Thank you so much for your patience. I've seen your messages, and I'm incredibly grateful that you keep checking in with me and my work. I've recently lost my voice a little, if you know what I mean. But I'm back now, and I'm definitely going to update my bigger works soon.
Honestly, I can't thank you enough for the support I've been receiving <3 I will be responding to all your messages asap.
In the meantime, I published my first Agathario fanfic on ao3 today, so if that's something you're interested in, or you like how I write, feel free to check out A Kiss So Lonely. It's still in the early works, but I'm sure if you like my other stories, you'll find this one to your liking too!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
To Tame a Wild Thing | Queen!WandaMaximoff x Reader
Summary: Captured and stripped of title, allies, and purpose, you're left with nothing but Wanda’s claim on you. She feeds you, bathes you, soothes you as though you're cherished thing. Yet every tender touch cuts deeper, comfort twisting into control. In her hands, affection is a weapon, and slowly you begin to wonder if surrender is easier than standing alone.
Word count: 9k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, dark, power imbalance, manipulation, humiliation, emotional coercion, sexual tension, isolation, dubious consent, grief, mention of trauma and loss, tenderness used as a weapon, spitting, slapping, hunger strike
A/N: I've been struggling with writing lately, so I offer you this slightly darker story that's been rotting in my drafts for some time now.
The guards' hands are iron clamps around your upper arms, fingers biting into your skin. They don't guide you, they drag you, half-lifting you so your boots barely scrape the floor. Every nerve in your body is taut, every instinct screams for you to fight, to run, to resist. You try to plant your weight, to dig your heels and defy, but your soles only skid, toes catching uselessly. The stone squeals under your resistance, but no one cares. They haul you anyway, leaving you dangling like a carcass brought in for show.
The smell of smoke still clings to you. Ash from your family's banners. Ash from your mother's pyre. You think there might be blood in your hair, a copper tang that's seeped into your scalp. Your father's blood. You wonder if she'll notice. You wonder if she'll like it.
The throne room yawns around you. Cavernous and suffocating in its grandeur, built to make all who enter feel small. Columns carved from pale stone rise like soldiers frozen at attention. Incense burns from tall brass bowls, choking the air with sweetness meant to mask rot.
And they're all here to watch.
Nobles in delicate lace and heavy silks. Courtiers glittering with jewels. Their eyes track you like hawks tracking prey. Some smirk behind embellished fans, some murmur, and some bare their teeth openly. The shame of it scalds your skin hotter than fire, their whispers catching and spreading like sparks.
"I cannot fathom why she would spare her."
"They say she knew nothing of her father’s schemes until it was too late."
A scoff. "And who’s to believe that? Apples don’t fall far from the tree after all."
Your posture is stiff, mouth turned into an unbecoming sneer. You stare straight ahead, ignoring their scorn. You want to tell them how wrong they are, but who would believe you? The truth isn't something that matters now. All they care about is victory and loss.
Your eyes catch hers and you force yourself to withstand the urge to lower your head. Her eyes are greener than the wine is red, calm where you are all fire.
The Scarlet Queen. The Conqueror.
She sits draped across the throne as if it was built for her spine alone. Crown sharp as daggers, lips painted the same red as the banners that bleed down the walls. Her presence isn't loud, but it presses down on the hall like the weight of a storm, a power so natural it makes everyone else look like children playing dress-up. She leans back against her seat, legs crossed, chin resting lazily against her fingers as her gaze locks on you the way a wolf fixes on a rabbit: certain of the outcome.
She studies your torn dress: once proud in your family's colours it is now nothing but a ruin, ripped from where a soldier grabbed you, smeared with mud, dust, and the memory of blood. The hems are frayed, your bare knees scuffed from when they shoved you to the ground after the fighting ended. Stray strands of your hair cling to your damp cheeks, matted with sweat and ash. You haven't had water in hours; your tongue feels thick, your throat raw from shouting at the execution, from screaming your father's name until your voice broke.
Your knees smash against the marble when the guards force you down. They hit the stone with a thud that rattles your teeth. Pain shoots up your thighs, but you don't cry out. You won't.
Your keep your chin high. You refuse to lower your eyes. Even with the stink of blood in your hair and the weight of the entire court's laughter pressing in on you, you won't bend.
Not yet. Not ever.
Her eyes take in your scratched skin, your stubborn defiance, and then, she smiles, slow and knowing, sharp as the edge of a knife.
"So," she sighs like you're nothing more than another spoil of war, another broken thing to add to her collection. "These are the last remnants of a fallen house."
The words land like a blade slipped between your ribs.
You taste iron. Bite your cheek until copper spreads across your tongue. You think of your father's head bowing to the block, of how you screamed when the axe fell, of how they held you still and made you watch.
Your throat strains. Your chest aches. Your body trembles with fury, with grief, with something dangerously close to collapse.
But you bare your teeth instead, curling them into something sharp, something that might pass for a smile. "Enjoy your prize while it lasts, Your Majesty."
A low roar echoes through the room as the different voices of distraught nobles combine. Even they can hear it, the threat, the knowledge that you will not bend easily to her will.
Her lips twitch, not with anger, but with mirth. She leans forward slightly, crown catching the light. Scarlet flickers in her eyes, hot and alive.
"My prize," she repeats, soft as a caress and hard as a shackle.
She huffs, a laugh hidden somewhere beneath it. The corners of her eyes crinkle in delight like you've just told a grand joke.
You realise begrudgingly that your bite didn't serve the purpose you intended. You wanted her to falter, to hesitate, but she didn’t. A queen like Wanda wouldn’t be intimidated by the empty threats of a fallen heir.
She flicks her finger casually, imperiously. "Bring the pet to heel."
The hall titters with muffled laughter and scandalised whispers. Wincing, you press your lips together and tighten your shoulders. For the fraction of a second, something flickers inside you: alright, if that's how she sees me…
You lean forward, snapping your teeth right at her. A sharp, feral click of teeth in the air, like an animal lunging at a hand that dares to touch its cage. A low hiss escapes your throat. The hush that follows rings like struck class.
The guards' hands tighten until you think they'll bruise bone.
Someone in the crowd mumbles behind their hand, saying it loud enough for others to hear. "Does the pet have rabies?"
Gasps and startled chatter ripples through the hall again, giggles spread, sharper now, digging into you. Heat rushes to your face, humiliation biting at the corners of your pride. You want to claw at them. To scream.
Wanda doesn't flinch, doesn't laugh.
She only tilts her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as if you've confirmed something she already knew. Her green eyes rest on you with quiet fascination.
"You may growl all you like," she says, voice cruel in its calmness, "but that does not make you any freer."
The words coil around your throat. You force your glare to stay fixed just past her shoulder, refusing to give her your eyes. You flare your nostrils, chest heaving, heart racing. Defiance and fear clash in every muscle. The humiliation, the audacity of her calmness, makes your claws dig deeper into your pride. You bare your teeth again, low and trembling, the only weapon you have left.
The hall soon comes alive again after your display, people drunk on the spectacle. The court has gotten a taste of blood, and victory is their wine. Musicians strike their strings, trumpets blare, and drums pound a rhythm that shakes your ribs. Gold threads catch in torchlight as nobles whirl and sing, their jewels flashing like falling stars. Platters spill with roasted meats, sugared fruits, steaming breads; so much abundance it almost sickens you.
Your fingers curl against your knees until the nails dig crescent moons into your skin. You imagine standing up, tearing the glasses from their ornamented hands, smashing their feast across the floor. You imagine blood in their wine, screams instead of music.
But you are made to kneel at Wanda's side instead. The marble cutting into your knees, your dress crumpled around you in filthy folds of your family's colours. The contrast is deliberate, cruel in it's precision: their shining, your ruin.
At some point, you think you hear your father’s voice. Your head snaps up, eyes scanning the sparkling crowd, only to find nothing. He isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. Your heart stutters painfully, tightening in on itself until it aches. You know you’ll never see them again. You’re aware of it. But the realisation takes time to settle. Somewhere deep inside, beneath your ribs and past your lungs, a stubborn, childish hope still blooms, the belief that this is all just a terribly mean dream.
Goblets clink, voices swell, skirts swish across the floor. You smell cinnamon, roasted apples, and hot wine, the kind your mother used to make in winter, thick with spice. Honey drips from torn bread, the same your father would eat with his bare hands after hunts, laughing as you reached for the first piece. A tang of charred meat lingers in the air, yanking you back to the morning fires when soldiers burned the stables and smoke poured into your lungs. You taste ashes. You swallow hard against it, chest tight.
Hunger bites at your stomach like a chained dog, but your press you lips thin, force your jaw to lock. You will not show them hunger, even when you're already turning dizzy with it.
A hand lowers into your vision, pale fingers tipped with rings, steady and sure. Wanda. She holds a cup of deep red wine just before your lips. The ruby liquid trembles with the faintest ripple.
"Drink," she murmurs, almost idly, as though you were no more than a hound offered water.
Your throat burns. Your lips ache to part. But instead, you turn your face away, the motion quick and forceful, strands of hair flashing in your vision. You run your tongue over the dry ridges of your lips, hissing when your saliva catches open cuts. Still, you pout stubbornly, pushing your bottom lip forward in silent rejection.
Their cackles ring, booming and gilded with cruelty. They wrap around you until it's hard to breathe, hard to think. Their voices blur together. Someone whispers something about a spoiled child. Another wagers how long you'll last before you crawl.
Wanda doesn't withdraw the cup immediately. Instead, she watches you. Your hands tremble softly, your shoulders flinch every time they threaten to falter, yet your face remains an unbreakable mask of aloofness. She lets out a quiet, amused hum, so faint only you can hear it. She sips from the drink herself, lips pressing against the rim where she meant yours to touch.
The music crescendos, flutes squeaking, tambourines clattering, and the dancers spin in waves of tulle and celebrations, but you feel like a stone in the river, unmoving, refusing to be swept along. Every sound feels louder, brighter, meant to smother you.
And all the while, you stay kneeling, thirst gnawing, jaw clenched, fighting to keep your spine straight as your body begs for relief.
Wanda leans back on her throne, wine still in hand, her attention fixed not on her revelry, but on you. She doesn't look away. Not once. Not while the nobles preen and toast her glory. Not while dancers twirl for her pleasure. Not while generals cheer about conquests yet to come.
Her gaze pins you, unblinking, as though you're the only part of the feast that matters. You don't know if it's mockery or something worse.
Heat blooms in your face, crawling down your neck, not just from rage this time. Shame coils in your stomach, sour and poisonous. You wonder if she can see it; the way your throat works against the thirst, the way your hands tremble just slightly where they're pressed to stone.
You clench harder. Hide it. You imagine your father's voice: Don't give them the satisfaction.
You keep your eyes away from hers, trained straight ahead towards the dancers and the banners dripping red. Anything but her. Because if you look too long, you fear you'll break in way the whole court will see.
The festivities bleed on until your head aches with it. The endless music, the clatter of cutlery and glasses, the drunken glee of men and women who only days ago would have bowed before your father.
Wanda dismisses her court with a single glance, and the room empties quickly, like smoke pulled from a flame. The guards finally haul you back to your feet, your knees throbbing, and follow their queen's silent lead. Soon it's just you, the guards and the echo of her footsteps.
The hallways of the castle are dimly lit and winding, and if it weren’t for the paintings on the walls, they’d all look exactly alike. No matter how hard you try to remember where she goes left and where she goes up, you know that without help, you’ll never find your way out again.
Wanda pushes large, arching doors open. The knobs are gilded and the wood is painted with intricate, golden flowers. The guards push you inside, not caring that you were more than willing to simply walk by yourself.
The doors close behind you, and the men let go of you.
You take it all in, curiosity getting the better of you. Leaning forward on your tiptoes, you look deeper into the room. There’s a loveseat with a million soft pillows, a mirror in the corner that’s large enough to show all of you and then some more, wide open double doors that lead to another bedroom.
Your heart sinks.
The room is lived in and by the red dress dangling from the hanger, you don’t even have to guess whose room it is.
Your chambers are adjoined to Wanda’s, though you realise very quickly they are no chambers at all, just a gilded cage dressed in pretty velvet. High ceilings, tapestries in crimson and gold, a bed so large it looks like an altar. There's no warmth here, only grandeur meant to impress, to suffocate. At the centre stands a seamstress' pedestal, the kind your mother made you stand on while she chose fabrics for feasts. The sight of it here, waiting for you, makes your guts shrink.
"Up," Wanda says with the expectation of a command that will be obeyed.
You hesitate. One of the guards' hands twitches toward you, eager to shove you again, but you clamber onto the pedestal yourself, your pride refusing to give them the joy. The wood sighs once under your weight.
"You may leave."
The guards bow their heads and retreat. Their absence makes the air heavier. The silence sharpens now that you are alone with her.
She circles you slowly. A predator orbiting her prey. Her gown whispers with each step, scarlet fabric brushing the floor like spilled blood. Her eyes sweep over you, noting the shade of green you wear, the dirt, the cuts. It feels like she's peeling away skin rather than fabric.
"These colours reek of failure," she says, a curl of disgust slips from her lips as she plucks at your sleeve with two fingers, as though the very dye offends her skin. "Tomorrow, at dawn, you'll be fitted properly in my colours."
You almost choke on the laugh that tears from your chest. It's bitter and ugly, leaving your torso aching.
"You'll never wash my blood out of me," you rasp, the words sandpaper in your mouth.
Her head tilts, not in anger, not even in surprise, but something that resembles recognition. It's gone as quickly as it came. She steps back, unpinning her crown and letting her hair fall loose in a curtain of red, catching in the firelight like liquid flames. Without the crown, she looks younger, softer. Almost human.
Your lungs swell. You hate it. Hate that your breath catches, that you traitorous body notices. That the sight of your captor, bare-headed and beautiful, makes you ache in ways you don't want to admit.
She meets your gaze. Her lips curve, not quite a smile.
"What is it?" she says, tauntingly. "You've never seen a queen take off her crown."
You grit your teeth. You don't answer. You can't.
She doesn't press. She only brushes her hair with her fingers, as if daring you to keep watching. The flush of humiliation stings hot. Your breath hitches with it, and the words tear free before you can think.
"I could kill you in your sleep."
Her smile deepens, but it isn't cruel. It's darker than that as though your rebellion is a story she's heard a hundred times, and each time it ended the same way.
Scarlet flickers to life at her fingertips. The air around you hums, thrums. The pedestal trembles under your feet, threads of red energy curling up your ankles, your wrists, feather-light but unshakable.
Her eyes glow faintly as she steps closer, her voice a murmur that coils into your ears.
"Pet, if I closed my eyes right now, the very walls of this castle would keep me safe. The air would choke you. The fire would eat you alive before your dagger ever touched my skin."
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. You can feel the pulse of power pressing into your chest, tightening the room. Your knees want to buckle, your stomach twists, and every part of you screams to flee, but where could you run? Every step you might take is already measured, already trapped by her presence.
She leans slightly closer, letting the hum of her magic thrum along your skin, letting her gaze pierce you. Her hand rises, fingers trailing up your arm possessively. They curl around your jaw, tilting your chin up until you have no choice but to meet her burning gaze. The heat of her skin against yours makes your stomach drop.
"This isn't about what you want,” she whispers, her thumb pressing lightly against your cheek. “So let me make something very clear. You'll sleep in the bed I've generously provided. You'll wear the clothes I pick. Eat the food I request. You are mine now. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will change that."
The words crash over you like cold water. The heat of her magic fades, but the weight of her declaration hangs, pressing into you. Her grip lingers just long enough to make your heart stutter before the scarlet begins to fizzle away.
You glance at the door to her chambers, less than ten steps away, and realise just how close she is, how far you are from freedom.
Then she turns away, slipping out of the room, leaving you trembling with rage, with grief, with a name that no one but yourself will remember.
The sun isn’t even awake when they drag you from your seat on the window sill. You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. Every time your eyes closed, the firelight behind your lids became your father’s crown tumbling to the ground, his body crumpling after it, the echo of screams that would never fade. Sometimes you even saw your mother’s hands, bound in rope, flames devouring her skirts. The smell never left. So you kept your vigil instead, chin on your knees, staring out into the dark sky as though you could wish yourself away into it. The stone bruised your thighs. Your limbs ached. It didn’t matter. Better the ache of exhaustion than the weight of nightmares.
You refused the food, too. The bread had gone hard, the grapes wrinkled. The milk filmed over, untouched. That was your choice. Your rebellion. If you couldn’t stop Wanda from taking everything else, you could deny her this one thing; your hunger. Even if it hollowed you out until you were brittle, it was yours. Yours in a world where nothing else was anymore.
Now, the seamstress' hands crawl over you like busy spiders, measuring, pinning, chalking faint lines against your undergarments. Her touch is brisk but not cruel, and that makes it worse. You don’t want her gentleness; you want her hand to slip, for the pins to bite, for something to hurt more than you already do. She works as quickly as she dares, fumbling pins and scribbling numbers. Her apprentices hover, arms full of crimson and maroon fabrics, whispering suggestions Wanda cuts down with a single hum.
You stand rigid on the small pedestal, back straight, arms tight against your sides. You won’t give them the pleasure of seeing you slouch or stumble. You will not fall. You’ve fallen enough.
Wanda doesn’t sit, she drifts. A queen at ease in her power, gliding from one side of the room to the other, trailing her fingers over books, the window ledge, the folded tapestry at the end of the bed. Her shadow falls across your skin no matter which way you turn, and every time one of the women hesitates, her voice slides in, directing them like she's moving chess pieces across a board.
"Raise her arm higher. Yes, mark the sleeve just there. The waistline should sit lower."
You try not to look at her, but your eyes betray you. They keep finding her. Maybe it’s the way the sun catches on the rubies of her crown, or the shimmer of gold threads at her sleeve, but your attention rebounds to her again and again. To the tender curve of her neck. The fullness of her lips. The shape of her slender hands. You loathe yourself for noticing. For admiring.
Her fingers brush along the carved wood of the vanity, lingering over the abandoned breakfast tray. "Not a bite. Not even a grape."
"I'm not hungry," you mutter, a heavy rasp in your voice.
"Mhm." Her tone lilts, soft with humour as her eyes sweep the untouched sheets on the bed. "Not sleeping either. At this rate, your stubbornness will eat you faster than any hunger. "
Your stomach clenches, not with her prophesied hunger, but with rage. You want to spit at her. Scream until your throat splits and the sound reaches the place where your family rots. But instead, you keep your eyes pinned to the far wall, your nails biting crescents into your palms.
When she circles back, her eyes catch on your face. The seamstress is trying to measure your shoulders, but your chin is tucked low, jaw locked, as if you can shut everything out by staring at stone.
"Lift your chin," Wanda says.
You don’t move.
The seamstress falters, tape dangling helplessly. One apprentice fumbles with fabric. Another looks like she’s holding her breath.
Wanda sighs, neither annoyed nor angry. Merely bored. Her steps are unhurried as she closes the distance, each one causing your pulse to spike up a notch. Her hand is cool when it hooks beneath your jaw, fingers purposeful, touching you before you can flinch back. She pushes your chin up with ease, forcing your gaze to the ceiling
"There," she says flatly, her eyes cutting to the seamstress. "Measure properly. I want the collar to sit just here." Her thumb presses against the hollow of your throat, right where the velvet will cling.
Your pulse hammers against her touch traitorously.
Suddenly it’s not her thumb but a noose, or a blade, or Wanda's magic that wraps around you slowly. You feel the phantom heat up your neck, smell the char in your nose. Your body locks as if bracing for fire.
The seamstress nods quickly, eyes fixed on the chalk in her hands, desperate not to meet either of your gazes. You wonder if she sees you as the victim or the villain. Whether she pities you, or if she whispers with the others that you deserved it all.
Wanda doesn’t release you immediately. Her thumb strokes once, absentmindedly, against the thin skin of your throat, a gesture that feels both careless and unbearably intimate. You hate the warmth it leaves behind when she finally lets go.
"You're wasting fabric. I'll never wear your colours."
The seamstress hesitates again. The apprentices stand rigid, waiting for the strike that never comes. Wanda doesn't scold, doesn't threaten. She toys with a hairpin from the vanity instead, her silence louder than any slap.
"You'll wear them," she says simply. "You'll even beg for them."
You snarl, teeth bared in something vicious. "Maybe I'll rip them apart in front of your court."
Her lips curve, her eyes find yours. She steps close again, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek and tucking it neatly behind your ear as if she has every right to touch you.
"If you do," she says, head tilted. "I'll have another made. And another. And another. Until all that anger is spent and all that's left is you, draped in my colours."
Anger flashes through you, so blinding you snap your teeth suddenly at the nearest apprentice who attempts to test fabric against your skin. The girl squeaks, stumbling back, bolts of crimson spilling from her arms. It’s petty and small. A victory that vanishes the moment it lands.
"So dramatic. Perhaps I should have a muzzle made." Her thumb strokes once along your cheek, a parody of tenderness. "Then at least your little rebellions wouldn't waste my seamstress' time."
Her words crawl under your skin, barbs you can’t pull free. You force your eyes to the wall, but the heat rising underneath your skin betrays you.
"Don't fret," she says lightly. "Even the wildest creatures can be tamed with a little bit of patience."
It takes another eternity before the seamstress gathers her notes, apprentices bundling fabric tight to their chests. "Your Majesty," she murmurs, bowing low. "We have everything we need."
Wanda flicks her hand in dismissal. They scurry out, the door clicking shut. Even through thick wood, you hear their collective exhale, as though they had all been drowning.
For a moment, Wanda doesn't speak. She crosses to the loveseat near the fire and nestles herself into it with unhurried grace, one leg crossing over the other. She leans back, the picture of ease, her arm draped lazily along the curve of the seat.
"Well, that was tiresome," Wanda says at last, vaguely gesturing toward the pedestal. "You may step down."
Your muscles ache as you lower yourself. Every joint screams from standing still so long, from being measured like livestock. You imagine the seamstress scribbling down numbers on a parchment and you wonder bitterly if Wanda plans to carve those digits into your skin so you’ll never forget the scale of your humiliation.
She watches the stiffness in your limbs, the way you grit your teeth against it, and her lips twitch into something close to satisfaction.
"You look dreadful," she observes, eyes sweeping from head to toe. "My seamstress had to measure a ghost this morning. A body of shadows and sharp edges."
A ghost. The word pricks something raw. For a breath you see your governess' back as she's being dragged away. Your mother’s face as she's standing on the pyre. Shadows and sharp edges, indeed. Maybe that’s all you are now; scraps of bone, grief dressed in rags.
You glare at her, but she couldn't care less about it. She merely lifts a little bell from the table and rings it once. A maid appears almost instantly, eyes downcast, hands cradled at the front.
"Have a bath drawn," she commands, voice calm as ever. "Hot with rose oil. Have it waiting within the hour."
The maid curtsies and disappears without a sound.
You swallow against the lump in your throat. "I won't take it."
The words taste childish even as they leave your mouth, and you loathe yourself for it. You sound like a sulking toddler, not the last surviving daughter of a house that once dreamed of crowns.
"Of course you won't." She reclines deeper into the seat, fingers idly drumming on the back. "You'll sulk in the corner, clutching your little rebellions like they serve any purpose."
"Better than being dressed up like a doll," you snap. "If you want me polished, you'll have to drag me into the water yourself."
You don’t mean to think it, but the thought rips through you anyway: would she? Would she strip you herself? Would she touch your bare skin? Heat spikes through your cheeks, and you grind your teeth until your jaw aches.
"Oh, pet," she scoffs, the word wrapping around your ribs and squeezing tightly, "you think my humiliation lies in your dirt. That when my court sees you undone and defiant, it will be me they laugh at."
Her words hang between you, and for a moment the room feels too large, too quiet. You hear the fire crackle in the hearth, the faint shift of her gown against the seat as she leans forward just slightly, savouring your silence.
Your throat works, but no words come. You want to spit something back, anything, but the truth of her calmness steals the air from your lungs.
"But they will not laugh at me. They will laugh at you. And I…" She shrugs one elegant shoulder, gaze sliding away as though the outcome hardly matters. "…I will let them."
You want to believe she’s wrong. You cling to the fantasy that your filth will stain her velvet, that your hunger will chip her crown.
She rises then, adjusting her sleeve as though the conversation is already over. At the door, she pauses, glancing back at you with that maddening calm.
"Bathe or don’t. Eat or starve. When the time comes, you will walk at my side all the same."
The door closes, the latch clicking softly as the door shuts behind her and the sound carries far too loud in her absence.
Grabbing a pillow from the bed, you drag yourself to the window, drawing your knees up to your chest, staring out at the thin morning light.
The pillow is softer than a cloud in your hands as you rest it on your thighs. You consider screaming into it, letting the goose feather muffle all your anger and pain, but before you can reconsider, you slam the side of your closed fist onto it. Once. Twice. Until the force vibrates through to your bones.
The relief you seek doesn't come. Instead you hear faint laughter in the back of your mind. Wanda's? The court's? Your father's when he was foolish enough to believe he could win?
With a growl that would put a wolf to shame, you toss the pillow across the room, staring after it while your chest heaves.
The faint scent of roses curls in from the adjoining chamber where the bath is being poured, but you ignore it, burying your face in your arms.
This is your victory, you tell yourself fiercely. Your body, your hunger, your filth, yours alone. If Wanda wants to parade you like this, then let her be the one mocked.
You cling to the thought like a lifeline. Never once imagining that when the court laughs, it will only be because she lets them.
The closet is a handcrafted old thing, dark wood carved with twisting vines and tiny golden fleur-de-lis. It yawns open like a mouth, too full of teeth.
Rows upon rows of dresses, tailored from your stolen measurements, wait in patient silence, a small army of finery ready for the moment Wanda decides you’ll wear them.
You hover at the threshold, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, bare feet curling against the carpet. Your stomach twists in relentless knots. It's been days since you last ate and the refusal is finally starting to catch up with you. Each shallow breath causes your ribs to press painfully against the tight muscles of your abdomen. Your head pounds, a constant, insistent drum, while exhaustion drags your eyelids like lead. The air smells faintly of lavender and starch, faintly of Wanda's control. Once, you had stood before rows like these with a maid behind you, choosing which gown to wear for supper, which gloves for a stroll through the gardens. You had been a lady, and courtiers had bowed.
Now, you are a shadow of that.
The mirror across the chambers confirms it: hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, hair limp and dull. The faint bruises from Wanda's guards litter your arms, your neck, your thighs. Your hands shake slightly as you lift them to your chest. Memories you cannot erase. You picture your old governess, tongue clicking at your posture, your hands, your lips. A lady is never seen like this.
Your lips part as if you might speak, to the the mirror, to yourself, but no words come. You almost laugh. What use is dignity when it has already been stripped?
You think of the last time you stood in these halls with your head high. You had been younger then, though old enough to understand the way your father's jaw tightened when Wanda's name was spoken. Old enough to watch how he drank too deeply after their final argument, after voices thundered through these very halls.
"Traitor," they had called him. The word is branded into your bones.
He had sworn to you that Wanda would never touch you, that your bloodline would never bend to hers. He had sworn many things. Promises that fell, one by one, like embers dying in ash.
And now here you are: the child of his secrets. the victim of his gamble, caught in the wreckage of his pride.
Your eyes burn, but no tears fall. You will not let them, even alone. Even unseen.
Instead, you let your eyes drift back to a particular gown. Deep scarlet, lace trim, golden vines along the sleeves. It's elegant, commanding, something fit for a queen's consort, not a girl dragged here against her will. Your fingers twitch. For one dangerous heartbeat, you imagine sliding it over your arms, feeling silk against skin, the sensation of control, of beauty.
Then shame slams into you.
You snatch your hand back as though the fabric burns, fingers digging into your thighs. No. You will not be her ornament. You will not let yourself want.
The mirror captures another vision then: Wanda. Not Wanda the queen, but the girl she once was, walking the halls of this very castle years ago. Radiant and untouchable, eyes bright and sharp, smile effortless. You remember the heat that rose in your chest, a feeling you never confessed, not even to yourself.
And now that memory twists to bile.
You grip the carved doorframe until the wood bites into your fingers.
You let your gaze roam over them again, imagining her imagining you: which neckline would frame your neck best, which sleeves would show your wrists when she took your hand before the court. A small, bitter thrill crawls along your spine.
Never, you whisper to the gown, to your reflection, to the ghost of that younger self who once admired Wanda.
The dresses do not answer. They wait in silence patiently, like the woman who ordered them.
Yet, for the first time, your mind drifts to other exits, other ways. A small, clandestine spark ignites: the windows, the corridors, the servant passages you once glimpsed, maps memorised in childhood curiosity. You could slip through the castle, past guards, into the night. Maybe. Perhaps.
You shift on your feet, imagining the tiny sounds your escape might make. The hiss of floorboards, the clink of a latch, the whisper of your breath. The very idea makes your muscles ache with tension, coiled and ready to spring, and your lungs burn with uneven breaths.
But the thought of escape is fleeting, delicate as a whisper in the wind. Your chances are limited with Wanda right beside you and her powers so unpredictable, a well-kept secret that only she knows the full expanse of.
For now, you slam the closet door shut, rattling the hangers and handles. The gowns fall silent once more, waiting. And you are left alone with the echo of your heartbeat, the emptiness of your belly, the weight of your exhaustion, and the knowledge that even your defiance is now a game she has already begun to master.
The sun blazes mercilessly, baking the gravel paths and the green walls of the garden alike. Birds trill overhead, but their song is lost beneath the quiet shuffle of courtiers trailing after Wanda as she strolls with unhurried, regal ease.
And there you are, behind her. Two paces back, as always. Barely a whisper of a shadow against her presence.
Your stomach twists violently. Each breath is hot and ragged. Your throat is raw and tight as if swallowing itself. Every step sends a jolt of pain through your feet, the torn dress chafing at your shoulders, hair clinging wet to your scalp. Your vision blurs at the edges and each step becomes a conscious act of will. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, neglected grief; all of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs as if the world itself conspires to crush you.
You keep your chin high anyway, spine rigid, teeth clenched, refusing to let anyone see how thoroughly your body has begun to betray you. Don’t show them. Don’t.
"Such a pretty little prize," Agatha Harkness purrs from Wanda’s left. Her dark eyes gleam like a wolf’s before it strikes. "Though one wonders… is that stench the remnants of her father’s gallows, or simply the scent of a spoiled child unbathed?"
Laughter flutters around you like predatory birds.
Shame bursts hot in your chest, and before thinking, you whirl. Skirts twisting with the motion, arm snapping up, hand poised to strike her painted cheek.
Before your hand comes down, Wanda’s fingers clamp around your wrist, steady and unyielding. Your blow freezes in midair.
"Careful," she says, voice cold. "Or will you make an even greater fool of yourself?"
Your chest lifts quickly, breaths coming in ragged puffs. The simple act of moving your arm stole more energy than you accounted for. Fury blazes under your skin, and yet Wanda only watches through narrowed eyes.
"A pet does not bare its claws at my court," she murmurs, only for you to hear. "Not unless I give leave."
You wrench your hand free, fists curling at your sides. Your wrist still burns, tingling from her touch. She turns, gliding away like water, skirts brushing against gravel. You stumble to keep up, a tethered shadow once more.
The hedges loom high on either side of the path, their green walls pressing in. When she notices your faltering step, she slows slightly, stepping beside you. Her voice is deceptively soft.
"What did you think would happen?"
"I will not–" you gasp, voice cracking, "–be humiliated!"
Her eyes flick to you, gleaming with something equal parts amusement and censure.
"Kitten, you are humiliating yourself," she counters, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. "You haven't slept. You haven't eaten. And yet you think you can claw at wolves. Do you really wonder why they laugh?"
"She deserved it." Your tongue is heavy, causing your words to slur.
"She deserved nothing from you," Wanda corrects evenly, stepping closer, her shadow swallowing yours. "Your place is not to bare your teeth at my court. You are here because I allow it. You breathe because I permit it. You will learn restraint, or I will teach it to you."
The sun scorches your neck. Hunger twists in your gut. You think of water, of the soft bed, of feathers and curtains. You think of the flowers outside the window, yellow and white and alive. You want them in your mouth. You want to scream. Your head spins. Shame and fury are each clawing for release.
"Maybe I don’t care what you permit," you say, breathlessly.
Her hand lifts, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek. Her thumb hovers just beneath the dark circle under your eye.
"You’re unraveling," she murmurs. "And yet you’re still so adamant on fighting me."
You slap her hand away, nose curled. "Don’t touch me."
Wanda’s eyes flash then, not with rage, but something colder, a quiet dominance that does not need to raise its voice. Shrugging stiffly, she turns and walks past, skirts swishing against your leg, voice smooth: "Then you better keep up."
You try. Gods, you try.
But your body fails you. The sun presses down, the corset digs at your ribs. Your knees quiver, barely holding you upright. Every muscle is screaming. Your head spins, vision swimming. You stumble, forcing yourself not to falter, forcing yourself to hold onto that last shred of defiance.
The hedges narrow, the courtiers’ chatter fading into muted whispers, the gravel crunching underneath you is the only sound. Your lungs puff. Each heartbeat thuds like a drum in your skull, each movement comes at an impossible price.
Your legs give in. Gravel bites your palms as you stumble forward, bracing yourself against the path. The heat, the hunger, the sleeplessness claim you in a single wave. Your mind splinters, fragments rise: your father’s jaw tightening, knights pushing you into your room, the smell of wax and roses. You see fire. Or is it a dress? You can't tell.
Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding, calling your name. Then the world folds, narrows, and blacks out.
At least you're free now.
You blink into the dim light of your chambers. The heavy curtains are drawn, a fire snapping low in the hearth. A part of you is disappointed that she didn't just leave you out in the gardens. A bigger part is disappointed that you didn’t die.
Wanda sits at the edge of the bed, posture surprisingly relaxed. She holds a plate of fruit and bread with a wedge of cheese. Your mouth waters, every fibre of your body craving sustenance, yet you still force your eyes away from it.
"You're finally awake," she says, fingers flexing at her side with hesitation, like she was going to reach out to you before thinking better of it.
You push yourself up on weak arms, head pounding, vision bleary. "Why am I here?"
"Because you fainted like a wilting flower in my gardens." She lifts a slice of pear. "And because I believe you've starved yourself long enough in your pathetic attempt to prove a point. Enough games. You're going to eat."
Your stomach clenches at the thought of how sweet the pear must taste. I’ll never give her that, you think.
You scowl, shaking your head. "I told you. I won't."
"Stubbornness must run in your blood. Your father thought he could defy me too."
"I’m not him," you snap, hands trembling at your side.
She tilts her head, a bemused glint in her eyes. "No? Then why do I see him every time you glare at me?"
You search her face because even though you loved your father dearly, you hope you’re nothing like him. You hope that you’re reasonable enough to not fight queens with half the army. You hope that you’re considered enough to inform your closed ones of their impending doom.
"In that case you must know that I will not bend that easily."
Wanda's jaw tightens, but she smiles patiently, almost indulgent. "Then I'll feed you myself."
Your chin rises. "Do as you please."
She lifts the pear to your lips, the smell so close is almost unbearable now. You hold out for a breath, and then, you part your lips, letting her slip the fruit past your teeth. The sweetness bursts on your tongue and you clamp down before you can change your mind. You chew once, twice. It takes every bit of self-control not to swallow. Instead, you force your jaw to snap open with the last bit of rebellion and spit the food onto the rug.
The silence that follows is endless.
You lean back up, your eyes meeting Wanda's. Pride blooms, sending warmth all the way to your fingertips. You lift your hand to your mouth, middle finger swiping over the corner of your lips to clean a drop of juice and saliva. A slow, mocking smile spreads on your face, and you wish that feeling would last forever.
But of course Wanda can't let you have that tiny moment of victory. She rips it from your hands as quickly as it came, tilting your world upside down for the second time today.
The crack that echoes through the room catches you by surprise, and for a second, you don't even understand what happened; you just feel the sting of it.
The shape of her palm throbs on your cheek in one unhesitating motion. Not brutal enough to bruise, but sharp enough to knock the air from your chest.
You freeze, heart pounding, lips still parted. No one has ever dared to touch you so. Not your father, not your tutors, not anyone. And now Wanda, calm as a breeze, has done it like it meant nothing.
Wanda's face is close now, close enough to smell the faint spice of wine on her breath. The firelight catches her eyes just right. There might as well be flames burning in her irises.
"Listen carefully," she says as you cradle your cheek with a shaky hand. "It is for me to decide when and how your life will end. Not you. Not your hunger. Not your grief. Me."
Tears prickle behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Nostrils flaring, you clench your jaw so tight that the pain in your muscles becomes greater than the one on your skin. You force yourself not to cower, to stop trembling, though your body reels at the newness of being handled like that.
Exhaling, Wanda leans back, smoothing her skirt as though the strike had been no more than adjusting a hem. She takes another piece of fruit, this time an apple slice, and lifts it again.
Her voice softens, quieter now, like she's coaxing a child, or a pet. "Now, open."
When evening comes, the summons arrives not from Wanda but from the mouth of a maid.
"Her Grace requests your presence," she says, eyes never quite meeting yours.
You rise. Your body is rested, your stomach no longer empty, but your mind has not quieted. The rest Wanda forced upon you only left you with thoughts that looped endlessly. The memory of her hand on your cheek. The taste of the pear. The silence afterward. Now each step through the hush of the corridors feels like you are walking into something you can't escape from.
The maid leads you to a door you’ve not seen opened before. Steam curls out as it swings wide, carrying the scent of rose oil and cedar.
The chamber glows with candlelight, shadows dancing across stone walls veined with moisture. At the centre, a marble bath brims with water so hot it mists the air, the surface rippling with every subtle movement of the woman inside it.
Wanda sits waist-deep in the water, her hair slicked back and dark. In her hand she cradles a cup with wine. She swirls it slowly, eyes trained on the liquid, and then without looking up, her voice drifts across the water.
"I'm curious," she says lightly, almost conversational, "what exactly is your plan after you've pushed me far enough?"
Your mouth goes dry. You have no answer.
Wanda chuckles, a short sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "No family. No army. No coin. No allies. Tell me, what are you counting on?"
When her gaze lifts, it sweeps over you, measuring every inch of your hesitation. The moist heat of the room does nothing to dispel the chill crawling up your spine.
"Come here."
You hesitate. Her command is simple, but your heart hammers. Your eyes betray you, darting to where her body disappears beneath the water. You hate your lack of self-control. Her brow lifts just slightly, the faintest shadow of a smirk tugging at her lips. She gestures toward the edge of the tub.
"Clothes off."
Your mouth works soundlessly, then shuts again.
"You said it yourself," she reminds you, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to hide her grin. "The only way I'll see you bathe is if I drag you there myself."
Your cheeks burn hotter. Still, you glare, trying to keep your pride intact. "Do you really think I'll be embarrassed by that? Like I haven't been naked in front of people before?"
Wanda's smile deepens as if she's been waiting for this exact moment. She leans back, letting the water lap her shoulders, fingers trailing through the surface, stirring it with casual elegance.
"Oh, I believe you," she purrs. "I imagine you've been dressed, undressed, displayed like a little doll in your father's halls more time than you can count. But that isn't what embarrasses you, is it?"
The words sting. They shouldn’t. But they do.
Her voice drops, coaxing, tender as a hand stroking hair. "Come here. You are no longer a noble's daughter. No court. No titles. You are mine, and I think you know the difference."
Your fingers tremble as you peel away the layers of your clothing, your skin prickling in the steam. Yes, you've been naked for people before, but this feels very different. More bare. More vulnerable.
Wanda’s eyes follow every motion. You try not to think of the shape of your breasts, the line of curls between your legs, the outline of your now protruding ribs. You're not one to become shy about your looks, but right in this moment you wish the ground would open and swallow you. She shifts slightly in the water, hand outstretched.
"Closer," she says, carrying that impossible authority that makes your knees ache before you even move.
She draws you down into the water, guiding you to sit between her legs. Your back meets the warm curve of her chest; the water sears and soothes at once, leaving you trapped, exposed, powerless.
The sponge is gentle in her hand. She starts at your hands, washing with the something close to reverence. She lifts each finger, removing the dirt, ash, and dried blood from your nails.
"You're softer than you think," she says, letting the sponge glide up your arms. "Too soft to carry all that rage alone."
"I'd rather be soft than cruel," you hiss, though your voice shakes.
Her laugh brushes against your ear, below the water her legs brush yours.
"Cruel," she echoes, savouring the word before leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. "Do you want know what your knight told me just before I had her beheaded?"
Your whole body goes rigid in her hold. "What?"
"She told me everything." The sponge drags slowly over your collarbone to the valley of your breast. "How you blushed when she caught your wrist in the training yard. How you opened your door for her at night. How you let her touch you. Where. How. What made you beg for more."
A memory slams into you. The rasp of Natasha’s voice when she told you to hold your stance, the press of her calloused hand steadying your grip, the stolen brush of her lips when no one could see.
"Stop." Your voice cracks.
Natasha escaped. She wasn't at the execution. She escaped, and she will come to safe you.
"She told me how sweet you tasted. How a kiss at your throat undid you. She gave me every secret, every sound, every weakness." She smiles against your skin. "And then she gave me her head."
You twist, panic surging through your veins, but her arms lock you in place. The sponge slips from her hands, plopping into the water, but her hands don't follow it. They press instead against your hips, holding your tight, holding you still.
"You're lying–"
"I never lie, pet." Her breath fans your cheek. "Natasha betrayed you for a taste of my mercy. And when her usefulness ended, so die she. That is the loyalty you inspire."
Your vision blurs hot with tears you don't want her to see, your throat raw from the effort of swallowing them back. Every memory of Natasha, her laugh, her warmth, her stolen promises, shatters in an instant under Wanda's words.
Wanda's grips eases then, one hand rising to curl at your throat, not squeezing, just holding.
"Do you see it now? Everything you cling to will wither. Everyone you love will rot. Until there is nothing left but me."
Her voice dips into something almost coaxing, almost kind. "So tell me, where did you think your fighting would lead? You're all alone. You see that now, don't you?"
Her hand move from your hips to your stomach, encircling your and pressing you tighter against her. It's meant to be comforting, but every movement reminds you of your utter dependency.
"You could end up in the gutters," she whispers, voice equal parts sweet and venomous, "selling yourself for a piece of bread, clawing for scraps. But instead you are here."
You swallow. The words should ignite your anger. Instead, something twists, sick and small. A part of you wants to believe her, because if she is all that’s left, then at least you are not alone.
"Doesn't this feel nicer than fighting all the time?" she asks. "Warm. Fed. Clean."
Her hand loosens around your neck, slipping lower. Fingertips trace over the tender skin of your throat, skimming the edge of your pulse as if testing how fast it races. Then she drags them down in a languid line, the weight of her touch both intimate and threatening, until her palm comes to just above your heart.
"It's not so bad, is it? To rest. To let someone else be in control. To be cared for again."
Your lip trembles. You hate that she feels it, that she sees the fight draining from you. But the water is warm, her hands steady, and her voice threads through your fear until the quiet ache of loneliness outweighs your pride.
"You're mine," she whispers, wrapping her arms fully around you and resting her chin on your shoulder. "And you will remember it. Every moment. Every breath. Every touch. Until you cannot imagine your life otherwise."
Phantom Pain | Lawyer!AgathaHarkness x Barista!Reader
Summary: When a regular leaves more than just a tip behind, your life is destined to tilt upside down. What starts as casual banter soon turns into an undeniable pull between you and Agatha Harkness. The issue? You're too stubborn to admit that you want her, and Agatha is too stubborn to let something she wants go.
Word count: 6.7k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, slowburn-ish, soft, fluff, established history, first dates, chaos lesbians, Agatha is head over heels, age gap, burned out reader, reader is deeply insecure and intimidated, lots of witty banter, push & pull, implication of an arrangement... i guess, (bottom!Agatha in second part)
ONE | TWO
The coffee shop is small and cluttered, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and exposed brick walls that smells faintly of roasted beans and old wood. The hum of the espresso machine fills the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of cups and muted chatter. Morning light filters through dusty windows, casting soft, golden rectangles across the worn wooden floors.
You stand behind the counter, tattoos exposed by the short sleeves of your shirt, hair tousled from an early morning rush. The faded black apron feels heavier than usual, as if it carries all the frustration of a thousand morning just like this one. Your hands move mechanically, grinding beans, tamping shots, but your mind wanders to how you ended up here.
You had the wit, the grades, the beauty that made strangers stare a little too long. They used words that made you lower your head with humility. Promise. Gifted. Sharp. Going places.
And for a while, it seemed like you could fit the mould they had created for you.
But then came the pressure. It started with a voice at the back of your mind that was constantly too loud, never leaving you alone. You flailed, then failed. Quietly. Completely. You dropped out before you could become anyone worth mentioning at a high school reunion. Before your future could crystallise into anything real.
Now, you work at a coffee shop in lower Manhattan, serving overprized coffee to finance bros and other vultures. You go home at night smelling like spilled milk and overripe ambitions. But you're good at it. Too good, probably. You create drinks that look like art, smile like you mean it, charm regulars with wit that used to win debate competitions.
But underneath it all, you feel like someone clinging to the weeds at the edge of a riverbank, fingers slipping. Always almost drowning. Always almost enough.
The bell over the door chimes, and in she walks.
Agatha.
She moves with an effortless grace, as if the world subtly bends around her. Her hair is cascading down her back in dark waves, catching the light when she turns her head. Her blue eyes find yours and her tense features only soften in that moment.
Today she's wearing a heavy black coat over her clothes, one leather glove already coming off, eager to reach for coffee as soon as possible.
You watch as she glides up to the counter, a quiet confidence trailing behind her. She's been coming here long enough that you don't need to ask her order: a double espresso, no sugar.
You try not to stare, but it's hard to look away.
The morning shifts when the tension builds with the man who orders before Agatha, a man whose ego seems as inflated as his sense of entitlement. He argues with you over where to place his card, his voice sharp and disrespectful.
"You are aware that I'm paying your salary, right?" he sneers.
You clamp down on the irritation, forcing a sarcastic smile that barely covers your exhaustion. "You don't say, and here I thought my boss was paying me. Silly me."
His smirk falters for a moment. "Your boss can only pay you because of my purchase."
"By all means, I don't earn much, but your three-dollar coffee isn't what keeps this place afloat."
"I want my money back," he snaps.
You open the register and slam his money back on the counter. "Have good day, sir."
He storms out, leaving a thick silence and turned heads in his wake.
You throw your head back, staring at the ceiling fans above your head. "I'm wasting my fucking life."
It's just a whisper, a confession that isn't meant for anyone, but the moment it leaves your mouth, you hear it echo through the empty corners of your mind, and you know it will follow you for the rest of the day.
A voice breaks through the noise, "Rough morning?"
You turn to see Agatha watching you with a subtle, knowing smile, leaning casually against the counter.
You snort, dry and tired, gesturing in the general direction of the man. "It's been a parade of very bold men with very weak orders."
You turn toward the espresso machine, starting her order without her having to say so. You want to ask her about her morning, make light conversation but the encounter just now has drained you, so you're quieter, less flirty than usual.
"And here I thought you liked being bossed around," she hums, eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.
You toss a teasing smile over your shoulder, unaware of how it makes her heart skip every time. "Only by people who tip well."
"Good to know," she murmurs, fingers brushing yours as she takes the to-go cup from your hands.
Then, like it's nothing, she reaches into her coat pocket and leaves behind a folded hundred dollar bill and a matte business card.
You glance at it and recognise the name instantly: Harkness & Vidal, powerful firm, scarily rich, terrifyingly competent. So basically everything you're not.
"You're leaving me your lawyer card?" you ask, fingers hovering over it.
"No," she says. "I'm leaving you my number. There's a difference."
You blink, caught off guard. "And why would I need that?"
"Because you're too smart to rot behind this counter, and too stubborn to admit it. Call me when you're ready to stop pretending this is all you're good for."
Before you can respond, she's already slipping out the door. You're left standing there, the card heavy in your hand, a strange spark flickering somewhere inside you in a combination of offence and desire.
You've been trying to turn off your mind all afternoon, but you can't stop thinking about Agatha. Her face keeps flickering in your vision. That intense, almost amused look when she told you to call her. The confidence in her voice. The fact that she simply walked away after dropping something like that without explanation.
The candles help, a little. So does the leftover soup reheated for the third time this week. You told yourself you'd clean tonight, maybe update your résumé, maybe finally sign up for those free online courses you've been thinking about. Instead, you're on your couch, hoodie too big, knees up, scrolling through TikTok with the volume off.
The business card sits on the coffee table, it's dark edges glaring in the candlelight. You've half-tucked it under an old coaster like you're trying to bury it without really letting go.
You've picked it up five times already. Turned it over in your hand. It feels expensive, heavy with meaning that it shouldn't have.
It's clearly meant for someone more important than you.
Your phone screen glows against your thigh. You sigh and open a new message thread.
so what exactly do you think i'm supposed to call you for?
You chew on the skin around your nails until it stings. You're not stupid. You know what she means by that. It can't be about a job with your lack qualifications. Shaking your head, you delete the whole sentence.
i'm not some lost little girl you can scoop up and polish into a trophy.
You backspace longer than necessary because this message will make you sound exactly like that.
cute card. do you give those out to all your baristas?
You cringe, brows furrowed, shoulders pulled high. That sounds too bitter. Delete. The more you type, the more ridiculous you feel.
You rub your forehead, pinching the bridge of your nose. Your thumb hovers over the contact button, her number staring back at you. You should call. Or text. Or just throw the card away.
But instead, you toss your phone onto the couch and stand up too fast. You grab a glass of water, glance at the card again. Before you can change your mind again, you flick the light switch and head to bed, leaving the card behind.
Later, long after the candles have burned out and the dishes still sit in the sink, you're lying on your side in bed, staring at the phone in the dark. Your thumb idles over her name in your contact and just once you let the call button glow under your finger.
And then you turn the screen off, sliding the phone under your pillow like it might forget you ever looked.
You start planning your breaks around her meticulously. Ten minutes earlier, fifteen minutes later, just enough to miss her usual coffee run. It's pathetic, maybe, but it's the only way you can breathe.
Yelena has been keeping you updated, though, like she's your personal informant in enemy territory. You know what Agatha wore each day, you know what she ordered, and you know when she asked about you. And she has. After the second day of dodging her, Yelena told you she'd ask if you were sick. She said she lied for you because even she was embarrassed to admit that you were hiding from Agatha.
You're curled in a booth during your break, apron peeled off, cardigan wrapped tight around your body. The card's still in your wallet. You checked, more than once. Silently hoping, perhaps, that it slipped away on its own to save you the trouble of deciding what to do with it.
Yelena drops down across from you, swiping a piece from your croissant before you can protest. "She didn't come in today."
Your heart lurches. You try not to show it, keeping your expression bored. "So?"
She shrugs. "So maybe she got bored of the chase. Or maybe she's giving you space. Or maybe you playing hide and seek like a child finally pissed her off."
"She's not– She doesn't care."
Yelena gives you a look. "Babe, she tipped a hundred dollar-bill and gave you her personal number. Pretty sure she cares."
You open your mouth to argue, but Yelena leans in, lowering her voice. "And before you try to wave it off: yeah, she asked about you again yesterday. Wanted to know if your shifts had changed because she hasn't seen you around much."
Your head lifts before you can stop yourself. "She asked that?"
Yelena smirks like she caught you in a lie. "Mhm. In that lawyer way where it sounds like she's just making casual conversation, but really she's collecting evidence."
You look down at your coffee, at your chipped nails, at your reflection in the swirl of the cream. Messy hair, tired eyes. Until it disappears completely in the slow-spinning cloud of foam.
Friday morning arrives colder than it should.
The heat in the café isn't working right, the ancient radiator clanks and hisses like it's doing its best, but corners of the windows are still fogged with breath and the sleeves of your sweater won't pull down far enough to warm your fingers.
You arrive early, not on purpose. You just couldn't sleep, nothing to do with the unsend messages in an empty message thread.
The morning is slow, slower than usually, or maybe it just feels that way.
Every cup you make is too hot or not hot enough. Every customer is too chatty or not at all. You forget to charge someone for almond milk and Yelena makes a joke about you losing your edge.
10:00 comes.
You glance at the door.
10:06.
You start cleaning the espresso machine, even though it's spotless.
10:12.
The silver bell above the door chimes. A man in pristine suit walks in, earbuds in. Not her.
10:18.
You bend to restock the sugar packets.
10:24.
Yelena slides a mug across the bar and says, gently, "Want me to take her if she comes in?"
"I'm fine," you lie.
10:30.
She's never this late.
You pull your phone from your back pocket, turn away from the front, scroll mindlessly through nothing. Your fingers hover over her last name, Harkness, like you couldn't admit to giving her place in your phone, let alone in your life. You close it.
10:45.
You think about going to the back, just to stop the anticipation.
11:00.
No sign of her. Nothing. Since she started coming here, she hasn't missed one day. She always comes, gets her coffee, sometimes stays for a little chat, sometimes she leaves quickly. But she never doesn't show up. So her not showing up twice? It makes alarm bells go off.
It's stupid. You know it's stupid, but your throat feels tight.
You don't even realise how many times you glance at the door until Yelena bumps you with her hand and says, without looking, "You're going to sprain your neck."
You scoff. "I'm not–"
She cuts in, matter-of-factly," She's not coming in. You can unclench."
You don't answer because what are you supposed to say? That the absence of someone who doesn't even have your number feels like rejection? That you almost texted her several times? That you fell asleep with her card still in your hand? That this morning you actually curled your lashes and put on lip balm and wore the sweater she complimented once?
No. No, thank you. Absolutely not.
You fold yourself into your break like it might protect you from your own idiocy. You sit in the backroom with your knees pulled up, half-reading the same paragraph of an old book three times. The lighting is harsh and silence worse.
You glance at your phone, even though you swore you'd stop thinking about it.
You think about the shiny little card in your wallet. You pull it out, just to look at it.
Harkness & Vidal, embossed in silver. Her name in elegant serif. The number beneath.
One call. One message. That's all it would take to end your misery. So what if it's just a game for her? You like fun, don't you? You're not looking for romance either.
You start a text. Delete it. Try again.
So did I bore you already?
Delete.
I wore lipstick. You didn't even show.
Delete.
Was the whole card thing just a game?
God. You sound pathetic.
You drop the phone on the table face-down and breathe in through your nose.
You don't need her. You don't need her attention. You're not some charity case with a pretty face and no direction. You're more than that. You are.
But you're also kind of lonely. There's something about the way she looks at you, like she sees every crack and still thinks it's worth leaning closer.
And today she didn't come.
And you feel it everywhere.
It's late. The kind of late where the streets outside your window hum with the low buzz of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog. The kind of late where your bed feels to big and too small at once. Cold sheets. Flickering phone light. You lying there, blanket over your chest, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
Your apartment is silent, save for the occasional groan of old pipes. One of your candles is still burning on the nightstand. It's supposed to be therapeutic, calming, but it only makes the silence feel heavier.
You roll over and grab your phone again. It's past midnight now and she didn't come into work all day. You even went as far and asked your other coworkers if she came in later in the day. No she didn't.
You open your notes app first, as always, where you've already drafted and deleted six versions of messages you'll never send. You stare at the blank page.
Then, something snaps. You switch to Messages. You scroll through your contacts until you end up at H and click her name. You hesitate only once before your fingers start moving, fast and stupid.
so what happened? meeting run late? or did the novelty of slumming it with the broke barista wear off?
You hit send and immediately regret it. She gave you the opportunity to reach out to her and you didn't. You don't even get the right to be upset with her for not showing up.
Closing your eyes, you groan loudly. You consider turning your phone off, throwing it under the bed, dropping it in your half-empty mug of tea.
The read receipt appears first. Your heart stumbles and your breath catches.
You're cuter when you're not trying to pick a fight.
Short. Cool. Clearly amused.
You clench your phone a little too hard. You stare at the words and try not to feel what you're feeling: a mess of embarrassment and longing and relief. She answered and not with a rejection, not even with irritation.
Your thumb hovers. Her message feels like a dare. You smirk, not at the message, but at yourself. At the fact that despite everything, despite how stupid you know this is, your pulse is quickening and your cheeks are warm.
don't flatter yourself. you wouldn't even know how to handle me if i were picking fights.
Sent.
You roll onto your back, heart pounding like this flirty little message matter. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't.
Three dots. They appear immediately. Then stop. Then come back.
Try me.
Just two words, and you can instantly imagine that this is the digital equivalent of her voice sliding low and confident across the courtroom floor.
You exhale, half a scoff, half a laugh.
A second text pops up, not even five seconds later.
Or are you just scared I might handle you too well?
You don't answer right away. You reread her words again. They sit in your gut like a match waiting to catch, and you hate that it's working. That you want to reply. That you're staring at your screen like a girl who doesn't know how to play the game when usually, you are the game.
You flip the phone over. Then back. You try typing something witty, maybe a joke. Maybe a gif. Maybe–
Ping.
Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?
Your breath catches.
Sweetheart is worse than the rest. It's soft and mocking and warm all at once, like honey laced with poison. You know she's picturing you flustered, squirming. Trying to stay cool.
The worst part ist that she's right.
You hate how easy she makes it sound. This isn't just light banter. She's toying with you while you're stuck feeling too much, too fast.
You type, pause, retype.
don't mistake me being quiet for being impressed. i just needed a second to remember i'm not some charity case for your resume.
Your hands shake a little. You've officially crossed a line. Not flirtation, not teasing, but something real. something that could be rejected. Something that says: this isn't a game to me, not really.
What makes you think I see you as a charity case?
You snort, thumb already moving.
oh i don't know.
maybe the crazy tips that would make any other person shed a tear. the implied offer when you gave me your card. if you want to get into my pants, there are easier ways.
You see the read timestamp. You see three dots, but nothing comes through, which means she saw it and she left you on read.
You wait. Ten minutes. Fifteen. You turn your phone face down, then immediately flip it back. You check your signal. You check your internet. Both are fine.
Now you're burning. Because you didn't mean it, or maybe you did. It was stupid to text her in the first place. You should've just forgotten about it like you forget about all the other numbers people hand you during the week. But maybe the real issue is that you want her to want to get in your pants and stay a little longer after that too.
You begin to type again.
forget it
You delete it.
you know what? nevermind.
You backspace it all.
You toss the phone next to you onto the bed, get up and pace. Your heart is pounding, mouth dry. You hates how much you like that she has the power to make you feel this stupid.
The shop smells like espresso and caradamom. You're on your second coffee and the fourth hour of pretending you're not still obsessing over last night's messages.
This has to be some game for her, right? What other reasons would someone like Agatha Harkness have to text with you in the middle of the night. Maybe she's just trying to check if she still has it in her to make someone half her age blush.
You're trying not to check your phone.
Yelena's restocking the pastry case, humming under her breath. You didn't tell her that you finally reached out to Agatha. You're kind of embarrassed by it. By the hope of it all. You don't even know what you were hoping to get out of that. Honestly, you just wanted to make sure that she wasn't hit by a cab on her way here... or at least that's what you're telling yourself.
Outside, the chill of an early Manhattan autumn clings to the windows. Everything is too normal, too quiet. Until the door open and a courier walks in with a large bouquet in her hands.
It's the kind of bouquet that turns heads and makes everyone in the room feel a little less special. Deep purples, wine-reds, almost black dahlias and bruised roses. The wrapping is matte, expensive with a black bow to tie it all together.
Yelena whistles. "Did someone die?"
The florist approaches the counter, and when she calls your name and hands you the flowers, you almost fall back over. You take them with shaky hands and press them to your chest a little too tightly.
The envelope is thick, dark cream. Your name, just your first name, written in a slanted, wicked sort of cursive that makes your stomach flip. It's the kind of penmanship that gets taught in private schools, you assume.
You slide the card out, and without ever having seen her handwriting, you know it's Agatha's before you even read the first line.
I might want to know what it feels like to have your hips bucking underneath me, but this has nothing to do with that. You are not a charity case. You are a woman who deserves to be seen. And I see you.
– A.H.
You swallow. Blink. Once. Twice. You're tempted to check your own pulse, but decide against it.
Yelena leans in over your shoulder. "So are we quitting and marrying rich? Just tell me the vibe so I can prepare accordingly."
You tuck the card back in the envelope. Your hands won't stop shaking. After putting the flowers in a large glass with enough water to potentially drown them, you go on with your day.
Like nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
When you finally catch a break for a few minutes after the midday rush, you hide in the backroom and reread the card at least seven times. You sit on a milk crate, phone in hand, thumbs tracing the letters on your screen.
you don't get to say things like that and just go on with your day.
Backspace. You try again.
i didn't think you could get any more attractive, but that handwriting? damn.
Nope. That's not it.
Finally, you land on something that feels right. A little reckless, but when you think about possible answers, your head begins to swim and your chest feels lighter.
you see me, huh? then tell me what you see.
The shop smells like too much sweetener, and if you hadn't been working here nearly five years now, the smell might've made you sick. The lights are dimmed. The playlist looped back to track one, and Yelena already ducked out with a wink and a "Good luck, loser."
You're dragging a mop across the floor, brain foggy with everything you should've said hours ago. Your pone is hot in your back pocket, like it's about to ignite fire from your unanswered message.
The bell over the door doesn't ring, when you turn, she's just standing there. Leaning against the far counter, arms crossed, coat still on, leather gloves folded neatly in one hand.
Agatha. Calm and unreadable, like she didn't sent you flowers with the most obscenely honest, vulnerable thing anyone's said to you in months. Like she hasn't shaken something loose in you and knows it.
"Sorry, I didn't hear the bell."
She tilts her head. "It didn't ring. I came in a minute ago, but you were too busy pretending not to sulk."
Rolling your eyes, you scoff. "Wow, you're really committed to the whole mysterious older woman who sees right through you thing, aren't you?"
A small smile curves at the edge of her mouth. "It's not a thing. It's the truth."
You grip the mop tighter, heartbeat picking up. "You didn't answer my text."
She takes a small step forward. "No, I didn't."
"Why?" Your voice is quieter now, somehow scared that she'll say something you won't like.
"Because I wanted to see your face when I did."
She takes another step closer, stops just across the counter from you, eyes dark, studying every inch of your reaction.
"I see a woman who walks around like she's already disappointed herself," she says softly. "Like she thinks the only way people will lover her is if she's useful. Funny. Pretty. Convenient."
You flinch, physically recoil from her words like she slapped you across the face and pushed you back. But Agatha doesn't let up.
"But you're more than that," she says. "You're inconvenient. You're messy. You're alive." Her voice drops. "And if you think I gave you that card because I wanted a quick fuck, you haven't been paying attention."
Your throat's dry. "Then why did you give it to me?"
She exhales slowly, like her honesty is a heavy burden she's getting rid of. "Because watching someone with so much fire burn themselves out for people who don't deserve it makes me sick. Because I've wanted to be the reason you finally stop apologising for wanting more."
You stare at her, something twisting deep in your chest. All at once, with a few mere words, she's made you feel seen. And exposed. And terrified. So you deflect the situation the only way you know without giving away too much of yourself: mocking.
"Did you actually write that whole card in fountain pen?"
Agatha laughs, like she didn't expect anything else from you. "I did."
"Pretentious," you mumble, shaking your head.
She smirks. "Says the girl who bakes sourdough bread from scratch and listens to Phoebe Bridgers at full volume."
You crack a smile despite yourself and you can see Agatha's eyes lighten with something when she spots the little glimmer in your eyes.
You shift your weight, clearing your throat. "You get one date."
Her brow arches, amused.
"Just one?"
You meet her eyes, hold it, just long enough. "For now."
She smiles. It's slow and dangerous, curling like smoke at the corners of her mouth. When she tilts her head, your stomach leaps and you know you're fucked. So so so fucked.
"Then I better make it count."
Your cheeks go warm, and you hate how much she can see it.
You huff, turning back to the mop. "You're so smug. It's honestly revolting."
She steps closer, not touching, a heat at your shoulder, a voice at your hear.
"And yet, you're still blushing."
You almost drop the mop, and she leaves without another word before you can come up with a cute comeback that makes her flail just as much.
The smell of her perfume lingers in the air long after the bell rings, and when you check your phone ten minutes later, there's a message waiting.
Friday. 8 p.m.
Dress in something that makes you feel confident.
I'll handle the rest.
The car that pulls up outside your apartment is sleek and black, understated but expensive. You catch your reflection in the passenger window before she steps out, your breath hitching as you check your lipstick one last time in the reflection.
Agatha's dressed in a tailored black coat that's just open enough to reveal a plum-coloured silk blouse and sharp high-waisted trousers. Her hair is up, a few strands curling at her temples in the chill air. She looks like the kind of woman who doesn't chase. She's the kind people chase after. But tonight, she's here. For you.
"You're punctual," you say, stepping onto the sidewalk.
Her gaze drags down. Lips, skirt, legs. Back up.
"And you're devastatingly beautiful," she rasps. "I should be worried about taking you anywhere public."
You smirk, nerves twisting into something coy. You had a feeling Agatha would be a sucker for a shirt black skirt with a slit at the side, and clearly, you were right.
You follow her to the car, heart thudding. You smell her perfume when she leans over to open the door. It's subtle and spiced, warm like amber. It makes you want to sink your teeth into her neck and claim her. The brush of her hand at your back is barely there, like she's scared of overstepping, but you feel it burn through the fabric of your shirt nonetheless.
The restaurant is private. The host knows her by name. The table is in the back, quiet, shadowed from the rest of the room.
You're seated across from her, knees almost brushing. You sip wine and try to act like you belong in a space where the menus have no prices.
She watches you from over her glass, that sharp gaze softening into something else, something warmer. She's letting herself see you, not just the way you look tonight, but the cracks beneath the confidence, the way your fingers tremble just slightly around the stem of your glass.
"You're quiet," she murmurs, a faint smile playing on her lips.
You shrug, swirling your wine. "I'm not trying to say something stupid."
She leans forward slightly, voice dipping low. "I already know you're smart and funny. You don't have to impress me."
You snort before you can stop yourself. "That's rich coming from you.
Her brow lifts. "Is it?"
You meet her gaze, lips tugging into a shy grin. "You're... you. You're mysterious and powerful and you smell expensive. Meanwhile I burned the roof of my mouth this morning on a toaster strudel and almost cried at a TikTok about a stray cat that got adopted."
She tilts her head, pretending to consider. "I don't know, that last one make me want to kiss you more."
More.
You blink. "You've wanted to kiss me?"
"Haven't you?"
Your face turns warm, caught somewhere between flustered and thrilled. "I won't answer that."
Agatha laughs, and the sound wraps around you.
Dinner is slow and rich, full of lingering glances, mutual teasing, and one too many moments where her knee brushes yours and neither of you pulls away. There’s a moment when she watches you lick a smudge of sauce from your thumb, and you feel the weight of her gaze so deeply it’s like a hand at your throat.
It's all a familiar game: Flirting like you don't care. Jabbing like it's a moat that will protect your heart. Pretending the wine hasn't gone to your head and that you're not reeling every time Agatha tilts her head or glances at your mouth instead of your eyes.
She lets you play, for a while. Smiling at your sarcasm. Raising an eyebrow and your boldness. Tossing back lines like she's done this a thousand times with a thousand people.
But this is different. You're not anyone, and she not playing.
She leans in with determination, and refills your glass, not with wine this time. Sparkling water, crisp and biting. The soft sound of the fizz breaking the silence. her fingers linger on the neck of the bottle for a second longer than necessary.
And then she says, quietly, with that impossible calm, "I don't want to argue with you all night. I want to know you."
Your breath hitches, you lean back into your chair and look at her.
She's not smiling, but there's something there. The intention and the restraint, maybe even fear, buried beneath her poise. Her blouse is slightly open at the collar and her pulse flutters in the hollow of her throat. The candlelight makes her lashes cast shadows on her cheekbones. Her mouth is soft, no longer curled in mischief.
You exhale, the flirtation peeling off like damp fabric.
"Well," you breathe, fingers curling around your stemless glass, "that's terrifying."
"Why?" Her voice isn't harsh, but it's firm.
You glance down at your hands. "Because I'm good at being the girl you flirt with across the counter. The barista. The safe crush. But this?" You gesture between the two of you. "This feels like you might be able to see everything I work really hard to keep hidden."
Agatha is quiet for a moment, eyes on you. "I don't want the safe version of you."
You laugh, a little bitter. "Yeah, well, I'm not sure the full version of me is all that impressive."
"Let me be the judge of that."
There's no edge in her voice, no challenge, just truth, and something like an invitation.
You look away, smiling despite yourself. "You're pushy."
"I'm persistent," she correct, swirling the last of her wine. "And I like you."
That makes your stomach twist in the worst, best way.
You shift in your seat. You don't know what to do with that. With being liked by someone who looks like this. Who walks into a room and owns it. Who could have anyone. But she's here, sitting with her full attention locked onto you like you're the most fascinating thing she's seen in months.
Like you matter.
You mumble, more to your glass than to her, "So what do you want to know?"
Her smile returns, smaller and gentler.
"Start easy," she offers. "Tell me something no one else knows about you."
You lift your eyes to her, biting your lip. "I'm scared of being a disappointment."
She nods. "You won't be."
Your throat tightens. You want to ask her how she can say that with so much certainty. You want to ask her how she looks at you like this, as if she's already undressing not your body, but your layers.
Instead, you deflect because it's easier. A crooked smile playing at your lips. "Your turn. Something no one knows."
Agatha leans back, considering.
"I sing in the shower," she says. "Off-key, very badly."
You stare at her. "You're kidding."
She shrugs. "What can I say? I'm a big fan of musicals."
"Oh, you're going to regret telling me that."
Agatha's laughter is quiet, a warm ripple across the table. "Somehow, I don't think I will."
And just like that, the tension eases. the intimacy holds, but it softens, becomes something you can breathe inside of. Maybe she reaches across the table. Maybe your fingers brush. Maybe you don't even notice whose hand moved first.
You're almost at home when you realise that you're shivering. It's not enough to admit aloud, but it's enough to curl your hands deeper into your sleeves and curse your fashion choices, even if the skirt earned Agatha's gaze lingering on your legs more than once.
"Come here," she says, stopping under the dim glow of a streetlight.
You grin, teeth chattering lightly. "Why, do you want to set me on fire?"
"No," she says, already pulling the scarf from around her neck, "just trying to keep you from freezing to death in the name of fashion."
You try to protest, but she's already stepping forward, looping the scarf gently around your neck. It's warm from her skin, soft cashmere, the colour of deep wine. It smells like her, and you stop breathing for a second.
Her hands linger as she adjusts it, her knuckles brushing your jaw, and the motion is so tender, it short-circuits your brain.
"You didn't have to–"
"I know," she interrupts. "But I wanted to."
You glance up, throat tight, and she looking at you the way she always does when she thinks you're not watching. It's curious, almost fond. It terrifies you more than her razor-sharp with ever could.
She clears her throat, stepping back to give you room, but the scarf stays around your neck, an anchor to something you don't yet understand but are suddenly afraid to lose.
You manage a joke. "You know, if this was ploy to get your scent all over me, I have to say, it's disturbingly effective.
Agatha smirks. "Then my evil plan is working perfectly."
She continues to walk beside you with her hands tucked into her coat and to any other person it would seem like she's calm and composed, but you think you know her well enough by now to recognise the small tension in her shoulders. She's holding something back, weighing the moment.
You reach your building too quickly.
You almost hesitate at the stoop, like turning the key would seal something away; this night, this version of you she got to see.
You glance up at her, breath fogging in the air between you. Agatha's gaze moves over your face, searching for something.
"So..." you begin, voice thin, awkward, maybe too casual. "You survived dinner with the unrefined barista."
She smiles at that. You think you like this smile the most. The one that only lifts one corner of her mouth and softens everything else. "Barely. You're a menace."
You laugh quietly, rubbing your arms. "Yeah, well. You started it."
She steps a little closer. Not too close, just enough to feel her presence bloom around you in heat. The streetlamp makes her hair look almost silver and her lipstick hasn't smudged even a little. Her eyes are steady, trained on yours, and you can feel the shift. Everything in the air pulls tighter, your breath slows to match hers.
She reaches up, carefully, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers are warm and gentle.
"I'm not going to kiss you," she says softly.
It takes you a second to understand. Your lips part, confusion slipping in. "Okay..."
"I want to," she adds, eyes flickering to your mouth and back again. "But not tonight."
You blink, words hitting you in places you didn't know were bare. "Why not?"
Her hand drops back to her side. "Because you've had a few glasses of wine. because I invited you into my world, and you came, and that means something. Because you're trying so hard to be brave, and I don't want to blur the line between want and gratitude."
You stare at her, and you try not to be disappointed, you really do, but it's hard to ignore the stinging in your chest.
Agatha takes one small step back, letting the cool air fill the space between your bodies again.
"I want you to choose me," she says. "Not just lean into me because the moment offers it and it's easy."
You swallow, biting the tip of your tongue. "You're assuming I will."
She smiles, soft but sad when you look close enough. "No, I'm hoping."
You can feel how much she's holding herself back. How easily she could step forward and tilt your chin and take what you might offer, but she doesn't. She leaves you your space, your agency. She's giving you the chance to name this.
You nod, a little breathless. "You're not what I expected."
Her eyes shine. "You either."
You turn to unlock the door, fingers shaking slightly, not from nerves but from the enormity of everything that passed in those few inches between your mouths.
Before you disappear inside, you look back at her. Agatha's still standing there, waiting and watching for you to get inside safely.
"Hey," you say, and you voice cracks.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
She hums, her smile a little sad, a little radiant. "Get some sleep, sweetheart."
She turns, walks back down the stoop and vanishes into the night, leaving you there, heart rattling in your chest, unsure if what you're feeling is longing or safety, or both.
It's a Match! | AgathaHarkness x RioVidal x Reader
Summary: Rio and Agatha's offer hangs quietly in the space between you. They expect and answer, but you're rendered motionless by the magnitude of the situation. Luckily, they are not known to take silence for an answer.
Word count: 11k (help I went a little overboard, sorry)
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, slowburn but also not really??, cold!Agatha, playful!Rio, both of them are slightly upset with reader, lots of emotions, discussion of kinks, Dom!Agatha, Switch!Rio, implied mommy kink, reader is a mess, implied d/s dynamic, Agatha and Rio are sugar mommies, smut later on, more warnings will be added
ONE | TWO
You wake up with your phone still under your pillow, the text from Agatha already read.
We gave you time, not silence. It’s rude, darling. And we don’t do rude.
You stare at it again, words burning into your retina. Despite your hopes, the words hadn't softened overnight. There's no emoji, no sign off, just slow-burn displeasure baked into the bone of every letter.
God, she’s so mad. You can feel it like the weather, like thunder slamming behind your ribs. She’s probably already writing you off. Sharp red pen through your name. Gone.
Your fingers hover over the screen, you type a response. Delete it. Type another. Backspace until you're back at square one with your breath held too tight.
So, you do nothing.
Again.
The weight of that paralysis crushes you. You lie still for too long, but even the ceiling offers no answers.
You shower until the hot water runs lukewarm. Wear a jacket that still smells faintly of the bar. You skip breakfast and head to class in a fog thick of guilt and denial.
The layout of the contract is still in your bag. Folded neatly, tucked into the inside sleeve of your notebook like it's part of the syllabus, not something that's been lighting you on fire from the inside. You've read it too many times. You could probably quote it by now, especially the parts that made you press your thighs together in bed.
Agatha's annotations are precise, her handwriting elegant and commanding. She writes like she expects you to obey just from the way her pen curves around the word obedience.
Rio's notes are softer, more playful. Questions posed in margins, inviting you to explore boundaries. How would this feel?, Would you let me?, Tell us when it's too much.
Yours are messier. They are scrawled in a different inks, sometimes smudged. Whole lines crossed out and rewritten. There's hesitation in every dot and curve. A page fully dedicated to Preferences in your rushed, uneven handwriting. Some desires so naked, you couldn't look at them after writing them down.
Being told when to kneel. Being punished for teasing. Being held when it all becomes too much.
You haven't shown them, obviously. You didn't even have the guts to say, "Hey, sorry for ghosting you. I'm just completely unhinged about how badly I want you to mark me for the rest of my life and also maybe braid my hair while doing it."
Instead, you told your roommates the meeting was nothing. Just a weird one-on-one where Agatha was being terrifying about "sloppy work". That’s what you said. That’s what they believe. You let them joke about it over dinner. You laughed along and then bit your cheek until you drew blood.
You don't recall how you got to campus, but you must've walked. At least the heels of your boots are wet and your shoulders ache from carrying your bag. But the actual journey is unclear, like you were underwater the whole time.
Inside, the lectures blur into background noise. Notes go half-written. Your mind drifts, caught in the flashbacks: Agatha's piercing eyes, Rio's comforting present, the electricity between you, the memory of their touch. The heat that settled in your chest hasn't left since.
You can’t stop thinking about their offer. About what it would feel like to say yes. About being given everything you didn’t know you were allowed to want. Pleasure. Punishment. Rules. Attention so focused it might actually melt you.
About calling Agatha Mommy with your voice shaking, just to see what she does. About Rio’s hand on your neck and the way she smiles when you squirm.
But also about how embarrassing it would be to say all of that out loud. To admit you want softness and structure, to be told what to do and also maybe called good girl when you do it. To admit that you need help.
You can't even let yourself think about the fact that you will be financially supported by them. You don't even want to fathom how that kind of payment would make you feel. Your fingers have absentmindedly drawn the numbers under Monthly Allowance more times than you can count. Every time you think about receiving money from them for your attention... for you... you feel a shudder run down your spine, and not the pleasant kind.
You haven’t told anyone the truth. Not your friends. Not them. Not even yourself, not really. You're prepared to take your want to the grave and never tell a soul about it.
But your body knows.
And the contract in your bag? It knows your answer, too.
You try to focus on your classes, but your mind is adamant on finding distraction in every little thing. When you professor says the word submission, you almost jump out of your skin.
You shake your head. You want to leave. Get up, disappear. Crawl into bed and never look at your phone again. But you don't. You sit here, still and silent, pretending you're fine.
After class, Kate catches up with you on the stairs.
"Are you alright?" she asks, nudging your elbow. "You were like, full ghost mode in there."
You laugh, or something close to it, and says that you're just tired.
She nods and you can tell that she doesn't quite believe you, but she doesn't push. You think about telling her. Just a little. Just enough to let some of the pressure out. Like: Hey, remember my scary hot boss? Yeah, she and her scary hot wife kind of offered to own me like a very well-loved pet and I'm considering it more seriously than I've considered any career path in the past.
You don't say anything, though, the weight of the signed NDA in your bag a constant reminder of how delicate the situation is. You just walk beside her down the stairs, nodding at the right places, pretending your skin isn't buzzing under your jacket.
Eventually, Kate peels off toward her next class, leaving you alone under a sky that can't decide whether it wants to rain or not. Your thoughts keep circling back to the yes you haven't said and the no you're too afraid to mean.
You start walking. Nowhere in particular. Somewhere vaguely in the direction of home. The wind picks up a little, slipping down the collar of your jacket. You shove your hands in your pockets, trying not to overthink everything, which, at this point, is like trying not to blink.
You round the corner by the parking lot, and you see her before she sees you.
Leaning against a sleek black car, Rio is the kind of interruption that could stop traffic. Hair tucked behind her ears. Sunglasses too dark for the cloudy weather. Arms crossed like she had all the time in the world.
Your steps falter.
You almost keep walking, almost pretend you didn't notice her, but then she sifts, head tilting just slightly, and you know she's clocked you.
Her jaw ticks. Not anger exactly, but something sharper than patience.
"Get in," she says before you're close enough to speak.
Your hand tightens around the phone in your pocket. You're suddenly hyper-aware of how much time has passed since you saw her last. You’re also awfully aware of the little flutter in your stomach. Traitor. You swallow.
"Did you– how did you know where–"
"We granted you space," she cuts in, opening the passenger door instead of answering. "Not an invitation to disappear."
There's no kiss hello. No soft teasing. Nothing that reminds you of Saturday. Nothing that makes Rio seem like the softer one of the two, the playful one, the one that teases rather than punishes.
She's not cold, not like Agatha, but she's not warm either.
You climb in despite your desire to run because, for some reason, you hate seeing Rio upset with you and you'd do anything to smooth the crease between her eyebrows.
The car smells faintly like her cologne: musk and something expensive. You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. Rio pulls smoothly into traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gearshift.
"You read it," she says after a beat. Not a question.
"...Yeah."
"All of it?"
Your mouth is dry. "A few times."
"And?"
"I don't–" you exhale. "I didn't know what to say."
Rio makes a soft sound, almost a laugh, but there's no humour in it.
"You could've said anything. 'I'm overwhelmed.' 'This is a lot.' 'I need time.' Instead you just..." She trails off, then shakes her head, eyes still on the road. "Agatha's being generous calling it rude."
You wince. You want to reach out and take her hand and say that you’re sorry. That you freaked out, not because of them, but because of what this will mean for you. But you’re ashamed to admit how much you’re clinging to your autonomy even when it’s obvious that you need someone to take some of the weight off your shoulders. So you do nothing. Again.
The silence that follows isn't cruel, but it isn’t comfortable either. It's weighted and intentional. She's letting you feel the full shape of it, a natural consequence to your actions, or rather the lack thereof.
Rio doesn't rush to soften the moment for you, or smooth over your discomfort. She doesn't fill the space with noise like other people might. She just lets it sit there, heavy and deserved. But you can feel her still watching you, from the edges.
Not angry, not indifferent, but disappointed. Like you ruined the idea that she had of you, like you don't fill the expectations she had of you, and that's a whole lot worse than getting yelled at.
The car dips down into the underground parking lot of their building and your pulse kicks up a notch.
"Are we–"
"We're going upstairs," she says.
You don’t know what you expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t this. You aren’t ready, you haven’t prepared enough to deal with this yet. You need to loop through potential conversations one more time before you can talk to them.
You pick at the skin around your nails. "Is Agatha there?"
She draws in a deep breath. "Yes."
Your hands stop, you press yourself tighter against the seat. Rio’s distance you can deal with but you can’t face Agatha. You’ve seen who she becomes when people disappoint her. The iciness, the openness about her disappointment, the assumptions.
Rio glances at you. Really looks this time. She takes off her sunglasses, fold them carefully, places them on the dash.
Her voice is warmer when she says, "You don't have to be scared of her."
"I'm not." It comes out too fast. It's a lie you both hear.
You’re not scared of her like danger. You’re scared of her like consequences, exposure. Being seen too closely by someone who doesn’t flinch when you flail.
Rio tilts her head, eyes flickering over your face. "You like being scared a little. That's not the same."
Your stomach flips.
"She's not going to hurt you," she adds. "Not unless you ask us to."
Your breath catches on the word us. You know that both of them would be more than happy to pull you over their laps and make you regret ignoring them in the first place.
Rio steps out of the car before you can react. The passenger door swings open. She’s come around to your side, standing there now, holding it like a dare.
The lobby's too bright and quiet. Every sound echoes; your breath, the soft scuff of Rio's boots, the low ding of the elevator arriving like a warning bell.
You stop just shy of the doors. Your fingers tap against your thighs almost erratically.
With a soft sigh, Rio closes the distance, and lifts one hand to your face. Her palm is warm against your cheek and her thumb against your jaw is light as anything.
"Come on, sweetheart," she says. "Rip the Band-Aid."
You almost lean into her touch, but the elevator doors slide open and the spell breaks.
You hate this. The elevator. The silence. Yourself.
One floor ticks by, then another. Your stomach clenches painfully, each number a countdown you don't feel ready for.
Rio doesn't speak, but you catch her watching your reflection in the mirrored wall. The way your nails bite into the back of your hand, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip.
At the top floor, the doors open with a soft chime, and you don’t move, again. You should. You know that. You should step out like it's nothing, like it's normal. Like you aren't about to walk into the kind of conversation that rearranges your internal organs.
Your legs stay locked, ankles rooted to the spot. They didn't get the message. Just a second. Just a breath. Just a beat of silence before you step over the line.
Your palms are sweating, disgustingly. You rub them on your jeans and immediately regret it. Now it feels worse. Damp denim, friction and shame. You dig your nails into your thigh instead. One, two, three, four. You don't break the skin, but you wish you did.
You think about saying something; a joke, a distraction, a casual "so... the weather, huh?" but your mouth won't move right. Your tongue feels wrong in your mouth. Everything feels wrong.
Rio hasn't moved either. She's waiting patiently for your to calm yourself enough to at least have the decency to give them a clear answer.
Her arms are at her sides, relaxed. She doesn't rush you and you wish you could coax your tongue off the top of your mouth to tell Rio how much you appreciate her calmness right now.
She watches you. The way someone might watch a wild animal that's deciding whether to step into a trap it kind of wants to be caught in.
You shift your weight to one foot, then the other. You pull your sleeves down over your wrist, tug them past your knuckles. You try to shrink into your own skin, suddenly too aware of your body. How much space it takes up. How loud your breathing is.
God, is it always this loud?
You wish you hadn't come. You wish you had run. Said no. Said nothing. moved to another city. Really faked your death. Set yourself on fire in the quad.
Your heart is beating so hard it's in your ears now. You try to breathe around it.
You don't want her to see you like this.
You want her to see you like this and you want her to be there to catch you.
You steal a glance at her, just to see if she's tired of you yet. if this mess, this long moment of cowardice, is changing the math in her head. But when your eyes finally glance at her face, she's still there. There is no sign of annoyance, just patience, like she understands how difficult this is for you.
She raises one brow, barely, as if to ask you think you can rid of me this easily?
That's what does it for you. Her patience, even when she doesn't owe you anything. It's not like she knows you well enough yet to feel any kind of responsibility towards you.
You take another step forward. Your bag shifts on your shoulder, your books on economics and statistics suddenly weighing a tonne more. Your fingers twitch around the strap. You almost shove the contract into Rio's arms and say Here, I read it, I wrote on it, I want things I don't know how to deserve, but your hand doesn't cooperate.
Rio's keys rattle as she slides them into the lock and pushes the door back. It glides open with a soft click, and a faint draft slips out, cooler than you prepared yourself for. She lets you enter first, stepping aside to give you space.
You cross the threshold slowly and the door falls shut behind you after Rio.
Your skin prickles with memory. Saturday's warmth and danger, Agatha's voice, Rio's touch, the gravity of being chosen without having to do anything for it. Your brain tried to replay it all at once and short-circuits. Everything buzzes, your nerve endings are on fire.
Rio walks ahead without looking back, but her pace is slow. She knows you'll follow, even when your entire body is set on flight mode.
You stay behind her by a few paces. You try to focus on her boots. One step. Another. Another. Keep going. Don't think. Don't speak. Don't let your face do something humiliating.
You're about to turn the corner and you can already feel her.
Agatha.
Already home.
Already waiting.
She stands at the kitchen island, pen in hand, red ink bleeding onto white paper. The pen scratches once, twice, deliberate punctuations between decisions.
Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing the subtle definition of her forearms. Her blouse is a pale ivory silk, tucked neatly into charcoals slacks. She's barefoot, without jewellry, without distractions.
She's undone just enough to look relaxed, and yet somehow, it makes her more intimidating. She wasn't caught mid-day, she picked this exact image by choice.
She doesn't look up when you enter.
"You're late," she says, voice cool and cut-glass. "Again."
Your stomach flips, your hands shake, you stop in your tracks. You just watch her, breath caught in the back of your throat. The chill in the room tightens around your chest.
Rio slips her boots off with an ease that you envy. Completely unbothered, she drops her keys into the ceramic tray by the door. She walks into this space as if it's no different than breathing, and perhaps it is when it's not you who's in trouble.
You stay in the entry way, bag strap digging into your shoulder.
"I didn't know I was supposed to–"
"You weren't," Agatha says, finally looking up. Her eyes catch yours like a hook. "But if you're going to ghost someone, you better arrive early when you change your mind."
You feel your throat tighten, you swallow hard. Technically, you hadn't changed your mind, without Rio you still wouldn't have broken your silence, but you feel like correcting her would set something in motion you wouldn't be able to stop.
Still, something in you starts to heat.
You hadn't expect kindness, not exactly. But not this, not this cool dismissal, this weaponised clarity. She's not wrong. You were the one who went silent, who ignored the message, who didn't answer when Rio tried to call. But the guilt you walked in with is quickly eclipsed by something else: defensiveness.
It's not like you weren't overwhelmed. It's not like they made it easy. It was a lot. Too much. And yes, you should've said something. You meant to.
The way she says it, clean and neat like a ledger line, leaves no space for why. For the mess of it. The fear. the second-guessing. The part of you that wanted to do it right, so badly, that you ended up doing nothing at all. Rendered motionless by too many choices that all felt like they didn't live up to expectations you don't even know yet.
So, you are trying. And her coldness makes your clumsy silence feel calculated, like it was on purpose. It wasn't
It wasn't.
Your hand shifts instinctively toward Rio. It's a small movement, barely there, a pinch of two finger, grasping her sleeve, silently begging her to not leave you alone.
Rio's shoulders stiffen for the briefest second before she allows her arm to gently shake you off and her fingers trail over yours. She stays, doesn't leave you alone with your rising anger and anxiety.
You're grateful, and humiliated by that gratitude. You don't know either of them well enough to feel the need to be close to them, and yet, here you are. Agatha sees it, the instinctual reach for Rio, like you have a much deeper relationship with her, like you've known her for years.
"Interesting who you reach for when things get difficult," Agatha says, the shape of her voice makes you want to hide behind something. "But if you're going to lean on someone, make sure you've earned the right."
Rio makes a sound in the back of her throat, not loud enough to be an actual reprimand but clear enough to show her displeasure by Agatha's coldness, but Agatha doesn't seem to even notice it. Her eyes are solely focused on you, and it sets you on fire.
"That behaviour of yours," Agatha continues, pages below her wrist forgotten now, "is immature."
Heat creeps to the apples of your cheeks. She's only stating the obvious, so why are you getting upset about it?
"Not the fear," she adds, her voice cold enough to make a volcano freeze over. "The avoidance. The refusal to speak. That’s what’s childish."
"I didn't know what to say."
"You didn't try."
"That's not fair–"
"What's not fair," she snaps, pen clattering to the counter, "is having you walk away from something we offered in good faith without the decency of single sentence in reply."
Her voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. The chill does all the damage.
"Agatha," Rio says softly, a warning stitched behind the syllables.
But Agatha doesn't let go. She stays fixed on you, like a dog with a bone. Something inside you cracks. You bristle. The humiliation, the heat of it, rises fast.
"You know what? Fine," you bite out, nose wrinkled in anger and bite. "I'm immature. I'm childish. And I still know how to say no, if that's what you're pushing for."
Agatha's expression doesn't change, but her brow lifts, slowly. "Is that what you're saying?"
You stare at her with furrowed brows. Her question offers you a challenge you’re ready to accept, just to keep your pride.
Rio’s hand finds your lower back, drawing you closer to her. It's not possessive, just a gentle weight that reels you back from the edge of the cliff, stopping you from saying something you didn't mean.
You hate how much you need it. Hate that she knows exactly where to place her hand to make you feel safe.
Agatha notices the shift in you, the way you don't pull away. She sees it. Of course she does. She sees the want, the fear, the desire to speak even with shame sewing your mouth shut. She exhales trough her nose, slow and measured. She runs a hand through her hair as if that can make her frustration ebb away.
Her voice, when it comes next, is steadier. Not kind, but no longer glacial. "Sit down. You brought the papers, didn't you?"
You nod because the knot in your throat doesn't loosen. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of them. You don't want to seem weaker than you already do. You don't want to be more immature.
"Then let's start there."
You don't move right away. Instead, you continue to hover by the entrance, fingers curling around your bag like it might keep you from floating away.
Agatha turns away, already focused on her papers again, and it needles something sharp in your chest. She was right. You were rude. But still, being right doesn't mean she has to be so right about it.
Rio gestures toward the couch. "Come on. Shoes off."
You don't move.
"I mean it." Her tone is gentle. "Sit. Breathe. I'll get you some water."
Something in you softens at her voice, not much, but enough to make you bend and unlace your laces with trembling hands before you cross the room and sink into the cushions. Your jaw feels tight, your heart still pounding like it hasn't realised the argument's over.
Rio disappears into the kitchen. You watch the back of her move, sleek and efficient, while Agatha marks another page in red. The sound of the pen scraping the paper is too much, too loud, too clean.
"You could at least pretend to care that I showed up," you mutter, drawing your knees to your chest.
Agatha doesn't look up. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't have been angry."
You hate that that makes sense.
"I'm trying," you whisper.
"Try harder," she says, and only then does she meet your eyes again. "No ones's asking for perfect. We're asking for honest."
You look away first.
Rio returns with a glass of water and a cool cloth. She crouches in front of you, pressing the glass into your hands without comment. Her other hand moves gently to your shin, thumb brushing a slow, grounding arc over your jeans.
"Take a sip," she says. You do.
The cold cuts through the fog a little.
She rests the cloth to the back of your neck, holding it there with one hand, not too firm, not too light, just enough to remind your body where it is.
"There you go," she breathes.
Agatha finally steps over, slower now. She doesn't kneel, she doesn't even touch you, but she look, really looks, and something in her expression shifts. She sees all of you, you think. The fear and the want, the desire to be here and the desire to hide.
"We're not angry because you hesitated," she says. "We're angry because you took off without a word and left us guessing."
It lands. Warm and guilt-laced.
"Are you ready to talk about it now?" she asks, much calmer than before.
You nod, teeth pinching the inside of your cheek. You're not sure of it's in agreement or surrender, but it's something.
"Then tell me why."
Your eyes dart up. "What?"
"Why did you run?" Her tone is even, not in an accusatory way, just curious, like you're a new insect she's trying to dissect. "What was it? Something in the contract? Something we said?"
You stammer, mouth opening and closing again. You glance at Rio, not for help, but for grounding. She doesn't say anything, but you see it in her eyes. She wants you to say whatever it is without thinking of the consequences. Your gaze drops to the floor, cheeks burning.
"You don't get to claw your way into this space and then stay mute in the corner," Agatha says, pushing a curl behind her ear. "If you're going to walk, you owe us a 'why' at the very least."
Your grip on the glass tightens. Your throat works around the words, even though they feel like sandpaper. But you've come this far, so might as well finish what you started.
Rio watches you carefully, like she's trying to estimate the chances of you making a run for it.
"I got scared," you whisper, voice changing an octave. "Not of you, but of how fast everything moved. Of how much it asked of me and how much I wanted it anyway."
You hate how pathetic your confession sounds, like a child lost in a crowd. Neither of them speak, but Rio's palm presses once between your shoulders as if to remind you that you're not alone.
"I didn't even know what questions to ask. You handed me something that felt too big, too intimate. You're asking me to hand over control. To expose all these parts of myself that I don't even let myself look at. And I don't know you, not really. Not enough to justify that kind of trust. But still you want everything."
You laugh, nervous and defeated. "I didn't want to screw it up so I vanished instead. I'm sorry."
It's quiet after your confession, and you wish your apology had been grander but this is the only shape your guilt is willing to take. You hear Agatha move, but you don't dare to look up at her, afraid of what you might see when you do.
"We're not here to drag you into something you don't want," she says, voice closer now. "That's not what this is. But if you're going to step into this space, we expect you to do it with your eyes open. That means not disappearing when it gets hard. No silence when it gets messy. If you want in, you stay in. You sit in the discomfort and you speak when you get scared."
"I'm not good at this," you say, barely above a whisper. "Letting people see when I'm scared."
There's a flicker behind Agatha's eyes at that. She exhales softly through her nose.
"Do you think it was easy for us to offer this? You're not the only one who's afraid," she says. "We gave you something real. We don't hand this out to just anyone. So when you walked away without a word, it didn't just sting, it made us feel foolish for trusting our instincts."
That cracks something else open inside you. You hadn't thought of it like that. You'd been so caught in your own spiral, you hadn't realised they were waiting on the other end of the silence, unsure if they'd misread you completely.
A new kind of shame creeps in. You've never considered yourself a selfish person, but now, now you think you might be the worst kind of selfish. The quiet, well-meaning kind. The kind that hurts people in the name of self-preservation.
"We don't expect any of the things written in the contract without building a foundation first. That's not our play, darling," Agatha says, her shadow brushing over you. "But we like to start with everything clearly written out so when things get serious, there's no confusion. No one ends up hurt by silence."
You nod, too quickly maybe. Like you're a student that's finally understood a difficult equation.
"If you're still willing to discuss a possible future with us," she gestures towards the coffee table,"Take your answers out and lets go over what you want."
Your fingers hover over the zipper of your bag, not out of defiance, but out of nerves. Then slowly, with shaking fingers, you unzip your bag and slide the envelop out.
You set it on the table like it might bite you.
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. But the paper feels heavier than it should, as if everything you wrote on it, everything they did, asked, imagined; as if all of that soaked into the pages and stayed.
Rio takes the contract with care. Her fingers handle it gently as if the pages might break if she's too rough with the paper. She sees how vulnerable and raw this is for you and gives it the care she thinks it deserves.
She doesn't open it right away. She merely runs her thumb over the crease where it's been folded for the last few days. Perhaps this is part of the fear Agatha was talking about. The fear that whatever you've written down might not fit this arrangement.
You can see Rio's throat work before her eyes meet Agatha's. She smiles softly at her wife like she needs some sort of reassurance for the next part. Then, she pats the spot beside her, but Agatha takes a seat across from you, perched on the edge of the coffee table instead of next to her wife. Close enough to touch, but far enough to watch you fully.
Rio unfolds the document slowly, not for drama but because she needs to prepare herself too for the vulnerability of the conversation, for the possibility that you will still say no at the end of it.
Her voice is calm, but it's more serious than before. "Let's start with your additions. The page marked Preferences."
Horror washes over your features. Your cheeks are still hot and red, but now you're also feeling a little dizzy. You shake your head, but Rio gives your knee the gentlest nudge.
"We’ve already seen the rest," she reminds you softly. "These are yours."
You close your eyes and nod. "Okay."
Rio scans the list first. Her brow arches faintly at one line. A smirk pulls at the corner of her lips at another. She doesn't comment anything, just passes it to Agatha.
There’s a long pause while she reads. The room goes very still. You swear that everyone can hear your heart racing. Agatha reads and reads and rads. The silence stretches until you're sure it's turning into something else. Your skin prickles, you're about to rip the paper from her hand because you've convinced yourself that she hates your answers when Agatha snorts all of a sudden.
She snorts.
It's such a human sound, so out of place in a situation like this, that it knocks the air out of you. You stare at her with wide eyes and parted lips.
She shakes her head once, trying not to smile, and glances up over the top of the paper. "You crossed out ‘obedience kink’ and wrote ‘maybe a little???’ underneath it."
Your ears burn. "I panicked."
"It’s charming," she says truthfully without a hint of mockery.
Rio leans closer, whispering in your ear. "For the record, she panics too. Especially when she has to admit what she wants."
Agatha rolls her eyes, her sigh long-suffering but affectionate. So affectionate. "One time."
"Three," Rio corrects.
That gets a look, but there’s a softness in it. Something easy. Familiar. You hadn’t realised how much you needed to see that between them, the rhythm of it. Like maybe the whole thing isn’t just structure and demand. Maybe it’s also this.
Agatha glances back at the page. Her tone shifts slightly, something in her has loosened now too. "You’ve marked ‘verbal praise’ with a star."
"Yeah," you say meekly, avoiding their eyes as best as you can.
She doesn't tase. She just nods once, and the pause that follows is thoughtful .
Rio reclines slightly beside you, legs brushing yours. "You also crossed out bratting and wrote ‘no, seriously, I’m bad at that.’"
You groan quietly. "I am. I get embarrassed. Besides, I wouldn't even know how to misbehave right. I’d just annoy you."
Agatha tilts her head with a soft glimmer in her eyes. "You say that like you haven’t already."
That makes you go still. Not from hurt, but from recognition. The way she looks at you isn't cold or judgemental. It's clear. You've been seen. The part of you that's usually hidden by a mask. And the world hasn't ended.
Rio leans in again, voice syrup-sweet and lilting. "You’re not bad at it, baby. You’re just untrained."
The words sink in with heat, low and immediate, curling somewhere deep in your belly. You don't know what to do with the feeling, so you deflect.
"I didn’t—"
"Exactly," Agatha murmurs. "You don’t know yet. But we do."
You bite your lip. Her words burry themselves between your ribs, somewhere deep, uncomfortably deep, like truth often does. Not piercing, just heavy and dense with meaning. The ache inside you stretches quietly in response, like it's been waiting to hear that for longer than you want to admit.
Agatha’s eyes flick over a line near the bottom, and she pauses. When she speaks next, the teasing is completely gone.
"You wrote: 'being held when it all becomes too much'."
The sound of your breathing and heartbeat is the only thing that follows. Your fingers wrap around your other hand and you study how you tenons flex with the tightness of your hold.
You can’t quite look at her. The words on the page feel too raw now, too exposed. Something scrawled in a moment of weakness you'd half-hoped they's skip over.
"I wasn't sure if that's allowed," you admit finally.
Agatha folds the paper, places it down beside her, not discarded, but set aside with care for later. She leans forward and her hand reaches for your face, gently brushing a stray curl behind your ear.
"It’s more than allowed," she says. "It’s the part I care about the most."
You look up slowly, afraid of what you'll see but afraid not to look too.
She meets your gaze without flinching.
"I like control. I like rules, rituals, routines. But I don’t give a damn about any of it unless it makes you feel safe."
Something inside you shifts, not all at once, but you can feel it tumble. The slow, unmistakable slide into something honest.
Rio’s hand slides over yours. You hadn't even noticed when she took it. Her touch is warm and soft. You don't know if it's meant to anchor you or invite you in.
You don't pull away.
Agatha sits back just slightly, collecting the contract again. She picks up a fountain pen from the table, not for show, but because she’s the kind of person who always has one nearby.
Rio sinks deeper into the couch, pulling you with her slightly. The feeling of her body against yours helps you calm down. At least a little. It's a quiet signal that you’re allowed to relax.
"I’d like to discuss your limits," Agatha says, tone is clean and deliberate, like she’s setting down stones to step on. "Tell us what you’re curious about, even if you're unsure. Especially if you're unsure."
Your voice is small when it comes. "Pain. Some kinds."
Agatha hums. "You’ll need to be specific."
You fidget with the hem of your shirt. "Spanking, yes. Biting... probably. Slapping... maybe not."
"Where?"
You blink. "What?"
Agatha's pen hovers above the page. "Slapping where? Face, thighs, ass? There’s a difference."
"Oh." You swallow. "Not my face.”
She writes it down. "Good."
Rio chimes in, casual, "No slapping on mine either. But thighs?" She gives you wicked grin. "You'll find I'm persuasive."
You blush, again. This is going to keep happening, you realise. Over and over until you stop trying to outpace it.
“Next,” Agatha says. “Restraints.”
You nod. “Yes.”
Rio arches a brow. “That was quick.”
You almost smile. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
"Is that so?" she asks, bitting her lip. "Tell me more."
“Rope? Leather? Fabric?” Agatha interrupts with a click of her tongue.
You mull over the question. “What do you use?”
“We have all three,” she replies. “But it depends on what you want. If you want to feel soft, we'll use silk. If you want to feel owned...”
"Then you'll feel it," Rio finishes.
You breathe in, sharp and sudden, and heat pools between your legs along with it.
"We can also teach you knots," she adds. "If it helps you to know the exits."
You nod. "Yes, please."
Agatha notes it. "Safeword?"
"God, yes."
Rio laughs gently. "Perfect answer."
Agatha looks up. "Choose one."
You fumble for something witty, but nothing clever comes. "Uh… red?"
"Classic," Rio says approvingly. "And clear."
Agatha nods, then flips the page. Her fingers graze the edge of the contract. "Let's talk verbal language. You've already marked praise. Let's go further."
You squirm a little, shifting in your spot. "I think I like being called good. Maybe needy."
Rio’s smile goes wide. "Needy suits you."
You flush a deeper shade of red again, helpless against it, and you're certain Rio knows and enjoys it.
Agatha doesn't look up. "Do you want to be degraded?"
You blink. "That’s a big jump."
"It’s a common fork in the path," she explains. "Some praise submissives also enjoy humiliation. Others don’t. It's important to distinguish early."
Your fingers twist in your lap. "I think I’d rather be teased. Not insulted."
Rio leans in again, her voice low at your ear. "You want to be played with."
You shiver. "Yes."
Agatha looks at you fully now. “Would you like to be called a good girl when you listen?”
You nod. Swallow hard.
“Would you like to be told you’ve disappointed us when you don’t?”
Your breath catches. You glance at Rio, but she doesn’t soften it. Just waits.
“" think so. If it’s real."
Agatha’s head tilts. "We don’t perform punishment just to play a part. If we correct you, it’s because something needs correcting."
You nod again, throat tight.
And something clicks, like a puzzle piece you hadn't realised was missing.
Maybe you do bristle on purpose. Test the boundaries without even meaning to. You’ve just never had anyone read it like that before.
You sit with the thought: What if it’s not about being difficult? What if it’s about wanting to be met, and matched?
Agatha's voice returns. "Do you want marks?"
"Only hidden ones. I wouldn't know how to explain anything visible."
Rio shrugs. "We've got options."
Agatha shifts. "Service?"
You nod. "Yes, I want to feel useful."
"You’re not a commodity," Agatha says plainly. "You don’t have to earn your place."
"I still want to try," you murmur.
That earns you a look. Not sharp. Not cold. Aware. Agatha writes something small in the margin of the contract. A note only she understands.
Rio's voice slides back in. "Your turn."
You blink. “What?”
"This isn't a job interview," she says. "Ask us anything. You get a say in this too."
You scratch the back of your neck. "I don't know where to start."
"Start messy," Agatha prompts.
You draw in a breath. "Do you ever fight? The two of you?"
Rio chuckles. "All the time."
"But we don’t weaponise it," Agatha adds. “We don’t withhold affection. No silent treatments. We pause. We breathe. We come back."
You try to imagine it: anger without fear. And it feels almost revolutionary.
Another question slips out. "Who’s in charge?"
Agatha’s eyebrow lifts. Rio answers first.
"It depends on the day."
"She tops me on Thursdays," Agatha says flatly. "And occasionally on weekends."
You stare, mouth agape. "Really?"
Agatha tilts her head. "You think I only know how to give orders?"
"No! I just… I didn’t think you’d…" You trail off, flustered. "Never mind."
Agatha's eyes gleam, just a little. "Everyone needs somewhere to rest. Even me."
That might be the most intimate thing she's said all evening.
You let it sink in. You look at Rio, who nods once like see? And then you look at Agatha, who meets your gaze with a steadiness that no longer feels icy, just sure.
Rio leans forward. "One more?"
You nod slowly. "Yeah. Just... one more thing."
Agatha hums, ready to hear whatever else is on your mind. Rio leans her elbows on her knees, like she already knows that you're going to say.
"This might be a weird question," you being, "but this..." You gesture toward yourself, the pages, the pen, the entire room. "It this also a sugar thing? Or not?"
Agatha doesn’t blink. "Do you want it to be?"
You pause, caught off guard. "I don’t know. I think I just don’t want to guess."
Rio's voice is firm. "Then don’t. We’ll spell it out."
Agatha nods, smoothly. “This arrangement comes with care. With structure. With accountability. But also support. If what you’re asking is whether we’ll take care of you, financially, materially, the answer is yes.”
You frown. "Just like that?"
"Not just like that," Rio says. "We’re not walking wallets. You’re not an asset."
"But we’re also not shy about money," Agatha continues. "You’re a student. You’re working. You’re overextended. We see it."
Rio adds, "We don’t need you to burn out to prove you're worthy."
Your voice goes small again. "And in return?"
Agatha tilts her head. "In return, you trust us. You show up. You communicate. And you let yourself be cared for without turning it into a debt."
Rio bites her lip, not hiding that she’s letting her eyes take you in. "Also, you’ll wear what we buy you. At least once."
"That’s fair."
Agatha makes a final note in the margin, then caps the pen. "This isn’t about spoiling you," she says. "It’s about setting you up to thrive. And yes, part of that might look like plane tickets or rent or skincare you can’t pronounce. But none of that replaces the real cost of this contract: your honesty. Your time. Your obedience, when earned. Your needs when voiced."
"And your softness," Rio adds. "That’s the part we want most."
You blink fast, trying to pretend your eyes aren't stinging.
"I still feel weird about it."
"You can," Agatha says, offering the pen. "You can feel weird, and still choose it."
And it’s there, in her eyes. Not cold. Not stern. Just steady, and maybe even a little tired around the edges, like she knows how hard it is to let yourself be cared for. Maybe she’s been there too.
Rio leans in, brushing your thigh with hers. "Let us take care of you, sweetheart. Not because we expect something back. But because we want to."
You look at the pen. The way it glints in the light. Your hand doesn't move right away, and they don't pressure you to. They are just waiting patiently. You bet they wouldn't even be upset if you shook your head now and stood up. Maybe they'd be a little disappointed, maybe even a lot, but you're sure they wouldn't hold a grudge against you for it.
But the thing is that your heart betrays you at the thought of leaving now. This is an opportunity. An opportunity to have someone support you to become your fullest self. And yes, you won't pretend that the sexual aspect of this doesn't make you vibrate with excitement and anxiety.
Your heart is thudding so loud it feels like your whole body is moving along with it. The document in front of you blurs slightly, but from the sheer weight of it.
This is more than just a paper. It's what it represents.
A commitment to being seen. To being held. To being vulnerable without begging for it.
Somewhere inside you, a small voice is still shouting. The one that says you don't deserve this. The one that likes to remind you that you haven't earned it. The one that thinks if you say yes, you're going to fuck it up somehow and prove them both wrong for believing in you.
It would be easier to make a joke, or leave, or say "I need more time" and pretend that distance is the same as discernment.
But you don't.
You take the pen.
Your fingers curl around it tightly. You're afraid that it might disappear if you wait too long. You glance down at the line where your signature belongs and your hand trembles as you lower the tip to the paper.
You draw your arm back an inch, suddenly recognising the cost of this. It's not money or obedience or even your time. This will cost you your armour. Your certainty that it's saver to be alone. That you can do anything on your own and don't need the help of someone else to fight battles. That care is a kind of currency you're not allowed to accept until you can match it exactly.
You exhale through your nose, letting go of all those insecurities and bad thoughts, and sign your name on the dotted line.
Agatha doesn't file it away like a done deal. She sets it aside like a source material, something that will be archived and referred to carefully.
"That version," she says, tapping it once, "is for us."
Rio nods. "It’s like a blueprint. Honest. Raw. Useful."
You glance at the messy ink, the panic crossings-out, the emotional fingerprints still fresh on the page. It does feel honest. But also a little chaotic.
You shift, suddenly self-conscious. "It's a mess."
Agatha must catch your expression. Her lips twitch faintly. "Don’t worry. I’ll be transcribing everything we discussed into a clean draft. One with real structure. No scribbles."
Rio stage-whispers, "She’s already thinking about font hierarchy."
"You joke," Agatha murmurs, "but I’ve already chosen Times New Roman."
You stare at her.
She shrugs. "Readable. Classic. Elegant."
Rio grins. "She’s going to hand you a contract with headings, subheadings, and a table of contents. Probably page numbers."
Agatha, cool as ever: "Yes, and initials on every page."
You laugh, maybe a little too loudly, hiding your laugh behind your hand. This, somehow, is exactly what you needed: not just structure, but the proof that someone cares enough to create it after hearing you.
"You’ll get the revised version tomorrow," Agatha adds, voice soft but assured. "Nothing added. Nothing hidden. Just organised."
You nod slowly. "And then I sign that one too?"
"If you want," she says. "If it still feels right."
Agatha collects the signed roadmap gently, folds it once, and places it into a slim folder beside her.
The room settles. The hush after the final note of a song that meant something.
And then, before you can talk yourself out of it, the question comes.
"Have you... ever done this before?" Your voice is quieter now, careful. "With someone else, I mean. Like this."
Agatha’s eyes lift slowly. She doesn’t rush to answer.
Rio tilts her head. "You mean together, or–"
"Either," you say. "Both."
A pause. Not tense, just true.
"Yes," Agatha says, eventually. "We’ve both had partners before. Separately. A few shared. Some casual, some serious."
Rio adds, "Not everyone wanted rules. Or care. Some just wanted the game."
Your stomach does a small, nervous flip. "And did it end badly?"
"Not always," Agatha says. "But sometimes, yes."
She says it simply. Without shame.
Rio shifts beside you. "Why ask?"
You swallow. "Because... I’m scared I’ll disappoint you. Or that I’ll get overwhelmed and disappear. Or–"
You bite your cheek. "That you’ll change your mind."
Agatha’s gaze holds yours.
"We don’t ask for permanence," she says. "We ask for presence. If you disappear, we’ll miss you. But we won’t punish you for it."
Rio leans in. "We will talk about it if you come back."
You look down, tracing the rim of your glass with your thumb. "That’s fair."
"And for what it’s worth," Agatha adds, softer now, "we’re not afraid of being disappointed. We just don’t want you to lie to yourself on our behalf."
You realise, suddenly, how often you’ve tried to live up to someone else’s idea of you. And how rarely you've been asked to define yourself first.
You nod, slow and deliberate. "Okay."
A quiet beat.
Then Rio, always the one to break the tension: "Any other deeply personal questions you’d like to spring on us?"
You smirk. "Give me five minutes."
Agatha’s mouth twitches.
You don't remember walking to the kitchen.
Maybe Rio led you by the wrist, maybe you followed Agatha's gaze like a leash. Either way, you're here now, socks slipping on polished floors, heart still rattling behind your ribs like it hasn't decided whether to calm down or bolt.
Agatha sets the papers aside with the same care she uses to shelve dangerous books. The pen clicks closed. Rio reaches around to flick on the kettle.
"You're still holding your breath," she murmurs, not accusing, observant.
You exhale a little too fast.
Agatha doesn't say anything, but she's watching over the rim of her glasses, sleeves rolled up to her elbows now. It shouldn't feel more intimate than her hands on your body, but somehow it does. This parts going to unravel you, isn't it? Not the rules. not the punishments. The soft menace of being tended to.
"Tea?" Rio asks.
You nod.
"Speak, sweetheart."
You clear your throat. "Yes, please."
Rio smiles like she's proud of your for that, or maybe just amused.
She pulls a tin from the cabinet, something fragrant and herbal. Agatha takes two steps closer and sets her fingers on the back of your neck like she's just anchoring you there. The touch is light, but firm. Possessive in it's stillness.
"Take off your bag" she says. "You're not going anywhere."
The command is so gentle it takes you second to register it is a command. You hadn't even realised that you were still wearing, but your fingers obey before your brain catches up. The strap slides from your shoulder and Agatha takes the it from you.
"Good girl," Rio murmurs, almost offhand, stirring honey into your tea.
Your knees nearly give out.
You take the mug when it's handed to you. It's warm in your palms, too warm and you realise your hands are shaking slightly. Rio notices, but doesn't comment. Instead, she slides a stool out.
"Sit," she says and you do.
Agatha leans back against the counter. The kitchen light makes her hair gleam and cast little shadows under her cheekbones. She looks less guarded now, not soft or weak, but less shielded. There's something about the tilt of her head, the way her mouth tugs slightly at the corner, like she doesn't want you to see how pleased she is.
"Better," she says.
You sip. It tastes like citrus and something floral, lavender maybe. Soothing, but you're too riled up to relax.
Rio steps behind you, her fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. "Can I take your jacket?"
You frown, looking down at yourself. Jacket? Right. Still on. Still layered for flight.
"Yes," you say, voice small.
Her fingers move with careful intent, undoing each button one at the time. She slips it from your shoulders and folds it with deliberate neatness. You feel stripped, even though you're fully clothed.
Agatha steps forward and adjusts the collar of your shirt with the precision of someone arranging something that belongs to her. Then, wordlessly, she takes your phone from the counter and holds it out.
You enter your passcode without question.
She types something quickly, hands it back to you.
You glance down.
Mommy.
No emoji. No flourish. Just that. Her private number now sitting beneath the title like it's always belonged there.
You make a small, startled sound, unsure if she's serious or mocking you. Agatha raises a brow, daring you to object.
Rio slips out of the room. You hear a drawer open and close. When she returns, she carries something delicate and silver, coiled in her palm.
"We bought this for you," she says. "We were hoping you'd come around eventually."
The chain is cool against your neck. her fingers are careful, reverent almost, as she clasps it. Then she smooths your hair back over your shoulder, her hands linger.
"Your ours now," she whispers, her breath hot against your ear.
Agatha watches with a glint in her eyes now, a soft crack in the ice. A flicker of something like fondness or pride. Or hunger, held carefully in check.
You take another sip.
You still taste citrus.
But now, underneath, there's honey.
And salt.
And the edge of something coming.
They don't leave you alone, but they don't crowd you either.
After the tea and the necklace and the rearrangement of your contact list, Rio starts prepping dinner. It’s casual. Maybe too casual, like they’re trying not to spook you with too much intensity too soon.
She's barefoot now, sleeves rolled high, humming something tuneless as she works the pan.
Agatha reads at the table. Not a paperback. Something academic, spine uncreased, probably annotated. She makes notes in a red pen with her legs crossed neatly beneath her.
You sit next to her, mug still steaming. There's a small bowl of pistachios on the table. You start cracking them one by one, just to keep your fingers moving.
Light conversation threads between the two of them. The topic drifts from a restaurant they tried last week to an author Rio can't stand. You listen, offering the occasional nod until Rio tosses a grin over her shoulder.
"What about you? What's the worst book you've ever read and pretended to like?"
You blink. "Oh. The Goldfinch?"
Agatha snorts. "Correct."
They both laugh and something warm blooms in your chest. Relief and belonging.
Dinner is simple: pasta, roasted vegetables, bread with herbed butter. You're allowed to help, finally. After Rio rejected your offers to help several times, she sets you to grating parmesan, and although the cheese keeps sliding from your fingers, she says "perfect" when you pass her the bowls.
You eat at the table, and they don't press you for answers. They don't ask you to perform, but they include you in the talk, the teasing, in the thousand quiet cues of comfort.
After dinner, the apartment is quiet again, the kind of quiet that feels like it's waiting for something. You help clean up. Rio washes, you dry, Agatha wipes the counter.
No one speaks much, but doesn't feel tense. It feels intentional, like they're giving you more space to adjust.
Once the kitchen is clean and the last drawer slides shut, Agatha sets the towel aside and turns to face you.
"Walk with me," she says, and it's not a command. It's something else, a test maybe, or a courtesy.
The air shifts, a little heavier.
You follow her to the living room where the lights are low and the windows stretch wide across the skyline. Rio doesn't join you. Agatha stands by the view for a moment, one hand loosely cradling her wine glass. Then she turns.
"We should talk," she says. "Before we do anything further tonight."
Your throat tightens.
She motions toward the couch. You sit. She doesn't, not yet. She paces once, slowly, then comes to stand before you, gaze unreadable.
"You've done a brave thing today, " she says. "You didn't have to come. You didn't have to sign. But you did."
You nod, uncertain if you're meant to say anything.
"But bravery doesn't erase fear. Or doubt. And we haven't earned your trust yet, so I want to be absolutely clear about this next part."
You look up.
"You don't have to stay. You can leave whenever you want. Rio can take you home. If you want that. You're allowed to want that."
It knocks the breath out of you. The choice. The softness in it.
She kneels then, slow and intentional. Her posture remains perfectly straight as she settles on the rug in front of you. Her eyes, level with yours now, are steady but not harsh. She doesn't touch you.
"If you do stay," she begins, "you'll sleep in our bed. With us. Nothing more unless you ask. Nothing is owed. Nothing is assumed."
You stare at her, pulse shuddering. "Just sleep?"
"Just sleep." She smiles faintly. "Though if you have trouble falling asleep, Rio makes excellent tea, and I'm told I give rather decent back rubs when sufficiently bribed."
That draws a breath of a laugh from you. A shaky, surprised little thing.
Agatha's gaze softens, not completely, but enough. Enough to glimpse the person beneath the posture. The one who might take the necklace off you with trembling fingers if you ever asked.
"You are not a prize we've won," she says. "You're someone we chose. Who is still allowed to choose back. Every step of the way."
You blink hard, glancing down at the hands in your lap. "What if I don't know what I want yet?"
Agatha's voice is low. "Then you stay only as long as it feels good. As long as you feel safe. And you speak up if that ever changes.
You swallow. The words rise up before you can stop them.
"I want to stay," you say.
Agatha nods once. "Good."
She rises, smooth and effortless, and for a moment, she watches you like she wants to do something else. Reach out for you perhaps, feel your skin underneath the tips of her fingers, but she doesn't.
"You should shower. Get comfortable."
You nod, grateful for the cue. The domesticity of it, the ordinary.
"I’m sure Rio will be more than delighted to bring you something to wear."
From down the hallways, Rio's voice floats in, accompanied by the sound of footsteps. "What, she's not sleeping naked between us?" There's mock disappointment in her tone. "I guess I'll have to return the whipped cream to the kitchen."
You turn your head just in time to see her poke around the corner, grinning, a folded bundle of clothes in one hand. "Don't worry, I picked the softest shirt. Also, no pants. House rule."
You blink, flushed and a little stunned, but not upset. Something inside you uncoils, not entirely, but enough to make you smile. "You have whipped cream?"
"Obviously," Rio replies.
Agatha sighs like someone deeply burdened her. "Ignore her."
"She loves me," Rio says, winking with a smug smile.
"I tolerate you," Agatha corrects, though the edge has melted from her tone.
You take the bundle from Rio's outstretched hands. Your fingers brush, and she gives your wrist a gentle squeeze.
"I'll show you the shower," she says and you can't ignore the cheeky little glint in her eyes like she'd like to show you how to shower too.
The bathroom is sleek, too nice. It's too pristine almost. You pause in the doorway for a second, clutching the bundle of soft clothes to your chest. The walls gleam with cool-toned tiles, the surface immaculate; no stray hair ties, no half-empty bottles or damp towels cluttering the space. Your own apartment should take some inspiration from here.
You feel absurdly like a guest, like you're playing dress-up in someone's else's life.
Steam curls almost instantly as you turn on the water. You strip slowly, every motion planned and deliberate. It feels strange to be this bare in someone else's home. You fold your clothes, even though no one will see. Set them down like a peace offering atop the closed hamper. The underwear you were wearing gets tucked underneath the rest, out of sight.
The shower itself is wide, warm tiles and an overhead spray that envelops. No sharp jets, just the kind of water pressure that's meant to lure you in. You stand there, letting it run over your shoulder, your neck. You let it anchor you.
Your thoughts race, but quieter than before, muted now. You're not just thinking about Agatha's voice, or the way Rio grinned like she already knew you'd say yes. You're thinking about what it means to stay. About what you want from this, and what might be asked of you in return.
You want both. The warmth and the steel.
You want to feel safe. And you want to surrender. You're not sure what terrifies you more.
You rinse. Soap. Shampoo. There's a toothbrush still in its wrapper beside the sink, another little mercy. You wonder if that was Rio or Agatha. You suspect Agatha. She would think of everything.
When you dress, the fabric feels foreign but soft. The hem of Rio's shirt brushes your thigh. You look at yourself in the mirror. Damp hair. Clean skin. A little flushed, a little overwhelmed, but also steady. Your stomach flutters.
Your phone buzzes on the counter. A harsh reminder that your life outside this moment still exits.
You glance as the screen. 🍷 Exhausted Students Anonymous 🍷 is going off about someone forgetting to bring wine to tonight's study session.
You type quickly.
hey not gonna make it tonight
long story. will explain later. i'm safe, promise.
tell me everything in the morning, especially if Yelena starts swooning about her ethics professor again.
One typing bubble pops up, then disappears. A heart reaction appears on your message a moment later. No one questions it. You exhale.
Still, your thumb hesitates over your calendar. Early class tomorrow. Internship after. You stare at the neon coloured blocks stacked back-to-back.
You shake your shoulders, trying to rid yourself of the stress before it even has the chance to settle.
The bedroom is dim and warm, shadows soft around the edges. Agatha is already in bed, reading glasses perched low on her nose, a hardcover resting on her knees. She looks up when you enter but says nothing. She just watches, eyes leaving a burning trail on your exposed legs.
Rio steps out of the ensuite, towel drying her hair, one of Agatha's robes hanging open over a tank top. She grins when she sees you, not loud or cocky this time, simply pleased.
"You survived the soap selection," she murmurs, flicking the lamp on the far side of the bed. "Good sign."
You hover by the door for a moment longer than you mean to.
"I have class tomorrow," you blurt, softly. "And work. I should probably–"
"You can still go," Agatha says, not unkind, "Rio will drive you. Or I will."
Rio leans casually against the dresser. "We're not locking you in, sweetheart. Unless you ask very nicely, preferably on your knees."
Rolling your eyes, you huff, but the nerves stay.
Agatha closes her book and sets it aside. "You're not obligated to sleep here," she repeats her earlier words. "We can take you home if that's what you need."
You squirm, shifting from one heel to the other. The internal tug of wanting to stay battles the need for safety. the quiet hum of the apartment wraps around you like a soft shroud.
Finally, you shake your head.
Agatha tilts her head, appraising, before she pats the mattress. "Then get in the middle."
You slide in, the fabric of the sleep shirt riding up slightly as you settle. The sheets are cool. Rio follows with ease, curling around you almost instinctively. Your legs brush her thigh and heat spreads over your skin. Agatha doesn't touch you, but you feel her watching before she turns the light off.
After a few minutes, you feel Rio's fingers graze your hand under the blanket, not pushing, not pulling. They are just there.
Agatha's voice comes quietly from the other side. "I meant what I said; you're brave."
You swallow, surprised. "I don't feel very brave."
"Bravery doesn't mean certainty. It just means choosing anyway."
You blink hard in the dark.
"You did choose, didn't you?" Agatha asks, a touch softer now. "This. Us."
You nod before you remember that she can't see. "Yes."
"Then sleep," she says. "The rest will wait."
Rio's hand slips more confidently into yours. Her thumb traces the side of your palm. You don't pull away.
And in that held, delicate quiet, between their breaths and your own, between tension and letting go, you finally start to feel the weight of the chapter settle.
Not as an ending.
But as a beginning.
Taglist: @absolute-memegarbage @greyella @natashasmuse @htinha157 @chlondykebar @inhibitedminds @meiwan @natblidaclexa @starryjeongyeon @sweetmidnights @milflovers4 @peskygremlin @bejeweled-baby @sevikasoneandonlywife @madz47 @6stolenangel9 @6stolenangel9 @gothicpheonix
{guys I promise the next chapter will be more exciting again}
Man, Am I the Greatest? | Attending!Wanda x Intern!Reader
Summary: How long will it take for your thread to snap when an old family friend pulls you onto her serve, and a call from your mother disrupts the fragile card house you've built?
Word count: 6.7k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, slowburn, angst, toxic family relationship, Wanda is jealous, Agatha is flirty af, power imbalance, competitiveness among peers, neglecting your own needs for the sake of success,
ONE | TWO | THREE
The page is short. Only an OR number and your name.
You assume it's a mistake. You're not on-call for neurosurgery. You're not on Wanda's service either. You haven't been in a month, not after what happened in the ER. Still, you scrub in. Something in you doesn't question it. Not really, not when the number is hers.
When the doors swing open, you're hit with the sharp clarity of surgical lights and the low murmur of quiet, efficient voices.
Dr. Agatha Harkness is mid-procedure. An aneurysm, exposed and pulsing like a tiny second heart. The patient is pregnant. You scan the vitals. The baby's heart rate is steady, for now, anyway. Wanda's at the fetal monitor station, gloved and silent, her focus sharp as wire. She doesn't look up.
But Agatha does.
"Well, well," she drawls without turning from the surgical field, voice lazy and amused. "The prodigal daughter arrives."
You hesitate just past the threshold, pulse kicking up against your ribs.
"I wasn't... I'm not on this case."
Agatha hums, not in acknowledgment, but in tune. Something quick and familiar. Tchaikovsky, maybe. Serenade for Strings.
Her hands don't waver. She adjusts the retractor delicately, shifting a tangle of vessels to expose the aneurysm's neck.
"There you are," she murmurs, not to anyone in particular, voice low with something like affection.
The aneurysm pulses beneath her gaze, swollen and fragile, a fuse waiting for the wrong breath.
"Clamp." Someone passes it, but she doesn't use it yet.
"I decided this morning," she says, still humming. "You're with me for the rest of the week. Shadowing."
"I wasn't told–"
"You were paged." She gives a small shrug. "That's as official as it gets around here."
Your skin pickles. "I'm not even on neurosurg–"
She glances at the attending beside her. "Didn't I say it was time she joined us, Dr. Banner?"
Dr. Banner doesn't look up. "You said something like that, yeah."
You step in, slower now, like walking into a spotlight. She clamps the neck of the aneurysm.
Agatha's tone lifts, easy and conversational. "You mother sends her love, by the way."
Your stomach drops.
"She called me just after sunrise," Agatha continues, guiding the clip with eerie precision, the hum still low under her breath. "Said how thrilled she was that you were finally rotating through my service."
You freeze. "You and I both know that's not true."
Agatha's smirk deepens. "Well, she sounded so proud. I didn't have the heart to disappoint her."
Wanda's head shifts slightly, the first sign she's listening.
"I told her it's been an absolute pleasure watching you grow." She presses down on a suction tube. "I may have embellished."
"Jesus, Agatha–"
"Dr. Harkness," she corrects, gently chiding.
You gape. "You're the one who just called me by my first name."
She grins under her mask. "You're the guppy. I'm the shark, baby. I can do whatever I want."
You manage a saccharine tone with a mocking tilt of your chin. "As long as HR doesn't find out."
She laughs, genuinely. "Oh, sweet thing. If I'd wanted any trouble, I'd have had it already."
You feel Wanda shift beside you. You don't look.
Agatha finally glances up, her eyes sharp and cruelly fond. "Still chasing gold stars, sweetheart?"
You meet her gaze.
It's a mistake.
There's too much there. The way she looked at you that night half a life time ago, when your crush had teeth and her smile almost said yes. Almost. But she's stopped just short. She made the cut clean.
"You're not my teacher anymore," you say, too quietly.
She doesn't blink. "No, but some habits are hard to break."
A silence expands, even the machines seem to hold their breath.
Agatha looks down again, satisfied. "Vitals steady," she says, mostly to herself. "Mother and baby both stable. Lovely work, Maximoff."
She sweeps past you, peeling off her gloves with a flick. "I'll see you at rounds, intern."
The door hisses shut behind her. People around you start moving, but you don’t. You don’t even breathe.
"That was cute," Wanda mutters, too loaded to be casual.
Your stomach coils. "What?"
Her eyes stay on the monitor while the scrub nurses begin to tidy up. "The helpless act. Like you didn't know she'd page you in for a performance."
"I didn't."
"No?" She finally turns, her gaze flat. "Didn't know she'd mention your mother? Didn't know she'd fawn over your potential while calling you baby in front of the entire OR?"
"I didn't ask for that," you say.
"Didn't sound like you minded."
That lands like a slap. You flinch, barely, but it's enough.
You want to say something, want to crack through the surface she's iced over between you, but your mouth goes dry. It's been four weeks since the ER. Since the on call room. Since something broke open between you in the dark, too hot, too sudden, too full of something neither of you wanted to name.
She hasn't called on you since.
You haven't asked her to.
"I'm not on her service," you say quietly.
"Sure looked like it," Wanda replies, cool.
"My mother–" you stop yourself, close your eyes and draw in a deep breath. "Listen, I didn't think–"
"That she'd bring it up in an OR full of people?" Wanda cuts in. "Yeah, that seems to be theme with you. Not thinking.
The words knock the breath out of you.
You look at her. Really look.
Stray strands of hair curl against the back of her neck from underneath her red surgical cap. Her jaw is tight.
"I didn't ask her to flirt with me," you say. "I didn't want her to–"
Wanda laughs under breath, short and humourless. "Oh, come on."
You blink. "What?"
"You really expect me to believe you don’t know how you look when someone gives you attention?" Wanda's voice is low now, dangerous. "Like you've never used it before?"
The silence after lingers, allowing it to really cut deep. She doesn't mean it, not really, not all of it, but she thinks she does. That's worse.
Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. "Is that what you think? That I flirt my way through rotations?"
"I think," Wanda says, finally meeting your eyes, "you've got half the hospital wrapped around your little finger, and maybe you don't even realise it, or maybe you do."
She doesn't wait for you to respond. She simply turns back around to finish her OR report.
You stand there for a long second unable to move. The memory of that night in the ER pressing on your chest; how you'd stormed off, barely holding it together, how you later dropped a coffee on her desk without a word and then silently charted through the rest of the shift.
"I came by the NICU," you whisper, voice cracking just enough to betray yourself "A few times. Just to–"
"I noticed," she responds, quieter than anything else she said. "I didn't know if I should ask why."
You hesitate, nails biting into your skin. "I wanted to remember how it works. In case you..."
You leave the sentence unfinished, too embarrassed to admit the truth, but Wanda understands it anyway.
She nods once, not to agree but to dismiss.
You leave her before she can say anything else. Before she can hurt you with something colder than this.
The stairwell door shuts behind you with a heavy clunk.
You descend two steps, then stop, like your knees remember something your brain can't string into language yet. You lower yourself to sit on the edge of the step, elbows on your thighs, hands dangling loose.
You stare at the floor and don't move for a long time. Not until your throat starts to tighten. Not until your chest begins that strange, sick pulsing. The one that say: you've just been seen, and not in the way you hoped.
You press the heel of your palm to your sternum like it'll stop the ache from spreading. It doesn't.
You've got half the hospital wrapped around your little finger.
The words echo, cruel and bitter. As if you'd meant to wield your own body like a weapon. As if you hadn't been doing everything – everything – to prove you deserved to stand in that OR. To stand next to her.
She thinks you flirt your way through rotations.
You clench your jaw so hard it clicks.
Your chest burns. The anger is slow, but it comes. Dull and steady; an ache, not a blaze. It's the kind of hurt that seeps into your bones, not sharp enough to scream over, just enough to ruin the rest of your day.
You think about how many extra hours you stayed on the NICU. How many double shifts. How you didn't leave the NICU for three nights after the ER incident, just studying cases and watching vitals and trying to be better. To be good enough.
Not for her.
...Maybe a little for her.
Because you liked the way she looked at you when you got something right. Because you liked how it felt when her praise was rare but real, something earned, something honest. Something yours.
You liked it so much, it scared you.
But none of that matters now.
Not when she thinks all this is just another performance.
You tip your head back and stare at the ceiling. There's a flickering like three stories up that matches the fuzz in your skull. You close your eyes. But all you see is Wanda's face, cold and full of disdain, as she said it.
Didn't sound like you minded.
God.
God, that hurt.
You swallow hard, but it scratches going down. Your hands curl into fists on your knees before you realise it.
You didn't ask Agatha to flirt. You didn't ask for the callback to your mother, or the showboating, or the cruel little grin when she called you baby. You didn't ask to be dropped into the middle of that OR like a pawn in someone else's game.
But you didn't stop it either, and maybe that's the part Wanda saw. The part she judged. The part she thinks she knows.
You press your hands to your eyes until they sting.
She doesn't see the hours you study. She doesn't see the way you practice sutures until your fingers go numb. She doesn't see how you've killed yourself trying to be more than the girl with the name, or the smile, or the face. And maybe she never will.
You breathe out, trembling, full of something that almost sounds like a laugh, except it's not.
It's grief.
Grief for the version of yourself you hoped she might one day believe in.
You don't cry. Of course not. Because crying would imply it meant more to you than it should have. Because you still want her to respect you, and even here, in this echoing stairwell, part of you is terrified she might walk in and see you broken over this. Over her.
You pager buzzes. You ignore it.
Then another.
You let it.
The silence in the stairwell rings louder than the alarms.
For a moment, you imagine what it would've felt like if she'd defended you. If she'd seen how uncomfortable you were. If she'd said: I've seen you, and that's not who you are.
But she didn't.
She saw you, and she didn't believe in the person you've been trying to be. That's the part that sticks. The part you can't shake.
You drag your hands down your face and breathe again. In. Hold. Out.
You don't feel lighter. You feel hollow, like something got carved out of you. Something you hadn't even admitted was there.
You swipe you badge and head back to the floor. You don't check your pager until you're moving again.
The door clicks shut behind you, and you leave whatever that almost was, whatever you almost felt, behind you in the dark.
It wasn't intentional.
She'd only come back for the chart she'd forgotten in the scrub room, a perfectly normal reason to be in this hallway at this hour. But then she'd heard your voice, muffled, unfamiliar in its softness.
Wanda hesitated outside the on-call room.
The door was slightly ajar. A silver of light spilled out, and sound. She meant to knock. Really. But something in your tone, weary and carefully measured, stripped raw in a way she hadn't heard from you before, made her still.
Then your mother spoke.
Live. Not a message. Not a voicemail you could replay and reframe later. This was now, and it bled.
"I spoke with Agatha this morning."
Her voice is smooth and metallic. The kind of voice that sat comfortably over lobster lunches and chaired board meetings with a ringed hand curled around a wine glass. Wanda can picture the pearls, the posture.
"We hadn't caught up in years. Shameful, I know, considering what we share."
Wanda doesn't move. She knows she should, but her hand tightens on the chart instead.
There's a rustle, maybe you shifting in your chair.
"She mentioned how focused you seem on other departments. I told her that must be a misunderstanding. That you were raised on your father's rounds. That you knew the difference between a noble calling and a sentimental diversion. That you heart has always been in the real rooms: trauma bays, cath labs, operating theatres. Lecture halls with her name on the projector. Not warm cribs and quiet hallways."
Wanda flinches at the words. It's automatic. An instinct. Like ducking from a slap that isn't hers.
She doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but she can't look away, not from this.
"I never said I was on her service, Mom."
"You didn't have to. You let her say it. That's just as good."
Wanda's eyes close briefly.
"She thinks you've been distant. Lost in the wrong direction. That concerns me. I reminded her you always spoke so highly of her when you were younger. That you used to hang her publications on your bedroom wall. That you were always more interested in neurology than in babysitting sick infants."
"I was thirteen. Of course I admired her. She was untouchable."
"And now she's not. Now she's a colleague. And that makes her dangerous if you don't keep your footing."
Wanda's stomach turns. She's seen you confident, cocky even, defiant in your own quiet way. But she's never imagined this. You, picked apart like a case file. A performance evaluation disguised as motherly advice.
"Listen to me carefully," your mother continues, crips now, the silk wrapping falling away. "Agatha is not simply a mentor. She is an opportunity. Her name opens doors, and when yours matches hers on a paper, you will go further. That's the point. That's always been the point."
"I didn't ask her to lie."
"No, but you didn't stop her. You stood there and let someone else polish your image. That's the smartest thing you've done all year."
Wanda's throat feels tight. She doesn't know if it's anger or shame. She doesn't know who it belongs to.
You speak again, voice rough around the edges. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" Your mother almost laughs. "Darling, this isn't about fair. It's about strategy. About legacy. You think I sat through dinners the Governor's Club for fun? That I played nice with donors and made rounds pregnant with your for the joy of it?"
Wanda can feel the chart bending in her hands now, corners crushed beneath her grip.
"You were born into this," she continues, and the tone turns gentle, falsely so. The kind of condescension that's been polished over decades. "Born into a family with real standing. With history. Your father's name is still spoken with reverence in three different hospitals. Mine opens doors in Boston, in Chicago, in Vienna. And you, you get emotional over scrub assignments."
"I don't–" you start, but it falters. "I just want to do something that matters."
It's so quiet, Wanda almost misses it. But she hears it, and it aches.
"It matters when your name lasts longer than your body," she snaps, and then, a second later, softer: "Don't waste our name chasing comfort. You want to feel useful? Publish. Present. Operate. Get on Agatha's service and stay there until you've learned how to make yourself essential."
Wanda thinks of what she said to you in the OR. Her words, sharp with something close to jealousy. The accusation. The bitter curl of her lip when she implied you'd earned your place with anything but merit.
She feels sick now.
“Don’t ruin it by being emotional. That’s always been your worst trait. You get too attached. You blur lines. You want people to like you. I understand that, I do, but no one gets ahead by being soft. No one remembers soft." A pause. A sip, maybe. Wanda imagines crystal stemware. "And this Maximoff woman–”
Wanda's spine stiffens.
“She’s talented, yes. Respected. But women like her don’t protect women like us. They don’t share space. They tolerate. Use. Don’t confuse mentorship with intimacy. It’s unbecoming. You’re too old to be wide-eyed.”
Wanda flinches. She isn’t sure why.
“Agatha said you looked pale, kept your head down. I told her you were probably just tired. But is that it? Are you tired? Or are you–”
An exhale. Sharp. Frustrated.
“I hope you’re not still letting your feelings get in the way. You’re too smart for that. There’s too much riding on this for you to spiral. If it’s something emotional, bury it. Handle it. Be someone people listen to when she walks in the room. Not someone they feel sorry for.”
There's silence, but then: "She said I looked pale?"
"Yes, I told her it was probably from nerves. You do get flustered when you're too invested, but you can't afford that now."
Wanda pictures you in the OR again, standing still. Jaw set. Holding your breath like it was armour. And she sees it now; not arrogance, not calculation. Survival.
"You're not a child anymore, and you're not just anyone. You're a–"
The name doesn't come through. Wanda steps away from the door before she hears any more.
The chart in her hand feels heavier now.
So does her mouth.
So does the thing blooming inside her chest that she doesn't know how to name.
She'd been horrible in the OR.
She remembers what she said. The edge in her tone. The quiet implication that your place wasn't earned.
She hadn’t known.
She hadn’t cared to know.
Wanda walks down the hallway in silence, a bitter taste rising in her throat, coffee long forgotten.
You weren’t protected.
You were obligated.
And that’s a far crueler inheritance.
You sit still for a long time after the call ends. Phone screen dimmed, knuckles white, breath shallowed and measured, like you're still scrubbed in. Like this is still a procedure and not your life.
Your fingers unclench slowly. One at a time.
Your throat aches with the words you didn't say. They echo now. Mocking. Soft around the edges like a wound scabbed over too soon.
You don't cry.
You change.
You adjust.
You do what you've always done: control what can be controlled.
You stand. Pull on your coat. Strip the fatigue from your limbs like it's something shameful. You don't look in the mirror. You don't need to.
The halls are quiet as you walk, head down, mouth tight, jaw locked. You move like someone with purpose. Like someone grateful. Like someone who knows they've been handed a map to the promised land and doesn't have the luxury of looking lost.
It's nearly 9PM when you step onto the neuro floor.
Not yet your assigned department. Not your usual route.
But tonight, it will be.
You stop by the board. Scan names. Note the patients tagged for consults, scans, rounds. You recognise one. Fresh post-op from earlier. Craniotomy. Agatha's hands. You watched her. Shaking from the unexpected page, but you watched.
You ask the nurse for the chart anyway.
He raises an eyebrow. "You're not–"
"I'm on it now," you say, voice even and cool. "Dr. Harkness cleared it."
You're not sure if she did. You think she might.
It's easier this way. Simpler to lean into the script they've written for you than to fight it again.
You flip through the chart. Memorise the number. Rounds. Notes. Scan requisitions. You circle a line that's already circled. You rewrite a page that's only slightly smudged. You stay longer than necessary, hovering between useful and obsessive.
The nurse watches you for a beat too long.
You smile, lips pulled tight. Thin and professional.
"Do you need something?" you ask, sweet but brittle.
"No," he says. "I just didn't know you were neuro."
"I wasn't," you say. "I am now."
And maybe that's true. Maybe this is how it starts.
You finish the chart. Move to the next one. You throw yourself into the rhythm of it; the shorthand, the smell of alcohol wipes and latex, the quiet beeping of monitored vitals that sound more reassuring than any lullaby you ever had.
Your mother's voice replays, whether you want it or not.
Don't confuse mentorship with intimacy. It's unbecoming.
You press your pen harder into the paper, signing your name with clean strokes.
You blur lines. You want people to like you.
You request two more consults. Stay in the hallway longer than necessary. pretend you're waiting on labs that already posted.
Be someone people listen to when she walks into the room. not someone they feel sorry for.
You check your reflection in the glass of the medication fridge. Straighten your coat. Smooth your hair.
You look just like her when you do that. It unsettles you, but you keep going.
Because this, this forward motion, this numbing labor, this desperate excellence, is the only kind of comfort you're allowed.
Someone calls your name down the hall. You turn sharply. It's not Wanda. It's not Agatha. It's no one that matters, not tonight.
You nod. Offer a small smile. Walk toward the voice like the curtain has opened and you've just been called to stage.
You don't break.
You work.
Because maybe if you do it well enough, if you bury yourself deep enough into the hours, the fields, the right names, you'll forget the sound of your mother's voice.
And maybe, if you're lucky, someday it won't sound like your own.
You don't remember who vomited on you. Some trauma bay blur with a subdural and a GCS of six. They made it, maybe. Or they didn't. Dr. Vidal told you to get changed before you could join Agatha in the OR. Either way, you smell like bile and disinfectant, and your scrubs are clinging to you like a second skin.
You push through the swinging door to the mixed locker room and stagger straight to your cubby. You fingers are trembling, wet with adrenaline and disgust.
Kate's already there, peeling off her top. MJ is beside her, wiping blood of her hands with the last paper towel from the dispenser.
Yelena is shirtless and towelling off like she just got back from a light jog instead of twenty hours elbow-deep in other people's insides. Peter's wedged on a bench, unlacing his shoes with one hand and checking his pager with the other.
No one says anything at first.
"Rough one?" Kate asks, her voice deliberately neutral.
You don't answer. You just yank your scrub top over your head, careful not to let it touch your face, and shove it into the biohazard bin. The splash echoes. So does the silence.
Yelena breaks it, covering her chest with a sports bra. "You've got puke in your hair."
You freeze, go cross-eyed trying to see. "Shit."
She tosses you a clean towel. "Your life, not mine."
You nod in agreement, wordlessly. Grab shampoo and a change of clothes from your locker.
Peter offers a tentative smile. "Neuro's really rolling out the red carper for you, huh?"
You laugh under your breath, short, humourless. "You have no idea."
You disappear into the attached bathroom and scrub yourself clean like you're trying to reset something deeper than skin. By the time you return, towel around your shoulders and hair still damp, your colleagues are still scattered around the locker room. Still watching.
Kate leans back against the lockers, arms crossed, watching you. "Is she always like that with you? Or is that a special thing?"
You frown, towelling off your face. "What?"
"The whole mentoring-by-seduction vibe," she says carefully. "The way she touches your shoulder when she talks. The way she calls you pet names like it's a joke only the two of you are in on."
"She doesn't–" You stop. Because she does.
She leaned in during surgery this morning, breath close to your ear and whispered: Keep talking like that and I'll actually have to keep you.
Her gloved fingers brushed your wrist on purpose. The scrub nurse pretended not to notice. You pretended not to flinch.
You didn't want to flinch.
Kate bites the inside of her cheek. "It's just interesting how fast she pulled you onto her service."
"She paged me," you say. "I didn't ask."
"No one's blaming you," MJ adds calmly. "We're all trying to survive this place however we can."
"But some of us don't get the chance to survive it charm-first."
Peter frowns. "Come on, that's not fair–"
Kate cuts him off. "I'm not saying she's not smart. I'm saying people with a certain name and face don't get grilled as hard."
Your stomach turns. You want to protest. You want to shout: you have no idea how hard I've worked. But your mouth stay shut.
Because this is the second time someone's said it.
Because maybe it's true.
Yelena shimmies into her scrub pants without breaking stride. "All of us would kill to be noticed by Harkness. But if she starts fucking you, metaphorically or otherwise, we're not going to pretend it's a coincidence."
The room falls silent, the kind of silence that peels skin and lounges in the depth of your body.
A locker slams somewhere down the row. No one moves.
Your throat goes dry, heart burning. "She's not– nothing like that is happening."
Kate's eyes narrow. "Are you sure?"
You blink at her. "What?"
She crosses her arms. "Are you sure it's not happening? Or are you just not stopping it?"
You don't answer, you stare at her, stunned still.
Because now you think about the way Agatha's voice drops when she says your name. The glint in her eye when she handed you the floor to present the patient plan solo. The way her hand lingered at you lower back after a good call on a CT scan. How she purred brilliant like it was a secret only she knew.
History is trying to repeat itself, and you've done nothing to stop it.
You feel sick.
Peter shifts beside you, trying to change the subject. "Anyway, we're all just jealous. Don't mind Kate. She's sleep-deprived and lashing out."
Kate tosses a piece of gum into her mouth. "I'm fine."
"I didn't ask if you were–"
You're already backing toward the exit. Your fresh scrubs hang loose over your frame. You suddenly feel young again, like you're back in that med school lecture hall where the professor smiled too wide and called on you every time and you wanted it to be about intelligence but it never quite was.
"I have to go," you say.
Nobody stops you, not even Peter. Though he watches you leave with furrowed brows and something soft in his expression.
Your legs carry you out into the hallway before you realise your hands are shaking. You don't know what hurts more. That they think you're getting special treatment, or that they might be right.
That maybe Wanda was right too.
That maybe you really don't know how to exist without being liked.
That maybe you let Agatha touch you, even just that little, because some part of you thought it might help.
You press your back against the wall. Count five breaths. Then five more.
Then, you keep walking.
You don't remember the last time you blinked.
You must have. You're not a machine, not yet. But it hasn't registered in any meaningful way. Not in the kind of way that grounds you to your body, to time, to the shape of a day.
Your hands are steady. That's the important part. Your charts are thorough. Your pen doesn't shake. You've spoken seven times in rounds today, all with the precise blend of competence and deference Agatha prefers.
Your coat is buttoned. Your signature matches the version on your ID badge. No one would know. No one except Wanda.
She's been watching.
Not always openly, you'e too careful for that, but she's seen the pieces slip. The way you've started forgetting the names of meds you used to rattle off backwards. The way your fingers twitch after a suture line. The way your smile is empty when Agatha praises you.
And she does.
She does it again today, her voice warm with pride that feels like the sharp edge of a scalpel.
"Now this," Agatha says, flipping through your chart updates for a post-coil embolisation baby with a grade II bleed, "this is what I meant when I said you had potential."
You blink, slow. Hollow. But your mouth curves.
Like a student.
Like a child.
Agatha's still in her surgical cap. Smells like betadine and lavender soap.
"You're quick," she says. "Quicker than most of the third-years. You're clear-eyed. Efficient. And you don't waste time second-guessing yourself anymore. That's growth."
You smile again, but it's thinner this time. You don't even feel it.
"Thank you," you say, quietly.
She hums, pleased, glancing at the resident beside you. "I told her mother she had it in her. Looks like I was right."
Your stomach folds in on itself. You press your hand against the nearest cart to stay upright.
You work through the night again.
Another chart. Another scan. Another round. Your eyes are dry and red, your heart nothing but caffeine and static and shame.
Agatha's words ring in your head like a fever mantra.
This is what she's meant to do. She has it in her.
It sounds like validation, but it feels like punishment.
You haven't eaten today. You haven't slept. You haven't been off your feet longer than five minutes in thirty-six hours.
But you still go.
Floor to floor. Room to room.
A blur in white coat with eyes ringed in shadow.
Your legs hurt.
Not in the dramatic, theatrical way. But in the quiet way that tells you your body is trying to warn you, gently, desperately, that it can't keep this up.
Your brain is thrumming. Your pulse is too fast. But your hand, the one holding the pen, is steady. Still.
Agatha is beside you, angled slightly toward your screen. You smell her perfume, faint and expensive, something botanical and earthy. It cuts through the antiseptic air. A memory you didn't ask for.
You scroll through the neuroimaging, adjust the contrast and saturation, trying to focus. Trying not the feel the warmth of her so close to your side, or the way her arm brushes your every time she gestures toward the monitor.
"Look at that," she murmurs, tapping just above the Sylvian fissure. "That's where most people would miss it. But not you."
You nod. Practiced. You've learned how to be silent around her in way that sound like humility. You've learned how to fold in on yourself just enough to keep her looking. It's easy to remember the patterns she likes when you're nearing three weeks on her service.
"You were always a good student," she adds, tilting her head to glance at you. "Even back then."
Your throat tightens.
Back then.
University. Second Year.
You remember the exact layout of the lecture hall. You remember the sound of her heels on the floor and the way she said cerebral perfusion like it was meant to be read in a sonnet.
She knew. Of course she did.
She knew when you stayed behind with question you didn't need to ask. She knew when your voice softened, when your smile grew slower, more careful.
She let your orbit. She let it build.
She liked being admired. She liked you admiring her. But she always pulled away before anything could catch. Always just before.
And she was right to. Because it would've ruined you.
But god, it still burns.
"You were obsessed with neurology, even before university," she says now. "You stayed after lectures for hours. I thought you were going to burn yourself out before med school even started."
You don't respond.
She's so close.
Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp, watching.
"And then you showed up here. I almost didn't recognise you. You grew up."
You don't know what to say. You don't know what's safe.
"i see so much of myself in you," she adds. "The hunger. The control. The discipline."
You want to laugh. You want to scream. You want to say: It's not discipline. It's desperation.
But instead, you nod.
Because Agatha likes when you nod. When you're pliant. When you stay quiet and useful and never make her uncomfortable by needing something she won't give.
"I told your mother," she continues, "that you were a fast learner. That I had to remind myself you're only an intern. You carry yourself like someone older." Her voice dips, almost fond. "I told her it was a pleasure working with you."
Pleasure.
The word lands like a match on dry kindling. You feel the heat flicker in your chest. You don't want it there, but it's there anyway.
You feel seen, but not known. Admired like a sculpture, cold and carved and incapable of asking for anything.
You hands tighten at your sides lap. You haven't slept. Haven't eaten. Haven't thought clearly in hours. The whole world feels like a dream with sharp edges.
You don't notice Wanda coming up behind you. But she's there, always watching, always sensing something you won't let anyone else see.
"I'm glad I've met your expectations," you say without your voice shaking.
Agatha tilts her head, smiles faintly. "You've exceeded them."
Something inside you crumples. It should feel like a victory, but it doesn't. It feels like a collar.
You look down. Away.
"She needs a break," Wanda says as she steps into view.
You freeze, shoulders drawn up high. Her arms are folded across her chest, jaw set. She's not looking at you. She's looking at Agatha. There's no anger in them. No, but there's fear. Fear for you.
"We're in the middle of a–"
"She hasn't slept in two days," she cuts in, her voice calm, but with an hard edge. "She's barely eaten. Her legs are shaking. She's forgetting things."
Agatha lifts an eyebrow. "She's doing fine."
"She's crumbling," Wanda snaps, stepping closer. "You just don't see it because she's too damn scared to show it to you.
Something in you tightens so fast it aches. Your mouth tastes like metal.
Agatha doesn't even glance at you. "She wants this."
Wanda's gaze slides to your face. It softens, not with pity, but with knowing. "Do you?"
Your lips part. Your jaw works. But nothing comes out, not even a whisper.
Wanda exhales.
Then, she steps forward and takes your wrist. Not hard, not gentle, just certain.
"Come with me."
Agatha shifts, just slightly. "She's not on your service, Maximoff."
"She's not on yours either," Wanda replies, without hesitation. "Not when she's collapsing in front of you and you’re too wrapped in your own ego to see it."
Agatha scoffs. "She's an adult."
Wanda turns. "She's exhausted. She's starving. She is punishing herself to earn your approval, and you're letting her."
Your throat burns. You can't look at either of them.
"She wants to succeed," Agatha says, colder now.
"She won't survive it," Wanda snaps. "And I don't care what you think you're moulding her into. If it breaks her, it's worthless."
You don't move. You don't breathe. You feel transparent, like a sheet of film.
Wanda looks at you again. She doesn't ask this time. She just pulls.
And you go.
Because if she'd asked, if she'd looked at you with any more softness, you might've refused. You might've lied. said you were fine. That you can handle it. That you're stronger than this.
But this... this just feels like being seen. And for the first time in days, it doesn't feel like exposure. It feels like rescue.
You walk through the hospital half-aware, your body held together by nerves and rote memory. Wanda leads you to the NICU. You recognise the sound before you register the doors. The soft, distant monitor tones. The hush that falls over everyone once they enter.
She nudges you gently into the room, then into a chair.
You sit.
Like a marionette whose strings have finally snapped.
"I'm fine," you murmur, automatically, edges frayed. "I'm–"
"No," Wanda says, leaving no space to protest. "You're not."
She leaves for a moment. You close your eyes. Somehow you forgot how good it feels to sit. The ache in your legs eases a little, but lingers enough to remind you of your stupidity.
A few seconds later, Wanda returns with something warm. You blink them open.
She's holding a baby. A boy, wrapped in lavender flannel. Tiny. Quiet. You know him. He's been here a few weeks, but he's well enough now to leave in a few days. His mother has been terrified of taking him home, worried that she will somehow mess him up.
Your stomach twists when Wanda steps closer and leans toward you. You stiffen and start to shake your head.
"I can't," you whisper, barely audible.
You can't because you should distance yourself from everything NICU-related. From everything Wanda-related. You need to keep a clear head and stay focused on the things that really–
"You can," she replies, already lowering him into your arms.
You don't take him. Not at first. You don't move. But your arms rise, somehow. Naturally, like instinct or memory.
The baby settles against you. Weightless. Warm. Breathing.
You look down. He curls one impossibly small hand against your chest. And just like that–
You break. It’s not loud. It’s not a crash. It’s quiet. Like something melting after weeks of frost. Like the first inhale after being held under too long.
Your shoulders tremble. You try to blink it back. You try to be strong. The tears come anyway. They slip down your cheeks without fanfare, warm and slow and merciless.
You don't wipe them away. You hold him tighter.
And Wanda? She kneels beside you. She doesn't speak. Doesn't move quickly, or with any sense of pity.
She just watches. Not like a doctor. Not like a superior. Not like someone tallying your usefulness or discipline. Just like someone who sees.
In that moment, under soft light and the beeping of the newborn ward, something unspools in your chest. Something that had been bound too tight for too long.
It loosens. Like a knot pulled gently open. Like the first step out of a nightmare.
The baby exhales, long and warm against your coat.
And then, gently, without warning, Wanda lifts one hand. She brushes a tear with the back of her knuckle. Her palm settles gently against your cheek, grounding.
Her hand is warm. It's not the kind of heat that startles, but the kind that finds you in the cold, quiet and real. Her touch doesn't ask for anything. It doesn't push or prod or search. It just stays. Steady. Present. Giving you gravity you hadn't realised you were missing.
You barely flinch. You're too tired to flinch.
Her thumb moves once, slow, just beneath your eye. You can’t remember the last time someone touched you like this. Just to say: I see you. I'm still here.
Your eyes close. You lean into it. not fully, but enough.
Wanda doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. The silence between you carries everything. the weight, the collapse, the permission to let go.
And somehow, that’s what does it.
Not the tears. Not the baby. Not even the exhaustion catching up to you all at once.
It’s the gentleness. The kindness without condition.
You close your eyes.
And you breathe.
For real, this time.
And finally, in what feels like forever, you feel human again.
Summary: You have sacrificed a lot to be loved, but it has all been in vain. Now, all you have left are recurring nightmares and half a soul. When Agatha shows up with the offer of an ancient con on the tip of her tongue, you're willing to finally claw your way out of hell. But you didn't expect the Witches' Road to lead you right into the arms of the one you've loved for centuries.
Words: 4k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, angst, unrequited love, obsessive love, toxic love, mention and depiction of suicide attempts, emotional trauma, dark magic, loss, power struggles, mentions of canon character death
You had that dream again.
The one about Rio.
The one where you jump.
The waves are crashing against the shoreline. They are violent and relentless. No sane sailor would ever dare to sail his boat in this storm, let alone swim in it. The water is black like tar, frothing at the edges with rage, and above it, the sky seethes. Thunder cracks, lighting strikes.
Your hair whips across your face. The old nightgown is soaked through with sweat, rain, and something colder than either. It clings to you like a second skin, nearly translucent now. Your toes curl into the wild grass at the cliff's edge.
You step forward, just enough to see the jagged boulders that barely peek through the water's surface. The drop is higher than you remember it. Your heart is hammering, not with fear though. You're not afraid. You haven't been afraid in a long time. But there is doubt.
What if it doesn't work?
What if it doesn't work again?
You exhale, close your eyes and let your weight tip forward.
The water doesn't catch you. It breaks you. It knocks the air from your lungs, steals everything from your chest in a rush of cold pain. There is no resistance, no mercy, only darkness.
You go under. Unconscious. Weightless.
You wake choking.
Your lungs seize, convulsing, spewing salt water into the sand. Your throat is raw and you ribs ache. Your skin burns from the freezing temperatures and the impact. You're lying on the shore, curled on your side.
She's there.
Death.
Standing at the tide's edge. The bone mask conceals her face, but you know those shoulder, that stance. You know what's beneath those robes.
As always, the mask begins to melt until the blank white skull gives way to Rio's face.
Not the Rio you would see now, the one hardened by time and guilt and impossible choices. No. This is the version you first loved. Soft-mouthed and sharp-eyed, the storm and the lull after.
You whisper, hoarse, "will you take me this time?"
She steps closer, her hand cups your cheek, angling your face toward her. You lean into her because even when she's Death, she is the only thing keeping you from floating away.
She watches you. Her eyes never leave yours. And then she says it, the same words every time, even though she never moves her lips.
"It's not your time yet."
A lie. You've known it since the first time she said it. You can feel the push and pull of her words. The snap of something sacred breaking beneath the surface, the rules she's defying just to keep you here. You don't know why she's doing it.
"You need to stop trying to make choices that aren't yours to make."
You wake with a gasp, heart hammering like it's trying to break free from your ribs. The sheets are damp, your throat stings and there is salt still on your tongue.
And for a moment, you're not sure if it was a dream at all.
The morning after a dream like that is always the worst.
The shop is still half-dark when you unlock the door. The bell overhead gives a tired little chime, like it resents being disturbed this early. You don't blame it.
You move on autopilot. Lights on, windows cracked, incense smouldering low to burn off the residual magic that clings to the corners. The air smells like rosemary, salt and something older. Something that hasn't forgiven you.
A fat orange tabby trails at your heels, brushing against your legs like a shadow that purrs. His name is Marrow. He came to you in the snow, silent and watchful, and stayed. You tell yourself Rio left him behind on purpose. That he meant something. Some days, you believe it.
You set a hand on the counter, steadying yourself when you hear it.
A hum, faint and echoing, barely audible unless you know how to listen.
Your eyes dart down to the reinforced glass jar beneath the counter. The necklace inside it stirs slightly, as if reacting to you presence. A dark twist of blackened gold and red stone, coiled like something alive.
You reinforced the wards last week, but you still don't like how it moves. How it whispers, sometimes. Especially after dreams like this.
This morning, the voice is clearer.
"The boy is what he wants," it whispers. "Take his soul. You'll feel better. Just one tiny little soul and you'll be free."
You grit your teeth. You don't touch the jar. You haven't since you put the necklace in it.
It used to belong to Mephisto, then it was yours... is yours. You took it off once you realised what it was doing to you, once you realised what it wasn’t giving you. You tried to get rid of it, but it doesn’t react to anything. No magic, no fire, no acid. You even tried to toss it into the ocean, but the next day, it reappeared on your nightstand because like most cursed things it clings. It wants. It takes.
You mutter a banishment charm underneath your breath to muffle the noise. It gives you enough quiet to let you hear your own thoughts.
You’re turning on the espresso machine when the door creaks open behind you. You frown. It’s too early for customers. You look up.
And there she is.
Agatha fucking Harkness.
Not dead. Not a nightmare. Not trapped in Westview like the last time you checked up on her. No, she’s right here. In your store. Smirking like she can’t quite believe who she’s seeing. Like she didn’t leave a crater in your world the last time she touched it.
Beside her, a boy.
Teenager. Curly-haired. Something strange clings to him, a sort of tension. He’s bracing himself for something he can’t name. There’s a shimmer around his aura, subtle, slippery. Old magic. Definitely not his.
Of course she brought someone. Of course she’s dragging another soul behind her like bait on a hook. Agatha never arrives without a weapon, or without a sacrifice.
You feel the necklace hum behind the counter. His name is a low din. “Billy Maximoff.”
Your shoulders straighten. That’s impossible. There is no way Billy Maximoff is alive. Or real, for that matter. The voices are lying. Wouldn’t be the first time.
"Who's that?" you ask, chin jerking towards the boy with soft features.
Agatha waves her hand dismissively, leaning towards the teenager to catch your line of sight. "Unimportant."
The milk jug clatters from your fingers as you round the counter slowly. “With you, Agatha, nothing is ever unimportant.”
She doesn't take the bait “We want to walk the road.”
You gesture past her, toward the open street. “Well, the main road is right behind you, so if you’d excuse me…”
“The Witches’ Road,” The boy says, voice too steady for someone his age.
You stop, head snapping towards Agatha with furrowed brows and a tilt of your head. You're trying to see if she's serious or playing another one of her sick games.
“The Witches’ Road is a sham and a death wish.”
Agatha smiles. It's the same smile she wore the day she betrayed your last good friend. The day you buried magic that didn't belong to her in snow-covered dirt.
“Well," she says, voice all rotten honey, "isn’t a death wish exactly what you need?”
You swallow the bitter taste of bile that’s rising in the back of your throat. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
“Get out of my shop.” Your voice shakes. You hate yourself for it.
Agatha raises a brow, feigning boredom. “You know, she came to pay me a little visit this morning.”
You don't want to ask who. You already know. There is no way she broke Wanda Maximoff's enchantment without a little help. She doesn't wait to see if you gathered who she's referring to.
“After all those years, she’d still rather take me than you.”
Your hand twitches toward the counter, not for a weapon. You just need something to hold onto. Anything to ground you.
“I should’ve killed you in those godforsaken Alps when I had the chance.”
She leans in, not missing a beat. “What makes you so sure that she would’ve let you?”
You blink.
Something shifts. It's ancient and raw at the base of your spine and you don't know if it's pain or memory. It's the kind of thing you only dig up when you're trying to feel something sharp.
You don't answer, but you snatch the crumbled note from the boy's hand, nearly tearing it in two.
“You’re like a fucking tumour,” you mutter, voice low. “Every time I think I’ve finally gotten rid of you, you come back.”
Agatha beams. "Wonderful. Be there at five and don’t be late.
“You invited her?” Jen hisses, turning away from you with a sneer. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Good to see you too.”
She doesn’t even bother to glance back at you.
“I’m out. I’m not getting tangled up in some demonic bullshit.”
“Don’t worry,” you mock with a taunting smile. “No demon would touch you even if you were the last person on earth. They prefer people with a little backbone.”
Jen stiffens. Alice shifts uncomfortably beside her, arms crossed, teeth clenched, but she doesn’t say anything. Jennifer opens her mouth again and you prepare yourself for a mediocre comeback.
“Honestly, how much more power could you possibly be craving?” she asks, voice dripping with disdain.
You roll your neck, spine cracking. “Spoken like a true loser. Kudos to you, Jennifer.”
The silence stretches. It’s loaded with tension but neither of you make a move to break it with an apology. Until the teen steps into it, his voice cautious.
“Okay, seriously, what’s the deal? Why is everyone acting like she’s… I don’t know. Possessed.”
Jen laughs under her breath. “Possessed would be merciful.”
“She’s made a deal,” Alice adds. “With him. For more power. Everyone knows it.”
He looks at you again, eyes wide. “Wait, is that true?”
You don’t blink. You let him look, let him study the rings on your fingers and the boots on your feet. You let the room grow heavy with the unanswered question.
At last, Agatha claps her hands with subtle urgency. “Well the gang’s all here. Let’s hit the road!”
You didn't expect it to work. It wasn't supposed to.
Agatha has been running the same scam for centuries: sell the Witches' Road like its some mythic wishing well, push desperate witches into chaos, and siphon whatever power falls through the cracks. You knew it was a con. Hell, you were half-tempted to use the chaos yourself, draw a little blood, gather a few lingering souls, maybe take a cut of the fallout.
You barely even sung the song correctly. The words stumbled out of your mouth like a joke without intention behind them. You didn't believe a word you said.
But then it appeared.
A real door, not an illusion or a glamor.
The Witches' Road cracked open beneath you like it had been waiting all this time, waiting for someone to really mean it. When you glanced at Agatha, her mouth was slightly agape, just as stunned as you were.
You didn't get a second longer to process. Teen came crashing down the stairs, wide-eyed and frantic. The Salem Seven appeared before the air even stopped shimmering. They weren't just after Agatha anymore. Anyone who associated with Agatha was fair game. The coven. You. Even the kid.
And then, Sharon Davis died.
Sweet, nosy Mrs. Hart. She'd survived Wanda's madness, the Hex's collapse, Westview's slow forgetting. But she wouldn't survive this, not Agatha's carelessness. When she refused to summon a proper green witch, she reached for the nearest available warm body that could fool you into thinking she might be somehow of magical blood. Sharon was never meant to walk the Road. She was just another piece in the game. One of Agatha's many collateral damages.
You buried her in a patch of cold dirt beneath twisted trees and a sky that was shinning bright with a full moon. And that's when you knew: this wasn't a con anymore.
This was very much real.
Now, you stand beside Billy, he's watching Agatha work next to you. You don't look directly at him, but you feel it. The power. He's not just Wanda's son. He's a shard of whatever made her the Scarlet Witch in the first place.
The new summoning begins.
This time, the request is simple: a true green witch. Not a placeholder. Not a stand-in. A witch tethered to the earth and all things that wilt and grow.
The ground over Sharon's grave trembles.
You brace yourself.
A hand bursts through the soil.
The coven stumbles back, someone screams. Bones crack, skin knits itself together, too fast to be natural. The magic is wrong. Beautiful, but too powerful to be from a mere witch.
And then she rises. you know her before the others do. Before Agatha's mind can catch up.
Rio.
"Heard you guys were having a party."
Hearing her voice sends a shiver down your spine. You haven’t physically spoken to her in years. Her eyes are still the same shade of chocolate brown, but her hair has grown a little wilder.
"How did you–" Agatha begins
Your eyes trail lower, only to dart back up when you spot the parts of exposed pale skin. You’ve touched them, kissed them even, but seeing her like this still makes you nervous.
"I was in the neighbourhood," she gasps, teasing her way closer to Agatha. She doesn't look at you, her attention is solely focused on the brunette in front of you.
You watch a flower uncurl in Rio’s palm, green and soft and alive, and your heart stutters. You sense copper in your mouth and salt behind your eyes.
"Surprise, my lady," she says, presenting the blossom to Agatha with a charming smile.
You turn on your heel.
You don't wait for her to see you. You can't. You start walking, head down the open path before the Road changes its mind.
Footsteps follow. Familiar ones. Agatha.
"Did you think about her when doing the spell?"
You exhale through your teeth. “Well, technically, she is the green witch, so…”
Agatha grinds her teeth down, suspicion blooming like mould. “You planed this, didn’t you?“
You roll your eyes with crossed arms. “I’d rather be impaled by a thousand swords than hand Rio over to you.”
"You've always had a hard time staying away from her, even back then."
You stare ahead, voice quiet now.
"I don't know what you want me to say Agatha," you say. "Why would I torture myself and summon her here? To watch her choose you again? To see how little I have always mattered in her world?"
You gesture towards the road. "Let's just get this thing over with so we can all go home."
There's a beat of silence. Agatha's posture relaxes and she seems to calm herself before she mutters something under her breath, mostly to herself.
"We should've known that attempting to call on a green witch with a dead body barely cold, would backfire on us."
After the second trial, nobody spoke. Everyone was too strung up because Teen fainted. Agatha was with him until he regained consciousness. You wandered around the Road, too much of a coward to step anywhere near Rio. In fact, you avoided her like she carried some deadly disease.
And then, someone lit a fire because tradition demanded it, or maybe because everyone was just too tired to fight anymore. You didn’t ask. You took your seat on the edge of the ring of stones, close enough to feel the heat, far enough to see all their faces.
Billy stirs beside you, finally awake but quiet. His eyes flit between you, Agatha and Rio. Smart kid. He's already starting to put the pieces together. It's not like Rio was trying to hide her and Agatha's relationship before.
Alice leans against Jen, her head on her shoulder. Exhausted, hollow-eyed, but whole. Free from a curse that had tormented her family for centuries.
Agatha pokes the flames with a stick that is, undoubtedly, enchanted. She hasn't said a word to you since following you down the path after Rio appeared. But you can feel her waiting.
Watching.
Plotting.
Rio, of course, sits directly across from you, her chin tilted down, shadows hiding half her face. But not the corner of her mouth. That little twitch. That knowing smile.
The Witches' Road stretches on in either direction, waiting for its next toll.
The other are laughing, talking about battle wounds and sharing old stories that seemed half made up and overly exaggerated. You sit and listen, dragging your heels through a pile of fallen, yellowed leaves. It feels good to be surrounded by other witches, to feel like you belong somewhere after years of solitude. Yet, you still can't help feeling out of place, even when Agatha shows of one of her scars and mentions a story that makes you smile.
But then, Rio chimes in, telling the coven the story of her scar, and you smile breaks. It's a story that's awfully familiar to you, a story that reminds you a lot of what happened between her and Agatha. You close your eyes, screwing them shut so tightly that you start seeing stars.
"She is my scar," Rio says, which is followed by an uncomfortable silence.
The others are drawing their conclusion to the past, but you freeze, limbs locking at your sides, fingers curling in the fabric of your pants. Something bitter gnaws at your insides. It poisons your blood and whispers in your ear.
Agatha slaps her thighs. "I will go stretch my legs."
Your voice cuts through the crackling fire suddenly, like a warm knife slicing through butter.
“That's funny," you laugh, biting and bitter. "I was someone's scar once too."
She stops in her tracks, watching you over her shoulder. And for the first time since she crawled out of that grave, Rio is looking at you too.
"She came to me whenever the world felt too much. When it all got too loud, too cruel, too mortal. I was her quiet place, the one she could bleed all her pain into. But she never stayed at the end of the night. I thought if I let her leave enough of herself behind, maybe one day, she'd stay and pick up the pieces. She never did."
"I was desperate and it made me foolish. I started learning magic people whisper about, the kind that gets you exiled from Kamar-Taj and erased from your coven's memory. Magic that clings to the dead instead of letting them go."
"That's how Mephisto found me. I practically labelled the door with a fucking neon sign. He didn't promise me power. He knew I never wanted that. He offered me love. Said I'd be adored. Worshipped. Seen." Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Rio straightening her spine, like this is the first time she heard about this.
"And I was. Loudly. Excessively. By everyone except the one person I wanted." Your eyes flicker to Rio "Because he said I'd be loved by mortals. She's never quite been that."
"I've tried to die. More than once. I thought if I finally slipped away, she'd come for me. Take me. Say something. But she always stayed quietest in my most desperate hours."
"So no. I'm not here for more power. I'm not here to ascend. I'm here to claw my soul out of a bad deal." Your voice cracks, just once, just loud enough to be heard. "And maybe forget her goddamn face."
"She's not my scar, not really. But because of her, I have them all over. And somehow, she's the reason I keep collecting more."
The silence that follows burns. Its burns in your cheeks and in your clenched fingers, in the corners of your heart and behind your eyes. You don't know why you said any of that. You shouldn't have revealed so much about yourself to complete strangers. Strangers you plan to betray at the end of the Road.
"Well, damn," Alice whistles. "That got dark real fast."
You swallow, your throat moving slowly. The reality of your life settles in the pit of your stomach like a stone. The only way out of this is to bring Mephisto the soul of the boy. You cradle your hands in your lap and stare at your intertwined fingers.
Agatha is the first to part ways. She turns back around and heads somewhere down the path. The expression on her face is unreadable, but you can tell that your words hit a nerve. She knew of your feelings of course. However, she didn't know how tightly you're wrapped around Rio.
With a sigh, Rio follows her, and you, you nosy little witch, you follow right after her because maybe you want to apologise or maybe you're too scared to leave them alone for too long.
You hide just out of their sight. You watch Rio's hand linger on Agatha's back, the sigh that ripples through her. How she turns and closes the gap between their bodies. You watch how naturally it is for them to fall back into old patterns. How easy it is to be the third wheel again, the forgotten friend, the one that couldn't keep up.
You step out of the shadows. You meant it when you said you wouldn't allow Rio to just drift right back into Agatha's arms. You can't. You've spend too much of yourself to fix Rio's pieces.
"The unholy trinity reunited," you squeal with a broad smile, false enthusiasm heavy in your tone. "Isn't that exciting?"
Agatha and Rio break apart just as their lips were about to meet.
"Oh, come on, Aggie, stay a little longer."
Rio grabs you by the elbow and yanks you behind an old, gnarled tree. It's just far enough that no one will be able to hear you talk.
"You made a deal with Mephisto?"
"I didn't have much to lose."
"There is no way he will let you out this easily. So what the hell are you doing here?”
You shrug. “I was bored. Agatha showed up. Here I am.”
"This isn't a game,” she snaps, fingers biting into your arm now. "It's dangerous."
“Can’t really die if you won’t let me, can I?”
This one hits exactly the right spot. She stiffens and you watch her unravel carefully.
“You know the Witches' Road doesn't exist, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?”
"I'm assuming I'm here for the same reason as you."
She drops your arm like you've burned her. "He didn't."
"A soul for a soul, Rio. You know how it works."
She stares into your eyes, watching the apathy, the hollowness creeping in. "What did he do to you?"
Your expression shifts, darker now. Your venom isn't loud. It's quiet and for the worse of it. "He didn't do anything to me. This is all on you, babe."
Your voice cracks, but doesn't falter. "I lost everything."
"My best friend became my enemy because I fell in love with you. Because loving you meant that I refused to bring her son back. I didn't even try, Rio. I just said no. Like I didn't have the power, like I didn't care. Because I was too consumed by you."
"I traded myself for the chance to be seen by you, for only a minute. And I've tried every possible way to die since then, just to see if that would finally be enough to make you come for me. To make you end it. To see if you'd finally, finally relieve me."
"But nothing's been good enough. Nothing."
"Even after I let you in night after night while Agatha hated you. While she hid behind the Darkhold, I let you tear me open because I thought it might meant something."
"But even then you couldn't make yourself love me."
"Mephisto just did what he always does. Takes the wounded and desperate and gives them what they think they want."
Your voice is lower now, colder, resigned. "So now I'll do what I do best."
"I'll take the boy's soul."
"And I will finally be free. Of him. Of you." You hesitate for a second. "Of myself."
She winces like the words gut her. Deep down, you hope that the words will fester and rot inside her, remind her for the rest of eternity of the pain she's caused.
"I can't let you to do that," Rio rasps. "Mephisto will not let Billy pass on. It will disrupt the sacred–"
"Fuck the sacred balance," you snap. "It's not the first time you've betrayed it to cover your own cowardice."
"That was different. Billy–"
"Don't. Don't defend it," you cut her off, voice sharpening. "Tell me the truth. Did you ever, for even a second, see me as anything more than a trash can for your grief? A vessel to pour your pain into when Agatha turned away?"
Her silence is louder than any response she could've given. You wait for her to say something, anything, but nothing comes, not even a lie.
The last remnants of hope betray you, pulling cold tears from your eyes. They race down your cheeks before you can stop them. You turn away fast, wiping them on your shoulder like they never meant anything at all. She has seen you cry before, but this time it feels more shameful, more vulnerable. Like surrender.
Behind you, she says your name. A whisper so soft, so full of everything she never gave you when it would've mattered. "You've always meant the world to me, even if I didn't show it the way you needed me to. I've thought about realities where it was you instead of her, but love doesn't work like that. You know that. Still, there were nights where I really, really wished it would."
You nod, breath hitching. It wrecks through you, shaking you to the core like an earthquake beneath the skin. You can feel something collapse in your chest, and perhaps this is exactly the pain Mephisto is after.
"I've always loved Agatha. Despite everything that happened." You inhale shakily, your lungs feeling too tight now. "But right now? Right now, I really, really wish she were dead."
Helloooo, I'm so happy you're here! Whether you accidentally stumbled in or sprinted through the door, WELCOME.
I'm Jupiter and I write fanfics (sometimes feral, sometimes fluffy, always fun... sometimes also a little sad).
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🌱 MASTERLIST 🌱
Wanda Maximoff x Reader
In the Presence of Gods - ongoing
Part: ONE | TWO | THREE
She Only Comes When It Rains (NSFW) - smutty angst
How to Save a Life | Attending!Wanda x Intern!Reader
Summary: In the high-stakes world of the NICU, you step into the demanding orbit of Dr. Wanda Maximoff. What starts as a tense first encounter slowly sparks something unspoken, a gravity neither of you can defy. As the lines blur between duty and desire, a deeper story begins to stir, one that neither of you are ready for, but can't seem to resist.
Word count: 5.4k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, unspecified age gap, medical procedures, medical terminology, power imbalance due to professional setting, warnings will be updated
ONE | TWO
The lounge looks like a college dorm that gave up: half-eaten granola bars, overcaffeinated interns, and one single plant no one remembers watering.
You’re slouched into the corner of the couch, half-zoned out, fingers absently tapping your badge against your knee. The plastic thud-thud-thud is the only rhythm you can control. Across from you, Peter is balancing a cup of instant noodles on his clipboard like they are fine dining. MJ’s curled up with a tablet, earbuds in, and Yelena is flat on the floor, arms spread like she’s been slain by bureaucracy.
It’s the start of the evening shift.
The cursed shift.
The quiet shift.
The kind of shift that makes your skin itch.
“Night shift is liminal space,” Peter says, stirring his noodles. “Like…time doesn’t work right. I swear I’ve been sitting here for three hours and my shift hasn’t even started.”
“That’s because you’re a baby,” Yelena mutters from the ground. “Your cortisol threshold is soft.”
“Do not cortisol-shame me,” he says, mouth full.
You’re barely listening. The silence behind their voices keeps tugging at you. The building feels too still. There’s no rush of gurneys, no trauma alarms. Just the kind of eerie calm that every intern knows never lasts.
“Why do the blinds always look like a horror movie?” Peter mutters, squinting into the slats. “Like some Victorian ghost child is about to peek out?”
“Because you haven’t slept in 36 hours,” MJ replies flatly. “Everything looks haunted when you’re clinically dehydrated.”
"Speak for yourself," Yelena grins, sitting up with cracking knees before she rubs a hand over her face like she's trying to reassemble it. "I'm thriving."
"You're vibrating," MJ says without looking at her. "That’s not thriving. That's organ failure."
“You know it’s gonna be bad when it’s quiet. The universe hears calm and thinks: bet.” Peter says, lost in his own head.
MJ looks up.“Wasn’t the last ‘calm night’ the one with the guy who tried to baptise himself in the MRI machine?”
“Pretty sure Yelena tackled him. In Crocs.”
Yelena shrugs. “Crocs have grip.”
You laugh softly. The sound slips out without your permission. It's short and stunned, and you’re almost grateful for the absurdity because it makes the knot in your chest loosen for half a breath.
The lounge door swings open.
Kate walks in, a triumphant smile on her face, coffee and a pretzel from God-knows-where in hand. “I heard we’re short-staffed tonight,” she says brightly. “So it’ll definitely be chill.”
Peter groans. “You just jinxed us.”
The door opens again before it can even swing shut behind her.
Dr. Monica Rambeau walks in, all authority and tired grace. White coat swishing with just enough drama to remind you she earned every ounce of authority she carries.
“Alright, chaos children, assignments are up. Trauma gets Bishop and Belova. Peds is Watson. Parker, you’re with Dr. Strange.”
Peter punches the air in victory. “Yes, lab rats and biostats, baby!”
Rambeau continues, sifting through her clipboard, her eyes briefly flicking up to you. “And you’re with Dr. Maximoff. NICU. Full shadow. She requested you.”
Your badge slips from your hand and hits your thigh. You barely register it.
A pause stretches like chewed gum.
You blink. “I–sorry?”
“She requested you specifically.”
Peter leans in, studying you like you’re a new species he just discovered. “Like… requested requested?”
Kate lets out a low whistle, taking a hearty bite from her pretzel. “Damn. And here I thought I was the teacher’s pet.”
Heat climbs up your spine and spreads over your neck and chest. Suddenly, the couch fabric feels wrong under your skin and you fight the urge to pace the room.
What the hell does requested even mean?
Dr. Maximoff barely looks at you unless she's correcting you. Except… when she does look at you. It’s like she’s reading something under your skin, like she already knows how and where you’ll break.
Her voice. Her eyes. The way they linger.
Rambeau tucks her clipboard under one arm and heads out. “Try not to bleed on anything, and for God’s sake, drink some water.”
And just like that, she’s gone, and so is any chance of fading quietly into the background tonight, especially now that she has left you in the middle of a group of interns who are clearly dying to ask questions you are too dazed to answer.
MJ raises a brow. “What did you do?”
You stare. “Nothing. I– don’t know.”
Kate smirks. “Oh, you definitely did something.”
“Did you do some kind of blood ritual without us?”
Peter is already halfway into a spiral. “Or maybe it’s a trick. Like, maybe she picks a new intern to destroy every week. Like a very sexy Hunger Games.”
Yelena nudges your shoulder, voice dry. “Well, tribute, may the odds be ever in your favour.”
Kate claps a hand on your back with mock sympathy. “Try not to cry before breakfast.”
“I’m not going to cry,” you murmur, rolling your eyes.
“You will,” MJ replies calmly. “But like Yelena said, it builds character.”
You glance at the wall clock, then back at your tablet. A new schedule alert has popped up: Assigned to Dr. W. Maximoff – 7:10 P.M. sharp.
The glow feels personal, like a threat or a dare.
You exhale through your teeth and move towards the hallway, nerves tangled in your stomach like barbed wire.
Okay. Deep breath. She's beautiful. Sure. Intimidating, yes. But this is business. She's your attending, this is work. A privilege, a learning opportunity and nothing else.
You’re just flustered. Normal flustered. Totally explainable. Documented side effect of proximity to dangerously competent, alarmingly attractive attendings. Happens all the time to other people.
You’re fine.
Behind you, Kate calls out, “Hey, if you don’t make it back, can I have your locker?”
You don’t turn around. You just raise your hand and flip her off before the hallway swallows you whole.
You’re already halfway to the NICU before you realize your breathing is off. Your pulse kicks up. Your vision starts to swim
You slow your steps. Try to remember how walking works.
Left. Right. Left.
The tablet in your hands is heavier than it should be. Your badge digs into your chest. Everything suddenly feels too close to your skin.
She requested you.
The words echo louder with every footstep. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she just needed someone to carry supplies. Or wanted a quiet intern who wouldn’t get in the way. Maybe it's not personal.
Logic doesn’t stand a chance against your memory, though. Not against her voice. Her stare. The weight of her attention. Shaking your head, you press your cold palm against your forehead.
You’re just flustered, you remind yourself again. It’s fine. Totally fine to get rattled when a world-class attending with cheekbones sharp enough to violate OSHA makes prolonged eye contact and speaks like precision is religion.
That doesn’t mean anything.
Doesn’t mean she knows.
Doesn’t mean she sees through you, through the practiced answers, the smoothed expressions, the crush you are absolutely not having.
Your fingers tighten around the tablet.
You can't mess this up.
You won’t.
Whatever this is, whatever you think you’re feeling, it dies here, in the sterile air and flickering fluorescents. You’ll snuff it out before it blooms, before it has the chance to give itself a name.
You pass Pediatrics. The hand-drawn cartoon animals are a jarring contrast to the steel and glass ahead.
And then the air changes.
The NICU lights are dim and warmer. As if they’re trying to trick the babies, and maybe the staff, into believing that the night might still be kind.
You slow as you approach the nurses’ station, stop when you see her.
Dr. Wanda Maximoff.
Burgundy scrubs. Hair twisted back in an effortless knot. One hand on a tablet, the other tucked in her pocket.
She doesn’t speak.
She just watches you approach.
You stop, a pace too close, or too far. You’re not sure anymore.
“Evening,” you offer, your voice soft, careful.
Her gaze lingers, not unkindly, not entirely impersonal, just a little distant, like she’s looking through you rather than at you.
“You’re late,” she says.
You glance at the wall clock. “Only by–”
“Three minutes,” she cuts in. “I expect better.”
You nod once. “Understood.”
“You’re with me tonight,” she continues. “You don’t move unless I say. No side consults, no wandering, no notes unless I ask. Understood?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Her eyes flicker over you one last time, like she’s seeing something she doesn’t like, or maybe just something she doesn’t want to name.
Brushing a hand over her jaw, she turns, heading further into the NICU wing.
“Come.”
And just like that, the night begins.
Dr. Maximoff moves like a shadow ahead of you. She’s fast and silent, but there’s a stiffness to it tonight. Her usual fluidity is absent. She walks like she’s trying to guard something that no one else should see.
She hasn’t spoken since “Come.”. Didn’t even glance back to check if you’re following, but you’ve learned to match her pace exactly, each step in perfect motion with hers. You’ve never breathed this quietly in your life. She told you to be a shadow. You’re trying to be a damn outline.
She stops at an incubator. Baby Hope.
You know her stats without checking. You’ve been on this baby’s case every day this week. She’s small, but fierce. She reminds you why you go through this torture in the first place. You almost smile watching her tiny chest rise and fall with mechanical support.
“Vitals,” Wanda says without looking at you.
You scan the monitor. “Heart rate 158. Respiration 52. Temp 36.8. O2 sat 94%.”
Wanda nods. “Assessment?”
You take a breath. “No signs of distress. Minimal desats overnight. Feeds well on donor milk, 22 cal per ounce.”
A pause before she turns ever so slightly toward you. “Feeding volume?”
The light catches in the line of her cheekbones and her lashes cast a soft shadow on her cheek. You freeze for half a second, not because you don’t know, but because of her. It’s the thrum of her voice, the sharpness of her jaw, the faint traces of her perfume. The proximity, it’s too close, too much. Your brain short-circuits and you become nervous, just a little.
“Thirty…” you start, lose your thought and stumble. “Thirty-two milliliters per kilo?”
Her head turns fully now, eyes locking with yours and you hate how clearly you can see the shade of green they are. They are piercingly clear, almost unnaturally so. Something stirs, like a breath caught behind your ribs that slips lower.
Her gaze holds, doesn’t flicker, but yours does; to her lips.
Shit.
Eye snapping back up, your stomach drops. “Sorry, I meant total volume. Thirty-two per feed. I just–”
She cuts you off, voice clipped but not raised. “Precision is not optional.”
You nod quickly, thoughts racing. “I know”
Wanda looks back down again, gaze lingering on the baby. “Don’t guess. If you’re unsure, you say so. Guessing gets babies killed.”
You flinch, but you don’t try to apologize again.
“Check her cap refill,” she says, more quietly. “And listen to her breath sounds again. Carefully this time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Leaning forward, you unhook your stethoscope from your neck, relieved for something to do with your hands.
She lingers a second longer, then turns toward another isolette. Your eyes can’t help following her. Her shoulders are drawn higher than usual, her posture rigid. If she was anyone else, you’d ask her if she’s alright.
A nurse murmurs something to her, and Wanda walks a few steps away to consult the chart taped to the side. She’s mid-sentence, something about adjusting fluids, when a voice calls her name from the hall.
You glance up. Through the NICU glass, you catch a familiar silhouette. The Chief. He stands just outside, face unreadable.
Wanda straightens, her expression shifting, not surprised, but tight. She gives one last glance toward you and Hope, then murmurs to the nurse, “I’ll be right back.”
And then, she slips out through the double doors, leaving you alone in the soft, sterile hush of the NICU.
The room exhales without her in it, and the tension ebbs away from your bones.
Hope’s fingers twitch. You lower your hand gently into her space, let her tiny fingers curl instinctively around your gloved pinky. Her grip is surprisingly strong and fierce.
“Hey,” you whisper, more to yourself than to her. “You’ve got good lungs, huh?”
You shift closer to Hope, drawn to the faint wheezing from her incubator. Not quite abnormal, but enough to make you lean in and listen again.
Something moves in your peripheral, redirecting your attention.
You glance sideways through the NICU glass. Wanda stands outside, facing Vision. The air between them is thick even from here.
He leans in slightly, arms loose at his side, open and inviting. Wanda’s posture is the opposite. Her arms are folded over her chest, chin tucked.
He says something, gestures small. His hand reaches forward, fingers grazing her arm, and she stiffens like his touch burned her. It’s not a large gesture, she doesn’t jump back or anything, but you see it. It’s a recoil that happens when you’re trying hard not to show it.
Her reply is short, clipped. You see it in the set of her jaw and her furrowed brows. Her face is tight, losing the last remnants of her softness.
He watches her a beat too long as she turns on her heel and stalks back inside.
The door hisses open.
You straighten instinctively, but it’s too late.
Wanda stops next to you. She doesn’t look at the baby, just at you.
“Did you hear what you needed?” she asks, her voice a low hiss, her blood simmering.
You hesitate. “I was just…listening to her respirations–”
She steps closer with narrowed eyes, not enough to intimidate, but enough to make the air buzz. “From five feet away?”
You go still, stethoscope dangling loosely in your hand.
“If you have questions about my conversations,” she says quietly, “ask me directly. I don’t tolerate interns with ears but no sense of discretion.”
You close your eyes, ears hot. “Understood.”
She doesn’t linger, just turns and walks away.
You watch her go, and wonder, not for the first time, who she’s trying so hard not to fall apart for.
The vending machine hums like it’s mocking you. You lean against it anyway, forehead pressed to the cool plastic, hoping the artificial chill will leak into your blood and slow your pulse.
Kate’s perched on the counter, chewing on a pencil and someone else’s sandwich. Yelena’s draped across two chairs like her limbs forgot how to belong to one person. MJ sits cross-legged on the floor, staring into her tablet like it insulted her family. Peter’s lying flat on his back, arm over his face, muttering something about circadian rhythms and death.
You hover near the coffee machine, gripping a cup that tastes like burnt air and regrets. Your hands are still shaking.
She only asked you a simple question. A routine check. Feeding volume? That’s med school 101. So why did your brain blank the second she looked at you?
The room stills a little. You look down into your coffee, the bitter scent suddenly too sharp.
Peter peeks out from under his arm. “Did she yell? Dr. Maximoff?”
You don’t answer fast enough.
Kate whistles. “Called it.”
MJ glances up. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
You’re not lying, technically. But it’s not the kind of tiredness that sleep fixes.
“Understatement of the year,” Yelena says. “You’ve been on NICU all week. Did someone forget to rotate you or are you being punished?”
Peter leans up, suddenly intrigued. “Or rewarded? I mean, she did request you.”
That word again. Requested. Like a splinter under your skin.
You keep your mouth shut.
It wasn’t the pressure that rattled you, not really. It was her. The way her voice dipped just slightly when she corrected you. The way her eyes held yours, not cold, but steady, like she could see something in you that you haven’t named yet.
Your reaction was completely normal. She's beautiful. Talented. All the interns say so. You’re allowed to get flustered. It’s just a basic neurochemical response. Dopamine. Cortisol. Whatever. It’s science.
It means nothing.
MJ glances up, cautious. “Did you guys know she was gone for a while? Like, disappeared completely?”
Yelena scoffs softly. “Yeah, left Vision behind. Nobody really talks about what happened with her twins, either. Hospital rumors say…well, it wasn’t good.”
Peter leans forward, eyes narrowing. “And now she’s back for good, right? Vision’s probably desperate to fix whatever broke.”
Kate shrugs, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “No one really talks about it openly. You can feel the tension whenever she walks in. Like she’s carrying the whole weight of that silence.”
Her voice softens a hair. “Are you really okay?”
You lie the way interns are taught to; with a half-smile and a shrug. “Just don’t want to mess up.”
“Too late,” Yelena says, deadpan.
Peter throws a packet of graham crackers at her.
You sip your coffee. It’s awful. You drink it anyway.
Your pager buzzes.
Everyone goes still.
MJ checks hers. “Trauma bay.”
Kate groans. “So much for liminal peace.”
“Well,” Peter sighs and flops dramatically to his feet. “Time to make questionable choices in front of attendings.”
You toss your cup and follow them toward chaos.
You don’t look back, but you can still feel Wanda’s voice following you, trailing behind you like an aftershock.
You hit the trauma bay like a crash test dummy, heart sprinting toward the crash before your feet catch up. The lights are searing and your eyes have to adjust to the enhanced brightness. It smells like burned rubber, blood, iodine, and something else, something wet and wrong and surgical.
The ER doors slam open in a whirlwind of bodies. Five victims from a residential fire are being brought in at once. Smoke inhalation, burns, trauma. Nurses shout orders, stretchers roll in, monitors beep erratically. Someone’s sobbing in a corner. A gurney wheel sticks, someone yells to clear it, someone else slips on a drop of blood.
You’re swept inside alongside a dozen other interns, all thrown into the thick of it. The air smells faintly of smoke and antiseptic, your heart hammering like a drum.
Dr. Rio Vidal cuts through the room like she’s the eye of the storm. Mid-thirties, dark curls tied up in a red bandana, tattoos visible beneath the sleeve of her scrub top, dark eyes scanning monitors and IV bags with casual ease.
“Well, look who they finally let out of the NICU dungeon,” she says, tossing you a pair of gloves without slowing down. “Doc Junior, you’re with me.”
You blink, caught off guard by the familiarity, and the warmth. It’s not the first time she’s pulled you into a trauma. You helped her bag a coding toddler last month, and ever since, she’s looked at you like you’re not just capable, but reliable.
“Hope you didn’t forget how to handle a crash cart,” she adds over her shoulder, already moving toward the next stretcher.
You snap on the gloves, adrenaline kicking in. “Still remember which end is which.”
She chuckles, her eyes gleaming despite the high-cortisol situation. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”
The words land light, almost teasing but they stick, especially because it’s the opposite of how Wanda looks at you lately. Where Wanda watches like you’re a dropped scalpel waiting to cut someone, Rio treats you like you know what you’re doing. Because when Wanda’s not breathing down your neck, sometimes, you do.
“Sixteen-year-old female,” a medic shouts. “Thirty-two weeks pregnant, collapsed at the scene. Unresponsive. BP dropping. No external trauma.”
“Put her in Trauma One.”
You trail Rio into the room, pulse spiking. The girl is pale, soaked in sweat, her limbs limp. A fetal monitor already trying to trace through the noise of crashing vitals.
Rio is already glancing toward the next bay, another burn victim screaming behind a curtain.
“OB and NICU are paged,” Rio calls over her shoulder, tossing you the chart. “Monitor vitals, prep for possible emergency delivery. I’ll bounce back once we stabilise bay three.”
A nurse moves to the head of the bed.The fetal monitor beeps, erratic, almost like it’s glitching. Someone’s trying to hand you a pulse ox sensor. Someone else needs help with a blood draw. An intern drops a clamp. A tech calls out vitals from the hallway. The ultrasound image jitters with static.
The door falls open again, and the temperature drops.
Wanda enters mid-chaos, drawn by the emergency page. Her presence vacuums the air from the room. Her eyes, dark and sharp, flick to you, expectant.
“What’s the status?” she demands, voice clipped.
“Hey, Scarlet. Looking sharp.” Rio appears just long enough to answer, her hands still gloved, blood on her forearms. “Vitals are dropping, bleeding’s borderline. We’re watching for signs of hemorrhage. I’ve got three other incoming, page if she codes”
She winks at you before slipping back out into the ER.
You barely register them speaking. You're tracking the monitor, adjusting the pulse ox. The oxygen probe won’t stay on. You tape it, badly. Someone asks you what size ET tube to prep for a different room and your mouth moves before your brain catches up.
Wanda is already moving, setting up a second line, barking out orders. Her hands are on the IV, not the monitors. She’s trusting you to call changes.
“Funny,” she murmurs under her breath, low enough only you can hear. “I don’t remember shadows walking off without their owners.”
“It was an emergency page,” you mumble, not quite meeting her eye.
“Mm,” she hums, dismissively, and then she’s all business again. “Push fluids and get me an updated ultrasound, now.”
You check the monitors: oxygen saturations are dropping fast.
The numbers blur. You’re watching for two patients at once, mother and baby, but the data overlaps. The fetal heart is decelerating. Your brain latches onto it fast. Hypoxia? Cord compression? Something’s wrong.
“Decels on the fetal monitor,” you call out. “We might be losing perfusion.”
Wanda nods. “Tilt the bed, push oxygen. OB’s on the way.”
You’re already moving, adjusting the mask, repositioning her legs. Your eyes are fixed on the fetal strip. Tunnel vision sharpens your focus. You don’t see Wanda step closer.
“Vitals?” she asks.
You glance at the monitor, distracted. “Fetal heart rate is in the 90s but trending up. It’s stabilizing.”
She’s silent for a second too long. “That’s not what I asked.”
You blink, and your eyes flick to the top corner of the screen. The maternal HR is spiking, rapidly.
“One-fifty-two,” you say slowly, realization dawning. It’s too fast, far too fast.
“Why is she tachy?” Wanda demands.
You falter, searching your memory for possible reasons. “Maybe positioning? She’s compensating–”
“Or she’s crashing,” Wanda snaps. “What’s her blood pressure?”
“Seventy over forty and falling!” a nurse calls.
Wanda moves quickly, scanning the ultrasound and muttering, “Come on, come on–”
The image clears for a second. There’s blood pooling behind the placenta.
“Placental abruption.”
Wanda turns sharply toward you. “You were so focused on the fetus that you missed the mother crashing right in front of you.”
You open your mouth to explain but get cut off by Wanda’s cold stare.
“This isn’t a textbook scenario where you guess,” she bites. “You missed the early signs of a hemorrhage.”
She shoves past you. Her presence is all sharp edges now.
“Step back,” she says tightly.
You hesitate, heat prickling under your skin.
“I said step back.”
You obey, hot with shame. You watch helplessly as she takes over. Within five breathless seconds, she quickly directs the team to prepare for emergency delivery, barking orders like a drill sergeant.
Your breath catches, chest tight with guilt and frustration.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she yells, loud enough for the whole unit to hear. “You had one job: to catch this. One. And you missed it.”
People are watching. You feel it. The sting settles somewhere between your ribs.
“I was trying–” you start.
She doesn’t flinch. “Try harder.”
You want to take it, the shame and the scolding. You want to do better, not be bitter, but all you feel is that overwhelming pressure in your chest. The kind that makes your vision narrow, that makes everything sound like it’s underwater. The kind that makes your hands clumsy and your voice too small. The kind that turns capable into dangerous.
You grit your teeth, fury bubbling up. “Maybe if someone actually gave clear feedback instead of expecting me to read their mind–”
Her gaze hardens. “Don’t test me, Y/N.”
But you can’t stop yourself. “And maybe if you didn’t treat everyone like they’re already going to fail you–”
“You’re off this case,” Wanda hisses, voice becoming lethal, already heading into the direction of the OR. “Get. Out.”
The words die on your tongue, unfinished, but dangerous.
You breathe like you’re choking on heat. The words still throb behind your teeth.
Rio gently steers you toward the exit, one hand on your elbow. “That’s enough, I think. Go cool off. You’ve seen what happens when we don’t.
You don’t look at anyone. Your lungs won’t fill right. You turn, shoulders stiff, and shove the trauma doors open hard enough they bang against the wall. The echo follows you down the hallway.
You don’t stop walking. If you stop, you’ll feel it, and if you feel it, you’ll break.
So you simply don’t stop. Not when the doors slam shut behind you, not when your pager vibrates, not even when a nurse calls your name. You keep moving. Through sterile corridors and dim side wings, past vending machines, past clattering carts and shouting voices.
Until you find it.
An empty on-call room. One of the forgotten ones tucked behind the ICU. You shove the door open and slam it shut behind you, the sound like thunder. The lights flicker to life, cold and sharp.
You stand there, breath ragged, chest tight. Your hands tremble.
Gripping the edge of the metal bed frame, you press down until your arms tremble with the strain. Your jaw is clenched so hard, it aches.
You hang your head low, force your breath into a pattern. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Count. Repeat.
You won't cry. Not for her. Not for this. You just need to breathe.
Wanda’s voice echoes in the back of your mind anyway. You’re off this case. Get out.
Your shoulders twitch like you’ve been slapped, cheek brushing the sleeve of your scrubs.
You were trying. You didn’t freeze. You didn’t panic. You made a call, and yeah, maybe it was wrong, but she didn’t even let you fix it.
Your knuckles whiten around the bedpost of the bunk bed, but you don’t notice until the pressure begins to sting.
Peter was right. Night shifts feel like they’re part of liminal space. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing with your hands on the frame, just letting your thoughts and anger spiral before the door creaks.
You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. You already know.
Wanda steps in, closes the door with a soft click, sealing the room.
You stare at the wall. “Here to kick me out of the hospital too?”
Silence.
Then, Wanda’s voice. It’s everything you aren’t: controlled, levelled, clear. “You’re not a child, so stop acting like one.”
You laugh, a breath, bitter and dry. “Right.”
Behind you, Wanda doesn’t move, doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t draw closer to you, keeping her distant and giving you room to breathe.
“There’s no room for tantrums in this field,” she says. “If this is how you handle pressure, maybe surgery isn’t for you.”
That one lands. It’s low and mean and you flinch like it hits an exposed nerve.
You turn, just enough to meet her eyes.
She sees it. The sting. The hit she just landed. She doesn’t retreat, doesn’t attempt an apology because, after all, it’s the truth. But she lowers her chin ever so slightly, like maybe she knows that this one went too far.
You look away again, shoulders pulled back so tightly it feels like you're cramping.
The room feels smaller and the air thinner.
Your voice cuts through it, but barely. “I made a mistake. But you had no right–”
“No,” Wanda interrupts, finger raised warningly. “You don’t get to rewrite what just happened.”
Your mouth snaps shut, teeth rattling.
Wanda steps forward, not closer, but deeper into the room, just close enough that you can smell the remnants of the OR on her. “You missed a warning sign. You made a bad call. And when I stepped in, you made it personal.”
You spin around, eyes burning. “Because you humiliated me. In front of everyone.”
She’s closer than you expected. When she exhales through her nose slowly and deliberately, like she’s holding something back, you can feel her breath fanning your cheeks.
“And what would you have preferred?” she asks. “That I let you keep going? Let her crash while you fumbled for the right answer?”
You want to respond, but you can’t.
“This isn’t about your pride. This is about two lives; a mother and her baby. You think I cared how you looked? I cared that she didn’t die because of your hesitation.”
She’s right, you know, she knows it, but that doesn’t mean you have to like her answer.
Wanda takes another step forward now, voice still firm but quieter as she runs a hand through her hair. “You have talent, Y/N, and passion. I wouldn’t have requested you if you didn’t, but those things mean nothing if you can’t harness them in the moment that counts.”
That hits deeper than you expect, deeper than your anger can reach. With a single sentence, she cracked your sternum open and grabbed your heart right out of your chest.
She lets it hang for a beat, and although her expression doesn’t soften, there is a slight change to her voice. Something kinder nestles in it, almost like an admission of understanding.
“I get that you’re tired and scared, but if your ego matters more than the patient, you shouldn’t be here.”
Your chest rises and falls like a fight is still happening in your ribs. Your nails bite crescent moons into your palms. Subtly pressing a hand to your chest, you can feel your ribs burst with each heartbeat. They feel louder in the isolated silence of the room, the noise of the hospital is only a dull murmur in the background. It’s almost like the sound of every beat bounces off the walls and comes back louder at you.
“I didn’t–” You swallow hard, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to screw it up.”
Your voice is small, child-like almost, whispering a revelation that’s mostly for yourself. If anyone else had been in the room, you would’ve kept your mouth shut, but there is something about Dr. Maximoff that makes you unravel.
She doesn’t speak at first. Maybe she doesn’t know how, or has nothing left to stay.
“I know,” she says, finally. “But it still matters that you did.”
The words settle between you like a second pulse.
She watches you another moment before she turns away, reaching for the door and letting her hand rest on it.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost control,” she admits. “The difference is, I don't get to spiral. And now, neither do you.”
The realisation lands, clean and heavy with finality.
You turn your face away, looking at her becoming a burden too heavy to bear.
“I’m not spiraling,” you whisper.
But it’s too late.
She already knows.
The door opens, a small stream of light enters and cuts across the floor.
“I’ll clear your charting for the next hour,” she says. “Use it.”
And then she’s gone.
The door shuts behind her with a whisper.
For the first time since the ER, you let the weight catch up with you, let yourself feel the burn.
You sit, slowly. The adrenaline is fading, and what’s left in its wake is something cold and aching.
Sweet as a Peach | AgathaHarkness x RioVidal x Reader
Summary: Burned out and longing for quiet, you return to your childhood home for the summer, but peace is hard to come by when your new neighbours are all honey and heat. In a small town like this, where secrets don't stay buried, it's easy to see too much, and it's even harder to look away.
Word count: <1k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, unspecified age gap, voyeurism, implied masturbation, dubious consent, power dynamics, sexual tension, top!Agatha, bottom!Rio
You're curled up on the floor of your childhood bedroom, your back against the wall, the window cracked just enough to let the breeze in. It's too hot for clothes, but you've kept your oversized T-Shirt on. It's old and soft, clinging to your skin in the worst places. The cicadas outside are screaming their endless summer song, and your thighs stick together as you shift, restless. You've spent hours doing nothing today. Nothing except this.
Watching.
You told yourself you wouldn't tonight because it was starting to get weird. You should go out, or sleep, or literally do anything else. But here you are again, eyes transfixed on the lot next to your parents' house.
You learned their names the way you learn everything in this town, through gossip, half-whispered and hungry. Rio and Agatha. "Artists," someone said with a sneer. "Or witches." Your mother called Agatha "the older one with that mouth on her," while your dad just muttered something about noise past decent hours. But the names stuck. You repeated them to yourself once, just to taste the sound.
The porch light is off, but the fading sunlight casts long, warm shadows over their backyard. You see Rio first, it's always Rio first. She's barefoot in nothing but a thin little dress that might as well be translucent in this light. It rides up her thighs as she leans over the banister, her forearms braced on the old wood, her ass high and bare beneath the hem. Her skin is golden in the dusk, flushed and glistening, and you watch the slow rise and fall of her back as she breathes, as if she's already on the edge of something.
Agatha appears behind her, and you move, lips parting and neck stretching, trying to get a better view.
She's wearing that black silk robe again, the one that looks like it could pay for your student loan debt. It's open, billowing in the breeze. Her long legs lit by the last of the day. She's not wearing underwear. You've already noticed before that Agatha seems to possess little shame. One hand is wrapped around a glass of something dark, the other gliding up the curve of Rio's hip.
You hold your breath, fingers curling against the cool hardwood floors.
Agatha says something, but you can't hear it. Whatever it is, it makes Rio laugh, low and sweet, then gasp, when Agatha's hand dips lower, disappearing between her thighs.
You swallow, thighs clenching involuntarily. It's a film you shouldn't have access to, something sacred and perverse all at once. You know you should turn away. After all, this is private, intimate, not meant for you, but Agatha makes it impossible.
She doesn't just touch Rio, she devours her. One hand flat on her back, pressing her down, making her arch further, presenting herself like peach split open. Agatha leans in, mouth on her neck, and you see Rio's lips part, her eyes flutter shut. Her fingers wrap around the railing. Her hips roll back, desperate, hungry, obscene.
You're suddenly too aware of your own body. The sweat between your breasts, the damp heat building low in your belly. You shift again, almost guiltily, but don't stop watching. Physically can't.
Agatha sets her drink down on the railing next to Rio's hand and slides her hand back between her legs, slower this time, more deliberate. Her other hand cups one of Rio's breasts through the thin fabric, pinching lightly, teasing. The porch creaks beneath them, the sun almost hidden by rooftops.
Agatha whispers something again, louder this time, but the cicadas are too loud, you move onto your knees, crawling a little closer to the open window. Rio moans, sending a shiver down your spine, straight between your legs.
The moan is not polite or demure. It's not the kind of noise you make when you're trying to be quiet in a small town with nosy neighbours. It's the kind of sound you make when you want to be caught.
You watch as Agatha pulls back, just slightly, hand now tangled in Rio's hair, tugging her head up so the arch of her spine is stretched and shaking. She grinds against her, slow and measured, her thigh sliding between Rio's legs, her mouth still against her ear.
You are breathless, knees pressed together so tightly it aches. Your hips tilt forward, searching for friction in empty space, and your heart is slamming in your chest, fingers twitching in your lap.
And then, like some cruel trick of fate, Agatha's head turns. Blue eyes meet yours, and it's worse than being burned alive.
You freeze. For one long, paralyzing second, you're locked there. Held by her gaze like a pinned butterfly. Her lips curve, a knowing, wicked little smirk. You don't even know if Rio sees it. If she cares. If this was part of it all along.
Eyes widening, you drop back like a stone, hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud that knocks the breath out of you. You can hear the blood in your ears and the cicadas screaming clearer, like they understand the severity of what just happened.
Your chest heaves. Your palms are sweaty, gripping the hem of your shirt in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. You don't dare move, don't dare breathe too loudly. You pray the sunset was still bright enough to blur you out, that Agatha didn't really see, that you imagined it.
But deep down, somewhere between the heat pooling low and the heartbeat thudding between your thighs, you know.
She Only Comes When It Rains | WandaMaximoff x Reader
Summary: Wanda only shows up when it rains, and you always let her in, even though you know she'll break you. You're not together, not really, but her hands know your body better than your own. You try to tell her you can't keep doing this. She proves you wrong. Again.
Word count: 3.6k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, smut, toxic relationship, angst, manipulation, magical restraints, rough sex, crying during sex, dom/sub undertones, overstimulation, marking and bruising, light choking, praise and degradation
The rain started around midnight.
You heard it first in the pipes, a low groan, water moving like something waking inside the walls. Followed by the first tap against the window. Gentle and hesitant. A warning. And then, all at once, it was there; loud, constant, swallowing everything. A sound that made the room smaller, your skin tighter. It was pressing in from the outside, asking to be let in.
You don't get up from the couch. You sit there, legs curled under a blanket that still smells faintly like her. The hoodie she left two visits ago, before she remembered to take it or maybe chose not to, lies draped over the back of a chair. Still damp from when you washed it. Still sacred. Still poison.
The rain keeps falling, and you keep waiting.
Because she only comes when it rains.
You told yourself the last time was the last time. That you'd change the locks. That you wouldn't open the door. That you'd leave, go anywhere, check into a motel and let the night swallow her knock.
But when the thunder hits, low and foreboding, your body flinches like it remembers her mouth before your mind does.
She's ruined you, not just in the bedroom, not just in your bed, but in your existence. The way you sleep half-dressed, waiting. The way you keep your lights low in case she needs the dark. The way you leave water bottles on the nightstand, painkillers in the drawer because you know she comes bruised. You know she comes hollow. You still want her full of you.
Your phone vibrates once. You don't look. It's not her. It's never her. She doesn't call.
She knocks.
01:13 AM.
You're pacing because you're afraid if you sit still for too long, you'll shatter.
You catch your reflection in the window. Rain streaking down the glass, city lights blurred behind you like faded memories. You look tired, like someone who's rehearsed a hundred conversations and still forgets to say no.
You stare at the door, and tell yourself that she's not coming, and if she does you'll tell her to go.
Three soft knocks.
Your breath leaves your body in a rush. You don't move. The rain muffles everything. The room feels to small.
Another knock.
Three, again. It's always three, asking for permission to fall apart.
You open the door.
She's soaked, not just wet, drenched. Like she stood in the storm and let it drown her on purpose. her hair sticks to her cheeks, red strands plastered over sharp cheekbones. Her hoodie clings to her chest, sleeves soaked past her wrists. Her eyes glassy, dark-circled, jaw tight. She doesn't speak. She doesn't look at you. Maybe she doesn't remember how.
You don't step back. You don't invite her in. You just wait.
She's the one who breaks first.
"I shouldn't be here," she says, voice rasping like it hurts to use it.
"Yet here you are."
Her breath catches. her lips tremble, only a little. She's not crying, not yet.
You tilt your head. "Why did you come?"
She looks down. her hands shake. She fists them in the sleeves of her hoodie like she needs something to hold onto.
"You know why."
You do. That's the worst part.
The storm howls behind her, but you're not ready to let her in.
You don't ask where she's been. She wouldn't tell you. She never tells you anything real.
But you see it; how her shoulders slump, how her hoodie drips onto the floor and she doesn't care, how she look at you like you're both a relief and a curse.
"You're always awake when I come," she says, brushing a wet strand behind her ear.
"I don't sleep well anymore."
"I know." A pause. "I hate that."
You snort. "Do you?"
She flinches. Looks away.
She steps toward you.
Her jaw tenses, biting down on something she doesn't want to say. Her eyes flick to the floor, then behind you where her old hoodie still sits, an unspoken testimony to all the things she leaves behind. Her hands, still damp, curl at her sides. For a second, she doesn't look like Wanda Maximoff at all. She just look like someone who's lost. Someone who doesn't know how to be wanted without hurting the wanting.
She breathes in. Shaky. Halting.
Then, she steps toward you. One step. Then another. Like she's not sure you'll let her make the last.
Her eyes are glassy when they find you again. She opens her mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to beg, but nothing comes out. She just stands there, barely inches from you. There's a storm still caught inside her skin, rain dripping from her body, guilt radiating off her in form of heat.
You close your eyes.
Because it's easier not to look at her.
Because looking always undoes you faster.
And when she presses her forehead against yours, when her breath hitches and her fingers close around your arm like she needs your more than air–
You give in.
You always do.
Her mouth is on yours before the door clicks shut. Desperate, drowning, breathless. She kisses you like she's starving and you're the only thing left. Her hands grip your face, not gentle. She's clawing, trembling. She hates herself for wanting this and still wants it anyway. Her mouth is hot and wet and open, and she moans into you like it hurts.
You don't kiss her back, not at first, because you said you wouldn't.
But then she whispers it against your mouth. Not please, but your name. Like it's the last thing she'll ever say, already mourning you.
You shudder.
And you kiss her back.
Her hips press into you. Her hands fist in your shirt, dragging you forward, walking you backward toward the bedroom with wild, erratic steps. She stumbles once, swears, kisses your jaw, your neck, bites down on your collarbone hard enough to bruise.
"You're mine," she breathes, fingers curling in the fabric over your ribs. "You were always mine."
You don't speak.
She doesn't want your words, not yet. She wants your submission, your silence, your body unraveling under hers. You see it in her eyes: red-rimmed, dewy, twitching with the glint of her magic.
When you reach the doorway to your bedroom, her breath ragged, her pupils blown, her lip split from some fight you'll never know the details of, she finally pulls back. Just an inch. Just enough to look at you.
"You don't get to touch me tonight," she says softly. Her voice shakes, but not from fear.
From restraint.
Your breath hitches.
"What–"
Before the question fully forms, her eyes glow red, and you're thrown backward. Not violently, but with forceful deliberation, with all the terrifying grace of her power. Your body hits the mattress hard enough to bounce. You gasp, limbs sprawled.
Then, the binds form. Not ropes, not leather. Magic.
Wanda's signature crimson glow wraps around your wrist and ankles like a lover's embrace; soft at first, then tightening, locking you down. You squirm, breath punching out of your lungs.
You can't move, not even an inch.
"You let me go every time," she says, stepping into the room, slow and dangerous, Her hoodie is gone, discarded somewhere down the hall, and her tank top clings to her from the rain, sheer and soaked. You see the marks on her ribs. The faint shimmer of older bruises. The sharp curve of her collarbone.
She's full of war and grief and sin.
"And then you wait," she continues, eyes never leaving you. "You wait for me to come back. You pretend you hate it, but you're always wet when I walk through that door."
You open your mouth.
She flicks her fingers.
Binds tighten around your throat, not choking, not painful, but silencing, just enough pressure to remind you who you belong to.
Her.
Even when she leaves you. Especially when she leaves you.
"I need to taste it," she whispers. "The way you ache for me. The way you'd cry just to make me stay."
Something between shame and need claws at you from the inside. It's unbearable how much you want her even now, with her voice laced in harshness, with her promise half a threat. The words twist something inside you, sick and tender. And god, it's true. You would cry. You'd beg. You'd let her destroy you if it meant she'd keep coming back. The humiliation of it burns in your chest. it still makes your hips tilt up, desperate for any kind of contact. You're dizzy with it. Drunk on the sick devotion you swore you'd kill.
She crawls onto the bed, over you. Her knees press to either side of your hips, and she sits heavy on your pelvis, grinding down once, measured and punishing. You arch up instinctively, desperate for friction, but the binds keep you pinned. Her magic flares hot.
She leans down and her lips brush your ear.
"No touching," she whispers, reminding you with a voice that's both cure and poison. "You just lie there and break for me."
You whimper. Pathetic.
She laughs, sharp and cruel and breathless.
"You're already close, aren't you?" she purrs, biting your earlobe. "I haven't even fucking touched you yet."
You shake your head, try to lie, try to preserve whatever pride you have left.
But she doesn't let you.
Her hand slides between your thighs. Her fingers press against your core, soaked through your underwear. Drenched. Absolutely ruined for her.
She hums, pleased.
"So needy," she whispers. "You'd let me destroy you and still beg for more, wouldn't you?"
You glare at her. Or rather, you try to.
Your eyes are already full of unshed tears.
When she pulls your panties aside and dips two fingers between your folds, you sob. Not from pain, though. From the way her thumb teases your clit. From the way her fingers curl so perfectly, so violently inside you. From the sick, sacred way she kisses your chest while she ruins you, mouthing at your skin like she's praying.
"You always let me hurt you," she says, breathless against your sternum. "Why?"
You whisper her name.
"No," she snaps, eyes shining. "Tell me."
"Because–" you choke. "Because it's the only time you allow yourself to feel anything."
She stills. Her fingers stay inside you.
Her head lifts. her eyes search yours. there's something ugly and shattered in her expression.
But then, slowly, like it burns, she starts to move again.
Rougher. Faster. You cry out.
She kisses you. Hard. Swallows the sound.
"Good girl," she pants. "Break for me."
Her magic glows brighter.
Your thighs shake.
And you come, with her hand on your throat, her mouth on yours and your body arched as an offering.
But she doesn't stop. She never stops.
You gasp, a high, desperate sound, as she slips her fingers out of only to push your thighs farther apart, spreading you wide. Her breath is hot against your inner thigh, her hands, glowing faintly with magic, pin you still even without the binds.
Wanda doesn't want comfort. She comes for confessions, and your body is the alter.
She leans in and licks a long, devouring stripe up your wetness, and you jolt like she's electrocuted you.
"Still so wet," she murmurs, her breath fanning over your swollen clit. "Still mine. Always mine."
"Wanda, please–"
The binds on your throat ease just enough to let the words spill out, but she doesn't answer.
She buries her face in you like she's trying to disappear, her tongue pushing deep, her fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise. She moans against your core, the sound vibrating though you, and your entire body arches like a bow.
"Too much," you whimper, trying to twist away. "I can't–"
"Liar."
Her voice is muffled by your skin, but the accusation cuts like glass.
"You love this," she growls, licking you open again. "You love when I make you sob. You love when I use you."
You shake your head, crying now, but your hips are still moving, still chasing her mouth.
She sees it.
"God, you're pathetic," she says, cruel and biting. "So easy. So desperate for me to hurt you."
She wraps her lips around your clit and sucks, strong.
You scream.
It's raw, crooked, half a sob, half a surrender. Your wrists flex in their magical restraints, legs trembling. She doesn't ease up. She keeps sucking, licking, biting, until you're coming again with a broken cry, tears streaming down your cheeks.
But even now, it's not enough for her.
No matter what you do, no matter what you offer and sacrifice.
It's never enough for her.
Only when your hips jolt again and your throat is tight, she finally pulls away. Her chin is slick with you. Her eyes are fever-bright.
"Are you crying yet?" she asks, like she can't tell.
You are. Loud and clear. The sound echoes, only quietened by the storm outside.
Her magic tightens around your wrist again, not to mock, but to show her possessiveness.
"Wanda, please," you whisper, words slurred as you blink through the blur. "I can't– I can't–"
She climbs back over you, straddling your waist. Her hands frame your face. Her body simmer with hear. Her pupils are blown wide.
"You said I don't feel anything, but you're wrong."
You try to speak, but she kisses you. It's deep and messy and full of everything she can't say.
"I feel you." Her voice breaks. "I feel this, and I hate it."
You choke on a sob.
"I love you."
She flinches like you slapped her, and for a second, you see her, really see her. The girl underneath the power. The grief underneath the violence.
She growls, low and torn. "Don't say that."
Your eyes are searching hers, voice breaking. "Why not?"
"Because I don't deserve it."
She pushes you down. Hard.
Her hand finds your throat again. her lips hover just above yours.
"I ruin you," she whispers. "And you let me."
The unspoken why lingers dangerously in the space between you. She looks at you, searching for an answer that you can't give her.
You nod, agreeing. Tears drip from your chin onto the pillow. You're still shaking, still aching, still tied. You don't care because even now, even when she's broken you open wit her hands, her mouth, her guilt, all you want is more.
More time.
More her.
More feelings.
"Do it again," you rasp. "Please. Use me."
She breaks.
Something shatters behind her eyes. She kisses you like a punishment, like an apology.
Like a goodbye.
Her hand slips between your legs one last time and you don't resists.
You break for her again.
And again.
Until the edges blur. Until your throat is raw from sobbing. Until she's crying too.
"I'm sorry," she whispers against your ear, fucking you with her fingers through the aftershocks. "I'm so sorry."
It doesn't stop her, and you wouldn't want her to.
This pain, this ruin, this madness... it's all she's ever given to you. It vicious and burns, but god, at least it's all yours to keep.
You lose track of time.
How many times you come.
How many times she apologises mid-thrust or mid–cry.
How many times she says your name like it's a death sentence.
How many bruises she kisses into your skin, or scratches carves into your hips.
Your body stops fighting. Your sobs go silent. the binds don't even need to hold you anymore, you wouldn't move if you could.
And she knows it.
"I shouldn't be here," she breathes again, forehead pressed to yours, hands cupping your face now like she's trying memorise you from the inside out.
"But you are," you rasp, barely a voice left.
Her breath hitches. She kisses you again. It's gentle, but just for a second. Then it turns.
It always turns.
She flips you over, onto your stomach. Your muscles tremble. You're limp, pliant, raw. You hear the sound of her shirt hitting the floor, then her breath catching when she sees the mess she's made of you.
You feel her weight slide back over you. her mouth to your shoulder. Her fingers, red with power, ghosting over your bruises.
"Say you want it," she pleads.
You nod.
"Say it."
"I want it."
"Say you want me."
"I always want you."
She moans, broken. "Even when I leave?"
"Yes."
"Even when i come back just to ruin you again?"
You hesitate, but the truth burns too loud to deny.
"Yes."
She cries then, not loudly but cutting. It's quiet, shaking. her tears mix with the sweat on your back as she kisses your spine, tender, reverent, regretful.
"I'm so fucking sorry," she whispers, over and over, as she enters you again with her fingers, slower this time, but deeper, more intentional. "I don't know how to stop needing you."
You arch, moan. Sobs choking your throat.
"I don't want you top stop," you admit.
Your bodies find rhythm again. An agonising, aching one. She moves inside you like she's desperate to leave a part of herself behind, like she thinks if she fucks you hard enough, she'll be able to stay.
"Tell me you love me," she pants.
You do.
Over and over.
You tell her even as you shake, as you splinter, as your orgasm rips through you one final time and you scream into the sheets.
She comes with you, not from your body, but from the sound of you breaking. Her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her hand bruised between your thighs, her sob a strangled apology into your skin.
You're both crying when it's over.
When her body collapses beside you, shaking.
When her hand finally lets go of your throat, your hips, your heart.
You turn your head to look at her.
She's already looking at you.
But there's something gone behind her eyes. A dimming. A shadow.
You know that look.
You've seen it before. Countless times.
It means she's already leaving.
You reach for her and she lets you this time. Her fingers slide through yours. Her palm is warm.
You fall asleep that way. Clinging. Spent. Bruised.
Still hoping.
You wake up before the sun.
The room is cold.
At first, it doesn't register.
You're curled on your side, one arm reaching across empty sheets that still smell like her skin, like rainwater and sweat, like her pulse against you lips. For a moment, in that strange space between sleep and waking, you pretend she's in the bathroom, or maybe in the kitchen, pouring water, padding barefoot across the floor.
But the silence is too clean.
Too final.
You blink up at the ceiling. your wrists ache, a dull soreness, familiar now. the bruises on your thighs throb in time with your heartbeat. Your breath fogs slightly in the early morning chill, and the blanket is barely covering you.
You sit up.
The other side of the bed is cold.
Your stomach drops, slow and sick and deep. The air tastes different.
Your gaze slides toward the chair.
Her hoodie is still there, not thrown carelessly this time, not half-forgotten, not draped over you lamp like a ghost of her. This time, it's folded. Purposefully. Tenderly.
A final offering. A grave marker.
You stare at it for a long time.
Eventually, you stand.
Your legs shake when you walk to the kitchen. The clock on the stove blinks: 06:04. You pour a glass of water with trembling hands and drink it all without tasting it. The glass stays on the counter, like everything she left behind, waiting to be cleaned up.
You go back to the bedroom, but you don't lie down.
You just stand there.
The window's still cracked open from when the rain first started. the wind lifts the curtain gently. the sky is overcast but dry now, the storm passed sometime while you were sleeping.
She always leaves before the rain stops.
It's tradition by now. A twisted kind of ritual. A storm brings her. The silence takes her.
You throat aches, not from the blinds, not from her hand, but from the sob caught there, stubborn, raw and cruel. You won't cry, not yet. Not while the echo of her mouth still lingers between your thighs. Not while the bed is still warm with her absence.
You pull the hoodie from the chair.
You don't put it on.
You just hold it. bury your face in it. inhale her. Close your eyes.
It's different this time.
It feels over. Not in the dramatic way you swore it would be after the last time, or the time before that. But in the soft, terrifying way people stop calling. The way they fade. The way silence stretches too long.
She folded it. That's what you keep coming back to. She never folds anything.
You sit on the floor.
The hoodie clenched in your fists, knuckles white, nails biting into fabric. You rock once, twice, breath shallow.
The sob comes eventually.
You cry like she kissed you; desperate, broken, unwilling.
You cry until your voice gives out.
Eventually, you lie back against the hardwood, hoodie clutched to your chest, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers.
You know she won't come again.
Not until it rains.
If it rains.
And even then, maybe not.
Maybe she left something to grieve properly.
But maybe, and this is the crulest thing, maybe leaving it behind was her apology. Her goodbye. Her way of saying: I can't keep coming back.
It’s a Match! | AgathaHarkness x RioVidal x Reader
Summary: a drunken confession lands you in the lair of Agatha and Rio, two women who command power and play with control. In their world, desire is a game, trust a risk, and surrender means everything. How far will you go to belong?
Word count: 6.1k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, Dom!Agatha, Switch!Rio, implied mommy kink, reader is a mess, implied d/s dynamic, Agatha and Rio are sugar mommies, smut later on, more warnings will be added
You're almost done rereading the same sentence for the third time when the ping of your inbox hits louder than a gunshot
Subject: Re: Page Five, again?
Your stomach sinks.
You click.
Agatha's reply is short, too cold to be angry, just annoyed.
There's a typo in the lead. That makes three errors on this issue alone. I expect better.
– A.
You blink at the screen, and your pulse stutters. You triple checked that section last night. You're sure you did.
Except that you were so tired your eyes had started slipping off the words, letters swimming into each other.
Down the hall, someone laughs. A printer jams with a violent whir. The usual office din continues around you, but your brain has gone dead silent. There's just static and shame.
You whisper a curse under your breath and push back from your desk. The legs of your chair shriek loudly across the tile. No one looks, but you wish they would. You almost want the judgement, the acknowledgement that you've fucked up again.
You're halfway through writing a breathless apology draft when another ping hits.
Subject: Print Review – Now.
No body, just a time and a conference room number.
Five minutes.
You curl your fingers, nails biting into the palm of your hand, in a futile attempt to ground yourself. You're replaceable, you know that. There's a line of eager juniors ready to step into your role. You can't afford to fall behind.
You don't bother grabbing your notebook. You know this won't be a brainstorming session.
Agatha is already waiting when you arrive.
She sits with a pen stuck between her index finger and thumb. Her posture as straight as a knife, in a burgundy suit that probably costs more than your rent. Her hair is loose today, long and dark. Her lipstick is the same wine-red colour as her lapels. The neckline of her blazer dips low, and your eyes follow the exposed skin.
You shouldn't notice. You shouldn't care. But you linger anyway, and when she looks up at you, her expression unreadable, you feel heat bloom at the back of your neck.
"Do you know how many eyes pass over an issue before it hits print?"
You nod, standing awkwardly by the door. "Six sets, usually."
"And yet the mistake still landed on my desk. From your draft."
You swallow. "I take full responsibility."
Agatha sighs, not dramatically. It's a soft, measured breath attempting to dial down her disappointment. "I don't care about punishment, darling. I care about standards, and lately, yours are slipping."
Darling.
It's too deliberate to be casual, too causal to be anything else. It shouldn't affect you, but it does. It always does.
"I've been balancing some deadlines from campus," you start, and come to immediately regret it.
Agatha tilts her head, lips pressed flat. "Then I suggest you find a better rhythm. Because this–" She slides the proof across the table, the glaring red markup screaming at you. "–isn't rhythm, it's noise."
Nodding, you bite the inside of your cheek until you can taste blood "Understood."
Agatha studies you for a beat too long and for a moment, just a tiny, insignificant moment, you could swear something on her face shifts . You sway uncomfortably, looking away first.
"You may go," she says with a flick of her wrist, like she's already moved on, like you were never really here at all.
You leave with your pride trailing behind you like a torn hem, heart tight in your throat.
The day only spirals from there.
You spill coffee on your notes and on the first-run test print. You order the wrong shades of Hermès scarves for an editorial shoot. You send a rough draft to a freelance graphic designer instead of the polished version. You forget to eat. You almost cry in the office bathroom. You check your bank account and remember that rent is due.
You blink back tears in the supply closet while clinging to a new stack of printer paper.
You're trying so hard to be exceptional. The perfect intern, the smartest student, the first to arrive, the last to leave.
And yet you're still invisible, or worse, a disappointment.
You don't want her to see you as just another intern who can't keep up. You want her to see potential. You don't even know what kind. You just want to be seen.
By the time you make it home, you're trembling. Not from the cold, though the November wind claws down the avenues, but from the ache in your chest that you can't seem to shake.
You don't even make it to your room. You collapse face-first onto the couch.
"Bad day?" Kate asks from the kitchen island, sipping something green and disgustingly healthy.
You lift your face just enough to glare at her. "Is it that obvious?"
"Babe, your aura is black and crackling."
"That's static," Peter mutters, upside down on the armchair, scrolling his laptop. "She's been bottling up cosmic intern rage for weeks."
"Agatha," you mumble, face buried in cushions. "She said I'm slipping."
Yelena gasps. "She spoke to you?"
You twist onto your back and sit. "She always speaks to me. She's my boss."
"No, no," Kate says. "Normally she just judges you through silence and stilettos."
You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. They might tear the weariness away if you press firm enough. "Well, now she talked talked. She said my work is noisy. That I've lost rhythm."
Yelena passes you her drink. You drink without asking, face contorting as the burning taste hits your tongue. It's tequila. Of course it is.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," you admit, thumb tracing the rim of the glass. "I'm trying to be good. Good at school. Good at work. Just...good enough. And she just looks at me like I'm small, like I should already be something more."
"You're twenty-three," Peter says, as if that should explain everything.
But it doesn't feel enough. Not when you're outside and falling. Not when everything costs more than you have. Time. Rent. Expectations.
Kate slides her arms around you from behind. "She probably has a marble bust of herself in her penthouse."
You laugh, broken and bitter similar to the drink in your hands. "She's brilliant and terrifying. I just want her to see me. Really see me."
There's a silence. Gentle and understanding.
Then Yelena claps her hands "Get up. We're going out."
"I have a paper due tomorrow."
"You need vodka," Kate corrects.
"I have no money."
"My treat," Peter offers, already grabbing his coat. "You need to be reminded that you're young and hot and powerful."
"I'm literally still in work clothes."
"Powerful and busy," Kate says, grabbing your wrist. "Tonight's about damage control. The mental kind."
You protest weakly, but they don't listen. So the next thing you know you're in a cab heading downtown.
The bar is warm and dim. It smells of old wood and limes. The booths are cracked leather. The music soft and pulsing. It feels safe and familiar.
You're a three vodka shots in and dangerously honest.
Yelena is two shots ahead and holding court, ranting about pantsuits. "You either look like Hilary Clinton or a God. There is no in-between."
"I'd look like both," Kate muses, nurturing her glass with a thoughtful expression.
Peter is striking out with the bartender again. For the sixth time.
And you? You're trying not to talk about her. But you fail, as always. Everything lately leads back to your internship. To her.
"She wore this burgundy suit today," you mutter into your drink. "Tailored to hell with just enough skin to keep you guessing. And her hair was down. Did I ever tell you how beautiful her hair is? Makes you wonder how it'd feel to–"
You cut yourself off, horrified.
Yelena lets out a slow whistle. "You're obsessed."
"I'm not."
"You said her cheekbones could cut glass," Peter says, sliding a new round of shots across the table, "and you'd thank her for the scars."
Kate raises her glass. "If hell is hot, I hope she burns me slowly."
"Jesus." You cover your face. "I need to be stopped."
Yelena grins. "You need to get laid."
"I need a scholarship."
"Why not both?" Peter wiggles his brows. "There are those mentorship apps–"
"No."
"Yes," Kate chimes in. "You need a sugar boss."
Yelena snatches your phone from the table with dangerous intent. "Mentor Match. It's like LinkedIn if LinkedIn were horny."
"You're out of your mind–"
"Let us help you. It's networking. With benefits."
You're tipsy. Spinning. A little reckless, and very easily influenced.
So you let them build it. A half-serious profile with just enough charm to pass as confident. Aspiring writer. Current disaster. Open to mentorship and mischief.
They swipe. At first, it's ridiculous. Men in yachts. Women in shoulder pads. Couples looking for the third act of their drama.
You laugh. You tease. You protests every third match.
Then, they stop.
"Wait. No way."
Yelena leans in, Kate's brows almost shoot off her hairline. Peter forgets his drink.
A profile flickers onto the screen. Two women. Stunning. Sharp smiles. Awfully familiar.
Your breath leaves your lungs with the force of a punch.
"That's– no. That's fake."
Agatha Harkness. Rio Vidal.
The real ones. The power couple who dominates finance and fashion and every fantasy you've tried to repress since day one.
Their photos aren't selfies. They're curated; cropped from Forbes editorials, charity galas, glossy magazine spreads. Posed but not impersonal.
Yelena frowns. "It's a verified account."
"Impossible."
"They're on the app," Kate says, eyes wide.
"They can't be."
You snatch the phone and stare at it. Hand trembling, your thumb hovers over the screen. You don’t swipe left. You don't swipe right. You just stare.
For a moment, you body goes very still. There's buzzing in your ears. Your heart's beating too fast, too loud. It might actually burst through your chest. It has to be fake. Some weirdo with stolen photos. Right?
You close the app with shaking hands.
But later, when it's dark and quiet and your bed feels too big. When the buzz is thick in your blood and the silence of your apartment feels louder than the music before, you open the app again.
And you write.
Your fingers type without your permission, fast and frantic. Every repressed thought, every compliment you were too scared to say aloud. Everything you were to scared to think.
The power they have. The way you ache from wanting to please. How you dream of slipping. What they'd do to you if they ever had the chance.
You write it all.
Desperate. Filthy. A little bratty. A whole lot needy. Topped with: You'd ruin me. And I think I'd let you.
You hit send.
And for the first time in weeks, your chest really loosens. Your shoulders slump. The weight of the world suddenly doesn't seem too heavy to carry anymore.
It's fake anyway, just a fantasy, a release.
Right?
You pass out fully clothed.
The sun slices through your blinds like it has a personal vendetta against you, and maybe it does. Or at the very least, it's the universe punishing you.
You wake up still in your slacks, your top twisted halfway up your ribcage, and the unmistakable taste of bad decisions and cranberry vodka is clinging to your tongue. Your mouth is as dry as sandpaper, your head pulses worse than a wailing siren, and somewhere in the back of your mind, something is screaming at you to remem–
You lurch upright. The room spins.
Your phone is lying face-up on the floor, its screen glowing with stubborn life despite the glaring red battery bar. You grab it, already sinking.
You slide down the notification bar, squinting into the light.
One notification.
✨It's a match!
You stop breathing.
That can't be right. It has to be Daddy Dickens or some other sleazy thirty-nine-year-old with "investor" in his bio that you swiped on for shits and giggles.
Your thumb trembles as you click on the app.
There it is. Your chat. Your profile. Your blackout confession. It's still there in all its unedited glory.
Worse?
It's been seen.
The little "read" checkmark taunts you.
You scream. You delete the message. You delete the the app. You toss your phone facedown onto the bed like it might kill the evidence, like you didn't already doom yourself the moment you pressed send.
"Oh my God," you whisper, hands covering your mouth. "Oh my fucking God."
Your breath hitches. Shame floods your veins. Your fantasies, your frustrations– you called Agatha Mommy, didn't you? You'd give anything to vanish, to be erased.
You start pacing, feet tripping over last week's clothes and unread paperbacks.
"I can never go back to work. I need a new name. A new passport. Witness protection," you mumble, fingers raking through your hair.
Your voice is raw. You’re vaguely aware of someone moving in the kitchen. Peter, probably, boiling his gentle little morning tea.
From the hallways, Yelena yells, "If you're having a crisis, do it quietly! Some of us are hungover!"
You stagger to the bathroom. Splash cold water on your face. Try not to cry, try not to scream. You catch your own reflection in the mirror and flinch.
Back in your room, you take a deep breath.
“Okay,” you whisper. “It’s fine. I unmatched. I deleted everything. It’s fine.”
Your phone buzzes.
You freeze.
It's your work calendar.
New meeting scheduled.
Location: Penthouse – 1PM
Subject: Mentorship Review
Hosts: A. Harkness / R. Vidal
The phone slips from your fingers like it's hot metal. Your stomach drops through the floor. The vodka you drank last night lurches in protest.
No. No, no, no.
Agatha doesn’t schedule things. If she’s unhappy, she summons. Coldly. Without warning. She says your name like a guillotine blade and expects you to bleed. That’s how she operates.
But she works Saturday. She works always. Power doesn't sleep, and neither does she. You've heard stories of back-to-back meetings on Christmas Eve. Email responses at 3AM. No one ever questions it.
But she definitely doesn't host interns in her penthouse.
You yank open your inbox. The meeting is there. Private. Set by her. Locked into your schedule like a goddamn tombstone.
Like a guillotine with an RSVP.
You hit the floor in a crouch, hugging your knees. You can't breathe. Agatha’s voice is ringing in your ears. Crisp, cold, impossible to ignore. Her eyes when she's displeased. Her mouth when–
And then there's Rio. She's not even part of the magazine. She lives in the stratosphere; hedge funds, mergers, whatever language people speak when their emails move millions. She's not supposed to know your name. But she was there. She read it too. You said you wanted to know how her ring-clad hand would feel wrapped around your neck. And she saw it.
You groan, full-body, like a dying animal.
You start trying to think logically. Maybe it's unrelated. Maybe they don't know it was you. Maybe it's about something else. Maybe Agatha wants to ask your opinion on–
No. No, she does not. Agatha Harkness does not need an intern's input. Especially not in her home. Especially not with her wife present.
You screw your eyes shut. Tug your hair. Try to reset your own brain.
You can’t sit still. You need reassurance, someone else’s voice to drown out the one in your head. So you march into the kitchen.
Peter is pouring tea, half-asleep, in pyjama pants with tiny, judgmental frogs on them.
"Why didn't you stop me?" you ask. "Why did you give me alcohol? Why didn't you tackle me?"
Peter blinks. "What's going on?"
"I ruined my life."
He frowns, a deep cleft forming between his brows. "What happened?"
You take a shaky breath, hands like a prayer. “I matched with Agatha Harkness and her absurdly beautiful wife on Mentor Match.”
Peter recoils, drawing his head back hard enough to give him whiplash.
“I’m going to move to Argentina,” you announce flatly. “Change my name. Raise goats.”
“You hate goats.”
“Better than facing her. Pretending I didn't beg her to punish me while calling her Mommy."
Peter makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. “Did you unmatch?”
“Immediately.”
“And delete the app?”
“I’m not deranged, Peter.”
He raises his hands. “Okay. That’s good. Maybe she won’t–”
“She scheduled a private meeting in her home. Today. On a Saturday.”
Peter pales. "Oh."
You pace the living room like a caged tiger. You open LinkedIn. The real LinkedIn. You bookmark out-of-state internships. You check your bank balance. You stare into the abyss.
"I'm going to die."
He tilts his head. “Not necessarily.”
“Not necessarily?”
“She might just want to–”
“What? Make me a cautionary tale? Send me to HR? Offer me a Tic Tac before she tosses me into the Hudson?”
Peter takes a step back. “I’m going to go… check on Yelena.”
You collapse onto the couch. The room tilts slightly. Or maybe that’s just your shame.
You have three hours to prepare for your own execution. You wonder if you should write a goodbye letter. Maybe one to your younger self. The girl who wanted to work in publishing. Who thought ambition was noble.
She was going to change the world with words. She never pictures herself grovelling in front of a woman with enough power to crush her between her fingers, and enough allure to make her want it.
She didn't deserve this.
She just wanted a career.
And now she’s going to be professionally dismembered by Agatha for the things she said about the hands of her wife.
After a lengthy shower that included you rethinking your life choices, you’ve been pacing the apartment, phone clutched in a death grip, lips pressed so tight together they’re going numb.
Peter, Yelena, and Kate are sitting in a sort of half-circle around you in the living room, like you’re a grenade with the pin halfway out. No one wants to touch you. You might explode.
“So,” Peter says carefully, “we actually don't know for sure if it's about the message.”
"No," you say flatly.
"... But it's about the message," Kate adds, drawing her legs closer to her chest.
"Yes."
"That's not a mentorship meeting. That's an execution."
"Or a blowjob," Yelena shrugs. "Fifty-fifty."
You glare at her, but ultimately fold in on yourself, flopping onto the arm of the couch like a person in mourning. "I told them I wanted them to ruin me."
Peter coughs and turns a faint shade of red.
"I said Mommy. Out loud. In writing. I'll never work in this industry again. They're going to eat me alive. Metaphorically–not the fun way."
Silence settles over the room, but your ears ring. Your stomach churns with hunger and shame, a lethal combination after a night of too much liquid courage.
You've worked so hard for this. You wanted to prove yourself, prove that you could do it on your own, but your carefully crafted mask lies shattered at your feet, and the future you've dreamed of is turning to ash in your hands.
And maybe it's not just fear. Maybe there's a part of you that's glad you sent this message because at least now it's out in the world, and when the shame has settled, you'll be able to finally breathe again. Maybe you're actually really relieved that someone knows how you truly feel.
“Okay,” Kate taps her thighs, breaking the deafening quiet. "If you’re gonna burn, at least be hot.”
That makes you lift your head. You blink.
There's still fear, but underneath it, something flickers. You've already humiliated yourself. The worst part has happened. You might as well look good while they ruin you.
Yelena grins. “Oh no. Don’t give her ideas.”
But it’s already happening. You shoot up off the couch and march into your bedroom. A woman possessed, clothes flying.
“No, she’s right,” you call. “If I’m going to die today, I want them to look me in the eye while they do it. I want them to remember exactly what they’re throwing away.”
Because what if Agatha won't fire you. What if Rio won't laugh. What if whatever you're feeling hit some sort of nerve, and that's why they invited you.
You find your best jeans, the ones that hug your hips just right, the ones that make you feel like sin and a little bit of vengeance. Then the white tank top. Braless, of course. You want to look like you don’t care, like you’re too reckless to need modesty.
Then you grab the crisp blue dress shirt, one of the ones you bought to look “professional” for your internship, and shrug it on, leaving it completely unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Careless. Intentional.
Kate pokes her head in. “Okay, she’s feral. She's put on her fuck-me jeans”
Yelena follows, raising an eyebrow. “Hot. Unhinged. But hot.”
You face the mirror and stare at your reflection. Hair: chaotic but sexy. Eyes: puffy, sure, but fierce. You swipe on some mascara, some lipstick, a little concealer to hide the anxiety.
You look like a girl who’s been up all night fantasising about getting wrecked by two terrifyingly powerful women.
Which, to be fair, you have.
Peter stands in the hallway, hovering like he doesn’t know whether to stage an intervention or call an Uber. “I feel like I should tell you not to do this,” he says. “But also, like... if it works out, can we finally replace the fridge?"
You laugh, wild and hysterical, and grab your tote bag. Your phone, a half-crushed granola bar, and the ever-lurking ghost of that 3 a.m. message are the only things you take.
Your heart is still pounding. But there’s something else beneath the fear now.
Thrill. Hunger. Want.
Maybe you’re crazy. Maybe you’re about to walk into your own humiliation and career-ending disaster.
Or maybe, just maybe, you’re about to walk into something far more dangerous.
Something you secretly wanted.
Something that might want you back.
You hate elevators.
Always have. Something about being suspended in a little tin box hurling up a glass spine of steel and nerve. You hate the quiet hum of it, the manufactured stillness, the fact that it always smells vaguely of expensive cologne and recycled air. But most of all, you hate what it does to your confidence.
Because once those doors shut, one the reflective walls throw your face back at you from a dozen different angles, you're no longer the hot, chaotic girl from thirty minutes ago. You're just you.
Alone. Small. Exposed.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrored wall: the high-waisted jeans, the braless tank, the artfully rolled cuffs of your button-down shirt. You look like someone trying too hard not to try.
You look like bait.
You press a hand against your stomach. Not eating l really catches up with you now.
The digital numbers tick up: 47,52,69. And with every floor, the adrenaline thins into something colder, something akin to dread.
They saw the message.
They read the message.
They saw the desperation leaking out between every typo and emoji and shameless little plea.
What were you thinking?
Your palms sweat. Your heart pounds so loud it feels like the walls should be vibrating with it.
By the time the elevator dings at floor 75, your courage has long since abandoned ship. All that's left is raw skin and the sharp smell of panic mixed with your perfume.
You step out because what other choice do you have? The doorman already informed them of your arrival and you might get the embarrassing part over in the privacy of their own home rather than the office on Monday.
The floor is quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet money buys. Thick carpets, glass walls, that hush of luxury where sound dares not to echo.
There's a door at the end of the hall. Black wood, no plaque.
You know it's theirs.
You hesitate, just for a second. You could turn around. You could run. You could write a letter of termination tonight and never show up at the office again.
But you don't move, you don't escape.
Your body betrays you.
You raise your hand and knock. Once, twice. Soft and timid.
The silence that follows stretches so long, you start to think maybe no one's home, maybe you hallucinated the whole thing, maybe–
The door opens.
Agatha Harkness stands on the other side, dressed in soft black slacks and a silk blouse that highlights the particular colour of her eyes. Her hair is slightly tousled, but still looks like there's no curl out of place, like that's exactly what it's meant to look like.
It's the kind of effortlessness you wanted to go for, but failed. Miserably.
She looks at you, and you forget how to breathe. Her gaze sweeps down your body, not lingering, not leering, but slow and deliberate, cataloguing you.
You feel suddenly painfully naked.
"You're late."
You check your phone out of instinct. You're two minutes early.
"I–"
She turns and walks away, leaving the door open behind her, and you follow.
Of course you do.
The hallway smelled of bergamot and clean marble. A smell that's neither warm nor inviting, just sterile. It's money and power and things you've only read about in interviews or whispered about in bathroom stalls at work.
But when you step past the threshold into their apartment, everything changes.
Not just the scent, although that's what hits you first; something smoky and spiced like sandalwood and citrus, and home. No, it's the feeling that changes too. The space breathes.
You toe off your colourful Sambas by the door, suddenly too aware of how loud they are in here, how bright the blue looks against the polished hardwood floors. Your clothes don't feel expensive enough to be surrounded by all of this luxury.
The penthouse is not what you expected. Not even close. It's comfortable. Lived-in.
There's music playing softly in the background, something bluesy and low with a light scratch to it, maybe a vinyl. And when you glance to the side, you spot the player, a sleek black turntable surrounded by stacks of carefully alphabetised records.
There's art on the walls that looks original, messy, modern, personal.
Books spill across low-slung shelves and coffee tables. A few coffee mugs, lipstick-stained, left behind like breadcrumbs. A throw blanket tossed across the couch as if it's only been in use a few moments ago.
Framed magazine covers on the wall: Forbes, Vogue, The New Yorker, and next to them, photos. Candid ones.
Rio kissing Agatha's cheek in Paris. Agatha mid-laugh, windblown on a cliff. The two of them at some black-tie gala, champagne flutes raised and eyes dark.
It looks like them, but it also looks like love. A home made by two people who've survived things together. Who choose each other again and again.
And god, the view.
The windows stretch floor to ceiling, the New York skyline spread out like a promise, or a dare. You can see the river, the glitter of traffic, little ants of ambition crawling though light and shadow.
You don't know where to look. Where to stand. You limbs feel foreign and strange.
"You're staring." The voice is warm, amused.
Your head snaps in the direction of the sound, cheeks heating.
Rio Vidal is barefoot in the open kitchen, her hair half up, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. She's dressed down; dark jeans and a faded t-shirt, but still, she looks like a million dollars.
She watches you watch her, her smirk so charming, it could crack the earth.
You swallow. "I– I wasn't."
She abandons her glass on the counter and walks toward you, slow and deliberate. You try not to squirm, but fail.
“Cute top,” she murmurs, eyes darting away from yours. “Did you wear that for me, sweetheart?”
You stammer, laugh shakily. “No. I– I mean, it’s just clothes.”
She grins with a smile that could make the Cheshire cat jealous. “Sure it is.”
You try not to fidget, try not cover your chest. You force yourself to lift chin and stand straighter.
“Did you eat?”
You blink. “What?”
“Dinner. Food. Sustenance. That thing humans need to function.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah," you lie, naturally.
She raises a brow, stepping back toward the kitchen. This time, you follow. “When?”
“...Breakfast?”
“That wasn’t the question.”
You hesitate. Rio turns just enough to give you a look. It’s playful, but there’s steel under it.
You sigh. “Yesterday?”
She doesn’t say anything. She opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs and a bundle of herbs. She sets them on the counter, gestures to the stool.
“Sit. You’re not about to faint in my home and blame it on Agatha’s aura or something.”
You sit. Only now noticing that Agatha has disappeared.
“You always cook for potential mentees?” you murmur, keeping your hands on your lap, too scared to disrupt something.
“No. But I cook for girls who forget to take care of themselves and show up looking like that.”
You glance down at yourself. The jeans, the white tank, the blue shirt hanging loose off your shoulders.
You didn't think it was that obvious.
“You’re not fooling anyone, baby. But I like that you tried.”
Your skin heats. Not just your cheeks, but your chest, your belly, the backs of your knees.
There’s space. She doesn’t press, not yet anyway. Although, you know it will come. She talks about music. The record that’s playing. She mentions a concert she and Agatha went to in 2004, that’s where her shirt comes from. The food is an afterthought. Rio moves like someone who doesn’t need to cook, but enjoys doing it when the mood strikes. It’s rhythmic. Confident. Natural.
Suddenly, you realize that she’s giving you time. Letting the dread drain without letting you go. She’s trying to help you adjust to the situation without you noticing it.
“You’re quiet,” she says after a while, sprinkling spices over the pan.
“I’m overwhelmed.”
She laughs, not unkindly, perhaps surprised by your honest. “Yeah, you look it.”
It’s humiliating how much you want her to like you. How much you want both of them to like you. You can’t stop staring at Rio as she moves through the kitchen. Your want is starting to show again and it makes everything look sharper.
Beneath the want is a truth you don’t want to face. You like the way she teases you. You like the subtle control, and you hate that you like it.
You hate how much power they have over you already.
But god, you want more of it.
She slides a plate in front of you. Soft scrambled eggs, toast drizzled with olive oil, a little pile of sautéed greens. It smells divine.
She lifts an eyebrow again. “You gonna eat or make me hand-feed you?”
You grab the fork.
Rio leans on the counter, watching. There’s something content in the way she looks at you now, less teasing, more settled.
She pours orange juice and sets it beside you.
It’s quiet for a while, domestic, almost. Dangerous, even, because you like it.
“She can be intense,” Rio says. “But if you’re still sitting here when she walks in, it means you’re willing to hear her out."
“I don’t know what I’m here for yet."
"I think you do, and it makes your curious." Her eyes sparkle, a smile on her lips as she leans closer. "And I like curious girls."
Agatha enters again from a hallway you hadn’t noticed, holding a thin leather binder and a manila envelope. Like she timed it. Like she knew exactly how long it takes for your guard to soften.
You try not to think about how many layers she’s peeled off since opening the door. She’s still dressed like someone who could ruin a man’s career in ten words or less, but her sleeves are pushed up now, collar loosened. Almost casual. The kind of casual that still holds all the power.
She walks past Rio and brushes her fingers over her wife's hip in passing. A silent conversation exchanged in touch.
“I fed her,” Rio offers, like she’s defending a stray cat she decided to keep.
"I can smell it," Agatha replies, dry but fond. "Did you make her cry yet?"
“Working on it," Rio grins.
Agatha moves to the counter beside, sets the folder down. She looks fully at you now
“I take you’ve met my wife," she says.
You nod, shifting your weight. “Once or twice.”
“More than that, baby." Rio chimes in. "You just never noticed.”
You flinch slightly at the pet name, not because of what it is, but because of how easily it slides in the space between you.
There’s no place in this apartment to hide. There’s no desk to sit behind, no clipboard to cling to. It’s just them and you. And the memory of everything you wrote last night pressing hot against your skin.
“I assume you know why you’re here.”
You mouth goes dry, you panic, you lie. “No, ma’am.”
Rio snorts. Agatha doesn't.
She hums, less amused by your white lie than her wife. “Try again.”
Rio tilts her glass toward you. “Give her points for effort. She looks like she might throw up.”
You nearly do. You can feel it; your carefully crafted composure deteriorating at the edges.
Agatha flips the file open. You recognise the upside down screenshot. Your message. Your mistake.
“You sent us a message,” she says, like it’s a weather report, like she’s not about to strip your dignity for parts. “Would you like me read it back to you?”
You want to die. Right there on the spot. You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
“No, thank you.”
Rio's shoulders shake with silent laughter. You glare at her. She's only missing a bucket of buttered popcorn to enjoy the show.
Agatha's lips curve, not unkindly, but wicked all the same.
“You looked so confident in your little message,” Rio says. “What changed?”
“I sobered up," you mumble.
“Pity.”
You glance between them. Rio, relaxed and lean. Agatha alert and impossible to read. You feel like prey. You feel fire licking through your skin.
But also? Safe. Strangely, threateningly safe.
“I didn’t think it was really you,” you admit quietly.
“Well,” Agatha says, taking Rio's drink “We are, and so is what you said." She leans in. “So let's discuss what we can make from that."
You shift, fingers digging into your thigh. "I wanted opportunities. Connections. Stability."
She hums. "That's not the truth."
"It is," you lie, for the second time today.
"It isn't."
Your face is on fire, red and hot. You don't need to see or touch it to know that. You feel pinned, as if her eyes could peel back the truth layer by layer. You want to lie again and say this isn't a game you're dying to play, but the way you stomach flutters gives you away.
You're already in too deep, and part of you doesn't want to climb out.
Agatha slides the binder across the counter. "This isn't a contract. Not yet. Just a roadmap. And this–" she holds up the manila envelope, “–is an NDA."
Your throat tightens.
"Take them home," she says. "Read them. Think about what you want."
Rio leans in, brushing her fingers over yours as she pushes the papers toward you.
"Really think, sweetheart," she adds. "Because if you come back, there's no pretending after that."
“What if I don’t come back?”
“You walk out, and nothing changes.” Agatha straightens, steps back, creates distance. “You’ll still have your internship, you go back to starving yourself in elevators and pretending like you don’t want to be owned.”
Owned. The word knocks the breath out of your lungs.
“You don’t have to decide tonight,” she says, voice gentler now. “Take the weekend. Think. But if you do come back–“ She lifts your chin with one finger. “–you better mean i t.”
You don't remember reaching for the folder your hands simply move. Your body is answering questions your mouth can't. The folder ends up under your arm. The envelope pressed tight to your ribs. Rio calls an Uber without asking, already knowing you’d say yes.
The elevator feels colder than before. Wider, somehow. Your reflection blinks back at you, trying to understand what just happened.
You haven't read a single page. Don't know what they want. What they're offering.
It’s not trusting them that scares you. It’s what they might see when you do.
You grip the envelope tighter, tell yourself again and again that nothing's binding yet.
But your heart is acting like it's already signed something.
In the Presence of Gods | Attending!Wanda x Intern!Reader
Summary: In the high-stakes world of the NICU, you step into the demanding orbit of Dr. Wanda Maximoff. What starts as a tense first encounter slowly sparks something unspoken, a gravity neither of you can defy. As the lines blur between duty and desire, a deeper story begins to stir, one that neither of you are ready for, but can't seem to resist.
Word count: 4.5k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, unspecified age gap, medical procedures, medical terminology, power imbalance due to professional setting, warnings will be updated
You are the first to arrive, well before the first rays of sunlight graze the horizon.
The air outside is sharp with early morning cold, the kind that clings to your skin no matter how tightly you wrap your jacket around yourself. Now, inside, it lingers in a different way. The air is heavy with antiseptic and a biting mixture of sleep and bleach.
The hospital at this hour is nothing like what you imagined. It doesn't feel like television or textbooks. It feels too quiet and heavy, haunted by the lives it couldn't save.
You move without thinking, muscle memory already learning the turns. Down the hallway, past the elevator bank, and through a grey door labeled STAFF ONLY. The locker room smells like detergent and cold steel, like first-day-nerves and deodorant. It's empty and the light only comes to life when you enter and the motion sensor gets triggered.
You change quickly and with purpose, but even speed can't ward off the anxiety that's crawling up your spine. You fold your hoodie with too much precision, redoing it twice. Slip into your scrubs, tug on the long sleeve shirt layered underneath, and double check that your laces are tied securely. Once you're satisfied, you grab your coat, square your shoulders and smooth down the front of your scrubs before you walk back out into the hallway.
You ride the elevator alone, the metal walls reflect a hundred pale version of yourself. Your white coat slung over one arm and your tablet clutched between damp hands. You keep checking your badge, your name, the credentials printed neatly in plastic. As if they might vanish, as if someone might step in, press a hand to your chest, and say: No, not you. Not yet.
Most days have been feeling like this since you started your first shift at the hospital, but tonight the feeling of being an imposter is particularly strong.
The doors open to the third floor with a mechanical ding that sounds too loud in the silence. When you step out, you scan the corridor like it might look different than it did during orientation, but it doesn't, although it feels like it should.
The halls of Stark Memorial are ghostly in the dim light, a faint blue glow cast by LED panels and machines that breathe in rhythm with sleeping infants. There is no overhead chatter, and no pagers ringing unless you're in the pit. There is just the soft hum of life support an the low hiss of oxygen flowing through tiny tubes.
At this time of night, even the vending machines seem to whisper.
You walk past the glass of Bay A, where row of incubators gleam under heat lamps. You glance in on instinct, careful not to let your footsteps echo too loudly. Inside, tiny chests rise and fall, skin like butterfly wings lit up by a thousand monitors and cables. Babies whose lives are measured in grams and seconds.
Your shoes squeak once on the polished floors and you flinch. Biting the inside of your cheek, you curse the rubber on your new sneakers.
The NICU is pristine; sterile in a way that feels sacred. Sleek glass walls and warm air. You grip your tablet tighter, fingers white at the knuckles, trying to look like you belong. Your chin juts forward in false confidence, a posture learned from prep schools and dinner tables with surgeons.
You still feel like an outsider, though.
Behind the nurse's station at the centre of the unit, a woman with dark-rimmed glasses murmurs into a chart, massaging her temples with two fingers. She doesn't notice you at first, too absorbed in some scribbles, until your steps falter just short of the counter. Her head snaps up, and surprise darts across her face. Interns aren't expected until six.
Her brows lift. "You're early."
You catch her name tag as she closes the file. Darcy. Her voice is low but alert, like she's lived too many night shifts. Despite the tiredness behind her eyes, a polite smile lightens up her face.
"Either you couldn't sleep, or you're trying to impress the newcomer upstairs." Her fingers lock under her chin. "Which is it?"
You exhale softly through your nose, trying to smother a nervous laugh "Both?"
She huffs, pushing her rolling chair back with a squeal and coming around the counter. "Well, in that case; let's get you prepped."
Her tone shifts. It becomes brisk, but not unkind. She nods toward the NICU bays. "We've got fifteen in bed spaces. Five vented, two preemies under 28 weeks and Baby Hope..." she pauses. "Hope had a rough stretch overnight. She's in Bay A. You'll want to watch her."
Your fingers start tapping at the tablet instinctively, casting your face in cool light. "Shaky stats?"
"Couple of desats just before four. The O2 bump helped, but not much. Labs are on file, in case you want to review them. I left notes on fluid balance, but you might want to push them during rounds."
You nod along, eyes skimming Hope's chart. Tiny vitals. Post-op day four. "They're watching for NEC, right?"
"Yeah, Dr. Rambeau flagged her yesterday."
You nod, scrolling faster, but not fast enough to miss anything. You want her to think you're fluent in this, not panicking inside.
Darcy tilts her head, lips pushed into a pout thoughtfully. "Smart girl."
Startled, you look up with furrowed brows. "Not a lot of interns would've clocked that, let alone read notes older than twelve hours."
You blink, surprised by the compliment. You don't let get to your head, even when in place like this, it's the closes thing you can get to being seen. You quietly store it away and keep it in the back of your mind as a little badge of honour.
She studies you again, a little more curiously now, and nods toward the darkened NICU bays. "You thinking NICU?"
Hesitating, you shrug like it doesn't matter, like you haven't been here since four on purpose. "I'm floating for now."
She clicks her tongue, smirking. "You wouldn't be here before the janitors if you weren't thinking of something."
You fight the smile tugging at your lips and shrug again. This time it's an admission.
Darcy leans closer, her voice hushed. "Dr. Maximoff's schedule got posted around two. She's making her own rounds at seven, but if she finds you doing some prep work, it might score you some points with her, or not. Hard to say."
You lift your chin high and press your lips together. "I'll take my chances."
She grins, stepping back. "Smart and brave."
She doesn't retreat to her seat immediately, though. She lingers for moment, watching you a little differently now, not just as the ghost of an intern, not just as another kid trying to prove something. No, there is now the faintest sign of recognition in her eyes, like maybe she remember what it was like to be young and unsure and desperate to matter in a place like this.
"You keep showing up like this and people are going to start noticing," she says, tone gentler now. "Make sure it's for the right reason."
You draw your head back, caught off guard. You nod, words stuck somewhere in the back of your throat.
Darcy holds your gaze a moment longer before she retakes her seat behind the counter, already reaching for her pen and falling back into her prior motion.
You glance at the incubator again. Hope's monitor beeps softly. You are here. You are early. You are ready.
Or at least you are trying to be.
But readiness isn't always enough.
You tell yourself you're here because you want the edge, the good cases, the right eyes on you, the surgical rotation you're already chasing, but it's more than that, it's always has been more.
You grew up in a house where excellence was expected, not celebrated. Your father, a decorated trauma surgeon who spent years operating in combat zones, still talks in battlefield metaphors. Your mother, Chief of Cardiothoracics at one of the top hospitals in the country, rarely blinked unless someone was coding.
You didn't inherit ambition, you were raised in it.
Your path to medicine wasn't a choice; it was a legacy, a name that had to continue to carry weight. You knew how to stitch an arm back on before you were twelve, had internships arranged before you could drive. Dinner conversations resembled board reviews more than anything. They were cold, clinical, demanding. Praise was performance-based, and weakness wasn't even a language.
Your parents already decided your specialty. Neuro, maybe, or cardio. Something worthy of pedigree, something with blood and pressure and glory.
But when you walked into the NICU for the first time, saw the quiet blinking incubators, the impossibly small fists curling in their sleep, something cracked open. It was gentle and terrifying and oh-so deeply yours.
This wasn't loud. It wasn't showy. No one would ever applaud you for wanting it. Everyone calls this unit the pink squad. It's too soft, too feminine. There's not enough adrenaline, not enough glory. But here, in this ward, with these fragile lives and impossible odds, you see a quiet conviction. It might not be flashy or heroic, but at least it's real, and entirely your own.
You read the research. You've seen the clips. You've watched surgeries that looked like miracles. In-utero heart repairs, twin separations, emergency C-sections with five teams and mere seconds to act.
And there's always one name coming up.
Wanda Maximoff.
Medical journals love to centre their articles around her. She's a myth, a legend with blood on her hands and a no-bullshit policy. The rumours about her are as big as the name she carries. She lost her sons, left her husband. Vanished. Reappeared. Chose this, out of all places in the world.
You don't know if Dr. Maximoff will ever take you seriously. She's a woman whose name your parents only mentioned with begrudging respect. But if there's one place you might finally choose yourself, it will be here.
You adjust your name badge, catching your reflection in the glass. Light blue scrubs over a lilac long-sleeve shirt, a white coat that is too clean, and a name badge that still creaks with every step you take. Your braid is already coming loose and when you try to fix it, your hands shake too much. No matter how hard you try, when you look at yourself, you still feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her parents' clothes.
A low rumble from the end of the hallway interrupts your racing thoughts. The elevator stops with a faint groan before the doors drag open.
Footsteps.
You straighten your spine, joints cracking. You glance sideways, heart thundering in your chest.
A figure in dark crimson scrubs steps out of the elevator. Her stride is confident, unhurried. Her features are sharp and striking, a face carved not from marble, but from grief.
She doesn't pause, doesn't even look around, but her piercing green eyes flicker to you.
Just a second.
Just long enough to burn.
The corridor is brighter now, smelling of coffee and disinfectant. Warm sunlight seeps through the slatted blinds, but the weight in your chest hasn't lightened. The rhythm of the hospital has shifted. Coffee cups, clipped heels, shuffling clipboards. The quiet reverence of the night has been replaced by the low-level chaos of a new shift.
You stand stiffly, pinned between Yelena and Peter in the morning line up. You'd stayed in the NICU longer than necessary, memorising Hope's labs and tracing her chart like a scripture. It was comforting, structured, clear. Something you could fix.
But now, that clarity is gone and the nerves are kicking back in.
Peter's yawning, Yelena's already on her second espresso, and MJ gives you a once-over with a raised eyebrow.
"You look like you've lost a bet with death."
You don't answer, too focused on the footsteps echoing from down the hall.
She turns the corner no longer in scrubs but in tailored black slacks and a burgundy silk blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing lean forearms and a watch that glints under the fluorescent lights. Her heels are matte black, and her posture is absolute. A tablet is tucked under one arm, her coat draped elegantly across the other.
Without a word, she walks directly past the group of interns. No introduction. No greetings, just the clicking of her heels as she makes a sharp turn into a nearby patient room.
The group stares after her, collectively dumbstruck.
"Jesus," Peter breathes, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "Did anyone else feel their soul leave their body?"
Darcy, who just exited a patient's room, hides her amused smile behind a clipboard. "That was your cue, kids."
There's a beat of stillness, and then, chaos.
Everyone lunges at once. Badges jostle, pens fall, someone drops their tablet with a soft curse. You fumble with yours but manage to keep it pressed to your chest as you rush after them.
"Bay D," Dr. Maximoff announces from inside the room, tapping her tablet once. "Mrs. Lawrence. Who wants to brief?"
The interns crowd the doorway, jockeying for position, trying to compose yourselves as if you hadn't just been herded like panicked sheep.
Her eyes scan the group, but she doesn't look at you. Something inside of you stirs. You want her to look at you, want her to see you. The patient's name barely registers before you open your mouth.
And then, a mistake.
"I–uh–she–Mrs. Lawrence is–"
Dr. Maximoff's eyes darken, her brows crease in the centre. She doesn't let you finish.
"I'm not sure if someone has informed you," she says cooly, "But these files–" she taps the screen in your trembling hands "–are meant to be read and memorised. Not just held."
Heat blooms up your neck, eyes darting to the floor, where the edge of your too-clean white sneakers meets sterile tile. Shame pulses behind your eyes. You shouldn't have spent all your time in the NICU, you should've checked on the OBGYN patients too.
She sighs, and you can feel her rolling her eyes. "What a shame. I was told you were more than just a pretty face."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
"Belova."
Yelena fires off the case facts without hesitation, clinical and complete. You don't even hear them. Your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears, but at least the spotlight is no longer on you.
MJ bumps your arm with her shoulder, and you nod just enough to signal that you're still breathing.
Peter leans in when Dr. Maximoff turns to head to the next room, voice low. "Well, at least she thinks you're pretty?"
After going through the Bay B patients, mostly young mothers in the waiting, the next stop is Bay A. The air shifts as your team steps into the NICU's glass-panelled sanctuary. Dr. Maximoff stands at the centre of it all, poised and regal.
"Next," she says, eyes darting to an isolette fleetingly. "Jane Doe. Twenty-six-week preemie. Brought in three nights ago from the ED. No ID, no parental contact."
You already know which isolette she means. You find the little body under warm heating lamps, chest covered in tapes and tubes.
"She was found abandoned outside an apartment complex. Vitals unstable. Underwent PDA ligation on postnatal day two. Currently vented. Minimal urine output overnight."
Her voice faces for just a breath. Her eyes move to the side, to another incubator in the corner. You shift on your heels, trying to gain a better look.
Two boys lie nestled together, sharing one pod. One baby's skin is yellowed from jaundice, the other's stomach is covered by gauze, their hands curled instinctively around the other's. A laminated note is clipped to the side of the isolette with a blue whale tag: Twin therapy in progress. Post-op, Day 2.
Dr. Maximoff's attention lingers a second longer than necessary. The stoic mask on her face doesn't change, but something in her eyes does. You think you see it, but it's fleeting; a flicker of pain or memory. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and her gaze snaps back to you.
"Well, doctor?" Her voice cuts clean. "Would you like to contribute anything about your favourite glass box visitor?"
Your spine goes rigid. How does she know? Did Darcy say something?"
"She's... fragile," you say, voice low and a little shaky. "Post-op day four. Temperature's trending low. Vent setting bumped twice in the last 24 hours. She desatted again before rounds. Labs are pending."
"Diagnosis?"
You steel yourself. "NEC is a concern, especially with the feed residuals increasing and abdominal girth trending up."
Wanda studies you. "And if it is?"
You meet her gaze with a racing heart, inhaling sharply. "Prep for emergency surgery, resection if the bowel's compromised. There is a high risk of sepsis if not caught in time."
She nods, just once. "Good."
Then, her gaze shifts to the rest of the group. "She doesn't need you to hesitate. Not today. Not ever. Until she's claimed, she is our responsibility. That includes you. Do not let your focus drift just because she doesn't have a name."
The interns disperse as soon as the rounds are over, their footsteps echoing down the hospital corridor as they head toward their NICU and OBGYN assignments for the day.
Dr. Maximoff's voice cuts through the din, your name on the tip of her tongue. “You’re with me today.”
Your heart skips a beat, hope blooming in the centre of your chest. Perhaps you had impressed her, despite your earlier slip-up. Perhaps she saw something worth watching closely.
“Thank you, Dr. Maximoff," you say softly, chin lowered in gratitude.
“Stark Memorial is still a teaching hospital," she replies flatly, eyes trained on some labs. "And you clearly need the most teaching.”
Your lips part in surprise. You want to say something, to push back, but the words get stuck somewhere along the way. Instead, you simply nod, swallowing the lump of humiliation. Today wasn't your strongest, but you can't remember the last time someone saw you as the runt of the litter.
Kate chuckles from the sidelines without looking up from her notes. "Try not to mess this up too badly, rookie."
Flinching, you break eye contact with her. The comment comes with sharp teeth that sink into your flesh and nestle underneath your skin. The stark comparison between you and Kate gives you the final blow, a right hook to your guts. She doesn't need to try, she's already earned her place in the few weeks you've been here. Everyone knows she's the favoured one, the one with all the answers all the time. She's already impressed half the staff with her nurtured talent. You don't cower, but there is a noticeable shift to your posture.
Dr. Maximoff's attention snaps to Kate. Her eyes narrow and her lips pull into a thin line.
"Bishop," she says, voice as sharp as a blade. "You're off my service. I don't need another intern wasting my time."
Startled with wide eyes, Kate opens her mouth to protest.
"I'm sure Dr. Romanoff will be more than happy to have you join her today," Dr. Maximoff cuts her off, dismissing her without much room to argue.
Kate's smirk falters and she turns with a downcast expression, grabbing her things without another word. It's not like she was a big fan of neonatal anyway.
You keep your attention ahead, jaw locked. Focusing on something at the far end of the unit. Pretending like you didn't hear her will make your wounded pride less fatal.
Dr. Maximoff watches you for a long moment, a faint glint of something unreadable crossing her features. For a brief instant, the sharp lines of her face soften, a quiet warmth breaking through. Then, with a quiet, unimpressed sigh, she shakes her head, dismissing a thought not worth entertaining.
"Let's see if you're worth the trouble," she says, already turning without checking if you're following.
You remain rooted to your spot. There was no clear instruction, no destination given.
She doesn't look back, she doesn't have to. Her voice cuts through the air effortlessly. "First lesson: when I walk, you walk."
Exhaling heavily, you drop down in a blue plastic chair like you've been discharged from combat. Your back aches, your legs are sore, and there is a migraine waiting to pounce behind your eyes. You peel off your white coat and let it hang limply off the back of the chair, like it might somehow shed the humiliation with it.
Peter waves a chocolate bar in your face. "You're not eating? She really is Satan reincarnated with a pager."
You take the bar without a word, and let the wrapper crinkle in your fingers without unwrapping it. The day has only begun, so who knows, maybe you will need the sugary support later on.
"Don't tell me the vagina squad isn't everything you imagined?" Kate teases, kicking her feet up on another chair.
You glare at her, but you barely have the energy to look angry. “Why are you even here? You're not NICU-assigned."
She shrugs, swinging one leg over the other. "Emotional support, mostly, but I also like to witness suffering firsthand."
You let your head fall to the table with a groan. At least the table is cold enough to ground you and extinguish the fire on your cheeks.
Kate steals the chocolate bar from your limp grip and tears it open. "Honestly, she's probably not even a doctor. She might as well just be a demon that learned to suture."
"Probably someone who hates interns," Peter mutters, half-serious, half-terrified.
"She doesn't hate us," Yelena adds, dropping into the seat across from you with a half-eaten granola bar in hand. "She just believes in pain as a teaching method."
"Spoken like a true trauma junkie," Kate mutters, not even glancing at her.
"Pain builds character and calluses" Yelena shrugs. "Both of which are very useful when you're wrist deep in someone's chest."
Kate raises a sharp eyebrow. "I think you need therapy."
Yelena grins. "I need trauma bays and a good night out."
"She made me do med rec on all four overnight admits," you mutter into your arms. "One mother only spoke Hungarian and another kept calling me Linda and mixing up the names of the medication."
Peter winces. "Ouch."
"And she watched me do it without giving any input. She just stood there sipping her coffee with that bored look in her eyes." Your wave your hand around the general direction of your face.
"Wait, she watched?" Kate cackles, clearly finding enjoyment in your pain.
"Didn't say a word."
"I have to admit, her stillness is very unsettling," Yelena adds, thoughtfully taking a bite of her granola bar. "It's almost like she's judging your entire life through a single glance."
"She probably is," MJ says as she slides into the last open chair like she's been listening the whole time, which she probably has. "I'm sure she knows all our secrets, even before we've admitted them to ourselves. There's something about those piercing green eyes..." Everyone turns to look at MJ, but she just shrugs. "I heard she once made a fellow cry in the elevator from just a look."
"It's not fair," Peter whispers, poking at the food on his plate. "Hot people shouldn't be allowed that kind of power."
"She handed me the entire patient list of the floor and told me to write every note. You want to learn, don't you? she said. Like it was a fucking gift and I should be thanking her on my knees for her generosity."
"That's so hot," Kate sighs dreamily.
You shoot her a look. "You're damaged."
"She's terrifying," Peter agrees. "But in a very sexually confusing way."
"You guys are sick," you whine, pressing your face further into the crook of your arms.
Peter leans in, an encouraging smile on his lips. "Hey, for what it's worth... you didn't choke."
You blink up at him, skeptical, remembering the horrors from a few hours ago, not to mention the few times you slipped up while talking to patients with her breathing down your neck.
"Well, okay, yes, you did, but not on the hard stuff."
You grunt. "You are terrible at pep talks."
"I'm working on it."
"Give him points for honesty," MJ says, drinking a suspiciously green substance from a mason jar. "It's more than most people in this hospital will offer."
Kate tosses her empty wrapper at Peter. "He's like an over-eager puppy. Useless in crisis but you keep him around because he means well."
Peter gasps, mock-offended. "I'll have you know I was a Boy Scout and know perfectly well how to react in crisis."
"That actually explains the pathological need to help," Yelena deadpans.
"Okay, but for real," Kate leans forward conspiratorially, eyes bright with mischief, "do you think she knows she's hot, or is it just part of the ice queen aesthetic?"
"Please," MJ mutters. "She knows it and she weaponises it."
"I didn't realise I was the topic of such passionate lunchtime discussion."
You freeze.
The whole table freezes.
Because standing behind you, again, like she apparrated out of the floor tiles, is Dr. Maximoff.
Her eyes briefly dart over the group, then they settle you. "If you have that much energy to gossip, I assume your notes are done."
Your mouth opens, then closes. To be absolutely fair, you did not gossip with them. You were just sitting here, overthinking your career choices. You swallow the bitter taste on the back of your tongue.
"They will be," you manage, voice cracking. "Soon."
"Good," she replies before leaning forward so that only you can really hear her next words. "Next time, unwrap the chocolate. Your blood sugar's tanked, and it makes your hands shaky and your reaction slow."
She pulls away with the same calm, elegant efficiency she always moves with, but just before she walks off, she throws one final comment over her shoulder.
"And for the record," her gaze cuts briefly to Peter, Kate, MJ and Yelena, "if I hated interns, you'd know. You wouldn't still be here."
And then she's gone, heels clicking sharply as she disappears through the cafeteria doors. Silence follows her until all of you are certain that she won't come back.
You sit there frozen for a beat longer than anyone else. Heart still pounding, stomach still in such tight knots that you consider getting a consult with Dr. Wilson.
"I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes."
Kate fans herself with a napkin. "Is it bad that I want her to step on me with those heels?"
Peter exhales shakily. "That was... something."
Yelena tilts her head, studying you, no, dissecting you. "She likes you."
"That's not possible."
"She watches you like she's already memorised your blood type."
Peter stares at you like he's something for the first time now. "She told you to eat something, didn't she? I think you just got knighted by the Ice Queen."
"Or marked for death," Yelena offers.
You press your palms into the sockets of your eyes until you see stars dancing across your vision, unsure which is worse, and why, somehow, you want both to be true.
in 2025 let’s bring back being enthusiastic on ao3. leave a comment on every chapter. leave kudos and, if necessary, leave “double kudos” in the comments. tags and notes on bookmarks. the whole nine yards. let’s show fanfic authors how much we love them.
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, slow-burn, teasing, vulgar language, sexual implications, sexual tension, Sevika has a good heart, secrets, possible betrayal and angst, no sexual activity... yet
You don’t know how you ended up tied to a chair in the Undercity, but here you are with your white dress tattered and torn all over the place. One would think you purposely threw yourself into the dirt and ran through a myriad of rose bushes. Certainly, your family would be appalled by your current state, not to mention the place you found yourself in.
“What business does a pretty Piltover bird like you have here in Zaun?”
Stoically, you stare straight ahead, determined to ignore every word that falls from her lips. Her very full and soft-looking lips.
The woman who is currently keeping you imprisoned is a sight for sore eyes, you'd be a fool to state otherwise, but of course, you'd never admit aloud that you find someone from Zaun attractive. No, it would go against everything you have been taught. It doesn't matter that your captor is tall with brooding eyes and a curious scar on the side of her face... Well, you suppose, most importantly, a face like hers screams trouble.
“One would think mommy and daddy taught you some manners considering the jewels you were clad in,” she huffs.
Illuminated by the colorful signs from outside, your face is clearly visible to her and she takes all of your features in. Siren-like eyes and a sharp jawline break the softness that your lips and nose offer. You're beautiful, despite the dirt that's coating your cheeks. She reaches out, more on instinct than actual awareness, and swipes her thumb over your smooth skin, removing remnants of what looks to be grease. Whatever were you up to before she caught you?
“Let me guess, you were oh-so curious if the rumors about the dirty Underground were true that you simply had to come look for yourself.”
You're stubborn, biting the inside of your cheeks to keep yourself from talking to her, but you're not the first person to be at her mercy. She will break you, she always does.
Her eyes fall to the slit on your dress that ripped even further when you were fighting against the restraints earlier. A predatory smile stretches across her lips, revealing rows of sharp teeth. She made sure to wrap the rope extra tightly around you, your arms bound stiffly to your sides. No matter how much you struggle, there is no way you're escaping her any time soon.
“Or are you one of Babette’s new whores?”
Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open. Never in your life has anyone used such a filthy word in your presence, especially not in the same sentence as your fine name.
Noticing the reaction such a meaningless word caused, she decides to push you a little further. Her hand slowly slides up the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her palm is warm and rough, a strong contrast to your skin. Even in your current state, she can tell the importance of your family by merely touching your skin; skin that is void of scars and blemishes, proof of a life lived in sheltered comfort, like a bird in a gilded cage.
You squirm in your spot, attempting to shut your legs, but her arm is a whole lot stronger than your legs. The brunette watches your every move, grey eyes solely focused on your face. Your cheeks and neck turn a deeper shade of pink the further her fingers climb up and the rope digs into your arms so harshly that she is almost concerned about restricted blood flow.
Your eyes snap to her as her hand almost reaches a place far too private for someone like her. Her eyes are squinted, silently testing you to make a move, to tell her to stop, and who are you to refuse a challenge as such? Puckering your lips, you spit. It was an instinct, really, and it certainly achieved what it was supposed to.
The woman lets go of your leg, stunned by your little attack. Breathing heavily, you watch your saliva drip from her cheek, at least the bit that didn't end up in splatters across her face. She glowers at you over the bridge of her nose as she straightens her posture.
“Oh, princess,” she laughs, wiping over her face with the corner of her cape. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
At once, a dull echo rings through the room, bouncing off concrete and wooden walls loudly. Squealing, you feel yourself falling backward once she pushes your chair back with a strong kick. She catches it again mere centimeters from the ground, her fingers biting into the back of the chair, keeping it tilted. The movement causes her red poncho to reveal her copper prosthetic and your eyes are immediately drawn to it. Smirking, she flexes the mechanical fingers, displaying her claws to you.
Tilting your head back, you roll your eyes at her. “Is that supposed to be scary?”
Once again on this beautiful evening, the woman is taken aback. The resonance of your voice rings through the empty room, sending a shiver down her spine and enticing the little hairs on the back of her neck to straighten. Your voice is thick, like honey slowly dripping off a spoon, and there is a posh accent to every syllable that you utter. Greed flows through her system, urging her to lure more sounds from your red lips. Curiously, she bends down to your height and finds herself awfully close to your lips.
“So the little birdie does know how to sing,” she murmurs, eyes glistening in delight.
Her breath fans over your face, and you swallow audibly. Everybody knows how threatening a beautiful woman can be to one's cause, you mustn't get distracted by her and her incredibly long lashes. So instead of wondering what her flexing muscles would feel like underneath your fingers, you should force yourself to think about an escape plan. Eyes flickering to her mouth, you smile.
“The little birdie can do a lot more than singing,” you whisper, leaning as much forward as you can. “She can tell you to piss off.”
She blinks at you and suddenly, her body begins to shake with laughter and she has to turn her head away to stop herself from unraveling entirely. Howling, she screws her eyes shut tightly, replaying your last words and the defiant little gleam in your eyes over and over again. It’s cute how you think that she would find these words intimidating, or insulting for that matter. She's probably been saying phrases ten times worse than that since she could speak. You clench your jaw at her reaction, heat rising to your cheeks once again, and she decides to let go of your chair just for shits and giggles.
Your back collides harshly with the hard floor below you, and you swear under your breath as you wheeze for air. You groan, a throbbing pain pulsating from the back of your head.
Taking a step forward, she stands over you with a smug smile. The skirt of your dress rode up, revealing your legs all the way up to your mid-thigh. She studies the dried blood that's coating one of your knees. The first physical scar of your life, perhaps. She almost feels sympathy for you when she notices a singular tear gliding out of the corner of your eye, but it is gone as quickly as it came, so maybe she merely imagined it.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” she winks, licking her lips.
Opening your eyes, you furrow your brows, confused by her words. What does she mean in a few hours? You’re not planning on prolonging this whole thing longer than necessary. She is supposed to let you go now. After all, she had her fun with you now. Slowly, it dawns on you what she’s trying to say. You open your mouth to object, but she beats you to it.
“Carefully what you wish for, princess.”
You've been lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and counting how many nails were used to keep the beams upright for what feels like hours. There is no clock and there is no sun, and if you had to guess, that's exactly why she decided to keep you in here. It's mental warfare, Noxus does it too with war prisoners. They keep them locked in dark rooms and wait until they beg to be let out, but you won't break, not from something as trivial as time and boredom.
Just as you start taking a particular interest in the cobwebs that are lining the ceiling, the door behind you creaks open. It's a slow and eerie sound, like nails over a chalkboard. Twisting your head, you stare at the shadow that falls in a long line on the ground, the artificial light from the outside almost blinding you.
The woman's boots are heavy on the ground as she struts across the room, head held high with either arrogance or actual power. You still don't know what role she's playing down here, but by the way she's carrying herself, she must have some sort of say.
"Hope you had a good time down here?" she asks, bottom lip jutted forward mockingly.
If your hands were untied, you'd show her your middle finger, a crude and childish gesture, yes, but what else is there for you to do? Exactly, not much. Instead, you opt to keep your mouth shut. If this woman really has any rank in Zaun, it might do you some good to get on her good side.
"I see cat got our tongue again, huh?" Her voice is deep, more so than before. It sounds like she's tired, so maybe it's later than you originally assumed?
She halts just in front of you, forcing you to crane your neck to meet her gaze. She's carrying a bundle of cloth in her hand, and for a brief second, you worry that she's going to put some sort of sack over your head.
"I brought you some clothes," she mutters, pressing the tip of her boot on the very corner of your chair's leg, causing it to angle slightly upwards with the change of weight.
She grabs onto the back and pulls you up the rest of the way, and you pretend that the proximity to her doesn't bother you. With one forceful tug on the front of the knot, she unties you from the chair, allowing the rope to pool at the bottom of your feet.
Your eyes dart to the door. If you're quick enough, you can reach it within seven or eight big steps, but she can’t be that stupid, right? From your experience this morning, she is pretty quick and strong too, so maybe she's aware that you cannot possibly outrun her, and even if you were to reach the door before her, where would you go? You don't know where she took you after tossing you over her shoulder like a sack of rice.
“Don’t even think about it. There are two of my men waiting just outside this door, waiting for you to try something stupid.“
You exhale sharply, shoulders slumping before you turn your attention back to the woman in front of you. Great, even if you were in all the gods' good graces, there is no way you could take down her and her bootlickers. Disappointment nestles heavily on your shoulder, but you quickly shake the feeling before it festers into self-pity. You need a clear mind to focus and wallowing will only cloud your judgment.
You extend your palm face up, lips pressed into a thin line. Might as well get out of this dress while you can. It is surprisingly nice of her to think about a change of clothes for you. On your brief excursion through the streets of the Undercity, you noticed how people were burning holes in the back of your head. Some gazes were definitely less pleasant than others and the last thing you want to do down here is draw more attention to yourself than necessary. Perhaps that is something you should've considered before coming down here, but there wasn't much time for planning.
The woman's hand doesn't touch yours as she drops the clothes in your hand, and you swallow the curiosity that rises within you. Yes, she is a handsome woman, but there is no need for you to get overly friendly with her. You have more important matters to deal with than your dissatisfied libido.
Unfolding the clothes, you take the pants first and hold them to your waist. They might be a little short, but they should fit you just fine around the hips. However, when you unfold the shirt, your jaw hits the floor. This might as well not be even called a shirt, it's a whisper of nothing.
“Whose closet did you raid? A ten-year-old’s?” you grumble, pressing the short black top against your chest and trying to figure out if you can stretch more fabric out of it.
She rolls her eyes. “Only girl’s closet whose size might match yours. What do they feed you up there anyway? Sunlight and dewdrops?”
You tilt your head back and stare at the ceiling for a second, exhaling in and out, in and out. Okay, there is no way you will present your stomach for everyone to see, so what other option do you have? Keeping your dress on?
The ridge between your eyebrows speaks volumes. “Well, give me your shirt then.”
She smiles roguishly, crossing her arms over her rips. “Princess, if you want to see my tits that badly, you just have to ask for it.”
You blush, eyes darting to her chest. The faint outlines of her nipples are showcased by the tightly fitted fabric of her top, which you hadn't noticed before because of her red cape. Your eyes dip a little lower, studying the outline of the exposed skin of her stomach. Would it really be so bad to make her undress in front of you? Dislodging the bolder in the back of your throat, your eyes dart back up to her face.
“Never mind, I will make this work just fine, thank you.”
She hums, eyes still gleaming playfully while she shifts her weight to her other leg. "Hurry up, then. I still have other business to take care of."
You stare at her expectantly, but when she doesn't turn to give you any privacy, you wave your free hand around. “Do you mind?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You glare at her, a sight that could make hell freeze over, and for a second the woman wonders if you would punch for her comment. She would like to see you try, but decides to not test your patience, not now anyway.
Lifting her hands defensively, she spins around on her heels and stares outside the window. “Fine, whatever.”
You mumble something under your breath, but it's too quiet to reach her properly. Surely, it is some sort of insult that would make her laugh again.
The movement of your reflection catches her attention. She watches as you slide the zipper down your side at a teasingly slow pace. You are beautiful, not just your face, all of you look like you were blessed by the gods personally. She simply can't convince herself to look away, even though she knows better. After all, she does inhabit manners, despite many believing otherwise.
Her heart begins to race when the fabric glides all the way to the floor, revealing light pink panties and no bra. Sadly, the reflection is too blurry to tell whether or not your underwear is made from lace or silk, not that she's interested in knowing that little detail.
Although she teased you earlier, she would never lay hands on a Piltie. She prefers not to mingle with people of your likes, even if they look as appetising as you do. But that doesn't mean that she can't be attracted to you, which she very clearly is. Lucky for her, there are a bunch of beautiful girls down at Babette's who would love to take care of her troubles.
“There was a gold bracelet on my wrist before you manhandled and kidnapped me – where is it?”
Taking your question as a sign that you're fully dressed, she peers over her shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your features darken and you step closer to her, but she easily towers over you, making her much more intimidating than you.
“You said I had jewels on me a few hours ago,” you snap. “Where are they?”
At first, she groans, the annoyance clear as day on her face, but then, she wipes all emotions off. Her face becomes a clean slate and she merely shrugs, like the topic is more boring than anything to her. “Sold them.”
Wincing, you stumble over your next words. "You did what?”
She doesn’t miss the change in your voice and the subtle crack at the end of the sentence. Something akin to sympathy nags on her heart and for a fleeting moment, she feels bad for what she did, but the truth is that if it hadn't been her, someone else would've robbed you of your riches. Money like this can feed a family for a whole month down here.
"Come on, let's go," she says, walking past you and deliberately ignoring the wounded puppy look on your face.
You shake your head slowly and your heart clenches painfully with her revelation. You tense your jaw, the muscles stiff with the effort to hold back the tears that threaten to rise. You suck in a sharp breath, forcing your eyes to stay dry. It's just a bracelet. It didn't even have gemstones or anything like that, so there is really no reason to shed a tear over it. She probably didn't even get as much money for it as she wanted. You try to push past the biting sensation in your throat, but it tightens painfully with each breath, nearly impossible to ignore. You didn't realise how much sentimental value could hurt. Getting rid of it is better, you know it. It would've only reminded you of a life you can no longer return to.
You shake your hands and rock on the balls of your feet. Your hands shake involuntarily, an uncomfortable tension building in your chest. You can’t stay rooted like this. If you don’t start moving, she’ll see, and you can’t let her see. Mourning is better done behind closed doors, which is the preferred way for most emotions, according to your mother. A simple sentiment that has been drilled into you since birth. Other people need to see you as strong, a force to be reckoned with, not as a scared girl that ran away from home when things got too difficult.
You inhale deeply and slowly release the breath. If you want to become invisible, get lost in a crowd, you must liberate yourself from everything that ties you to Piltover. You repeat these words of affirmation over and over until you spin around and march across the room to follow your captor.
She holds the door open for you, and as you step past the threshold, it hits you: there are no men. Not a single one. Your heart lurches in your chest, and you freeze mid-step. You screw your eyes shut in embarrassment, cursing yourself for not thinking of this sooner. You're an idiot.
“Rookie mistake, princess,” she teases over your shoulder, her breath hot against the shell of your ear. “But you’ll learn.”
You shove your shoulder back trying to get her to give you some space, but she doesn't budge. Your little stunned leaves her entirely unaffected. Unlike you, who can't even seem to regulate the rush of heat flooding her chest. Rookie mistake, indeed. Her presence is lingering, suffocating you with a strange mix of frustration and something far more confusing.
She wraps her hand around your upper arm, dragging you along and onto the streets of Zaun. The city is nothing like you imagined. Of course, you had heard stories but seeing it with your own eyes is something entirely different. You didn't have much time to look around before you were captured, so you find yourself slowing your steps, eyes darting from one strange building to the next. The twisted metal and jagged edges are unlike anything you have seen in Piltover. Piltover is clean and golden, full of warm lights and live. Although your location should worry you with its stark contrast, you find something oddly mesmerising about it.
Thick, choking smog lingers, staining the skyline with a dull, perpetual haze that doesn't seem to lift. The air smells sharp and acidy, a biting scent that remains stuck in your nose. Yet, there is also a strange sweetness to it that coats the back of your throat.
Narrow passageways twist through tightly packed buildings, turning the streets into a large labyrinth. It turned out to be a major issue when you first arrived in the city without a plan, leading you straight into the arms of the woman who's currently squeezing your flesh and tugging at your arm, signalling for you to keep walking.
She pushes you into a small alleyway, and you whine when you step into a puddle that appears to be a mixture of oil and water, splashing a good amount of it onto your shoes and the hem of your new pants. It's not the first time the streets of Zaun leave their mark on you, but you would've preferred to stay dry. She only chuckles, amused by the pout on your pretty lips.
"I can walk by myself," you say, twisting your arm in her vice like grip and surprising yourself when you actually free yourself. A small yet nonetheless satisfying triumph. "I won't try anything stupid."
The distant hum of machinery, blending with the clatter of metal and the occasional hiss of pressurised steam are the only noise accompanying you on your walk to god knows where. All of your questions remain unanswered, no matter how often you ask them. She is quiet, not making a sound, even when people walk past the two of you and greeting her in acknowledgment. At least now you know that she is of some sort of importance.
After what feels like hours of climbing up and down staircases, always ending up in places that look too much like the last, you finally reach a large main street. The closer you get to the heart of the Undercity, the louder it becomes. The constant buzz of metal and machines fades, swallowed by the rise of voices. Around every corner there is something new to discover: from tattoo parlours with darkened interiors to sketchy street food stands sending wafts of grease and sizzling spices into the air. Your head is starting to spin from all the different sights and contrasting smells.
While you're completely lost, stumbling and staggering to keep up, the woman in front of you walks through the whirlwind of people like they don't even exist to her. She is determined and certain with each of her steps and you can't help admire drive.
"Hello, beautiful girl," a sweet voice calls, stirring your attention from the woman's back to her. "Would you like to know your future?"
A girl with cat ears and seductive eyes sits in a small parlour just a few steps away from you. A colourful canopy with fairy lights covers her little sitting area made from pillows and blankets. She tilts her head and the jewellery on her ears move along. A champagne flute with glimmering pink liquid illuminates the cattish traits of her face, and you feel naturally drawn to her. An invisible string pulling you closer to her.
"How curious", you mumble, all of the sudden forgetting why you were here in the first place.
Your captor notices your hesitation and spins around, searching for you in the crowd. When she can't spot you immediately, she retraces her steps, eyes narrowing as she scans every alley and corner for where you’ve slipped away. Finally, she finds you, already poised to sit down on one of the comfy pillows.
"Uh-uh, absolutely not," she snaps, grabbing you by the elbow before you can fall victim to the girl's scam.
"Hey," you yell, yanking against her grip like a fish out of water. "I was trying to have a conversation."
"Yeah?" she asks, her tone laced with sarcasm, only loosening her grip on your arm when you're back on the main street. "And with what money were you planning to fund her little scam?"
You roll your eyes and shrug off her jab, still glancing over your shoulder at the psychic’s stand. "Did you see her drink? What was that?"
She shakes her head, eyes following your gaze, though she can already imagine what you’re talking about. A shadow crosses her face, darkening her expression. "Stay away from shops like that. And from people like her."
You huff and cross your arms, feeling like a petulant child, but reluctantly follow her without saying another word.
She leads you to a building where a long line of people wait outside, their faces brightened by the blinding neon lights flashing above the entrance. You squint as you try to focus on the sign, but it’s no use. The lights are too intense. Unlike the others, she walks past the line, heading straight to two men stationed on either side of the door. One is tall with broad shoulders and the other willowy with calculating eyes.
As soon as they spot her, both straighten, their conversation abruptly dying. It's like a switch flipped, the air shifts entirely with her presence. You glance at the woman from the corner of your eye, studying her as she strides toward the door without a pause. If she notices the shift in behaviour, she either doesn’t care or isn’t surprised. Who is she?
"What did you catch for Silco this time?" One of them asks, leering down at you through yellow eyes.
Before he can get a closer look at you, she steps in front of you, a smooth and deliberate motion. Your heart stutters as her fingers brush over your wrist. You become hyper aware of your racing pulse. She can feel it too, you're sure of it.
"None of your damn business." Her shoulder brushes against his as she forces her way past them.
It's a bar. Or maybe a club. It's hard to tell with the flashing lights hurting your eyes. The loud music courses through your body and it feels like your bones are vibrating along the fast-paced bass. You cover your ears instinctively. Your gaze darts from one corner of the room to the next. People are dancing, screaming, drinking and inhaling different kinds of potions. Everyone is completely lost in their hedonistic desires.
The woman doesn't give you time to take it all in. She turns to you, now a little more aware of not leaving you to your own devices, and pulls you along through the sea of people. Her grip is firm, guiding you through the crowd with ease. Dancing people brush against you, causing you to stumble here and there. She leads you up a dark hidden staircase. She pushes you through a door at the top, using so much force that you almost lose your balance, barely managing to catch yourself.
Glaring at her over your shoulder, you grumble a string of impolite phrases. She lounges in a nearby armchair in a cloud of indifference, eyes focused on a small liquor cabinet. To her, you're little more than an annoying distraction.
You clench your jaw, frustration hot on your skin, but you hold back from demanding her attention. You take a moment to rub the sore spot on your upper arm, finally able to soothe the bruise left by her touch.
"So you are the headache that she's been complaining about?" A deep, raspy voice calls from behind you, and you quickly turn around, eyes widening in surprise. "Doesn't seem like much of a threat to me."
There's a man sitting in a chair just below a large circular window. His posture is casual, yet he radiates an underlying sense of authority. He wears a jacket with deep maroon lapels and golden edges, the fabric rich and expensive. His face is sharp and marred by scars, but there is no denying that he was handsome in another life.
But it's his eye that commands your attention. The glowing red eye that is so unlike his other one, catches the dim light and looks back at you with an unnerving intensity. You swear you have seen his face before. At least, some version of it, in a picture or somewhere in passing.
“She battered two of my men pretty badly.” The woman's voice is casual as she pours herself a generous glass of translucent brown liquid.
For the first time, you notice the rigidness in your right hand. You glance down, flexing your fingers. A sharp pain shoots up your arm, but oddly enough, you enjoy it. You don't remember punching anyone, but there was so much chaos and adrenaline that you can hardly remember anything at all.
“I would’ve beaten you up pretty badly too if you hadn’t had your unfair advantage," you retort, lifting your chin in defiance to mask the unease you're feeling
"Sure, princess," she scoffs, knocking back her drink in one swift motion. The faintest hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, as if your bravado amuses her.
Long blue braids suddenly obstruct your line of sight, and you tilt your head back, meeting the striking eyes of a young woman. She has delicate features, wide eyes and sharp eyebrows. There's something childlike in her expression, something unsettlingly innocent.
“Oh, I know you,” she squeals, hanging upside down from the ceiling. “You are that little singer that everyone talks about on the Topside!”
Your face loses all of its color, the blood draining from your cheeks. “No.”
“Yes, you are,” she exclaims, effortlessly dropping onto the man's desk with a thud. “Your face is plastered all over the place!”
“A musician, huh?” your captor grins. “I’m sure we could get a fine reward for you.”
Panic creeps up your neck, and your eyes widen. “I'm nothing, she has no idea what she's talking about, clearly!”
Her curiosity only sharpens as she studies you, her gaze flickering between the woman to you with speculations. But before she can open her mouth again, the man behind the desk rises from his chair, silencing the room.
“If she is determined to stay here, she shall do so,” he declares. “We do not turn away from those who seek refuge.”
The coil of nerves in the pit of your stomach begins to unravel and for a split second you almost let out a sigh of relief. He has given his approval, whatever that's worth, and now you can move on. Hooray!
“What if she’s a spy, Silco?” the woman insists, and in that moment, you want nothing more than to shove a rag into her mouth to stop her from arguing further.
“Well, I’d be a terrible spy if I let myself get caught by you, no?” You grit through your teeth, glaring at her with clenched fists.
“Perhaps this was exactly your plan," she challenged, stepping close enough that you could smell the whiskey on her breath.
“Yeah, sure, you got me there." You snort, contorting your face in mockery. "Am I free to leave now?"
Silco waves you off, already focusing on something different, and you don't need to be told twice to leave. You practically bolt for the door, ignoring the brooding woman and the endless pestering about your past from the other. Yanking the door open, you are ready to deal with whatever chaos awaits you on the other side.
But just as the door falls into the lock, the weight of your situation dawns on you. One would think that you had used your time chained up wisely, but apparently, that wasn't the case. Instead of finding your way around Zaun, pawning stuff off and trying to find a place to stay with the money you got from it, you're stuck here with nothing but the clothes on your back.
Glaring at the wooden panels beneath your shoes, you try to come up with a new plan, but a familiar voice halts your train of thought.
"I warned you, so don't call me when the streets are flooded by enforcers looking for their pretty little songbird."
The words hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine, looming over you, and you remain stuck at the reminder of how vulnerable you are. This isn't just about surviving anymore. It's about making sure you don’t get caught, and that’s a lot harder than it sounds when you’ve already become the target of more eyes than you’d care to count.
The sound of footsteps draws closer, but you don’t dare turn around. The door behind you opens, and you can feel a pair of grey eyes burning through the soft skin of your neck. You try to hide yourself further in the shadows, but there isn’t much space to do that. The dim light from the room behind you barely reaches the corner where you stand, and you press yourself against the cool walls as if their darkness can shield you.
The woman stands still, watching you with a strange mixture of annoyance and intrigue. She assumed you'd be over the hills by now. Finding you here, barely a few meters away, gives her an unexpected surge of satisfaction. She licks her bottom lip and bites down on it, stopping herself from laughing loudly. Despite her inner voice telling her to move on and ignore you, she finds her legs having a mind of their own.
"You have no idea where to go, do you?" she asks, casting a shadow over you.
You bite back a retort, clenching your fists to avoid giving her the reaction she craves. Instead, you stay silent, your heart racing as you wait for her next move. You don't want her to see how truly desperate you are. You can't bear the thought of allowing her to see you crumble.
You aren't the first person to stumble through Zaun's messes, desperately seeking something better or merely hoping to survive another day. But you are one of the few people from Piltover that try to take their chances down here without having fallen prey to Shimmer or their gambling addiction. You still have far too much fight left in you, as proven by the stubborn tilt of your chin.
She isn't sure what to make of you. You aren't part of the city. You don't have its rough edges and sharp corners. Everything about you screams pampered and soft. You don't belong here, and yet, here you are: stuck in a place that could chew you and spit you out without much of a second thought.
She's been watching you ever since you stepped off the elevator, all wide-eyed foolishness and Topside arrogance. At first, she dismissed your presence. You were just another soft little princess that had ended up in the wrong place because of her curiosity. But she quickly realised that that wasn't the case. There is something in the way you hold yourself, the edge of pride even in your vulnerability. You didn't end up here because of idiocy, you ended up here because you want to be here. You know about the dangers of Zaun and you are testing them, seeing if they can make you break.
It irritates her, the way you seem to pull her in. That instinct that stirred deep within and kept her up at night to make sure you didn't get lost in the cracks of the city. You are too pretty to end up drugged up on Shimmer like so many others down here.
"Dammit," she mutters under her breath and pinching the bridge of her nose. She isn't the saviour type and she certainly doesn't want to get involved with Topsider, but letting you go is out of the question too.
Sighing, she whistles and beckons you to follow with a crook of her finger. She convinces herself that it's easier to keep tabs on you if you're within her reach, but the truth is something entirely different, something she's not even willing to admit.
“Do I look like a dog to you?” you growl, despite falling in step behind her.
Smirking, she eyes you up and down. “I don’t know, princess, why don’t you get on your knees for me, and we’ll check?”
"In your dreams."
Shaking her head, she laughs, already turning to continue to her next destination. You don't even care where she's taking you. You just don't want to be alone on the streets of Zaun. Without a clue about where to go or what to do next, it's easier to just follow her, especially because being with her right now, despite everything, feels like regaining some sort of control over your life.
Afraid of staying left behind, you push your legs harder, matching her pace with double the effort. The truth you're avoiding presses down on you with finality. You can't return to Piltover, not after everything. That place, those people, they will never let you breathe again. Zaun is your only option right now, and at least, you don't have to pretend here anymore.
She leads you into a backroom downstairs, where the music is still throbbing loudly through the thin walls, but at least it's muffled in here. The air reeks of smoke, booze and something foul. A handful of people are gathered around a smaller bar, their conversation a low hum in the background. Others are seated around scattered tables, some playing cards or other games, others immersed in their own conversations.
The woman slides into a chair in the far corner of the room, where a few men are hunched over a table, dealing with cards with grand gestures.
"Want to join in on the next round?" one of them asks, flashing a sly smirk, his eyes glinting with confidence. "Still gotta get my money back from the last game."
She pushes air through her teeth, her gaze unwavering as she leans back in her chair. "I'd like to see you try."
It's a challenge. You can see the faintest smile on her lips as she seizes the men up. Her posture is lazy, like she's done this million times before.
You stand nearby, one hand nervously clasped around your elbow. You sift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do with yourself. Your eyes scan the bar, watching people drink and smoke way too much. None of this feels like a place you belong.
"Princess," she calls, her tone sharp and direct. Without thinking, you glance up. "Take this and get me something to drink."
Your jaw tightens. You consider protesting, but the words never come. You take the pouch of coins from her outstretched hand, your fingers brushing against hers, and feel the weight of it in your palm.
"I'm not a server," you mutter, but even as you say it, you're already turning toward the bar.
She raises an eyebrow at your quiet quip while her hands shuffle the cards with practiced ease. "Get yourself something too."
You hum, tossing the bag from one hand to the other, listening to the soft clinking of the coins inside. You could take this money and make a run for it. By the sheer size of the bag, there should be enough to keep you afloat for a little while. Zaun is a fucking maze. Even someone like her might not find you again if you act cleverly.
But the thought only lasts a moment. You know it wouldn't be that simple. She wouldn't just let you go. She'd make her personal cat and mouse game out of hunting you. You can feel her watching you even as she focuses on her game, and the instinct to flee fades quickly, replaced by the realisation that you're more trapped than free.
Defeated, you reach the bar and wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar is only a distant buzzing in the back of your mind. You're far too occupied with your own thoughts to focus on anything around you.
You feel like you should get something stronger for you too. The problem is, you have no idea what they're mixing here and you're not sure you want to find out. A small voice in the back of your head, one that you usually try to ignore, wonders what would happen if you let your guard down, just for one moment. What happens if you just let go?
A shiver runs down your spine. The thought of getting drunk here is terrifying. You're not used to anything stronger than a flute of sparkling wine. The streets would eat you right up, even if you doubt that the woman behind you would let anything happen to you. But better safe than sorry, right? So, instead of testing your personal limits, you settle for a glance behind the bar and tap your fingers against the counter impatiently.
Leaning against the counter, a man starts playing with your hair, twirling loose strands around his grimy fingers. His eyes sweep over your profile, lingering a little too long on your chest. His breath is thick with cheap liquor, and the way he looks at you makes your skin crawl.
“Sevika must have paid a pretty dime for you, huh?” he asks, his voice much higher than you expected, squeaking like a piglet.
Sevika. That's her name. She's been refusing to tell you all day, but now you have it. You must admit that it suits her quite well. You try to remember it, but the man's touch makes it hard to focus.
“Excuse me?” You try to keep your voice steady, although you know that giving him attention will only make things worse.
He doesn’t take the hint, leaning closer. “You don’t talk much, do you? I guess that means you know how to—”
Before he can finish, the bartender finally looks up, and you realise with a pang of dread that you don't know what Sevika likes to drink.
"Whatever she usually drinks," you mumble, blindly pointing a finger at the woman who's merrily gambling money away, money that could be useful to you.
“What would I have to pay you to get you to sit on my lap like that?” The piglet nudges his chin towards a woman who's sitting on another man's lap, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck. "I'm sure I could make it worth your time."
You bite your tongue to keep from snapping, but then his hand slides from your hair, down your shoulder and to your ass. He squeezes the flesh, his nails digging in too hard, a sleazy smirk on his lips.
Without thinking, you whip around and punch him square in the face. A pleasing crunch echoes through the room and his eyes widen in shock. Blood bursts from his nostrils, staining his lips and chin. Time stands still as everyone watches the scene unfold.
Sevika's head snaps towards you. You swear under your breath, a real curse this time, and cradle your hand. You scold yourself for throwing another punch too fast, too recklessly. You shake the pain in your knuckles away.
You reach for the finished drink that bartender slides toward you, thankful for the distraction.
Looking over your shoulder, you meet the man's bloodshot gaze. “I’m worth more than you could ever afford.”
You toss a few coins on the counter, not even looking at them as they hit the counter. The bartender doesn't bat an eye. He's seen ten times worse, probably.
"Fucking bitch," he hisses, blood dripping from his broken nose. "I will kill you."
You don't flinch. "You'll have to get in line for that."
People's eyes follow you as you walk back toward Sevika. Although you feel a shimmer of pride in your chest, it quickly morphs into regret. What are you doing here? You should be home, celebrating, not here in a bar with nowhere to go. What were you thinking? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not to mention all the attention you're drawing on yourself.
You slam Sevika's drink onto the table, the glass clinking harshly, and toss the coins into her lap with a little more force than necessary. A cigar dangles from the corner of her mouth and the sharp stench curls into smoke, making you scrunch your nose and pull back instinctively.
“Sit down,” she says brusquely, pushing her chair back just enough to make space on her lap for you.
“No," you bite back, refusing to play into her twisted little fantasies of turning you into her personal lapdog.
Her eyes narrow and she exhales wisps of smoke through her nose. “Don’t test my patience, princess.”
You scoff, crossing your arms and resting against the nearest wall. “Why don’t you make me, Sevika?”
You can feel her gaze on you, and it’s not just her usual cold stare anymore. It's something else, much darker and predatory. Of course, it wouldn't take long for you to figure out her name. She licks her lips and scratches her chin with the tip of her thumb. Sevika has heard her name being tossed around many times, but the way you say it with your posh little accent gets under her skin.
Tugging on one of your belt loops, she pulls you forward easily. The movement is smooth, almost too natural, and before you can protest, you sit frozen on her lap, unable to escape as she drapes her metal prosthetic over your thighs. The heat from her body radiates through you and every molecule between your bodies feels charged.
You barely allow yourself to breathe. The tension is palpable, and it becomes heavier with every second. Don't move, don't move...
The pressure of Sevika's fingers on your waist makes it hard to focus on anything but the overwhelming feeling of being held. Even if you try to hate, it's consuming, holding every nerve in your body captive at gunpoint. When was the last time you felt like this?
You need to do something to distract yourself from the proximity. You watch as tendrils of white smoke rise to the ceiling just out of the corner of your eye. Blindly, you reach behind you, plucking the cigarette from Sevika's lips and bringing it to your own. You've never smoked before and you didn't expect it to burn in your lungs the way it does. The muscles in your stomach contract under the force of your suppressed cough and your eyes well up with tears, but you refuse to show weakness. You wouldn't dare admit that taking that stupid cigar was a dumb idea. There is no turning back now, so might as well continue to pretend to be a badass.
“Hands on the table," she orders, her voice low and firm. You fight the urge to clench your thighs, the feeling of her chin brushing over your shoulder tugging at your nerves.
Reluctantly, you place your hands flat on the table in front of you. The surface is sticky from spilled drinks. Around you, the men continue to pretend to focus on their cards, all while their eyes occasionally flicker toward you. What? Never seen two women almost suffocate on the sexual tension between them?
You hiss as Sevika presses the bottom of her ice-cold glass against your knuckles, but it's nothing compared to the way her mechanical arm locks your hand in place when you try to pull away.
“You got a surprisingly nice punch,” she comments, her voice a quiet rasp.
You mumble around the cigar, keeping your face void of emotions. "How would you know? I missed when I tried to hit you."
"Seeing the damage you've caused is more than enough proof for me," she replies, the hint of a joke tugging at her lips. It's a subtle tease that catches you off guard.
Then, without warning, she lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a gentle, almost tender kiss to your knuckles. A spark of electricity jolts through you and a rush of emotions runs havoc in your body. Butterflies flutter their wings wildly in the pit of your stomach, and you exhale harshly, as though you could force them straight out of your body. What's going on with you? You try to push the thought away. Is this Stockholm syndrome?
Sevika places her glass back down on the table, her mechanical arm resting across your lap again as she reaches around to take the cigar from your lips. The prosthetic feels cold even through your pants, but the weight of it is grounding. She turns her focus back to her and as soon as her attention returns to her cards, the men around you start conversing again. You don't move at first. You're too caught up in the strange pull of this interaction.
You lean against her, suddenly exhausted, the weight of the last few days settling over you. You close your eyes, listening to the steady sound of her breathing, trying to convince yourself that you don't mind being close to her. The warmth of her body is soothing, even if you can't explain why you're allowing it to affect you in such ways.
"Gambling is bad for you, you know?" you say, cracking one eye open and glancing at the card in her hand. You've never seen a game like this, but you're too exhausted to try and understand the rules.
“It’s only bad for you if you lose," she replies smoothly, the corners of her mouth quirking up. "And I rarely lose."
You roll your eyes, but keep your comment about her arrogance to yourself. She's probably right, anyway.
Leaning your head to the side, you let your cheek rest against her shoulder. There is something oddly comforting about her smell: smoke and metal with a faint trace of something earthy, like leather. You like how she smells, not that you would ever admit that. And for some reason, you feel safe here. Too safe, Maybe you hit your head a little too hard earlier.
Seconds turn into minutes and minutes blur into hours. Exhaustion begins to weigh down on you. Somewhere in the haze, you find yourself muttering the one question that's been on your mind since you left Piltover: "Where will I stay tonight?"
Your words hang in the air, soft and uncertain, and you wonder if she even heard you. But then you notice that she's rooted to her spot, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around her cards. She glances at you from the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable.
You're staring at the ceiling, lost in your thoughts. You don't notice how her jaw tightens, a flicker of something, maybe sympathy, maybe irritation, maybe both, that crosses her face. That annoying feeling won't leave her alone, no matter how much she tries to shake it, and she hates it. Hates you a little too for stirring it in her in the first place.
"Rotten luck, boys," she says suddenly, tossing her cards on the table.
She reaches for the pile of gold coins, ignoring the groans and complaints from the other players.
"Eh, Sevika, come on, one more round," one of them protests, throwing his card down in frustration.
"Nah," she says, leaning back in her chair as she gathers her winnings "We gotta go."
You blink in surprise when she gently nudges you off her lap and rises to her feet.
She walks past you and out of the door before you can register that she's actually leaving. We? Does that mean you’re supposed to go with her? Perhaps she has made up her mind and will sell you to some brothel. You shiver and discard that thought quickly. If that was her plan, she would've done it already. Right?
You follow her, despite your hesitation. When you step into the hallway, you find her waiting just outside the door. She leans against the wall, arms crossed with her head slightly tilted as she watches you approach.
"Took you long enough," she teases, but there is a peculiar tenderness to her voice that makes your stomach twist.
Silence stretches between you as she turns and climbs the stairs. You trail behind, counting each creaking step and noting how the air grows colder and the music quieter the higher you go.
At the top, she stops at a door. The music from downstairs is barely audible now, just a dull buzzing you wouldn't notice unless you searched for it.
"What's in there?" you ask, curiously peeking past her but still unsure if you really want to know the answer.
Sevika doesn't respond, instead she rummages through her pockets. The sound of a key chain clinking fills the quiet hall before she slides one of them into the lock. With a push of her prosthetic arm, the door swings open, revealing a small apartment.
You tilt your head, surprised by the revelation of Sevika's apartment. A worn leather couch dominates the rectangular living room, and a low coffee table with a pack of cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of something sits in front of it.
The room is small, much smaller than any room in your family's estate, but it makes it cozy. There are shelves lined with a few old books and records, little trinkets are discarded on every available surface and you find yourself absolutely enchanted by everything.
Sevika tosses her red cape onto the couch and kicks her boots off near the door. She disappears into an adjoined room, leaving you alone in the doorway.
"Are you going to stand there all day and let the cold air in, or what?" she calls from somewhere inside, her voice muffled and laced with impatience.
The smell of her hits you as you step inside. It clings to the air, to the furniture, probably even to the plain wallpaper. At this point, there is no doubt that this is her space.
You untie your shoes, placing them neatly next to Sevika's worn combat boots, and allow your fingers to drift over the spines of vinyl records that are lined up on a shelf. Most of the have worn sleeves with scratched covers, but there is definitely an organisation in how they've been arranged. There are little things lying around, little trinkets. A book with yellowed pages here and a fancy tool there. It seems chaotic at first but it actually gives the room a lived-in feeling. It's odd to think that Sevika is the kind of person to enjoy music and collecting little trinkets.
"I'm assuming you haven't eaten in quite a while?" Her voice cuts through your thoughts, making you jump. You withdraw your hand from a particularly interesting artefact, your cheeks turning pink.
You follow the sound of her voice into a cramped kitchen. She's leaning over a small sink, washing vegetables and cutting off the stems.
You linger on the carrot, of all things. Not to be a terrible person, but you somehow didn't think that people down here even knew that a carrot is.
She turns to look at you, a brow arched in amusement "What? Don't tell me you don't like vegetable stew."
You furrow your brows. "Why are you doing this?"
She rolls her eyes, mostly because she doesn't have a response for that either. "Would you rather stay on the streets?"
You swallow and shake your head. There is no point in pushing. You'd rather not annoy her too much. If she's willing to let you sleep here, who are you to judge? But the uncertainty does gnaw at your guts. Why is she doing this? What's in it for her?
She dries her hands on a kitchen towel and brushes past you without another word, disappearing into the other room. All you can do is stare at her sink with pursed lips. This has to be some sort of trick, right?
You hear drawers opening and closing. A moment later, she returns back to the kitchen with folded clothes and towels in her arms.
She shoves the bundle into your arms and you blink at the items with parted lips. "What–"
"The bathroom is through there," she interrupts, jerking her chin toward the door across the kitchen. "Take a shower, get changed, and then, we can talk about the rest."
You stare at her for a beat, trying to read her expression, but her face empty. Something unspoken lingers between the two of you, and you hate how much this uncertainty is bothering you.
Cradling the clothes against your chest, you nod and shuffle toward the bathroom. You have nothing to offer to her right now, so what does want? Certainly it can't be mere kindness that's forcing her to help you.
You go through the motions of showering with little awareness for your surroundings. The warm water washes over you, but it does little to ease your thoughts. A few hours ago, she wanted to toss you out and forget you existed. Now she’s giving you her clothes and cooking dinner. None of it adds up. Does she know who you are? Panic flares for a moment. The thought of her cashing in a bounty on you sends your mind spiralling. Or maybe you hit your head harder than you thought. Is this all just a concussion-induced hallucination?
You barely notice the steam rising behind you as you step out of your bathroom. Sevika's shorts hang low on your hips and the shirt she gave you feels oddly comfortable. When you look up, Sevika's eyes are on you, lingering and trailing over your legs.
Her lips are pressed into a thin line and something flickers across her face, but she looks away too quickly for you to tell which emotion it is exactly. Your hair is still dripping wet and leaves wet spots on your shirt. A lone strand sticks to your cheek and Sevika has to fight the urge to brush it behind your ear. She didn't expect you to look this good in her clothes, but it is too late for regrets now.
"I will take a quick shower too," she says abruptly, rising from the sofa. "If the timer dings, lower the heat on the stove."
You nod, all snarky comebacks suddenly forgotten. She doesn't wait for a reply before she disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of the water running fills the silence. You release a heavy breath, finally allowing yourself to let your guards down a little.
Left alone, your curiosity gets the better of you. You wander through the apartment, tracing over shelves with your fingertips. You study little snippets of Sevika's life and are surprised by how organised it seems to be. Everything has its place. Even the blanket on the sofa is draped with precision. The thought makes you smile. She's a control freak, no surprise there.
And then, your mind begins to wander too. Back to the way her fingers expertly tied you up. You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing those thoughts to stop. No, you really shouldn't go there. You don't want to think about her naked body and how she'd behave in bed. You swallow the saliva that's pooling in your mouth. There is no doubt in your mind that she likes to have the upper hand behind closed bedroom doors.
The shower turns off, and you quickly sit down on the sofa, folding your hands in your lap and pretending like you weren't just imagining your host in improper positions while snooping around her apartment. When Sevika emerges, her hair is damp an a towel slung over her shoulder, you forget how to breathe.
She's dressed in nothing but a sports bra and a low hanging pair of comfortable pants. Her toned stomach and broad shoulder are on full display, teasing you. Even though you already saw parts of her body, this is something else entirely. Your mouth goes dry and you have to remind yourself to blink.
A smirk spreads across Sevika's face while your eyes leave a hot trail over her skin. It's almost like she can hear your thoughts. The kitchen timer chimes. Even the kitchen appliances seem to have mercy on you, and you use the opportunity to escape the room.
Your fingers are shaking as you lower the heat. You should leave. You should say thank you and go, you think, gripping the kitchen counter for moral support. Every warning signal in your body screams for you to walk away, to go back to Piltover, to try and fix things before you dig yourself a deeper hole.
You nod to yourself, rehearsing the words you'll say. But when you turn, she's already there, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. Her biceps flex with the motion and you forget how to form proper sentences. You're not strong enough for this.
"You can stay here until you've figured things out."
You blink. "You want me to stay?"
"I wouldn't say want," she replies, the corner of her mouth twitching. "But I'm feeling rather generous today."
You swallow hard, touching your burning cheeks. She's enjoying this, isn't she? If she had known this was all it took to turn you into a sweet, flustered mess, she would've stripped hours ago.
"I don't want to be a burden," you say, trying to sound steady but failing miserably. "I already took up so much of your time. Gave you a headache–"
She closes the gap between your bodies, trapping you between her and the counter. "Just say thank you, birdie."
The back of your neck prickles and your chest tingles. Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. This isn't the first woman you've been around. Quite frankly, you've been with your fair share of beautiful and charming women, but there is something about Sevika. The way she gets under your skin and doesn't stop until your blood pressure is through the roof.
"You should eat something," she murmurs, her lips dangerously close to your ear.
Oh, you can think of several things you'd like to sink your teeth in right now, and none of them include food.
You twist around, brushing against her in a way that makes your heart pound louder than the music downstairs. She shifts closer, pressing her pelvis against the curve of your ass. The heat between you is suffocating and you wish you could shed some layers. You can hear your heartbeat in every corner and crevices of your body and blood rushes through your body so fast it leaves you dizzy.
Her hand moves off the counter, but you grab her arm before she can touch your burning skin.
"You don't want me, Sevika" you say, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a Topsider and I have more baggage than I can carry."
Her expression shifts from bewilderment to realisation. She mouths your words silently, tasting them on her tongue before a mask slips over her features.
The truth of who you are serves as a bucket of ice-cold water. A Piltie hiding in the trenches means trouble and you're already so much trouble. Of course, she doesn't want you. It's the stress of the day that clouded her judgment. She clears her throat and steps back.
"Right."
She grabs two plates from a cabinet, her movements stiff and distant. Her face is unreadable again, but the brief flicker of hurt in her eyes is burned into your mind.
You should feel relieved. After all, pushing her away was the right thing to do. But all you can feel is the bitter sting of disappointment.
Summary: As Agatha Harkness’s loyal, overworked intern, you're used to her sharp critiques, but during tonights debate your focus slips as her opponent, Rio, commands the stage—every smirk and effortless remark dragging your attention away from where it should be.
-OR-
Rio fucks you in a supply closet during the 20 minute intermission
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Rio, Agatha's a bitch to work for, hints at sub reader, reader gets called a good girl, fingering (R recv), kind of jealous Rio
Words: 2.5k
A/N: Agatha All Along Week Day 3: Politics AU
AO3 | Part 2 | Masterlist
The greenroom hums with quiet tension as you rifle through Agatha's debate notes for the third time, hands clammy and breath uneven. It’s the night of the big political debate, and as Agatha Harkness’s long-suffering assistant, it’s your job to keep her sharp—and yourself invisible. The pages are pristine, you’ve been over them so many times you could recite every policy point backwards, but Agatha's sharp gaze makes you doubt yourself anyway.
“Your collar,” she says flatly, eyes flicking up at you from her seat. “It’s crooked. And don’t tell me that’s the coffee you’re drinking?” Her voice cuts with a blend of exasperation and thinly veiled superiority. “You look jittery. The last thing I need is my intern vibrating through the floor.”
Jen is crouched in front of Agatha with a makeup brush in hand and mutters just loud enough for you to hear, “She doesn’t pay you enough for this.” The words are paired with an eyeroll as she dabs foundation across Agatha’s sharp cheekbones. You resist the urge to laugh or nod in agreement, offering Jen a tight smile instead.
Nearby, Alice—all business in their crisp, dark suit—stands by the door. As Agatha's head of security, she scans the room like a hawk, her gaze never lingering for long, before leaving to check another room. Just as you think you might escape Agatha’s scrutiny, you catch the telltale click of heels against the tile floor outside.
The sound is light and deliberate. Rio.
She doesn’t enter, of course. Instead, you catch her gliding past through the crack in the door, an effortless vision in sleek navy tailored trousers and a fitted blazer that seems more runway than debate stage. Her confidence oozes into the room like smoke, intangible yet suffocating. And as if she senses you looking, she pauses. Her piercing gaze locks onto yours through the sliver of the door, and her lips curl into a smirk—just a small, slow lift at one corner. It’s not smug, not outright. It’s worse: like she knows something you don’t. Your stomach twists, and you look away, your pulse hammering harder than it should.
“Focus,” Agatha snaps, drawing you back. You nod, gripping the notes tighter.
—
Out onstage, the spotlight belongs to the host, Lilia. With her poised, almost theatrical delivery, she welcomes the audience and sets the stakes for the evening. Her voice rises and falls with practiced polish as she introduces the two candidates, her tone dipped in just enough gravity to make the event feel monumental.
“First up, please welcome Agatha Harkness.” Lilia announces, and a round of polite applause follows. Agatha steps up to the podium in sharp black, chin tilted just so. Her expression is cool, calculated.
“And the opposition… Rio Vidal.”
Rio’s entrance is a masterclass in charisma. The lights catch her in all the right ways, her movements fluid as she takes her place. She flashes that grin—just a hint of teeth—at the crowd, and a ripple of enthusiasm bubbles up from the audience. You can feel it, and you hate it. You hate her easy confidence, her unshakeable calm, and the way her presence feels like gravity itself.
The debate kicks off with a bang. Lilia moderates with a firm hand, though at times she lets the tension stew just long enough to keep the crowd engaged. Agatha’s strategy is sharp and relentless. Her words hit like precise daggers, cutting at Rio’s platform with efficiency. But Rio… Rio doesn’t falter. Each barb rolls off her back as if rehearsed. Her responses are smooth, her tone honeyed yet precise. And every so often, when Agatha lands a particularly scathing blow, Rio’s smile spreads wide—like she’s winning something entirely separate from the debate.
From your place offstage, your knuckles are white where you grip the edge of your clipboard. You can’t stop watching her. It’s infuriating. Her ease, her smugness, the way she doesn’t seem to sweat even under the heat of Agatha’s precision.
And then Rio’s gaze flicks sideways—to you.
You freeze.
Her eyes hold yours for the barest beat, her smirk deepening like a silent challenge. It’s only a second, maybe two. But in that moment, she owns you, and she knows it.
—
“Now for a few questions from the audience,” Lilia says, gesturing to a woman in the second row.
“Hello, my name is Sharon Davies, and my question is for Agatha,” the woman begins, voice clear and steady. “How do you plan to address the economic disparity between the local communities?”
You feel a flicker of relief at the straightforward question until Agatha responds. “Thank you for your question, Mrs. Hart.”
There’s an audible pause. The woman’s lips twitch in confusion, but Agatha continues unbothered, launching into a clipped yet polished answer.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rio take a slow sip of water to hide the grin playing at her lips. You groan internally.
—
The first half of the debate ends with Lilia’s crisp announcement of a 20 minute break. Agatha wastes no time making her exit offstage, muttering about the poor quality of the audience questions as she brushes past you. You follow instinctively, already bracing for whatever critique she’ll launch your way—
But then a hand grabs your arm.
“In a hurry, are we?” The voice slides into your ear—low, teasing. You don’t have to turn to know it’s Rio. Her presence burns like a shadow just behind you, close enough to feel the faint warmth of her body.
“Move, Rio,” you mutter under your breath, refusing to look back.
She laughs—soft and unbothered. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
Before you can react, Rio’s hand finds your wrist, firm but not painful, and she pulls you toward an empty corridor.
“What the hell are you—”
“Shh.” Rio’s voice drops to a sultry murmur, the dim light casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones. “You talk too much.”
Rio ushers you away from prying eyes, her palms resting flat on the wall on either side of you. She leans closer, her eyes searching your face, drinking in every flicker of resistance and reluctant want.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Your voice wavers. You hate that she hears it.
Rio tilts her head, her lips curling. “You really think she can give you what you need?”
“Who?”
“Agatha.” She says the name like it tastes bitter on her tongue. “You run around after her, putting out her fires, handing her her lines... You can’t tell me you’re happy letting her treat you like that. You deserve better, sweetheart.”
The tension boils over when Rio’s hand finds your wrist, her thumb brushing over your pulse. “You don’t know anything about me,” you snap at her furiously.
Her response is a quiet, taunting whisper against your ear: “I know she could never touch you the way I could. You think she’s ever made you feel the way you do now?”
You open your mouth to protest, but the words crumble when Rio shifts closer—her thigh grazing yours, her scent sharp and distracting, her breath teasing your skin. Your heart pounds against your ribs, wild and traitorous.
“Stop it,” you whisper, though you make no move to push her away.
Rio’s smile darkens, and for a moment, the teasing falls away, replaced by something hotter—something real. Her hand finds your jaw, fingers brushing just under your chin, tilting your head so she can lean in, her lips so achingly close to yours that the space between feels electric.
“I don’t think you want me to stop,” she murmurs.
Before you can retort, Rio’s mouth crashes into yours, fierce and possessive. It’s a clash of lips and teeth—heated, desperate, and almost spiteful. The hallway is empty save for the two of you, and any protests melt as Rio pushes you into a storage closet, claiming you like she’s proving a point.
Because she’s right. You don’t want her to stop.
You melt into it for half a second before your own desperation flares, matching her with equal force. Your hands grasp at her blazer, pulling her closer until there’s nothing between you but heat and ragged breaths.
“Is this what you want?” Rio mutters against your lips, one hand sliding down your side, the other bracing against the wall to cage you in further.
You don’t answer, too far gone, but your body betrays you—arching into her touch, fingers digging into her shoulders. Rio’s smug chuckle ghosts over your mouth as she kisses you again, rougher this time, her hand slipping lower, fingers dipping under the waistband of your pants.
Rio is rough and relentless but never careless—her hands grip your waist as she drags you closer, murmuring filthy promises against your lips about how she’d “treat you right.” Her voice is dark and velvet-soft, each word a taunt designed to unravel you. “You’d feel so much better if you let go, sweetheart... If you let me take care of you.”
The hatred and tension simmer under every touch, the unspoken resentment crackling like a live wire. She hates that you belong to Agatha, that you let her use you like an accessory—and you hate her for being right. But as Rio’s fingers drift lower, her lips leaving heat down the column of your throat, it’s clear this is about something far beyond spite. It’s about want, raw and consuming. It’s about Rio making you lose control—her revelling in every shaky breath you take, every whimper that slips free despite yourself.
Her hand cups you lighly, fingers brushing against the thin barrier of your underwear, and you can’t hold back the soft gasp that escapes your lips. Rio hums approvingly, her smile all satisfaction as she applies more pressure. “Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Agatha would die if she saw you like this. Weak. Needy. Mine.”
Before you can snap a reply, Rio moves her hand so it’s beneath your underwear—fingers deft as they find their mark, her movements precise, relentless. She drinks in the way you shudder against her touch, how your hands tighten in her blazer as your body betrays you completely. “You like this,” she says, more statement than question. Her lips skim your ear as she adds, “Say it.”
You bite back your pride, but it doesn’t matter—Rio doesn’t need you to answer. She already knows as she buries two fingers inside you.
Her hand moves with a devastating rhythm, slow and deliberate at first, teasing you with unbearable precision. The tension coils in your body, a heat pooling low in your belly, rising with every measured stroke. You can feel her breath against your neck, hear the faint rustle of her blazer as she shifts, leaning in closer, caging you in further. The soft scrape of her nails against your neck sends a shiver up your spine, and you grip her shoulders harder, holding on as if you might collapse otherwise.
The room feels impossibly small, the air heavy with the sound of your ragged breaths and the soft, wet sound of her hand working you over. Your head falls back against the wall, a soft thud breaking the quiet, and you swear you can hear the faint hum of the debate stage through the walls—a cruel reminder of where you are.
But it’s her voice that drowns everything else out. Low, taunting, dripping with control. “You like it when people use you, don’t you?” She purrs, her words a velvet lash against your pride. She presses her palm harder against your clit, wringing a desperate sound from your throat. “Tell me. Has she ever made you fall apart like this?”
Your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out everything but her and the unrelenting rhythm of her hand. Every movement grows sharper now, harder. Your arousal builds impossibly fast, the sound of it obscene in the quiet—slick and unmistakable as her fingers slide inside you, claiming every reaction. Her name falls repeatedly from your lips, half a curse, half a plea, but you’re too far gone to care.
The pressure crescendos, and Rio pushes you past it. Her movements grow almost merciless—harder and faster still—and the sound fills the room, echoing in time with your shallow, hitched breaths. It’s like a wave crashing over you, fierce and consuming, leaving you gasping as your body trembles beneath her touch.
Your hands fist into her shoulders as you climax, the pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming. You collapse against her, your forehead pressing into the crook of her neck as your knees threaten to buckle. She catches you, of course—her arm sliding around your waist, holding you up as your chest heaves against hers.
For a moment, the only sound is the harsh, uneven rhythm of your breathing, the quiet hum of the lights overhead, and the faint, distant chatter from the debate stage. Your pulse thrums wildly under your skin, your body still twitching with the aftershocks as Rio’s hand finally eases, resting against your hip as if satisfied with her work.
“Good girl,” she murmurs into your ear, the smug satisfaction in her tone making your skin prickle. She presses a final, lingering kiss just below your jaw before straightening, leaving you slumped against the wall, dazed and breathless.
Before you can muster a response, Rio steps back, casual as ever. She grabs a paper towel from the small storage shelf, cleaning her fingers with slow, deliberate movements as though she hadn’t just wrecked you against a supply cupboard wall.
The door creaks, and your stomach drops as you scramble to straighten yourself, still too disoriented to think clearly. But Rio doesn’t spare you another glance—she slips out, leaving the door ajar just enough to let in a sliver of light.
You’re alone, the air stifling and charged, your pulse still racing as you try to gather your wits.
—
You make it back to your spot off-stage just as the debate resumes. You’ve got your notes in hand, and your posture is straight, but your mind is far from clear. Agatha’s voice drifts over the room in measured, practiced rhythms, but it’s all background noise. Across the stage, Rio sits poised—calm, cool, her expression as sharp as a blade. There’s no indication of what just happened—no lingering smirk, no flushed cheeks. She looks utterly untouched, untouchable... except for the barest flicker of her gaze, catching yours.
Your stomach flips.
Rio smirks—a slow, deliberate pull of her lips—and then she shifts her attention back to Lilia’s next question, leaving you gripping your notes with white-knuckled fingers, every nerve in your body still singing from her touch.
You keep your face blank, eyes fixed on the stage as if nothing happened, but the phantom heat of Rio’s kiss remains, simmering under your skin like a secret you’re not sure you’ll survive.
-----
please pretend this isn't a day late, @aceday guilted me into going to sleep at a reasonable time last night instead of running on 2hrs sleep again but don't worry I'm trying to catch up :P
