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: 9.5K
Warnings: talk of abuse of power and assault but no graphic descriptions x no smut this time loves but as always MDNI xo
A/N: lots of backstory and plot on this one folks x hope you all enjoy and hope you’ve had a blessed beltane and are taking care of yourselves xo
The waiting room is too bright. Every wall is stark white, filled with posters about mindfulness and breathing techniques in pastel colours, the faint whir of a vent overhead the only sound. You sit in one of the plastic chairs, knees pressed together, hands fidgeting with the strap of your bag.
Your phone vibrates in your lap.
~ Mum: Good luck today, sweetheart. So proud of you. ❤️~
A second buzz, almost immediately after.
~ Billy: You’ve got this. Text me after or I’ll come drag you out for coffee, deal? ~
And then, right on their heels is a text from Agatha.
~ Agatha: With you in spirit, babygirl. Be gentle with yourself. Call me the second you’re done. ~
You stare at the three messages stacked on top of each other, all soft and supportive, and somehow they just make your stomach twist harder.
You swallow, staring down at the screen until the words blur. It should feel good, having them cheer you on. Instead it feels like pressure. Like they’re all waiting for you to come out better somehow. Fixed.
You slip the phone back into your bag, pressing your palms to your thighs to keep them from shaking.
Your name is called from the doorway, your head jerking up at the sound of your name.
The air feels thick in your chest as you stand, your body already too warm. You force your legs to move, every step toward that office making the sick feeling coil tighter in your gut.
She’s not what you expected.
Short, with dark hair pinned back in a loose twist, streaks of silver glinting through. Big, expressive eyes lined in kohl. Her clothes are professional enough but there’s something wildly witchy in the way bracelets are stacked at her wrists, a single silver ring catching the light when she pushes the door open wider for you.
“Come on in,” she says, her accent faint, a lilting undercurrent that makes you glance twice.
You step into her office, clutching your bag strap too tight. The space smells faintly of herbs and old books. There are shelves lined with psychology texts, yes, but also a few dog- eared novels, a thick candle burned low in a glass jar.
And behind her desk is a framed, weathered map of Sicily.
Your nerves tangle with curiosity. “Are you Sicilian?”
Her mouth curves, faintly amused. “I am. Very perceptive.” She gestures to the map, stepping past her desk to pull a chair out for you. “My family is from Palermo. I keep that there to remind me of home.”
You nod quickly, sinking into the offered chair. Your heart is still hammering, your palms clammy, but there’s something steady in the way she looks at you, direct but not unkind.
Dr. Calderu settles into her chair across from you, her bracelets give the faintest chime when she folds her hands in her lap.
“So,” she says gently, tilting her head a little, “why have you decided to come to therapy?”
You pull your knees up into the chair before you can stop yourself, arms wrapping around them tight. The position makes you feel smaller, safer.
You sigh, eyes flicking to the floor. “I don’t know. I guess… people are worried about me.”
“People?” she echoes, tone curious but not sharp.
“My mom. My brother. My…” You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. “My… girlfriend.” The word comes out quieter than you mean it to.
Dr. Calderu nods once, like she’s tucking the detail away without judgment. “Why do you think they’re worried?”
Your gaze skitters away from her, catching instead on the lines of that old Sicilian map behind her desk. You focus on the faded coastline and the faint, sea worn names of towns you don’t know. It feels easier to look at that than her eyes.
You shrug, hugging your knees tighter. “I left my doctorate. I moved back home. Slept a lot.” Your words are flat, like you’re reading them off a page.
She doesn’t rush. “Why?”
Your throat tightens. You squeeze your arms tighter around yourself, knuckles pressing into your ribs. Your gaze drops to your shoes, blurring a little through the sheen of gathering tears you refuse to let fall.
You shake your head, voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t… I just...” you can’t seem to get the words out.
She nods again, slow, calm, like she expected that answer. “That’s alright. We don’t have to talk about anything you’re not ready for.”
Her voice is steady and low, grounding in a way that makes you breathe a little deeper, even as your arms stay locked tight around yourself.
Dr. Calderu lets the silence hang for a moment before she shifts slightly in her chair, her bracelets chiming as she folds her hands loosely again.
“Alright,” she says softly. “Let’s try something else. Tell me, what do your days look like now?”
You sniff, wiping quickly at your cheek, though no tears have fallen yet. “Um… I babysit a little boy.” Your voice is small, but it’s something. “Most weekdays.”
She nods. “That sounds like important work.”
You huff a laugh, quick and humourless. “It’s just one kid.”
“Just one kid who depends on you,” she counters gently. “That still matters.”
You look down, embarrassed, your arms tightening around your knees. “The rest of the time I… I don’t know. I sleep. Or I’m at home with my mom. Or with…” you trail off, fumbling for the word, “…her.”
Dr. Calderu’s eyes are steady, but not piercing. Just open. “So it sounds like your days are split, some responsibility, some rest, some time with people who care about you.”
“I guess,” you whisper, though your shoulders hunch tighter. “But it still feels like nothing. Like I’m not doing anything that counts.”
Her head tilts. “Counts to who?”
The question lodges in your chest, simple and impossible at once. You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening. You just squeeze yourself smaller, trying to avoid her gaze, the question buzzing in your ears.
You don’t speak for a while but when you do, your voice is quiet. “I always wanted to be a professor.”
Dr. Calderu doesn’t interrupt, just waits for you to continue.
“I loved what I did,” you continue, staring down at the floor. “I was good at it. I mean… I was becoming kind of a leading researcher in my field. My specialty was folklore, and the history of witchcraft. Obscure archives, manuscripts, oral traditions… I loved digging through things no one else seemed to care about.”
Your arms tighten around your knees. “My whole family was proud. My mom told everyone I was going to be a Doctor of History. Billy bragged about me. It felt like my life was all finally… coming together.”
You swallow hard, your throat thick. “And now anything else I do feels… empty. Pointless. Like I’ve already failed at the only thing that mattered. Babysitting, sleeping, cooking dinner with my mom… it doesn’t touch the same place. It just feels like I’ve ruined everything.”
The silence after is sharp, and you almost wish she’d say something, challenge you, contradict you, anything. But instead Dr. Calderu just nods once, her expression unreadable except for the steady warmth in her eyes.
“That’s a lot to carry,” she says softly. “No wonder it feels heavy.”
Your lip trembles, and you duck your face back into your knees, ashamed of how raw your voice had come out.
Dr. Calderu watches you tuck your face down into your knees, arms locked tight around yourself. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t fill the silence, just tilts her head and lets the space hold. Then, softly:
“Would you like to try again to tell me what happened?”
The question cracks through your chest like glass underfoot. You sniff, wiping your nose with the cuff of your sleeve, and your anxiety surges sharp and immediate, throat closing, stomach rolling, palms damp against your jeans. You don’t want to look at her. You can’t.
Your heart is already pounding, the way it always does when the memory comes. You can taste it, that awful mix of shame and bile, and your body doesn’t seem to know whether it wants to run or collapse.
“My professor,” you start, barely audible. “My… mentor.” The word sticks in your throat. You swallow hard, your voice cracking. “She was… inappropriate.”
Your whole body tenses, like even saying it out loud is dangerous. The air feels too thick, like it’s sticking to the inside of your lungs.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do,” you manage, words tumbling, shaky. “So I went to the dean. And they…” You break off, hugging yourself tighter, fingernails pressing crescents into your arms. “…they took her side.”
The shame rushes back hot and heavy, like it’s happening all over again. You can feel the sting in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.
“So I left.”
The words hang there, small and brittle.
You drag a shaky hand through your hair, your whole body restless, twitchy with the memory. “And now I’m nothing. I walked away from everything I worked for. And she’s still there. She’s still teaching, still publishing, like nothing happened. No fucking consequence.”
Your voice cracks harder, breaking into something closer to a sob. “And I’m so angry. All the time. I loved what I did. I really, really loved it. And now it’s gone. It’s just…” you clutch your knees tighter. “It’s nothing. I’m a failure.”
The words echo in the quiet of the office, and for a second you can’t breathe, like you’ve hollowed yourself out just to say them.
You hug your knees tighter, your face pressed into the fabric, as the silence stretches. It feels like ripping a scab clean off, raw air rushing into an open wound you’ve kept hidden, hidden so well you almost convinced yourself it wasn’t still bleeding. And now it’s gaping wide, stinging in every nerve. You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in your temples.
For the first time in a long time, you don’t try to patch it over. You just let it sit. The ugly truth of it. The humiliation. The anger. The grief.
“What happened to you,” she says, her accent softening the words, “does not make you a failure.”
Your head tips, just enough to peek at her through damp lashes. She hasn’t shifted in her chair — she’s still sitting, composed, but her eyes are fixed on you, steady and unwavering.
“You were wronged,” she continues. “By someone who abused her position, and by an institution that chose to protect her instead of you. That is not your failure. That is theirs.”
You swallow hard, the lump in your throat catching.
“I hear how much you loved your work,” she says. “How much you poured into it. That love doesn’t vanish because you were forced to walk away. It’s still yours. What she did… what they did… it cannot erase the truth of your talent or your worth.”
Your arms loosen a little around your knees. Just a little.
Dr. Calderu leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on her thighs. “You are not nothing. You are someone who survived being betrayed in the place you should have been safest. And you are here choosing to talk about it and get help. That does not look like failure to me.”
Your lip trembles, the tears threatening again, but this time they feel different, not humiliation but something closer to release.
Dr. Calderu doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t soften into pity or harden into judgment. She just watches you carefully, her voice lowering another notch.
“All you wanted,” she says, quiet but steady, “was to go to school and to learn. To do the work you loved.”
Your breath catches, and suddenly you can’t hold it back anymore. The tears spill fast, burning hot as they track down your cheeks, and then you’re sobbing.
And still, Dr. Calderu doesn’t move to interrupt it, doesn’t shush you or rush you along. She sits in her chair, letting the silence of the office hold your sobs, like there’s space here for all of it. Years of anger, shame, betrayal, and all the things you never said out loud, spill out in sobs that feel endless yet cathartic. Your chest hurts, your throat raw, but it’s different than before. This isn’t panic, it’s release.
When the sobs finally start to ebb, you can hear your own shaky breathing again, the hitch and stutter of air trying to find its rhythm.
Dr. Calderu speaks only then, her tone the same as it’s been from the start, calm and solid.
“What was done to you was wrong. But none of it changes who you are. You are still the girl who loves to learn. That’s still in you. And it always will be.”
You wipe at your face with your sleeve, the fabric damp by the time you drag it away. Your chest still hiccups a little with the aftershocks of crying, but your lips tug into the faintest smile. “…thank you.”
Dr. Calderu doesn’t soften into platitude. She just inclines her head, eyes steady, a small curve of her mouth. “No need.”
The quiet lingers for a few beats before she shifts, crossing one leg over the other. Her bracelets clink faintly. “Tell me,” she says, voice still calm but curious, “how are you taking care of yourself?”
You blink at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Forms of self care,” she explains. “Little rituals, routines, things you do to keep your body and mind steady. Ways you give yourself kindness.”
You sniffle, your frown deepening as you hug your knees tighter. “I don’t really… I don’t know.” You shrug, embarrassed. “I don’t think I do that.”
She nods once, decisive but not unkind. “Then that’s your homework. Between now and the next session, I want you to choose ways you can take care of yourself. It doesn’t have to be anything complicated, just something.”
You hesitate, then murmur, “My girlfriend’s taking me to the movies tonight, does that count?”
“Yes.” Dr. Calderu’s smile widens just slightly, enough to feel like approval. “That’s a start.”
You duck your head, cheeks hot, but there’s a flicker of warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.
The clock on the wall ticks past the hour. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had gone until Dr. Calderu leans forward, uncrossing her legs.
“Well,” she says, tone gentle but conclusive, “that’s enough for today.” Her eyes stay fixed on you, steady and unflinching. “You’ve done the hardest part, showing up and saying the truth out loud. Now we can begin to make things better.”
You sniff, rubbing your sleeve under your nose, but there’s a tiny warmth in your chest at her words. A cautious spark of relief.
She stands, offering you her hand to help you up. When you’re on your feet, she simply says, “Same time next week,” like it’s already decided, and somehow that makes it easier to nod.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Her smile is brief but real. “Good work today.”
You leave her office slowly, the weight of what you said still clinging to your shoulders, but lighter now, like some of it was peeled away.
In the hallway, you finally dig your phone out of your bag. The screen lights up immediately with stacked messages.
~ Billy: Still alive in there? 👀~
~ Mom: Thinking of you. Call me when you’re home. ❤️~
~ Agatha: How’s my girl? ~
The knot in your stomach twists again, but this time you remind yourself that they’re all waiting for you, that you’re not walking out of this alone. You tuck the phone back into your hand, breathing deep, before pushing the door open to step outside.
The door clicks shut behind you, the late afternoon air hits cool against your face. You’re fumbling for your earphones when movement across the street catches your eye.
Billy.
He’s leaning against his beat up little car, jacket collar turned up, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s scanning the building, bouncing on his heels like he’s been waiting a while, trying to look casual but not quite pulling it off.
Your chest clenches so fast it knocks the air right out of you. Your eyes sting all over again, vision swimming before you can stop it. He looks up at just the right moment and catches sight of you, his face softening instantly.
You don’t even think. You just run.
Your boots slap against the pavement, your bag thudding against your hip, tears blurring your vision as you cross the street. Billy straightens, arms already opening, and you crash into him hard enough to make him stumble a step back.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, wrapping you up tight, his chin resting on the top of your head. One hand strokes down your back, steady and sure. “You did it. You went in there. I’m so proud of you.”
You clutch fistfuls of his jacket, sobs coming again, smaller now but with all the rawness still in them. He just holds you, rocking faintly, his cheek pressed against your hair.
“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing between your shoulders. “It’s over now. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just breathe.”
And you do, clinging to him on the street, tears soaking into his jacket, the weight of the session finally breaking loose in the safety of his arms.
Billy flicks the blinker on once you both get into the car, pulling out into the slow crawl of late afternoon traffic. He drums his fingers against the wheel like he wants to fill the silence but knows better than to push too soon.
After a few blocks he glances over, voice careful. “Did it… go okay?”
You keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of shopfronts and bus stops slip past. Your throat feels raw. “I told her.”
There’s a pause. He chews on his lip, then asks, gently, “told her… about university?”
You nod once, quick, still staring out the glass. The words scrape their way out, shaky. “I told her what happened. About…” you falter, clutching your sleeve tighter. “About my professor. And the dean. And how I left.”
Billy’s hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale, but he stays quiet, letting you say it.
You breathe hard through your nose, tears starting again before you can stop them. “She said… she said all I wanted was to go to school and learn, and…” Your voice breaks on the memory, sobs catching in your chest. “And it’s true. That’s all I wanted. Just to do what I loved. And now it’s gone. It’s all gone.”
Your chest heaves, your forehead pressing to the cool glass. Tears blur the passing cars into streaks of colour.
Without a word, Billy flicks the indicator on and pulls the car to the side of the road. The hazard lights tickn in the background. He shifts the gear into park, then leans over, one hand on your arm. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You shake your head, but he tugs gently until you turn, and then he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling you across the console into his arms.
“I know,” he murmurs into your hair, squeezing you tight. “I know, I know.”
You sob against his chest, clutching the front of his hoodie like you’ll fall apart if you let go. He just rocks you a little, his hand rubbing circles into your back, his voice steady even as yours cracks apart.
“You’re not a failure,” he says firmly. “You’re my sister. You’re brilliant. You survived something that would’ve broken most people. And I love you. Always. No matter what.”
The words crack something deeper in you, but this time the sob that comes feels like release instead of shame. You let yourself cry into him, and he just keeps holding you, repeating soft little “I know”s until the storm ebbs enough that you can breathe again.
By the time Billy pulls up outside the house, your eyes are raw and sore, your chest still hiccupping now and then with leftover tears. He kills the engine, squeezes your hand once, and says, “Ready?”
You nod, even though you don’t really feel it, and follow him up the path.
The door barely clicks shut behind you before your mom’s there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, eyes darting to your face.
“Sweetheart!” She doesn’t wait for you to explain, just pulls you into her arms.
It’s different from Billy’s hug, less steady and more frantic, her hands smoothing over your hair, your back, like she’s trying to check every part of you at once. You sink into it anyway, letting her fuss, letting her hold you.
“Thanks,” you mumble into her shoulder, a small smile breaking through. “I really needed it.”
She leans back just far enough to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing under your tired eyes. Her own smile is soft, if not a little wobbly. “Anytime, my love. Always.”
Your throat tightens again, but you nod, squeezing her hand before gently untangling yourself. “I’m just gonna… go upstairs for a bit.”
She presses a kiss to your temple before letting you go, turning back toward the kitchen.
You slip up the stairs, your phone already in your hand by the time you reach your room. The screen lights up with a fresh message from Agatha.
~ Agatha: Well? How’s my girl? ~
You curl on your bed, back against the headboard, blanket tugged around your shoulders. Your thumbs hover for a moment before you finally type.
~ Y/N: I feel better x tired but better ~
It only takes a few seconds before her reply pings through.
~ Agatha: Good girl. I knew you’d get through it. ~
Your lip wobbles, but you smile, tucking the blanket tighter. You type again.
~ Y/N: How wasNicky? ~
~ Agatha: Handed him to Rio this morning. He clung a little longer than usual… always does when it’s her week. The house feels too quiet without him. ~
You stare at the screen, chewing your lip. You know how hard those hand offs are for her, she never says it outright but you can read it between the lines.
~ Y/N: Then it’s a good thing we have a date tonight x ~
The typing bubble appears instantly.
~ Agatha: Damn right we do. What time are you coming over? ~
You grin at your phone, typing back.
~ Y/N: Whenever you want me x but fair warning my therapist gave me homework to practice more self care so I’m picking the movie x ~
There’s a beat, then her response flashes up:
~ Agatha: Ohhh self care is it? So what are we watching? A three hour black and white documentary about goat sacrifices in the Carpathians? ~
You snort, shaking your head.
~ Y/N: Very funny but no x and you’re not allowed to complain! ~
~ Agatha: Never. I’ll even buy you the big popcorn bucket. Anything for my girl. ~
Your chest warms, the ache of the day easing a little more with each message.
Later on you stand in front of the mirror for longer than you mean to, tugging the hem of your dress down, smoothing it again even though it doesn’t need it. Your hair falls just the way Agatha likes, and you swipe on a little lipstick just enough to feel like you made an effort. You glance at your reflection, heart fluttering at the thought of her seeing you like this.
By the time you come downstairs, your boots clicking against the steps, the living room is filled with the low hum of the TV. Your mom looks up first, dish towel still in her hands.
“Well, don’t you look nice,” she says, brows rising. “Where are you off to all dressed up?”
Before you can even open your mouth, Billy twists around on the sofa, a grin spreading wide across his face. “She’s got a date.”
“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.
Your mom’s eyes light up instantly. “A date?” She steps closer, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Who is she? How long have you been dating? When do I get to meet her?”
“Ma stop.” You laugh nervously. “You’re not meeting her!”
Billy snickers, leaning back on the sofa with his arms stretched wide, smug as anything. “I’ve met her.”
Your jaw drops. “Billy!” you gasp, whipping your head toward him. “Stop it!”
He just grins wider, unbothered. “What? It’s true.”
Your mom turns on him immediately. “You’ve met her?”
“Billy,” you warn, glaring, but he just wiggles his eyebrows, enjoying every second of your mortification.
“Sweetheart,” your mom presses, turning back to you, her voice practically a coo, “why can’t I meet her? If your brother has-”
“Because,” you cut in quickly, grabbing your coat from the hook, “it’s new, and you’ll scare her off, and ugh, stop interrogating me.”
Billy snorts, hiding his laugh behind his hand as you shove your arms into your coat sleeves.
“Not funny,” you mutter at him, though your cheeks are flaming.
He just grins. “Kinda funny.”
You’re still fussing with your coat zipper when Billy pipes up again, voice all faux innocent.
“Don’t stay out too late, okay? Curfew’s midnight.”
You shoot him a murderous look over your shoulder. “God, I miss life before Mom adopted you.”
“I’m not adopted!” he protests, sitting bolt upright on the sofa.
“Yeah okay,” you say sweetly, already pulling open the front door. “Keep telling yourself that.”
He splutters behind you, and your mom sighs, “Children,” in that long suffering tone that tells you she’s trying not to laugh.
You step out into the cool evening air, the flush of embarrassment still warming your cheeks. The sky’s deepening violet, the street lamps just flickering on as you cross the drive to your car.
By the time you slide behind the wheel and start the engine, your nerves are sparking again but this time with excitement and the anticipation of seeing Agatha.
The drive over is a blur of headlights and nerves. Your fingers keep tightening and loosening on the steering wheel, stomach flipping every time you picture her face when she sees you and the fact that you actually made an effort to look pretty for her.
When you pull up outside her building, you cut the engine and fish your phone from your bag, thumbs tapping quickly before you can second guess yourself.
~ Y/N: I’m outside! ~
A couple minutes later, the front door swings open, and there she is.
Agatha steps out onto the stoop like she’s walking into a premiere, her hair blown out smooth, lips painted deep red, a soft silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers that make your breath catch. A cropped jacket is slung over her shoulders. She looks devastatingly put together, every inch of her styled for you.
Her eyes find you through the windshield, and her mouth curls into a grin that makes heat spark low in your belly. She strides down the steps, heels clicking, and opens the passenger door like she’s already claimed the seat.
“Well, don’t you look edible,” she purrs, sliding in and letting her bag drop at her feet. She leans over the console before you can answer, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, her perfume curling around you.
You melt instantly, giggling when she nips your lip lightly before pulling back.
“You driving us tonight, babygirl?” she teases, smoothing a hand over your thigh like she already knows the answer. “Good. I like being chauffeured around.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks hot, but the butterflies in your stomach are fluttering so hard you can barely focus on putting the car back in gear.
The car hums back to life under your hands, headlights catching the wet sheen on the road as you ease out from the curb. Agatha shifts in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other.
You clear your throat, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Okay, but fair warning, you’re not allowed to criticise my driving.”
Her head tilts, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Sweetheart, I would never criticise… I would observe, maybe. Colourfully.”
You snort, shooting her a quick look. “That’s worse.”
She laughs, the sound warm and throaty, and it untangles some of the nerves fizzing in your chest. She leans back into her seat, watching the way your hands grip to the wheel. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Better than Billy anyway, the boy thinks turn signals are optional.”
That makes you laugh despite yourself, and her smile sharpens like she’s pleased to have dragged it out of you.
Her hand drifts then, sliding over to rest warm against your thigh. The weight of it is immediate, her thumb brushing idly against the fabric of your dress.
You flinch. Just a tiny jolt, your leg stiffening under her palm.
She notices instantly, withdrawing her hand back to her own lap like she’s been burned. “Hey,” her tone drops softer, careful, “sorry. Too much?”
You bite your lip, cheeks heating, eyes flicking from the road to her and back again. “No, I’m sorry I just… it’s been a rough day.”
Something in her expression eases. The sharp teasing softens into something warmer. She nods once, leaning back in her seat. “Then we’ll make it better. Starting with popcorn the size of your head.”
You let out a shaky little laugh, shoulders relaxing again as the road unfurls ahead of you, her gaze still steady on you in the glow of passing streetlights.
“So,” she says finally, low and lilting, “therapy.”
Your knuckles whiten against the wheel. “Mm.”
“How did it go?” she presses, her tone not quite teasing this time.
You can feel her waiting. It ties your insides up instantly. “Uh,” you murmur, eyes darting between the road and your side mirror. “It… went.”
“It went,” she repeats, one brow arching. “That’s very detailed. Extremely helpful.”
You let out a nervous laugh, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah, well, I’m not writing a report.”
She hums, amused but clearly not letting you off that easy. “You know, if I had a dollar for every time someone tried to dodge me with a vague answer…” She trails off, turning her head to look fully out the window, but the smirk stays. “I’d still be working at the university, but at least I’d have a nicer office.”
“Very funny.”
Her eyes flick back to you. “So? Was it awful? Was it bearable? Did you feel like you could say what you needed to say?”
Your chest tightens. Your throat does too. You swallow, fingers twitching on the wheel. You can feel her watching you, steady and expectant, and the pressure of it makes your heart hammer harder.
So you blurt the first thing that comes into your head. “My mom wants to meet you.”
That gets her. She blinks, then lets out a low laugh, sharp and delighted. “That’s… not the same thing.”
You risk a glance at her to see that she’s grinning, lips painted red and wicked, and groan. “I know. But she asked, okay? Tonight. She was all ‘who is she, how long have you been dating, when can I meet her?’” You shake your head, cheeks burning as you stare hard at the road. “And I said absolutely not. She’s not going to meet you.”
Agatha smirks, leaning an elbow on the console, chin in her hand as she studies you. “Why not?”
“Because she’ll…” you falter, feeling the heat creep higher into your face. “She’ll interrogate you and scare you off.”
“Oh, baby.” She leans in just enough that you feel her gaze burning into the side of your face. “Nothing about your mother could scare me off.”
Your stomach flips violently and you bite your lip, keeping your eyes on the road just so you don’t have to look at her directly.
She notices anyway, she always does. “You’re blushing,” she teases, voice velvet smooth.
“I am not,” you protest immediately.
“Yes you are. I can see it.” She grins wider. “It’s adorable.”
“God, you’re annoying,” you mutter, but your voice cracks on the word and it makes her laugh, throaty and warm.
The neon glow of the theatre sign cuts through the rain slick night, splashing red and blue light across the windshield as you pull into the lot. The wipers drag one last streak across the glass before you kill the engine, the hum of the car falling into silence.
You’re fumbling with your bag strap, nerves jittering again now that you’ve actually arrived, when you feel her eyes on you.
“Hey,” Agatha says softly, drawing your attention.
You glance over to see she’s already leaning in. Her hand comes up, sliding over your cheek, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth before her lips press to yours.
Your breath catches, and you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth moves against yours. She lingers, kissing you deeper, her palm warm against your skin. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours, her lips still brushing yours when she speaks.
“Better,” she murmurs. “I’ve been waiting all damn day to do that.”
You giggle softly, your stomach flipping, and she grins at the sound, her thumb stroking your cheek once more before she leans back, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“C’mon, babygirl,” she says, voice low but playful again. “Let’s go see what ridiculous film you’ve picked for me.”
Inside, the theatre lobby is buzzing with families corralling kids toward animated features, clusters of teens clutching sodas, and the hum of arcade machines chiming from the corner. The smell of buttered popcorn and artificial cherry slush fills the air as you step inside.
Agatha keeps close behind you, her hand brushing the small of your back as you head for the ticket counter. “Alright,” she murmurs, leaning down toward your ear, “what are we seeing? Please tell me it’s not three hours of men in spandex punching each other.”
You bite back a grin as you pass her the ticket stub. “We’re seeing a scary movie.”
She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Of course. My little witch picks the horror flick.”
“You don’t like scary movies?” you ask, pretending innocence.
“I love scary movies,” she declares, her chin tilting up, lips curving into her trademark smirk. “Love ‘em. Bring it on.”
But the way she smooths her jacket down and clears her throat says otherwise.
You hide a smile, threading your arm through hers as you head to the concession stand. She doesn’t argue when you order the jumbo popcorn, just pays for it and hands it over like she planned it that way.
By the time you find your seats in the darkened theatre, previews already rolling, she’s sprawled into the chair beside youl, jacket folded neatly over her lap.
“This is nothing,” she mutters under her breath as the lights dim further. “I’ve lived through faculty meetings. Nothing’s scarier than a tenure review.”
You snort, sipping your soda. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am not.” She takes a handful of popcorn, eyes flicking to the screen a second too quickly as the opening credits roll over a dimly lit house and a low, ominous score.
When the first jump scare hits, a sudden shriek of violins accompanied by a figure lunging across the screen, Agatha jolts in her seat, her hand flying to the armrest.
You smirk into your soda straw. “Not scared, huh?”
“Shut up,” she mutters, her hand sliding deliberately over yours on the shared armrest. “Just making sure you’re not scared.”
You squeeze her fingers, hiding your grin as the movie swallows the both of you in shadow and sound.
On screen, the camera glides through a dark, empty house. An ominous score swells and you know what’s coming. The second scare comes sharply, a figure slamming past the window with a crash of strings. The whole audience gasps. Agatha, too. You bite your lip, smothering a smile.
She leans sideways, voice low and dry. “Don’t you dare say a word.”
“I wasn’t going to,” you whisper back, eyes glinting.
“Uh huh.” She crunches a kernel like she’s proving a point, then focuses her gaze stubbornly on the screen.
But the movie doesn’t let up. A long stretch of silence, a door creaking slowly open on its own. Agatha tilts her chin, like she’s not fazed at all.
And then a hand shoots out of the dark to grab the protagonist’s shoulder.
Agatha jumps.
This time it’s not subtle, her hand shoots across the armrest and latches onto your thigh before she can stop herself. Her nails dig through the fabric of your dress, and you bite back a gasp more from the suddenness than the pressure.
Slowly, you glance at her. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, jaw tight, like if she ignores you, it didn’t happen.
“You okay?” you murmur, lips quirking.
She exhales through her nose. “Perfectly fine. Just making sure you’re safe.”
“I feel very safe,” you whisper, giggling.
Her hand doesn’t move, though. If anything, her thumb strokes once over your thigh like she’s soothing herself.
The film spirals darker. After every scare Agatha stiffens a little, shoulders tightening under her silk blouse. She keeps up the bravado, muttering dry little comments like “oh yes, by all means go into the basement, that’s clever” but every loud sting in the score makes her jump again, her hand squeezing your thigh tighter.
At one point, the protagonist creeps toward a closet, the camera closing in on the knob twisting slowly. The theatre goes dead silent. You can feel Agatha holding her breath next to you, her grip iron tight. The door bursts open with a shriek of violins and Agatha actually yelps under her breath.
You press your fist to your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
Her head whips toward you, eyes narrowing in the glow of the screen. “Not. A. Word.”
You lean in, whispering so close your lips brush her ear. “You’re so brave.”
She smirks, but her ears are pink.
By the time the third act rolls in, full of bloodied survivors running through shadowy corridors, monsters lunging from every corner, she’s flinching in her seat, her arm now solidly around your shoulders under the guise of keeping you safe.
When the credits finally roll, the lights starting to come up, Agatha exhales like she’s been holding her breath for two hours straight. She shakes her head, smoothing her hair back into place, trying to look casual.
“Well,” she says, voice a touch higher than usual. “That was… interesting.”
“Totally.” You grin at her, eyes sparkling.
She narrows her eyes, lips twitching. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs theatrically, standing and stretching her arms over her head, blouse riding up just enough to make you blush. “Fine. Next time, I pick the movie.”
“You promised me selfcare!”
Her grin returns, sly and sharp. “Exactly. And selfcare means no more demon closets.”
You laugh, trailing after her as she leads the way out of the theatre, her hand sneaking back into yours as the crowd spills into the neon lit lobby.
The crowd spills out into the night, chatter buzzing with nervous laughter and retellings of the scariest bits. The neon from the marquee paints everything in red and blue stripes, slicked across the wet pavement.
Agatha slips her hand into yours as you step down the curb together, her grip firm, like she’s still recovering from the film.
“How,” she says, voice low and incredulous, “do you enjoy that shit?”
You laugh, the sound spilling out before you can stop it, shoulders shaking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she throws her free hand up dramatically, “two hours of jump scares and bloody shadows, and you’re just sitting there, sipping your soda like it’s a Sunday matinee.”
You grin, bumping your shoulder against hers as you walk. “I’ve always loved horror movies. Even as a kid. I used to sneak them on late night TV when my mom thought I was asleep.”
“Of course you did,” she mutters, smirking sideways at you. “Creepy little thing.”
“Hey.” You giggle, pretending to pout.
She squeezes your hand. “Cute creepy,” she amends, the smirk widening.
By the time you reach the car, the rain’s thinned to a mist, dampening your hair. She presses the key fob, the lights flashing, and opens the drivers door for you with a little flourish. You roll your eyes but climb in, still smiling.
When she settles into the passengers seat, adjusting the mirrors with a casual flick, she glances over at you, lips curving into something slower, heavier. “Back to mine, baby?”
You gasp theatrically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Agatha Harkness. Are you suggesting I put out on the first date?”
She barks a laugh, throwing her head back against the headrest. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her hand slides deliberately onto your thigh again, this time with no flinch from you. “That was always the plan.”
You giggle, turning the ignition, the car purring to life beneath you both as she eases it out of the lot.
The engine hums low as you pull out of the lot, headlights cutting across wet asphalt. Inside the car it’s quiet, just the swish of the wipers, the muted thrum of tires on slick road.
“So,” she drawls after a beat, “did you have fun tormenting me, babygirl? Sitting there watching me jump out of my skin?”
You stifle a giggle. “Maybe a little.”
She side eyes you, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re cruel. I like it.”
You take one hand off the wheel to hit her arm lightly, pretending to pout. “I wasn’t cruel! I was supportive.”
“Supportive,” she repeats, amused. “Is that what you call smirking every time that I jumped in my seat?”
You can’t help giggling outright now, shoulders shaking. “You were so brave, though.”
“Brave?” she scoffs, squeezing your thigh just enough to make you squirm. “Baby, I nearly threw the popcorn at the poor bastard sitting in front of us.”
You bite your lip, grinning at the windshield. “I’d still go to another one with you.”
Her smirk softens into something warmer, “yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, quieter.
There’s a pause before she murmurs, “Good because like taking you out. Even if it’s to a fucking haunted house.”
The car hums on through the wet streets, streetlights flashing across her profile. Every now and then, her thumb strokes idle patterns against your thigh, like she’s not even aware she’s doing it.
“So…” you start, smirking. “What exactly are your intentions with me tonight, Professor Harkness?”
Her smirk returns, slow and dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart. My intention is to get you back to mine, pour you a drink, and see how long it takes you to climb into my lap.”
You gasp, half laughing, half flustered. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m driving!”
She chuckles, low and pleased with herself, leaning back in her seat. “Consider it motivation.”
Your breath catches. The light turns green, but you barely notice, you’re too busy stealing a glance at her, heat crawling up your neck.
“Eyes forward,” she teases, voice like velvet.
You swallow hard, forcing your gaze back to the road, but your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The car hums on, block after block bringing you closer to her place, the tension tightening like a bowstring.
By the time you pull into her street, your hands ache from gripping the wheel. You slide into the curb, kill the engine, and before you can even draw a steady breath, she’s leaning in.
Her mouth crashes against yours, hot and insistent. You whimper into the kiss, your hands flying to her shoulders. She pulls you over the console, her fingers already tangling in your hair, kissing you like she’s been starving for it.
You gasp against her mouth, and she takes advantage, deepening the kiss, her tongue stroking yours greedily. Her other hand fists in the hem of your dress, tugging you closer.
“Been waiting all night for this,” she growls against your lips, kissing you harder, her teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you moan.
Your breath comes fast, fogging the windows, your body melting against hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the whole world shrinking to the heat of her mouth and the steady grip of her hands.
You whimper when she drags you fully over the console, the gearshift digging into your thigh as you straddle her lap. You don’t care, her hands are everywhere, one cradling the back of your skull, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.
“Fuck, babygirl…” she groans against your mouth, kissing you harder, open and hungry. “You’re killing me.”
You tug at her jacket, fists clutching the silk of her blouse underneath, kissing her back with everything you’ve got. The need floods hot through your veins, sparking at every point of contact.
Her mouth leaves yours only to trail down your jaw, her teeth grazing your throat as she licks and sucks there, messy and possessive. You gasp, nails digging into her shoulders.
“Mine,” she mutters into your skin, voice ragged. “All mine.”
Your hips roll helplessly against hers, and she groans, bucking up just enough to make you gasp. The car rocks faintly with the movement, the leather seat creaking under you both.
Your kiss turns frantic again, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, the two of you breathing like you can’t get enough air unless it’s from each other.
You break only long enough to whisper, “Agatha,” your voice shaking with it, “please don’t stop.”
Her hand fists tighter in your hair, pulling your head back so she can kiss you deep and filthy, like she’s trying to devour you whole.
The windows are nothing but mist now, the whole car swallowed in your heat, your panting, and the desperate sound of her kissing you like she’s not letting you go.
You moan when her hand slides up the back of your thigh, fingers pressing into bare skin. “Agatha…” comes out as a whimper, broken and needy.
“Mhm,” she hums against your throat, teeth catching your pulse. “Tell me what you want, babygirl.”
“I-” your words scatter when she rocks up against you, the friction sparking heat through your whole body. “I want… god, I just want you.”
That earns you a low, guttural laugh. “Already have me baby.” She kisses you again. “Always.”
Her hand inches higher, skimming dangerously close to where you need her most. Your hips buck, desperate, and she groans into your mouth like she’s the one falling apart.
The seat squeaks, the car rocks faintly, her breath hot and heavy as she mutters, “You feel so fucking good in my lap… could take you right here, couldn’t I? Fuck you until the car shakes.”
You whimper, clinging to her shoulders, dizzy with need. The heat between you both is unbearable, every kiss frantic, every touch like she’s staking claim all over your body.
Then she stills, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting. Her fingers flex on your thigh, achingly close.
“As much as I’d love to ruin you right here,” she rasps, eyes dark and wild in the dim light, “you deserve a bed where I can take my time.”
You whine, hips rolling helplessly against hers, but she just smirks, kissing you soft and slow now, a cruel contrast to how desperate it’s been.
“Don’t worry, babygirl,” she murmurs against your lips. “We’re not stopping. Just relocating.”
Her hand slides back to your hip, steadying you as she helps ease you off her lap, both of you flushed and panting in the fogged up car.
By the time you stumble into her apartment, your cheeks are still flushed, lips swollen from the car. You kick your boots off half blind, her mouth still chasing yours as she shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it somewhere.
She’s tugging you toward the bedroom when her phone buzzes against the counter, a vibration so insistent it doesn’t stop. Then again. And again. The screen lights up: 12 missed calls. Rio.
Agatha freezes, her hand still curled around your wrist. “Shit.”
You blink, heart still racing, the heat of the makeout still buzzing under your skin, but the tone in her voice slices right through it.
She snatches up the phone, thumb swiping across the screen. It barely rings once before Rio’s voice bursts through, tinny and frantic. You can hear enough to piece together that Nicky’s sick, feverish, and inconsolable, crying for his mother. Rio’s frazzled, her voice clipped with panic.
Agatha’s whole posture changes, shoulders stiffening, face sharp with focus. “I’ll come get him,” she says quickly, already moving, hunting for her keys. “Just keep him cool, I’ll be there in twenty tops.”
She hangs up, shoving her phone into her pocket, muttering, “Goddammit.”
You step closer, touching her arm. “Let me drive.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “You don’t-”
“You’re too upset to focus on the road,” you remind her gently. “And Rio already knows about us. It won’t make a difference if I’m the one behind the wheel.”
For a moment she just stares at you, jaw tight, breathing heavy through her nose. Then she exhales sharply, shoulders sagging. “Alright.”
You squeeze her arm once, steadying her. “Go grab what you need for him. I’ll get the car.”
She nods, still rattled but grateful, and you turn for the door, the urgency of the night flipping from hungry kisses to something far more fragile, getting to Nicky.
The city blurs past in streaks of neon and wet asphalt, wipers beating fast across the glass. Your hands grip the wheel tighter than usual, every muscle in your shoulders strung taut with the weight of the moment.
Beside you, Agatha is nothing like the composed, teasing woman from the theatre. She’s wound tight, knee bouncing, fingers tapping restless patterns against her thigh. Her phone sits face up in her lap, screen dark now but still heavy with the weight of those missed calls.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than to you. “He sounded bad. He hardly ever sounds that bad.”
You glance over briefly, heart twisting at the sight of her. “Kids get sick,” you say carefully. “It doesn’t mean-”
“It does with him,” she cuts in, sharper than she means to. She drags a hand through her hair, sighing hard. “He’s always been… fragile. Even as a baby. The asthma, the infections, the nights I was up with him every hour.” Her voice cracks but she swallows against it. “Every time he so much as coughs, I hear it all over again. Him tiny, gasping, hooked up to those fucking machines.”
You bite your lip, eyes flicking from the road to her profile. The streetlights catch the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw works like she’s trying not to cry.
Your hand slips from the wheel just long enough to brush her knee, steady and grounding. “He’s not that tiny anymore,” you murmur. “He’s bigger and stronger. And you’re already on your way to him.”
Her hand finds yours fast, gripping like a lifeline. “I just hate how fast it all comes back.”
You squeeze her fingers, the hum of the car wrapping around your silence. Rain spatters harder against the windshield, and she leans her head back, eyes closing, still holding onto you.
The road stretches ahead, but all you can think is getting her to her son and keeping her steady until she’s there.
You pull into Rio’s drive, the porch light a soft yellow against the rain. Before you’ve even shifted the car into park, Agatha’s unbuckled and out the door, heels clicking up the path in a near run. You stay put, hands locked on the wheel, heart thudding as you watch her disappear inside.
Through the rain blurred glass, the scene unfolds. Rio opens the door, hair mussed, wearing an oversized sweater. She looks frazzled and pale and the second Agatha steps in, Nicky is already there, flushed and teary, reaching for her. Agatha scoops him up without hesitation, murmuring against his damp curls, rocking him close.
You can’t hear through the car windows, but you can see Rio talking, the sharp gestures of her hands, the way she leans in close. Agatha shifts Nicky on her hip, answering clipped, then starts for the door again. Rio blocks her path.
You crack the window, just enough for voices to filter in over the rain.
“Stay,” Rio urges, her voice low but edged with something fierce. “He needs his mother here. Just stay the night.”
Agatha shakes her head, calm but firm. “No. He needs to be comfortable in his own bed. I’ll take him home.”
Rio’s tone sharpens. “It’s his home here too.”
Agatha exhales through her nose, jaw tight. “Y/N’s in the car. We’ll go back together.”
The name lands like a slap. Rio’s posture stiffens, her arms folding, her mouth curling. “Of course. Her.” The word drips venom.
Agatha adjusts Nicky against her shoulder, protective. “Don’t start, Rio.”
“I’m not starting,” Rio snaps back, voice rising. “I just don’t understand why she has to be involved in everything. She’s the babysitter, Agatha. She’s not family.”
Your stomach twists at the words, heat crawling up your neck even as you sink lower in your seat.
Agatha’s eyes flash, steel behind them. “She’s mine,” she says simply, quiet but razor sharp. “And she’s here. End of story.”
Rio bristles, lips parting like she wants to lash out more, but Nicky whimpers against Agatha’s chest, and the fight drains into a hissed sigh. She steps aside, jerking her chin toward the door. “Fine. Go.”
Agatha doesn’t wait another beat, she tightens her hold on Nicky, presses a kiss to his hot forehead, and sweeps back out into the rain toward the car.
The passenger door swings open hard enough to rattle the hinges, and then she’s climbing in, rain streaking her hair, Nicky clutched tight against her chest. He’s whimpering, little fists knotted in her blouse, his face blotchy and damp from crying.
Agatha doesn’t even glance at the front seat. She shifts straight into the back, settling against the leather with Nicky curled into her, murmuring low in his ear.
You turn in your seat, heart tugging at the sight of them. “Both of you stay in the back. I’ll get us home.”
Her eyes flick up to yours, gratitude breaking through the storm in them, and she just nods. Nicky’s too far gone to notice, he’s burrowed against her shoulder, trembling and whimpering, his breaths hitching like he can’t quite calm down.
Agatha rocks him gently, her cheek pressed against his curls, whispering soft comforts only he can hear. Her hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, her whole body curved around him like a shield.
The car fills with his small, uneven sounds, the shudder of his breath, the occasional broken “Mama” against her neck.
Agatha hums softly, kissing his temple again and again, eyes closing as she holds him tighter. The steel you saw in her face at Rio’s is gone now, replaced with pure, aching love for her boy.
You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, giving them that cocoon of space. The quiet hum of the engine blends with her soft murmurs and the sound of Nicky’s clinging little breaths. He hasn’t let go of Agatha, tiny fists still fisted in her blouse, his face pressed wet and hot into her neck.
You ease into her drive and kill the engine. For a moment, none of you move. Agatha strokes her hand over his back, pressing another kiss into his curls, whispering so softly you can’t quite catch the words.
Then you twist in your seat, catching her eyes in the dim glow of the streetlight. “Go take care of him,” you murmur. “I’ll come by tomorrow, yeah?”
She blinks, lips parting like she wants to argue, to insist you come in — but then she sees the look on your face. The understanding. The way you’re not asking her to split herself in two, not making her choose between you and the boy trembling in her arms.
Her throat works, and she exhales slowly, relief softening every sharp edge. “God, baby…” Her voice cracks just a little. “You get it.”
You smile, small but sure. “Of course I do.”
She leans forward as much as Nicky will allow, pressing her forehead to yours through the gap between the seats. Her free hand curls at the back of your neck, squeezing gently, her breath warm against your lips.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For knowing.”
You close your eyes, soaking in the touch, before she pulls back. Nicky whimpers again, and she shifts him higher on her hip, climbing out of the car with the practiced ease of a mother who’s done it a thousand times.
You watch as she disappears inside with him, the door closing behind them. Tomorrow, you’ll come back. Tonight, she belongs to her son.
Agatha, Salem Survivor (Massacre Girl, Known Killer)- Young Agatha kills her murderous coven, and starts in monoblack, the color of ambition, death, and power. The deck is specifically focused on withering- draining the life force of her opponents and benefiting from their deaths. Irritating, but for the serial killer still learning her craft.
Agatha, the Witch Killer (Tasha, the Witch Queen)- Older and wiser, Agatha picks up both the Darkhold and blue mana, the color of knowledge, wit, and most importantly theft. This dimir deck is annoying, and full of rage bait mechanics that revolve around stealing your opponent's cards for fun and profit. No survivors, and no one will want to play with you anymore.
Agatha, Phantasmal Crone (Kess, Dissident Mage)- If you thought the last deck was annoying, let me introduce you to this one. Agatha adds red mana, the color of freedom, and finally becomes the grixis shitlord she was always meant to be. Unfettered by a body or the graveyard, she's full of the dirty tricks of a life and death of chicanery, complete with some very in character alternate wincons- such as winning by milling yourself to death- and this little number:
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
2087
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
ellievsbear
