW!”

Dave just grins weakly, head lolling. “But… we fucking killed it, right?”

You crouch down in front of him, still wide-eyed, your red lips parting in a slow, reverent smile.

“You’re a legend,” you whisper.

He wheezes out a laugh, then slumps, finally letting the team hold him up fully.

Dave is whisked away, leaving the rest of you in a tense, vibrating backstage cluster. You hear the audience still roaring from Dave’s “Alphabet City” bit.

Maya wipes her forehead, breath ragged. “Okay, Zoe. You’re up. You good?”

From the corner, Zoe Kravitz steps forward, her eyes wide as saucers, pupils still huge from the mushrooms earlier.

She’s dressed immaculately, sleek, sharp, radiant, but she’s got that barely-contained chaos flickering under her skin.

Quinn looks at her, worried. “You okay?”

Zoe nods too fast, clutching her note cards like a lifeline. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m… I’m good. I feel… really present.”

Patty snorts. “Oh Jesus Christ.”

Zoe inhales deeply, smoothing her hair back, then turns to Maya. “I’m not gonna pee, I swear.”

Maya’s jaw drops. “What?”

“I’m not gonna pee onstage,” Zoe repeats, nodding emphatically. “I thought I might… but I’m not gonna. I’m good. I feel… amazing. Actually, better than amazing. I feel like I can see through time.”

Maya shoots her a look. “Focus.”

Zoe bounces slightly on her toes, takes one more deep breath, then steps out into the lights.

She stands at center stage, smiling, eyes glittering, hands vibrating slightly as the crowd goes absolutely feral the moment they catch sight of her.

“I am here to introduce Black Wing, directed by the incredible visionary behind Midnight in Echo Park…” She pauses, beaming. “A film that, in many ways, is about the transformation of identity… about becoming something new… something wild… something free.”

She lifts her arms, almost like she’s about to take flight herself.

“The world is changing, and so is cinema. Black Wing is the future of superhero vampire cinema and the future of how we see ourselves.”

The audience is eating out of her hand.

You watch from the wings, your jaw hanging open. “She’s killing it…”

Quinn looks like she might pass out. “She’s the shroom whisperer.”

Patty fans herself with a clipboard. “At this point if she pees, she pees. It’s still a win.”

Zoe continues, eyes sparkling. “So… are you ready to open your wings and fly into the darkness with us?!”

The crowd explodes with cheers, screams, people jumping out of seats. Zoe laughs, does a quick little spin, then struts offstage to a roaring ovation.

When she finally stumbles into the wings backstage, Zoe is panting, cheeks flushed, hair a little messy.

Maya rushes forward, grabbing her shoulders. “Holy fuck, Zoe. You did it.”

Zoe laughs, wild and breathless. “I almost peed… but I didn’t.”

After Zoe’s triumph, the team is buzzing, borderline feral, but hopeful for the first time all day. Patty steps forward, calm and collected amid the swirling chaos. She looks flawless, like she just walked off a private jet and didn’t just help revive a studio head with cocaine and drag him out of a fountain.

Matt stumbles forward, panicked. “Patty, you good? You ready?”

She gives him a single, curt nod. “I got this Matty.”

Then she adjusts her jacket, smooths her hair back, and heads for the stage without a second look back as she steps into the spotlight.

The crowd goes quiet, as she stands at the mic, eyes sweeping the massive room. “Vegas,” she says, voice warm and steady. The room laughs softly.

She pauses. Breathes.

“I’ve been coming to CinemaCon for thirty years,” she continues. “I’ve seen it all, bad deals, big bets, miraculous saves. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the only thing stronger than luck… is the movies.”

A ripple of applause.

“The movies can pull us back from the brink. They remind us who we are, and what we love. They bring us together, even when it feels like everything else is falling apart.”

Another gentle wave of applause, more heads nodding in the crowd.

Patty takes a beat, savoring it. “So, without further ado… I am so proud to present our next film, Silver Springs. A film about love, memory, forgiveness, and a little bit of chaos. I promise, this is one you’ll never forget.”

She gestures gracefully to the screen behind her.

The lights go down. The trailer starts rolling and you all stand there, staring at her like she just parted the Red Sea.

“She’s… she’s unreal,” you whisper, dazed.

Maya lets out a sharp breath, eyes shining with pride and adrenaline. “Fucking legend.”

Matt is tearing up, trying to hide it behind his hands. Quinn looks like she might faint. Sal’s frozen, mouth hanging open.

Patty walks offstage to a massive standing ovation, calm as ever. She steps into the wings, glances at all of you, and gives a tiny shrug, as if to say of course.

Maya just starts clapping, shaking her head, voice hoarse. “Goddamn it. She’s the only adult left here.”

Matt’s pacing in small, frantic circles. Sal’s wiping sweat from his forehead. Quinn is fanning herself with a stack of cue cards.

Maya checks her headset, voice sharp. “Okay, Stoller’s next. Let’s go.”

From the side stage, Nicholas Stoller steps forward, calm, confident, a huge contrast to what’s been happening backstage. He steps into the spotlight, big easy grin on his face.

“Vegas!” he booms, throwing his arms open. The audience laughs and cheers, the energy instantly lighter.

Stoller pauses, nodding with mock gravity.

“When I was a kid, I thought nothing was cooler than the Kool-Aid Man. He broke through walls, he was unstoppable… he was joy incarnate. And now…” he spreads his arms wider “we’re bringing that chaos to the big screen.”

A laugh ripples through the audience.

Stoller nods, pacing the stage with confidence. “This is a story about a world in crisis… and the one giant pitcher of sugar water who can save it. This is a movie about friendship, about redemption… and about absolutely demolishing drywall.”

The room erupts.

Stoller steps back, smiling, his voice ringing clear: “I’m thrilled to introduce… The Kool-Aid Movie. Let’s take a look.”

He gestures to the massive screen behind him.

The lights drop.

A huge, bass-thumping trailer kicks in with over-the-top action beats, giant colorful set pieces, slow-motion shots of the Kool-Aid Man crashing through walls, kids screaming in joy, explosions, big glossy title cards.

OH YEAH! roars across the screen.

The audience goes feral with huge cheers, whistles, and people jumping to their feet.

Backstage Maya lets out a long breath, her hand squeezing yours tight. “Oh my god,” she murmurs. “They’re actually buying it.”

You nod, wide-eyed, your red lips parting in a shaky grin. “It’s beautiful… in a horrifying, American nightmare kind of way.”

Matt is practically sobbing, hugging Quinn and Sal in turn. “We might actually survive this. We might actually do it.”

Patty stands off to the side, calmly checking her nails. “Told you.”

Back onstage the lights drop completely into deep, inky blackness. A hush washes over the audience, like they’re collectively holding their breath.

A single blood-red spotlight clicks on.

A figure steps forward into it: the director of your horror film, wild hair, long black coat, eyes dark and magnetic, radiating that eerie “art house horror” mystique.

They stop at the mic.

“Fear is the oldest story we tell each other,” they say, voice echoing, almost ritualistic. “It’s how we survive. How we find each other in the dark. And sometimes… how we lose ourselves completely.”

They pause, scanning the room, then lean in slightly.

“This… is The Witch’s Curse. A film about the price of desire. About the women we burn… and the ones who come back.” They step back, vanishing into the darkness.

The screen flickers to life, black frame, then a sudden shriek. Quick, haunting cuts: moonlit woods, blood-slick hands, a woman with her mouth sewn shut, a burning house, shadowy figures chanting, a single red eye opening in the dark.

Your studio logo hits the screen in stark white.

The words: WITCH’S CURSE. THIS HALLOWEEN.

For a beat, no one breathes. Then the entire room erupts, half in shock, half in thrilled, horrified excitement. Cheers mix with uneasy laughter. People are already whispering to each other, eyes wide, leaning forward.

Maya lunges forward, grabs your face in both hands, and kisses you deep and fierce, her nails digging lightly into your jaw.

You blink up at her, dazed, flushed. “Did I do good?”

She laughs, wild and giddy. “You’re terrifying. I’m so fucking proud of you.” She drops the clipboard and she surges forward, crashing her mouth to yours, hands tangling in your damp hair, kissing you hard, deep, desperate.

You moan into her mouth, clutching her jacket like you’ll fall apart without her.

She kisses you once more, quick and sharp, before finally pulling back, grabbing her clipboard again with shaking hands.

“Okay,” she rasps, clearing her throat. “Let’s fucking finish this.”

[theballadofharkness]

Hi! Just checking in to see how you’re doing and to say your updates are dearly missed!

Oh honey thank you for asking x I’m doing much better now work is less horrendously all consuming so be prepared for my attention to be lavished on you with many many updates coming xo so far I have 11 drafts in need of editing so I am working my way through as we speak 😉 xo

[theballadofharkness]

hi hi hi!! i know you said you’re gonna be posting some agatha x reader soon (desperately hoping it’s harken the shadows, im DYING for more!), but i was wondering if you had any plan to continue other stories like what happens in vegas or whiskey & wine? your writing and plots are genuinely some of my most favorite out there, so really any new updates will be amazing i just had to ask!! hope you’re doing well!!!!

Hello Angel! I’m doing okay, works been hectic recently but I will be back on it now things are beginning to calm down again which means…. More Whisky and Wine! More Maya! More Harken the Shadows! More Agatha! I’ll definitely be continuing all of my multiple part fics love xo

Till then, make sure you catch up on all my Agatha, Maya and Claire here! Main Masterlist

[theballadofharkness]

Guess who spent £60 on her new prized possession…

Some Agatha x fem!reader coming very soon my loves 💜🪻

[theballadofharkness]

Going to the Globes

She’s with with the Director Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x FemDirector!reader

Summary: When the Golden Globe nominations come in, your horror film doesn’t just make the list, it dominates it. Best Picture. Best Script. Best Director. Maya, your girlfriend-slash-marketing queen, is the first person to know. She’s never been invited to the Globes before, but when you tell her she’s your plus one, it changes everything.

Word Count: 8K

Warnings: Explicit smut so as always MDNI

A/N: Part 1 of my Golden Globes fic is here!! X it can be read as a stand alone but be aware the actual ceremony and after party will be the follow up! Xx

You’re still in bed when the phone rings.

Silk sheets twisted around your legs. The black-out curtains are drawn, keeping the room dim even though it’s nearly ten. You haven’t checked your phone, haven’t turned on the TV. You’re floating in that warm, suspended space between sleep and thought, your body still loose and boneless from last night, Maya’s hands, Maya’s mouth, Maya whispering something about “kissing her lucky charm” before slipping out the door in a bomber jacket and Balenciaga slides.

The phone buzzes again.

You reach out blindly across the nightstand, knocking over a heavy book and a glass of water in the process. Your fingers finally close around your phone.

<Maya Mason: Incoming Call…>

You answer with a sleepy mumble. “Baby?”

There’s a pause, like she’s trying to find breath, but then she’s there, crackling and frantic and utterly not composed.

“Can you come to the office?”

You blink, pushing yourself upright with a groan. Your hair’s a mess. You’re in one of her old oversized tees with the neckline ripped. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No — I mean yes — fuck, yes, I’m fine, it’s just — can you just come to Continental?” She sounds like she’s pacing. Like she’s mid-coffee, mid-freakout, mid-something.

Your heart kicks. “Maya? What happened?”

You hear her sigh and then go softer, “please? For me?”

You swing your legs out of bed, all sleep forgotten. “Okay. Baby… okay. I’m coming.”

There’s a breath on the other end of the line, like she’s relieved just hearing your voice. “Just get here. As fast as you can.”

~

Matt’s mid-rant, his arms flailing, a mouth full of almond croissant, saying something about needing “more relatability” on the Kool-Aid movie, when the door flies open.

Maya doesn’t knock.

Matt jolts upright behind his desk, knocking over an iced coffee and a stack of scripts. “Jesus Christ! Maya?”

“WE’RE GOING TO THE GLOBES FUCKERS.”

He blinks. “What?”

Maya Mason, the designer whirlwind that she is, is already halfway into the room, breathless, glowing, hair wild from her frantic walk-run across the floor. Her phone’s still in her hand like she sprinted straight from the call.

She repeats herself, slower. “We’re going to the Golden Globes.”

Matt straightens. “Wait… what?”

She grins, all teeth, eyes sparkling like a woman who’s just pulled off the marketing coup of the decade.

“Don’t play with me right now, Maya.”

“It’s confirmed.” Maya presses both palms down on his desk, practically vibrating. “The Witch. Her film. My girl’s film. It’s nominated. For multiple categories. And she…” Maya chokes, then laughs, then says it again like she can’t quite believe it herself, “she’s nominated for Best Director.”

Matt goes silent.

Maya counts them off, fingers shaking with adrenaline. “Best Director. Best Picture. Best Score. Best Script. Best Actress for Tilda.”

A beat.

Matt screams. “I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

He’s out of his chair, knocking into his standing desk controls, sending it up at a weird angle. “This is it. This is our moment. This is my Rosemary’s Baby, you marketing GENIUS! This is our fucking moon landing!”

Maya snorts. “She’s going to hate you for saying that.”

“I don’t care.” He’s already pacing. “We need to do a full rollout. Press, social, that Variety piece she agreed to — fuck, fuck, we’re going to have a table, right? Like an actual table?”

Maya just laughs. She’s flushed. Breathless. Beaming. “She’s gonna be a wreck. She hasn’t even checked her phone yet.”

“She has to win something right?! All those nominations! Fuck horror films never fucking get this level of respect!” Matt was practically vibrating on the spot.

“And she’s the youngest woman ever nominated in both categories.” Maya adds smugly.

Matt grabs his phone, starts firing off voice memos. “Petra. Confirm a table. I want to be in the front. Score guy, Tilda, Patty, me, see who else from the main cast and production can be seated.”

Maya says nothing. She’s still standing by the door. Her hand is clenched around the phone.

Matt looks up, grinning. “You look like you just won something too.”

She shrugs. “It’s her win. And it’s a Continental win.”

“You should be there. Without you, we wouldn’t have this win Maya” Matt softened for a second to give credit where credit is due.

She smiles again, tighter this time. Familiar. A little sad. “No one invites marketing to the Globes, Matt.”

And before he can say anything else, she turns and walks out, already dialing.

~

The champagne’s already flowing.

Matt’s got a flute in each hand. Patty’s sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking her feet in sparkly mules and laughing about something Quinn just said. Sal’s slumped in the armchair, half-celebrating, half-scowling because it wasn’t his project that got five nominations and made the industry wet itself.

The door swings open hard.

Maya strides back in, sleek and flushed and thrumming. She doesn’t wait. She snatches a glass off the tray, tips her head back, downs it in one long pull.

Everyone stares.

“Jesus,” Quinn mutters, impressed.

“She’s gonna be here in fifteen,” Maya announces, setting the empty glass down with a little clink. “I’m telling her then.”

Matt spins. “Wait she still doesn’t know?!”

“Nope.”

Patty blinks. “How?”

Maya shrugs. “She doesn’t do the internet.”

“Seriously?”

“She’s like a cryptid. A sexy, blood-soaked cryptid who only comes out to direct a movie and then disappears back into the mist with a scarf over her face.”

“She’s literally nominated for five awards how the fuck does she still not know?!” Sal laughs.

“I know,” Maya says, eyes shining. “And she probably hasn’t even opened her texts yet. She still has a flip phone somewhere in our underwear drawer. She’s gonna walk in here wearing my t-shirt and Prada sunglasses and act like nothing happened.”

Quinn shakes her head in awe. “She’s a fucking icon.”

“She’s my icon,” Maya says, softer now. “And I get to tell her she just changed her life.”

The room quiets a little.

Even Sal manages a slow clap.

Matt raises his glass. “To the freak in the shadows.”

“To the witch with the camera,” Patty adds.

“To her,” Maya says.

They all clink glasses just as the elevator dings down the hall.

The elevator doors part with a hiss.

You step out like a specter: long coat over sleep-rumpled silk, dark sunglasses, hair long and unbrushed. One hand clutches a tray, iced coffee with too many pumps of vanilla, a warmed muffin tucked into a napkin. The other holds your phone, screen cracked, texts unopened.

You’re not online. You’re not part of the buzz. All you know is Maya sounded off, her voice too high, too breathless, asking you to come in “please, just for me.” So you came. Muffin and caffeine in hand. Worry coiled tight in your ribs.

The office hallway is loud.

You hear the champagne laughter before you even round the corner. A glass shatters. Someone yells. Patty shrieks something about her couture.

You pause, shifting the tray in your hands. “Oh no,” you mutter under your breath. “They’re drunk.”

You nudge the door open with your shoulder.

She turns the second she hears the door click. Maya’s eyes flick to your hands, and something breaks in her.

You don’t even get a word out before she’s striding over.

“It sounded serious so I got the coffee you like,” you say, holding it up stupidly. “And the muffin with the—”

She grabs your face with both hands and kisses you. Hard. Right there, in front of everyone. It’s not a show. It’s not for the room. It’s relief. Euphoria. Pride. Love.

You drop the tray.

The coffee hits the floor.

Nobody cares.

When she finally pulls back, her hands still cradling your jaw, you blink up at her.

“What… was that for?”

Maya’s eyes are glassy. Her voice is soft. “You’re nominated.”

You blink again. “For…?”

She laughs and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your mouth again. “Golden Globes baby. Best Director. Best Script. Best Picture. Tilda got Actress. Score too. Five nominations.”

The world tilts.

You sway slightly, and Maya’s arms are already there. Holding you steady. “Oh,” you whisper.

Behind her, Sal screams, “YOU’RE A FUCKING LEGEND.”

You don’t hear it.

You’re just staring at Maya, lips parted, stunned and still. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called?” you whisper.

“I wanted to do it in person,” she says. “I wanted to see your face.”

You blink once. Twice. Then bury your face in her neck. “Oh my god.”

“I know, baby,” she murmurs, holding you close. “I know.”

You’re still next to Maya. One arm looped around her waist. Your body is humming. Your spilled coffee is forgotten on the floor.

Matt’s in full award show mode. He’s pacing, phone in hand, rattling off strategy like a man possessed.

“Okay. Carpet first. You’ll talk to Vanity Fair mic, E! livestream, the usual outlets with Tilda and Dafoe. You’re gonna be the director they will want to talk to!”

You nod vaguely, still trying to process.

“Then there’s the luncheon thing, you’re gonna hate the luncheon but the food is surprisingly good,” Matt interjects, “and then the red carpet, obviously, then we end up at the table right up front. You, me, Patty, the score guy, Tilda, some of the cast and crew…”

You blink. “Where’s Maya?”

Matt looks up. “What?”

“For the Globes,” you say. “Where’s she sitting?”

There’s a pause.

Matt chuckles awkwardly. “Oh… marketing doesn’t usually go to awards stuff.”

“It’s a very exclusive event,” Patty adds. “It’s producers, talent, and studio heads like Matty. Not marketing.”

You turn your head slowly. Look at Maya.

She’s frozen. Just for a second. Then she laughs. That classic Maya Mason laugh, tight, breathy, self-deprecating. “Yeah, no, I’m not going. I mean, I never go. I’ll be running point from here. Social, press strategy, everything the next morning—”

“No.” Your voice is quiet but sharp.

Matt freezes. “Uh. No to what?”

You look at him like it’s obvious. “Maya has to be with me for all of it. My girlfriend goes or I don’t. It’s that simple.”

There’s a pause.

Matt blinks. “You mean, like… on the carpet?”

You just stare. “Yes,” you say. “On the carpet. At the table. At the fucking afterparty. Maya’s with me.”

Everyone turns to look at Maya.

And Maya? She lights the fuck up.She stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted. The kind of expression Maya Mason never wears. Not in meetings. Not in negotiations. Not even when she’s talking someone into a seven-figure deal with nothing but a smile and a slideshow.

She looks like someone just cracked open her ribs and kissed her heart.

“Wait, wait, wait… are you for real?” she says, eyes wide. “You want me, like ‘with you’, with you? Like, holding your hand on the carpet, getting glammed, ‘who are you wearing?’ energy, next to you at the table kind of with you?”

You nod once.

She gasps like someone just offered her equity in Valentino.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going to the fucking Golden Globes.”

Matt stares. “Okay well I guess we need another seat.”

“She’s sitting next to me,” you say. “Center.”

Sal whistles. “Fuck. Okay.”

And Maya, still blinking, still breathless, leans in and kisses you, messy and fast and grateful, like she’s trying not to cry but maybe doesn’t care if she does.

She turns to you, a little out of breath.

“I get to stand next to you. While you win. I’m gonna be the first person to touch you when you come off that stage. That’s so… I mean that’s so fucking hot.”

You blink, then smile.

She smiles too.

You reach out, hook a finger through her belt loop, and pull her back toward you.

“I want you there,” you say. “You’re the other half of my soul.”

Maya exhales, soft and wrecked. “Damn right I am.”

The next hour passes like a blur. You’re curled on the couch next to Maya, your legs over hers, stealing lazy kisses while she tries to act composed. Matt begins pacing as the calls start rolling in, congratulating him on the nominations, questions about Oscar buzz, various brands reaching out for sponsorships, representatives of the Award Show itself talking logistics. Sal’s taken to sulking upon learning he’d have to fork out $30K for a seat at the back of the room. Patty is regaling tales of her first Globes night to Quinn.

Then Tyler walks in, holding his iPad like it’s a message from God.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Maison Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Prada, and Gucci have all reached out. They want to dress the whole ‘The Witch’ team.”

There’s a pause. The room buzzes.

You glance up from your spot curled on the couch, still half-tucked into Maya’s side. Voice low, calm.

“Maya likes dressing up,” you say softly. “She can choose. As long as they agree to dress her too.”

The room freezes.

Maya turns to you slowly.

“Wait. what?”

You blink at her. “You’re coming. With me. So they have to dress you too. If they want me.”

Maya stares at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality. “… I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”

Quinn mutters, “Oh fuck, she’s gonna lose it.”

You meet her eyes, deadpan. “Well if they want me, then they have to dress you too.”

Her mouth drops open. “ON GOD?!”

Patty snorts.

Sal chuckles, “Here we go.”

But Maya is gone. She’s up. She’s pacing. She’s vibrating.

“Shut the fuck up,” Maya snaps, eyes still on you. “Are you being serious right now? Are you… you’re telling me that I get to pick any of those designers I spend half my paycheck on, walk the carpet in full glam, next to you, and actually get photographed and credited and tagged and asked who I’m wearing?!”

You nod, amused. “Well yes, that’s the plan.”

“On fucking GOD?!”

She screams. She stands. She immediately circles the room like she’s trying to walk it off but can’t. “Shut UP. Shut the fuck UP. I’m gonna be hot at the Globes?! Me?! In Margiela?? With the winning director of the night?! I’m gonna be someone’s Pinterest board. I’m gonna be on every gay moodboard in the country—” she began to waffle on in pure unfiltered joy.

You smile softly, eyes lowered. “Honey, I haven’t won. I’m nominated, there’s a difference”

Matt watches her spin out and says, “She’s not gonna make it to the carpet.”

Maya turns back to you, breathless. “Are you really serious?”

You nod, smiling at her unbridled joy. “Deadly.”

Maya melts. Fully drops her phone, rushes across the room, and kisses your face, your cheeks, temple, and all the way up your jawline in a blur. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she mutters into your hair. “And I work in marketing.”

You blush, becoming shy. “Love you.”

“I’m gonna fuck you in a McQueen bustier,” she announces.

Quinn cackles.

Patty groans. “Jesus Christ, Maya…”

“No. You don’t get it. You don’t get it. I feel like I’m being proposed to. I’m gonna cry and then ride your face in couture.”

You raise your brows, soft and steady. “So… can we go back home?”

Maya grabs your wrist like she’s about to drag you into a supply closet. “I need you. Now. Or I’m going to black out.”

You can’t help but laugh, letting her pull you toward the door.

Matt yells, “Maya, think of HR … Maya? MAYA!”

~

The door of Maya’s office slams shut behind you.

You barely have time to register the sound before Maya’s mouth is on yours—hot, open, starving. She’s kissing you like her hands are on fire, like she’s waited her whole life for this moment and just realized it’s real.

You stumble backwards with her, tangled in her grip, until your back hits the sleek marble of her desk. Papers scatter. Her laptop slides. You don’t care. Neither does she.

“Baby,” she gasps between kisses. “You just, fuck, you broke me.”

You smile against her lips, smug and breathless. “You like designer dresses that much?”

She moans and kisses you harder.

“You’re going to the Golden fucking Globes,” she pants, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like she wants to crawl inside you.

“We” you corrected breathlessly, “we are going to the Golden Globes”

“And you just told four fashion houses to fight for the right to put me in a free fucking gown?! Are you, god, are you trying to kill me?”

You murmur cheekily, “Maybe.”

She groans, attaching her mouth to your throat. “I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.”

You arch into her, neck tilted, letting her press you flat against the desk.

“You’re gonna win,” she whispers, voice shaking with pride. “You’re gonna win Best Director and look like a fuckin spooky goddess or something doing it. And I get to be there. Next to you. In fucking Prada.”

She kisses you again, messy, desperate, and worshipful, like she’s trying to eat the words off your lips. “I swear to god,” she breathes, “you say one more thing nice to me and I’m gonna—”

You cut her off with a whisper: “You deserve all of it.”

She whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Okay,” she says, hitching your skirt up to your hips, “I need you now. I’m about to climax just thinking about a Maison Margiela custom glove moment. I’m going to come just from being tagged in a Getty caption next to you.”

You laugh into her mouth. “Maya—”

“No. Shut up. My girlfriend’s a genius auteur witch who gets nominated for Globes and tells Gucci to dress me like I’m a fashion icon. I’m fucking feral, do you understand?”

You nod.

And then you gasp as she drops to her knees.

Your breath catches, your hands automatically go to her shoulders, fingers curling in the soft stretch of her tee. “Maya…”

“No. No talking.” Her voice is low. Dangerous. Reverent.

She looks up at you like you’re sacred. Like you’re art. And you are, pressed against her desk, blouse open, breath coming shallow, eyes glassy and dark.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk in here,” she growls, “casually say ��Maya can pick the designer,’ like that’s nothing, and not ruin you?”

You tremble. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive.

“Maya, please…”

“Say it again.”

You blink, breathless. “Say what?”

“What you said that made me drop to my fucking knees.”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve all of it.”

She groans, like the words physically affect her. “Oh my god,” she mutters, pushing your skirt up, “I’m gonna be good to you for weeks.”

And then her mouth is on you.

You cry out, a sharp, broken thing, and clutch the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

She eats your pussy like she’s starved. Like you’re a goddess that demands worship through orgasms alone. Like you belong to her.

Her tongue is fast, her grip unrelenting. She moans into you, arms wrapped around your thighs, hands sliding under your ass to pull you closer. She’s possessed, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring her to this plane of existence.

You whimper. Your knees buckle. “Maya… baby, please, please—kiss me?”

She pulls back, lips slick, panting. “You want kisses, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet. “Please. Need you.”

“Oh my fucking god.” She’s up, grabbing your face, devouring your mouth like she’s claiming it. “You sound so pretty when you beg.”

You’re gasping into her kiss, your fingers gripping the hem of her pants, trying to pull her closer, anything, everything.

She kisses you harder. Slower. Deeper.

“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth.

You whimper again. “I love you. I love you Maya…”

She presses you back against the desk again, her hand sliding between your thighs, fingers slick and steady.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Be good for me. My girl. My babygirl. Gonna come for me?”

You nod, desperate.

And when it hits, when your body breaks open under her touch, she kisses you through it, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your neck, like she’s tasting every part of you, like you just made her immortal.

You slump against her, dazed. Shaking.

She holds you there, her fingers stroking gently over your thighs, her mouth pressed to your hair.

“You just gave me the best gift of my entire life,” she murmurs.

You blink up at her, eyes full of tears. “What, the Globes?”

“No,” she whispers, eyes full of something dangerous and devoted. “You want to tell the world you’re mine.”

~

You wake up sick. It’s not the flu. Not food poisoning. Not anything you can name. Just that slow, steady churn in your stomach. Dread curling under your ribs. Your body feels tight and hollow all at once.

It’s still dark outside.

And you’re still wrapped in Maya.

She’s asleep, limbs tangled in yours, bare skin pressed to bare skin. One arm flung over your waist. Her hand resting just beneath your breast. Her face tucked into your neck like she doesn’t want to miss even a breath of you.

You should feel safe.

But your throat is tight, your skin itches with nerves.

You can’t stop thinking that today is the Golden Globes. Today you’re going to walk a red carpet. Today you might win. Today you’ll be paraded out like a show pony. Fully. Publicly.

And all you want is to disappear.

You bury your face deeper into Maya’s neck, your breath shaking. You try to be still. Try not to wake her. But your hands shake where they grip her waist. You feel like a ghost in your own body.

You whisper, “I don’t want to go.”

She stirs. Not fully awake, just half-dreaming, but her grip tightens around you.

“You cold?” she mumbles, voice wrecked with sleep.

You shake your head.

But you don’t speak again. You just bury closer. Tangle your legs around hers. Press your face into the curve of her shoulder and try not to cry.

You need her. Today. Now. More than ever.

Because if she lets go, even for a second, you’re afraid you might float away.

Maya stirs again.

A soft grunt in the back of her throat as she shifts, adjusting to your closeness. Her nose brushes your hairline. She mumbles something incoherent, fingers flexing over your waist.

Then she stills.

She feels it.

The tension. The way your breath is caught in your throat. The way your body’s curled into hers like a girl trying to disappear. Her brows twitch. One eye opens.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice scratchy and deep, barely awake. “What’s goin’ on, baby?”

You shake your head into her chest, arms clutching her tighter. You don’t answer.

She blinks herself more awake. “Are you—?” She pauses. Then, gentler. “You feel sick?”

A nod. Small. Barely there.

Maya lets out a soft exhale. Both arms curl around you, wrapping you up like you’re something precious. Her lips find your hair. She kisses your temple. Your cheekbone. The top of your ear.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

You press your face into her skin. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not cold. It’s just everything.

“I don’t wanna go,” you murmur, voice trembling. “I don’t wanna be looked at. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Her mouth finds your jaw, slow and steady. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” she says. “You’re not on a carpet. You’re here. With me. You’re just a sleepy little cryptid in my bed and I’m gonna hold you till you remember how fucking brilliant you are.”

You make a broken little sound.

Maya kisses it away.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispers. “You made something huge. You told the world who you are. And now they’re celebrating you for it. That’s terrifying. But I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Her hand drifts down your back, drawing soft circles into your spine.

“You’re my genius. My scary, spooky little auteur,” she murmurs. “I’m gonna zip you into that dress and stand next to you all night and remind them all who they’re dealing with. But right now? I’m just gonna keep kissing you until you fall back asleep or start complaining about how I can’t wear latex on the carpet.”

You let out a soft laugh. A real one. “It just feels too impractical for an event where we’re will be predominantly sat” you explained softly

Her smile presses into your skin.

“That’s it,” she says. “There’s my baby.”

You don’t say anything.

You just cling tighter.

And let her hold you until the world feels a little less loud.

The sunlight is creeping in now.

It catches in the fine strands of Maya’s hair, paints gold across her cheekbone, her collarbone, the curve of her bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped.

She’s propped up on one elbow, trying to be gentle about it. Trying not to pull away too fast. “Baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair back. “We have to start getting ready.”

You shake your head, face buried in her neck. “No.”

“They’re gonna be here in, like, twenty minutes.”

“No.”

She laughs softly. “Glam team’s gonna break the door down and find us naked and fused together like a two-headed banshee.”

“Good.”

Maya strokes your back, slow and soothing. “Come on. You’ve got a dress that could raise the dead. You’ve got Tilda waiting to take shots with you. You’ve got a nomination for Best Fucking Director.”

You cling tighter, “don’t remind me”

She kisses your temple. “You can do this.”

You just kiss her neck.

Then her shoulder.

Then her mouth.

Soft, needy, warm. Not trying to start anything. Just needing to feel her. Just needing to stay close.

“I can’t breathe when you’re not here,” you whisper. “I know that’s pathetic.”

Maya’s hand finds your jaw. Tilts your face up.

“Not pathetic,” she says. “Human.”

You blink at her, eyes glossy. “Can we just… stay like this?”

She smiles. “We can stay like this for exactly seven more minutes. Then you have to let me put fancy shit on your face and help you into a dress that’s going to make people cry.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Promise you won’t leave me tonight?”

She pulls you closer. “Baby, I’m gonna be on you like a second skin. I am not letting go. I’ll hold your hand on the carpet. I’ll kiss your shoulder if you get nervous. And if anyone even thinks about asking who I am, I’ll say, ‘I’m the bitch she wakes up next to.’”

You let out a broken little laugh. “That’s romantic.”

“I thought so.”

You kiss her again.

And again.

And again.

Until your fingers stop shaking and your heart starts to believe her.

You keep kissing her. Lazy, insistent, endless.

Maya’s half-laughing now, propped up on her elbow as you shift to press your mouth to her collarbone, then her sternum, then her jaw. Each kiss is soft and clinging, more plea than seduction. Your fingers trace her ribs like she’s something fragile. Like she’s your last warm thing.

“Baby…” she breathes, somewhere between a moan and a warning. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna cancel the Globes.”

You smile into her skin. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Oh my god.” She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “You’re such a menace.”

You crawl after her, half-draped across her chest, eyes shut, lips brushing her throat. “I just want to stay here. With you. That’s all I want.”

Maya sighs, curling an arm around your waist. “You say that like it’s unreasonable. You say that like I’m not also living for this.” She turns her head, kisses your temple. “But we do need to go. Eventually. Like, very soon. Very awards-season soon.”

“No,” you growled against her throat.

“I love you, but you’re literally the reason they make schedules. The glam team is gonna riot.”

“They can wait.”

Maya laughs. Full-bodied. Real. Her hand rubs your back, fingers lazy. “They’re probably outside trying to break into the house.”

“I have protection spells around the property, I’m not worried” you shrug and kiss her again. And again. Your leg hooks over hers, your nose presses into her neck, and your whole body sighs like it’s finally safe.

“I don’t want to be anyone else’s today,” you whisper. “I just want to be yours.”

Maya’s hand pauses on your back.

Then she flips the blanket higher over both of you, tucking you in like something sacred. She kisses your hairline, long and lingering.

“You’re always mine,” she murmurs. “Whether you’re in a gown or in this bed. Whether you win or not. You’re mine.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” she adds. “Cameras or not. You just keep looking at me. I’ll do the rest.”

You finally lift your eyes to hers. “Swear?”

“On Margiela. On the Prada. On fuckin Valentino. On your haunted little heart.”

You lean in and kiss her again, longer this time. Less desperation. More knowing.

You’re going to go.

Eventually.

Maya doesn’t force you. She just starts moving slowly, like she’s done it a hundred times before. You feel her shift beside you, warmth leaving your chest as she rises, but her hands stay on you. One trailing along your hip. The other brushing back your hair.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you ready.”

You make a soft noise. Protest. Not quite no, but not yes either.

She leans down and kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the spot just behind your ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “I’ll do it all. Just come sit up for me.”

You blink slowly. Your chest feels full. Heavy. But you nod.

She coaxes you upright with warm hands, murmuring gentle things into your skin as she helps you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The sheet drops away, and the room is cool, but she’s already reaching for the robe draped over the armchair, wrapping it around your shoulders like it’s armor.

“There she is,” Maya says softly. “My scary little director. Sweetest thing in the world after noon.”

You don’t answer, you just look up at her from where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. Eyes glossy. Lip trembling.

Her teasing dies the second she sees your face. “Oh,” she breathes. “Baby.”

You try to look away, but she’s already kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

She reaches up, brushes a thumb under your eye. “You don’t have to be.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at her, really stare? and it hits you all over again. How she’s always there. How she never makes you feel too much. How she shows up, always, without asking for anything back. And now she’s kneeling in front of you in a silk robe and nothing else, kissing your knees like you’re a holy thing.

“I’m gonna take care of you today,” she promises. “You don’t even have to think. You just let them glam you up, let them put you in that gown, and you keep holding my hand.”

You nod. Barely.

She kisses your knees again. Stands. “Let me do your hair.”

She leads you gently to the vanity, settles you in her lap like you weigh nothing, and starts brushing long, careful strokes down your back, her lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds, just to remind you she’s still there.

“You’re gonna ruin them,” she whispers. “You’re gonna walk in and every exec who passed on you is gonna spontaneously combust. It’s gonna be so hot.”

You let out a broken laugh. She smiles into your neck.

You hear them before you see them.

Laughter. Heels. The rustle of garment bags. Someone’s yelling about steaming silk like the world is ending.

Maya kisses your cheek, still in her robe, her hair pinned up with golden clips. “They’re here.”

You nod, still sitting quietly at the vanity. The robe clutched tight around you like it’s armor. You’re doing better, your hands have mostly stopped shaking, but you still flinch a little when the door opens.

Tyler walks in first. “Okayyyy ladies,” he calls, grinning like he lives here. “Let’s get glam, baby.”

He’s in a blazer over a vintage silk shirt, juggling two iced coffees and an iPad. He hands one to Maya, kisses the top of your head without asking, and offers the other to you.

“Oat milk, two brown sugars,” he says. “I doubled checked with Maya yesterday that this was your order”

You take it. “Thank you, Tyler.”

“No problem, queen of horror.” He leans in, voice soft, conspiratorial. “You doing okay?”

You nod, small.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Cool. We’ll keep it chill.”

And he does.

Even as the glam team floods in, stylists, dressers, a makeup artist with fangs on her necklace, Tyler runs interference like a champ. You sit still, sipping your coffee, letting them work around you. He distracts the loud ones. Gently redirects energy away from you when he sees your hands start to twitch.

But Maya?

Maya is in her element.

She’s standing by the mirror in nothing but her robe, bare leg peeking out, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone like she’s the main event. Every few seconds she flings off a line like—

“Wait, if I wear the gloves, do I need earrings or is that redundant couture?”

or

“Is it bad if I bring a purse just for lip gloss and a single Xanax? I want to look like I don’t need it but still have it.”

You catch yourself watching her in the mirror.

Lit up. Confident. Buzzing.

And somewhere deep in your ribs, something unclenches. You’re still nervous. But she’s here. She’s glowing. She’s yours. And she’s making sure the world sees it.

Every time she catches your eye, she winks. “Looking good, babygirl,” she purrs. “They’re not ready for us.”

You’re back on the couch, fresh-faced and wrapped in a robe, while the stylists float around you like shadows. You’re not the focus right now.

Maya is.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, robe half-open, skin glowing under soft ring lights. Her hair is already pinned in place, voluminous, glossy, old Hollywood waves with a modern, streetwear slick edge. Her skin is golden. Lips subtly and strategically glossed.

“Okay, I need the cuff on the left arm, stacked rings on the right,” she says, gesturing toward the tray of jewelry like she’s conducting an orchestra. “No necklace. This neckline’s doing the work.”

Tyler hands her a tray. “Margiela said the gloves are optional but—”

“Gloves are non-negotiable,” Maya cuts in.

You smile behind your coffee cup.

A stylist holds up two clutches.

Maya points. “The smaller one. I don’t need a purse, I need a statement. I’ll shove my ID and a breath mint in my bra like a professional.”

She turns suddenly, locking eyes with you. “Baby, are you watching this? I’m literally manifesting myself into becoming a fashion icon.”

You nod, soft. “You’re doing amazing honey.”

Her grin is crooked, cocky, a little breathless. “I feel like I’m finally able to realise my true potential.”

She steps into the dress, stylists zipping it up in the back. Maya smooths the fabric over her hips, breath hitching. “Okay. Okay. Oh my god, this is dangerous. I’m gonna get arrested. This is red carpet porn.”

Tyler chimes in, totally deadpan. “Your ass should have its own IG.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Finally, someone respects my craft.”

She turns again, checks her profile, lifts one brow.

“You think it’s too much?” she asks you, suddenly quiet. “I mean, I don’t want to outshine you or—”

“No,” you say, and your voice is clear now. “It’s perfect. You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Maya stops.

Softens.

Then gives you that smile. The one that means she’s about to either cry or climb into your lap.

But instead, she straightens her gloves. “Okay. I’m ready to make the Globes my bitch.”

Now it’s your turn.

The team moves around you with quiet precision, zippers whispering, brushes sweeping, powder settling like dust on old bone. You sit still. You let them paint you pale, line your eyes dark, twist your hair into something loose and long and dreamlike.

No sharp angles. No harsh lines.

You are not Maya Mason. You are something softer. Stranger. The goal is not to look hot but older than time.

Your gown is dark, sleek in some places, sheer in others, as if the fabric had been conjured rather than sewn. There’s something witchy in the cut, the drape, the way the hem moves like fog over the floor. You look like someone who should arrive at the Globes in a hearse pulled by a murder of crows.

And Maya?

Maya’s staring. From her spot on the bench, already fully dressed, gloves on, lip gloss perfect, she watches you like she’s being haunted.

“Holy shit,” she says, under her breath.

You glance up at her. Your makeup artist gently adjusts your chin. “Too much?” you murmur, self-conscious.

Maya laughs like you’ve just asked if the sun’s too bright. “You look like a bride of Dracula.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a compliment?”

Maya stands. Walks over slowly. “Baby,” she says, low and reverent, “you look like the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. You look like you’re gonna win Best Director and then ascend into mist.”

You smile, small and shy.

She steps behind you, hands careful on your waist. Her fingers skim the edge of the fabric, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “Let them talk,” she whispers. “Let them stare. You’re gonna take their breath away.”

She kisses the space just beneath your ear. “You don’t even have to say a word. They’ll still know who you are.”

You reach up, place your hand over hers. And for a second, the glam team disappears. The camera flashes, the nerves, the noise, it all fades.

It’s just you, her, and the quiet, staggering love between you.

The room is buzzing.Hair is done. Gowns are zipped. A shoe emergency has been narrowly avoided. Tyler is packing backup earrings into a clutch like he’s handling explosives.

And Maya, your goddess, menace, and marketing warlord, is perfection.

She stands by the mirror, hands on her hips, giving angles to no one in particular. Her dress fits like it was born for her. Her gloves are on. Her lip gloss is dangerous. She is peak Mason.

And you? You’re watching her like she’s prey.

“Maya,” you murmur.

She turns, distracted. “Yeah, baby?”

You reach out and tug her hand, just slightly. Just enough. She comes closer without thinking. She always does.

You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her gently toward you. Your voice is a whisper. “I wanna make out.”

Maya raises an eyebrow. “Now?”

You nod. “Right now.”

She glances over her shoulder, Tyler’s muttering something about boob tape to a stylist. The rest of the team is sorting lashes and lint rollers.

Maya leans in, lips already parted, ready to give it to you when one of the stylists shrieks.

“No no no no NO—” she protests, diving forward with a powder brush. “LIP GLOSS!”

Maya pulls back fast, blinking. “Oh shit.”

“I just finished her mouth,” the artist wails. “She’s flawless. She has a perfect lip. You’ll ruin it!”

Maya stares at you. Then at the mirror. Then sighs. “Okay yeah no I do look hot as fuck right now. Baby we have to wait”

But you’re already grabbing at her waist again, pouting. “Just one kiss,” you whisper. “I’ll be good.”

She groans. “Fuck. Don’t do that face.” She leans in an inch. “You’re gonna make me throw this whole look away just to crawl on top of you in custom couture.”

Tyler yells from across the room, “IF YOU MESS UP YOUR FACES I WILL TELL VOGUE YOU USED DRUGSTORE CONCEALER.”

Maya barks out a laugh. “Okay, okay! Baby, you get one kiss. A chaste kiss. Like we’re in a fuckin Austen novel.”

You nod sweetly.

Then pull her down and absolutely ruin her. You kiss her hard, hot, a little greedy. One hand in her hair. Her lip gloss smudges immediately and she lets out a whimper into your mouth.

You pull back, breathless. Smiling.

Maya looks wrecked and radiant. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re a menace. And I’m obsessed with you.”

Tyler walks by, muttering, “I swear to god, next time I’m bringing a squirt bottle.”

~

You’re in the backseat of a luxury black SUV.

There’s soft music playing. Everything smells like leather and floral setting spray. Maya’s phone is buzzing with texts from Tyler, updates from PR, a Vogue intern begging for a quote.

You don’t care about any of it.

Because Maya’s sitting next to you in full couture. Hair glossy, lip gloss reapplied to perfection, gloves smoothed up to her elbows. She’s crossed her legs, her slit high and skin golden, and her head is tilted ever so slightly, scanning her texts like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to you.

You squirm in your seat. Not dramatically. Just… a shift. A subtle exhale. A whine caught in your throat.

Maya glances over. “Baby...”

“I can’t wait.”

She raises a brow. “Can’t wait for what?”

You look at her, actually look at her, and you’re down so bad. The gloves. The gown. The smug little smirk she doesn’t even know she’s wearing. You’re not okay.

“I need you.”

Maya blinks. “Oh no.”

You shift again, pressing your thighs together. Your hand lands gently on her knee. She looks down at it like it’s a threat.

“Baby,” she says, voice hushed but sharp, “I am in custom Margiela. You can’t just squirm at me in archival silk.”

You lean closer. Breathe her in. “You look so good. It’s making me crazy.”

She clenches her jaw. “Fuck.”

You nuzzle into her shoulder. “Want you so bad.”

She laughs, nervous, aroused and a little desperate. “I cannot finger you in a moving vehicle on the way to the Golden Globes, babe.”

You pout. Whisper against her neck. “Don’t need that. Just your mouth. One kiss.”

“No, because you say ‘one’ and then suddenly we’re dry humping in designer dresses. You’re literally twitching. You’re like a Victorian ghost who caught a glimpse of bare ankle.”

You groan softly, dragging your fingers up her thigh. “You smell like a hot rich woman who I want to ruin me in a guest bathroom.”

“I am that,” she mutters. “But not in this dress.”

You shift again. She lets out a strangled sound and grabs your wrist.

“No. No no no. You need to calm down. This outfit is structured. There is boning. If you wrinkle me before Getty Images even sees me, I swear to god—”

You press your face into her shoulder, laughing softly, desperate. “But you’re so pretty.”

She leans over, kisses your temple, quick, firm, and breathy. “Five minutes, babygirl,” she says. “Hold it together. When we get through the carpet, I’ll find us a bathroom and ruin your mascara.”

You exhale. Shiver. “Okay,” you whisper.

She pulls your hand into hers, holds it tight on her thigh.

“Deep breaths,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna kill them all. And then you can climb me like a tree.”

The SUV door opens and the sound hits you like a wave of cameras flashing, fans screaming, press shouting names through a blur of lights and microphones.

For a second, you freeze.

And then Maya squeezes your hand. “Hey.” Her voice is low, just for you. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re doing it.”

She’s glowing. Glossed and gilded and impossibly beautiful, like she was made for this night. Her gown shimmers under the lights. Her gloved hand is still wrapped around yours.

You nod. Inhale. And step out of the car. The moment your foot hits the carpet, the shouting begins.

“Over here!”

“Turn this way!”

“Look here!”

You blink under the flashes, but Maya’s there. One step behind you, one arm slipping gently around your waist. “They’re not ready,” she murmurs. “You look like a goddess.”

You let her guide you down the carpet.

She doesn’t try to outshine you. She doesn’t pose too hard or talk over you. She just stays. Steady. Warm. A presence at your side.

Someone asks what you’re wearing. You falter.

“She’s in archival McQueen,” Maya answers smoothly, eyes never leaving you. “And I’m in Margiela. Custom. Obviously.”

The reporter stammers. Laughs. “You look incredible.”

Maya kisses your cheek right in front of the flash. “She is incredible.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

The cameras catch it. Of course they do.

The witch. The marketer. The moment.

You lean in and whisper, “I love you.”

And she says, with no hesitation, with the lights burning down, “I know. Now let’s go burn this shit down.”

You’re halfway down the carpet and the world has noticed.

Not just you, you two. The flashes intensify. Reporters are turning to each other mid-interview. Paparazzi are whispering to assistants. Publicists are scrambling to Google you again, properly this time.

“Who is that?”

“Oh my god, that’s the director of The Witch. And that’s… wait, is that her girlfriend?”

“Are we looking at the lesbian power couple of awards season?”

Maya’s smiling so wide you think her cheekbones might crack. “Oh my god,” she whispers in your ear, “I just heard someone say ‘Sapphic Succession energy.’ Baby we’re going viral.”

You nod once, eyes slightly glazed. “Can’t feel my feet.”

She presses a kiss to your temple. “Slay through it.”

Another reporter approaches. “Can we get a quick quote for Variety?”

You’re about to panic but Maya jumps in, already glowing. “We’re just honored to be here,” she says smoothly. “It’s been such an incredible year for horror, and I’m just thrilled I get to stand next to a genius who’s changing the genre and looks this hot in black lace.”

You blink. “I just want to go inside for the bread.”

The reporter laughs, not realizing you’re dead serious.

Maya’s still riding the high. “We’re doing afterparty rounds. I want to be on at least three lesbian moodboards before midnight.”

“I want mashed potatoes,” you murmur.

She grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles dramatically. “You’ll get potatoes. You’ll get everything. But we have to serve first.”

“Have we not served enough?”

“Not until someone live-tweets your cheekbones and tags it #SapphicSeduction.”

A flash goes off. Someone calls your name.

You try to smile. You think it looks like pain.

Maya leans in. “You are so close to a bread roll.”

You exhale shakily. “Promise?”

She presses her gloved hand to your heart. “On couture.”

[theballadofharkness]

Harken the Shadows Masterlist

~ A Dark Shadows AU ~

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x FemVampire!reader

Summary: In 18th-century Calderuport, you were the mysterious daughter of the Calderu family: beautiful, brilliant, and just a little too obsessed with the dark arts. Under the watchful eye (and wandering hands) of local witch Agatha Harkness, you dabbled in forbidden rituals and very unladylike desires.

But when a jealous rival named Rio Vidal discovers the depth of your bond, she unleashes a cruel curse: turning you into a vampire and locking you away beneath the earth, ensuring Agatha believes you abandoned her.

Two centuries later, you escapes from your tomb unchanged, undead, and aching with two centuries of longing. You find 1972 Calderuport a very different place. His once-grand estate has fallen into ruin, and the dysfunctional remnants of your family have fared little better.

You’re undead, unbothered, and back to reclaim your estate, your family , and most importantly… your witch. Agatha isn’t ready. The family isn’t ready.

But you’ve waited long enough.

🪻 = Smut

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Awakening

[theballadofharkness]

Harken the Shadows: Prologue

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x FemVampire!reader

Summary: In 18th-century Calderuport, you were the mysterious daughter of the Calderu family: beautiful, brilliant, and just a little too obsessed with the dark arts. Under the watchful eye (and wandering hands) of local witch Agatha Harkness, you dabbled in forbidden rituals and very unladylike desires. But when a jealous rival named Rio Vidal discovers the depth of your bond, she unleashes a cruel curse: turning you into a vampire and locking you away beneath the earth, ensuring Agatha believes you abandoned her. Two centuries later, you escapes from your tomb unchanged, undead, and aching with two centuries of longing. You find 1972 Calderuport a very different place. His once-grand estate has fallen into ruin, and the dysfunctional remnants of your family have fared little better. You’re undead, unbothered, and back to reclaim your estate, your family , and most importantly… your witch.

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: Eventual smut, mentions of violence and death so as always MDNI

A/N: Welcome to my first multi chapter Agatha fic! This fic is inspired by Tim Burton’s Dark Shadows but won’t follow the plot exactly xo I’ll also upload on AO3 so will link 💜

AO3 link

Calderu House, 1776

It was raining. That slow, drowning kind of rain, falling in sheets against the high arched windows of Calderu House. The sort of storm that made the old bones of the estate creak and groan like a thing alive, uneasy in its own skin. Cold wind moaned through the chimney flues and clawed at the shutters, and still you walked the halls in bare feet and silk, trailing your fingers across the banister like something dreaming.

The house had been quieter since your parents died. That’s what the coroner had told you anyway. Died of a sudden, inexplicable illness. But you knew better. A sickness that convenient wasn’t a sickness at all.

Not that you questioned it at first. Not then. Not when Agatha had pressed her cool hand to your cheek in the candlelit drawing room and said, with grave softness, “I’m here, my darling.”

Agatha.

Your older mentor. Your dark star. A woman whose name the villagers muttered with equal parts reverence and dread. They said she was a widow, a witch, a monster. But they didn’t see what you saw. The candlelight catching the deep brown shine of her hair. The ink stains on her fingers. The way she watched you when you read aloud from her tomes, like the whole world was crumbling under her feet and you were the last thing she wanted to cling to.

She taught you the old languages. The dead ones. She told you the stars were guides to the pantheon above and that the history your father had taught you was not always to be believed. And when she looked at you, really looked at you, it made your throat close. You were young, but you were not stupid. You knew when a woman was hungry.

And she was starving for you. Always.

But you weren’t alone in your adoration of Agatha Harkness.

There was her.

Rio Vidal, the maid your parents had taken on when you were still in petticoats. Too pretty for her station, too quiet to trust. She kept her head down, but her eyes never left you, not when Agatha was near. Especially not when Agatha touched you.

You thought it was jealousy, the usual sort. A housemaid nursing a fruitless crush. It never occurred to you that Rio was something more. Something older. Something dangerous.

She’d been watching you for years. Watching Agatha. And when she saw that Agatha loved you, truly loved you, obsessively, worshipfully, something broke in her.

You didn’t notice at first. The herbs in your tea tasting faintly wrong. The mirrors cracking without cause. Agatha had insisted on leaving for a week, just a week, to gather rare ingredients for a rite she’d promised to perform with you. Her parting kiss was soft and possessive, her fingers dragging like claws down your back as she whispered, “Stay close to the fire, my love. I’ll be home before the moon wanes.”

She never should have left.

Because the second she was gone, Rio made her move. The spell was ancient. It was cruel. It called on blood and bone, and it required heartbreak. She’d watched you for years, she knew just how to deliver it.

She killed your horse first, just to scare you. Then your Lady’s Maid. She poisoned the dogs. Then she came for you.

But you weren’t like Agatha, you hadn’t finished your training in the dark craft of your lover. You didn’t know that the thing Rio whispered into your ear as she tightened her fingers around your throat was a curse till it hit you all at once.

You fell to your knees in the hallway, palms flat on the cold stone floor, and screamed as your spine arched back hard enough to crack. The pain came in waves, hot, splitting, tidal. You clawed at your own throat, choked on your own breath.

Your fingernails split open, peeled back, and grew again, sharper this time. Curved. Your fingers lengthened at the joints, delicate and grotesque all at once, like a death head moth mid-metamorphosis. Your teeth followed. Your canines grew longer, sharper. You could feel your skull shift. Your veins slowed. Your heart stuttered once… and fell silent.

You crawled to the mirror in the hall, dragged yourself up by the frame, and what you saw was not a girl.

Your skin resembled moonlight over a frozen lake. Your lips stained wine-dark. Your eyes had become rimmed in the darkest shadow, irises glassy with a feral gleam that hadn’t been there before. Your lashes clumped with cold. Your skin shimmered faintly with a frost that would never melt.

You had become othered. You had become the undead.

You heard the whisper of Rio’s skirts before you saw her. She stepped into the doorway, wearing your mother’s pearls, and smiled without kindness, but with something bitter and triumphant. “Look at you,” she murmured, voice silken. “So beautiful. So ruined.”

You staggered toward her, blood already singing in your throat, but she flicked her hand and whispered another word in that ugly, ancient tongue, and your body seized. You dropped again to the floor, trembling, and Rio crouched beside you.

“You shouldn’t have taken her from me,” she said gently. “Agatha was mine. She would’ve loved me, if not for you. And now you think you have got her attention? And you get to keep it? Not a chance.”

She touched your face, as if in mourning. Then she stood, composed herself, and turned to the door.

And screamed.

Just the right amount. Just the right pitch. “Help! She’s cursed!” she wailed. “Help me! My mistress, she’s become a monster! Please, someone help me!”

And dear god help came.

The villagers were already half-afraid of the house. All it took was one night of Rio’s sobbing stories, one glimpse of your half-changed face at the window, and that was enough. They’d been primed. Poisoned by whispers and shadows.

They came at dawn with torches.

They didn’t look you in the eyes. They gagged your mouth and bound your hands with rosaries that burned your flesh. Dragged you through the frost-damp grass as the birds scattered from the trees. No one dared strike you dead, but no one dared help you either.

Rio stood in the trees and watched them entomb you in an iron coffin, wrapped in thick chains with the intent on burying you alive. She wept so beautifully that nobody noticed her mouth unturned into a smile.

“This is the only way to stop the vampire,” she said, clutching her shawl. “She took the devil into her soul.”

And Agatha, Agatha came back to ash and silence. You don’t know what lies Rio told her. You don’t know if she mourned your death or if she thought you had abandoned her and cursed your name.

You laid in darkness beneath the soil as the centuries passed. Because of all the hearts you could have broken, of all the women you could have scorned…

You chose the one with a secret.

You chose the witch.

AO3 link

[theballadofharkness]

You did what?… With who?

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x HorrorExec!reader

Summary: A casting crisis ruins date night, but things really fall apart when you find out Maya once hooked up with your boss Matt. Hurt turns to heat, and in the aftermath of a messy conference room blow-up, Maya takes back control, reminding her bratty horror queen exactly who she belongs to.

Word Count: 8.8k

Warnings: Explict smut so as always MDNI xo

A/N: I think I’m not the only one who was jump scared at the Maya Matt hookup scenes, which is where this little fic came from ft. Reader being just as shocked as me xo

The clock reads 9:17pm, and the only thing worse than the flickering fluorescent overheads is the fact that you’re still here. Still at Continental. Still in this goddamn conference room.

What was supposed to be dinner and the Boris Karloff Black Sabbath retrospective, one night only, 35mm print, perfect eerie vibes, has instead become stale trail mix, Maya yelling into her phone, and Quinn lying flat on the floor like she’s emotionally decomposing.

The table is a battlefield: headshots, post-it notes, crumpled printouts with studio-approved names scribbled out in Sharpie. Somewhere near the center lies a half-full bottle of Advil and someone’s forgotten vape pen.

You haven’t spoken in ten minutes. Mostly because if you open your mouth, you might scream.

Tyler clicks away on his MacBook with the fervor of a man about to quit the industry and go live in a yurt. Matt’s pacing. Sal’s leaning back in a chair that you’ve threatened to destroy three separate times. And Maya, your girlfriend, your beautiful, high-strung, Prada-wrapped, chaos goblin of a girlfriend, is at the head of the table, barking into her AirPods at an agent who’s clearly lying about availability.

“She’s not booked out through Q3, Gary, she’s at Erewhon every morning and she took a Hulu guest star last week, don’t lie to me—”

You look at the clock again. 9:18.

You shift your gaze to Maya, who catches it for a second. Her expression softens just for a moment. There’s guilt there. The kind that says: I’m sorry, I didn’t forget. I wanted to spoil you rotten.

But then she’s back to shouting. “Then give me someone better. We were about to announce. You want me to put out a press release saying our Cannes-contender lead ‘politely bailed due to exhaustion’? Gary, this is not a fucking Benadryl commercial, this is a prestige thriller with blood and teeth and you owe me for that Variety spread!”

Matt slumps into the seat beside you. “He couldn’t wait till after filming to check into rehab?”

Quinn, from the floor: “Mental health is health, Matt.”

You say nothing.

You’re too busy watching Maya. Watching how fast she moves when something goes wrong. How she thrives in chaos. How much you love her, and how much you resent her for being able to switch gears without missing a beat, even when she promised to hold your hand through that haunting Karloff close-up you’ve been dreaming about all week.

You cross your arms and lean back, nails biting into your sleeves. If she notices your silence, she doesn’t show it.

You’re trying to be a team player. You really are.

You get that this is a crisis. You get that losing your lead actor two weeks before announcement is a full-blown, PR-nightmare, press-cycle-imploding catastrophe. You get it.

But also?

You had these tickets for months.

The Karloff screening was one night only. One night. You’d planned it down to the detail, dinner at that weird little vampire-themed French place on Melrose, then the 10:30pm showing at the New Beverly. You had an outfit. You had lipstick named after a fictional vampire. And Maya had said yes. Maya had promised.

And now she’s playing agent chicken in cargo pants while you rot in a swivel chair next to Matt “crisis is my cardio” Remick.

He slumps closer to you again, chip crumbs on his hoodie. “Hey. You okay? You’re, like… very quiet. And your eyes look like you’re planning a murder.”

“I’m great,” you say, voice thin as piano wire.

He squints. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you say, smiling coolly. “I’m mad at the circumstances.”

Matt nods, sagely. “Yeah. Totally. Unforgiving circumstances. You know, I had dinner plans too.”

You blink slowly. “Did you have tickets to a once in a lifetime horror screening and a girlfriend who swore on her Saint Laurent collection that she’d wear a dress with a slit so high it’d make your nosebleed?”

He pauses. “I… did not.”

“Then don’t talk to me.”

Matt sits back.

Maya glances up from her phone at the exact wrong moment, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. She tilts her head like she’s trying to catch your eye, checking in, but you’re already looking away, arms crossed, fingers drumming tight against your elbow.

She sighs. Loudly. Then turns back to the group. “Okay, if we’re tossing out anyone with a criminal record or a secret second family, we’re down to, like, four viable leads. This is a mess.”

Tyler says, “I’m putting the narrowed list in the doc now.”

Quinn mumbles, “Can we manifest Andrew Garfield… oh or Anthony Mackie? We helped him by getting rid of that deliriously boring ending to Alphabet City? Maybe he would want to help us?”

And you sit there, jaw clenched, wondering which will happen first: Maya noticing that you’re barely breathing around her, or you finally snapping and telling everyone in this room to go to hell.

Spoiler: it’s going to be the second one.

The door creaks open and Matt’s assistant, that poor trembling twenty-something with crazy eyes and a name you never remember, steps in balancing four greasy brown takeout bags and a drink tray.

“Okay,” she says, voice chipper and doomed. “Dinner run! Um, I’ve got three poké bowls, one salad with no croutons, and one… bacon cheeseburger?”

Everyone barely glances up. Except you.

You sit up straighter. “I didn’t order a bacon cheeseburger.”

The assistant blinks. “You didn’t?”

“No,” you say flatly. “I ordered the spicy miso ramen. With soft-boiled egg and scallions. And the kombu broth, not tonkotsu. It was very specific.”

“Oh,” she says. “Okay. Right. Um. Yeah, I think they forgot to include that one and I had to sub something in and I thought this would be—”

“It’s not,” you interrupt.

The entire room stills.

Matt chuckles, that awkward little I want us all to have fun chuckle. “Hey, it’s food though, right? Fuel for the chaos. That burger probably tastes great if you close your eyes.”

You swivel your head toward him so slowly it’s cinematic.

“Matt,” you say, ice in your voice, “if you say one more thing about this situation being ‘fun’ or ‘quirky’ or anything short of catastrophic, I’m going to take this burger, hurl it through the window, and then I’m going to go home and personally leak to Deadline that you’re considering Armie Hammer for the lead.”

Sal blanches. “Okay, wow. Vivid.”

Tyler is silently typing faster. Quinn has frozen mid-sip. Maya, who had just stepped away to take another call, turns back at the sound of your voice and clocks your expression instantly.

The assistant holds out the bag to you, hands trembling.

You don’t take it.

“Put it down,” you mutter. “And tell them next time, if they can’t handle reading a four-item order, they shouldn’t be in delivery.”

The assistant nods like she’s just been saved from the gallows, barely, and vanishes.

Matt tries again, brave little idiot that he is. “Hey, look, I know tonight sucks, but we’re gonna fix this. We always do.”

You stare at the burger. It’s oozing melted cheese you didn’t ask for onto a paper napkin. Your stomach growls in betrayal.

“I don’t need reassurance,” you say, eyes still on the food. “I need someone to give a shit that this night mattered to me.”

Matt, for once, says nothing.

Maya watches you carefully, lips slightly parted like she wants to say something but knows better than to try right now.

Good.

Because if she tries to talk to you with that soft voice, the one she uses when she’s trying to calm you down ‘baby, come on, it’s not that deep’ you’re going to lose it.

You exhale slowly, blinking down at the offending burger like it personally insulted your family line.

Then you push your chair back, the screech loud and final, and stand.

“I’m going to smoke,” you say.

Across the room, Quinn lifts her head from the couch where she’s now fully horizontal, half a Red Bull can balanced on her chest. “Didn’t you quit?”

You meet her gaze, deadpan. “Yes. I did.”

The room is quiet as you grab your coat off the back of your chair. Not a single person tries to stop you, not Matt, not Sal, not Tyler who definitely pretends to type but is secretly tracking the emotional temperature in the room like it’s a goddamn hurricane warning system.

Maya watches you like she’s deciding whether to follow or give you space. You don’t even look at her as you leave.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And then it’s just the hallway, dim, echoing, empty. You fish through your bag for the emergency pack you swore you threw out three months ago. The lighter’s tucked in your inner coat pocket, because you always keep one on you. Just in case. For moments like this.

Moments where your girlfriend forgets the thing you’ve been looking forward to for weeks. Moments where everyone around you thinks you’re just a work machine who doesn’t need a night off, doesn’t deserve softness or spooky vintage horror or god forbid a meal that tastes like something other than cardboard and stress.

You step out onto the rooftop access balcony, light up, and take a long, furious drag.

The city below sparkles like it doesn’t care you’re having the worst night of your life.

Behind you, the door creaks open.

And you know it’s her.

You don’t turn when you hear the door open. Just flick the ash off the end of your cigarette and keep your eyes on the skyline, all glittering buildings and smog-hazed moonlight. The kind of view people would die for.

You’d trade it for a decent bowl of ramen and thirty uninterrupted minutes in a dark cinema with Maya’s hand in yours.

Her footsteps are soft behind you. Rubber soles on concrete. She’s not in heels today, she never is when shit hits the fan. Maya in crisis mode means sneakers, slicked-back hair, oversized streetwear that still somehow screams money.

“Hey,” she says, soft and casual, leaning against the wall beside you. Not too close. Not yet. “I was wondering where you snuck off to.”

You exhale a slow stream of smoke. “I said I was going to smoke.”

“Yeah, but like… dramatically,” she says with a small grin. “You’ve got that whole ‘tragic noir widow who poisoned her husband’ vibe going.”

You don’t laugh.

Maya shifts her weight, biting at the edge of her thumb. “Okay. So. You’re pissed.”

“Nope,” you reply coolly, eyes still forward. “I’m disappointed. Different thing.”

“Baby…”

“I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Well, tough, because we are doing this right now. I’m not going back in there to listen to Matt talk about how maybe Timothée Chalamet has ‘genre potential’ without fixing this first.”

You roll your eyes.

She steps closer. “I know I ruined tonight.”

“Do you?”

Maya pauses.

You finally turn your head, flicking the last of your cigarette over the railing. “You promised me, Maya. You said dinner and Black Sabbath. You said you cleared your schedule. I wore my stupid little dress and you—”

“I know.” She sounds guilty now. Not soft. Not smug. Just tired.

“I wanted to go,” she says. “I did. But when this shit hit the fan, I had to—”

“No,” you interrupt. “You chose to. And that’s fine, Maya. That’s your job. I get it. I’m not mad you’re good at your job. I’m mad that I didn’t even register to you tonight.”

Silence.

The only sound is the faint hum of traffic below and your own heart, pounding like it’s trying to crack your ribs.

Maya steps in, finally closing the space between you. Her hand hovers at your wrist.

“You always register,” she says, quiet now. “You’re the only thing that registers. Even when I’m on the phone with Gary the lying agent and Quinn’s comparing headshots like she’s swiping Tinder for psychopaths… I’m still thinking about how pissed you are. About how I let you down. I know I did.”

You stare at her.

“And I’ll make it up to you,” she adds, more confidently now. “I’ll find another screening. Or I’ll buy out the fucking New Beverly and force them to show it again. Just us. You can wear your little dress and I’ll wear heels and lipstick and no bra. I’ll make it right.”

Your mouth twitches. “You’re such a manipulative bitch,” you murmur.

She grins. “Takes one to love one.”

And finally you let her reach for you, her hands settling at your hips, her body warm and familiar against yours as the city glows below and the disaster inside fades, for just a second, into something survivable.

Maya’s hands slip around your waist, thumbs pressing into your hips like she’s trying to anchor you. You hate how good it feels. How easy it is to melt into her, even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad.

“Still want to be mad at me?” she murmurs, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw.

You huff. “Yes.”

“Okay,” she says, dipping her head lower, mouthing at your neck. “Want to do it while I’m kissing you?”

You don’t dignify that with an answer.

Instead, you grab her collar and pull her in hard, kissing her like you mean to punish her for every moment she made you feel invisible tonight. It’s angry, all teeth and open mouths and smudged lipstick. Her rings dig into your back as she pushes you gently against the wall, one leg between yours, her tongue slipping past your lips like she owns you. (She does. You hate it… you love it really.)

Your fingers tangle in the back of her shirt. Her hand cups your jaw, possessive and greedy, like she’d crawl inside you if you let her.

You’re still furious.

But you’re also starving for her, for closeness, for the night that got stolen from you.

She kisses you like she’s trying to give it back.

You’re breathless when you finally pull away, her forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting like you’ve just run a mile.

You blink up at her. Then pout. “I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And I have nothing to eat.”

Maya sighs dramatically, hand still on your waist. “Okay. Do you want me to go downstairs, threaten that assistant into running to Little Dom’s, and bring you back a real meal while I blackball every poké place in LA?”

You pause, considering it. “…Yes.”

She kisses your nose, grinning. “That’s my terrifying little goblin.”

You swat her ass as she turns to leave.

She blows you a kiss over her shoulder. “Stay mad. I’m gonna fix it.”

And for the first time all night, you believe her.

When you walk back into the conference room, it’s like nothing happened. Well, almost nothing.

Quinn raises one eyebrow but wisely says nothing. Matt offers you a sheepish chip. You ignore him. Tyler avoids eye contact like you’re a wild animal that bites.

And Maya? She’s back at the head of the table, arms crossed, glaring at a printout of an actor’s IMDB credits like she can will charisma into his face. The moment she sees you, her expression softens just enough for you to catch it.

Without a word, you cross the room, slide into her chair, and settle into her lap like it’s your rightful throne.

She doesn’t blink. Just wraps her arm around your waist and pulls you in closer, her fingers tracing circles at your hip like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’re not both high-ranking executives in a Hollywood studio actively clinging to each other in the middle of a very serious emergency meeting.

You grab the stack of casting options Quinn’s compiled and start flipping through them, sharp-eyed and fully engaged for the first time tonight.

Maya’s chin rests on your shoulder. “Do we like him?” she murmurs, nodding at a headshot.

You snort. “He looks like the kind of guy who’d get cast in a remake of something and say in the press tour that he’s ‘not really a horror fan.’”

Maya hums. “Death penalty.”

Matt clears his throat. “Are we just… are we doing this? Like, are you… are you just sitting—”

“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Quinn says without looking up.

Sal mutters something about needing therapy.

You sigh, flipping another page. “Okay. We need someone with heat, with depth, and with a name that won’t make Variety think we’ve lost the plot. Who actually wants to do genre. Not prestige posturing. Not some Marvel rebound gig.”

Maya squeezes your waist proudly. “She’s back, baby.”

You glance at her. “Don’t push it.”

She bites back a grin.

And just like that, the meeting resets. The energy shifts. You’re still hungry. Still annoyed. But you’ve got Maya’s warmth beneath you, your hand sorting through the chaos like you’re building an altar out of headshots and spite. It’s not the night you wanted. But it’s yours.

It’s a full-on war room now.

Papers litter the table like battlefield debris. Someone’s ordered more coffee. Quinn’s abandoned the floor and is pacing in socks, muttering actor names like she’s summoning demons. Matt has one AirPod in and two phones on speaker. Tyler’s got six windows open on his laptop and keeps saying things like, “If we shift the press embargo window to Thursday, we could still meet the media lead-in without violating the NDA.” Sal’s in the corner on the phone with someone, you don’t know who, and frankly, you don’t want to know.

And you?

You’re still on Maya’s lap, her arms looped lazily around your waist as the two of you scroll IMDb Pro like it owes you money.

“We’re running out of options,” she mutters, chin on your shoulder.

“No,” you say, flipping through headshots. “We’re running out of good options. We’ve got plenty of bad ones left.”

You scroll past a mid-tier heartthrob and grimace. “He thinks ‘The Babadook’ is a slur.”

Maya snorts.

You feel the vibration of her phone before you hear the ding. She shifts under you, grabbing it from the table, scrolling a few beats, then—

“Wait,” she says, and her voice changes. It sharpens.

You lean back slightly to see the screen.

A photo. A name.

You blink. “Him?”

“He’s free,” she says. “Just left that three-film deal with Netflix, so he’s loose. And he wants awards again. Said it in his GQ interview last month.”

“He hasn’t done a thriller since that Swedish noir remake thing,” you murmur.

“Exactly.” Her eyes are gleaming. “He’s overdue. He wants something gritty, something sexy and smart. We give him this, with you as exec producer, me running the campaign, he eats. He feasts.”

You glance at the name again. A-list. Oscar nominee. Under 40. Still hot enough that the trades would sell it as a comeback. Your gut twists.

“That’s a real star,” you say quietly.

Maya grins. “Then let’s fucking go.”

~ Twenty minutes later ~

The room is silent. Breathless. Tyler’s phone is on speaker.

A female voice says clearly: “He’s in. He loves the script. He’s asking for a quick polish on act three, but he’s in if you’re in.”

Tyler mouths ‘holy shit’.

You and Maya look at each other. She’s grinning like a woman who just closed a million-dollar deal. Because she did.

“Tell him we’ll have a new draft by Monday,” Maya says. “And that we’ll build the whole campaign around him. Fall festivals. Viral drops. Let him play serious again. Full resurrection treatment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the voice says.

The call ends.

The room explodes.

Quinn is dancing around the table, chanting, “WE DID IT! WE FUCKING DID IT!” while holding her Red Bull like a trophy. Tyler’s fully teared up, muttering something about “professional peak” as he rapid-types a new press release draft. Matt’s hugging people he normally avoids. Sal opens his personal stash of whiskey from the bottom cabinet man’s behind to gulp it down in celebration.

And you, you’re just sitting there, dazed, still on Maya’s lap, the adrenaline hitting you in waves as you both watch your team lose their minds in the best way. You feel her hand stroke your back, grounding you.

You turn and face her, and her smile softens.

You’re both exhausted. You’re both glowing.

You kiss her.

Right there in front of everyone, without thinking, just full-on lips crashing together, the kind of kiss that says we did it, that says I love you, that says we’re a fucking empire, you and me.

She kisses you back with a little groan like she’s been dying for it all night.

When you pull away, she tucks a bit of your hair behind your ear. “Fuck me I’m good.”

You smirk. “Baby you know I’m the bottom here.”

She rolls her eyes, but you feel her squeeze your thigh under the table.

Someone cranks music, something loud and celebratory and wildly inappropriate for a work setting, and suddenly Quinn’s tossing around casting sheets like confetti, Tyler’s laughing, and Matt’s on his second glass of Dom Perignon.

Then…

“I’m just saying,” Sal calls over the chaos, already tipsy, “I’m so glad Maya and Matt aren’t fucking anymore because a fucking win like this would’ve ended in one of those weird celebratory makeouts with, like, tongue and teeth and that whole… thing.”

Record scratch.

Everything stops.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. The music is still playing but it sounds underwater now. Distant. Wrong. Because your body just froze around one word: fucking.

Your brain does the math. And the math is bad.

You were not aware that Maya and Matt had ever…

Your gaze snaps to her before you can stop yourself.

And Maya? She’s pale. Like someone just slapped her across the face. Her arms loosen around you just slightly. Like she wants to speak but can’t figure out which version of the truth to start with.

Maya stiffens beneath you. “Sal.”

“What?” Sal blinks, clearly not reading the room. “I’m just saying it’s refreshing not to end a big win with that weird forehead-touching, neck-biting, sweaty thing you two used to do. Like, get a room—”

“SAL.” Maya snaps.

Matt chuckles, a little too defensively. “Okay, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh my god,” Quinn says from the couch, voice deadpan but gleeful. “Wait. Wait. You and Matt actually—”

You slide off Maya’s lap slowly. Mechanically.

No one speaks.

Not even Sal, who finally realizes far too late that he just opened a black hole in the center of the room.

You look at Maya, but this time, you don’t see her in her triumph, or her glory, or the way she kissed you like she’d won a million dollars. You see someone who never told you something big. You see a betrayal you didn’t even know you had to look for. And Maya? She looks like she’d give anything to take the moment back.

“No no no no no,” you say, waving your hand like you can physically clear the words from the air. “This isn’t real. Tell me this isn’t real.”

Matt’s hands go up, palms-out. “Hey, okay, it was a long time ago! Pre-pandemic! Practically a different era. We were hot!”

“No you weren’t,” Tyler mutters.

“Thank you,” Sal says.

“I mean, I didn’t think it was important,” Matt tries, shrugging. “We’re adults. It’s ancient history.”

You round on Maya, who looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

“You fucked Matt?” you whisper. “Matt? My boss?”

Maya’s hands go up in surrender. “I swear to god, it was barely a thing. Like three times. Maybe four and some make outs—”

“Four?!”

“And we agreed it was a mistake! That it was weird and a boundary issue and we were never doing it again!”

“Oh my god,” you say, stepping back. Your face is hot. Your ears are ringing. You genuinely think you might pass out.

Maya stands, panic rising in her voice. “It was before you, okay? It didn’t mean anything—”

“It means something now!” you snap. “You’ve been in meetings with him, pitching with him, touching me in front of him, and never thought maybe, just maybe, I should know this?!”

“Babe,” she says, pleading. “It wasn’t—”

But you’re already walking. Past Quinn, who mouths holy shit. Past Tyler, who looks like he’s about to throw up. Past Matt, who mutters, “I mean, it wasn’t bad,” and Maya, who yells, “Matt, shut the fuck up!”

You don’t look back. Not even when Maya calls your name, urgent and anxious behind you. Because if you do, you’ll cry. And you won’t give her that. Not in front of all of them.

You don’t make it to the elevator.

You barely make it past the hall.

You stumble into the nearest quiet corridor off the main floor, press your back to the wall, and slide down until you’re crouched in the shadows beside the fire extinguisher, hidden from the party you used to be part of ten minutes ago.

Your hands are shaking.

Not in a poetic, trembling-lip way, no you’re shaking like your body’s short-circuiting. You can’t get a full breath in, like your lungs are folding in on themselves. Your fingers fumble for your phone, but it slips once before you catch it again, screen lighting up far too bright in the dark.

You open the Uber app.

It takes three tries to type your address.

You don’t even look at the price. You hit Confirm pickup, then curl your arms around your knees like you’re holding yourself together with sheer force of will.

A car in six minutes.

Six minutes, and you can be out of here. Away from the conference room. Away from the memory of Maya’s arms around you while she neglected to mention her little HR-certified hookup history with your literal boss.

Away from Quinn’s face going no fucking way, from Sal being… well, Sal, from Matt trying to laugh it off like you’re all just characters in one of his shitty improv sketches.

You stare at the blinking dot on your phone.

It says your driver is named Eli.

You’re going to climb into Eli’s Honda and pretend you’re not the idiot whose girlfriend used to fuck the head of the studio you work for.

You wipe at your eyes angrily. No tears. Not yet.

You’ve got to get home, take off your makeup, wash this night off your body like it didn’t happen. Get three hours of sleep, if that. And then come back here tomorrow to the same office, the same glass-walled rooms, and the same people who all know exactly how humiliated you were.

You’ll have to walk into that conference room and look Matt in the face. And worse you’ll have to look at her.

You grip your phone tighter. Try not to scream.

Four minutes now.

Just four more minutes.

You close your eyes.

You do not fall apart in the hallway.

Not yet.

Back in the conference room, the mood has absolutely tanked.

The music’s still playing, some obnoxious party track with a synth drop no one asked for, but now it just feels cruel. Tyler quietly lowers the volume without asking.

Maya’s standing at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hasn’t said a word since you left.

Then she lets go. “Okay. What the fuck was that?!”

Everyone freezes.

Sal, still halfway through pouring another whiskey: “That was not on me.”

“Really?” Maya snaps, eyes blazing. “Because you’re the one who decided to resurrect the ancient, cursed Matt-and-Maya-era like it was relevant.”

Sal shrugs. “Didn’t realize it was classified.”

“Oh my god,” she says, rubbing her temples. “Do you just say things to hear yourself speak or was tonight special?”

Quinn’s still staring like she just watched a plane crash. “You two actually had sex?”

Maya paces now, agitated, unspooling in front of them. “I didn’t tell her because it didn’t matter. It was a blip. It was so long ago, and it was awkward and messy and I thought… it just never came up, okay?!”

Matt nods too fast. “Yeah. And I supported that! I supported not bringing it up! Because I thought it would be weird to tell her!”

“We were stupid. It was sloppy!” Maya barks. “It was during the Blue Fox merger, I had bronchitis and a PR embargo hanging over my head!”

“Oh my god,” Quinn whispers. “Was there tongue?”

Maya throws her hands up. “Yes, okay?! There was tongue. There was stress. There was bad lighting. It was a low point for everyone involved.”

Matt winces. “Okay that’s kinda harsh, I think it was kind of beautiful…”

“Matt,” Sal says, “shut the fuck up.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell her,” Quinn mutters, more to herself than anyone.

Maya turns, sharp. “Why would I?! So she could, what? Laugh? Pity me? Set fire to her retinas with the image of me and him in a West Hollywood bar bathroom while Luther Vandross played in the background?”

Quinn blinks. “…it was to Luther Vandross?”

“Of course it was Luther Vandross! I have taste, Quinn!”

The room falls quiet again.

Maya deflates a little. She’s still furious. Still too raw to know what to do with herself. “I didn’t tell her,” she says, quieter now. “Because it was nothing. It was a blip. It was before. Before her. Before I even knew what it felt like to want to come home to someone.”

“She looked at me like I was someone else,” she says quietly. “Like I’d lied about everything. Like I’d humiliated her.”

“She’s not wrong,” Sal says, uncharacteristically soft.

That’s what makes Maya go still.

Sal shrugs. “I’m just saying. If I found out my girlfriend used to bone the guy who signs her paycheck, and she didn’t tell me? I’d be halfway to my dealers for medical grade coke by now.”

“Well it’s not technically me who signs them.. that would be Lucille from accounting…” Matt interjects

Maya’s jaw clenches. “Not helpful Matt.”

~

You slam the door behind you.

Hard.

The keys hit the floor. Your bag drops somewhere near the entryway. You don’t even bother turning the lights on, you just march straight into the kitchen like a storm in heels, throw the fridge open, and stare inside like something in there’s going to fix this. Spoiler: there’s nothing but a bottle of white wine, a leftover oat latte, and a Tupperware of pad thai that’s three days past edible.

You grab the wine. Twist the cap off with shaking fingers and drink straight from the bottle.

The second the first gulp hits your throat, you pace back and forth, back and forth, bare feet slapping hardwood like you’re wearing a hole into the foundation.

“Matt,” you hiss, to no one. “Matt fucking Remnick?”

You laugh. It’s ugly. “Of course. Of fucking course.”

You fling yourself down on the couch and dig your nails into the throw pillow like it personally betrayed you.

So let’s just tally it up, right?

The guy who pays you, the guy who nods along during your pitch meetings like he’s just smart enough to track the plot but not smart enough to understand why it works, that guy? That doughy, beige suit wearing, oat milk-drinking, workaholic dipshit?

He fucked your girlfriend.

Your Maya.

The Maya who kisses your throat when you’re reading in bed. The Maya who calls you her “creepy little horror wife” in meetings like a badge of honor. That Maya?

Fucked. Matt. Remnick.

You press your hands into your eyes. Oh, and the best part? Sal knew. Sal. Fucking Sal, who you’ve sat next to in a hundred meetings, who’s texted you bad memes at midnight, who’s thrown shade at every actor you’ve ever cast.

He knew.

How many people knew? How many people sat across from you in conference rooms, watched you and Maya flirt and smolder, and thought, Wow. Hope she told her she used to hook up with the boss?

You drag your hands down your face and make a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a sob. You feel sick. Like the butt of a joke you didn’t know was being told.

Your phone buzzes from your bag across the room.

You don’t even look.

If it’s Maya, she can wait.

~

You wake up face-down on the couch, blanket halfway off, one leg tangled in your throw, and a wine bottle dangerously close to rolling off the coffee table.

Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry. It’s 5 a.m. and you feel like someone took your rage, poured it through a filter of grief, and blended it with three hours of half-sleep and one unfinished nightmare about Matt Remnick in a hot tub.

You groan. Sit up. Immediately regret it.

Then you see your phone.

18 texts.

4 voice notes.

1 missed call.

All from Maya.

You stare at the screen for a long moment before thumbing open the thread.

The first one hit around 12:23 a.m.

<Maya: ok so i’ve been lying in bed for two hours staring at the ceiling like the little match girl but instead of cold i’m dying of shame>

<Maya: just fyi tho the matt era was VERY short-lived and powered entirely by alcohol and bad decisions and i got bronchitis right after. draw your own conclusions.>

<Maya: I should’ve told you. I didn’t because i thought it was irrelevant and then i convinced myself it was embarrassing and then it turned into a weird shame snowball and then sal threw a grenade and now we’re here>

<Maya voice note: Hey. Um. I don’t know what I’m doing. You know I’m shit at this. I just… fuck, you looked at me like you didn’t know me and I’ve never wanted to crawl into a Bottega clutch and die more. Just… please tell me you’re okay?>

<Maya: i’m gonna go to sleep before i drive to your place in a hoodie and crocs and throw pebbles at your window like a fuckin Lana song but specifically for lesbians>

<Maya: unless that would work??>

~

Your alarm didn’t go off.

Actually, no, your alarm did go off. You just threw your phone across the room sometime around 6:30 a.m. after rereading Maya’s latest text for the fifth time and muttering “fuck off” into your pillow.

So now it’s 9:12 a.m.

And the Continental morning meeting starts at 9.

You bolt out of bed with a groan, mouth dry, head pounding, last night’s wine and rage still thick behind your eyes. You shower in record time, slap on concealer, mascara, a black turtleneck, and sunglasses that scream do not speak to me I will kill you where you stand.

No breakfast. Just coffee in a to-go cup that tastes like cardboard and regret.

Traffic’s hell. You scream once in your car just to get it out. You park like a menace, don’t even check the mirror, and stomp across the lot toward the building with your bag half open and your badge clipped to your sleeve.

When you push through the glass doors and into the marble lobby of Continental Studios, you’re ten minutes late and vibrating with fury.

Matt spots you immediately from the hallway. He’s holding a protein bar and his big dumb reusable water bottle and smiling like it’s casual Friday.

“Hey,” he calls, jogging to keep pace beside you. “You’re late for the morning slate check-in.”

You don’t even look at him. Instead you snarl, voice low and venomous, “bite me, Remnick.”

He freezes mid-step.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair. You’re mad. Totally valid. Just… don’t bite me in the meeting, okay? Bite Sal. He can take it.”

You don’t respond.

You just keep walking. Because the only thing worse than seeing Matt today… is knowing she’s already in the conference room.

And you have to sit through the morning meeting like none of this happened. Like your entire sense of stability didn’t just crack open in front of half the fucking team.

The door swings open.

You step inside the conference room with that perfect blend of silence and menace, black silk shirt, razor-sharp tailored blazer, sunglasses pushed up into your hair like a crown. You’ve got your coffee in one hand, your notes in the other, and the kind of expression that says I dare you.

Tyler starts the meeting like he doesn’t smell the emotional blood in the air. “Okay, so first things first—our guy’s officially confirmed, and the trades are prepped. We’re greenlit to announce end of week if we can finalize rollout assets.”

“Cool,” you say crisply, flipping open the folder. “We’re not announcing Friday.”

Everyone looks up.

Matt blinks. “We’re not?”

“No. It’s too crowded. Dune: Part Three has an early stills drop Friday morning and Searchlight’s doing an ‘Anatomy of a Fall’ deep-dive with the New Yorker that afternoon. We’ll get buried. We push to Monday and own the morning cycle.”

Maya opens her mouth to speak, and you don’t even look up. “Unless you’d like to announce our Oscar-bait thriller between a sandworm and a French woman falling down the stairs.”

Silence.

Then Quinn mutters, “God, you’re scary when you’re on.”

You still don’t look at Maya. But you feel her eyes burning into you.

Matt clears his throat. “Okay, Monday. We can make that work. Uh… Maya, what do you need for assets?”

~

The rest of the meeting trudges forward like it’s wearing lead boots.

You don’t speak unless you have to. Every sentence that comes out of your mouth is clean, clear, and lethal. Maya keeps glancing your way like she’s trying to find an opening, a soft edge, a tell, anything.

But there’s nothing.

You give her nothing.

No warmth. No flicker of forgiveness. Not even a look.

Just silence and strategy.

“If we’re shifting, talent needs their glam appointments moved up. We’ll need rep confirmation before lunch.” No snark. No emotion. Just fact.

Maya nods slowly. “I’ll handle it.”

Still, you don’t look at her.

Even Sal picks up on it now. He’s not cracking jokes. Matt fumbles through the updated calendar notes. Quinn adds a few scheduling tweaks. Tyler asks something about embargo coordination, which you answer with the kind of precision that makes Sal mouth “yikes” into his coffee.

Eventually, the meeting wraps.

Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. No one says much.

And Maya? She stands. Lingers behind her chair, one hand resting on the back of it like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. You don’t look up. You’re reviewing the press deck. You are calm. You are composed. You are the queen of horror at Continental fucking Studios. And right now? She doesn’t get to have you.

You gather your papers in silence. Neat. Controlled. No sign of the volcano beneath the surface. You slide them into your folder, close it with precision, and stand.

You don’t look at Maya. You’re halfway to the door when you hear her.

“C’mon, wait.” Her voice is low. Urgent.

You pause just enough to let the tension snap taut, but not enough to look back. “I have work to do,” you say coolly.

She scoffs. “Oh come on. You can’t get mad at me for having a past, fucking hell.”

Your spine stiffens.

“I’m nearly double your age,” she continues, stepping forward now, voice rising just slightly. “I’ve fucked people. Like, sorry? Grow up.”

That’s when you freeze.

Turn.

Your voice shakes, not with weakness, but fury. “Yeah. I’m fucking aware, Maya.”

She blinks. Like maybe she thought you wouldn’t bite back.

“But this isn’t just anyone,” you hiss, stepping closer now. “This isn’t some ex from New York or a personal assistant you ghosted after Sundance. This is my boss. This is the man who signs my paychecks. Who I have to pitch to, smile at, navigate. And you didn’t think I deserved to know that you two had history?!”

“It was barely history…” she starts

“It doesn’t matter!” you snap. “It matters to me! And you didn’t tell me because what? You thought I’d be jealous? Uncool? That I’d what, throw a tantrum? Guess what, I’m throwing one now!”

Everyone else outside the glass conference room is simultaneously edging closer and pretending not to exist. You can still feel everyone’s eyes on you, even if they’re all pretending they aren’t. Sal suddenly finds the far wall very interesting. Quinn’s fake AirPods are basically a theater curtain. Matt’s holding a water bottle like he might use it as a shield.

Maya runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Look, I know I should’ve told you.”

You cut her off. “Then why didn’t you?”

“I was embarrassed, okay?” she blurts. “It was a shitty, messy mistake and I didn’t want to bring that into us. I didn’t want to give it weight. You matter. He never did,” she says, too fast now, words spiraling. “You know how this studio works. Half the people in that room have fucked each other. And yeah, I messed up not tell you, but you can’t just crucify me because I have a past you didn’t pre-approve.”

You laugh, cold and wounded. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

She sighs hard. “Then what the fuck is it about?”

“It’s about respect, Maya!”

Now you’re really in it. Eyes burning. Breath ragged.

“It’s about the fact that I was the last to know. That Sal knew. That Tyler didn’t blink. That you let me sit next to Matt in meetings like it was nothing. Like I was some clueless intern with a clipboard and not your…” You stop. Swallow. “Not someone you say you care about.”

Maya’s face crumbles for real now.

“I do care about you,” she says, stepping forward, eyes desperate. “You think I don’t? You think I haven’t been losing my fucking mind since last night? I’ve sent you like sixty texts, I drafted a notes app apology, I didn’t even put on moisturizer this morning, do you understand how deranged I am right now?”

You blink. “That’s your barometer for grief? Moisturizer?”

“It was Dr. Barbara Sturm, you psychopath!” she snaps. “That shit is eighty-five dollars a pump!”

There’s a beat.

And despite yourself you almost laugh. Instead, you just shake your head, trying to calm your own heart, your own hands, your own instinct to forgive her too fast.

She’s watching you. Chest rising and falling. Waiting for you to say something. Anything.

And the room?

The room is silent.

She’s watching you. Breathing hard. Jaw tight. But her eyes? They’re tracking every inch of you like she’s trying to memorize your silhouette before you vanish.

Then she moves.

She closes the distance with one sharp step, and before you can stop her, her hands are at your waist. Light at first. Testing.

You flinch. “Don’t.”

But she doesn’t back off. Instead, she leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, voice low and warm and dangerous in your ear.

“Baby, come on,” she murmurs. “I love you.”

Your breath catches.

Her hands slide lower, fingers curling at your hips like she’s staking a claim. She presses in close, intimate, entirely inappropriate with your coworkers still very much looking through the glass conference walls into the room and brushes her lips just beneath your ear.

“You’re pissed. I get it. Be pissed,” she breathes. “Yell at me later. Call me names. Tell me I’m a stupid, emotionally constipated corporate nightmare.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

She nips lightly at your neck. “But don’t leave me.”

Her fingers tighten, sliding up under the edge of your blazer, thumbs brushing your sides, mouth now trailing lower like she can seduce the forgiveness out of you.

“I love you,” she says again, lower now, desperate. “I was a coward. I fucked up. Let me fix it. Please.”

You should push her away.

You don’t. You don’t because she knows exactly where to touch you and she’s touching you there now, hands firm on your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft spot just beneath your ribs like she’s trying to hold you together before you shatter again.

And then she kisses you.

Hard. No warning. No room to think. Just mouth on yours, hot and hungry and completely insane given the fact that you are very much not alone.

Your folder hits the floor.

Maya walks you back a step, her hands tangled in your blazer, mouth moving over yours like she needs it more than breath. There’s no gentle easing into it, it’s immediate, consuming, and deep. She kisses you like she’s trying to rewrite the memory of Matt fucking Remnick out of your bloodstream.

You pull back hard, breath heaving, mouth swollen from her kiss, mascara smudged, and Maya’s staring at you like you just gave her a second chance at life.

She reaches for you again.

You stop her with a single raised eyebrow and one lethal line, “…Matt? Really?”

The room goes dead silent again.

“Matt Remnick?” you repeat, voice dripping with horror. “You were into that?”

Sal audibly snorts and pretends to choke on his drink. Quinn lets out a wheeze and turns fully to the wall like she’s entering witness protection.

Maya groans. Loud. Embarrassed. Absolutely desperate. “Oh my god,” she mutters, eyes wide as she grabs your face and kisses you again.

Hard. This time it’s needy. Almost angry.

“I’m into you,” she growls against your mouth. “I’m into this. Not him.”

You’re still breathless when she pulls back.

You look at Maya.

She’s flushed. Wrecked. Entirely yours. And completely aware she’s still on thin ice.

You smooth your blazer. Pick your folder up off the floor. And say, as calmly as if you’re discussing box office projections: “We’re still having this conversation later. Somewhere private. Somewhere where I’m less inclined to claw your eyes out and let you fuck me against a filing cabinet.”

Maya exhales shakily. “Copy that,” she whispers.

Sal gives you a little golf clap. Quinn doesn’t look up, but says, “I hope we never stop working here.”

And without a word, you turn and walk. Down the hallway. Past the open offices. Through the glass doors.

Maya follows like a shadow. You swipe your badge and push open the door to your office, stepping inside with controlled hurt still radiating off your skin.

Maya barely gets the door shut behind her before you’re on her again.

You grab her jacket lapels and slam your mouth to hers, no buildup, no words, just heat. She groans into it, hands going immediately to your waist, pulling you in like she can’t stand to be apart from you another second.

This kiss is filthier. Sloppier. More desperate. You bite her lower lip and she gasps, nails digging into your hips as you press her back against the door.

“You drive me fucking insane,” you whisper against her mouth.

“Yeah?” she pants, licking her lips. “Well you’re fucking infuriating and I love you.”

Her hands roam over your back, up your spine, under your blazer. She tugs it off your shoulders like it’s offended her.

She laughs into your neck, breath hot as she whispers, “Is this… our version of conflict resolution?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, pushing her down into the couch with one hand on her chest.

You climb into her lap and kiss her again, harder this time, her fingers slipping under your shirt like they know exactly what kind of damage they caused and exactly how to earn forgiveness.

You grind your hips against hers and she groans, low in her throat. “You’re still mad at me.”

You pull back just enough to look her dead in the eye. “Yes I am.”

She smiles. “Liar.”

And then you’re kissing again like you want to ruin her, like she’s the only one who could ever deserve to be ruined by you. You’re breathless in her lap, lips swollen from kissing her too hard, your blazer long forgotten somewhere on the floor. Your fingers are clenched in the fabric of her shirt, your eyes hot, your body humming.

You’re still upset. Still bruised with betrayal. But god, her hands feel good on you. You pull back, panting, trying to steel yourself, to glare at her.

But your voice comes out shaky. “I’m still mad,” you whisper.

Her hands slide from your waist to your thighs, spreading you just slightly over her lap. “Good.”

And then she moves.

Suddenly you’re on your back on the couch, gasping as she pins you there, her body over yours, her mouth hovering just above your throat.

She’s looking at you differently now, like she’s done pretending you’re in control.

You shiver. “Maya?”

She kisses you. Slow. Possessive. Deep enough to make your stomach flip. When she pulls back, she speaks low against your mouth. “You’re being a little brat.”

Your thighs twitch.

Her hand slips between your legs, pressing over your panties, hot, firm, and unrelenting.

“Still think you’re mad at me?”

You whimper, arching into her hand.

She grins. “Thought so.”

She pulls your underwear aside, slides her fingers over you, slick, slow, maddening. You gasp, hips twitching. Her mouth is at your neck now, sucking lightly, just enough to make you writhe.

“You’re soaked,” she murmurs, smug. “Say you need me.”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No.”

She presses two fingers in, deep and smooth, and you whine.

“Say it.”

You grip her shoulders like you might fall through the floor.

“I need you,” you breathe. “I need you, I need… fuck—”

“Good girl,” she says softly.

And then she fucks you. Harder now, fingers working you open, her body flush against yours, her mouth at your ear whispering things that make you gasp her name like a prayer.

“You gonna be good for me now?” she whispers.

“Yes! Yes, I promise… please don’t stop…”

You’re shaking beneath her, legs spreading wider, body losing every ounce of control you fought to hold. She’s everywhere, her voice, her hands, her breath, her mouth, and she doesn’t let up until you’re begging.

You come with a sharp cry, arching into her, body going taut, her name spilling from your lips like you were made for her.

She holds you through it, kissing your cheek, brushing your hair back, whispering, “That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

When the shaking slows, you cling to her, flushed and fucked-out, heart pounding. You nuzzle into her neck, voice tiny. “I’m not mad.”

She smiles against your hair. “I know.”

The room is quiet now.

Your body is warm and shaking gently, curled half on top of Maya on the couch. Her shirt is unbuttoned, your blouse’s somewhere on the floor, and your legs are tangled like you never plan on moving again.

She’s holding you. One hand stroking slow circles between your shoulder blades. The other resting lazily on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re breathing against her chest, face buried in the crook of her neck, eyelids fluttering. Safe. Fuzzy. Boneless.

Maya kisses your hair. “You alive down there?” she whispers.

You nod, slow. Muffled. “Mhm.”

She smiles, running her fingers through your hair now, kissing your temple.

You nuzzle closer, arms tightening around her waist.

Then, softly, voice quiet and thick with exhaustion, you apologise. “Sorry I was so dramatic.”

She blinks. Pulls back just enough to look at you. “Babe.”

You shrug against her. “I know I was bratting out. I just…” You sigh. “It’s Matt.”

There’s a beat.

Then Maya snorts.

You lift your head to glare at her, but she’s already laughing quietly, shakily, that signature Maya Mason chuckle that sounds like she can’t believe her life.

“I know it’s Matt,” she wheezes. “Believe me. I have to live with that fact every day.”

You flop your head back onto her chest. “God. Well I guess that’s punishment enough.”

Her arms tighten around you, still laughing as she presses kisses into your hair.

“You’re insane,” you murmur.

“I love you,” she says instantly.

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you whisper, “I love you too.”

She stills. Then lets out a soft little exhale, like the air just came back into her body.

You both lie there like that for a while. Quiet. Safe. Outside your office, the day goes on. Inside? It’s just you and her.