Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stranger was adjusting her hair in the mirrored elevator wall, her long fingers moving with a grace that seemed almost deliberate, as if each motion told a story. Her nails, perfectly manicured and painted a deep, glossy plum, caught the light with every move, adding an almost hypnotic rhythm to the scene. Rio couldn’t look away.

“So... what’s your verdict?”

The woman’s eyes met hers through the reflection, a pair of piercing blue-gray irises that seemed to see right through her. They were sharp, calculating, yet carried a glint of amusement, like a predator toying with its prey. Her lips, painted a rich wine color, curved into the faintest of smiles, enough to make Rio’s breath hitch.

“That's a really nice color on you,” Rio whispered under her breath, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She gestured awkwardly toward the stranger’s purple blazer.

The woman tilted her head slightly, her smirk widening. “Honey, everything looks good on me.”

Rio froze. A nervous laugh bubbled up, but instead, she swallowed it down. “I bet.” The words slipped free, low and unintentional, but there they were, hanging in the air.

The woman raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, her expression unreadable but somehow teasing. For a moment, she said nothing, her attention shifting back to her own reflection as though Rio didn’t exist. High cheekbones, an angular jawline, and dark brown hair fell in soft waves that framed her face like a crown. She looked like she belonged in an old Hollywood film: timeless, unattainable, and devastatingly magnetic. Rio’s gaze flickered downward, catching the way the stranger’s fingers smoothed the hem of her tailored blazer. Her hands came to rest lightly on her hips, her fingers tapping softly against the fabric. The motion was simple but precise, calculated, like every other move she’d made. She couldn’t help wondering what kind of chaos those hands could conjure behind closed doors. Her stomach tightened, a mix of nerves and intrigue.

“You’re new, right?” the woman asked, her voice smooth and rich, like velvet wrapping itself around Rio’s thoughts.

“Yes and no,” Rio replied, her voice trembling slightly as she scrambled for composure.

The stranger arched a brow again, a silent prompt to elaborate.

“I’ve partnered with Westview Productions a few times before,” Rio continued, fumbling over her words. “But this is my first time stepping into the building. My team and I are trying to get a spec picked up by the company.”

The woman didn’t respond. She turned her attention back to the mirror, adjusting a stray strand of hair with deliberate precision. Every gesture carried the kind of effortless confidence that left Rio feeling simultaneously inadequate and entranced.

"I’m Rio, by the way," she finally blurted, forcing her voice to stay bright. Her pronunciation of the “R” rolled perfectly, like a subtle flex.

No response. The silence stretched, suffocating.

Rio pressed on, refusing to let the moment swallow her. “So... do you work for Westview?”

That earned her a faint smirk. “I suppose you could say that.”

“What’s your department?” Rio asked quickly, filling the silence before it could return. Then, as if she couldn’t stop herself, she added, “Do you know who handles spec meetings?”

The woman turned her head just enough to catch Rio’s gaze directly. “I’ve got no idea,” she said. There was something almost amused in her tone, like she’d just told an inside joke.

What she didn’t say was that she wasn’t lying. She truly didn’t know who handled that kind of thing - a trivial detail, beneath her notice or concern. And yet, the fact that she didn’t know bothered her- if only because she felt she should.

*Mental note: look into it later and fire whoever was responsible for that useless department.*

She turned fully now, her gaze sweeping over Rio with an intensity that made her feel exposed, as if every flaw and every strength were laid bare. "I’m Agatha. Agatha Harkness," she said, extending a hand. Her name landed like a challenge.

Most people would’ve stumbled over themselves in response. Rio, however, simply took her hand with a confidence that felt reckless. Her grip was firm, her fingers lingering just a second too long. “A pleasure to meet you, Agatha,” she said, her voice low and deliberate, a hint of defiance in her tone.

Agatha tilted her head, her lips curving slightly, not quite a smile, but close. “Westview hasn’t accepted a spec in years,” she added flatly, dismissive.

But Rio didn’t flinch. Instead, her face lit up with something that looked suspiciously like hope. “That means they’re going back to their roots. “Westview used to make the best series - smart, bold, unforgettable. Now? It’s all... safe. Boring”

Agatha blinked, caught off guard by the comment. No one talked about her company like that - at least not to her face. Her gaze narrowed, her smirk sharpening into something more predatory. “Excuse me?”

Rio froze, realizing too late that she might’ve said too much. But as the seconds stretched, she swallowed her nerves and straightened her back. “I mean... it’s just an opinion,” she said with a shrug, trying to look nonchalant even as her heart raced. “If Westview picked more modern projects and went back to fantasy or sci-fi, they wouldn’t keep losing the embrace of the fandom.”

Agatha tilted her head, studying her like a puzzle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or discard. Then, she spoke, her voice even and cool. “That’s your pitch? A return to fantasy?”

“It’s... a series about witches,” Rio said, her voice faltering as Agatha’s eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding. “A blend of drama, mystery, and a little bit of magic.”

A flicker of something crossed Agatha’s face - amusement, perhaps- but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “You’re an odd one,” she said, her voice like silk.

“Thank you.”

Agatha turned back to the mirror, smoothing another strand of hair with a precision that made Rio’s knees weak.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to reveal Rio’s floor. She stepped out but turned back with a grin. “Wish me luck. I’d love to share another elevator ride with you sometime.”

Agatha smirked, her voice smooth as cream. “Break a leg.”

Just as the doors began to close, Rio leaned back into view one last time. “Wait...did you say Harkness?”

As the doors slid shut, Rio’s mind raced. That was THE Agatha Harkness. The Reaper. The woman who shredded projects and dreams alike. And yet, despite everything, Rio couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

She smiled to herself. This was going to be interesting.

Chapter Text

Three things defined Rio’s life: artistic ambition, the unshakable belief that the world was completely insane, and an absurd amount of talent.

Three power bombs that had led her to this hallway, clutching a stack of perfectly designed, meticulously edited portfolios - each one heavy with their team’s "fully polished, industry-ready" story.

Inside, printed in sleek, elegant type, was the narrative Darcy had carefully crafted to sell them as the creative powerhouse they were: 

A Story That Demands to Be Told

The next breakout fantasy series isn’t just another witch story—it’s an untold history. A high-stakes, character-driven saga set against the Salem witch trials, where two outcasts fight for survival, identity, and belonging.

Created by Rio Vidal, Darcy Lewis, and Monica Rambeau—writers who have shaped festival-winning scripts, short films, and major campaigns—this series blends sharp wit, dark intrigue, and deeply human storytelling.

With audiences craving fresh supernatural narratives, now is the time. This is the team. This is the story.

The design was over the top. Printed on the most expensive paper they could find at the stationery store - because Darcy was convinced that if they were going to sell themselves as self-made women, their story had to be printed on something that looked less like business documents and more like wedding invitations.

Monica would’ve never allowed it.

But Monica wasn’t here.

Months ago, she reconnected with her so-called Aunt Carol and vanished. No warning. No goodbye. Just gone. Out of nowhere, she accepted a job in Bollywood and left to spend more time wit her. No explanation. No last-minute reconsideration. Nothing they could say would make her stay.

Childhood trauma, right? Some wounds were better left alone - until the person was ready to talk.

Rio flipped through her cue cards as she walked toward the conference room, mentally running through her key points.

Darcy was already there, waiting by the door, trying - and failing - to look calm.

After months of networking, shitty day jobs, and sheer determination, here they were. Two-thirds of the original trio that started it all. They didn’t need to say it out loud. Without Monica’s natural leadership, all they had left was their nerdy charm and an underdog energy strong enough to either make them or break them.

The conference room was colder than Rio expected.

Glass walls. A sleek marble table. An abstract sculpture in the corner. Minimalist decor that did little to distract from the tension thick in the air.

"Sorry for the wait. Was it awful?"

"Oh, you mean waiting alone in a sterile corporate hallway while the receptionist side-eyed me like I broke in? Nah, it was lovely." her friend and partner replied.

Rio rolled her eyes. "You were supposed to be my designated driver, remember? I had to take two buses and jaywalk across an actual death trap of a road to get here. Almost got a ticket."

"Maybe it’s time you learn how to drive"

"But I like power walking"

Darcy gave her a flat look. "You’re SO gay."

Rio grinned. Darcy, with her sharp tongue and quick mind, was her favorite person. She wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.

They set up their laptops, pulled out more cue cards, and started prepping their pitch deck.

"This is it. I think I’m gonna throw up" Darcy muttered, tense.

Meanwhile, Rio laid out their ridiculously fancy, wedding-invitation-level portfolios around the massive table, smiling like an idiot. 

Darcy narrowed her eyes. "Wait, why do you look so annoyingly happy and calm?"

Rio smirked. "Since you asked… I just ran into a gorgeous woman."

Darcy, fluent in the bizarre, esoteric nonsense that constantly rattled around in Rio’s head, sighed. “A good omen, according to your completely unhinged logic, huh? Fine by me.” She cast a half-hearted glance at the ceiling and muttered, “We need all the help we can get.”

Rio wasn’t entirely sure that the help of The Reaper was something Darcy would be comfortable leaning on, so she kept that detail to herself.

Instead, she watched as her friend, pale-faced and tense, snapped back to business. 

"Remind me again - what’s the tone? What makes our series unique?"

"Dark. Sharp. Laced with humor that cuts."

“And the hook?”

“Witches aren’t born wicked—they’re made”

"Right. You take that one if they ask. I always hesitate on tone questions."

"Fine. But then you take all the stats and market trends"

"Not a chance."

While Darcy ran through the industry trends backing their pitch - why audiences were desperate for a fresh Salem-era witch series—Rio focused on the screen, pulling up their title slide. A striking image of a dark-haired witch draped in a flowing, pale green cape.

Darcy tilted her head. "Wait. Did you use yourself as a model?"

Rio blinked. "What? No! Why would you say that?"

Darcy squinted at the screen. "I don’t know… she kinda looks like you."

"I don’t see it" Rio said, shrugging a little too fast.

They stood there for a moment, staring at the image.

"The cape adds a lot of movement" Darcy noted.

"Last-minute addition. Thought it gave her more presence."

"Could we say it evokes a sense of magic and mystery?" Darcy arched a brow, already poised to jot it down.

Rio nodded furiously. "We totally could. Add that it has an almost ethereal quality."

"Ooh, that’s a good one." Darcy scribbled it down, then paused halfway through, pointing at the screen again. "Not entirely sure about the flower she's holding, though."

Rio’s jaw dropped. "What?! It represents the essence of the character! It’s intimate, symbolic - "

Before she could launch into a full rant, the doors swung open.

Rio shot Darcy a sideways glance. “You ready?” she whispered.

Darcy clutched her notebook like a talisman, as if sheer force of will could protect them from the storm brewing in the room.

“Never.” 

Rio adjusted her notes. “I’m scared.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Hold me” she mocked.

Instead of the suit-clad sharks they had been expecting, in walked a tiny, grandmotherly woman who had to be in her seventies.

“Hello, I’m Sharon Davis.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Davis” they both said at the same time, still caught off guard by the unexpected warmth of their visitor.

Sharon chuckled at their synchronized greeting. “Nice to meet you two” she teased gently, then added, “Please, call me Sharon.”

After the obligatory handshakes and pleasantries, the executive took her seat. Her expression was soft but unreadable.

“Oh, this is gorgeous cardstock” she noted, flipping through their portfolio. “Double-sided, too! Expensive.”

The moment transported them straight back to grade school, like they were about to present their Show and Tell project under the kind but watchful eye of a soft-spoken primary teacher.

This was not the kind of meeting where you bared your soul and introduced your perfect fictional child.

“Please, start whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, the pitch began.

_____________________________________________________

It was the longest thirty minutes of their lives.

Sharon Davis, who had seemed so sweet just moments before, had suddenly transformed into a modern-day Margaret Thatcher. With the precision of a surgeon - and the detached empathy of someone operating on an inanimate object - she dismantled their pitch, questioning every creative choice, exposing every flaw, and offering “constructive” feedback that felt more like death by a thousand cuts. 

Darcy and Rio endured it with excruciating patience, their smiles so forced that their faces ached.

Some of Sharon’s questions, however, bordered on the absurd. “So, a witch is really just another name for a bad girl, right?”

Darcy nearly choked on her own tongue. She gripped the edge of the conference table so tightly her fingers went numb, resisting the overwhelming urge to fire back with a sarcastic retort.

Across from her, Rio buried her face behind her cue cards, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.

“I know our series would be perfect for your network.” Rio insisted, her tone determined despite the sting of Sharon’s criticism.

Sharon smiled thinly. “You’re probably right - with a few adjustments, of course.”

That remark did nothing for Darcy and Rio’s artistic egos. 

“Oh, come on” Sharon continued. “We can’t have one of your witches drinking a virgin’s blood to keep the wrinkles away. That wouldn’t fit Westview’s brand at all.”

“How would you change that?” Rio asked flatly.

“They could be mischievous witches, but in a charming way.” Sharon replied in a soft, almost maternal tone that made Rio’s eye twitch. “Perhaps they’d share the secrets to keeping their fluffy azaleas in full bloom or something like that. You know what I mean?”

Rio clenched her jaw, feeling the weight of Sharon’s criticism. 

Oblivious to the tension building in the room, Sharon continued, “In my experience, audiences don’t root for selfish, unlikable characters - especially if they’re villainous witches.”

Darcy let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“You clearly don’t know queer women.” She snorted. “They would lose their minds over someone like that. Hell, she would lose her mind over someone like that. “- she added, gesturing toward her friend.

The truth in those words stung Rio, making her feel slightly attacked. 

The minutes crawled by, each one heavier than the last. By the time Sharon finally closed the folder in front of them and stood up, Rio and Darcy were sweating and more than a little irritated. They exhaled in unison, barely masking their relief.

“Mrs. Davis” Rio asked quickly, before she lost her chance, “do you know when we might hear back about our pitch?”

Sharon blinked as if Rio had just spoken in tongues. “I’m sorry?”

“We were wondering if you could give us a timeline” Darcy jumped in, “for when we’ll know whether our project is moving forward.”

A pause. 

Then, with the same unshaken calm with which she had just shredded their dreams, Sharon said: “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Westview Productions does not greenlight spec scripts.”

Rio’s stomach dropped. “…What do you mean?”

“As I already informed Ms. Rambeau via email” Sharon continued, not unkindly, “Westview hasn’t accepted specs in years.”

*What the hell?*

The surprises were piling up faster than she could process.

Had Monica pulled strings to get them this meeting? - She and Darcy exchanged a look

“I know nepotism is trendy these days” Sharon added, “but rules are rules. No matter how brilliant a student her mother was, the best I could do for you was offer feedback. That’s it.”

“…Excuse me?” Darcy repeated, still stuck on the nepotism comment.

Misinterpreting their confusion completely, Sharon smiled.

“Ms. Rambeau was right about you two. You’re too humble for your own good.”

Rio barely heard her. Her mind was already spinning, searching for a way to salvage this mess.

*A flash of those sharp, cruel blue eyes in her memory.*

And then something clicked in her brain. If nepotism was the game, maybe they could play, too.

“Ms. Harkness mentioned something this morning about possible policy changes” she said casually, as if it were an afterthought.

That was a complete lie. But what was the harm in bluffing? 

Sharon’s expression didn’t waver, but Rio caught the slight tilt of her head.

“Oh? You know Ms. Harkness?”

“Yeah. We got introduced recently”

That was true, wasn’t it? 

Sharon hummed, unimpressed “Then you must know it was her decision to stop accepting specs. One of the first policies she implemented as Head Producer.”

Yes, she had heard something about it, all right.

"Since you’re so close to our - let’s call her ‘Father Figure’- maybe you should just ask her directly about the conditions for a spec to be considered. Sound good, honey?"

Damn. Bluff called.

Rio accepted her defeat with as much dignity as she could muster.

Darcy, however - who had been silently watching the exchange, completely baffled as to why Rio had dragged The Reaper into the conversation - suddenly snapped, “Then why did you have us come here? ”

Before the executive could even blink, Darcy snatched their portfolio right out of her hands.

“As I was saying” Sharon responded “this was a favor. I actually work for Anomaly Films, a small division under Westview Productions.”

Rio’s heart stopped.

*Anomaly Films.*

Before her parents died, she used to watch old Anomaly Films sitcoms with them every weekend - The Addams Family, The Munsters, Bewitched. Not reruns. Just ancient VHS tapes and DVDs from when her parents were kids. After they passed, she carried those tapes from one house to the next. The only piece of home she had left.

She didn’t say any of that out loud. She just whispered, “No freaking way.”

“Language, Ms. Vidal” Sharon chided gently, though she didn’t seem actually offended.

But Rio was too caught up in her thoughts.

“I didn’t even know Anomaly Films was still around.”

“Oh, we are, dear. More than fifty years in the business” Sharon replied proudly.

Darcy glanced at Rio’s tense expression, disheartened . She recognized that look - it meant Rio was thinking about her childhood. And Rio hated talking about her childhood.

For good reason.

Her friend had never told anyone what it was like being shuffled from one relative to the next, treated more like an obligation than a person. She never talked about how, when feeding an extra mouth became too expensive, they passed her along like an unwanted package. And she certainly never talked about the incident. The day her cousin - an absolute asshole - decided to “teach her a lesson” and tossed her beloved tapes into the lake.

There was no getting them back.

So, at nine years old, Rio coped the only way she knew how - by rewriting them. First, she recreated missing episodes. Then, she improved them. Eventually, she started crafting stories of her own.

At first, they were just crossovers between her favorite shows and her real life.

Because, well… she really really wanted her own Morticia.

But eventually, it became a profession.

Shaking off the memory, Rio turned back to Sharon.

“What kind of projects do you produce?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral, as though her emotions were under tight control.

“Reboots, mostly” Sharon said. “And reunions of the network’s classic shows.”

Rio’s eyes lit up. “Oh, wow, that must be amazing.”

Sharon, clearly pleased by her enthusiasm, smiled.

“It is. It actually is.”

Darcy, meanwhile, looked increasingly horrified as Rio and Mrs. Davis delved into a lively discussion - trading opinions and anecdotes about TV shows so old, even Sharon admitted she hadn’t heard of some of them. 

The conversation trailed on - down the hallway, into the elevator, and through the lobby. Before they knew it, they were being gently ushered toward the exit. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you” Sharon said warmly. “You both have such wonderful imaginations.”

Then, just before they left, she pulled Rio aside.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet young people who appreciate the classics” she said, eyes twinkling. “As a member of the Westview Historical Audiovisual Committee, that fills me with pride.”

Rio wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I wish you both the best of luck at other production companies.”

With a final, almost grandmotherly smile, Sharon waved them off from the towering doors of Westview Productions. 

In that moment, as they waved back at her, their last bit of hope vanished. 

Chapter Text

Quentin Beck was already mid-rant when Agatha walked into the meeting room, his arms flailing dramatically as if he were performing for an invisible audience.

“I had a vision for this show, Harkness! You killed it before it even had a chance! I swear, you people don’t understand brilliance when it’s right in front of you” he exclaimed, with the mundane passion of white cishet men who have no real problems and thus must invent them.

Agatha sighed, settling into her chair with calculated ease. She had done this so many times before that listening to his complaints, which once would have thrilled her, now seemed utterly tedious.

“Spare me the theatrics, Beck. If you were as good as you think you are, we wouldn’t be having this conversation” she said, her eyes fixed on the papers Herbert, her assistant, was placing on the table for her signature - the final dismissal of this whining clown before her.

“This show was art, Harkness! A mind-bending experience, and you just - just tossed it aside like it was nothing!” Beck continued in that irritating, petulant tone, full of self-importance.

She arched a brow. “Beck, if mediocrity was a crime, you’d be serving consecutive life sentences.”

Then he slumped into the chair opposite Agatha and spread his arms on the table, feigning tears.

"You know, Harkness, I get that you don’t like fun, but canceling my show?" his voice laced with that insufferable, self-important smugness that made Agatha want to set something on fire. "I gave you my best material - my best fourth-wall breaks, my sharpest jokes about how Hollywood is a sinking ship - and you just tore it apart without cause!"

Agatha continued signing the paperwork, pressing it against his back, barely concealing her boredom. “Quentin, I canceled your show because it was an unfiltered disaster, not because of some personal vendetta. Get over yourself.”

"Look, woman, that’s just cruel. Do you even know how this will affect my fanbase?" he protested.

Agatha's lips curled into something too amused to be called a smile. "I'm certain both your fans will be devastated.

The showrunner clenched his jaw, seething. “Fucking…” he began. It seemed he was about to say something horrible, but when he caught the dangerous look in Agatha’s eyes, he restrained himself and merely added, “Reaper.”

After that, he abruptly stood up and slammed the door on his way out, making the entire floor jump.

She barely reacted, glancing at a stunned Herbert. “Such dramatics.”

Beck had been a headache, but the worst part of her day was still ahead: the board meeting. And, of course, the presence of Wanda - her so-called “ex–best friend.”

________________________________________________________________________

Agatha stormed through the corridors of Westview, her foul mood crackling in the air like a brewing storm. The shift was immediate - conversations hushed, employees averted their eyes, and the tension thickened as if her presence alone were a verdict.

People feared her. Executives dreaded her even more.

But Wanda Maximoff, oh, she hated her.

She was used to the first two. That was the natural order of things. The prey cowering as the apex predator passed through her jungle. It had always been enticing, thrilling. But to be the focus of the Scarlet Bitch’s hatred? That was oddly satisfying.

Because this meeting? It wasn’t about Westview’s future - it was about Wanda. Her new position as Head of Creative Development. Her ideas. Her perspective.

At the very least, it promised to be entertaining.

Agatha knew exactly how it would play out. Wanda, standing at the head of the table, dazzling the room with her polished speech, selling herself as the savior of the company.

*God, she was insufferable.*

She had been dreading the meeting for weeks, sensing a tiny shift in energy she couldn’t quite explain the instant it appeared in her Google Calendar.

Always two steps ahead - that was her motto. But when it came to this Wanda thing, she felt sluggish, like her instincts weren’t as sharp as usual. Like she was waiting for her nemesis to make the first move in a war yet to be determined.

The pressure was unbearable.

Once, a lifetime ago - back when they were just starting out at Westview - they had been coworkers, stuck in adjacent cubicles. Agatha, the ruthless content analyst. Wanda, the idealistic script coordinator.

Their rivalry had been inevitable. Wanda fought tooth and nail for the projects she believed in; Agatha shredded them without hesitation.

And yet, despite their fundamental differences, one thing led to another, and they had connected.

Unexpectedly, they had more in common than they ever anticipated. Both had suffered. Both had been born on the wrong side of an unkind world. Both carried the dark imprint of it all.

And then...they had fallen apart.

With good reason, if anyone asked Agatha.

She was certain that the redhead deserved to think about what she had done wrong every single day of her life - but Wanda walked around like nothing had happened. Like Agatha was the villain. Like she was the one who had ruined everything.

Not that it had ever been love - not for Agatha, at least. Just lust and companionship. But even so, she wanted Wanda to regret it forever. She wanted her to never know peace. She wanted to haunt her.

Wanda claimed Agatha was a terrible person with a dangerous mindset. Agatha had never denied it. But it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?

And now?

Now, apparently, they were "ex–best friends."

That’s what people called them, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t a total fabrication; they had been close, after all.

But best friends?

Agatha smirked - then outright laughed, the sound sharp and humorless.

* Best friends. As if. *

What a pathetic, sentimental lie.

That was the official story, anyway.

It was how Wanda had framed it. A perfectly crafted, digestible lie that the company swallowed whole. A neat little label to explain something messier, sharper, something that never fit into a box.

Best friends didn’t look at each other like that. Best friends didn’t kiss. Best friends didn’t leave marks on each other’s skin. Best friends didn’t ruin each other.

But Wanda...she had always been exceptional at making people believe whatever she needed them to believe.

And no one in Westview questioned it. Ever.

It was her classic modus operandi - control the narrative, reshape the past, rewrite the details that didn’t fit.

And Agatha?

Well, she had let her.

She told herself it didn’t matter, that it was easier to move on, to focus on climbing the corporate ladder.

But nothing in life is ever truly lost - only transformed.

And here they were.

Same game. Older, sharper, more dangerous women.

Only this time?

The stakes had never been higher.

________________________________________________________________________

That was the mindset Agatha carried as she stepped into the vast boardroom.

She took her seat - the best one, the one that was always hers. No sign was needed to mark it for Westview’s Reaper - even the highest executives knew their jobs rested in her hands.

She always positioned herself with the floor-to-ceiling windows at her back, letting the city stretch behind her like a conquered kingdom. It amplified her presence, made her all the more imposing.

An unspoken rule.

Her preference.

Always respected.

Moments later, Wanda made her entrance. Polished and spectacular, as always.

She positioned herself directly in front of the massive screen, her gaze sweeping across the room as she acknowledged the attendees with a slight nod.

When her eyes finally landed on the woman in the deep purple blazer, her expression tightened - just slightly.

Agatha barely suppressed a knowing grin.

The powerful, brilliant Wanda Maximoff and her once-closest confidante, now locked in a professional rivalry.

* How melodramatically tragic. *

Wanda, ever the performer, launched into her speech without hesitation. A carefully rehearsed monologue about reviving old classics, investing in family dramas and procedural crime shows. She painted a picture of stability, familiarity, nostalgia.

And the board - a room full of privileged men who had never faced true struggle and who feared change more than everything - nodded along like fools.

Agatha sat back in her chair, arms crossed, letting the presentation stretch and the conversation take its own course.

She watched them all - the way the executives shifted in their seats, enthralled; the way Wanda exuded her practiced confidence; the way the room leaned toward comfort rather than innovation.

It felt like being the only sober person in a room full of drunks. That creeping frustration was impossible to define, but she knew better. Her instincts told her to let the moment brew, to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Wanda’s voice rang out, polished and persuasive.

"These are the shows that shaped childhoods and adolescences. The ones that built a world where families gathered around their screens, where life was simpler, where people saw themselves reflected in technicolor."

Agatha didn’t need to raise her voice to command a room; she simply clicked her tongue, and every head turned toward her.

Wanda tensed, sensing what was coming.

“You know what I thought when I watched those shows?” Agatha asked, her tone sharp.

She chose to play the personal card.

And Wanda - oh, she hated it.

Agatha leaned forward, her voice deceptively light. “I thought: where the hell am I?”

Silence.

Then, measured and deliberate, she continued.

“You talk about ‘seeing yourself reflected.’ But let’s be honest - how many people ever truly did? How many kids watched those perfect little families paraded on TV and felt like something was wrong with them? That they were too different, too queer, too foreign, too much?”

She let her words settle like a blade pressed just beneath the skin.

“I bet none of you ever had to search for scraps of representation like your survival depended on it.”

Her icy blue gaze swept across the room, challenging, daring anyone to disagree.

Then, her eyes returned to Wanda. Locked on her. Unrelenting.

“I did.”

She let it sink in.

And then, with the precision of a scalpel, she twisted the knife.

“And I will remind you of that every time you try to sell me nostalgia as progress.”

The tension in the room was electric.

Even Wanda’s well-rehearsed confidence wavered, just for a second.

Perhaps it wasn’t just business that made Agatha’s voice so sharp.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Wanda had once whispered about a future together, only to walk away. Only to choose something easier. Something safer. Some pathetic excuse of a man who could give her “children that were truly theirs.”

That’s what she had said.

The cruelty of it was breathtaking.

Agatha would never forgive it.

But for now, destroying her professionally would suffice.

"You think I don’t know that?" Wanda countered smoothly, her voice a precise calculation. "I’m offering a dream, Agatha. A sense of normalcy, something people trust."

Agatha’s smirk was razor-sharp. “No, Superstar. You’re offering what people expect. And there’s a difference.”

By now, Agatha was beyond control, her mind racing for the perfect strategy to bring down her former lover once and for all - to send her tumbling down the corporate ladder Agatha had clawed her way up.

A murmur rippled across the table. Some executives looked intrigued by the exchange. Others, uncomfortable.

"What we need to do is offer our audience real dreams. Futures to aspire to."

Agatha stood up, her presence expanding, her words hitting with even more weight.

Wanda watched her carefully. "Enlighten us, then. What’s your grand vision?"

*Vision. What an unfortunate choice of words. *

Maximoff had walked straight into her trap, and that was worth savoring.

The Head Producer let the silence breathe.

Then, she delivered the killing blow.

“I think you’re making the mistake of assuming audiences love bland, flavorless television. I get that, for you, these shows hold some sentimental value.”

Her eyes gleamed, because she knew exactly which wounds she was pressing.

“But sentimentality doesn’t build a brand. Profit does.”

The board - suits who didn’t care about art, or emotions, only about their next yacht - wouldn’t let those last words go unheard.

It was time to land the final blow She needed an idea. A good one. A brilliant one.

Her mind raced, grasping for something – anything - to say.

Nothing.

She had been stalling, filling the silence with empty words, waiting for the perfect idea to strike. But it never did.

She needed something to throw in Wanda’s face, something that would rip her ridiculous, traditionalist plans to shreds.

But still - nothing.

Agatha didn’t panic. She never panicked. 

*But if she did, this would be the moment for a full-blown meltdown.*

And then, it hit her - that girl in the elevator.

The one with dark, smoldering eyes and a stance that dared the world to challenge her.

Fierce. Mesmerizing. Unapologetic.

* Bold. Unforgettable. *

Thank God she ran into her.

Agatha leaned forward, her voice deceptively smooth. "We should absolutely return to what worked before" she said.

Wanda’s lips parted in surprise.

"But not by merely repeating the past. We should be bold, not boring. We should remain unforgettable."

The energy in the room shifted.

“Westview is falling behind. Rival studios are outpacing us. Playing it safe isn’t going to save this network. I propose a return to what once made Westview truly great, yes - but with a twist. A reconciliation with our most classic properties - science fiction and fantasy. Not outdated sitcoms or procedural dramas, but stories that push boundaries. Stories that create new legends.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

There she was, effortlessly seizing control of the board members' minds. All thanks to that awkward yet razor-sharp girl - with that intoxicating, velvet-edged vocal fry and her brilliantly misplaced remarks that somehow cut straight to the heart of the matter.

* God, she was so good at lying. At this point in her career, it felt like breathing. *

The Head of Creative Development hadn’t expected Agatha to agree with her - but this…

She was using her. Twisting her previous words to serve her own agenda.

And Agatha was having the time of her life watching that redhead menace silently fume.

Her eye twitching slightly. Her controlled expression slipping.

Hatred burned in her gaze.

* Perfect.*

Agatha was proud of herself, she had taken a calculated risk, and it was working.

She kept talking, improvising wildly, yet delivering it as though she had been planning this speech for months. She even proposed a strategic shift - acquiring fresh projects, pushing boundaries without alienating audiences.

And the best part? She made it sound effortless. Inevitable. Like this had been her idea all along.

Wanda, to her credit, recovered quickly. She always did. “And how exactly do you propose we balance that? Expanding into riskier genres while maintaining profitability?”

Agatha arched a brow.

“By being selective. By choosing visionaries, not hacks. Only new talent. By returning to what made Westview great - not outdated family dramas, but stories that matter. Stories that last. “

The Scarlet Bitch expression didn’t falter, but Agatha could see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

Calculating.

Plotting.

* Good. Let her try. *

“That’s an interesting perspective” Her so-called "ex-best friend" conceded, her tone deceptively agreeable. “But one that requires proof. We don’t invest in gambles, Agatha.”

She smirked.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t gamble. I strategize.”

________________________________________________________________________

By the end of the meeting, the decision was made: Agatha and Wanda would develop competing proposals.

The board would choose between them in the coming months.

As the executives filed out, Wanda lingered near the door, glancing over her shoulder. “What’s the long game here, I wonder? I know you don’t give a damn about any community - you’re a lone wolf, Agatha . “

Agatha gasped, mock-offended. “Moi?”

She placed a dramatic hand on her chest, as if truly wounded by the accusation.

Wanda wasn’t amused. “You really think this ‘plan’ you just came up with is going to work? ”

* Oh, I know it is. *

With her best “What? Like it’s hard?” expression firmly in place, Agatha responded "You didn’t think you were the only magical producer in town, did you?"

“So, this is how it’s going to be. Back to square one. Just like the old days, huh?” Wanda replied, unphased.

“Only now, we aren’t fighting over scraps.”

* They were fighting for the top. *

And Agatha had no intention of losing.

She'd better find out the name of that girl from the elevator, and fast. She couldn’t remember. It was something in Spanish. Something with an R sound. Something that sounded...

* Rude. Rough. Raw. *

She also had to fire the person who gave that girl an audience to pitch her spec script.

And ask them for her contact. 

Not necessarily in that order.

*And not necessarily for strictly business purposes.*

Chapter Text

When Westview Productions officially rejected their spec script, Rio and Darcy didn’t waste time sulking. They hit the ground running, determined to set up new pitch meetings, to push forward.

They knew how this industry worked. Rejections were part of the game.

But something was off.

At first, they chalked it up to bad luck.

Hollywood was brutal. Projects fell apart for a hundred different reasons - executives changed their minds, budgets got cut, scripts got lost in limbo. That was normal.

What wasn’t normal was this level of radio silence.

Weeks passed, and their emails went unanswered. Follow-ups were ignored. Meetings that had been tentatively set up were suddenly “postponed indefinitely.” And then there were the smiles - the ones that came with a reassuring “We’ll be in touch!” only for the conversation to lead absolutely nowhere.

And then, the rejections started rolling in.

Studios that had once shown genuine interest - places where they’d made real connections- suddenly claimed they were “fully booked for the foreseeable future.”

Even their safest contacts - former professors, friendly producers, industry friends - couldn’t seem to help. Every email came back with the same vague, suspiciously similar wording:

"We love your idea, but the timing isn’t right."

Or worse:

"We’re not looking for new content at the moment."

That one was a lie.

Westview alone had four open staff writing positions on their website just last week. Another studio had just greenlit three new projects. And yet, somehow, there was no room for them.

It was as if, overnight, every production company in town had closed ranks.

As if someone had shut a door in their faces - and locked it.

Rio didn’t believe in coincidences.

For weeks, an idea had been gnawing at the back of her mind. A ridiculous, paranoid idea.

No matter how many times she dismissed it as impossible, she couldn’t shake the thought.

Agatha Harkness.

It sounded absurd even in her own head.

But was it really?

Westview Productions had shut down spec submissions because of her. It had been her decision. Her rule.

And if she had the power to do that…what else was she capable of?

The thought kept Rio up at night. She’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind spinning with impossible theories. What if Agatha had blacklisted them? What if she was pulling strings behind the scenes, making sure every door slammed shut before they even had the chance to knock?

Was it crazy? Absolutely.

Could she rule it out? Not a chance.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

Because as much as Rio wanted to hate Agatha Harkness…

She couldn’t get her out of her head.

Literally.

At first, it had been pure, unfiltered resentment - a slow-burning rage that had only grown since that one elevator meeting.

She spiraled. Hard.

And then, one night, Rio made a mistake.

A stupid, impulsive, completely unintentional mistake.

She liked one of Agatha’s Instagram posts.

It had been a reflex. She was scrolling mindlessly, barely paying attention, and then - bam. Double tap. Heart icon. Instant regret.

She froze, staring at her screen in horror.

Then she convinced herself it was fine. Agatha probably got thousands of likes. She wouldn’t notice.

Even so...

A few days later, it happened again.

Only this time, it wasn’t an accident.

Because as much as Rio wanted to despise Agatha, she couldn’t deny that some of her pictures deserved appreciation.

That’s what she told herself.

Some photos just warranted a like. That was normal. Right?

It didn’t mean anything.

She definitely wasn’t obsessing over Agatha.

She wasn’t.

Except…

Late at night, when she was supposed to be working on new pitches, she found herself falling into a rabbit hole.

At first, it was research. That’s what she told herself.

She needed more reasons to hate Agatha. More fuel for her anger. She needed proof that Agatha Harkness was a heartless corporate ghoul who crushed young creatives for fun.

So she did what any good writer would do.

She dug.

She read every article, watched every old interview, scrolled through years of Agatha’s posts. She told herself she was looking for dirt - some fatal flaw, some unforgivable mistake to justify the resentment simmering under her skin.

Instead… she found something even more unsettling.

Agatha was sharp in a way that was almost fun - biting, brilliant, and effortlessly cruel when she wanted to be. Her remarks weren’t just witty; they were devastating, the kind that left people scrambling for a comeback they’d never find. She had fans, admirers, even devotees. People didn’t just like her; they hung onto her every word, desperate for more.

And worst of all?

Rio did too.

She lingered on every post, every interview, every passing glimpse - drawn in by the very things that made Agatha dangerous.

She refused to admit it out loud. But deep down, she knew.

She was in trouble.

"What’s got you in such a tizzy?"

Rio nearly dropped her phone as Darcy peered over her shoulder.

"Nothing" she blurted, shoving it under a pillow.

"Uh-huh. Let me see."

Darcy snatched the phone.

Rio lunged, managing to yank it back just in time.

Darcy smirked. "Was that-"

"No"

"Oh my God, it was" Darcy cackled. "You were stalking the Reaper"

"It was research"

"Right. Research. Into what, exactly? A thorough, in-depth study of her lips? How those hands would feel on your - "

Rio cut in before she could finish "Okay, what if I was? You can’t deny she’s… well…"

"Too much?"

"So hot." Rio finished, defeated.

Her friend gave her that look. A mix of concern and judgment.

Rio groaned. "Can we not do this right now?"

"Fine, fine." Darcy leaned back. "But just for the record… it’s time for us to have a real conversation, woman to woman, about your thing for grumpy older women with questionable morals."

Rio scowled. "I hate you."

Just as Rio reached peak frustration - just as she and Darcy were about to give up and resign themselves to an eternity of unanswered emails - one finally came in.

Westview Pictures wanted them as staff writers.

Not for their project. Not to buy their spec.

Just to write.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The email sat open on Darcy’s laptop, the words sharp and undeniable, but making absolutely no sense.

Rio, perched on a barstool, absently shook her cereal box to get more into her palm. Finally, she set it down and narrowed her eyes.

"Okay, let me get this straight." She pointed at the screen. "Westview Pictures - the same studio that rejected our spec - just magically decided to offer us staff writer positions?"

Still staring at the email, Darcy, who was balanced on the kitchen counter, laptop resting on her thighs, nodded. "Yup."

"And our first reaction isn’t to question how insanely weird that is?"

Darcy exhaled. "It is weird. But we did meet with Sharon Davis. Maybe she liked us and pulled some strings?"

Rio chewed thoughtfully. "Huh. Yeah, that kinda tracks. She did seem into our writing. And she was nice. In that grandma-who-definitely-slips-cash-into-birthday-cards kind of way."

"Exactly." Darcy sat back. "She’s been in the industry forever, she has connections… maybe this is her way of making up for not being able to buy the spec."

Rio raised an eyebrow. "That, or we accidentally sold our souls in some fine print we didn’t read."

"Always a possibility."

Darcy grabbed her phone. "Should we call her? You know, say thanks before we officially accept?"

Rio hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. It’d be rude not to."

Darcy was already dialing. "Alright, let’s see if our fairy godmother picks up."

She put the call on speaker. They both waited, expecting Sharon’s warm, familiar voice.

But when she finally answered, it was… not what they expected.

"I beg your pardon?"

Sharon’s voice was crisp, but there was an edge to it.

"The job" Rio clarified. "At Westview Pictures. We just wanted to say thanks for-"

"I had nothing to do with that."

Silence

Rio and Darcy exchanged a glance.

"Oh" Darcy said slowly. "We just assumed-"

"No one informed me of your hiring. In fact," Sharon continued, her tone sharp, "I was recently removed from my position at Anomaly Films. I’m no longer involved in any decision-making at Westview."

That stopped Rio cold.

* Wait. What? *

"I’m now only a member of the Westview Historical Audiovisual Committee," Sharon added, voice tight. "A courtesy title. Nothing more."

Rio’s mind spun. 

* Sharon had been pushed out? Then who the hell had gotten them this job? *

They ended the call in stunned silence.

Darcy was the first to speak. "...Okay. That was unsettling."

Rio nodded slowly. "Something’s not right."

They both looked down at the email again.

No sender name. No explanation. Just a contract.

A job they couldn’t refuse.

Rio’s paranoia skyrocketed.

And somewhere, unseen and unnoticed, Agatha Harkness was smirking as the signed contract from Darcy and Rio landed in her inbox.

__________________________________________________________

"Can I help you, creeper?"

Darcy’s voice cut through the crisp morning air, sharp and utterly unbothered.

The man in question - a middle-aged suit with a receding hairline and an ego far too big for his cheap cologne - snapped his gaze up, caught mid-ogle. His eyes had been glued to her chest while she and Rio indulged in their frowned-upon pre-work cigarette ritual outside what was now, somehow, their workplace.

Since free will existed - and since she intended to make excellent use of it - Rio leaned forward slightly, curled her fingers into claws, and let out a guttural mix of a growl and a hiss.

The pervert floundered, scrambling for a clever retort that never materialized.

They burst out laughing. Loudly. Openly.

His indignation flared as they refused to look away, refused to shrink under the weight of his gaze. In the end, all he could manage was a sharp scoff and the scuff of expensive shoes against pavement as he turned and walked off, wounded pride trailing behind him.

Once he was gone, Darcy and Rio exchanged a glance - the kind that carried entire conversations in the silent language shared between women long past the point of being impressed by this kind of bullshit.

"Hard pass" Rio muttered, exhaling smoke.

Darcy let out a dry laugh. "Can’t believe we’re stuck working alongside assholes like that. We used to have such big dreams..." She sighed theatrically, dragging a hand down her face.

"We still do," Rio corrected, flicking ash onto the pavement. "We’re just stalling ‘cause we need cash." She cast a long, contemplative glance up at the towering building before them. "And God knows they’re swimming in it."

"Two steps forward, one step back, huh?" Darcy muttered.

"If I had a nickel..." Rio chuckled.

They finished their cigarettes in easy silence, popped mints to erase any trace of nicotine from their breath, and finally stepped through the massive glass doors of Westview Pictures.

A quick check-in at the front desk should’ve taken seconds. Instead, it dragged on - glitchy system, a distracted receptionist, some poor intern running in circles. The usual chaos.

By the time the laminated proof of their employment was clipped to their shirts, they had exactly five minutes to get from the lobby to the writers’ room.

Rio could already feel the unnecessary pressure sinking its claws into her chest - and then she saw her.

A fleeting glimpse - chestnut-brown hair disappearing into the café on the ground floor.

Amid the building’s controlled chaos, everything else fell away. The noise, the movement, the ticking clock. Her focus narrowed, the world collapsing into a single gravitational pull.

* Agatha *

Rio had known she’d be here. She was Westview’s star. The Head Producer. Their pride and joy. The one they paraded around like a trophy.

She had braced herself for it. Sworn she wouldn’t let it get to her.

And yet, here she was.

A moth flying straight into the flame.

"I need coffee" Rio announced suddenly, already moving toward the café.

Darcy barely looked up. "You don’t even drink coffee, dude."

"Guess now’s the time to start" Rio shot back, forcing a shrug.

That’s when Darcy actually looked at her. "Oh my God. You’re serious."

Rio kept walking. "It’s just coffee."

"No, it’s not just coffee, it’s-" Darcy sighed, rubbing her temples. "You know what? Fine. Go chase the white whale. Just bring me whatever overpriced crap you’re not actually gonna drink."

She stepped into the elevator, jabbing the button without looking.

The doors started to close.

"Wait-" Rio blurted, a little too fast. "Do I look okay?"

Darcy’s eyebrows shot up. Her smirk was instant. "Wow. That was pathetic."

"You know what? Nevermind"

"Nah, nah, don’t backpedal now. You’re fully spiraling."

Rio exhaled sharply, running a hand down her shirt like that would magically fix something. "Just answer the question before the doors close."

Darcy leaned against the wall, considering.

"You look like a mess trying really hard not to look like a mess." She paused for effect. "But to a powerful, ruthless, and infamously self-absorbed bitch?" - she let the smirk deepen -"Who knows? Might just be her exact type."

The doors slid shut.

The comment was meant to be a jab.

Instead, it sent Rio straight to the edge of a free fall.

__________________________________________________________

Her palms were already clammy as she stepped into the café.

A quick scan of the room - chatter, clinking cups, the hum of the espresso machine - until her gaze landed exactly where she knew it would.

There she was.

Agatha Harkness sat in the farthest corner, a to-go cup loosely cradled in one hand, the other gliding over her iPad. The soft glow of the screen carved out the sharp angles of her face, her expression cool, unreadable.

A simple white T-shirt, neatly tucked into tailored slacks. One leg crossed over the other, foot bouncing in a slow, steady rhythm. Casual. Effortless. Unshakable.

Rio’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t just that Agatha was beautiful - though she was, devastatingly so. It was the way she occupied space. That quiet command, that gravitational pull, as if the very air around her adjusted to make room.

The tables nearby sat conspicuously empty, an unspoken boundary no one dared to cross. Even the usual café noise softened in her orbit, like the entire room subconsciously yielded to her presence.

Still, Agatha didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

Untouchable. Unapproachable.

But Rio knew better.

She remembered the elevator - the charged silence, the stolen glances, the way Agatha had leaned in just enough to make her pulse jump.

Agatha wasn’t just approachable.

She was attainable.

Rio’s phone buzzed, jolting her back to reality. She sighed, already exasperated, and answered.

"Why are you calling me?" she hissed.

"You expect me to shout from the fifth floor?" Her friend deadpanned from the other end of the line.

Rio rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"

"There’s a really important briefing in ten."

"Okay, I’ll be there on time."

"Are you sure? Pants are encouraged."

"For God’s sake, dude."

"Alright, alright, I’ll stop. Just promise me you won’t be late. I’m terrible at covering for you."

Rio smirked. "Aren’t you supposed to be a writer? Storytelling is kind of your thing."

"Yeah, well, lying for you doesn’t exactly showcase my skill set. Don’t push it."

And with that, Darcy hung up. No goodbye. Just peak exasperation.

Rio shook her head, amused - then swallowed hard.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she looked back at Agatha.

* Moment of truth. *

Before she could lose her nerve, Rio moved - crossing the café in a straight line toward the woman who had been haunting her every thought for weeks. She slid into the seat across from her without hesitation. Without invitation. 

Agatha didn’t even glance up.

Rio’s brain stalled. 

The scent hit her first - warm, rich, impossibly alluring. The kind of fragrance that lingered, that clung to memory and skin alike. The kind that made you dizzy. 

*God help me. If she smells this good… how good must she ̶t̶a̶s̶t̶e̶*

The thought hit her like a freight train.

* Nope. Absolutely not. She was not going there. *

“Miss Vidal”

The Head Producer greeted her smoothly, her voice low and precise, like silk over steel. 

And there it was. That maddening mix of judgment and barely-there amusement, the exact tone that had been driving Rio up the wall since the moment they met. 

So… I’m a staff writer now.” She gestured vaguely at the badge clipped to her chest, forcing a grin. Her voice came out tighter than she intended. Higher. The words Staff Writer stared back at her in bold letters, right above a mortifyingly awkward photo.

“Atta girl.” Agatha’s tone was utterly unimpressed, her attention still fixed on her iPad. “Truly groundbreaking changes ahead, I’m sure.”

The sarcasm stung more than it should have. 

Rio’s stomach twisted.  

Desperate to pull her attention away from the screen, she blurted, “Oh wow, so dismissive. I’m actually on my way to the writers’ room right now.”

That finally got a reaction. Agatha’s smirk was slow and sharp as she lifted her gaze, scanning the café before flicking those icy-blue eyes back to Rio. The message was clear: 

- You’re very much not on your way anywhere. -

Heat crept up Rio’s neck. She had no idea how to recover from that. 

“Anything else, Miss Vidal?” Agatha drawled, tilting her head, voice dripping with mock interest. “Or are you just prolonging the moment you realize you’re sitting at the wrong table?”

The screenwriter swallowed down the sudden lump in her throat. 

She was used to being the one throwing people off their game. She knew how to flirt, how to tease, how to disarm. 

But here she was, caught in a spell she couldn't break, sitting across from Agatha Harkness, feeling like a rookie in a game she didn’t even know she had entered. 

And she hated that. 

For weeks, she had cursed this woman's name, convinced she was the reason her spec script got torpedoed, the reason she had to start over. She had plotted revenge - cold, calculated, deeply satisfying.

And yet.

Sitting here, face-to-face with the woman who had starred in all her worst fantasies (which, if she was being honest, had a habit of veering into wildly inappropriate erotic territory), the only thing that came out of her mouth was:

“I’m really starting to rethink my plan to knife you in an alley.”

The words landed between them like a lead balloon.

Silence.

* Oh my God. What. The hell. Was that? *

Gay panicking in 3… 2… 1…

Agatha’s gaze snapped up, sharp and unreadable. “Care to rephrase that?”

Rio’s stomach flipped. "I didn't mean it like that" she managed weakly.

A long pause.

*This is it. This is how I die. *

Then, to Rio’s utter disbelief Agatha smiled. 

Not a friendly smile, though. But a slow, wicked thing, dripping with something dangerously close to malice. 

“Performance anxiety already?” she murmured, voice maddeningly calm. “Cute.”

Rio’s brain completely short-circuited, thrown by the full weight of Agatha’s attention. 

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again. 

* Say something. Anything *

Agatha leaned back, watching with an indulgent sort of patience. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

* Sweetheart. *

The casual endearment sent a bolt of electricity through Rio’s spine. 

It didn’t fit. Not with Agatha’s reputation. Not with the sharp, ruthless way she carried herself. Yet somehow, hearing it - feeling it slide past those lips - set every nerve in Rio’s body on fire. 

“I-” She forced out a breath, trying to reset. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Agatha raised a brow. “I could’ve sworn that’s what we were doing.”

“I mean - not about work.”

The clarification came too fast, too eager. She felt her face heat again. 

The steady gaze studying her didn’t waver.

She squirmed.

Then, suddenly, the pitch killer leaned in just enough to send every single one of Rio’s internal alarms blaring.

“And what, exactly” she murmured “would we discuss if not work, Rio?”

Her name. Slow. Measured. A deliberate weapon. 

Rio’s pulse hammered in her ears. 

She was so, so out of her depth. 

Noticing just how spectacularly the woman across from her was folding like a wet napkin, Agatha’s eyes gleamed with something sharper - interest. 

“Take your time,” she said, watching her struggle. “I’ll wait.”

That teasing edge was unbearable.

“Maybe we could… go somewhere else?” Rio asked, barely above a whisper.

Agatha’s brow quirked. “Oh? Where do you suggest? The elevator? A dark alley, perhaps?”

Rio sucked in a breath. 

Was that a taunt? 

Or an invitation? 

“I meant we could grab a drink or something”

Agatha chuckled, watching the way Rio’s gaze dropped to her lips instead of her words.

“Or something, hm?” Her voice was pure velvet. “How presumptuous of you.”

Before she could react, her phone buzzed again.

Darcy.

DARCY: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

*Shit.*

Rio tore her gaze away from Agatha, fingers flying over the screen.

RIO: Buy me five more minutes. Please.

DARCY: I’m out of lies, and so are you.

RIO: Be a girl’s girl for once. I’ll bring you a sandwich with your caramel latte.

DARCY: Change that to a cupcake and you got yourself a deal.

RIO: Done.

When the girl looked up, Agatha was already on her feet - iPad tucked under one arm, coffee in hand. She was mid-phone call, her tone crisp, commanding. 

“Cut the budgets by thirty percent, Brian. I want this done by Wednesday”

The effortless authority sent a fresh wave of heat through Rio’s bloodstream. 

*She needed a word bigger than hot.*

And then Agatha turned back - stepping close enough to tilt Rio’s world off its axis again.

“Wait - you didn’t… do you want to…?”

Rio’s voice faltered as the woman of her dreams leaned in.

Close enough to cut her off. Close enough to make her forget how to breathe.

Her lips curled in that knowing, wicked smile.

“Word of advice” she murmured, fingers brushing against Rio’s badge in a fleeting, deliberate touch before trailing off her shoulder. “You shouldn’t look at your boss like that.”

Her lips curled into a smile that promised nothing but trouble

Rio couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

The scent of Agatha’s perfume curled around her like smoke, pulling her under.

Then, just as quickly as she had unraveled her, Agatha stepped away.

“Enjoy your new position, Miss Vidal.”

And just like that - she was gone.

Rio’s phone buzzed again. Probably Darcy. Probably something important.

She didn’t look.

The meeting could wait. Coffee could wait. The world could wait. 

Rio sat there, completely wrecked by her boss’s dangerous, effortless rizz.

* Fuck *

Chapter Text

The doors of the writers' room swung open just as Rio rushed in, coffee in one hand, phone clutched in the other. Her breath was still uneven, pulse hammering - not just from the elevator ride, but from the reckless decision she’d made downstairs.

Her free hand clutched the cupcake box she’d grabbed in a last-second attempt to bribe her friend for covering for her. It wasn’t much - wasn’t nearly enough - but it was all she had. She had practically sprinted from the café to the elevator, a reckless mix of adrenaline and bad decisions swirling through her bloodstream.

And now, breathless and still recovering from the whiplash of it all, she slid into the nearest empty chair, setting the coffee and cupcake in front of Darcy in a silent please don’t kill me offering.

Darcy, arms folded, took one look at the items. Then at Rio. Then back at the items.

She let the silence drag - long enough to make Rio sweat - before finally peeling back the cupcake liner. The unspoken this better be good was loud and clear.

Rio exhaled. Crisis partially averted.

“Sorry, I got caught up in...” Rio began, addressing the room.

“Traffic?”

The word cut through the air like a blade - sharp, smooth, and laced with just enough mockery to be dangerous.

Rio went rigid.

Her stomach dropped.

That voice.

Her head snapped up before she could stop herself. And there she was.

At the head of the conference table, one leg crossed over the other, arms draped lazily over the chair, the very picture of effortless control.

Watching. Waiting.

Letting the entire room hold its breath for Rio’s answer.

Agatha Harkness.

* Of fucking course. *

How had she not noticed? How had she walked straight into this without realizing?

A slow, knowing smile tugged at Agatha’s lips. The kind that sent something twisting low in Rio’s stomach.

The kind that whispered, I’ve got you now.

The silence -  thin, precarious, stretched tight between them like a wire about to snap.

Because they both knew exactly where Rio had been ten minutes ago.

And Agatha was enjoying this. Too much.

Rio, who had just reached for her laptop and notebook, tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, holding onto it like an anchor.

"Yes, traffic was awful today" she finally said, keeping her voice even, controlled, fully committing to the lie.

Next to her, Darcy took a slow, deliberate bite of the cupcake, exhaling through her nose. Her eyes flicked between Rio and Agatha, the math very clearly not mathing.

Agatha, meanwhile, simply let the silence stretch. Let Rio feel it.

And she did. Oh, she did.

Heat crawled up the back of the screenwriter's neck, winding around her throat like a noose.

Because they both knew damn well that her excuse was bullshit.

Agatha seemed thoroughly entertained by the shared lie.

Still, she said nothing else.

She simply picked up her coffee - the same one she’d been sipping downstairs, the one she’d held while leaning too close, voice just a little too smooth - and took a slow, deliberate sip.

Like none of this meant a thing.

Like she hadn’t just unraveled Rio in front of a room full of people with nothing more than a word.

And Rio?

She felt like she was already losing whatever game she had just stepped into.

Seated to Agatha’s right, Dottie Jones, the Head of Development, cleared her throat loudly, shattering the moment like a hammer through glass.

The shift was immediate. Whatever charged current had crackled between Rio and Agatha dissipated, swallowed whole by the unrelenting force that was Dottie.

Every gaze in the room snapped back to her as she straightened in her chair, smoothing down the lapels of her blazer like a warrior adjusting armor before stepping into battle.

Dottie lived for moments like this.

The opportunity to stand at the threshold between power and those scrambling to reach it. She thrived on proximity to authority, knowing exactly how close she could stand before getting burned. Every move was a calculated performance, every interaction a carefully measured play.

But no matter how much she acted like the one in charge, everyone in that room knew who truly held the reins.

“As I was saying, before we were interrupted” she began, her voice light, artificially bright, the edges just sharp enough to cut. “Ms. Harkness has been generous enough to join us today. She’s taking a personal interest in the development of Westview’s next phase of content. A shift in creative direction requires vision, and Ms. Harkness...”

“Knows exactly what’s at stake.”

The interruption sliced through Dottie’s words like a scalpel - clean, precise, effortless.

Agatha didn’t so much as glance in her direction. She simply began speaking, leaning forward as she rested her elbows on the polished wood of the table, her mere presence drawing the air from the room like a force of nature.

“As you may or may not know, Westview is at a crossroads” Agatha continued, her words settling over the room like an approaching storm. Her tone was smooth, measured, but beneath it ran an undeniable gravity. "The next quarter will determine Westview’s future - whether we redefine the industry or fade into irrelevance."

The murmurs around the table died instantly.

She let the weight of her words sink in.

Final. Absolute.

No one dared move.

Rio forced herself to breathe, to focus - but her body refused to cooperate.

Shifting in her seat, she let her gaze linger on Agatha, steady, unflinching.

But beneath her carefully constructed composure, her mind was spinning.

She had always admired powerful women. Been drawn to them. But Agatha was in a league of her own.

It wasn’t just power - it was the performance of it. The sheer theatricality in the way she moved, every movement choreographed down to the smallest detail. The absolute certainty with which she held a room captive, making silence as powerful as speech. The way she let a pause stretch just long enough to make others squirm, wielding discomfort as effortlessly as she wielded words.

And now - now she was rising to her feet.

Not in a rush. Not in haste.

The Head Producer unfolded herself from her seat like a queen vacating her throne, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the white t-shirt she had been wearing earlier, the same one Rio had watched stretch over her torso in the café just minutes before.

The sound came first - the slow click of her heels against the floor. A metronome of authority. Each step punctuated the silence, filling the room with an eerie, anticipatory stillness.

It sent a ripple of unease through the writers. One by one, shoulders squared, backs straightened, as if instinctively bracing themselves for whatever came next.

“Television isn’t dying” she said, her voice rich, steady. A voice that didn’t just speak - it coaxed, persuaded, convinced. “It’s evolving. And if we’re going to survive, we need to be ahead of the curve - not chasing it.” she continued, her tone dipping into something smooth, indulgent - like a perfectly aged whiskey poured slow over ice.

Rio's fingers twitched against the edge of her notebook. She ran her thumb nervously over the worn spiral binding.

Because fuck, Agatha was so devastatingly fine in that outfit.

The way Agatha’s crisp white t-shirt tucked just right into her high-waisted black trousers, fabric pulling taut whenever she moved. The curve of her hips, the way her belt sat snug against her waist, the smooth line of her back as she shifted. The slow, effortless sway as she prowled the room, completely at ease in her body, aware - so damn aware - of the effect she had. It was too much.

And Rio felt that effect like a live wire under her skin.

Agatha continued her speech, lifting a hand, palm open, inviting, gesturing toward all of them as if bestowing an opportunity rather than a challenge. "This team is built on talent the industry has failed to listen to. Different voices. New perspectives.”

She stopped behind Alice Wu, her presence settling like a shadow, deliberate and commanding. One hand braced lightly against the back of her chair - the touch casual. Barely there. Just a whisper of contact, but even that was enough to send a current of tension through the young screenwriter, making her sit up straighter, more alert.

Rio watched the long, slender fingers that flexed and curled with an easy elegance. The faint trace of veins beneath smooth skin, a quiet display of strength, of certainty. The way her hands hovered - never unsure, always precise.

“If we do this right, we don’t just compete”

A pause.

A shift in the air, as if something was about to change.

A slow, knowing smile curved at her lips, and Rio swore she could feel it more than she could see it.

“We dominate.”

The words hung there, heavy, pressing down on the room, sinking into the bones of everyone present.

And then it began.

One hesitant pitch followed by another half-formed thought, the energy in the room dipping and rising with every concept thrown into the air. For hours, they spoke, refining, adjusting, stumbling through the labyrinth of creativity under Agatha’s scrutiny.

Some ideas had promise. Others barely made it out alive.

Jen Kale suggested something supernatural - intriguing, but underdeveloped. Alice leaned toward something she refered to as a “musical psychological horror”, compelling but unfocused. Jimmy Woo pitched a dark comedy with an absurdist twist.

Agatha listened, weaving through concepts with the effortless control of a master sculptor chiseling away excess stone.

She dissected pitches with ruthless efficiency - never cruel, but never soft, either. A flick of her wrist, a tilt of her head, a single, measured response: refine this, cut that, push harder, be braver.

And through it all, Rio didn’t let her focus waver. Her mind had narrowed, attention sharpening, zeroing in on Agatha as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

She only had eyes for her.

She was studying her, learning all her peculiarities and habits.

Agatha's atittude was calm, poised, always five steps ahead. Her mouth quirked in amusement when someone said something particularly stupid. She leaned back in her chair after a weak proposal, fingers pressing lightly against her temple, exhaling through her nose before letting a brief, unimpressed silence do all the talking.

And still, she met Rio’s gaze often, like a silent dare to participate in the brainstorming.

But Rio said absolutely nothing. She had already decided what she wanted to prove.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with some script.

So she just held her gaze.

And Agatha… let her.

Of course, she did.

Because Agatha Harkness was a woman who thrived in the center of attention.

And so it continued for hours.

One idea after another, one offering after the next, each writer desperate to prove themselves, until the producer's patience finally seemed to wear thin.

She didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll her eyes. Barely even moved. But the shift was there, rippling through the air like an invisible stormfront.

And just like that, Dottie was on her feet in an instant, smoothing down her blazer with the precision of someone about to issue a verdict rather than an announcement.

She straightened, her usual saccharine smile sharpened at the edges.

"I see most of you are still... getting there" she said, the diplomatic phrasing barely concealing her underlying frustration. "But let me be perfectly clear, you need to get there fast."

Her eyes swept the table, sharp and expectant.

“In exactly one week, each of you is expected to present two fully developed proposals to the Head Producer.”

Silence. Weighted and thick.

Dottie clasped her hands together, a practiced smile smoothing over her features as her tone lightened, just enough to feign encouragement. “You may work alone or in teams. You’re free to use this space or any of the conference rooms on this floor, but I suggest you use your time wisely. Because only the strongest proposals will move forward.”

And then came the real warning.

"If your idea isn’t exceptional, don’t waste my time with it.”

Agatha didn’t say it cruelly. She didn’t need to. Her authority wasn’t loud; it was absolute. The kind that settled deep in the bones, made the air feel heavier.

She leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once against the table - thoughtful, precise.

"I will not sit through half-formed concepts or self-indulgent passion projects with no real foundation. If you aren’t absolutely certain that your pitch can stand on its own, don’t bring it to me.”

Another pause. Another slow, deliberate sweep of her gaze.

“I expect brilliance. Nothing less.”

And with that - she was no longer paying attention.

No dismissal. No follow-up.

Just the shift of her focus as she reached for her phone, her thumb gliding effortlessly across the screen, already disconnected from the room.

Darcy, who had been in the middle of pitching before the announcement, swallowed hard, visibly deflating in her seat.

But no one dared to demand the Reaper’s attention once she had decided it was no longer theirs to claim.

No one...

Except maybe Rio.

But speaking wasn’t on her mind.

Because this?

This was her moment.

With Agatha’s attention elsewhere, she allowed herself to look.

Really look.

No hesitation. No guilt. No restraint.

She let her gaze wander, drinking in every meticulous detail of the woman who had occupied her thoughts since the moment she stepped into this building.

The sharp cut of her jaw, the perfect line of her nose. The way her lips pressed together in thought as she scrolled through whatever was on her screen. The smooth arch of her back as she shifted in her seat.

And...that hair.

Rio had seen it before, of course. Had admired it in passing, had resisted the temptation to really think about it.

But now?

Now she let herself wonder.

* What would it feel like? Would it be as impossibly soft as it looked? Would it slip like silk through her fingers? Or would it have just enough resistance when she gripped it tight—when she pulled? *

The thought sent a slow, molten heat curling through her stomach.

Suddenly, Agatha’s gaze darted toward her, intending only to steal a glance, quick and discreet.

She clearly hadn’t expected Rio to still be looking.

But Rio caught her.

Their eyes locked.

The screenplayer didn’t feign innocence. Didn’t pretend she had been focused on something else.

She let Agatha see.

The heat. The intent. The sheer, unrelenting want.

And for the first time - Agatha faltered.

It was barely a flicker. A half-second of hesitation. The briefest misstep in her otherwise unshakable composure.

But Rio felt it.

The way her breath hitched, so minute that no one else would have caught it.

The way her fingers - always steady, always poised - twitched slightly in midair, as if she had caught herself too late.

Just as quickly

Agatha turned away.

Expression smoothing into perfection.

Chin resting against her palm, fingers near her lips in a casual, effortless pose.

Rehearsed. Controlled.

It might have fooled someone else.

But not Rio.

Oh, no.

Because she knew exactly what this all meant.

A slow, dangerous thrill curled through her as she ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, pressing against the skin - a nervous tic, an outlet for the fire igniting under her skin.

That moment of uncertainty?

That was the undeniable, mouthwatering proof.

* She was going to fuck that woman. *

And by the way Agatha’s gaze lingered just a second too long before finally snapping away?

Agatha knew it, too.

____________________

The meeting had barely ended before the room emptied in a flurry of hurried steps and hushed, half-whispered conversations.

“What a nightmare she is.”

                                                                                                                                          “Seriously. So fucking rude.”

                                                     “She’s terrifying.”

                                                                                             “She was out for blood—judging everyone ”

“I’m sweating bullets from the sheer stress and panic ”

That last comment came from Darcy.

But her friend wasn’t listening to her complains - too aware of the way Agatha was checking her out from behind.

“Wait for me outside, will you?”

“What? Why?” Darcy asked, confused.

Rio shot her a knowing look, then nodded toward Agatha.

Darcy followed her gaze. “Oh.”

She gathered her things and headed for the door, but not before throwing one last warning over her shoulder.

“Be careful, Rio. You’re playing with fire.”

But Rio was already heading towards her favourite producer.

Already thinking about how to dodge another bullet: The Head of Development, who was still there, lurking behind Agatha like a lost puppy desperate to be of use. A suck-up.

She shot Rio a look of pure disdain.

“Can I help you with something, Vidal?” Dottie asked, voice saccharine with condescension.

Rio glanced between her and Agatha before clearing her throat. “I was just wondering if the Head Producer had given any thought to my proposal.” She let the words hang, her gaze steady on Agatha, making it unmistakably clear she wasn’t just talking about work.

Dottie scoffed. “You didn’t make a proposal during the meeting, Vidal. Frankly, you were useless. We expect more from our new hires at Westview. If you want to stay...”

“I have” Agatha interrupted smoothly.

Rio’s stomach flipped. “And?”

Agatha shrugged, exaggerated and nonchalant. “Mmm. It’s a risky one. what if what I truly want is something more…visceral? You think you have what it takes to...write...that?”

Dottie, oblivious to the shift in tone, remained in place.

Agatha turned to her then. “Excuse me, Dottie, but what exactly are you still doing here? Are you trying to do my job now?”

The Head of Development stiffened. “No, of course not.” She shot Rio another venomous look before briskly exiting the room.

Agatha barely waited for the door to click shut before speaking again.

"Lock it, Vidal. So everyone knows the room is occupied."

Rio did as she was told.

The soft sound of the lock sliding into place barely echoed before she turned back around - only to find Agatha already watching her.

Perched on the edge of the desk, arms folded, posture relaxed yet purposeful, she regarded Rio with an unreadable expression. Calculating. Composed.

Seconds stretched.

Neither of them spoke.

The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken things.

"So…" Rio finally broke the silence, shifting her weight slightly.

Agatha exhaled, slow and measured, head tilting just enough to be disarming.

"I'm right here" she murmured.

Her voice was calm, steady - an invitation wrapped in restraint.

"Oh, are you?" Rio tested, matching Agatha’s tone with one of her own.

Agatha let her arms drop, fingers splaying lightly against the surface of the desk as she leaned back, her weight pressing into the solid wood. The movement was smooth, almost indifferent - but beneath its ease lay something pointed, a silent provocation hanging in the charged air between them.

"Come closer."

Not a suggestion. Not a request.

A command.

Rio’s breath caught - but she obeyed.

Step by step, she advanced, narrowing the space between them.

Agatha watched her move intently, her stare unyielding.

"Closer."

The shift in her tone was subtle but undeniable - firmer now, laced with quiet authority.

The writer stepped in again, until only inches remained. Near enough to feel the warmth radiating from Agatha’s body. Near enough that every breath threatened to erase what little distance was left.

Agatha’s lips parted slightly as she exhaled, eyes dragging down the length of Rio’s frame before locking onto hers once more.

"You’re distracting, you know that?" Her voice was smooth, controlled with precision - but Rio caught it. That sliver of something underneath. Something volatile.

Like a siren’s call. Seductive. Lethal. Inescapable.

Agatha stood then, heels clicking softly against the floor as she straightened. The slight height advantage wasn’t much, but she used it well, her presence expanding to fill the entire room.

Rio didn’t step back.

Didn’t give an inch.

If anything, she leaned in.

The blue-eyed goddess let out a quiet, amused huff, shaking her head slightly. "You come on way too strong."

Rio’s throat felt tight, anticipation winding through her ribs like a coil pulled too taut - but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver.

She just held Agatha’s gaze, steady and unyielding, as her boss reached for the strap of her backpack and slid it off her shoulder, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor.

"You’re different" Agatha mused, fingers resting against the fabric of Rio’s shirt, lingering longer than necessary.

A breath.

A beat.

"I like that."

A moment stretched between them.

"Vidal" Agatha murmured, voice dipping lower, richer, "you do realize they could fire us for this?"

The question was a test.

A challenge.

And Rio never backed down from a challenge.

"For what?" she asked, feigning innocence.

Agatha's gaze drifted over the raven-haired girl’s eyes, searching, measuring, considering—before finally dropping to her lips.

She didn’t bother with subtlety.

The infamous triangle technique. A calculated maneuver, designed to unravel, to tease, to make damn sure there was no room for doubt.

They both felt it, deep in their bones. The tension humming, coiled tight, like a match hovering over an open flame.

Slender fingers traced the buttons of Rio’s shirt—not undoing, just lingering, testing, playing with the inevitable.

"I’d love to have you beneath me" she purred, voice steeped in indulgence.

Rio’s breath hitched.

"But unfortunately…" The Hot Producer sighed, a delicate, almost mocking exhale, as if genuinely inconvenienced. "You’re my subordinate."

Rio smirked, tilting her head just slightly. "Guess we’ll have to do something about that."

Agatha hummed, thoughtful.

Her fingers trailed along the edge of Rio’s collarbone - barely there, featherlight. A tease.

"If only you knew how to keep that beautiful mouth of yours shut..." Agatha's voice oozed mock sympathy, each syllable dragging lazily through the charged silence that crackled between them.

Rio raised an eyebrow, a challenge in her gaze. “Agatha…” Her voice was low, breathless, a cocktail of need and restraint. “Just tell me what you want.”

The woman didn’t answer with words - just a single, precise tap of her finger against Rio’s lips. A command. A provocation. A dare.

Rio’s pulse hammered in her veins, but she didn’t flinch.

Her lips parted.

Agatha’s fingers slid beneath her jaw, her thumb grazing Rio’s bottom lip before slipping inside - soft, deliberate, claiming.

Rio never broke eye contact as she closed her mouth around it.

No hesitation. Her tongue flicked over the digit, slow and purposeful.

She felt the shift before she saw it.

The almost imperceptible inhale.

The dilation of Agatha’s pupils, her breath slowing, measured, locked on Rio—assessing.

She wasn’t restraining herself.

She was savoring.

She was pleased.

And Rio? She was in too deep, and they both knew it.

When her boss finally withdrew her thumb, she dragged it lightly across her lower lip, tracing the shape with an almost reverent touch.

Without thinking, Rio’s fingers gripped the producer’s wrist, halting the teasing movements.

"Stop playing, Agatha" she rasped, her voice raw, the edges rough and unpolished.

Agatha froze.

For a moment, something flickered across her face - a quick flash of surprise. But instead of retreating, instead of letting Rio’s sudden boldness throw her off, her smirk deepened.

Slowly, she lifted her arms, encircling Rio’s neck. The girl stared at her like she was a revelation. Agatha’s fingertips skimmed the nape of her neck, a featherlight caress that sent a shiver shooting down Rio’s spine.

Rio inhaled sharply.

Agatha leaned in, her breath warm against Rio’s ear.

“You need to learn some manners if you're aiming to be my pet”

The words hit Rio like a bolt of electricity.

"Is that how this goes? You want me to be your good little pet?"

Agatha pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, eyes dark and knowing. She nodded silently, never breaking eye contact.

Waiting.

Daring her.

Rio clenched her jaw.

Her breath stilled in her chest.

"I’ll be whatever you want" Rio murmured, fingers tightening around Agatha’s waist, her grip steady, purposeful, making her own pulse falter.

Agatha tilted her head, eyes sharp, scanning her face with meticulous care. Searching. Assessing.

“Good girl”

"Whatever you want... as long as it still gets me what I want"

Agatha pulled back just enough to tilt her chin, smirking. “And what is it that you want from me, Vidal?”

No hesitation.

The answer was simple.

“I just want… you.”

A flicker of something - something unreadable - crossed Agatha’s features.

Then she arched a brow.

“Oh, so you do know how to lie.”

She leaned in, slow, unrushed, until their noses brushed.

“That’s not all the truth” she murmured. “I can see it.”

Rio’s jaw clenched.

She caged Agatha in, hands braced against the desk on either side of her.

“What do you mean?.”

Agatha’s lips barely parted, like she was about to say something - but then she simply smiled.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Rio swallowed.

She did.

She knew it the moment Agatha cornered her in the elevator.

She knew when Agatha ignored her in the café, letting her stew.

She knew it earlier that day, when Agatha let her walk into that conference room like prey into a hunter’s snare.

This was never about want.

It was about power.

The game. The push and pull.

The way Agatha tested people. Pushed them. Waited to see what they would do when she applied pressure.

And right now Rio could feel the weight of that pressure pressing into her ribs, making it harder to breathe.

Agatha studied her, eyes dragging over every inch of her face, measuring every reaction.

“Tell me what you really want from me” she said, voice softer now, but no less commanding.

Rio wavered.

Then exhaled. Letting the truth come out of her lips.

“I want you to approve my script.”

Agatha let a silence stretch.

Then she laughed.

A deep, rich sound.

Rio felt the ground shift beneath her.

She hated that laugh.

Hated the way it curled around her ribs, tightening something in her chest.

Because it wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was knowing.

A sound that told Rio this was exactly what Agatha had been expecting.

Like she had seen this outcome a mile away.

“Way to kill the moment, Vidal” Agatha chuckled. “But it is what it is, I guess”

Rio’s smirk faltered.

Agatha caught it.

“Don’t worry,swetheart” she added quickly, voice dipping softer. “I’m used to it. It’s okay.”

Something in Rio bristled.

She didn’t like the way Agatha responded to it with something that sounded dangerouly like a rehearsed line, like something well-worn, well-practiced.

Didn’t like the way it sat between them, final and absolute.

And she sure as hell didn’t like the way Agatha’s smirk barely wavered.

Like this was how it always went.

Like Rio was just another inevitable conclusion in a long line of predictable disappointments.

So she didn’t let her reset whatever this game was.

Didn’t let her pull away.

Instead, she reached for her.

Sliding her hands over Agatha’s thighs, she gripped them, firm.

Claiming.

Agatha’s body stilled.

Not resistance.

Not reluctance.

Just stillness.

A brief flicker of something

Between gasped breaths, Agatha smirked.

Dark. Deliberate.

Like Rio had just become interesting again.

And before she could stop herself—before she could think better of it - Rio blurted.

“I think about you…” The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, her voice cracking. “…all the time.”

Agatha made a quiet sound, something close to amusement, fingers ghosting down Rio’s spine. Slow. Measured.

“Of course you do.” She said it ike it was obvious. Like it was inevitable.

Rio swallowed hard, pulse hammering against her ribs.

That tone was so dangerous.

* But - fuck - she didn’t care. *

She wanted more.

Desperately.

And she didn’t know how else to ask for it.

So she resorted to the only thing she had in mind.

She reached up, cupping the face of the woman who haunted her dreams.

And finally

They crashed together.

No hesitation. No restraint. Just fire. Just need. Just the raw collision of lips, the urgent press of bodies, the overwhelming, reckless desire for more.

Rio groaned against Agatha’s lips, her fingers digging into her waist, gripping with a force that made her own breath falter as she pushed Agatha harder against the desk.

Agatha gasped. A brief hitch of breath. A momentary surrender. Then she tilted her head, opening for Rio, welcoming the storm, like she’d been waiting for it.

* Jesus fucking Christ. *

This was...this was something else.

The best damn kiss either of them had ever had.

Rio sighed into it, pressing another kiss to Agatha’s lips - softer this time. Slower. Letting herself savor the shape of her mouth, the heat, the way Agatha didn’t pull back.

Again.

And again.

Each kiss a confession. Each one amplifying the tension, coiling beneath their skin.

Then, Agatha pulled away, pressing a firm hand to Rio’s chest, halting her movement.

Not with cruelty. Not with coldness. But with a calculated precision that felt like a trap closing in.

A rejection veiled in something far more dangerous.

"Help me develop my next hit series." Agatha's voice was too casual, but the hunger lurking in her gaze told a different story.

Something primal.

Rio blinked, momentarily thrown off. "What?" For an instant, she'd forgotten who Agatha was - and that this was, in fact, an office.

The words lingered, heavy with meaning, wrapping around them like a tightening coil.

"And in return, I’ll help you refine your spec." she offered.

Rio’s stomach tightened. How was she getting everything she wanted? She forced a steady breath, trying to cool the fire igniting in her chest.

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head, her lips curling slightly. "Fuck" she muttered, her tone deliberate, drawn out. "This is getting hotter by the second."

The producer was still waiting, expecting something more concrete.

She smirked and gave in.

“Deal.”

Agatha’s gaze flickered - first to Rio’s lips, then back up. She exhaled, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving hers.

“That fucking smirk” she muttered, like the sight of it was tearing something apart inside her.

She shook her head, exhaling sharply through her nose.

“Too damn sure of yourself. Too fucking smug.”

Rio didn’t utter a word.

She just let her wrestle with whatever thought was clawing at her.

Let her feel the weight of everything between them, thickening, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

A sudden noise from the hallway - footsteps, voices, the distant murmur of passing figures.

Rio’s gaze snapped to the door, instincts kicking in, the harsh reminder of the real risk of being caught. But even as her focus fixed on the entrance, the heat between them held steady, unwavering.

* They should stop. They really should. *

But there was no turning back now. A choice had been made. This moment needed to spill over, take a different shape, find a new space. So she spoke, her voice dropping, too easygoing for the situation. “Let me buy you lunch.”

And then - contact.

A fistful of fabric, a brutal yank.

A sharp, unforgiving pull.

Rio’s back slammed into the door, the force rattling her spine.

Agatha was on her in a heartbeat.

"I'm going to have so much fun taking you down a notch" she mused, almost absently, like she was talking more to herself than to Rio.

Agatha’s fingers dug into the collar of Rio’s shirt, tugging her closer. The fabric twisted under her grip, slipping free from Rio’s pants like it had never belonged there in the first place.

Before Rio could even react, Agatha’s mouth was on hers.

Heat. Teeth. Tongue.

She kissed like she was stealing something.

Like she was claiming, taking.

Rio gasped into her mouth, her breath swallowed by the overwhelming force of it.

The sharp bite of teeth against her lower lip. The deliberate, teasing drag of Agatha’s tongue, pulling and claiming once more.

And then her lips started tracing the sharp edge of Rio’s jaw, traveling lower, licking along the column of her throat before sinking her teeth into the sensitive skin just beneath her chin.

Rio shuddered, knees buckling slightly.

A sharp inhale - half gasp, half curse - ripped from her lips before she could hold it back.

Agatha grinned against her skin, her nose grazing the collar of Rio’s shirt before shoving it aside, lips skating across the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder.

Another bite.

Harder.

A mark.

A promise.

Rio felt it pulse through her, deep and alive.

Heat surged through her like a live wire, pleasure sharp with just the right edge to make her head spin.

Agatha pulled back, exhaling slowly, as if savoring her every reaction, cataloging it all.

Her pupils were blown wide, lips swollen, but there was no recklessness in her expression.

No.

Agatha was never out of control.

She took a step back - not rushed, not reluctant, just deliberate. The space between them was a statement in itself.

And then, with an exhale too calm, too collected, she glanced at her watch.

Like that - the time - was the only reason she was stopping.

Rio wanted to scream.

Dazed, she watched as Agatha reached for her notes, her iPad, her phone - moving with the quiet precision of someone who had already compartmentalized what just happened, as if she had flipped a switch and put it away neatly in a box.

Rio moved before her mind could catch up.

Bold. Reckless.

She pressed herself flush against Agatha’s back, inhaling the scent of her hair, letting their heat fuse again.

"Let me keep you a little longer" she murmured, voice raw, stripped of pretense.

For a second, Rio braced herself for the pullback - wondered if Agatha might turn away, shut her down, step back into control.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there.

Still.

Taut.

Her breath deepened, just a fraction, but enough to make Rio’s pulse race.

Their bodies stayed locked together, dangerously close, dangerously aligned.

* God, she was intoxicating. *

So Rio took the plunge. Her fingers slid along Agatha’s shoulders, tracing the curve of her neck, then tightened - gripping her throat. Her other hand snaked around Agatha’s waist, pulling her deeper into the embrace

A beat of silence.

Rio kissed her neck - first at the delicate curve beneath her jaw, then along the edge of her temple, tracing, moving, each kiss more deliberate than the last.

Her lips and fingers lingered on the pulse in Agatha’s throat, the weight of it, the meaning behind it, the way Agatha’s skin seemed to hum beneath her touch.

Agatha’s breath hitched, her back stiffening, and Rio could feel the shift in the air - like the space between them had just thickened.

“Dinner tonight?” Rio whispered against her skin, her voice low, teasing, but the words trembled with the heat of the moment. She paused, her lips brushing against Agatha’s neck again, testing, offering, waiting, hoping.

The smirk returned to Agatha’s lips, sharp and knowing, and with a fluid movement, she slipped from Rio’s grasp, leaving her hands empty, but the heat between them still crackling.

Agatha took one last look, her eyes locking with Rio’s, as she leaned in just enough for her lips to brush against the edge of Rio’s ear.

“You a romantic?”

Her smirk deepened.

"How sad." Agatha mocked, her words floating in the air as she headed for the door.

Agatha’s fingers tightened around the door handle, her grip strong, a clear intent to walk away.

But Rio was still there. Close enough that she could feel the heat of her breath searing across her shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine.

Before her boss could make a move, Rio’s hand closed around her wrist.

* Shit. *

In a single, calculated motion, Rio spun Agatha, slamming her back against the door.

The air shifted.

Rio’s other hand found Agatha’s waist—firm, purposeful, a silent demand that pinned her in place with undeniable intent.

“You’re not leaving like this. Not again.”

The space between them was an inferno, their breaths tangling in the air, the tension so thick it could suffocate them.

* Rio was so close. So fucking close and hot. *

Agatha didn’t push her away.

“Sex tonight.” The words slipped from Rio’s lips, raw and commanding. Her gaze was fixed, intent - unwavering, locked on Agatha’s mouth.

Not a suggestion.

A demand.

A decision made in silence, no permission given.

Agatha’s eyes darted up, searching Rio’s face. The quiet, burning determination there made her pulse skip

She let out a soft laugh, amusement mixing with something much darker.

But the woman before her wasn’t backing down.

Her fingers traced the edge of Agatha’s jaw, soft, slow. A delicate touch over her cheek, through her hair, like she was something fragile - something to be carefully handled.

Agatha felt it then.

That raw, unguarded hunger.

It should have been pathetic.

But it wasn’t.

It was exhilarating.

The feeling of being wanted. Not for power. Not for status.

But craved.

Desired. 

Her stomach twisted.

Agatha leaned in, her thumb grazing Rio’s lower lip.

“You bad, bad girl” she murmured.

But her new pet didn’t let go.

Didn’t give Agatha a chance to escape.

Instead, her hands slipped beneath Agatha’s t-shirt, fingers splaying over her smooth stomach, mapping their way up.

Higher.

Higher.

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Then Rio seized her.

A firm, possessive touch, fingers curling around her breast, Rio’s thumb rolling over her nipple through the thin fabric of her bra.

Agatha bit down on her lip, hard.

Her back hit the door, arching into the contact before she could stop herself.

Rio’s mouth was on hers before she could think, before she could protest, before she could do anything but feel.

Teeth. Lips. Tongue.

* Fuck. *

A low growl escaped Agatha’s throat.

“Stop.”

Rio froze.

Her lips hovered against Agatha’s skin, but she pulled back just enough, blinking up at her, concern flashing through the haze of need.

“What’s wrong?”

Agatha’s fingers dug into Rio’s waist, pulling her in.

“We can't.”

Rio’s expression barely shifted, but there was something sharp in her eyes - something knowing.

"Turns out you're the worst liar"

* Double fuck. *

Agatha let out a frustrated laugh, tipping her head back against the door, eyes closing for half a second.

When she opened them again

There it was. That fucking smirk. That self-satisfied, infuriating smile.

Agatha hated it. Hated the sensation of being out of control.

So, she grabbed Rio by the hair, yanking her head back, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.

And she kissed her again.

Slow. Deliberate.

Her teeth dragged over Rio’s lower lip, teasing.

Torturing.

Letting Rio think she had the upper hand.

And just as Rio tried to take it deeper...

Agatha pulled away.

Composed. Unbothered.

Still not letting go.

Instead of wiping the stupid smirk off her face, Agatha’s attitude only made it grow stronger.

Smugger than ever, Rio grinned. She leaned in as much as Agatha’s grip would allow, her voice low and teasing.

"So... how about sex now?"

Agatha opened her mouth - to argue, to taunt - but stopped mid-thought.

Paused.

Considered.

She yanked Rio’s head back again, tilting her chin up, exposing her throat.

Before she could react, before her mind could catch up, Agatha yanked her wrist, bringing Rio's hand to her mouth with a raw, possessive force.

Then...

A flick of Agatha’s tongue.

A slow, deliberate drag of heat over the center of Rio’s palm, wet, intoxicating, teasing.

Rio’s breath hitched, her senses overwhelmed, but Agatha didn’t let go. She parted Rio’s fingers with ease, drawing them into her mouth, her tongue swirling around them, slow, sensual, relentless.

* Holy shit *

Agatha’s tongue slid against Rio’s fingers, each movement calculated, pushing the girl closer to the edge, forcing her to lose herself in the moment.

Her gaze was sharp, unwavering -  hungry for every shiver, every subtle twitch from her prey.

Rio whimpered - soft, desperate, a sound that shattered her resolve, breaking her under the weight of Agatha’s touch.

With a smirk, that minx of a woman pulled back just enough to guide Rio’s hand downward, her fingers still warm from her mouth.

She guided Rio’s hand to her waistband, slipping it beneath the fabric, guiding her fingers to the place where she craved them most, the motions slow - every second a promise of what was to come.

Rio’s breath hitched, pulse pounding in her throat, as Agatha’s voice dropped low, the words laced with dark amusement.

“You’ve got five minutes.”

Chapter Text

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing her off from what had just happened.

Agatha exhaled, slow and steady, rolling her shoulders back. Her fingers skimmed the hem of her white tee, still wrinkled where Rio had grabbed it - clenched it like she needed something to hold onto. Like pinning Agatha against the door was the only way to steady herself while she unraveled her with the other hand.

* Four minutes and thirty-six seconds. *

The number lodged itself in Agatha’s brain like a splinter.

She knew – knew - Rio could have unraveled her even faster if she hadn’t fought to hold it off. If she hadn’t draw every second to its limit, just to make the most of their stolen time.

Five minutes was all they had. And Rio had used every last second like she fucking knew it. Like she was hyper-aware of the countdown, of Agatha’s pace, of every shift in her breath, every twitch of her fingers. Focused. Following orders to the letter while making it look effortless.

That’s what had Agatha’s mind spinning.

That control. That precision. That ability to read between the lines enough to prolong the inevitable but never once lose her edge. Because Agatha had dictated the terms. And Rio had played them perfectly.

If Rio could do that in under five minutes, what could she do if Agatha actually let her have her? If she didn’t hold back? If she let Rio push, let herself pull? If she let Rio take?

She should be thinking about the proposal. The funding. The show that didn’t even exist yet. The Zoom call she was already late for. A hundred other things demanding her attention.

But all she could feel was the ghost of Rio’s breath against her skin, the phantom weight of her body, the way she had resisted at first - just enough - only to yield exactly when she wanted to.

Not just obedient.

Not just defiant.

A perfect balance.

That had been the real surprise.

Not that Rio was good - Agatha had expected that. She had seen it in the way she talked and move, in the unwavering certainty with which she chased what she wanted. In the way rejection barely grazed her, as if she knew it was never meant to stick.

Agatha had met women like Rio before. Women who drew admirers as naturally as the tide pulls in the waves - inevitable, unstoppable.

But the hunger between them? That had been new.

Not the slow-burn kind, the one that simmers before it boils over. No, this was raw, unfiltered - a collision of need, the kind that devours.

She ran a hand through her hair as the elevator dinged open, shaking off the heat still curling in her spine.

* Not the time, Harkness.*

Westview Productions stretched out before her - assistants darting between meetings, phones buzzing, writers scrambling to pull their shit together before tomorrow’s pitch sessions.

None of it touched her. None of it mattered.

She had exactly one objective.

Get the funding.

And she had literally nothing to sell.

No script. No team. No solid pitch.

Just one hidden ace up her sleeve: Rio Vidal.

Sometimes, secrets align.

Hiring her had been a gut decision. Agatha had read her spec script once, skimmed through her industry history, and felt something stir - something rare.

Her writing was sharp. Alive. Too much potential rotting away at the bottom of the corporate food chain.

But potential and talent didn’t mean shit in Hollywood unless you knew how to sell it.

Luckily, Agatha had the rare talent of being able to sell anything.

" Ms. Harkness, you're late for your call."

Herbert’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, precise and unwelcome reminder. He hovered nearby, stiff-backed, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else than delivering bad news.

Agatha barely spared him a glance, but the weight of her stare was enough. No verbal lashing. No sharp retort. Yet.

She could feel it coming, though. The real problem.

"Also, the board is looking for you."

That got her attention.

"I don’t have time for those greedy bastards right now."

Herbert hesitated, carefully choosing his next words, like stepping through a minefield. "It’s about the financing prospects of your proposal. They want an update. ASAP."

Of course, they did.

Agatha clenched her jaw.

"Tell them to go fuck themselves."

Herbert blanched. "I… can’t tell them that."

"Ah. A dilemma." she joked. She could see it written all over his face - obey her and risk getting axed by the higher-ups, or disobey and face the full force of her wrath.

She sighed, already shifting gears. Time to improvise.

"Fine. Push the call a few hours - come up with something plausible. Get the conference room ready. I’ll be there in ten."

She was going to have to pull a Jabberwocky presentation.

Smoke and mirrors. A masterclass in bullshit. She needed them salivating over a project that, in reality, didn’t exist yet.

"Herbert, prep a slide deck that means nothing but sounds important. You know the kind."

Her assistant, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He had made enough of those for her - dressing up thin air with charts and jargon while Agatha spun nothing into gold.

"On it."

Still, he didn’t move.

She raised a brow.

"What else?"

"Your contact at Hex Entertainment is interested."

That made her pause.

"Interested," she repeated, setting down her iPad on her desk, eyes flicking to the folder he slid across the surface. "Or just curious?"

"They want to talk. Dinner tonight. You, them, a few investors. Could lead to something big."

A dinner with producers. A battlefield of egos and money.

Nothing mattered except who told the best story.

"Fine. Set it up."

Herbert nodded, already checking it off his mental list. "And the Women in the Industry event next week - they sent an invitation. RSVP required. Plus one optional."

Agatha exhaled sharply. "Please tell me you’re not suggesting I waste my night babysitting executives who pretend to care about gender equity for PR points."

"Lots of potential investors will be there." Her assistant insisted.

Damn him. He was right.

She sighed. "I’ll think about it. We can’t afford to lose momentum."

Herbert glanced at her, expression unreadable. "Not sure we have momentum yet, Ms. Harkness."

Agatha smirked, adjusting the sleeves of her t-shirt. "Not if you keep saying it like that, we don’t."

She straightened, rolling her shoulders back.

* Let the game begin. *

__________________________________________

The presentation had gone well.

The Zoom call? Mediocre at best.

Agatha pulled off her reading glasses and tossed them onto the desk. Leaning back, she pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to dull the ache blooming at the base of her skull.

* This fucking job.*

All that was left was dinner with Hex Entertainment.

As far as investors went, they wouldn’t be difficult. They just needed the right narrative, the right promises. Agatha could spin those in her sleep. Play her cards right, and the deal was as good as done.

She exhaled, glancing at the time.

There was still a window.

Enough time to go home, shower, scrub off the phantom touch of Rio Vidal—burn through whatever heat still coiled beneath her skin. She needed to strip off these clothes (underwear included), put on something that said business, dominance, control -

Instead of just got finger-fucked against a door this morning.

* Jesus. What a goddamn day. *

Shoving the memory aside, she grabbed her bag and made her way down to the underground parking lot.

The moment Agatha slid into the driver’s seat, her phone rang.

Unknown number.

A prickle of unease crept up her spine. She stared at the screen, debating. Then, with a resigned breath, she answered.

“Ms. Harkness?”

“Speaking.”

A pause. Hesitation.

Never a good sign.

“It’s about Nicholas.”

The world around her stilled. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

“What happened?”

“There was an incident.”

Cold. Clinical. A euphemism for bad.

Her jaw tightened. “Cut the bullshit. What kind of incident?”

The woman on the other end hesitated, just for a second. Just long enough to make Agatha’s pulse spike.

“Where is he?”

“Still at the center” the voice rushed to explain. “But… he’s asking for you.”

“This is highly irregular” Agatha said, voice measured. “Why are you bending protocol?”

A beat. Then, softer-

“Because this time… it’s different. Are you available to come meet us now?”

She didn’t ask what that meant.

She was already starting the car.

The call ended before they could say anything else. Nicky was forty minutes away.

She’d make it in twenty.

The freeway blurred, streaks of light flashing past as she weaved through traffic like it was just another obstacle to bulldoze through. One hand on the wheel, the other scrolling through contacts on the dashboard screen.

Dottie Jones.

Agatha cursed under her breath as the phone rang.

Of all people…

She didn’t trust always-smiling Dottie. Not fully. Not with this. Or with anything, for that matter. But there was no one else. No one who knew how deep she was in at Westview. No one as desperate to please. No one as willing to bend over backward to keep her favor.

Dottie picked up on the second ring, overly eager, like she’d been waiting.

“Ms. Harkness!”

“I’m skipping dinner with Hex Entertainment. You’re going in my place. Herbert will send you the details.”

A pause.

“Me?”

“You.” Her voice was clipped. “Sell it. We need funding for all the new projects. Make it sound urgent. Make it sound necessary.”

“Ms. Harkness, I don’t—”

“I don’t care.” Ice-cold. “Get it done. And make sure they know I’ll meet with them at the gala next week instead. Tell them drinks are on me after the event. Call it a trade for my absence tonight.”

Silence. Then, in the fakest, most ass-kissing voice Agatha had ever heard—

“Of course, Ms. Harkness. You can count on me.”

She nearly rolled her eyes.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

And with that, she hung up.

One more call.

She dialed Herbert.

“Yes, Ms. Harkness?”

“Confirm my attendance at the Women in the Industry gala next week. Full PR push. Make it look intentional. And make sure I’m seated next to whoever’s representing Hex Entertainment.”

“Understood.”

She ended the call before he could say anything else.

The engine roared beneath her as she tore down the highway, slicing through the night.

Westview didn’t matter right now.

Not Hex Entertainment. Not the funding. Not work.

Only Nicky.

And whatever the hell had happened to him.

__________________________________________________________

The foster center sat on the far side of the city - sterile, impersonal. More holding cell than home.

Agatha hated this place.

The dull walls. The faint chemical smell. The way Nicky was still stuck here, waiting for a future that kept slipping further away.

And after tonight, he was at risk of losing even that.

The second she stepped inside, a social worker was waiting, arms crossed, expression tight.

"He got into a fight" she said, skipping pleasantries. "One of the older boys said something, and… well, Nicholas has an awful temper."

Agatha tensed.

"How bad?"

A hesitation.

"The other kid’s in the hospital. Broken nose."

She barely reacted.

"And Nicky?" He was the only thing Agatha cared about.

“Just some scratches and a black eye. We patched him up in the nurse's office.”

Agatha exhaled slowly.

"Where is he?"

"Separated from the others. He refused to talk to anyone but you."

That stopped her.

They weren’t supposed to allow this kind of visit. Foster kids weren’t meant to build attachments outside the system. But they’d made an exception.

Because this was serious.

As they explained, if it happened again, Nicky wouldn’t be here anymore. He’d be sent somewhere harsher - a place that saw kids like him as problems, not people.

* Not happening.*

She squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

Nicky sat in a plastic chair, arms crossed, his good eye glaring at nothing in particular. His cheekbone was already bruising, his lip cracked, dried blood crusted at the edges.

"You look like shit" she said. Maybe not the most appropriate thing to say to a kid, but it came out honest.

His gaze flicked up, sharp as ever. "You look worse." His tone was cocky, but she could hear the tension underneath, the instinct to never let himself be the one left standing lower.

She smirked. She'd allow it today.

Dragging a chair beside him, she flipped it backward and straddled it. "So...” she said. "You gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to bribe it out of you?"

Nicky huffed. "Some asshole" he muttered, the swear word low, like a secret between co-conspirators. "He said I won’t ever have a family 'cause no one wants me."

Agatha’s fingers curled around the back of the chair.

"That why you broke his nose?"

"He wouldn’t shut his mouth about it."

"So you made sure he physically couldn’t?"

A shrug. A defiant lift of his chin.

* Damn. They really were the same. *

The same short fuse. The same instinct to lash out. The same anger simmering under the surface—the kind born from seeing too much, too young, and taking it personally.

"You can’t just hit people every time they piss you off, kid. It's not allowed"

"You do."

Agatha let out a short laugh. "I told you that specific story so you’d understand violence isn’t the answer."

Nicky looked unconvinced.

"And besides" she added, "I’m an adult. I can get away with it."

That got a snort out of him. His shoulders eased - just slightly.

"They were wrong, by the way" she added, voice steady. "About you not having a family."

His fingers twitched.

"Then why am I still here?"

Agatha inhaled. Exhaled. Controlled.

"Because sometimes the world is stupid."

That got his attention. His head turned, eyes wary.

"But that definitely doesn’t mean I don’t want you in my life" she continued. "And it sure as hell doesn’t mean we’re not a team. You and me, remember? A pair, a partnership, a perfect duo, a tandem." She gestured grandly with her hands, like she was painting the words across the air in neon lights.

Nicky looked amused but stayed stubborn, scowling at the floor like it had personally wronged him.

Then, finally - "How’s Scratchy?"

She let him change the subject.

"Waiting for you at home."

"You got new pictures?"

"Of course."

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through her gallery. Scratchy sprawled across her couch. Scratchy curled up in a sunbeam. Scratchy stuffing his tiny face with lettuce.

Nicky leaned in, eyes scanning the screen, the tension in his shoulders easing.

They sat like that for a while.

Then, soft - "How much longer until we can live together?"

Agatha’s throat tightened, but she forced a smirk. "Soon."

He shot her a look, clearly skeptical.

She met his gaze, steady. "We’re getting there."

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it sure as hell wasn’t the full truth.

Because it wasn’t just taking long.

It was taking too long.

And it was Wanda’s fault.

The memory clawed its way back before she could stop it.

That suffocating office. The adoption papers between them. The caseworker’s polite but firm questions. Wanda beside her, hands folded neatly in her lap, rehearsed and calm. Too calm.

And suddenly, out of nowhere -

"I can’t do this."

Agatha had turned so fast her neck nearly snapped.

"What?"

Wanda exhaled sharply, gaze flickering to the caseworker, then back to Agatha.

"This isn’t going to work. We’re not stable. We barely work together as it is. It wouldn’t be fair to bring a kid into this."

The words had landed like a punch to the ribs.

The caseworker’s expression shifted - neutral, but alert.

"So, just to clarify" they said carefully, "you no longer wish to proceed with the adoption?"

A pause. A heartbeat of silence.

Then, Wanda’s quiet, hesitant - "Yes."

And just like that, everything shattered.

Because she hadn’t just backed out.

She had burned it all down.

She had looked that caseworker in the eye and said neither of them should be parents. That their relationship had never worked. That Agatha was too reckless, too impulsive, too volatile to raise a kid alone.

And the worst part?

The worst part was Agatha had seen it in her face.

Not malice. Not spite.

Panic.

Wanda had panicked. And Agatha had paid the price.

Starting over had been hell. It was already hard enough to adopt as a single woman. But now?

Now she was a walking red flag. A risk. A question mark in the system’s eyes.

Is she responsible enough? Stable enough? Mature enough?

She had spent months clawing her way back from that single, catastrophic moment.

And Nicky?

Nicky had just been left waiting.

Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Just there.

Then - "We won’t have to live with anyone else, right?"

Agatha hesitated, pulse skipping before steadying.

"No, honey. Not anymore. Just you, me… and Scratchy. Our little coven."

A pause.

"Good."

Her chest ached.

Because Nicky didn’t ask why.

Didn’t ask about Wanda. Didn’t ask why she never visited. Didn’t need an explanation.

He already knew.

* She didn’t deserve you* Agatha thought to herself, running a hand through Nicky’s hair.

Nicky was her son.

Not on paper. Not in the eyes of the law.

But in every way that mattered.

"I promise you—I’ll keep going until we win."

The promise was real.

Chapter Text

"Rio. Rio."

The sound sliced through her - sharp, electric.

Until she realized it hadn’t come from the tangled mess of her daydreams about Agatha.

It had come from Darcy.

"Rio. Hello?"

She snapped her head up, heart pounding. Darcy watched her, one brow arched, arms crossed, the picture of amused suspicion.

"Dude. You good?"

Rio forced a smirk, leaning back in her chair, willing the tension coiling around her ribs to ease. "Yeah" she drawled. "Just lost in thought."

"Oh?" Darcy tilted her head, smirking now. "Care to share with the class, or is it top-secret genius stuff?"

Rio snorted, rolling her eyes. "You wouldn’t get it."

Because how the hell was she supposed to explain this?

Explain that for six days, nineteen hours, and a handful of agonizing minutes, Agatha had consumed her thoughts. That every time she stepped into this room, she could still feel her. That no matter how hard she tried to shove the memory aside, it clung - like the scent of Agatha’s perfume, like the heat of her breath, like the damn smirk she’d left Rio drowning in.

It had been almost a week.

And tomorrow – finally - she’d see her again, face-to-face.

The thought sent a slow, simmering heat curling through her, pooling low in her stomach.

How the hell was she supposed to sit here, pretending to be just another writer in just another meeting, when every inch of this room still pulsed with the memory of Agatha?

Impossible.

Absolutely fucking impossible.

And yet, she had to try.

Rio dragged in a steadying breath, straightened her posture, and forced herself to focus.

The whiteboards were already drowning in frantic scrawls - story beats, character arcs, thematic touchstones. Half of them scribbled over, erased, rewritten. The chaotic shorthand of a team still wrangling their collective vision into something cohesive.

Darkhold.

That was the working title.

The show they were about to pitch to HER.

Rio sat at the long table, fingers drumming lightly against the surface, feigning focus as the conversation swirled around her. The room hummed with low murmurs, the occasional scrape of a marker against the board, the rhythmic clicking of Jimmy’s pen as he jotted down notes.

Alice Wu stood near the front, arms crossed, scanning their ideas with sharp, analytical eyes. Jenifer Kale was half-sprawled across her chair, idly spinning a highlighter between her fingers. Across from Rio, Darcy lounged, feet kicked up on another chair like she was here for the entertainment.

Routine. Familiar.

And yet, Rio felt unmoored, like she was somewhere else entirely.

Like she was back against that door.

Like Agatha’s teeth were still on her skin.

Her fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for the base of her throat, brushing over her collarbone.

The ghost of a bite.

The memory of a smirk.

* Good lord.*

She forced herself to engage, to act like her mind wasn’t trapped in the lingering sensation of the Head Producer's mouth, her hands, her body—

But…

Every damn inch of this room reminded her of that day.

Alice, sitting in the exact chair Agatha had been in - right before Rio had pressed her against the table, before she kissed her like she was starving. Jenifer, stretching with an exaggerated sigh, resting her elbow exactly where Agatha’s hips had been, where Rio had held her still, had taken her. Jimmy, leaning against the doorframe, his hand brushing the exact spot where Rio had pinned her boss, holding her there, stealing every last gasp from her lips...

And then the damn folder Jenifer knocked off the table, landing right where Rio had found her Staff Writer badge after completely losing herself inside Agatha.

Her pulse stuttered.

* Por el amor de Dios, Rio, focus * she scolded herself silently.

She had crossed paths with Agatha a handful of times since then.

And every single time, it had taken everything in her not to slip. Not to let it show. Not to let herself break.

Most of the time, her boss - too busy ruling her audiovisual empire - hadn’t even noticed she was there. But some others…

The first time had been in the hallway. Just a nod. Nothing more. Agatha barely lifted two fingers from the lid of her coffee cup in acknowledgment. Professional. Detached. Like nothing had happened at all.

The second time, Rio had stopped in her tracks, pretending to kneel and tie her shoe just to watch. Agatha had been leaning over the desk of some poor marketing executive, her voice sharp as she dissected whatever half-baked campaign he’d pulled up on his screen. If Rio listened closely, she could pinpoint the exact moment the guy had stopped breathing.

Agatha hadn’t noticed her. Which was a shame, really. Because Rio would have loved to see her reaction if she had caught her staring.

And Rio was staring. Hard.

She wasn’t the only one - half the men in the department had slowed their pace, blatantly stealing glances at the way Agatha’s dress hugged her curves, the way her heels bit into the cheap carpet.

But Rio knew for a fact her fantasy was the best. The most detailed. The most dedicated to ravage her.

Their paths crossed again two days later.

Rio had stepped out for a smoke, leaving a frazzled Darcy behind in the writers’ room, still trying to patch together something solid enough to keep - as her colleagues called her - the Wicked Reaper of Westview from firing them all

She wandered up to an abandoned terrace - once part of a closed café - overlooking the back entrance of Westview’s employee gym.

The smell wasn’t great, that classic locker-room mix of sweat and stale air, but at least it was empty.

Instead of a cigarette, she rolled herself a joint, deciding she needed something stronger. Earbuds in. Music cranked up. Blocking everything out.

She slouched against the railing, shoulders tense, gaze distant as she stared down at the city. For a while, she just smoked. Exhaling slow. Watching traffic snake through the streets like tiny, glowing veins.

Then, on impulse, she shifted - arching her back over the railing, tilting her head so she was staring straight up at the sky. Waiting. Hoping inspiration would strike her like some divine bolt of lightning and shake loose the creative block gnawing at the back of her brain.

She had no idea how long she stayed like that. Long enough for the music to turn into background noise. Long enough for the high to settle in, warm and weightless. Long enough that she didn’t hear someone approaching.

Not until fingers - soft but firm - lifted her earbuds away.

Agatha.

Standing right in front of her, cigarette between her fingers, eyes sharp, unreadable.

“What the hell?”

She jerked upright so fast she nearly dropped the joint.

Swallowing hard, her pulse still scrambling to catch up, she demanded, “Where the hell did you come from? ”Her voice was rough from the smoke. “And how long have you been standing there?"

Agatha took one last slow drag, exhaled, then smirked to herself, like she found the screenwriter’s reaction amusing.

Of course, she did.

"Enough."

She stubbed out what remained of her cigarette against a nearby ashtray, flicking it away with casual precision.

* Had she smoked an entire cigarette just standing there in silence, watching her? *

The thought sent something hot curling low in Rio’s stomach.

The woman of her fantasies stepped back toward the building, fingers wrapping around the door handle. Then, just before disappearing inside, she glanced over her shoulder to throw one sharp, maddening wink.

Then she was gone

Leaving her subordinate standing there, heart pounding, the high suddenly not doing its job.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, inhaled deep, then let it out slow.

That woman was going to be the death of her.

Alice exhaled, dragging a hand through her hair as she refocused the room. Her voice snapped Rio back to the present. "Alright, we need to lock down the tone. We all agree Darkhold is a love letter to classic television, but how far do we take it?"

Jenifer smirked, still twirling her highlighter. "Oh, we go all in. Full commitment. If we’re doing decade-hopping sitcoms, we start with the real deal - The Dick Van Dyke Show, Bewitched, I Love Lucy."

"Heavy on Bewitched" Jimmy added, tapping his pen against his notebook. "The whole trying-to-maintain-normalcy-while-hiding-something-supernatural angle - that’s our foundation, right?"

Rio exhaled, leaning forward, finally letting herself slip into the conversation. "Exactly. Our protagonist and her husband are living this perfect suburban life, moving through different TV eras, sitcom tropes, but they’re the only ones changing. The world around them stays static, unreal. Almost dreamlike."

Alice nodded. "So, a structural evolution. Early episodes are staged like actual sitcoms - laugh tracks, multi-cam setups, era-accurate dialogue. But as the show progresses, reality glitches. Things stop making sense. Performances shift. The aspect ratio changes. The audience realizes something’s wrong before the characters do."

"Malcolm in the Middle' meets 'The Twilight Zone" Jenifer mused, she herself totally in the zone.

"More like The Office meets existential dread" Darcy said, taking a sip of her drink.

Jimmy pointed his pen at her. "Now that’s a tagline."

Rio let out a low chuckle. "You joke, but you’re not wrong. The whole thing plays out like someone trapped in a writer’s room gone wrong - characters being pushed through these different formulas, these different eras, but the moment they try to break free, the show just… reboots them."

Alice’s eyes gleamed. "So, the horror isn’t just in what’s happening. It’s in how it’s being presented."

Rio nodded. "Think about it. Every sitcom has its thing. The ’50s and ’60s had the happy housewife era, the ’70s started experimenting with the perfect family that still has problems, the ’80s and ’90s leaned into wholesome meets reality, and by the time we hit the 2000s, everything is self-aware. But if you take all of that and add an underlying darkness-"

"-it stops being comforting and starts being terrifying," Jenifer finished, her eyes flickering with interest.

Jimmy flipped through his notes. "So, what’s our midpoint? What’s the moment where it all cracks?"

Rio glanced at the board, staring at the mess of scribbled eras and story beats.

"The ’90s" she said, almost without thinking.

Alice’s brow lifted. "Why?"

Rio tapped her fingers against the table, tilting her head. "Because that’s when nostalgia starts hitting different. The ’50s and ’60s were about selling the dream, the ’70s and ’80s started questioning it, but by the ’90s? We start longing for it. That’s when our protagonist stops just living in these sitcom worlds and starts realizing they’re constructs. That’s when she starts asking the right questions."

Alice’s lips curled into something satisfied. "And the 2000s?"

Rio smirked. "That’s when she stops asking questions-"

Darcy leaned in. "-And starts fighting for answers."

A moment of silence fell over the table.

"Okay, that’s fucking sick" Jenifer admitted, grinning.

"That’s money" Jimmy agreed.

Alice exhaled, nodding. "And it ties everything together. We start in this bright, artificial world, and by the time we reach the final act, we’re knee-deep in psychological horror."

"Sitcoms aren’t just entertainment" Rio murmured. "They’re escapism."

Everyone turned toward her.

She leaned back, running a hand through her hair. "What if that’s the real tragedy of the show? What if our protagonist isn’t just trapped? What if she’s been choosing this? What if she doesn’t want to leave?"

Alice, usually the most composed, visibly sat with that thought for a moment.

"...Shit" she muttered.

"That’s the hook" Jimmy said. "That’s the thing that makes this stick."

Rio tapped the table twice, decisive. "So, tomorrow, that’s what we pitch."

Alice met her gaze. "You sure?"

Rio’s mouth curled into something almost wolfish. "I think Agatha’s gonna fucking love it."

"A-ga-tha" Jenifer groaned, exaggerating every syllable of her name in mock horror. “Oh my god”

"Well, that’s her name, ain’t it?" Rio fired back, suddenly defensive.

"I just can’t imagine willingly using her name to refer to the Reaper."

Rio could think of a few contexts where it sounded pretty fucking perfect. But she kept her mouth shut.

"I get what Rio is doing" Alice cut in. "It’s a power thing, right? Say her name, strip away the fear."

"Yeah, well, how about we don’t summon the witch while we still haven’t even decided if the protagonist has a damn dog?" Jenifer shot back, tapping her highlighter against the table.

"Oh, she does" Jimmy nodded. "You want the audience to love her? Give her a pet."

* Pet.*

The word settled in Rio's brain, pressing up against a memory: The most attractive producer in the industry dragging a slow, teasing nail down her collarbone, voice rich and amused as she murmured, "Good girl."

Rio had accepted the title without hesitation. Happily, even.

And now, she couldn’t stop wondering what other conditions came with that treatment. And what the perks were.

Sexually speaking, of course.

She had regretted it more times than she could count - not bringing her fingers to her lips after Agatha had left the room that day.

But she had made a decision.

She didn’t want just a taste.

She wanted the whole thing.

No teasing. No half-measures.

She wanted to bury her face between her thighs, to hear her name fall from that wicked mouth in something raw and breathless. To savor her properly - slow, deep, until that stimulating word meant more than just a playful whisper against her ear.

Because pet was a promise.

A promise of more. Of better. Of again.

And fuck, she could hardly stand the wait.

"Oh, come on" Darcy chimed in, pulling her back to reality. "A dog? We all know what happens when this type of series introduces an adorable dog."

Jenifer laughed. "Which makes it even worse when the audience realizes the real bitch is the neighbor."

"She kills the dog?" Darcy shot Jimmy a sharp, horrified look

"Hey, I didn’t make the rules" he defended.

They all blinked, shaking off the thought.

They were writers, not monsters.

And, thankfully, everything they created - every dark, twisted thing they fantasized about - was fiction.

"Alright" Alice clapped her hands together, snapping the room back into motion. "Tomorrow, 10 AM. We bring this to...A-ga-tha." She said the name with deliberate force, locking eyes with Rio, a knowing smile curling at her lips. "And we make sure she knows we have something big on our hands."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, excitement buzzing in the air.

Rio just nodded.

But inside?

A slow shiver curled its way down her spine.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, she’d see Agatha again.

And she needed to be ready.

She wanted Agatha to love this pitch.

She wanted to watch her face as they unraveled this story in front of her - wanted to see the exact moment realization struck, the second she understood just how fucking good it was.

Darcy leaned in from across the table, her smirk practically dripping with mischief.

"How you holding up?"

Rio blinked, playing dumb. "What do you mean?"

Darcy’s grin widened. "Oh, I think I’ve got you figured out." She tipped her head, studying Rio like a puzzle she was close to solving. "You’re embarrassed. Nervous about tomorrow. Because our dear boss shut you down the other day."

Rio barely stopped herself from stiffening.

Darcy didn’t know.

Not really.

Because the moment Rio had stepped out of the writers' room after that encounter with Agatha, Darcy had been waiting. And Rio - who had never once lied to her best friend, who prided herself on her transparency - had done the unthinkable.

She had lied. Had forced a laugh. Had shrugged. She had told her closest friend that, yes, she had made a move, but their boss had shot her down immediately, saying that her advances were unprofessional

It wasn’t even a good lie.

But Darcy had believed it. Why wouldn't she, right?

And now, she was running with it.

"I’m sorry, though" her bestie continued, voice lighter, like she thought she was doing Rio a favor. "I know you really wanted..." she waved a vague hand in the air "...that. But honestly? This is better. Sometimes it’s best when dreams don’t come true."

Rio inhaled slowly.

"Yeah" she said, keeping her tone even. "I guess so."

She didn’t even believe it herself.

Darcy studied her for a second longer.

Then-

"So..." she said finally, tilting her head. "No more eye-fucking our boss? You done with that?"

Rio snorted.

"No more eye-fucking. I promise" She lifted a hand in mock solemnity. "We’re professionals, Darcy."

Her friend and colleague smirked, clapping her on the shoulder.

"Well, she’s certainly more professional than you" she muttered. "You were about to risk everything without thinking twice."

Rio didn’t have the heart to argue.

Because Darcy was so freaking wrong.

"I’m just glad she has some self-control."

Rio forced a smile. "Yeah" she echoed, voice light. "Me too."

Lies.

All fucking lies.

__________________________________________

Agatha Harkness’s office was a temple of control. A kingdom built for intimidation.

The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her stretched endlessly, framing the city like a conquered empire sprawled beneath her reign. Yet, she sat with her back to it, entirely uninterested in the view - because she was the spectacle.

Her desk was a statement. Large, dark, impossibly well-organized. Every item placed with intent, nothing unnecessary, nothing personal. No clutter, no warmth. Just like the woman who ruled over it.

And there she was.

Seated at its center like a queen on her throne.

The evil queen of a twisted workplace fairytale.

Her tailored black blazer sculpted sharp, commanding lines over her body, the deep V of her silk blouse teasing at something both deadly and indulgent. Her dark hair was swept back, not a single strand out of place. A silver ring adorned her hand, catching the light as she tapped her fingers lightly against the polished wood - just once. A subtle gesture, but one that carried the weight of unspoken authority.

To anyone else, she was power. Untouchable. Dressed to kill.

But to Rio?

She was something else entirely.

An office siren. A force of nature, a temptation wrapped in immaculate tailoring.

And right now, that evocative siren was watching them enter her domain with the detached amusement of someone deciding whether they were worth the air they were breathing.

The writers moved in cautiously, exchanging quick, nervous glances.

Even Dottie - who was rarely fazed - stood a little stiffer than usual at the Head Producer's right side, clad in pristine white. The contrast was almost eerie. If Agatha was the storm, Dottie was the crack of thunder that followed - sharp, efficient, and terrifyingly unimpressed by anything that wasted her time.

The tension in the room was suffocating.

Rio felt it settle over them like a weighted blanket.

Still - she didn’t hesitate.

She was the last to sit, but the first to speak.

“Thank you for your time” she said, her voice steady, measured. A practiced blend of respect and confidence. “We know you’re busy, so we’ll get right to it.”

Agatha’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her gaze sharpened. A flicker of intrigue.

She tilted her head ever so slightly.

“Proceed.”

The team launched into the pitch like a well-oiled machine.

Alice set the foundation, her voice crisp, her delivery precise. “Darkhold aligns perfectly with the vision you presented to the board - modernizing classic Westview Productions storytelling, but pushing it forward.”

Jenifer followed, hands in motion as she spoke. “We’re using the familiar framework of sitcom history, but we’re twisting it. Stripping away nostalgia to expose the raw, unsettling reality underneath.”

Jimmy leaned in. “The protagonist is trapped in a seemingly perfect world - episodic, controlled, structured. But the moment she starts questioning it, the seams begin to unravel.”

Darcy smirked, arms draped over the back of her chair like she had all the time in the world. “Think Bewitched meets The Truman Show, with a healthy dose of David Lynch nightmare fuel.”

Agatha exhaled slowly, her fingers still against the armrest. A flicker of something in her expression- like she was already picturing it.

The team pressed forward, passing the narrative like a well-rehearsed symphony, allowing each member a moment to breathe while the others carried the momentum.

Alice took the reins again. “Each episode mirrors a different decade of sitcom history, but as the series progresses, the cracks start to show. The laugh track cues at the wrong time. Dialogue repeats itself like a broken record. And when she pushes too hard against the script, well...”

“By the final stretch” Jenifer picked up seamlessly, “the sitcom format is barely holding together. Reality is unraveling. And when she finally confronts the force behind it all - when she demands to know who’s pulling the strings -”

The room stilled.

Everyone’s gaze shifted toward Rio.

A calculated pause.

Rio leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Agatha.

“The show resets. Like it never happened.”

Silence.

A silence that meant it had landed.

The kind that settled in your bones.

Jimmy, flipping absentmindedly through his notes, tossed in, “Oh, and the main character has a pet.”

Heads turned toward him, caught off guard.

Jimmy, that oblivious animal lover, kept going. “It humanizes her. Makes her more grounded giving her a connection to something real.”

It was innocent.

But the moment the word pet left his mouth - Agatha's gaze flickered to Rio for an imperceptible nanosecond.

Her favorite screenwriter didn’t react. Or rather, didn’t allow herself to.

Jenifer Kale, blissfully unaware of the sudden weight in the room, shrugged, trying to smooth over Jimmy’s impulsive addition. “You know how it goes. If a psychological series introduces a pet, it’s usually doomed.”

Rio swallowed, trying to keep her expression neutral. In her plans as Agatha’s pet, disappearance was never part of the equation. If anything, she planned on hearing “good girl” or better yet, “bad girl” a few more times at minimum.

"We're aware of the unspoken rules of fiction, thank you" Dottie clarified with a sharp look that warned them to shut up.

The room fell silent again.

Waiting.

Watching Agatha.

Agatha let the pause stretch, let them feel the weight of her judgment, her expression unreadable.

Then, finally-

“I’ll review the proposal.”

No enthusiasm. No praise. No overt approval.

But Rio saw the shift.

The way the producer's fingers tapped once - just once - against the armrest.

The way her breath slowed, a fraction, like she was holding something sharp and indulgent at bay.

She loved it.

And for the first time since walking into the room, Rio allowed herself to feel it -

The win.

It was true.

Agatha fucking loved it.

The concept of Darkhold - the sheer power of what it could be, the control - tightened something deep inside her. The promise of success. The satisfaction of knowing she would own something that could reshape the industry. The thrill of molding something brilliant into existence - of molding Rio’s brilliance into existence.

And maybe, just maybe, the thought of having the girl's exceptional talent at her disposal made something dark settle inside her.

Made her want Rio’s hand inside her.

The idea of not kissing her today - of not having her - suddenly felt stupid.

But now there were other priorities ahead.

“Dottie.”

One word was all it took.

Dottie straightened, already anticipating the order.

“Handle the details” Agatha instructed, her tone clipped. “Gather the necessary documents and send them to me.”

Dottie’s nod was sharp, efficient. “I’ll take care of it.”

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Agatha didn’t need to tell them to leave.

Her gaze did it for her.

Dottie understood and without hesitation, she pivoted toward the door, the rest of the writers falling into step behind her like a herd being expertly guided.

Alice was practically vibrating with restrained excitement. Jenifer and Jimmy exchanged a quick, triumphant glance. Darcy shot Rio a look - impossible to decipher, but vaguely impressed.

Agatha stood, following them to the door.

She held it open.

Not as a courtesy.

As a dismissal.

One by one, they passed through.

Dottie first, leading them forward, the unwavering force that kept things moving.

Then Alice. Then Jimmy and Jenifer.

Darcy muttered something under her breath, shaking her head before stepping out.

Finally Rio moved toward the exit, her mind still spinning through the details of the meeting, heart still drumming a fraction too fast.

Then-

An order:

“Stay around.”

Rio’s breath caught.

She turned her head slightly, not trusting herself to fully face the source of the voice just yet.

Agatha’s expression remained unreadable, but her tone dipped just enough to make her meaning razor-sharp.

“Come find me later” she murmured, smooth as silk.

The weight of those words settled low in Rio’s stomach.

Clear.

Very, very clear.

And just as that fully registered in her brain-

Agatha’s hand, grazing over her ass in a swift, casual motion.

A single, quick, strong tap.

Undetectable to anyone else.

But very much there.

Rio felt it like a brand.

Heat shot through her so fast she thought her knees might buckle.

Somehow, she kept her expression neutral.

Somehow, she stepped into the hall without letting her legs give out.

But fuck.

She could still feel Agatha’s touch, burning, teasing, searing through fabric and into skin.

And as the door clicked shut behind her, Rio barely resisted the urge to grin.

* Later. *

Chapter Text

Rio had spent the rest of the morning in a purgatory of waiting, caught between a hunger she dared not name and the gnawing suspicion that she had miscalculated.

Agatha’s instructions had been infuriatingly vague: “Come find me later." No time, no specifics, no indication of when "later" actually was.

By noon, patience had worn thin, slipping through her fingers like sand.

It was Friday - the hour when the office exhaled its occupants into the city - and she seized the moment, threading her way through empty corridors toward Westview’s most formidable door.

Her steps were purposeful, each one laced with trepidation and something far more explosive: anticipation.

At the threshold, doubt curled around her like smoke. Had Agatha already left? Would she seem desperate for showing up unannounced, uninvited, unwilling to pretend she didn’t want this?

The unspoken rules of engagement blurred. Instructions unclear.

Then - clarity. A decision.

She was a grown woman, and no mere door would stand between her and what she sought.

Her fingers curled around the handle. The first test.

Unlocked.

She opened the door.

Inside, Agatha sat at her desk, composed in that maddening way of hers - the kind that suggested foreknowledge, as though she had predicted Rio’s arrival and was merely waiting for the inevitable moment it came to pass.

But there was something else, too.

The way her shoulders lifted with a quiet inhale, then eased, like she’d found exactly what she was looking for. A glimmer of expectation beneath the weight of the day. And Rio felt it like a live wire under her skin.

Their eyes met. The atmosphere intensified, charged with something weightier than words.

Rio squared her shoulders, stepping inside with careful, measured confidence.

“I believe we have an appointment.” Her voice was steady, but her posture betrayed the barest hint of doubt - waiting for permission.

Agatha leaned slightly against her desk, resting her forearms on the polished surface. She laced her fingers together in that signature gesture of the rich and powerful - the kind meant to signal control, patience, superiority.

The motion did exactly what she intended - her silk blouse pulled tighter against her figure, her skirt riding higher as she settled her weight over her crossed legs. Legs that, from where the woman who had just walked in stood, she could see perfectly beneath the desk.

A smirk ghosted across Agatha’s lips.

“Do we?” she mused, faux-innocence dripping from every syllable.

She knew damn well they did.

Rio shut and locked the door behind her. This time, she didn’t need prompting.

That earned her an assessing, lingering look from her boss, one that drifted down her frame as Rio slung her backpack onto one of the pristine cabinets lining the office.

Agatha’s thoughts had narrowed to a single, undeniable truth:

She wanted to fuck Rio Vidal.

Fuck her. Ruin her. Make her beg for it.

Punish her for being so talented, and reckless, and disrespectful, and ambitious, and odd - and, especially, for making something as simple as trousers and an unbuttoned shirt look like an invitation to sin.

“You look stressed.” Rio observed, casual.

Agatha arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

“Do you need some relief?”

A pause.

The audacity of it sent a wave of intrigue through Agatha’s expression - quick, cutting, interested.

She leant her head, gaze dropping.

Bare skin where there should have been a bra.

Layered necklaces dipping over her collarbone.

A tattoo peeking from where no tattoo should be.

Rio wore chaos like second nature. It was infuriating. It was distracting.

And for the first time in far too long, Agatha found herself tempted to let herself be distracted from work.

Her gaze darkened, dragging over Rio’s frame like a slow burn.

“Always so direct.”

Rio’s laugh was low, husky. “I feel like I’ve been waiting long enough. Don’t you?”

There was something about the way Rio looked at her - like she was already picturing how this would play out. Like she had every intention of consuming her whole.

Agatha exhaled slowly.

The fact that her new pet was this eager? Oh, that was electrifying.

“Look at you.” she murmured, tilting her head, eyes gleaming. “Trying to take control.”

Rio chuckled - more to herself than to Agatha.

She liked the game of it, liked pretending Agatha was the one calling the shots when they both knew better.

“Are we going to get bossy today too?” she teased, using a clear form of polite plural.

* Damn it. *

For a brief second, Agatha hesitated.

She had to respect the initiative - but she also didn’t like Rio trespassing over the very clear boundaries she had drawn.

That hesitation, that single slip of control, set something alight inside her.

Then, after a beat...

“Can I come closer?”

Agatha’s lips curled, a slow acknowledgment.

Not a denial.

The lines had been crossed.

And neither of them was stepping back.

Like a well-rehearsed dance dictated by the forces of attraction, as Rio approached, Agatha rose to her feet, stepped around the desk, and gestured for Rio to sit.

Instinctively, Rio moved toward the chair across from Agatha.

“No.”

The single word was low, firm - commanding. Agatha motioned instead to her own chair, the one behind the desk, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass. A seat of power. Her seat of power.

Rio tilted her head, something unreadable crossing her eyes before she obeyed. The leather was still warm from where Agatha had been sitting only seconds ago.

Before she could fully settle, Agatha leaned back against the desk in front of her, one hand resting on the polished wood. Her knee brushed lightly against Rio’s - just enough to suggest something more. Not an accident. Not a test. A statement.

Effectively boxing her in.

Agatha graced her with a slight smile. "Comfortable?"

Rio stretched, rolling her shoulders back before settling into the chair, arms resting on the armrests. The shift only emphasized what Agatha had already noticed - no bra, just smooth, soft skin peeking between the undone buttons of her shirt.

Rio met her superior’s eyes, slow, intent. "We’ll see."

She made a move to turn the chair toward the window, but Agatha stopped it with a simple shift of her leg. The message was unmistakable:

- The view in this office is me. -

Rio had no complaints. Agatha was absolutely right.

An oppressive silence settled in the space between them, humming with unvoiced tension . Agatha let it stretch, let Rio feel the weight of her attention, the way it lingered, calculated and heavy, like a touch.

Then, softly: "Do you consider yourself talented enough to be a leader, Vidal?"

She leaned in just slightly, arms crossing in a way that only drew Rio’s eyes lower.

Rio smirked, slightly tipping her head. "Depends on the context… the situation… the woman."

A shadow of something dark and unreadable passed through Agatha’s gaze. And then - remember the knee that had been playful at first?

Now it wasn’t just playful.

"The woman?"

Mocking. Sardonic. A test wrapped in defiance.

Rio let it slide. At some point - when, exactly? - her hand had found Agatha’s knee, fingers resting there lightly, as if they had always belonged.

She let them stay.

"Is that the position you want me to assume today, Agatha? A leader?"

Something shifted. The air between them tightened, charged with something heady, something on the cusp of tipping over.

Agatha's eyes flickered to Rio’s fingers, which had begun a slow, absentminded stroke against her thigh.

"That depends…" she murmured, voice deceptively light. "Are you as talented at everything as you are at writing?"

* Wait. Agatha thought she was a good writer? Had she read something of hers? *

The realization was acute, unexpected - in a way Rio hadn’t anticipated.

And Agatha knew exactly what she had done.

Her smirk deepened.

Rio’s fingers drifted to the hem of Agatha’s scandalously tight pencil skirt, catching the fabric between her index and middle finger but staying still - just teasing. A charged energy filled the space between them, humming with something dark and electric - like a collision waiting to happen.

Agatha’s lips curled, her expression unreadable yet full of intent.

Rio exhaled, releasing the hem, cocking her head with a half-smile. "I’ve been thinking about that skirt all day."

"Just the skirt?" Agatha leaned in slightly, her fingers grazing Rio’s chin and cheek in one smooth motion.

Her voice was rich, edged with something playful yet commanding. She leaned back slightly against the desk, inclinig just enough to offer Rio a better view, a better angle. The curve of her mouth, the way her lips formed that knowing shape - it made Rio want to ruin her carefully constructed composure.

Rio’s hand trailed higher, palm smoothing over silk stockings, mapping the path upward like she had all the time in the world. Her other hand followed, slipping off Agatha’s heels one by one with a deliberation that sent heat curling between them.

Agatha wasted no time.

One leg hooked over Rio’s shoulder, her skirt riding higher.

An invitation. A provocation.

"Why haven’t you used any of Anomaly Films' classics for Darkhold?"

Rio barely registered the words, too focused on the slow press of her lips against the inside of Agatha’s knee, the steady path of her hands disappearing into the depths of that skirt - until Agatha stopped her.

A single, effortless shift.

Her foot pressed against Rio's chest, firm but not forceful. A boundary. A dare. Kinda similar to what had happened during their previous encounter only this time it was...even better.

Rio stilled. The energy between them crackled, different now, sharper. Her fingers tightened around the object of her desire's ankle as she relunctantly looked up, eyes dark with frustration and hunger. "Why do you always do this?" she asked, impatient. And then, petulant, "Why do you always want me to stop?"

To drive the point home, she gave a little bounce in her seat, a barely-there movement that should have been ridiculous.

But somehow, it was just cute… just Rio.

Agatha’s lips twitched. "Answer me."

Rio sighed, more serious now - but still, her grip on Agatha’s foot didn’t falter. Instead, she let her other hand slide higher, pushing Agatha’s skirt up another inch, taking advantage of the way the shift had dropped her back against the desk.

"I didn’t want to corrupt perfect shows. They deserve better. Why do you care?" Her breathing was uneven, heat coiling tight in her stomach as she tried – again - to lean forward. But Agatha’s foot remained firm.

"Just curious." Agatha’s voice was calm, but something in it was knowing. "Ms. Hart told me all about your Anomaly Films obsession. I assumed. But I wanted to hear you say it."

And finally, gradually, she relented - allowing Rio to return her leg to its rightful place, draped over Rio’s shoulder.

Where it belonged.

"Who?" Rio asked absentmindedly, her attention focused on something much more interesting (Agatha's thights).

Agatha’s gaze was impassive. "She thought she was doing you a favor by telling me all that nostalgic, sentimental nonsense about you."

Rio frowned. "She?"

Agatha hummed, dismissive. "It didn’t. And it certainly didn’t do her any favors. But it did make it very clear how much of Darkhold came from you."

Rio’s brows furrowed. "Wait, you mean Sharon?"

Now it was Agatha who had no idea what she was talking about, and like an owl, she echoed Rio’s earlier question: "Who?"

"Miss Davis?"

A careless shrug. "I don’t know. The irritating little goody two-shoes I fired for giving you advice on your spec."

The girl's stomach tightened. "How could you fire her? She was..." She stopped mid-question, reconsidering, before simply asking, "Why?"

Agatha grinned, unapologetic. "She shouldn’t have scheduled that meeting. You know how it is."

It should have angered her.

Sharon was lovely. The loveliest. She had tried - futilely, yes - but still, she had tried to help Rio and Darcy in their pursuit of something bigger. It should have felt cruel. Unfair.

But the fact that Agatha could do that - that she had done that - was breathtaking .

Sometimes, Rio forgot that this was, in fact, the Reaper of Weastview.

That ruthless creature who had orchestrated the downfall of careers and productions was the same one sitting before her now. The same one whose delicate, powerful legs stood out pale against the deep black of her skirt.

It sent something hot through Rio’s veins.

She wet her lips, struggling to find the right words. "That’s…"

She wanted to say malicious but... it was also so impressive, to acknowledge the sheer power Agatha wielded, how effortlessly she bent the world to her will.

And that’s when it hit her, like a revelation she should have seen coming:

Agatha was too disruptive. Too much trouble.

But caught in this moment, wasn’t exactly that the most attractive thing of all?

The fact that she was so dangerously untouchable also made her terrifyingly irresistible.

"Just like that? You can just do whatever you like?"

Agatha's smile was slow, wicked. "I wish."

Another invitation. Another provocation, this time verbal, urging Rio to stop wasting time and give them both what they wanted.

She took it exactly for what it was.

And her nails dragged up Agatha’s thighs - slow, deliberate - leaving invisible trails of fire even through the lace.

Meanwhile, she started kissing her legs, beginning with her ankles, continuing up her calves, her thighs, climbing higher and higher along Agatha's leg

That led her to a wonderful discovery.

One that made Rio’s brain short-circuit in real time.

Lace-top stockings.

Rio lifted her head, locking eyes with Agatha, only to find the same awareness reflected back at her.

"Fuck. You’re a menace."

"Thought you’d appreciate it." the producer replied, her smile mischievous

* A little show, just for her? For her personal, private enjoyment? *

The idea that Agatha knew her needs - her wants - better than she did herself was riveting.

* Had this goddess, this mythological creature, spent a little longer than usual choosing her outfit today? For her?*

The thought sent a fresh wave of heat straight through Rio.

She shivered.

At this point in time she had Agatha’s skirt fully bunched around her waist now, kissing the soft skin of her thighs, tracing the delicate lace trim with her fingertips, slipping beneath - just enough to tease, to promise.

Agatha let out the softest moan, needy, impatient.

"Por fin" Rio muttered, just as impatient, her mouth hovering just over her new obsession's center.

She barely meant to say it aloud. But she wanted this so fucking bad.

For a moment, she was certain all her problems would dissolve the second Agatha wrapped her legs around her head.

“What was that?” Agatha’s voice held the faintest trace of amusement.

Rio blinked, then translated, lips brushing against the inside of Agatha’s thigh. "Finally."

She reached for Agatha’s hips, guiding her closer just as...

* Oh.*

Agatha’s underwear was sheer.

Nothing left to the imagination.

ALL SEE-THROUGH

A low, appreciative sound rumbled in Rio’s throat. Her fingers traced the delicate fabric, feeling the heat beneath.

Agatha knew exactly what she was doing.

And Rio was enjoying it a little too much. She could feel her own underwear dampening, her own body betraying just how much she wanted this.

Another profound inhale - the delicious scent of Agatha’s arousal, so close now.

A quiet, breathy moan slipped past Agatha’s lips.

Rio smirked against her skin, pressing small, teasing bites into the curve of her thigh.

She ran her hand possessively over the lace once, twice - drawing it out, letting anticipation coil tight between them. Then, at last, she dragged her tongue up the center of Agatha’s sheer underwear, tasting her.

Agatha’s breath hitched.

This was a dream coming true.

Sadly, then...

A shrill ringtone cut through the air.

"Fuck." Agatha cursed, stretching across the desk to grab her phone. "This better be important, Herbert."

Even through the haze of want, Rio remained focused. She didn’t want Agatha distracted - not now, not from this.

So, with a single, decisive motion, she tore the delicate scrap of lace away, like it had personally offended her.

Herbert’s voice crackled through the speaker. "An emergency board meeting has been called."

Agatha exhaled curtly. "Are you kidding me, Herbert?"

Irritation laced her tone, but then - she faltered. A barely-there pause as Rio’s fingers and tongue continued their slow, torturous teasing.

"You’re calling ..." The tension coiled so tight in Agatha’s body that, for a moment, it looked like she might actually drop the phone "...me..." Rio did it again, this time with more intent "...for this?"

"You know what? Ignore it" Agatha said, voice unsteady. "I’ll… I’ll…"

She pressed the phone against her chest, breathless, her gaze dropping to Rio, who was still playing with her, still dragging this out deliciously.

Her voice came out raw. "Oh, fuck, that’s good."

She couldn’t think anymore.

Rio’s gaze flitted up, smug and deprived. "Hang up, and I’ll show you why I’m such a promising young talent."

She pushed in just the barest bit - fingers teasing, pressing to the first knuckle - waiting. Daring Agatha to make a choice.

Somehow, against all odds, Agatha managed to lift the phone back to her ear, forcing composure into her tone. "As I was saying - I’ll deal with it tomorrow."

"Great choice" Rio murmured against her skin, before sinking two fingers into her, slow and deliberate, like a hot knife through butter.

Herbert's buffered voice staggered, before continue speaking "Ms. Maximoff called the meeting personally. I thought you’d want to know."

Silence.

Agatha shut her eyes, her mind struggling to process the completely contradictory inputs assaulting her at once.

Then, without another word, without so much as a goodbye, she hung up.

Victory surged in Rio’s chest, but the feeling was short-lived.

Because right in front of her, Agatha’s expression shifted.

Lust cooled into something sharper. Something far more vindictive.

Her eyes darkened - not with desire, but with something closer to bloodlust. A sudden, manic intensity that demanded respect.

Agatha was truly a force of nature. Uncontrollable.

And Rio was utterly obssesed with her for it - she loved every single one of her expressions, even the unhinged ones. Especially the unhinged ones.

And now? Now she was watching it happen in real time. That little open-mouthed thing Agatha did when she was plotting something deliciously wicked. Mmm.

Agatha sighed. A resigned, irritated sound.

Her skirt was smoothed back into place, the heat of moments ago replaced by something more distant, sharper.

She wanted total victory over her opponent.

And that required sacrifices.

Professional.

Personal.

And, unfortunately, of this particular kind.

Agatha straightened. "You need to leave." Regretful but firm. "I have to go defend our creation."

She moved to stand.

Rio’s fingers tightened around her thigh. "No way. You’re too mean."

Agatha exhaled through her nose, something almost like a spark of amusement behind her otherwise unreadable expression. "I know, baby. Believe me, I know."

* Baby. *

That word, in that tone, should not be working on Rio this well.

She grinned, raising her head. "Can’t I at least make you come first?" She pouted - just a little. Smirking as she did it.

Before she could blink, Agatha was on her lap. Straddling her. Pressing in close - so close - her palms braced against the back of the chair, caging Rio beneath her.

The heat was back - only different this time.

* Unreal. *

Rio barely had time to react before Agatha rolled her hips, slow and deliberate, pressing their bodies together like she had every intention of melting into her.

Rio’s hands? Firmly planted on Agatha’s perfect, round ass, grabbing as much as she could.

Agatha’s phone buzzed. Again.

And again.

And again.

Multiple notifications.

Striking reminders of reality.

But Agatha didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. She just watched her, head tilting ever so slightly to the side, calculating. Analyzing.

That smirk at the corner of her mouth? Knowing. Diabolical. Lethal.

She looked like a possessed, sinfully seductive witch - dark, powerful, and utterly evil.

"Mommy has to go rip someone’s throat out, baby" she murmured.

The whole situation felt wild, filthy, and so erotic it bordered on inmoral.

Rio bit her lip, still grinning. She wanted to fire back something sharp, a perfect one-liner - but her voice came out just a little too tight, like she was holding back something far too dark, far too wanting.

So instead, she said the only thing in her mind.

"Hot."

Agatha’s eyes brightened, her fingers threading through Rio’s hair, tucking a strand behind her ear, overwhelming her senses.

"You really do have a way with words. Ever considered a career in screenwriting?"

Before Rio could react to the mockery, two fingers slipped under her chin, holding her still.

"I really do need to go handle this. But here…"

Agatha pried her mouth open with them.

"…A peace offering."

And then she dragged her tongue up from Rio’s chin, slow and obscene, all the way to the back of her throat.

And she didn’t stop.

She devoured her.

What started as a kiss turned into something else, something darker, something unhinged. More like consumption than affection.

* Oh, for fuck’s sake. This had to be the most sensual fever dream she'd ever experienced *

By the time Rio caught her breath, Agatha was already standing, slipping back into her blazer like nothing had happened.

And the worst part?

She was smirking - fully aware of the state she had just left Rio in. Watching from above, admiring her handiwork.

Rio lingered in the moment, dazed.

This woman was going to kill her.

But fuck it. Time to be bold.

Rio exhaled. "Okay." She tilted her head, feigning indifference. "I’m allowing you to prioritize your job."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

* This girl. Always full of surprises. *

Rio continued, gaze steady. "But since I’m off the clock right now, I’m taking a consolation prize."

And with that petty remark, she reached down, fingers curling around the delicate scrap of lace she’d so rudely torn away from Agatha minutes ago.

Like the fate of that tiny, tantalizing piece of fabric had been sealed the second Agatha failed to balance work and pleasure.

With slow, deliberate movements, Rio lifted Agatha’s now-ownerless underwear, inspecting it with the same reverence one might give a rare artifact, before tucking it into the pocket of her own shirt- right where her Staff Writer badge had rested earlier during their morning meeeting.

A silent claim. A memento.

But before she could pull away, Agatha caught her wrist.

For a split second, Rio thought she was going to take it back.

Instead, Agatha - because she was Agatha - plucked the lace from Rio’s pocket and, with a soft laugh, tucked it into the waistband of Rio’s pants instead.

"Safer from prying eyes." A murmur. A secret.

Rio’s stomach flipped.

A beat later...

"Give me your phone."

Rio handed it over without question.

Agatha took her pet’s index finger, unlocked it, tapped something in, and handed it back.

Rio glanced down.

A new contact.

Agatha’s personal number.

Her gaze snapping up in surprise, but Agatha’s attention was already drifting toward the door.

And then - Agatha’s lips curled. That slow, sinister smile.

Her eyes darted to Rio’s waistband.

"Tell me what you do with them later."

She winked.

Rio nearly combusted on the spot.

Then, as if she hadn’t just set Rio’s entire world on fire, Agatha adjusted her skirt, ran a hand through her hair, and walked to the door.

"Stay as long as you need" she said, casual, unaffected. Then, glancing back "But shut the door when you leave. And take the stairs."

And with that, she was gone.

Leaving Rio standing there, utterly undone.

But also feeling kinda invincible.

She turned her head slightly, as if looking into an invisible camera, some unseen audience witnessing the absurdity of her life.

She was totally normal about this whole situation.

It wasn’t a red flag that if Agatha wanted her, she would stop everything for her, right?

* Right?  *

Chapter Text

Rio was sprawled across her bed, skin fevered, dewy with the remnants of frustration. The sheets were a tangled mess - twisted around her legs, clinging like the hunger tightening in her core. Every nerve in her body hummed, aching, unsatisfied. She pressed her thighs together, exhaling a shaky breath as her head tipped back, the friction sparking a sharp, maddening jolt of pleasure that only left her craving more

Her fingers weren’t enough. Not even close.

She dragged them over her skin, slow and torturous, teasing herself, forcing her mind to linger in the haze of earlier - to the weight of Agatha straddling her, the ghost of her perfume, the cruel, delicate trail of her fingertips down Rio’s throat. A phantom touch shimmered over her skin, so real it was almost devastating. She could still feel Agatha’s full awareness, heat lingering, hovering over her lips before she had pulled away - leaving her wrecked, shaking, burning.

A frustrated whimper escaped her lips as her free hand found the scrap of lace beside her. Proof. That it had happened. That Agatha had been there - close enough to taste, close enough to unravel her. And she had left her with this. A whisper of silk. A piece of herself.

Rio brought it to her face, inhaling deep. The lace, drenched in Agatha, clung to her fingers like a sinful secret. The scent curled into her lungs - dark perfume, flushed skin, something rich, something ruinous, something unbearably Agatha. It was a drug, a spell, a temptation she wanted to drown in.

Her other hand slid lower, fingers searching for relief, but it was still wrong. Empty.

Because this weren't warm moans at her ear. Wasn’t nails sinking into her back. Wasn’t Agatha whispering filthy little commands just to see her shatter beneath them.

She was close, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

A needy sound slipped from her lips as her fingers fumbled blindly for the phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking it over in her desperation. She hesitated - just for a second.

She shouldn’t.

...

She did anyway.

Frustration coiled tight in her stomach, heat simmering beneath her skin as she gave in, typing with shaky fingers.

RIO: So… how does it feel?

The read receipt appeared instantly. Agatha had seen the message. But she didn’t reply.

She was making her wait.

Letting curiosity win.

RIO: Walking around all day without them.
RIO: Knowing exactly where they are.

Still nothing. But Rio knew better. She knew Agatha was watching now, waiting.

So she pressed further.

RIO: Knowing what I’ve been doing with them.

* Bingo *

The response came quickly.

AGATHA: I hope they’re not just sitting in a drawer somewhere.

A shuddering breath left Rio’s lips, her fingers trailing lower, teasing, tempting.

RIO: Oh, they’ve been everywhere today.
RIO: Wrapped around my fingers. Between my thighs. Against my lips.
RIO: I’ve been making such a mess of them.

Silence. Longer this time.

Then...

AGATHA: Show me.

A smirk curled at Rio’s lips.

RIO: Ask nicely.

No hesitation now.

AGATHA: Now.

Rio snapped a photo - a calculated move, just enough to tempt. Lace clinging to bare skin, delicate and obscene all at once. The slow curve of a hip, the suggestion of warmth beneath it. A fleeting indulgence. An invitation without an answer. A hunger left unsatisfied.

The typing bubbles flickered. Disappeared. Returned.

Her pulse pounded, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin as she stared at the screen, waiting. She knew Agatha had seen it. She also knew she was being made to wait on purpose.

Elsewhere, Agatha weighed an impossible dilemma. Balancing her relentless pursuit of power with the equally irresistible urge to ruin Rio Vidal in bed.

She wanted both.

Needed both.

And both were becoming increasingly complicated to manage.

...

Rio’s phone rang.

She exhaled, shaky, dragging it to her ear, her voice already breathy when she answered. "Couldn’t stay away, huh?" A smirk curled at her lips, even as her body trembled.

Agatha ignored the tease. Her voice, smooth as silk, dark with indulgence. "Tell me something." A pause—strategic. "Are your fingers still between your thighs?"

A sharp inhale.

"Mhm." Barely a whisper.

"And?"

"Not enough." The pout was audible, designed to be heard, to be pictured.

Agatha hummed, a slow, knowing sound.

Silence stretched. She listened. Really listened. To the way Rio’s breathing hitched - uneven, needy.

"Poor thing" she mused, voice rich with amusement. "All worked up, and still…" She tsked softly. "Not satisfied?"

Frustration spiked in Rio’s body, pulsing through every nerve. "Come on, Agatha" she pushed, desperation creeping into her tone. "Help me."

There it was. That lovely little tremor. That quiet, hungry plea.

Another drawn-out hum - assessing, considering.

Rio swallowed.

"Speaker" Agatha commanded, dark and smooth.

Obedience was immediate.

The phone hit the mattress with a muffled thud, and Rio spread her legs wider, fingers slipping deeper, a gasp slipping free at the primise of relief.

"Now" Agatha continued, rich with authority, patronizing and firm. "Show me just how desperate you are for me."

A quiet, broken moan filled the air. Rio’s body arched, thighs tightening around her hand.

"I wish you were here" she gasped.

A pleased murmur from the other end of the line. "I know."

Silence - charged, electric.

"I bet you look gorgeous like this" Agatha purred, her voice thick as honey.

Rio let out a shaky breath. "Stop flirting and tell me what to do."

A dark chuckle. "Why should I?"

"Because I’m begging you."

"Are you?" A taunt, featherlight. "Doesn’t sound like it."

A whimper. Frustration coiling tight in Rio’s stomach.

"Please, Agatha. Baby. Tell me what you’d do to me."

Silence.

The pet name hung between them, thick, heavy, clinging to the air.

Agatha let it settle. Savored it.

"I bet you’d love to know" she mused, laughter muffled - like a secret spoken through a grin. Then, after a beat "Alright." Her voice dipped lower, teasing, coaxing. "Tell me exactly what you're doing right now."

Rio’s breath stuttered. Her body was already responding, heat tightening low in her stomach.

"I..." She swallowed. "I'm...moving too...slow."

A knowing sound from Agatha. Almost pitying. "Then fix it."

Rio’s breath wavered, fingers flexing against her skin.

“What are you doing with your hands down there?"

One hand" she admitted, voice unsteady. "Just one."

Agatha let the next question roll lazily off her tongue, calm and considering. "And the other?"

A pause

Then, Rio pressed the lace harder against her face, her pulse stuttering.

"I'm holding your thong" she whispered, the confession trembling on her lips. "I can still smell you."

Agatha let out a syrup-thick laugh, rich with satisfaction. "Of course you can."

"I keep pressing it to..." Rio continued, voice shaking. “...my mouth, my thighs…"

"And?"

"They're soaked now."

A sharp inhale from Agatha’s end.

"But it’s not the same" Rio whined. "I want you. I keep picturing..."

She bit her lip.

"Picturing what?” Agatha pushed. "Tell me. And go faster for me, baby."

Rio shuddered.

"Your hands on me" she moaned, gripping the sheets. "Your mouth on. Oh, fuch, just… you."

Her heart skipped - swift, intense, revealing too much.

Agatha caught it immediately.

"You close, baby?" Her lips curved as she locked eyes with the makeup artist in front of her - who was watching her, entranced, hand frozen mid-stroke with a makeup brush. Agatha didn’t look away. Didn’t blush.

"Yes" Rio shuddered.

"Don’t."

"Fuck" Rio hissed, her body betraying her.

Agatha’s voice deepened, velvet-smooth, rich with control. "Listen carefully, sweetheart. Because I’m about to tell you exactly what I’d do to you if I were there."

The way she said it - threatening, diminished, wicked - sent a shiver down Rio’s spine.

"If I were there" Agatha murmured, her words a silken caress "I wouldn’t let you touch yourself like this. Not yet."

Rio whimpered, her fingers faltering. "Why not?"

"Because I’d want you aching for it." A purr, indulgent and cruel. "I’d make you wait. Make you beg until you could barely think...until my name was the only thing left on your tongue."

Rio squeezed her thighs together, a desperate pulse between them. "I’m already there" she admitted, her lungs faltering, needy.

A satisfied hum. "Good." A pause, then, half a dare, half a promise "Close your eyes."

Rio obeyed, lashes fluttering shut. The darkness did nothing to quiet the burn beneath her skin.

"Picture me" Agatha continued, her voice a leisurely, intoxicating rhythm. "Standing at the foot of your bed. Watching you."

Rio shivered. She could see it - Agatha’s laser-like gaze drinking her in, the gradual, methodical way she’d move. Never rushed. Never too eager. Always in control.

"I’d trail my fingers up your ankles" Agatha mused. "Barely there. Just enough to make you squirm. And then…"

A pause.

Rio swallowed. "Then what?"

A low vibration sat in Agatha's tone, spilling out like the start of a song . "Then I’d climb onto the bed. Settle between your thighs. Hold you there." A smirk in her voice. "Make you feel how badly I want you."

Rio whimpered, her hips canting up, desperate for even the ghost of Agatha’s touch. "Please…"

"Patience, darling." A laid-back, taunting sigh. "I’m savoring you."

Rio could almost feel it - the drag of nails against her thighs, the teasing press of lips against bare skin. She moaned, biting her lip.

"I’d kiss my way up" Agatha murmured, voice like velvet. "Inch by inch. Feeling you tremble beneath me. I’d stop just short of where you need me most."

"Don’t stop" Rio pleaded.

A quiet laugh. "Oh, sweetheart, I haven’t even started."

Rio sighed, every nerve tuned to the sound of her voice. "What..what you’d do next?"

Agatha’s tone dropped lower, rough with want. "I’d press my lips to the inside of your thigh”

She could hear it - Rio’s breath catching, anticipation thick enough to suffocate.

”Just to hear you gasp. Just to feel you shudder."

Just long enough to make her pet ache.

"And then, finally…"

Rio’s exhale stilled, suspended in the space between them.

"I’d taste you."

A strangled, needy moan broke from Rio’s throat. Her fingers moved faster, chasing the pleasure Agatha’s words ignited, the imagery unraveling her piece by piece.

"Fuck, Agatha..."

The voice on the other end of the line remained composed, steady. Unrelenting.

"I’d hold your hips down" Agatha continued, like she could see it - like she was already doing it. "Make you take it slow. Let you feel every single second of it."

Rio writhed, panting, teetering on the edge.

I...I can’t...""

"You can." Firm, but indulgent. A command wrapped in reassurance. "You’ll wait for me."

A choked whimper. Rio’s body trembled, the tension pulling her so tight she thought she might snap.

"Agatha..."

"Shhh, I’ve got you." A whisper. A promise. "Just a little longer, baby."

Agatha’s breath was steady through the speaker, savoring Rio’s desperation like the finest indulgence. She listened - not just to the sounds Rio was making, but to the way her body betrayed her, to the raw, visceral need saturating the silence.

"You’re trembling for me, aren’t you?"

A shuddered inhale. Barely a breath.

"Yes" Rio whispered, uneven, barely holding herself together.

A low, satisfied hum.

"Good."

Seconds stretched - excruciating, delicious, drawn out with cruel precision.

"Now" Agatha purred. "Come for me."

Rio shattered. A strangled cry tore from her lips as pleasure crashed over her - wave after wave, pulling her under, drowning her in sensation. Her body arched, thighs trembling, fingers twisting in the sheets. And through it all, Agatha’s voice was there. Coaxing. Praising. Owning every last second of her undoing.

By the time the aftershocks faded, she laid boneless, breathless, her skin flushed and dewed with sweat.

The only sound was Agatha’s breath through the speaker - steady. Pleased.

“Good girl.”

The approval in her voice sent another lazy shiver down Rio’s spine.

Rio exhaled a shaky laugh, a dazed smile tugging at her lips. “You’re trouble.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She made a sound so light, so fleeting, it felt like a secret pressed into the dark. “You have no idea.”

A beat of silence. Then...an offer.

“Come over.” Rio’s voice was low and sultry now, coaxing. “Let me thank you the right way.”

A husky laugh from the other end of the line.

“Can’t. Got Plans.” A pause. “Boring work stuff, unfortunately.”

Rio frowned - then realization struck.

Tonight was the Women in the Industry gala. The event of the year. She’d forgotten about it because, well - she wasn’t invited. No writer at her level was.

And yet, Agatha was here. Talking to her instead of getting ready.

Her phone buzzed. A new message.

A photo.

Rio’s breath caught - sharp, uneven.

It wasn’t explicit. But it was worse.

The fabric of Agatha’s gown was ruched high on her thighs, revealing the sinful curve of lace garters. One strap of her purple sequined dress had slipped dangerously low, baring the smooth expanse of her shoulder and collarbone. The zipper at the back was only halfway up, leaving a scandalous stretch of her spine exposed - an invitation, intentional or not.

Her face wasn’t in the frame. It didn’t need to be.

Rio would recognize that body anywhere.

Her grip tightened around the phone.

“Holy hell, Agatha” A rushed, unsteady exhale left her lips, her stomach tightening. “Tell me" she exclaimed. "Who do I have to fuck to see you wearing that just for me?”

A pause.

A silence thick with possibility.

Agatha shouldn’t answer. Shouldn’t entertain the thought. Shouldn’t invite Rio to the gala.

But somehow… she did.

“Lucky you.”

Another message appeared.

An invitation.

A QR code beneath the title: Ms. A. Harkness +1.

Then one last line, wicked in its simplicity: “Unfortunately, I won’t have time to fuck you tonight. So, please, wear something awful.”

And just like that...Agatha hung up.

Rio stared at the screen, pulse kicking up, heat crawling up the back of her neck.

She should say no.

She had nothing to wear. No reason to be there. No place among Hollywood’s elite.

And yet...

She smirked, already kicking off the sheets, already moving.

She rushed to the shower, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin.

Later, dressed, she paused in front of the mirror. The reflection staring back at her was bold.

A slow grin pulled at her lips.

Agatha had a problem.

Because whether she had time or not...

Rio was going to make her want this.

__________________________________________________________

The party was loud - the curated, champagne-soaked kind of loud. The kind where music thrummed beneath the polished murmur of industry elites, where laughter was timed like a well-rehearsed script slipping in and out of conversation betweenn well-rehearsed lines. The air was thick with the weight of unspoken deals and barely veiled ambition, a slow burn of power plays unfolding beneath crystal chandeliers and carefully practiced smiles.

Agatha Harkness had always hated this kind of scene. Too much posturing, too many empty smiles hiding sharp teeth. And tonight, all of that - the lies, the politics, the power plays - were woven into the same problem, the same familiar, unavoidable force standing across the room, watching her.

Wanda Maximoff.

She looked the way she always did in places like this, like she owned them. Like she had mastered the art of being adored. Draped in a scarlet dress, fitted just enough to remind the room why she was untouchable, and just enough to remind Agatha why she had been dangerous once.

A waiter passed, offering champagne. Agatha plucked a glass from the tray without breaking eye contact.

With the ease of someone who moved the chess pieces before anyone else realized they were playing, Wanda started walking toward her.

"Agatha" she greeted smoothly, voice velvet-wrapped steel. "You’re actually socializing. I’m impressed."

Agatha took a sip, unimpressed. "I do what I must."

Wanda rested a hand on her hip, her smile just a little too sardonic. "I assume that means you’re here to congratulate me."

* Ah. Straight to it, then. *

Agatha exhaled, carefree and measured, swirling the champagne in her glass. "Congratulate you on what, exactly? Poaching my producers? Sabotaging my project? Turning Westview into a nostalgia-fueled graveyard?"

Wanda’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, like she had expected nothing less.

"People like what they know" she said smoothly, flicking invisible dust off her sleeve, as if this conversation was beneath her . "They like stories that feel safe."

Agatha scoffed. "Cut the bullshit, Wanda. You don’t need to sell me the pitch - I know exactly what you’re doing."

Wanda stepped closer, closing the space between them like she was testing the weight of their orbit. Agatha let her. Let her think she was the one controlling the distance.

“You know" Wanda mused, her voice edged with mischief now, teasing, "That’s what I’ve always admired about you. You don’t lie about who you are." Her fingers ghosted over Agatha’s wrist - light, fleeting. A calculated risk. "It’s infuriating, really."

Agatha didn’t move. Didn’t react. "And yet, you never stop trying to complicate my life."

Wanda rumbled, amused. "Do I? And why is that, I wonder?"

"Because you need me." At this point Agatha was running a knuckle along the side of her nose, exhaling through it, having to stop herself from saying something worse.

Wanda’s lips parted slightly, but Agatha wasn’t done.

"You want me to shape you. To make you something else. The polished professional. The perfect wife. The woman everyone wants." A sad smirk curled at the edges of her lips. "But that requires my isolation. My focus. And I’m not giving you that. Not anymore."

For the first time, Wanda’s expression wavered. A flicker of something behind her eyes - conflict.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"You always think you know best" Wanda murmured, her voice dipping into something edged with intent.

She leaned in, too close for polite conversation, pressing a quick, warm peck to Agatha’s cheek. The scent of her perfume - rich, tinged with something darker - slipped into the air between them, winding its way into something forbidden.

"But what if, just this once" Wanda continued, barely grazing Agatha’s wrist before retreating - a tease, a trap - "you let yourself believe I know what’s best for us?"

* Ah. There it was. The shift.* 

Agatha arched a brow, her expression unreadable, but she didn’t pull away. "And what would that be?"

Wanda’s fingers lifted, featherlight, brushing against the silver earring dangling from Agatha’s ear. A move so subtle, so careful, it could almost be mistaken for nothing. Almost.

"You need someone to fight in the spotlight" Wanda murmured, voice raspy, tracking the deadly, controlled way Agatha swallowed. "And I need someone to remind me I’m real."

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted.

Then Agatha exhaled, a quiet smirk curving at the edges of her lips. "And you think that someone is me?"

Wanda’s smile was calculated, soaked in something manipulative. "You always have been."

There it was. The seduction wrapped in strategy. The promise wrapped in a threat.

Agatha scoffed. "You hate that I don’t believe in you."

Wanda chuckled, as if tasting the weight of her own satisfaction. "That's true" she admitted, fingers trailing down Agatha’s forearm like an afterthought. "But I do enjoy trying to change your mind."

Agatha let her gaze drag over Wanda, considering. Then, in a coiled motion, she traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip - a mirror of Wanda’s movements.

Wanda’s eyes darkened. "I think you should stop pretending you don’t want this."

The air between them thickened, the weight of old battles and unspoken things pressing in.

And then - like a whisper behind a locked door, more intimate than anything Wanda had said all night: "I still touch myself thinking about you."

The confession settled between them, heavy, devious.

Agatha let it sit. Let the moment stretch, just long enough for Wanda to feel the weight of it.

Then, precise as a blade, she murmured, "Even when you fuck your husband?"

A quick inhale. Barely there, but Agatha caught it. The slip.

For a single, splintered second, Wanda’s mask cracked.

Then it was gone.

She recovered fast. "You always loved degradation." Her composure was steady now, but there was something tight in her throat, something she was holding back "If you stop fighting, I’ll let you have it. You can pour every ounce of your hate into me. You can ruin me if that’s what gets you off."

Agatha’s presence seemed to stretch as she launched her comeback: "Oh, Wanda." She lifted her chin slightly, forcing Wanda to work for the space between them. "You’re not nearly important enough for me to waste my hate on." She let the words sink in before adding, silk-soft "And when I ruin something, I don’t hide it.”

Wanda’s lips twitched - frustration, and something she didn’t want to name - but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers traced intimate, lazy circles along Agatha’s bare arm.

"Nothing left to do at this party but let you go crazy on me" she mused, like the thought had just occurred to her. "Every deal, every possibility - closed before you even walked in." A pause. A victorious smirk. "You have nothing left to win here." She let those words settle before adding all honeyed venom "Except me."

Agatha inhaled, slow and steady.

She should have burned Wanda to the ground years ago. Should have shredded her into something unrecognizable. Should have cut her down when she had the chance.

But instead Wanda stood here, in her space, in her air.

And then, timed to perfection...

A voice.

"Damn, Ms. Harkness."

That voice - playful , cocky, soaked in delight.

The same one she had heard unravel just hours ago, thick with desperation through the speaker of her phone.

* She was here. *

"You look..." Rio drawled, slow and intentional "... obscene."

Agatha let out a sharp, unexpected laugh.

Not a polite chuckle. Not an amused hum.

A full-bodied, wicked cackle.

The sound turned heads. Wanda bristled beside her, clearly irritated by the attention, by the interruption.

But Rio?

She just stood there, looking at her like she had won something.

And maybe she had.

Because when Agatha’s laughter finally faded, when she finally let herself take in the sight of the woman standing before her...

* Oh. *

She had not been prepared for this.

Rio had taken her time getting here. And if she had spent that extra time perfecting every single detail of her appearance - well, the wait had been worth it.

The dark green jacket - tailored to sinful perfection - framed her body like a promise. Beneath it, a vest clung to her form, cut just low enough to tease the defined lines of her collarbones and the whisper of ink curling at her ribs.

She wasn’t hiding tonight.

Not the tattoos. Not the attitude.

Not the intent.

Her hair was slicked back, parted down the middle, severe yet thought-out . The smoky eye was predictable but devastatingly effective. And the jewelry - layers of delicate gold draped across her throat - caught the dim, flickering light, drawing the eye exactly where she wanted it.

She was a marvellous contradiction. No. A balance?

Sharp angles and effortless sensuality.

A living distraction.

And fuck - Agatha, once again, was grateful to be distracted by her.

She wanted to tell Rio exactly how good she looked. Exactly what was running through her head.

But Wanda was still there. Green eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into her expression.

Rio, painfully aware of the effect she was having, traced the edge of her collarbone absentmindedly, smirking.

"This up to your standards, Ms. Harkness?"

* Ah. There it was again. Ms. Harkness. Twice in a row. *

It did something to Agatha.

Something electrifying.

Something that made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep her expression neutral, lifting her glass to her lips in a lazy attempt to not react.

"And who exactly are you?" Wanda asked in a sharp, clipped voice.

Rio’s smirk didn’t waver.

She dragged her gaze away from Agatha with the kind of reluctance that was meant to be seen. Then, with an easy, practiced confidence, she slipped a hand from her pocket and extended it toward the redhead.

"What’s up? I’m Rio."

Wanda’s expression barely shifted, though something flickered behind her eyes. Displeasure, maybe. Annoyance.

But she took the offered hand anyway.

"Charmed" she said, voice dry. "Wanda Maximoff. Westview's Head of Creative Developmentt."

A beat.

"Head of Creative Development?" Rio mused. "Damn. That’s gotta be exhausting."

Another beat.

A smirk.

"Guess that’s why you look so… tense."

Wanda blinked.

And Agatha...she fucking laughed again.

Because..well. That delivery was so ridiculously smooth.

Wanda, realizing exactly what was happening, turned to Agatha with a look that could burn through steel.

"Oh" she said, voice laced with disbelief. Then, sharper - directed at Agatha "She’s mouthy."

She was so pissed.

"Agatha." she added. A demand. A quiet, seething demand for an explanation she had no right to ask for. "WHO is this?"

That who wasn’t just asking for a name.

It was asking what Rio was to Agatha.

Agatha, ever composed, ever calculated, merely smiled. She didn’t even try to hide her wryness.

Because there it was. The mask cracking again.

Meanwhile, the screenwriter - watching the exchange like she was enjoying some private joke - let her gaze flick between them.

Agatha could see the moment she put it together.

She had heard the rumors. The history. The official story of their fallout.

But now?

Now, after watching Wanda devour Agatha with her eyes - after seeing how viscerally irritated she was at Rio’s presence, she had confirmation of something much deeper.

Agatha and Wanda weren’t just ex-best-friends.

They had been roommates.

And honestly? Now that she was witnessing them interact...

* How had people not seen it before? Were they blind? *

And suddenly, everything about Wanda’s tone, her stance, the barely restrained bitterness in her voice - made perfect sense.

Wanda held Agatha’s gaze for long, tense seconds before the producer finally, lazily, decided to respond.

"This is Vidal" she said smoothly, owning the name as she spoke it. "One of the writers for what I’m personally making sure will be Westview’s next big success - Darkhold."

Wanda’s expression didn’t change.

But Agatha felt the tension roll off her in waves.

"Oh, no, no" Rio cut in, smiling as she took a step forward.

Toward Wanda.

Between Wanda and Agatha.

"More like THE writer."

It was possessive.

A firm, sharp-edged correction.

Wanda’s gaze flicked between them, jaw tight, hands curling into loose fists.

Then. like she couldn’t help herself "Arrogant."

Not directed at Rio.

No. Once again, meant for Agatha.

But about Rio.

Rio just shrugged off her jacket, moving like she had all the time in the world, grinning as she did it.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

And that...

That was when the game the three of them were playing shifted.

Because under the jacket, she wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Just a backless vest.

* Oh, shit. *

Agatha felt her pupils dilate.

Her shoulders. Her back. The bare expanse of her sides.

And the tattoos.

* Holy fucking fuck. *

Not just a few.

Not just a delicate scattering of ink.

All over her.

Twisting across her back, bold and intricate, sprawling over her shoulders and snaking down her arms in striking, fluid designs. Delicate florals merging with geometric patterns, vines curling over her scapulas, wrapping around her biceps, skimming the edges of muscle and bone before trailing lower - over her hips, disappearing beneath the waistband of her obscenely well-tailored pants.

Agatha’s grip on her glass tightened.

She was impulsive, and she couldn’t fight it any longer.

So she let herself look.

Really look.

And Rio - even standing just slightly ahead, leaving her boss a step behind - oh, she knew exactly how she was being watched, how every inch of her was being taken in.

This was deliberate. She had planned it.

The way she slid off that jacket, the way she stood - all of it meant to unsettle, to provoke - to make the redhead feel threatened by her mere presence.

And if that also meant pulling a reaction from Agatha?

Even better.

A win-win.

And fuck, it was working.

This felt like seeing Rio in her truest form.

Like something raw and unapologetic had been set loose.

Wanda clenched her jaw.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low, lethal.

The voice of someone who, if she was going down...was damn sure taking her enemy with her.

"Westview is changing, Aggie" she said. "And I’m going to be its CEO. You’d do well to start adjusting to that. Your whole career is flawed if you keep resisting it."

A dark sound slipped past Agatha’s lips: "We’ll see about that, superstar."

Wanda hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then she turned on her heel, disappearing into the crowd with steady steps.

Agatha watched her go, the ghost of a smirk still playing at the edges of her lips as she swirled the champagne in her glass, taking her time.

“Aggie, huh?”

Rio’s voice, warm with smugness, cut through the lingering tension.

Agatha barely had time to react before Rio plucked the glass from her hand, lifting it to her lips and taking a measured sip. She made a show of it, letting her gaze follow the same path as Agatha’s - toward the place where Wanda had vanished into the sea of people.

Then, with unhurried ease, she turned back to Agatha, her eyes dark with something playful. Something smug.

Agatha arched a brow. “Don’t even think about it.”

Rio grinned, lazy and wolfish. “What? Seems like a cute nickname. Real...personal”

Agatha caught that she didn’t call it a pet name. But she just rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Rio could tell - she wasn’t annoyed. Too caught up just watching.

Which suited her just fine.

"Enjoying the view?" she murmured, voice dropping a touch lower.

She took another sip before handing the glass back, her fingers brushing against Agatha’s just long enough to make it intentional.

Agatha didn’t answer right away. She just looked, her eyes lingering a little longer, ravaging the stunning woman standing in front of her.

Took her time.

Her gaze dragged down Rio’s body, lingering on the ink sprawled across her skin. The cut of the vest left her shoulders bare, exposing the intricate designs that twisted down her arms and spilled over her back. Black and colorful ink against sweet skin - florals, thorns, something almost mythical woven between them. Agatha followed the patterns with her eyes, imagining the languid, possessive drag of her fingertips and tongue tracing each line, learning where they started, where they ended, what each and one of them meant.

They climbed over the curve of Rio’s scapula and deltoids, cascading down the length of her toned arms, disappearing beneath the snug fit of her tailored vest. A full canvas, alive with movement - art meant to be seen, touched, worshipped, devoured. The low lighting caught on certain edges, giving depth to the ink, making the designs shift with every small motion she made.

It was mesmerizing - a temptation crafted in skin and shadow.

Finally, she spoke.

"I’ve got questions."

Rio quirked a brow. “You? Questions? That’s new.”

Her boss smirked, eyes flicking back to hers.

"First one, what made you pick this outfit?"

Rio exhaled a quiet laugh. "You really gotta ask?"

Agatha’s gaze drifted back down, unapologetic. "I wanna hear you say it."

Rio bit back a grin. "You're gonna have to make me."

Agatha dragged the words out, her smirk widening just a little "That so?" She let the words hang between them for a beat, then added "That leads me to my second question."

Rio lifted the glass again from Agatha's hand, taking another slow sip before murmuring, "Hit me."

A pause. A shift closer.

Agatha leaned in slightly, her breath a whisper against Rio’s jaw.

"Funny you should say that."

Rio’s grin turned positively naughty.

Agatha let her eyes drop once more, trailing along Rio’s spine, taking in the way the ink disappeared beneath the waistband of her pants, teasing at something just out of reach.

Then, voice menacing, with a hungry ease "You like it rough, don’t you?"

Rio's smirk deepened. "So rough." Then, softer, just for Agatha "And from behind."

She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, her tongue flicking briefly at the space between them, watching – waiting - for Agatha’s reaction.

Agatha had to remind herself they were in public.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her grip to relax around the stem of her glass.

"And here I was thinking your biggest flex tonight was just taking off your jacket."

Rio grinned. "Oh, but Ms. Harkness, that was just the opening act.

Chapter Text

“I don’t have time for this.”

Agatha’s voice came low, edged with warning - like she was talking more to herself than to Rio.

"You don't understand. If I touch you... I might forget how to stop"

A confession wrapped in a threat. A warning.

Rio smirked, one brow arching just enough to make it cocky. Every inch of her radiated trouble.

“That supposed to scare me? ‘Cause if it’s a promise, we should bounce right now. I love a woman who loses her mind in be...”

“Stop talking.”

Two words. Ice cold. Final.

Agatha looked ready to tear her open - bite, break, fuck her senseless. Righ there, right then.

But those beautiful and hungry brown eyes didn’t even flinch. Didn’t back down. Instead, Rio pressed those attractive lips together, holding back a laugh she wasn’t even trying to hide. "Sure. Let’s talk about the event...if you can focus."

*Smug.*

Agatha could see it, clear as day.

That smirk made her want to destroy her pet just to see how fast she’d fall apart.

Her patience was hanging by a fucking thread.

One more push, and she’d snap.

She knew it - fuck, she knew she should wait for Elektra, her ace up her sleeve. Stick to the plan. Be smart, especially after all the shit Wanda pulled tonight.

But how the hell was she supposed to focus on business when the single most tempting woman at this godforsaken party was standing right in front of her - grinning like she knew exactly how close Agatha was to losing it - practically offering herself up on a silver platter?

"I don’t have time for this" she repeated, this time rougher - desperate, like saying it again might make it true. Like it might cut whatever magnetic pull had locked them in.

But Rio?

That reckless little shit just grinned wider - eyes flashing, chin tilting up at that cocky, arrogant angle that ought to be illegal.

Then she bit her bottom lip. Slow. Let that same defiant flicker cross her face before sinking her teeth in harder.

Teasing.

Testing.

And that goddamn tiny gap in her front teeth?

It sank into Agatha’s resolve like a dare.

"Whatever you say, boss."

Her voice dripped sweet - too sweet. Syrupy. Yanking at something deep and low in Agatha’s gut.

She was tormenting her. Begging, over and over, to see just how far she could push before Agatha broke.

And...well, she was right there.

...

That’s how Rio ended up outside.

Getting exactly what she wanted.

One second she was smirking, mouthing off...

The next, Agatha’s whole face shifted. Something dark passed through her - resignation, maybe. Maybe not.

And then...

"Fuck it."

No hesitation now. No second-guessing.

She didn’t even look at Rio - just set her glass down like she couldn’t care less if it landed or shattered.

"You smoke, right?"

Rio exhaled slowly through her nose, heart pounding. She cut Agatha a sideways glance, that same knowing smirk playing on her lips, brows lifting in silent reply.

She followed, quick and breathless, pulse thrumming in her throat. The urge to reach out nearly undid her - to catch Agatha’s wrist, to feel the heat of her skin beneath her fingers as they slipped through the crowd, a current cutting through the tide of strangers.

Agatha didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just leaned in, whispered something low to a guy who looked like he ran the place. The venue’s manager, maybe?

He nodded. Fast. Too fast. Like whatever she’d just said carried weight.

The guy pointed at a door marked Restricted Access.

And like his brain caught up, he glanced at Rio - eyes narrowing. Reading her.

Sizing her up.

Pity?

Concern?

Didn’t fuckin’ matter.

Rio was already moving.

Already slipping through that door.

Straight into the dark.

The garden was stunning - moonlight filtering through tangled branches, casting silver pools across marble paths, the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine heavy in the air. Somewhere nearby, the quiet trickle of a fountain broke the stillness.

Not that Rio had the chance to admire any of it.

The second she crossed the threshold, she was shoved hard against rough brick - cheek scraping stone, the chill biting into her skin like teeth.

A sharp gasp - more surprise than protest - tore from her lips as the breath was stolen clean from her lungs.

And then she felt her.

Agatha.

Pressed up behind her - solid, unrelenting heat. Every inch of her body against her. Suffocating. One hand braced against the wall beside Rio’s head, the other claiming her hip with bruising possession. A silent command: Stay still.

Warm breath ghosted over Rio’s ear.

“I swear I told you to wear something awful. How dare you look this good?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a fuckin’ sentence. A judgment, dripping in dark, filthy satisfaction.

Rio barely held back a shudder - because Agatha’s voice - * God, that voice *- sounded different now. Low. Rough. Steady in a way that scared the hell out of her... and turned her on.

Controlled.

Lethal.

She tried to answer - couldn’t. Words failed, lost somewhere between the frantic pounding of her heart and the fire crawling under her skin.

No way she could speak. Not when every nerve was screaming under Agatha’s touch. Not when her brain was drowning in the weight of it… the inevitability of this.

But that didn’t stop her lips from twitching, the smallest flicker of a smirk flashing across her face - or that knowing gleam in her eyes, daring Agatha to keep going.

“You really don’t know how to behave, do you?"

Agatha’s left hand locked around her throat, fingers pressing just right - just enough to make her dizzy.

And the other hand?

* Fuck. *

The other was already past her waistband. Past her underwear. Past the point of no return.

Exactly where Rio had wanted it since the second she laid eyes on Agatha tonight.

No teasing. No warning. No mercy.

Agatha didn’t ease her in - patience wasn’t in her nature. She was brutal. Precise. A woman with something to prove. A demon hell-bent on making Rio feel the full weight of the mistake she’d made, inviting this storm into her body.

Sequins from Agatha’s dress scraped Rio’s back raw as she moved.

Unyielding. Ruthless.

Perfect.

Every scrape burned against the molten heat of Agatha’s fingers. The pressure wrecked her - had Rio pressing harder against the brick, mouth dropping open on a helpless sound.

Every breath she managed came shallow, ragged, forced through lips that couldn’t form a single coherent thought beyond more.

Agatha’s grip tightened.

Her pace quickened.

Teeth scraped the bare curve of her pet's right shoulder - claiming, sending shivers tearing down her spine.

Rio liked that a lot. And then it hit her...

This was the first time.

The first time Agatha really touched her.

Owned her.

And Christ - it was worse...and better - than Rio ever let herself imagine.

"Mmmmm...more… Oh, god. More..."  The sounds ripping from her throat didn’t sound human. Didn’t even sound like hers.

She could feel Agatha panting behind her shoulder.

"Aahhh...fuuuuUUUck..."

Another ragged confession spilled free - tangled in a moan, swallowed by the night.

Agatha’s fingers flexed at her throat, tightening.

"Loud" she mused, voice silk and razors. Then her touch turned vicious, punishing.

Harder. Harsher. Cruel.

Rio gasped, nails dragging useless against the brick, body arching like she could take more - begging for it. Spreading her legs slightly, leaning forward.

"Look at you. So fucking desperate" Agatha breathed against her skin, lips grazing fresh bruises. " This what you wanted?”

Rio jolted - helpless. She couldn’t answer - not with words.

She showed her. Gave her everything.

“Think you can handle it?" Agatha growled, shoving even deeper.

And fuck, Rio loved it.

Her lips parted, breath hitching - but she didn’t break. Didn’t falter. Just tipped her head back, baring more of her throat, smirking even as she gasped - because of course she was still playing this sick game.

Agatha could wreck her.

Could ruin her.

And Rio would still look her dead in the eye, one brow quirking in mock amusement - just to see how much further she could push.

And just when Rio thought she might die from it - Agatha slowed.

Just to be a bitch.

Rio sobbed - needy - her right hand flying to grip Agatha’s forearm, the one buried deep inside her, trying to rock her hips forward. “No, no, no, Agatha. Don’t you dare stop.”

"Why the hell not?"

That dark, familiar chuckle - the same one from the phone - now rumbling right against her ear.

Rio clenched her teeth, shaking.

"What?" Agatha taunted, amusement dripping from every syllable. "No smartass comment? No ‘gonna stab me in an alley’ bullshit?"

* Oh, fuck. She remembered that stupid conversation *

And then...

Agatha changed her approach.

Her fingers - still buried - pressed, stroked, twisted just right.

Rio’s head snapped back against Agatha’s shoulder, a broken gasp ripping free from her lungs.

Vulnerable.

Gone.

Agatha watched. Ate her alive with her eyes.

Messy. Trembling.

Fuckin’ destroyed.

"Say it."

Rio clawed at the brick wall, breath catching - no voice, no words. Her hands found Agatha’s neck instead, desperate, clinging as her hips rocked back, chasing friction.

“Say it” Agatha growled again - low, soft, deadly.

“Please…" Rio gasped, her voice wrecked, shredded down to nothing. Her needy, puppy-like eyes stayed locked on the woman taking her from behind.

Agatha’s lips brushed her ear - soft like a deadly threat. Her breathe picking up in pace.

"Please what?"

Rio was falling apart. Breaking piece by piece in Agatha’s hands. And Agatha knew she had complete control over her beautiful pet.

She did it again - press, stroke, take - dragging Rio closer to the edge.

At this point, her nails were clawing Agatha's back neck. “Please” She panted, trembling and lost. “Make me come.”

Agatha hummed - slow, teasing. Pleased.

"Please make me come... what? "

It barely registered - Rio was too far gone.

Then Agatha’s palm swept over her clit, just enough to make Rio's body light up again in all the right places, and Rio jolted, her vision blurring, lips parting.

Agatha was right there - watching, waiting. Hungry. Her hips thrusting against Rio’s ass, a testament to just how much she was enjoying this - just as much as her tattooed little snack

It was too much. There had to be witchcraft in this - no way she could think, could breathe, could survive.

And then she realized - Agatha was still waiting. Expecting something specific.

A grin tugged at Rio’s lips, wildly full of newfound smugness.

“Please, Ms. Harkness” she rasped. “Make me come.”

Something inside Agatha snapped.

A low, guttural sound tore from her throat.

And then she fucking complied.

Picked up the pace.

And if she’d been rough before...

Now she was brutal.

Harder.

Faster.

Merciless.

Every filthy fantasy Rio’d ever had - every night spent wondering about those hands - * Agatha’s hands. Agatha’s fucking hands * - played out right here. Between her thighs.

And every gasp. Every moan. Every desperate cry drove Agatha harder.

Until Rio was gone.

Shaking.

Boneless.

Smeared against the wall.

Legs trembling, too weak to hold her.

Thighs shaking, struggling to stay open.

And when Rio finally shattered - loud, ruined - Agatha didn’t stop.

Not right away.

* More. Always more. *

She drew it out - dragged her hand free, slick and glistening, trailing Rio’s wetness until she found her clit.

Two fingers. Sweet, slow circles. Shifting pressure. Changing rhythm.

Until Rio sobbed - shaking, helpless - and gave her second surrender.

Making her feel it all over again.

Her body betraying her. Crumbling twice as hard.

Only then - only when Rio was breathless - did Agatha slow.

Fingers slipped free, leaving nothing but heat and hunger in their wake.

Agatha exhaled, the ghost of a smirk on her lips.

Forehead resting against Rio’s shoulder, bodies still tangled. Still pressed tight. Holding her up.

They stayed there - silent, breathless, shaking.

Both knowing – acknowledging - this would never be enough.

Without a word, the same hand that had been wrapped around Rio’s throat slid up, claiming her jaw. Forcing her head back.

Fingers pressed hard enough to part her lips - opening her mouth.

And then those same fingers - still slick from inside her - slipped past her lips, owning this new space.

"Clean"

Not a request.

Rio obeyed, taking the fingers deeper.

Of course she did.

Still wrecked, still clinging, she let go of the wall and grabbed Agatha’s wrist, holding her there as she licked - slow, thorough.

Tasting herself on Agatha’s fingers. Worshiping.

Because fuck - those fingers held more power than any santería spell.

Agatha watched in silence.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes dark - heavy with something Rio couldn’t name. Dangerous.

She’d been with plenty of people - had seen lust, greed, obsession - but this?

This was different. Singular.

What Rio didn’t realize - what she couldn’t see - was that she was looking at Agatha the exact same way.

Lost in it. Drowning.

Once Agatha was satisfied, she dragged her fingers free - a thin thread of spit connecting them to Rio’s lips - then traced the curve of her mouth, down her throat, lower…

Skimming bare skin until she found the necklaces resting against Rio’s collarbone.

She toyed with them - rolling the pendants between her fingers. Slow. Calculated.

Even tugged - just once - like she was weighing a thought… then let them fall.

Rio chuckled, already two steps ahead.

“Next time?” she threw out, voice low.

A beat.

“You in?” Agatha asked – casual.

Except not really.

Rio heard the crack in all that control. Knew Agatha was waiting - daring her to run while she still could.

Because Agatha knew herself.

She wouldn’t be the one to stop this.

She never was.

Still breathless, still wrecked, Rio straightened.

She turned to face her, back pressing into the wall, chin lifting - letting Agatha cage her there, chest to chest, eyes locked.

Both of them hungry for more.

Both knowing – again - that this wasn’t the place to continue this uncontrolled, animalistic cravings.

With a small, silent gesture, Rio slid her hand over Agatha’s forearm, nudging it down.

Agatha moved – barely - but pressed in harder, pinning Rio in place.

And then, like none of it had just happened, Rio pulled out a match, struck it against the brick, and lit a joint.

Agatha watched - intrigued, curious. Fascinated.

She had no idea Rio had built her whole life on breaking rules - fucking logic sideways.

But she was about to find out.

Rio took a long, slow drag, exhaling steady as her brown eyes flicked up to meet her two favorite, piercing blue ones. Mischief burning there - ready to pull off the boldest bluff of her life.

"Don't be naive, Agatha."

The words hung between them. Heavy. Sharp.

Agatha blinked.

* Naive? *

No one had ever dared call her that. She wasn’t sure how to process it.

Rio, secretly savoring the effect of her bratty little jab, continued "I’m not gonna insult your intelligence pretending to be coy. So, here it is, good start… but..."

"But?" Agatha’s eyes narrowed.

Rio laughed, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was still standing.

"Look… I’m tired of lovers talkin’ big but folding the second it gets interesting." She shrugged. "Didn’t happen this time. But... still."

Truth was that wasn’t even close to what happened. Agatha had wrecked her. Brutal. Outstanding. Fuckin’ spectacular.

But she wasn’t about to give her that. Not yet.

* It was time to poke the bear. *

She took another drag, exhaled a perfect stream of smoke, then met Agatha’s gaze.

"It was too sweet. Too vanilla."

The words hit like a grenade.

It took some serious courage to say those words to the Reaper herself.

Agatha’s face stayed still - but Rio caught it. That flicker. That shift.

“I’m not some fragile little thing, you know?” Rio added, reckless, eyes gleaming with fire.

Agatha exhaled slow, nostrils flaring - watching her.

Weighing her.

The teasing - the blatant attack on her ego - was working.

And Rio - high on her own nerve - pushed harder.

“Honestly?” she drawled, dragging it out. “With all that hype? Kinda thought you’d hit harder.”

That landed.

Agatha ran her tongue over her teeth like a wolf tasting the air before the first bite.

Of course, she knew exactly what Rio was doing.

But it had been so long - so fucking long - since anyone had dared to bait her like this.

And she wasn’t about to let that go to waste. She wanted to see how far Rio was willing to push.

"Harder, huh?" She fired back, voice low - like a loaded gun cocked and ready.

Rio tilted her head, grin widening - playful. Daring.

"Oh, don’t get me wrong. I liked it. It was… nice."

Agatha went still. "I see"

* You're playing with fire, little girl *

She didn’t have to say it, the warning hung heavy between them anyway.

Rio continued, seemingly unfazed by the imminent danger she was putting herself in.

"Next time?"  She took a slow drag from the joint, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I want you to play the perfect little gentlewoman you pretend to be..." She exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl between them before adding "...then bend me over and fuck me like you mean it."

For a second, she nearly said 'hair-pulling, on all fours' - but even she had some restraint. Instead, she let the corner of her mouth curl, feigning innocence as she finished "like the goddamn lady you know I am not."

She cocked her head, all teeth and trouble. "Think you can pull that off, Aggie?"

And then - like the brat she was - she held out the joint.

"Want a hit?"

Agatha’s lips curled, slow and mean. "From your mouth"

Rio’s breath caught, sharp.

* How the hell was this polished, pristine woman playing along with the bold, dirty flirting so damn seamlessly? *

Agatha’s fingers were back - tilting her chin up, steady, firm. A touch Rio knew she could drown in.

Turned on, upon realizing she could still smell herself on them, Rio leaned in, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke straight into Agatha's waiting mouth.

Her boss took it in deep, held it, then exhaled slow - right back into Rio’s parted lips.

Rio pulled it in. Their breaths mingling - close enough to burn.

The moment stretched - so thick it hurt.

Until Rio coughed - body jerking, lungs giving up under the weight of it. Not just the smoke.

But the heat. The closeness.

The unbearable pressure of holding Agatha’s full attention.

Agatha, completely aware of the power she held over the woman in front of her, let out a low, smoky laugh - richer than sin - as she plucked the joint from Rio’s fingers with that same cocky ease that made it feel like a claim.

"So… this cute little monologue...” her tone was low but playful ”...means you’re planning to leave this party with me?"

"Only if you let me return the favor after, obviously." Rio fired back tongue rubbing her frontal teeth once more, a dangerous sight.

Agatha took a slow drag - savoring Rio’s taste on the paper - then exhaled to the side, smoke curling like a spell. "That so?"

* This fuckin’ woman. *

Rio grinned - arrogant, reckless - already plotting her next move. She was ready to play dirty.

Problem was… how the hell do you knock someone like Agatha Harkness off balance?

She ran through the options, mind racing behind that mask of lazy indifference - until it hit her. Too cheap, maybe. But screw it.

Time to pull the Spanish card.

She leaned in - closer than close - voice dropping to a husky murmur, meant for Agatha’s ears only.

"You walk around here like you own every goddamn mortal in this world..." She waved lazily, signaling the gala, this whole glittering, empty world that belonged to Agatha. "But tonight? Te voy a meter tan duro que de una vas a bajar cuatro clases sociales”

Her eyes burned - glinting with the kind of promise you don’t survive.

"How’s that sound, Reaper?"

From a distance, their silhouettes blurred - two shadows tangled together, close enough to kiss, to consume each other.

Lovers lost in their own orbit.

And that’s exactly what Dottie Jones saw, from the windows across the building.

Oblivious to the fact that they had become the unwitting protagonist of a real-life Rear Window scene, the couple remained entirely absorbed in each other, lust pooling in their eyes.

Slow as sin, Agatha threaded her fingers through Rio’s hair, trailing down - teasing, caressing her face, her hips - until she grabbed a handful of her ass like she owned it.

Because why the hell not?

She was already giving in.

Already losing.

"I can’t make any promises for tonight" she murmured at last, voice low and rough. "Still got business inside."

Rio clicked her tongue, tilting her head, eyes narrowing with something sharp. Naughty. “Funny… thought you were the law around here ”

"Oh, I make the law" Agatha shot back, leaning in to steal a slow drag off the joint still smoldering between Rio’s fingers - never breaking eye contact. She exhaled through her nose, smoke curling lazy around her lips "I just don’t write the checks.”

Rio chuckled, flicking ash from the joint. "Fine, then… how about a deal? You go charm your future investors… and I’ll grab us a bottle for later."

Agatha hummed low, dragging her nose along Rio’s neck - just to feel that shiver she knew was coming."Might take a while."

“Guess I’ll have to bribe the band to play some merengue, huh?" Rio grinned, leaning into the heat of her "Gotta make the wait a little sweeter."

Agatha hooked a finger into Rio’s waistband, tugging her in until their noses almost brushed, their breaths tangling. Her eyes fixed on her pet's lips.

“Although… if you keep looking at me like that” Rio shook her head, lips curling. “I’m gonna forget the deal and kiss you right now”

Agatha’s laugh rumbled deep - throaty, dark, thick with want "Well, well… didn’t know the writer had lines."

“Wait 'til you see my moves”

"Can’t wait for you to prove it" Agatha whispered, lips barely grazing Rio’s. "But for now… why don’t you go work the room, hm?" She gestured toward the door leading back inside, where the party buzzed beyond. “Darkhold could use some networking."

Rio smile spread slow. "Oh, great. My first business lesson from The Reaper herself. Should I be taking notes?"

And then - because she could, because she knew Agatha wouldn’t stop her - Rio did it.

Grabbed her ass.

Firm.

Possessive.

Claiming.

Agatha didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. No sharp retort. No icy glare.

Instead, she leaned in - close enough to taste - her lips brushing the shell of Rio’s ear as her voice dropped lower, darker, soaked in pure indulgence.

"Darling" she purred, slow and dangerous, sliding the last bit of the joint between Rio’s lips with infuriating ease "the only lessons I’ll be giving you… are in bed."

A shiver tore down Rio’s spine - full-body, involuntary.

By the time she caught her breath, by the time her brain registered the weight of that promise, Agatha was already pulling away - turning with a flourish, a final tease, leaving Rio cold in the space she left behind.

And just as she crossed the threshold, Agatha glanced back - shoulders relaxed, voice maddeningly casual - and tossed one last thing over her shoulder.

Something careless.

Something Rio never – never - expected to hear from those lips.

"Te veo."

Rio blinked.

Stunned.

Frozen.

"What the fuck?? Wait… How the hell do you…!?"

But Agatha was gone.

Gone like smoke.

Like every goddamn time, she left Rio with a cliffhanger.

Needing.

Starving .

Always wanting more.

* Every. Single. Time. *

Rio exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall, letting her head fall back as the weight of it all caught up.

Only now did she notice the garden - soft light, the faint hum of the city beyond, the air thick with night.

Her thighs still wet. Her whole damn body still aching.

She dragged a shaky hand down her face, then laughed. Low. Wrecked. Breathless.

Took one last hit from the joint, holding it for a beat, before stubbing it out against the same rough brick Agatha had just fucked her against.

Finally, she crouched - grabbing her jacket from where it lay, crumpled and abandoned on the ground.

Disheveled.

Ruined.

A casualty of the chaos Agatha had left in her wake.

Just like her.

She held it up, gave it a few smacks with her palm to shake off the dirt.

If only she could do the same to Agatha.

Soon, she promised herself as she straightened.

* Very soon.*

And with that, Rio stepped back inside.

Smirking.

Wrecked.

Ready.

Fucked by Agatha Harkness herself.

Not bad for her first damn gala, right?

Chapter Text

The gala pulsed around her - expensive laughter, clinking glasses, the slow hum of a jazz quartet tucked somewhere in the corner. The scent of aged whiskey and designer perfume hung in the air, thick and intoxicating.

Rio exhaled, smoothing a hand down the front of her blazer. The click of her heels - those she only ever dug out for nights like this, when impressing people who thought femininity had to come with discomfort was an unfortunate necessity - echoed against the marble as she stepped out of the bathroom.

Composed. Collected. Lips freshly painted in her signature deep, seductive red.

One last glance in the mirror.

No smudged lipstick.

No wild hair.

No visible bruises.

Nothing betraying what had happened in the garden.

At least… not at first glance.

Beneath the perfectly tailored jacket, her skin told another story - bruises blooming along her shoulders, the curve of her throat, the ridges of her spine. A roadmap of Agatha’s mouth, teeth, fingers. Concealer had worked its magic, dulling even the darkest ones, muting some of her tattoos in the process. But whatever. It is what it is.

But under that pristine mask her skin still buzzed.

She’d made a plan in there to kill the two hours she figured she’d be waiting for Agatha.

Stay chill. Stay low. Edible in, hips out. Grab the damn bottle for later. Talk to no one. Enjoy everything.

Because none of this - Darkhold, the networking, the desperate hunger of Hollywood elites - none of it mattered. Not tonight.

She was here for her.

But before Rio could melt into the glittering crowd, a familiar voice slid into her ear.

“Well, well… Rio Vidal. Is that really you?”

She turned slowly and her pulse skipped.

Leaning against the bar like they owned the place stood Brunnhilde.

Pinstripe suit. Black tie. Whiskey in hand. Hair braided back - tight, intricate - as if they’d stepped straight out of myth.

Beautiful in that lethal, relaxed way.

That smile didn’t just say I’m here - it dared anyone to disagree. Gorgeous in a way that felt like cheating.

“Bru?” The nickname slipped out before Rio could stop it. She blinked. “Is that you… in a goddamn suit? I thought you only owned gym clothes.”

They straightened - slow, intentional - eyes glinting like they were sitting on a fortune of secrets. “No one calls me that anymore, babe.”And then they pulled Rio into a hug - real, warm, maybe even relieved. “It’s Valkyrie now.”

A pause. A lazy sip of whiskey.

“You know how it is… Started as a nickname from a coworker. But then it stuck. Out here, names stick like blood. Pick the right one, you thrive. Pick the wrong one, you choke on it.”

Rio snorted.

“Jesus. That’s dramatic.”

A beat.

Then, dryly  “…But also very cool.”

Valk smirked, unfazed.

“Coming from someone whose name literally means river? I’ll take that as a compliment.” They shrugged. “But yeah, you’re not wrong. Hollywood is dramatic.”

Rio leaned against the bar, watching them. “So… you’re someone now?”

“Senior Acquisitions at Valhalla Ltd. So yeah… important enough.” Valk played with one of their braids, all casual charm. “Used to slice my way through indie docs, remember? Now I’m the one buying them. If it’s dark, weird, and too smart for streaming - chances are, I greenlit it.”

She winked, conspiratorial.

Rio let out a low whistle.

“I’m so glad to see you again.”

They nudged her shoulder, casual - until Rio hissed, a sharp breath slipping between her teeth. Valkyrie paused, eyes narrowing. But they didn’t press. Their hand dropped away, the moment silently filed for later.

They grabbed two drinks from the bar and slid one her way, insisting she owed them a proper catch-up.

Rio played along, letting Valk fill her in on the who’s-who of the gala - half-listening, half-scanning the room for a certain pair of piercing blue eyes.

And that’s how she learned about Lilia Calderu.

The woman behind the gala.

And the real owner of the room.

Calderu moved like a queen through the glittering crowd - part tarot reader, part mob boss, her presence commanding attention without demanding it. People gravitated toward her, hands outstretched in thinly veiled supplication.

“Why the hell would a casino mogul be producing a TV event?” Rio muttered, swirling the whiskey in her glass. “Doesn’t make sense. What she wants? publicity?”

Valk’s smirk deepened. “Ms. Calderu doesn’t need to promote herself.”

Rio arched a brow. “Then what does she need?”

“She’s the House.” Valk’s eyes glinted.

“That supposed to mean something?”

Valkyrie chuckled, leaning in like they were about to share a fairytale instead of a fact. . “As in… I am Valkirye, Harkness is the Reaper. Maximoff’s the Witch. And Calderu? She’s the House. Always has been.”

Rio frowned, gaze flicking back toward the woman. “You’re telling me she owns every casino in the city?”

“Not just the city.” They swirled their drink with reverence. “And definitely not just the casinos.”

A beat.

“And sometimes, nights like this… she moves her little empire. Just for fun. Just for the right crowd.”

Rio let out a dry laugh. “Great. So I’m at a shady party hosted by the Queen of the Underworld?”

Valk took another sip, eyes gleaming over the rim of the glass.

“You know, if you’re serious about sticking around in this scene… you might need a name too.”

Rio scoffed, eyebrows lifting.

“What, like a stage name?”

“Trust me - names are currency here. They’re armor. Persona. Protection. The moment they start whispering about you in green rooms or writers’ lounges, you better hope they’re saying something memorable.”

Rio leaned back, letting the words settle like dust.

Her friend continued “The best ones don’t pick their name. The name picks them. Eventually.”

She hated how true it sounded.

“…So what? I’m supposed to brand myself like a fucking startup?”

“Only if you want to survive.”

Valk tilted their head, considering.

“Think of it this way - Rio is beautiful. But it’s soft. Fluid. It flows. But this industry?”

They leaned in, their gaze tightening with focus “It doesn’t flow. It carves. And you - whether you like it or not - you’re already honed enough to break skin.”

Rio blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Valk just kept looking at her.

“Don’t play dumb. You walk into a room and people brace themselves. You’ve got that thing, Rio. You’re scary. Not loud, not aggressive. Just… quiet danger. Like the calm right before the detonation.”

Rio stared at them, surprised - and maybe a little flattered.

“…Scary? me?”

“Scary as fuck” Valk confirmed. “But the kind people respect. Not avoid.”

Rio didn’t answer right away. But the thought lodged itself somewhere deep - and it stayed there.

A nickname.

A new name.

Not a mask - something more like armor.

If this world was going to call her something… maybe she should choose the weapon.

“I’ll think about it” she said at last, just as the bartender slid another pair of drinks across the counter.

Valk nudged one toward her, casual.

But as Rio reached for it, her jacket slipped - just enough for her old friend sharp gaze to catch something dark beneath the collarbone.

“I was gonna ask what the hell you’re doing at a party like this, but… I think I just got my answer.”

Their fingers barely brushed the lapel of Rio’s jacket, peeling it back an inch. Just enough to confirm.

A sliver of skin.

The faintest hint of a bruise.

Then another.

And another.

For a moment, Valk said nothing. Just tilted their head, lips curving into something close to nostalgia.

"Shame" they murmured. "And here I thought I was the only one who left marks like that."

Rio let out a dry laugh, brushing it off. "Please. You wish."

But Valk’s gaze dropped, their expression hardening. There was concern in the tight crease between their brows. "I hope it was worth it."

"That bad?" Rio exhaled slowly. She tilted her head, half-heartedly trying to glimpse the damage herself. The movement made her jacket slip open a little more - just enough to reveal the darker bruises blooming along her shoulder.

More bite marks.

Valkyrie winced. "Jesus, Rio. That looks like someone tried to brand you."

Their eyes swept over the room, already scanning for a culprit. "Who’s the motherfucking beast?"

They took another slow sip, gaze returning to the writer like they were peeling back layers - reading every secret she thought she'd buried, every sin etched beneath her skin.

"You know what?" Valkirye pressed a finger to their lips, turned an invisible key, and tossed it over their shoulder.

Locked. Gone. Safe. Whatever they'd seen, they weren’t going to push. Not now.

And then - whether out of mercy, timing, or just knowing Rio too damn well - they pivoted.

"Haven’t seen you since that wrap party downtown…" They squinted slightly, like digging through a fog of old memories.

"What - four years ago?"

Rio tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Something like that. Pretty sure you were trying to impress me with some deep speech about how you were gonna change the industry.”

Her old romantic misfure grinned, wide and unapologetic. “And if I remember right… you got way too drunk and tried to kiss me.”

Rio took a slow sip of whiskey. “Got to kiss you.”

Valk laughed - loud, genuine. “That’s the thing. Who here is getting the Rio treatment tonight?”

Rio groaned. “Fuck off. I’m here for work.”

“Sure. And I’m a motherfucking nun. Who are you here with?” Valkyrie asked, suspicion in her voice.

Rio hesitated.

“I came with my…”

* My what? *

Then she exhaled, shoulders relaxing. “...my producer. I’m working on a new fantasy series. We need some funding to make it a triple-A project.”

Valk raised a brow. “And this producer is?”

“Agatha Harkness.”

This time her old flame didn’t whistle. They just blinked - once, slowly - then set their drink down with a soft clink that said everything.

“Westview?” They leaned back, like the word itself might bite. “So you’ve decided to walk straight into the viper pit. Bold choice.”

They exhaled, half-impressed, half-concerned. “Are you trying to get eaten alive?”

* HA *

Rio tapped her fingers against the table. “Must be one of those character-building arcs.”

“Well, I don’t envy you.” Valkyrie let out a low laugh, shaking their head. “So tell me, how the hell did you end up working with Hollywood’s personal succubus?”

Rio shrugged, casual like it wasn’t loaded. “She offered. I took the job.”

The tension softened, the weight of the years between them settling into something almost comfortable.

Because they had history.

Not just industry bullshit.

Personal.

It had been a fling - fun, easy. Two ambitious nobodies clawing their way up, occasionally falling into bed together.

Never serious.

But it had meant something.

Enough.

And now here they were. Both still breathing. Both surviving. Thriving. Sort of.

Valk cleared their throat, dragging them back to the present.

"Speak of the devil..."

Because, of course, just as Rio reached for the bottle to refill their drinks, Agatha appeared.

Not alone.

Lilia Calderu walked beside her - The House herself.

And the way they touched - Lilia’s hand resting on Agatha’s shoulder with an easy, intimate familiarity, Agatha’s fingers ghosting over Lilia’s waist - sent a strange, unwanted heat crawling up Rio’s spine.

Someone else had Agatha’s attention, and, like a petulant child, Rio didn’t like it one bit.

They weren’t speaking loudly. But they weren’t whispering, either.

So when they reached the bar, Rio and Valkyrie heard every word.

Close enough now to catch the edge in Lilia’s voice.

"I saw it" Lilia murmured - soft, but edged with steel. "I warned you. Obstacles are coming. And still, you choose recklessness."

A whisper. A threat.

Agatha stiffened - just for a breath - before that familiar, infuriating mask slid back into place. Cool. Unbothered. “You really don’t have anything better to do than keep tabs on me?”

Whatever this was, it wasn’t business.

And then - because fate had a sense of humor - Agatha and Rio reached for their drinks at the same time.

Their hands brushed.

The air shifted.

Agatha hesitated, just a fraction, before pulling back, letting Rio go first. A wry smirk played on her lips. "Ladies first."

Rio bit her lip - because fuck her - knowing exactly what that was referencing.

Their conversation in the garden.

Her voice dropped, teasing, low and sweet. "Always."

Agatha’s gaze darkened.

Honeyed poison - sweet, dangerous, meant for Rio’s pleasure alone.

Lilia caught it instantly.

She leaned in, voice a whisper just for Agatha. "Funny. I thought the missing piece would be..." Her lips barely moved. "… something else."

Agatha’s voice, warm honey and razor wire, sliced through the moment.

"Play nice, Lilia. She works for me. Westview, I mean."

Lilia turned, eyes sharp as black holes, pinning Rio in place.

"You never learn, do you?" she said to Agatha, though her gaze never left Rio.

Her voice was smooth, cool as a weighted coin in a gambler’s palm.

For the first time tonight, since stepping foot into this den of beasts, Rio felt small. Out of her depth. Seen. Measured. Weighed.

* And Agatha’s the one everyone’s afraid of? Unbelievable. *

Valkyrie caught the tension. And because they were messy as hell, they joined in, resting a hand on Rio’s sore shoulder.

She winced.

They smirked.

"Didn’t think you were the mentoring type, Reaper. But hey, you’ve got yourself a real asset here." Taking a slow sip of their drink, they drawled

The moment they spoke, both Lilia and Agatha fixed their eyes on them.

"Rio’s one of the boldest writers I know. Though I should warn you - she doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own." They tilted their head. "Surprised you took someone like her under your wing."

Agatha let out a low, dark chuckle. Wicked.

"What can I say? I like the bad boys."

And she only looked at her when she said it.

Rio’s lips curled, slow and knowing.

That - that was for her.

And because she was a brat, because she couldn’t help herself - Rio winked.

Agatha didn’t react - not at first. But then, just barely, her lips curled.

Subtle. Knowing.

A sweet yet daring gesture that clearly meant - Don’t push your luck, darling.-

Valkyrie, having caught the whole damn thing, nearly choked on their drink.

Lilia, on the other hand - who had also picked up on the poorly concealed tension from the start – wasn't amused.

Her gaze dragged over Rio’s rough edges - lingering, judging.

As if the tension weren’t obvious enough, Agatha continued, asking only Rio: "So… you’re enjoying yourself?"

Rio took a slow sip. "Someone told me mingling here would be good for my new project. Just following their advice."

Agatha's delight hummed in her half-smile. "Sly girl."

Valkyrie caught that too. They were practically vibrating with glee at the gossip - equal parts impressed and bewildered by Rio’s audacity.

They leaned in, lowering their voice to a conspiratorial whisper, just for Rio’s ears.

"Hooking up with your boss at a party? Risky. Your boss being the Reaper? Insane. But actually leaving together?" They let out a low, incredulous whistle. "Jesus, Rio."

Rio’s lips parted - ready to deny - but her face said it all.

Valk pulled back, smirking as they took a slow, savoring sip. "Gotta hand it to you. You’re diving headfirst into the fire… and grinning."

Rio laughed - soft, breathless.

Because she was.

And she fucking knew it.

"Agatha, darling."

The voice landed soft. It didn’t need volume. It carried weight.

And just like that, everyone's gaze snapped past Rio’s shoulder.

Fixed. Anchored. Sharp as glass.

Rio turned - slowly.

There she was.

A woman in red.

The stranger's smile was the kind that needed no explanation. Dangerous. Practiced. Intimate.

And suddenly, the whole room was watching.

Laughter died mid-breath. Conversations faltered. Even the band missed a beat.

She moved through the crowd like she owned it.

Every thread of that blood-red dress screamed power, stitched to perfection.

Her face? A masterclass in detached indifference.

Her expression? Cold. Deadly. Like she hadn’t smiled in years - and if she did, it was while watching something burn.

People reacted instantly.

Some stared like starving dogs. Others shrank back, sensing the predator in the room.

Agatha, ever composed, replied kindly. “Elektra, dear, thank you for coming, especially on such short notice".

The woman closed the distance like the world wasn’t watching.

Her hands slid up Agatha’s arms - soft, but claiming.

One kiss.

Then another.

A European custom, maybe. But there was nothing polite about it.

“Some invitations” she murmured, lips brushing too close “just don’t wait.”

She let the words linger, thick and heavy, before turning - slow, unapologetic - toward Lilia Calderu.

"I hope you don’t mind" Elektra’s voice was smooth, effortless. “but I’ve already handled everything for us.”

And just like that, a man stepped forward.

Tall. Impossibly broad. Carved like a goddamn statue.

A silver tray balanced effortlessly in his hands.

Atop it - a bottle of Tequila Diamante Sterling, catching the light.

Two crystal glasses, already sweating.

Sea salt on the rims.

Wedges of lime, perfectly cut.

A small dish of sangrita on the side - everything needed to savor it right.

Elektra didn’t even glance his way.

Her eyes stayed locked on Agatha.

“If I’m not mistaken… you’ve got a taste for bold, curated flavors.”

Agatha tensed, but she followed through with the obvious flirting. “You’re not wrong. I like things that burn a little.”

Rio’s fingers clenched around her glass. Lilia’s shoulders stiffened beside her.

Elektra’s grin sharpened.

She reached for Agatha’s hand like it belonged to her. Like it always had.

“Come. You’re gonna love the room I picked for us.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

And maybe - maybe it wasn’t just the words that broke Rio.

It was the way Elektra leaned in, lips ghosting over Agatha’s ear - whispering something no one else would ever hear.

It was Agatha’s hand sliding lower, resting at the small of the stranger’s back.

Not pulling away.

Following.

They walked off like that.

Together.

And something inside Rio twisted. Ugly.

It stole her breath.

Before she knew it, she moved.

A step forward - instinct, stupid and thoughtless.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Then - pressure.

A hand.

Steady. Cold. Landing hard on her shoulder.

Lilia.

Rio’s jaw tightened. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving Agatha.” The words were light, almost bored.

But underneath - something else.

A warning.

The worst part?

She didn’t sound like she was bluffing.

Valk’s voice cut through the tension, low and even. “Breathe, babe.”

Rio didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Everything in her screamed for action.

To tear Lilia’s hand away.

To close the distance.

To finish this.

But her feet stayed planted.

Staring.

Waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, she listened.

"Who the hell is that?" her voice cut low, slicing through the hum of murmurs that trailed in the woman in red's wake.

Her old friend didn’t look right away. They simply exhaled, slow and knowing, and set their glass down with a quiet clink.

"That, my dear Rio, is Elektra Natchios."

The name hit like a slap across the face.

"The billionaire heiress?" Rio asked, already knowing the answer.

Valkyrie nodded.
"And a cutthroat negotiator. The kind who smiles while gutting you in a boardroom."

"Easily the most dangerous person here" Lilia added coolly, pointing to herself with a playful but pointed raise of her brow."And considering the crowd… that’s saying something."

* And this kooky woman thought she had to save Agatha from ME??? *

Rio bit back the thought, but Valk caught the flicker of irritation in her expression and shared a knowing look with Lilia while swirling their drink lazily.

"Thank the gods she rarely messes with our side of the industry" they added.

Rio’s eyes stayed fixed on Elektra and Agatha as they disappeared into the corridor.

"The real question is…" Valk leaned in, lowering their voice just enough to exclude Lilia. "...what the hell is she doing here with your girl?"

And just like that Rio had three new problems:

One: Why the hell was Lilia Calderu this close with Agatha?

Two: How the fuck did Agatha know Elektra-fucking-Natchios?

And three: the worst of all - what was it with Agatha and women in red?

Rio glanced down at her dark green jacket.

Green was a perfectly good color. Earthy. Grounded. It paired better with purple anyway - thank you very much.

Valk’s gaze drifted toward the far end of the ballroom

“Well… someone’s pissed.”

Rio blinked, thrown off for a second.

Valk tilted their chin with a subtle nod, directing her attention across the crowd.

Wanda Maximoff was standing stone-still. A red statue carved out of rage.

Watching Elektra and Agatha disappear through the velvet-lined doors like a woman watching a house burn - with no intention of calling the fire department.

Her jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. Shoulders squared like she was bracing for war.

Her eyes were twin storms behind a polished smile.

A fury barely restrained.

A jealousy too loud to hide.

The air around her shimmered, like heat off asphalt.

Then Valk dropped the bomb.

“You know they were engaged, right?”

The words barely registered at first.

“Who?” Rio turned, eyes sharp with disbelief.

"Reaper and Witch" Valk clarified with the casual air of someone tossing gasoline on a fire.

Rio stared at them, stunned silent for a moment.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Wish I was.”

Valkyrie took another slow sip, letting the silence stretch just long enough to hurt.

"Worst-kept secret in the biz.” they went on. “Westview tried to bury it, but everyone in our circles remembers."

A lazy wave of the hand between them said the rest.

The backstage whispers in the queer scene.

A drama no PR team could fully clean up.

"They burned hot. Fast. Messy as hell."

Valk’s mouth twisted, more warning than gossip.

"Reaper doesn’t do happy endings, Rio."

The writer's stomach churned.

* Engaged. Fucking engaged. *

The word ricocheted through her mind like a bullet.

Her stomach turned over.

Her pulse thundered so loud it drowned out the music, the chatter, the clinking of crystal glasses.

How had she missed that?

Valkyrie watched her spiral with the resigned patience of someone who’d seen it happen before.

“Woman’s a compulsive liar.” they muttered, swirling the ice in their glass. “Redhead like that? Trouble in six-inch heels. Queen of the pity party. Plays the victim like she’s gunning for an Emmy.”

Rio didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Not when her brain was still playing a reel of Elektra’s hand brushing Agatha’s waist.

And Wanda? That expression hadn’t just been heartbreak.

It had been possession.

So yeah. Turned out Rio had miscounted.

She didn’t have three problems.

She had four.

That’s when Lilia stirred. “For what it's worth, I don't like her either”.

She’d been quiet the whole time - watching, listening, calculating like the queen of a court where every word was a weapon. Her grip never left Rio’s arm. She was an anchor in the storm.

And then, with the ease of someone who had known this moment was coming, she reached into the folds of her coat.

From the shadows, she pulled a deck - old, worn, whispering of things long forgotten. The cards seemed to pulse in her hand, soft and strange, older than the velvet-draped ballroom, older than memory.

She met Rio’s eyes with a calm that made her stomach drop.

A diva about to name her move.

“Shuffle and cut.”

Rio blinked. “Me? Now?”

The House didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. That stare was the answer.

Rio hesitated before taking the deck. It was heavier than it looked - smooth, expensive. Grounding, somehow.

She shuffled. Cut.

"Pick one" Lilia murmured. "Keep it. Think about it."

Rio obeyed, pulse fluttering. For a moment, Lilia just watched her, something strange flickering behind those calculating eyes.

Lilia guessed. "Queen of hearts."

Rio’s head snapped up. Stared at the card in her hand like it had burned her skin. Slowly, disbelieving, she turned it over.

Valk leaned in. “How the hell...?”

Lilia smiled - slow, private. Like she was tucking something away just for herself

"Magick" she whispered.

The word slithered down Rio’s spine, unsettling.

The House tapped the deck. “Again.”

Rio shuffled. Hands clumsy now. Pulled another at random.

Lilia barely glanced. "Queen of hearts."

Valk laughed. The easy, amused kind.

Rio forced a tight smile. “Good trick.”

But Lilia wasn’t done. She leaned in, eyes locked on Rio’s - steady, unblinking, like she was seeing through her, down to the bone.

“Again.”

The air changed.

Not just in the room - inside her.

The hair on Rio’s arms stood up.

Too still. Too heavy.

She pulled another card.

Queen of hearts.

The world tilted.

"Three for three" Valkyrie murmured beside her, glancing at Lilia with something close to admiration.

But Rio - Rio knew this wasn’t a performance.

Lilia wasn’t trying to impress the room.

This wasn’t about entertainment.

No.

This was targeted.

Intentional.

Whatever game she was playing… it was for her.

And it was working.

Keeping Rio right here.

Keeping her mind off Agatha. Off Elektra.

Off whatever the hell was happening behind closed doors.

She let out a slow, shaky breath.

“You’re messing with me.”

Lilia’s grin spread - lazy and dangerous all at once.

She shuffled the deck like Rio’s choices had already been written into the cards.

“Maybe” she said.

"Maybe not."

And just like that, Rio was caught.

Whether she wanted to be or not.

__________________________

Time blurred.

The party thinned. Laughter faded into murmurs. Chairs scraped against marble. Music turned low.

Somewhere between the whiskey and the tricks, Rio slipped out.

No one noticed.

Not even Lilia.

It was too easy.

Like the whole place had already forgotten she existed.

She grabbed the bottle she was supposed to steal - vodka, top-shelf, smooth as water - and, on a whim, plucked a tiny flower arrangement from a nearby table.

Tacky. But it made her smile.

Screw it.

Tonight, she was going to ask Agatha out on a real date.

The whole cheesy package.

With wine and sex, and childhood anecdotes and sex, and music and sex, and laughter and...sex.

Maybe this time she’d say yes?

* Wow. I am so drunk right now. *

The air outside hit cool against her skin. The smoking area was mostly empty, just a couple of execs laughing over their cigars.

She took a hit from one of the complimentary vapes, more out of habit than need.

It wasn’t the same.

She missed her stash. The one back at the apartment.

Home.

That thought stopped her cold.

She probably wouldn’t see it again until… tomorrow?

If she was lucky, she’d wake up in Agatha’s bed.

The thought sent a jolt through her.

Where the hell were they going tonight?

Agatha wasn’t planning on crashing at her place… right?

She knew Rio lived with Darcy, didn't she? Had that ever come up?

Would Agatha suggest a hotel?

And if she did - what kind of place could Rio even afford that wouldn’t scream broke?

It was not like she could waltz into the fucking Four Seasons.

Agatha knew she was a staff writer. That had to mean something.

Right?

She exhaled, eyes drifting up to the night sky.

* God, I could really use a joint.*

Her mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

Maybe Agatha would invite her over instead.

And what would that look like?

What did Agatha Harkness’s place feel like?

Marble floors? Dark windows? A fireplace that was more art piece than heat source?

It looped in her head longer than she realized.

By the time she blinked back to reality, the party was dead.

The last stragglers stumbled out. Staff stacked chairs.

She slipped inside, found a chair of her own.

Scrolled her phone.

Killed time.

Minutes dragged.

"Sorry, miss. We’re closing up."

And that was it. Her cue.

She wandered outside.

Lingering.

Not ready to leave.

Because if she left now, she might miss it.

Might miss her.

Which was insane. Stupid, even.

But honestly?

Rio had made peace with the red flags.

At this point, they weren’t waving - they were the damn wallpaper.

She pulled out her phone, half-heartedly replied to a text from Valkyrie. Something vague about meeting up soon.

Ignored Darcy’s messages entirely - her roommate had sent a picture of herself with the other writers, drinks in hand, celebrating their win from earlier.

* That was today? *

It felt like a different life.

Maybe that was Agatha’s magic.

Not just bending time.

But making Rio disappear in it.

She shut that thought down before it could take root.

Instead, she took a quick selfie - bottle in one hand, tiny bouquet in the other - and sent it to Agatha.

Short. Pointed.

Still here. Waiting.

And fuck if that wasn’t the truth.

Because one hour later - she was still there.

Perched on the steps outside the venue.

Phone at 5%.

Bottle cracked open.

Half-drained.

She stared at the street. At nothing.

Not scrolling. Not texting.

Just saving battery.

Because Agatha would text.

She had to.…Didn’t she?

Lilia Calderu appeared like a conjuration - slipping into Rio’s line of sight as if summoned by sheer desperation.

“I put this whole thing together, you know?” Her voice was almost casual. Almost.

Rio blinked up at her, tone flat. “Yeah? What’s that got to do with me?”

Lilia smiled - thin, knowing. She nodded toward the half-empty vodka bottle cradled against Rio’s side.

“I paid for the booze, too.”

Rio let out a dry snort. “Well… cheers, I guess.” She hesitated, then added, awkwardly “And… thanks for the invite.”

Lilia’s smile curved - sharp enough to cut. “Funny thing is, though… I didn’t invite you.”

Rio stilled.

No comeback. No easy deflection.

She just stared.

Lilia, unbothered, lowered herself onto the cold stone step beside her - unceremonious, uninvited. Studying her like she was some strange, delicate creature that had wandered into her orbit.

"Tell me about your life" she said.

The question was so blunt, so absurdly direct, that Rio flinched

Drunk. Uneasy. Off-balance.

Lilia’s gaze drifted lower.

Rio’s jacket was gone - forgotten somewhere inside. Her bare arms lay exposed to the night air, along with the intricate ink twining over her skin.

And Agatha’s marks.

Bruises, bite traces, the imprint of hands that had lingered too long.

But Lilia didn’t linger on those. She traced only the ink.

“I see you’re rooted in nature” she observed. There was something like admiration in her voice.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Rio took a sip from the bottle. “All my plants die anyway”

Lilia gave her a look - one that said liar - but she let it slide. “They die on all of us, dear. That’s the cycle. The real question is…” She turned slightly, her voice dipping lower. “How long will you last, taking care of a flower that’s already dying?”

A shiver crawled up Rio’s spine.

* What the hell was this woman’s deal? Why did she always talk in riddles?  *

Lilia’s head tilted. “Are you nimble with your art?”

Rio shrugged. “I try.”

This was way too much woo-woo shit for how drunk she was.

From there, the conversation slipped, twisted - writing, craft, skill. Somehow, it bled into gambling, into games of chance.

Turns out, Lilia’s specialty was finding patterns.

“So… like tarot” Rio muttered “but instead of reading the future, you rig it for the house?”

The wispy woman let out a breathy laugh, almost fond. “Something like that.”

Then, softer - half to herself - “So much fear, even now... and yet, you pulled the Queen of Hearts. Not once. Three times.”

For a moment, Rio felt stripped bare.

Like this woman knew everything.

The fear of rejection.

The creeping obsession.

The hollow, gnawing ache she kept trying to drink away.

Her throat felt tight.

The words slipped out before she could stop them. “Please.” Barely a whisper. “Just… tell me how to control it.”

Lilia shook her head. “Control is not your task” she said gently. “Your task is to live it. To feel it.”

The drunken creature Rio had become let out a shaky breath. Exhausted. “God… I was really hoping I could skip this part.”

Lilia smiled, not unkindly. “If only.”

She studied Rio for a long moment, like she was weighing something unseen. Then, almost like a prophecy, she said “You have enormous potential. The kind that turns dreams into reality.”

Before Rio could even process that, Lilia dropped another bomb.

“If you truly lov…” She stopped herself. Adjusted. “If you truly like Agatha, you need to understand something.” The words were careful, precise. “There’s a long, brutal road ahead of you both. A journey of great transformation.”

The words clawed at Rio’s chest.

“I didn't get any of that” he blurted.

Lilia’s eyes glittered.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached for Rio’s hands.

And somehow Rio let her.

It felt… enchanted. Like being touched by Glinda the Good Witch of the North.

Lilia leaned in, voice like a spell.

“Esatto. What are you missing, young girl? Why are you here - on these exact steps, at this exact moment? Talking to me. Waiting for her.”

A chill ran down Rio’s spine.

Lilia’s expression darkened. She stared into nothing - her voice distant, as if she were listening to something no one else could hear.

Then - carefully, she turned Rio’s palm up. Traced the lines with featherlight fingertips.

“Your lifeline…” she murmured.

Rio barely breathed.

“It’s broken. Split clean in two.” Lilia met her eyes. “I really hope you choose the right path.”

Above them, the lights flickered.

* Wow, okay… that’s ominous. *

Lilia stood, stretching as if shaking off the weight of her own words.

For a second - just a second - she softened.

A hand landed on Rio’s shoulder.

Firm. Grounding. Almost… understanding.

Then, just as Rio thought she was finished, Lilia turned back.

And threw one last dagger.

“I still don’t trust you.”

And just like that, she walked away.

______

A desperated, disenchanted Rio checked her phone again.

Still nothing.

The screen glowed starkly in the dark, casting sharp light against her fingertips. Around her, the city hummed in the distance, a restless machine that had long since moved on.

3:00 a.m.

* Fuck. *

She should have left hours ago.

Everyone else had. The guests, the staff, even the last stragglers who had clung to the night like it owed them something. The venue had been drained of life, reduced to echoes and empty bottles.

Everyone had gone.

Except her.

Rio curled her arms around herself, but the cold wasn’t what was making her shiver.

Her jacket was gone. Lost somewhere between the third drink and the second mistake. It didn’t matter. That wasn’t the problem.

No, the problem was something else.

Something raw.

Something slow-burning beneath her ribs, waiting to take shape.

At some point, she’d stopped expecting Agatha to show up.

The signs had been there. The ticking clock, the fading music, the dimmed lights. The bouquet in her lap - shredded, petals torn off one by one in some drunken, desperate attempt at divination.

She’ll show up.

She’ll show up not.

The last petal had fluttered to the ground over an hour ago.

And yet.

She was still here.

Rio let her head fall back against the cold stone wall behind her, eyes slipping shut. Her body was floating in that hazy space between drunk and too drunk - limbs heavy, brain sluggish, every thought arriving seconds too late.

Then - footsteps.

A door creaked open behind her, and the quiet shuffle of movement followed.

She cracked an eye open.

The staff.

The waiters, now in street clothes, were filing out, casting wary glances at her as they passed. One of them murmured something to the man at the front - the one who had been managing the event. The same man Agatha had charmed earlier, with that practiced ease of hers, when she’d convinced him to let them into the garden.

Rio’s lips twitched bitterly at the memory.

The man hesitated. Then, clearing his throat softly, he stepped toward her.

“Miss, would you like me to call you an Uber?”

His voice was careful. Polite. His gaze flicked from the empty vodka bottle beside her to the ruins of the bouquet in her lap.

She blinked up at him, letting out a forced, awkward laugh.

She wasn’t sure where it came from, only that it bubbled up out of her, quiet at first, then curling into something dark at the edges.

The man shifted, visibly uneasy.

Rio wiped at her face - not because she was crying, but because the action felt necessary - and let out a slow, lazy scoff.

“No, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”

A beat of silence. Then, gently, like he was speaking to something fragile, the man asked “May I ask who you’re waiting for?”

Rio squinted at him.

“What’s with the formal tone? Is this how you talk to all the rich people?” She let out a breath - half a chuckle, half a sigh. “No wonder she's fucking insufferable.”

The man didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was reassessing her.

“I’m here to help you.”

Rio scoffed, tipping her head back against the wall again.

“Help me, huh?” Her voice was slower now, weighed down by liquor. “You know who I’m waiting for.”

A hesitation. Then, the smallest nod.

Rio had known before he even said it.

She had known for hours, probably.

But hearing it out loud still made something inside her go cold.

“Ms. Harkness left the party a long time ago, miss.”

And there it was.

The final nail in the coffin.

Acceptance curled up her spine, slow and methodical, settling in her chest. It didn’t burn like anger. It didn’t ache like disappointment.

No.

It was something else.

Rio exhaled through her nose, a quiet, breathy chuckle slipping free.

“This bitch.”

The man looked at her strangely, like he had expected something else. Maybe tears. Maybe rage.

And honestly? So had she.

Because after all that waiting, all that uncertainty, all that jealousy that had been clawing at her insides, something inside her just… clicked.

Because here was the truth:

Rio didn’t like when Agatha didn’t do exactly what she wanted.

The realization stretched out inside her, slow and deliberate, like a cat waking from a nap.

Agatha was entitled. Insufferable. Self-absorbed, spoiled, and absolutely fucking impossible.

She did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, without a second thought.

And someone needed to teach her some damn manners.

If that someone had to be Rio?

Fine.

Game on.

Her fingers curled around her phone, turning it over in her palm.

A message. She should send something. Something short. Flippant. Maybe just: You’re toast.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

She laughed at her own idea.

No.

Let her wonder. Let her worry. Let her spend the next few days marinating in the unease of not knowing what Rio was thinking. Not knowing when - or how - Rio would strike back.

Because she would.

Oh, she definitely would.

She pushed herself up from the steps, swaying slightly as the alcohol reminded her of its presence in her bloodstream.

She shot the man a lazy salute before turning on her heel and heading down the street.

The night air was cold against her flushed skin, but she barely noticed.

She was already thinking of ways to make Agatha regret ever thinking she could get away with this.

Chapter Text

The first thing Rio noticed when she stumbled into the kitchen that afternoon - half-dead, half-hungover, entirely regretting her life choices - was Darcy, perched on the counter.

The second thing was the look on her face.

Too pleased. Too knowing.

"Where the hell were you last night?" Darcy demanded.

"Shit."

Rio groaned, rubbing her temples. Her head throbbed like she’d been hit by a bus. Her body ached in places it shouldn’t - and in places it very much should - after certain activities last night.

Darcy sat there, arms crossed, fingers tapping idly against the counter, her expression sharp. Watching her. Waiting.

Rio ignored her and made a beeline for the kitchen drawer - the one full of miscellaneous, life-saving essentials.

She needed something - Advil, water, maybe an exorcism. Anything to dull the pounding in her skull, to shake off the strange, heavy feeling lodged deep in her chest. The weight of something unfinished. Unsaid.

If she didn’t know this was a hangover, she’d be halfway to the ER.

"Home" she muttered, shoving things aside.

Darcy narrowed her eyes. "You sure about that?"

Rio didn’t answer. She kept rummaging - through cabinets, her bags, her pockets - anywhere a miracle might be hiding. Finally, she found the damn Advil, tossed it into her mouth, and swallowed it dry.

Her phone screen lit up as she compulsively checked it.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No texts.

No explanations.

Agatha had disappeared.

"Why?" Rio asked, more to herself than to Darcy.

Darcy didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her phone and shoved it in Rio’s face.

Rio squinted.

Social media.

A carousel of images.

Darcy scrolled through them slowly, savoring every second.

One. Agatha at the gala, poised and perfect as ever.

Two. The crowd, glasses raised in celebration.

Three. Rio at the bar, talking to Valkyrie.

Four. Valkyrie leaning in, whispering something in her ear.

Five

...

* Oh, fuck. *

The angle made it look like Valkyrie was kissing her.

Rio ripped the phone from Darcy’s hand. "The fuck?"

The image must have been taken in one of those moments when Valkyrie had been murmuring industry gossip in her ear, the kind of half-whispered, razor-sharp rumors that only someone like her could get away with. They had been close, sure - comfortable in the way people are when they have history.

Rio’s hand had rested on Valkyrie’s shoulder.

Valkyrie’s hand had settled at Rio’s waist.

That was all.

That.Was.All.

Darcy grinned like she had just won the lottery. "You whore."

"Jesus Christ."

Rio dropped the phone onto the counter and pressed her palms into her eyes, as if that could make this entire situation disappear.

How much had she even drunk last night? Enough to kill a small horse. Enough to almost send her into an alcohol-induced coma.

Darcy wasn’t done. "How long has this been going on? Are you two a thing again? Since when? Why didn’t you tell me? Did they invite you?"

Too many questions.

Too much truth she couldn’t tell.

Rio made a split-second decision - answer only the last question. Let Darcy fill in the blanks herself.

"Yep" she said.

Technically, not a lie.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. "They called you?"

A pause.

"Yeah" Rio repeated.

(Agatha was the one who called her.)

* Oh, God. Her underwear. Agatha’s thong was still in her bedroom. *

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Valk initiated this, then?"

Good. Darcy thought they were talking about Valkyrie.

* Keep it rolling. *

"Yeah, well, not exactly, but if you’re referring to the event, then yes."

Something flickered in Darcy’s gaze - curiosity, maybe suspicion. She tilted her head. "Go on."

Rio almost laughed.

Go on?

What could she possibly say? - Oh, we had phone sex. And then she fucked me senseless against a brick wall before ghosting me, leaving me alone in a room full of people who drink Cristal champagne like it’s tap water? -

Not happening.

She shrugged. "Not much else to say."

Darcy didn’t buy it for a second.

"So you talked it through?"

Rio blinked. "What?"

Her mind flashed back to Agatha’s voice in her ear, murmuring filth that had her unraveling.

Talking her through it.

Darcy rolled her eyes. "You know. Your past problems. Whatever happened for you two to lose contact."

"Oh. That." Rio cleared her throat. "Yeah. We… talked."

The word nearly choked her.

Darcy, who knew her too well, wasn’t convinced. "And then they invited you? Just like that? No previous contact?" She smirked. "Bold."

Rio exhaled sharply. "Well…the thing is…we had…"

She paused.

Darcy’s eyes burned into her.

How to explain?

Fucked?

Almost fucked?

Weirdly fucked?

Fucked but not as much as they should have?

"…talked a few times before."

Darcy’s smirk widened.

She read between the lines immediately. "Ohhh. I see."

Rio groaned.

"Talked" Darcy mused, drawing air quotes with her fingers.

After a beat - her voice shifting, taking on that big-sister tone that always broke through Rio’s defenses - Darcy asked "What happened after that?"

Rio shook her head. "Nothing happened."

She didn’t even realize how awful she looked - her makeup was smudged from where she hadn’t bothered, or had been too exhausted, to clean it off before collapsing onto the bed.

"Bullshit." Darcy crossed her arms. "You look like shit. What else aren’t you telling me?"

Before Rio could react, her friend grabbed her face, tilting it up so their eyes locked.

She hated when her bestie did this.

Hated it even more because it always worked.

Darcy examined her, eyes scanning for weakness, for secrets, for cracks. "Tell me."

And Rio - desperate to talk about it, to say something to someone - told her.

But she kept the lie going.

She told Darcy everything.

Just one thing.

She left out Agatha’s name.

She let her best friend in the whole world believe Valkyrie was the one who had left her there, waiting. That her ex-bedfiller was the reason for the desperation clawing at her insides. The one driving her insane.

The reason she couldn’t stop thinking about last night.

Darcy listened, silent, thoughtful. Then she sighed.

"Oh, you poor thing."

She pulled Rio into a tight hug, running a hand through her tangled hair, patting her back like she was a wounded animal.

Rio felt… relieved.

Sort of.

Not really.

A beat of silence.

“And then what? They just left you there? Alone? That doesn’t sound like them at all…”

* If only you knew * Rio thought, quietly thanking the universe for blessing her with a Darcy.

_________________

Have you ever felt a problem?

Not seen it. Not heard it.

Felt it.

Like a storm humming in your blood. Like static laced through every breath.

Rio had.

She was feeling it now.

And the problem had a name: Agatha Harkness.

She wasn’t a woman, not really. Not when Rio thought about her clearly.

She was a creature. Wild. Magnificent. Feral.

The kind you didn’t corner unless you wanted to come away with scars.

Rio had the proof. A darkening bloom of bruises on her throat, faint teeth-shaped echoes pressed into skin like some sacred mark.

What began as chemistry - electric, addictive - had turned into something else.

Something wilder. Something with teeth.

And Rio had stepped too close, too fast.

She knew better now.

Because when a wild thing bites you, the instinct is to blame it.

But the truth?

You probably approached it wrong. You moved too soon.. You didn’t earn the ground it stood on.

That was the lesson Rio carried home with her after the gala.

Once the anger and the drunkenness had burned off - washed away in the shower - that was what she’d been unpacking, breath by breath, ever since Agatha disappeared.

Because her favorite disaster of a woman had said yes.

And Rio knew exactly what she’d offered that night.

A challenge. A pact. A promise whispered under garden lights, her voice steady even as her heart pounded like war drums.

A proposition Agatha accepted - smirking like sin, saying te veo, like they were sealing something.

Like it meant something.

Like madness could be music.

And then… she vanished.

No follow-up.

No brush-off.

Not even a single line of closure.

Just a cold, immaculate email to the team the morning after: Darkhold has been greenlit. Production begins immediately.

Period.

Fine.

If that was how she wanted it, Rio could shift strategy.

No texts. No calls. No drama. No pleas or accusations.

She wouldn’t corner Agatha again.

Rio had always been the first to leap.

To want. To claim.

But now?

Now she would wait

Stillness became her armor.

Patience her weapon.

She would be there. Present. Unbothered. Watchful.

She would let Agatha feel the distance.

Let her feel the ache of Rio not reaching for her.

Let her miss the pursuit.

Because Agatha didn’t know what it was to crave Rio’s attention and not get it.

Maybe her boss had gone home with someone else that night - one of those silk-wrapped vipers in red

Let them try.

Let them trace the edges of Agatha’s mask and call it intimacy.

But Rio knew better.

She’d seen behind it.

Those other women wouldn’t last. Not even Wanda.Not when Agatha started to splinter.

Not when the softness came with teeth.

They’d reach for the crown...but they’d drop the woman beneath it.

Not Rio.

She wanted the fury.

The flaw.

The fracture.

She wanted the whole damn ruin...and the rebuild.

She didn’t fear the fire. She’d kneel in it. She wanted all of it.

She wasn’t afraid to get bit. She had been bitten. And she was still standing.

So Monday would come.

And Agatha would walk in - poised, unreadable, armor polished to a shine.

Pretending nothing had happened.

Fine.

Let her pretend.

Rio wouldn’t push.

Wouldn’t prod. Wouldn’t look away either.

She’d be there.

Silent. Steady. Dangerous in her patience.

Let Agatha bring the cold.

Let her throw her lies like knives.

Rio would catch every one with a smile.

Because Rio wasn’t there to prove anything.

She was there to be unforgettable.

And when she finally had her again - really had her - she’d fuck Agatha with such care. With steel in her grip, and worship in her bones.

With the full force of a woman who'd finally stopped holding back.

With a vengeance made of want.

Because nature doesn’t ask permission.

It doesn’t forgive or punish.

It just is.

And Rio was done apologizing for wanting to start a wildfire.

_________________

Monday arrive like a an ambush.

Agatha walked the hallway like it might collapse beneath her. Each polished tile echoed the staccato clip of her heels, the rhythm mirroring the tightness in her chest and the precision in her spine. Her fingers, curled in their usual elegant poise at her sides, trembled just enough to betray her.

She had hoped - foolishly - that the writers’ room would already be full. That Rio might be late. Or better: absent.

Agatha hated uncomfortable moments.

The universe, however, adored them.

Because the moment she turned the corner - there she was.

Her calmess chaos.

Her sweetest nightmare.

Leaning in the doorway of the writers’ room like she’d invented time - and grown bored of how slowly it passed. One foot crossed over the other, sleeves pushed past the elbows of a sweatshirt that didn’t belong in any office.

Her body language wasn’t inviting. Wasn’t defensive, either. Just... present.

She looked up the instant Agatha appeared.

Not startled. Not waiting.

Just... witnessing.

Not angry. Not soft.

Just steady.

A brown-eyed lighthouse in a storm.

Her gaze didn’t accuse. Didn’t plead. It watched. Like she was already several pages ahead of this conversation and simply waiting to see how Agatha would choose to fail.

Agatha’s stride faltered. Just for a microsecond. Only slightly. Only once.

Then she kept walking.

Slowly.

She stopped at a distance - careful, intentional.

Far enough for professionalism, close enough to pretend nothing had ever happened.

She leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Studying.

No fanfare.

Just presence.

Just like always. Like this was the easiest day of her life.

And between them, silence opened like a wound.

Not cruel. Not kind.

Just wide enough to drown in.

She had a plan. Of course she did. Clean. Simple. Deflect. Dodge. And if that failed, deploy the rehearsed lie she’d been polishing all weekend - emotionally digestible, conveniently vague. The kind of story people liked to hear so everyone could move on without bruising their egos.

So why was her pulse racing?

Why was she suddenly nervous?

What was this sorcery?

She let the silence stretch, trying to hold the upper hand - until Rio tilted her head slightly and said, in that maddeningly neutral tone:

“You blinked first.”

No judgment. No venom. Just fact - like someone reporting cloud cover.

Agatha had braced herself for spite. For blame. Something she could catch and twist. But this unbearable quiet? This eerie composure? This unnatural calm? This unsettling self-restraint?

It made her feel seen in an off-putting kind of way.

It made her feel unarmed.

Unnerving. Unfamiliar.

Dangerous.

Without missing a beat, Rio held out the water bottle in her hand. No words. Like it was routine. Like Agatha hadn’t ghosted her into oblivion two days ago.

No ceremony. No explanation. No confrontation. Just offered it with that quiet intimacy people only share when pretending not to remember something unforgettable.

Why did this feel more intimate than everything they hadn’t said?

Agatha took it - too stunned by the absurd stillness and the casual grace of the entire encounter not to.

Rio dropped her bag to the floor with the quiet certainty of someone who had no interest in drama. Then, without a word or flicker of showmanship, she pulled off her sweatshirt in one smooth, unconscious motion. No performance.

Just movement.

Underneath, she wore a button-down - thin, wrinkled, and left almost scandalously open at the collar.

The undone buttons shifted as the sweatshirt fell away, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone - marked.

Agatha saw them.

The bruises.

A constellation of bites and fingerprints curling at the edge of Rio’s throat.

Still there.

Still visible.

Still hers.

Agatha’s lungs seized. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t look away.

The memory struck like a match - her breath on Rio’s neck, the rasp of Rio’s laugh when Agatha kissed her there. Bit her there. Hard enough to make her feel it the next morning. The next week. The next life.

And the sounds she made - desperate, gasping, begging for more - like a spell and a curse all at once.

The kind of sounds you don’t forget.

The kind that burn their shape into your dark places.

The kind that wake something in you - something wild and hungry.

Something that knows how to break what it craves.

It wasn’t shame curling low in Agatha’s gut.

It was need.

No. It was recognition.

And God, that was worse.

Because it meant it hadn’t been a mistake.

Rio reached for the water bottle. Her fingers brushed over Agatha’s - not lingering, not dramatic - just enough to register. To leave a mark lighter than skin and heavier than memory.

Then she drank, casual and unfazed, as if they’d never been anything but colleagues passing script notes between takes.

Agatha watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

* That throat, designed to be choked. *

The thought hit her like a punch to the chest.

She had to speak.

Say something. Anything.

Take back control. Reclaim the air between them before it devoured her whole.

“It… it wasn’t because of this” she said finally, gesturing between them with a flick of her fingers that felt too small, too flimsy, to carry the weight of what she meant.

Rio didn’t blink.

She calmly capped the bottle, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and then said - quiet, direct, unshakable.

“So what was it?”

The question wasn’t cruel.

It was surgical.

A fucking scalpel to the jugular.

And then - * What the hell? * - Rio stepped in.

Not to press.

Not to accuse.

To see.

She closed the distance slowly, carefully. Not touching. Just close enough to make Agatha feel the heat of being studied. Like there was an x-ray in those eyes. Like she wasn’t looking at her - she was reading her, searching for the exact shape of Agatha’s truth.

And Agatha - consummate performer, expert liar, professional manipulator, ruthless strategist and Queen of the Calculated Deflection - had nothing.

“I…” she tried. The lie - her precious, practiced lie - clogged in her throat like ash. It couldn’t find its way out. Not here. Not now.

Not with her.

She looked up - at the ceiling, the walls, anywhere that wasn’t those eyes. As if the exit sign might offer her an out.

Nothing came.

Rio - steady, watchful - was still there. Still searching.

Just when Agatha's demeanor was about to break - her eyes darkening with something dangerously close to attack, her hands ready to push Rio out of her space, and her lips already shaping a sharp, wounding comment to escape the moment...

“Thank you for not lying to me.” Rio said.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t forgiving.

It was worse.

It was grace.

The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Agatha’s pulse jumped. Her spine stiffened.

Rio’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite mercy.

And then she stepped even closer.

Too close.

The space between them snapped. Folded in on itself.

Agatha didn’t move.

Rio lifted a hand. Calm. Sure. And gently brushed beneath her eye - barely there, a thumb light as breath.

“You’ve got mascara” she said, voice low. Almost fond.

The touch lasted a second. Maybe less.

But it branded her.

Agatha kept her composure - stoic, held her gaze, motionless. She played it cool

And when Rio stepped back - just slightly, just enough to leave a vacuum - Agatha felt it.

The cold.

The silence.

The absence.

She stood there, trapped in the echo of everything she hadn’t said. Every word she’d swallowed.

Her skin buzzed.

Her chest hollowed.

Still - the show must go on.

She reached, again, for the lie.

“I...”

But Rio raised a hand, nodded once toward the hallway.

No drama. Just a breath of finality.

“Hush, now.”

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Worse.

Casual.

Like none of it mattered.

Like brushing off lint from a shoulder.

Like nothing Agatha had to say could change what had already been said between them - in silence, in sweat, in skin.

Agatha’s mouth parted. Then closed. “…Okay” she whispered.

It was the smallest surrender. But it cost her everything.

Because Agatha Harkness had a library of ready-made lies.

Polished, packaged, emotionally palatable fictions she could hand out like breath mints.

But Rio didn’t want a story.

And that made her infinitely harder to fight.

If Agatha couldn’t outtalk her, couldn’t outmaneuver her, couldn’t lie her way out?

She was left with only one unbearable option: Tell the truth.

And that, more than anything, was a language she no longer spoke.

Before she could recover, footsteps echoed from down the hall.

Darcy Lewis. Eternal nerd bait. Rio’s chaos twin.

* Of course. *

She came barrelling around the corner, phone in one hand, paper bag in the other, mouth already halfway through a sentence.

“I Googled it!” she chirped “You definitely need anti-scar cream, Riri.”

Rio arched an eyebrow - lazy and unimpressed.

Darcy kept going. “I mean, seriously. Valkyrie’s a lunatic. Who bites someone like that? Was it foreplay or a dogfight?”

Agatha flinched.

Rio didn’t.

She turned slightly and murmured “Dude. Maybe don’t say that in front of the boss.”

A light swat to Darcy’s arm. Friendly. Firm.

Darcy’s eyes snapped up - and then widened.

“Oh. Oh my God.”

Panicked by the sudden realization of her audience. As if realizing she’d wandered into the wrong room of a haunted house, she blurted the first thing that came to mind:

“Look at you! Talking to the boss and everything!”

Then, hastily, scrambling to reassert her identity, she jabbed her thumbs toward her chest.

“It’s, uh… Darcy. In case you didn’t...”

Agatha didn’t look at her.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even acknowledge her with the grace of a glance.

Her gaze remained locked on Rio.

“Sure.”

Flat. Mechanical. A syllable dropped from her mouth like something disposable, like Darcy was a draft of cold air that had wandered into the room by mistake.

Darcy deflated.

“Offended” she muttered, sarcasm rising like a shield.

She shoved the paper bag into Rio’s arms. “Saw the Hot Cheetos. Had to get ’em.”

* Typical. The smart-girl fantasy slash Comic-Con wet dream just had to be the one handing out treats to her old pet - like she’d inherited the damn leash. Newsflash, princess: She wasn’t done holding it. *

The fact was, ever since their emotionally draining Saturday morning heart-to-heart, Darcy - self-declared heartbreak recovery expert - had apparently decided she was now Rio’s full-time emotional support team. Snacks included.

Which is why she added, “Also, how do you eat an entire box of Pop-Tarts and still be hungry?”

Neither of the other two women moved.

Silence hung in the air - tight, waiting, loaded, full of things unsaid.

Trying to escape the thick discomfort, Darcy jerked a thumb toward the writers’ room door: “So… are we writing words, or what?”

Agatha didn’t answer. Just as eager to flee, she turned, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

No look back.

No sound.

Rio watched her go. Then exhaled, slow and quiet, and gave Darcy a long look.

Darcy blinked. “What!?”

Rio sighed.

Her friend crossed her arms. “She was freaking me out!”

They both followed Agatha into the room.

The producer was already in her usual spot at the head of the long table when they walked in, Dottie perched to her right like a smug little gargoyle with a clipboard.

The rest of the room buzzed in that low, caffeine-fueled way reserved for mornings that started too early and promised to drag on forever.

But it all stilled - at least for Agatha - when Rio sat.

Her blouse was just as recklessly unbuttoned as it had been in the hallway. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t seem to notice - or care - that the bruises decorating her collarbone were still on full display. Like a signature someone - Agatha - had forgotten to wash off.

Across the table, Alice leaned toward Jen and whispered something behind her hand. Jen snorted, trying and failing to cover it with her notebook.

Alice didn’t bother whispering the second time.

“Okay” she announced, commanding the room’s attention. “Are we just not going to mention the vampire love bites? Or are we pretending we don’t see the claw marks on Rio’s neck like civilized professionals?”

Jen barely missed a beat. “Maybe she wrestled a werewolf and won. I’d believe it.”

Laughter burst like a fuse. Even Dottie cracked a sideways smile.

Rio didn’t react. She kept unpacking her things, methodically arranging pens, a notebook, a highlighter, and her water bottle in front of her. Her gaze never lifted. Not once.

Agatha, who’d spent the last ten minutes in the hallway pretending not to care about those damn marks, looked.

And regretted it instantly.

Just a flash of skin. The shadowed bloom of a mark she’d left. Her eyes caught there for a second too long - and then it hit.

Memory. Vivid. Immediate.

Salt on Rio’s skin.

The softness of her neck under Agatha’s mouth.

The sound she made when Agatha bit down.

The gasp - half laugh, half surrender - when she whispered 'Don’t stop'.

Agatha blinked hard, but it didn’t help.

“They’re just bite marks. Grow up” Rio said flatly, still not looking up. She adjusted the collar of her blouse - just slightly - as if the gesture might somehow excuse the bruises.

For a heartbeat, Agatha knew she wasn’t the only one caught in the memory. Rio was in it too. The other POV.

Under the table, Agatha’s hand curled into a fist. Her other hand flipped a page in her notes with a little too much force - like paper might cut through heat.

Jen, blissfully unaware she was skipping through an emotional minefield, leaned back and murmured to Alice, “I’d let her leave those marks on me.” She nodded subtly toward Rio.

Alice blinked. “Her?”

Jen went on: “There’s just something about her. I don’t know if I hate her or want her number. You know?”

“Oh, I definitely know” Alice muttered. “She’s terrifying. But like... kinky terrifying.”

Silence crept back in, awkward and slow. Until Jen - reflective and reckless - said just a little too loud: “I bet she’s a psycho in bed.”

Agatha smiled faintly to herself. She’d been working with that exact hypothesis for months.

A hypothesis she wouldn’t mind confirming again.

Jimmy sighed, reverent. “Whoever that was with her... lucky bastard.”

To Agatha’s surprise, Dottie - usually above this kind of chaotic gossip - pulled out her phone with sniper-like precision.

“You haven’t seen the pictures?” she asked, all faux-innocence and weaponized curiosity.

* WHAT PICTURES? *

Alice, Jen, and Jimmy leaned in unison, echoing Agatha’s own question. “What pictures?”

Darcy, who - like Agatha - had been eavesdropping discreetly from the sidelines, groaned. “Oh God. Please don’t”

Agatha shifted. Subtle. Worried. Closer, if only to hear better.

* What did Darcy know about...everything? *

Dottie found the shot. “Your - how would you put it? - homegirl was busy Friday night”

Even Agatha tilted her head. Just slightly.

And there it was.

A full-color, high-resolution shot from the Women in the Industry gala - crisp, unforgiving, impossible to misread. Rio and Valkyrie, mid-laugh - caught in a moment too candid to be staged. Their faces were close - closer than casual - framed in the soft golden light of expensive chandeliers and curated charm.

Agatha knew they weren’t kissing, but they didn’t need to be. It was all there in the lean, the body language, the lazy intimacy of people who no longer needed permission to touch.

Her first thought:

* Thank fuck it hadn’t been her in those photos. *

Her second:

* That walking thirst trap with a God complex? Seriously? That’s who got the bragging rights? Please. Yours truly was leagues above them. Fucking social media. *

Which then spiraled - of course - into a very reasonable question:

* Wait - why the hell did she care what social media thought about who Her Royal Chillness was or wasn't dating? *

She scoffed before she could stop herself.

Dottie caught it. Naturally, she did.

Jen fanned herself with the phone like it might catch fire. “Okay, I just fell in love with two people at once.”

Alice gasped theatrically. “No wonder she walked in here like she owns oxygen. That’s half a power couple.”

Then, to Darcy: “Real question though... Rio and this Valkyrie person. One-hit wonder? Or, like, a thing?”

She let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a death rattle. She flicked a glance toward Rio - tense - and shut it down before the room went up in flames. “Drop it, morons.”

Jimmy, apparently self-appointed expert in sexual chemistry, scrambled for something - anything - to say. Just to feel included in the itty-bitty titty gossip committee. He pointed at the screen. “I mean, I kind of envy them. They look great together. Drinking. Dancing. Sharing a moment.”

Agatha’s jaw ticked.

* Please. They didn’t look that good together. But hey, let this Jimmy idiot crown them Prom Royalty if it helps him sleep at night. *

Jen, eyes still glued to the screen, added with a smirk: “And riding like rabid dogs, apparently. “

More laughter.

Alice tried to scroll. Jen smacked her hand away.

“Don’t swipe! I’ll miss them if you swipe!” she deadpanned, hand to her heart. “Some of us are mourning, okay?”

Jimmy, trying way too hard, staring at the new photo on the screen: “I mean... do they need a third?”

Darcy turned to him, all fangs and fire. “Excuse you? What - like they’re just waiting for a straight cis guy to swoop in and fix their night?”

Alice gave him a look like he’d just farted in church. “Patriarchal much?”

That was the moment Agatha snapped out of her trance.

She leaned forward, voice like cold steel. “Yeah, that’s out of order, James.”

The room froze. Still.

No one had realized she’d been listening.

Dottie, still watching Agatha like she was the world’s most interesting equation, said nothing. Just took it in. Calculating.

Jimmy paled and shrank into his chair. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean...I just thought...”

“Well, you thought wrong” Agatha said, sharp and clean. “Try thinking less.”

Thud.

Rio’s palm met the table with a sharp slap. Enough to slice through the room, to make every head snap up, every breath catch.

Every head turned.

She didn’t raise her voice.

Her stare sliced clean through the room. Expression blank. Eyes precise. Cutting.

The room fell silent.

“We’re supposed to be writing this thing, right?” Cool as ice. Sharp as broken glass.

Chairs creaked. Pages shuffled. Someone coughed, violently loud.

And then - controlled, unfazed - Rio looked down the length of the table.

* Rage. Now we're talking *

Agatha, pleased to have the situation back on her terms, turned slightly, her voice quiet but edged with something that cut deep. "Next time, Vidal, remember your place. Meetings start when I say so, not when you decide to put on a show."

It landed like a clean strike to the gut. Precise. Brutal.

For a beat, the silence went razor-thin.

Jen, Jimmy, and Alice exchanged wide-eyed glances, whispering - barely above a breath, awestruck: “Power move.”

Agatha turned sharply, eyes pinning them in place like insects under glass. One look. No words. But the message was clear: - Mum and Dad are fighting. Shut the hell up -

She turned back toward Rio, steady.

Rio didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

She just leaned back in her chair, one leg over the other.

And smiled. Not kindly.

“Don’t worry, boss” she said - voice even, deadly quiet - as she took back control of her emotions. “I won’t make the first move again.”

From the far end of the table, Dottie - still scrolling, still not looking up - murmured to no one in particular: “Agreed.”

The silence that followed felt like something pressed flat between glass panes.

Agatha took a slow sip of her coffee.

* Too weak. She should’ve ordered it blacker. Stronger. With bourbon. This meeting needed it. *

She clapped once - sharp. Final.

“All right. Shall we?”

And the spell broke.

Scripts opened. Pens scratched. Heads bowed low.

Someone asked what page they were on.

Everyone pretended none of it had happened.

Except Dottie.

She pressed the back of her phone to her lips, thoughtful - like she was holding in a secret or savoring the drama.

Her voice was light. Almost pleasant.

But her words were anything but.

“Oh, I’m sure we’re all on the same page now.”

Agatha didn’t respond. Didn’t hear her.

Because in what world would Agatha Harkness pay attention to someone as suburban and irrelevant as Dottie Jones?

Chapter Text

Agatha stared at her reflection like it owed her answers.

“Okay. That’s all right. Yeah, it’s totally fine.” she muttered under her breath, dragging her ink-stained fingers under the cold fluorescent lights. “Just - move on from this little thing.”

But it wasn’t little.

Not today.

The ink wouldn’t budge.

Neither would the pressure.

She’d nearly flipped the whole damn table this morning - and honestly, no one would’ve blamed her

Her thoughts weren’t just loud. They were weaponized. Precision-honed blades ricocheting through her skull, slicing every second of the day into ugly, bloody fragments.

She hadn’t had a good day in months.

Not since she’d handed the writers’ room over to Dottie with a perfectly practiced smirk and a speech laced with buzzwords like “alignment,” “streamlining,” and “executive vision.” All smoke. All mirrors. Because the truth? She’d loved that room.

Or maybe it was just the thrill of keeping Rio within reach - even if they weren’t sleeping together anymore. At least she still had that. Her domain. Her war zone. Her sanctuary.

But when Elektra Natchios waltzed in with a suitcase full of money and a smile sharp enough to cut through reinforced steel, Agatha had known it was game over.

Darkhold was greenlit. Fully funded. Signed, sealed, and goddamn shackled.

And the chain was Elektra’s.

Two meetings today - one with the network’s executive liaison, the other with the queen of knives herself. Both went sideways. Both left her chewing glass behind her teeth. She’d been forced to greenlight a project she loathed and accept production notes so dirty they’d need gloves to handle - backdoor cuts, rewritten credits, invisible firings. Not because she lacked power, but becauseElektra held the leash. And Agatha - tactician, storm-walker, mistress of spin - pretended it was just the game. Pretended the blood on her hands was part of the job.

Because Wanda’s traditional pitch was already dead - thanks to Elektra’s influence. Snuffed out quietly, like a candle in a boardroom full of crocodile smiles and champagne flutes. Elektra had slit its throat and handed Darkhold to Agatha. Not as a gift, but as a loaded weapon. A prize, yes - but one that came with strings, steel, and surveillance. A power play disguised as generosity.

A devil’s deal.

And Agatha took it. With eyes wide open and every alarm blaring in her chest.

Because she wanted the show. Because she wanted to win. Because being called a sellout was still better than being erased.

But submission was not in her nature. She could walk through the fire, wear the crown of thorns, and still keep her heels sharp. But to serve? To smile while someone else held the leash?

That wasn’t her brand of villainy.

She didn’t follow orders - unless she wrote them herself.

And that’s what Elektra had reduced her to.

Not a monster. Not a mastermind.

A fixer. A paper-pusher in couture. A glorified puppet with a penthouse view.

Sure, Agatha knew how to swim with sharks. She was a shark. But Elektra had put her in a tank with no water - and dared her to breathe.

Every time Agatha stayed silent, it was like tossing another log onto the fire crackling inside her

And then the fucking letter arrived.

As if the universe had decided that moral compromise and corporate sabotage weren’t enough for one day.

Her lawyers had tried to warn her.

Softly. Carefully. Like they were dealing with a bomb.

First a PDF.

Then a summary.

Then a call with too many pauses.

"Ms. Harkness, we advise you to remain calm."

She hadn’t even flinched.

"Send the original" she’d said.

And they had.

One page.

Handwritten.

Evanora’s handwriting.

Of course it was.

Her mother didn’t own a phone. Thought electricity was a sin and email was Satan’s way of spying on the righteous.

But she could still write.

And that was the thing about poison - it didn’t need a device. It only needed reach.

And Evanora Harkness’s reach had always been long.

The letter was short.

But sharp.

Filed directly with the state.

A warning.

A condemnation.

A goddamn sermon in cursive ink.

"Agatha Harkness is unfit for guardianship. A corrupting force. Born evil, and made worse by arrogance. She is a danger to the innocent. A deviant. A destroyer of youth. No child should be placed under her care."

Unfit. Unsafe. Unholy.

* Lovely sentiment. Appreciate it, Mom *

Agatha had laughed when she read it.

A brittle, mirthless thing that died halfway up her throat.

Then she’d poured herself a drink.

And then she lighted a cigarrete.

Trying not to think about the boy.

About Nicky.

The one she’d been fighting to bring home. The one she wasn’t allowed to call hers yet, but who already felt like hers in every way that mattered. Quiet. Brilliant. Lonely. Just like she had been.

Except she would never let him become her.

But how could she protect someone when the system already saw her as a villain?

Because that’s what Evanora did.

She didn’t stab you in the back.

She slipped her rot into the foundation and waited for the structure to collapse.

And Agatha - powerful, merciless, and armored to the teeth - was, at the end of the day, still Evanora’s daughter.

She could climb to the highest rung, wear the finest coats, smile like the devil himself.

It didn’t matter.

The rot still clung to her.

It always would.

She was fine - until she wasn’t.

Until now.

Until she found herself in a bathroom, ink on her hands, with nothing left to hold onto. Faking steady. Stoic. Palms braced against the marble sink. Talking to her own reflection, desperate for some semblance of composure.

"Fucking Evanora and her revolting, ancient dogma " she muttered dryly, eyes locked on her reflection. "It’s fine. You’re fine. Just… keep moving."

Even though it looked like it, she wasn’t about to cry - tears don’t feed the fire.

She’d stopped crying over her mother a long time ago. Stopped crying out of grief.

Now she only cried from pleasure and sex, and honestly? That worked just fine for her soul.

What was left of it, anyway - whatever dark little pieces remained.

Right now, she needed to be a controlled burn. She had to be.

But gods, she wanted to scorch the fields of Westview.

To leave nothing behind but blackened earth. To watch the night mirror itself in the ashes.

To feel the grief of all things dead.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

“Find another one” she snapped - too loud, too fast, too raw. The kind of warning that wasn’t about courtesy, but territory. A shot fired in the dark, meant to scare off whoever had the bad luck of crossing her path. Because even cornered, even bleeding invisible wounds, Agatha Harkness wasn’t safe to be around. She was teeth and poison and the sharp edge of a storm - and this bathroom was hers. Enter at your own risk.

“You okay?” came a voice from the doorway. Low. Controlled. Familiar in the way gravity is - inescapable. “You look like the morning’s been choking you.”

Eyes still on the mirror, Agatha - always the generous, philanthropist one - offered a second warning: 'Be smart. Walk away”.

The voice laughed softly, fearless “Tempting… but no. Never.”

The door clicked shut. And then – worse - the lock slid into place.

Agatha gritted her teeth, closed her eyes for a beat.

Of course it was Rio.

Who else would ignore a warning like that?

Who else would read the silence - the weight in Agatha’s shoulders - and walk in anyway?

It was the kind of truth Rio carried like a wound - quiet, deep, and ever-present:

No matter how far she tried to push herself from Agatha, no matter how carefully she built the distance between them… if her beautiful, impossible wolf limped into the darkest part of the woods - wounded paw, teeth bared - Rio would follow.

No hesitation. No shield.

She’d take the storm. The rot. The bite.

Gladly.

Every damn time.

Because the truth was simple:

She wanted to be there.

Exactly there.

Agatha, unaware of any of it, closed her eyes. Gritted her teeth. Tried not to feel the heat rising in her chest. Focused on her breathing like it might save her from whatever was coming.

And when she opened her eyes again, Rio was already there.

Reflected in the mirror’s edge.

Leaning on the opposite sink, calm and grounded, like she’d always belonged in that space. Like this was nothing more than a quiet exchange between two old friends.

Like there wasn’t a war humming beneath the surface of their skin.

Like Agatha wasn’t one ragged inhale away from tearing the whole place down, just to silence the ache crawling up her spine.

Her jacket was dark. Hair a little wild. Expression unreadable.

But her eyes - those maddening, impossible brown eyes - locked on Agatha like a slow bullet, aimed with care and loaded with everything left unsaid.

Agatha straightened with slow control, pressing her hands against the cool marble, grounding herself. Her voice dropped low, almost steady.

“Do not judge me.”

It slipped out without permission. Half-threat. Half-admission.

Rio tilted her head, and her voice - damn her voice - was so gentle it hurt. “Why would I judge you for needing a breath?”

That soft thing Rio was doing - it twisted like a knife under Agatha’s ribs.

Kindness always hit hardest when you were trying not to fall apart. And Rio wielded it too well.

Agatha kept her eyes on the mirror, jaw locked. The calm. The unflinching presence. It was unbearable. It made her want to wreck something. To wreck her.

She didn’t want Rio to pity her.

She wanted her to hate her.

To need her.

To burn for her.

She wanted to ruin this. To destroy Rio. To end this vulnerable moment. To pin her against the cold tile and kiss her until the ink soaked into both of them. She wanted to be teeth and desperation - to become, once again, everything Rio had tried to forget. To consume her. To break something beautiful just to prove it could be done.

Realizing just how wrong her own fantasies were - how they’d read like a textbook HR violation, how any of this would scream abuse of power if anyone else were watching - Agatha didn’t move.

She didn’t touch.

She just stood there.

Suddenly aware that she was the boss. And Rio was the employee.

That the hunger twisting in her gut wasn’t just dangerous - it was inappropriate.

And yet… she didn’t step back either.

Because no matter how polite, how soft Rio’s distance had become, to Agatha it still felt like a revocation of consent - a rejection of everything that had burned between them in the months before.

A clean break disguised as professionalism.

Agatha had avoided her like the plague.

Early exits from the writers’ room.

Clinical replies in team meetings.

Polite detachment with razor edges.

And now Rio was here.

With Agatha bleeding ink and barely holding it together - over mommy issues so cliché they could headline a therapist’s blog.

“Not now. I can’t...this...just, not now ” she muttered,voice tight.

She meant them.

The unspoken tension that lived in the cracks of every interaction since the gala. Since that night. Since Agatha vanished and Rio just… kept showing up. Calm. Unshakable. Professional to the point of cruelty. Impossible to read.

* Dramatic and pathetic - what a charming little combo *

“This...as in an emergency ink removal operation? ” Rio glanced at her hands - like a bird-watcher spotting something rare and wounded…a creature mending its wings, too proud to ask for help, too fierce to be left alone.

Agatha couldn’t help but glance at her - at the reflection she’d been trying to ignore.

She found Rio’s expression wasn’t teasing - it was open, grounded, infuriatingly kind.

“What happened?”

Agatha followed her gaze - black smudges across her fingertips, spreading like bruises. She hadn’t even noticed how bad it was. The ink had crept beneath her nails, staining the beds like it was trying to bury itself.

“It’s from the last Darkhold draft” she muttered. “Bad paper. Bad ink.”

* Worse day. *

“Let me.” Rio didn’t wait for permission. She just stepped to the sink, grabbed a towel, wet it.

She returned and reached for Agatha’s hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t need you to...” Agatha jerked slightly, pulling back. “I didn’t ask...”

“I know” Rio said, calm and steady, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt. The edge of a tattoo peeked out - trailing down from her shoulder.

Agatha knew where it ended.

With the same careful ease, Rio rolled up Agatha’s blouse to the elbows. “I’m doing it anyway.”

Agatha stiffened when their hands met.

It wasn’t a romantic gesture.

It wasn’t flirty.

It wasn’t even careful.

It was gentle. Casual. Intimate.

And that – somehow - was worse.

Rio’s hands were steady as they worked over Agatha’s skin, wiping gently at the ink, tracing circles around her knuckles like she could scrub the day away. Applying soap with patience, with reverence.

Agatha could do nothing but let her. Watch her.

She said nothing, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of restraint. Of something waiting to be said.

Rio's touch was clinical at first. Methodical. But the more she worked, the worse it got. The ink didn’t fade - it spread.

What had started as faint stains on Agatha’s fingertips now bled over her knuckles, deepening into something almost charred. Like smoke caught under the skin. Like guilt made visible.

It looked like that photo she’d once seen of someone dipped in ash - like something had burned her from the inside out.

And still, Rio kept cleaning. Pressing the cloth into every crevice, every curve. As if she could scrub the truth away.

Agatha couldn’t stop watching her.

She stared down at the gentle movements - soap swirling through ink, Rio’s thumbs gliding through the spaces between her fingers.

The way Rio focused.

The warmth of her hands.

The unbearable grace of it all.

The silence buzzed between them - louder than shouting.

* What was that attitude supposed to mean? What was she supposed to make of this? *

As if she’d heard the thought, Rio spoke - still focused, still not looking up.

“I think we can drop the act for a couple of minutes” she said softly, focused on her task. “The world’s not going to stop spinning.”

Agatha let out something that might’ve been a laugh - except it caught in her throat, brittle and sharp. “Easy for you to say.”

“No” Rio said, and this time her voice cracked just a little. “It’s not.”

Silence settled between them. Heavy. Charged. The water ran steady. Agatha’s pulse throbbed loud in her ears, fast and traitorous.

Rio glanced down. “This isn’t coming off easy” she said after a long, aching pause, eyes locked on the smudged ink now streaked like bruises down Agatha’s hands. “Feels like it’s soaked in.”

“Maybe it is” Agatha said, her voice distant, half elsewhere - thinking, perhaps, these were the ashes of old fires that old projects had once lit in her.

Fires once lit by dreams, by projects, by illusions she used to believe in.

Fires that had raged - bright and all-consuming - now scattered to dust, left to be sniffed out by the wind, by artists, by fools, by mediocrities alike.

Now she felt like she no longer had a say in what she burned for.

Or what she became.

Their eyes held for a beat too long.

And the air changed.

It thickened - quiet, charged, unbearable. Somehow they were closer now, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads nearly touching, their breath mingling in the tight space between them.

Something flickered in Rio’s face - a flash of heat, of hunger - masked a second too late.

Agatha saw it. Felt it.

That thin veil of control Rio wore so tightly - it was cracking, splintering at the seams.

Their hands were still joined. Their fingers tangled. Their breathing synced in a rhythm neither of them acknowledged aloud.

The moment stretched, taut and trembling. Fragile.

Agatha felt it rising.

That feral thing.

The want. The pull. The urge to burn every rule to the ground.

The raw, ruthless need to burn everything down.

To slam Rio against the wall and kiss her like a punishment.

To taste her. To unmake her.

To hear her name not as a curse, but as a gasp.

Instead...

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice low, ragged around the edges.

“This” Rio said with a shrug, gaze dropping. “Washing your hands.”

Agatha followed her eyes.

Their hands were still close.

Still warm.

Still touching.

* When had this stopped being about ink? *

Somewhere deep in Agatha’s throat, a firepit stirred - low and hungry, feeding on old heat.

“Why are you really here? Why now?” she asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Rio didn’t flinch. “Is it so hard to just let something be, for once?”

“What does that even mean?”Agatha shot back, voice dry - teasing, but edged with defense.

Rio hesitated. She let go of Agatha’s hand slowly, like she wasn’t sure if the letting go would hurt more than holding on Then, almost too softly:

“You looked like you needed a friendly face, that's all.”

Her tongue flicked against her teeth in that maddening, familiar way.

And just like that, Agatha’s breath caught.

Something slammed back into place - armor, instinct, survival.

Her mouth twisted.

* So that was the offer now - friendship *

She stepped back - ripped herself out of the gravity of the moment.

Abrupt. Like yanking herself out of a dream.

Her breath came sharp. Her mask slid back on like muscle memory.

Because this?

This kindness?

It was too much.

Too dangerous.

Too uncomfortable.

Her eyes brimmed with rage.

Not the kind that flares and fades - but the kind that blisters.
The kind that never heals, only smolders.

Rio, who usually thrived on the fury simmering beneath Agatha’s skin - on the metaphorical scent of her catching fire, on the sparks she flung like knives - saw it instantly.

This wasn’t that.

This malice wasn’t heat.

It was rot.

Wounded.

Aching.

Sick.

The problem was, Agatha didn’t know how to receive tenderness.

Only how to misread it.

How to twist it into something else entirely.

To see pity where there was care. Weakness where there was softness.

And strike before it cut too deep.

She wasn’t used to being cared for.

So she recoiled, like a well-trained scorpion that stings when touched.

Deep down what she wanted to say was: - I want to grab you. I want to touch you. I don’t know how to want less. I can’t stand not having you. -

What she said instead - sharp as shattered crystal, cruel in its precision: “You’re nothing to me.”

It hit like a backhand. Cold. Calculated. Too much.

Not because it was true.

But because it had to be.

Because tenderness was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

She just stood there, gaze steady, infuriatingly kind.

“Say it like you mean it” Rio said. Quiet. Daring. A breath away from a dare. “Then maybe I’ll believe you.”

Agatha didn’t answer. Just stared - tight-lipped, jaw locked - like she was screaming inward, where no one could hear it.

And somehow, that cut deeper than anything she could’ve said.

She adjusting her blouse with mechanical grace. Shoulders rolled like she was shrugging off ghosts. Flicked her hair behind one ear with all the elegance of a knife being slid back into its sheath. All grace, all finality.

Then she walked out.

She didn’t look back.

Her heels struck tile like gunshots, the door clicking shut behind her like a final verdict.

Leaving only the sound of running water.

And Rio.

Alone.

Still holding the towel. Ink bleeding into the fabric like memory. Like grief with nowhere left to settle.

She just exhaled.

Dry. Brittle.

“Good talk” she whispered - almost a laugh - to the tiles, to the silence, to no one at all.

______________

Agatha Harkness was one wrong word away from burning the whole damn building to the ground.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.

If pressed, she could make it look like an accident and be halfway through her next espresso before anyone found the matchbook.

Her glare alone was enough to part the seas - or at least the overpaid interns clogging the hallway. It was a weapon. Sharpened over decades. Lethal at short range. Which is why she stood alone now, waiting for an elevator that clearly didn’t understand who it was disappointing.

Still no sign of it.

She jabbed the call button again, harder this time. Like the force of her fury might bend the circuitry to her will.

Her jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. Shoulders squared like armor. Spine stiff with command. Stilettos drilled into marble. From afar, she looked carved from something ancient and unforgiving. All control. All poise.

But inside?

Pure unfiltered chaos.

She was unraveling. Quietly. Elegantly. Like silk pulled thread by thread.

Her thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore - they were static. Electric. Cracked. Held together by caffeine and an awful script that made her want to light the entire writers’ room on fire.

That morning’s meeting had been another circus of veiled threats and pretty poison. Elektra had smiled like sin and slid more control across the table - wrapped in compliments sharp enough to draw blood. Another deal. Another signature.

The heiress, with her bizarre habit of showing up to meetings in spandex, was becoming more of a problem than Agatha had anticipated. But could she really blame her? No one wants to lose control of the empire they built - and Elektra looked like the ultimate weapon. The logical, easy option.

Agatha could’ve handled her. Any other day. Any other week.

But not now. Not when her mind was somewhere else.

That else being Nicky.

Nicky, who had vanished again last night without a word.

Gone. Third time this year. Slipped out of the shelter like smoke. No call. No warning. Just…gone.

Exactly like he had the night of the Women in the Industry Gala.

And Agatha? She hadn’t slept. Not even an hour. She had driven through every inch of Los Angeles in the dark. Barely breathing. Hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Checking every alley, every convenience store, every diner with a neon sign flickering in Morse code.

She’d found him eventually. Exhausted. Starving. Eyes dark with some pain she still didn’t have the language to name. He’d asked to see Scratchy before going back. Of course she’d said yes. How could she not?

Truthfully, if she could, she’d keep the boy tucked away in her apartment, hidden from the world like something sacred. Or better yet, disappear with him into the woods - off-grid, surviving on instinct and spite.

But that wasn’t the world they lived in.

The law didn’t care about instinct. Or love.

Her lawyers had made that abundantly clear: until the state declared her fit, her hands were bound in red tape and courtroom whisperings.

So now here she was.

Running on fumes, caffeine, fury, and maternal panic, calcified into something brittle behind her eyes.

She’d changed clothes in her office.

Hadn’t eaten.

Had barely remembered to breathe.

And the damn elevator - probably scared to face her in this state - still hadn’t arrived.

She jabbed the button again. Harder this time. She didn’t even expect it to work. She just needed to push something.

And just when she thought the universe had exhausted its cruelty...

Ding.

She stepped into the elevator without looking. Raw. Distracted. Her thoughts still tangled in last night’s alleyways, in the echo of Nicky’s situation, in the afterimage of everything slipping from her hands.

Another midnight call. Another round of favors and veiled threats. Another stack of promises she wasn’t sure she could keep.

She’d fought tooth and nail to keep him in the only halfway-decent place that hadn’t already given up on him.

She was frayed. Running on fumes. Too focused on holding herself together to register what - who - was already inside.

* Oh, for God’s sake. *

Rio Vidal.

Because of course.

Because the gods were petty, and today they were throwing a party in Agatha’s honor.

Sunglasses tucked into her collar. Headphones around her neck. A bouquet cradled in one arm - white, green, cream - held like it was just another file to drop on someone’s desk. Professional. Perfunctory.

Except Agatha recognized it instantly.

Not vaguely. Exactly.

She had sent that bouquet before. Dozens of times.

To clients. To actresses. To rivals and enemies she needed to impress but not trust. To one stand lovers. Gesture without vulnerability. Sentiment on a silk ribbon.

Cream roses, eucalyptus curls, those tasteful little white buds that whispered sophistication. Cold. Impressive. Forgettable. It was a florist’s default for people like her. The kind you ordered on autopilot when you wanted to send a message but not a piece of yourself.

She hadn’t sent this one.

Which meant someone else had.

A checklist romantic

Someone with taste but zero imagination. Someone who thought Rio could be seduced by aesthetics alone.

Her old distraction stood tall, casual as ever, her posture resting loose against the back rail. Not tense. Not relaxed. Just there. And that – that - was worse than any smirk, any glare, any carefully delivered insult.

Her face unreadable. Her expression blank.

Until her eyes landed on Agatha.

A single nod. Measured. Almost mechanical.

Not cold. Not warm. Just calibrated.

At least, that’s how Agatha read it.

She missed the quiet shift behind Rio’s eyes - that flicker, brief and involuntary, the kind of glint that slipped in uninvited when proximity did what logic wouldn’t.

But Agatha didn’t catch it.

She didn’t see how Rio’s composure had to reassemble itself every time they shared a square meter.

She assumed nothing had moved. Because Rio, after all, kept her voice even and her hands still.

That had to mean indifference. Right?

Agatha’stepped toward the panel and hit the button for parking. Then she retreated to the opposite corner, spine razor-straight, jaw clenched so tight it might’ve cracked, her entire expression the picture of executive detachment.

The doors slid shut behind her with a finality that felt like a sentence.

She kept her eyes on the elevator doors.

* Don’t look. Don’t feed it. *

The thing was Rio - damn her - wasn’t even doing anything remotely interesting.

Just breathing.

Just being

And still, the heat of her presence curled into the air like smoke.

Because this odd woman had that maddening something.

That soft, persistent gravity.

That impossible calm that made Agatha want to break it - just to see if it could.

The thought made her want to laugh. Or scream.

Or drag Rio into the nearest supply closet and burn through these past months of restraint in one glorious, reckless act.

But instead, she stayed where she was.

Still. Composed. Controlled.

Pretending it didn’t ache.

The bouquet - not hers - burned in the periphery like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.

Who was out there performing intimacy for Rio?

Who had burdened her pet with the weight of empty promises wrapped in scented cardstock and camouflaged in flowers?

And most importantly - and far more intriguing - why was Rio holding it like it meant nothing?

“Hey, boss” someone chirped, slicing clean through Agatha’s train of thought.

Naturally. Rio’s permanent satellite was there too.

Darcy, camped out in the corner like she belonged there, thumbs dancing over her phone with the kind of casual oblivion only the truly unbothered could master.

She didn’t even glance up - just nodded toward the bouquet tucked beneath Rio’s arm and added, dryly“So, what’s this one? Number four?”

Rio’s eyes flicked away from Agatha’s reflection, just long enough to reply: “Who’s counting?”

Agatha pressed the parking level again. Not because she needed to. Because she could. Because the control she didn’t have over her life had to go somewhere, and the buttons were the safest victims.

The ever-present shadow snorted. “You’re gonna need a greenhouse at this rate.”

Then - flick.

Rio’s eyes found the doors again.

But she wasn’t looking at the steel.

She was looking at Agatha’s reflection.

The producer held her gaze.

Darcy’s phone buzzed. “Shit. I’m late for Sound Guy. You’re on your own tonight, remember? ”

Rio offered a polite half-smile. “Story of my life.”

Her friend leaned over, kissed two fingers, and tapped Rio’s shoulder. “Call your girlfriend to come rescue you” she added, nodding toward the bouquet. “She looks eager for you to need her.”

And with that, she was gone - slipping out as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor, leaving behind a vacuum.

Leaving them.

Alone.

* Great. Now she needed a distraction from her distraction. *

The elevator hummed as it continued its descent.

Agatha exhaled through her nose. Not a sigh.

A recalibration.

Slowly, she turned. Leaned back against the mirrored wall. And let herself look - really look - at Rio Vidal.

Three months of sterile meetings, clipped emails, polite nods, and tactical avoidance.

Three months of pretending she wasn’t as desperate - no, more desperate - to fuck her again than whoever kept sending those designer bouquets.

And now?

Now there was nothing between them but heat.

And gravity.

She should’ve stayed silent. Should’ve let the quiet hold. Should’ve remembered that Rio wasn’t her pet - not anymore.

But Agatha Harkness had never met a moment she couldn’t ruin with her own lack of impulse control.

So instead of silence, she smiled - all teeth, no kindness - and opened her big mean mouth, eyes fixed on the bouquet:

“Looks expensive.”

Rio didn’t even bother pretending to be surprised by the spontaneous outburst.

“Wouldn’t know” she said coolly. “I didn’t buy it.”

A single petal dropped from the bouquet as Rio subtly repositioned it under her arm - adjusting for weight or maybe just for comfort.

Agatha didn’t want to ask more about it. Not because she wasn’t curious - but because she already knew the answer wouldn’t change anything.

It didn't mattered if Rio truly had someone else.

She didn’t compete.

She won.

Always had. Always would.

Still, she recognized that bouquet.

That exact, carefully curated arrangement never came without intention.

And to be fair, Rio was an attractive woman - so the venom surfaced, uninvited and sharp:

“From an admirer, no doubt” she said, her tone flat but threaded with disdain.

The smart woman in front of her didn’t rise to the bait.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t even shift.

She simply replied, cool as polished steel:“No doubt.”

Both of them glanced at the tiny card dangling from the annoyingly perfect little bundle of flowers - still unread, still unclaimed

As if daring the other to reach for it.

As if both of them knew better.

Rio’s face remained impassive. Unreadable. Her signature detachment wrapped around her like a shield - refined, practiced, almost elegant. The oversized obnoxiously lush arrangement sat under her arm, but by the way she carried it, it might as well have been invisible.

Agatha, for all her cunning and bite, couldn’t read her.

Couldn’t bend her.

Couldn’t get her to play the part she needed her to play.

Which was a damn shame - because after the drink and the cigarette, a little Rio to take the edge off wouldn’t have been the worst idea.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do:

Straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. Let her eyes go cold.

She’d already lost too much today.

She wasn’t about to lose her composure too.

A cruel little quip hovered on her tongue - sharp, precise, ready to land. But instead, she jabbed the parking button again. A petty, useless gesture. A safer outlet than letting her mouth run wild.

Because there it was again.

That ever-present urge to ruin something beautiful, just for the thrill of watching it burn.

Proximity was dangerous.

And Rio - restrained, grounded, untouchable - was standing there like temptation, dressed in the skin of a subordinate.

* Oh, to press her into the mirrored wall and shove her tongue in her mouth until she tasted absolution. What a dream. *

Another floor passed - no ding, no doors opening. Just one more level of being alone.

Agatha's wanting eyes met Rio's knowing ones - right there, caught in the reflection - just before she let her gaze drop.

And with that, she became suddenly, violently aware of the utility of her outfit.

The urge to stop playing nice hit her like heat.

A long black skirt, slit wickedly high - a threat disguised as fabric.

A blouse just shy of scandal - half-buttoned, half-daring, wholly defiant.

The only clean clothes left in her office emergency drawer after chasing Nicky through half of L.A. at dawn.

No tights. No matching. No time.

Just defiance.

HR would’ve called it inappropriate.

Agatha called it strategy.

And judging by the way Rio’s eyes kept dipping, snagging, dragging back up like they had no discipline left - This was working. Exceptionally well.

Ever since stepping into the elevator, her employee-with-benefits had been holding it together like chastity was back in fashion, like she hadn’t spent months imagining this exact scenario.

Trying so hard to be good.

To be composed. Professional.

To wait until Agatha gave a damn clue about what she wanted.

To act like she hadn’t once had Agatha pinned to a door in this very building - hand inside her, mouth full of blasphemy and praise.

But now?

Now her Grimm fantasy was leaning back.

Knee exposed, her long leg arched like a scythe ready to reap.

Mouth parted in a breathless, knowing invitation.

Tongue just visible, dragging slow along the edge of her teeth.

Rio’s gaze dropped.

Then returned.

And dropped again.

Her thoughts started to unsettle.

She’d promised herself to keep her distance.

But until Agatha what?

Texted? Explained? Apologized?

Was she really pretending that Agatha Harkness – divine chaos incarnate - would get serious about...anything?

She stood only a few feet away from the enticing vision before her - spine rigid, jaw locked - the kind of composure that only looked effortless to those who didn’t know what it cost to maintain.

They hadn’t agreed on rules.

Hadn’t even acknowledged what had happened between them.

But Rio was beginning to suspect that they weren’t built for clean lines anyway. They didn’t do clarity. They thrived in tension - in the curves, the silence, the sharp glances that sliced deeper than words.

And today - like always - Agatha looked like sin, bottled and weaponized.

It wasn’t just the clothes, though they certainly helped paint vivid pictures in Rio’s mind.

It was the attitude.

That unapologetic slow-burning edge Agatha carried in every gesture and every glance - like she was about to eat Rio alive, and enjoy every bite.

Which is probably why her mind kept drifting to that sheer lace thong still tucked in the back of her nightstand - resting next to her toys, next to her restraint. Its scent long gone. Its owner still lodged under her skin.

What the hell had she been thinking all this time?

She could’ve had this. Could’ve taken it. Could’ve tasted it again. She’d spent months letting the chance to ride Agatha fucking Harkness slip through her fingers.

Was her brain rotting from the inside out?

She adjusted her headphones - desperate for a tether - but the music wasn’t helping.

The rythm vibrated through the speakers like breath. Like skin. Like want.

The kind of song that made you remember the weight of someone’s hand. The ache of someone’s mouth.

And Rio? Oh yeah, she was remembering, all right.

Every gasp. Every moan. Every time Agatha had looked at her like prey and predator all at once.

These past months, she had watched Agatha in secret - hungry, careful, silent.

But now Agatha was watching her back.

And there was something downright unholy in her eyes.

Rio was one floor away from giving in.

Just one floor away from grabbing her by that wild mane, pressing her against the nearest vertical surface, and slipping her hand up that criminal skirt - because they still had everything left unresolved.

Three grueling months.

Twelve unbearable weeks.

Eighty-four goddamn days since the garden.

Since Agatha had touched her like a storm - like a worship song.

Since Rio had learned - hard, sweet, and merciless - what it meant to be fucked just right.

And now, here they were.

Close enough to touch.

Far enough to pretend.

And she was losing her goddamn mind over a skirt. Again. Just like in the good old days.

Agatha smiled.

It was working.

Ding

The doors slid open on the next floor, slicing through the silence like a bad punchline - followed immediately by a stampede of post-production interns, flooding in like they were late to their own apocalypse. Loud. Over-caffeinated. Reeking of stress and unearned confidence.

Snapping the thread of tension that had stretched between them, floor to floor.

“Tight squeeze” someone muttered, elbowing past Agatha as if she were part of the scenery - followed by laughter far too big for the confined space.

Her molars clicked together like gunmetal. She didn’t flinch - Agatha Harkness never flinched - but the twitch in her jaw betrayed her.

She hated this.

The heat.

The noise.

The bodies.

The way strangers’ limbs trespassed into her personal space like it belonged to them.

She hated that she couldn’t snap, couldn’t bark a single "Shut the fuck up" without HR - those nosy little crusaders for feelings - sending her to a six-week “Leadership Through Compassion” seminar hosted by someone named Skylar who wore socks with affirmations.

So she did what she always did.

She endured.

Back straight. Arms folded. Expression blank enough to pass for patience.

An evil queen awaiting execution with her crown polished and her spine made of iron.

In her head, she started counting backward in Latin - an old trick from an even older life.

Undecim. Decem. Novem…

But it didn’t help.

Not because of the noise.

Not because of the chaos.

Because in the crush of bodies, Rio had been forced right behind her.

Not touching - but close.

So close she could hear the faint whisper of music leaking from the headphones hanging around Rio’s neck.

She didn’t recognize the song. Didn’t need to.

The bass was a suggestion. A warning.

To her utter disgust, a second swarm arrived - right as the doors were about to seal.

* Oh, for fuck’s sake. Was the entire building trying to die today? *

This time, it was the prop department. Loud. Chaotic. Unapologetically inconvenient.

A round of groans rippled through the elevator.

Someone snapped “There’s no room!”

The only reply came from a man balancing a bundle of gilded curtain rods over one shoulder: “Sorry, we’re in a hurry.”

And suddenly, they were all packed together. Tighter. Closer.

Like sardines in a can.

A royal court of misery and foam columns and chandelier frames.

Someone was carrying a full goddamn fireplace.

It was like Studio B had exploded - and every Renaissance-shaped remnant had landed in this ten-square-foot vertical hell.

The space shrank. Oxygen became theoretical. Proximity became weaponized.

Agatha took an instinctive step back, heels clicking against metal. She really hated this.

The closeness. The tension.

The possibility of accidental contact with Rio.

Someone stepped on her stiletto, and her jaw clicked in response. She looked down.

And suddenly...a jolt.

One of the foam columns tilted dangerously.

Wrong angle.

Bad timing.

Worse luck.

It was headed straight for her head. And she couldn’t move fast enough.

She didn’t even have time to react.

...

But Rio did.

In one fluid motion, she tossed the bouquet she’d been holding behind her as her arm shot forward. Her hand caught the edge of the column a breath before it could strike.

Creams, whites, and eucalyptus crashed softly behind them.

The weight rocked her wrist, but her stance didn’t break.

Agatha’s breath caught a little - well, not so little. Her pulse stuttered.

The scent of crushed petals rose between them, part perfume, part premonition.

Then came Rio's startled voice.

Low. Rougher than usual.

“Pégate más.”

Agatha’s body tensed. Shoulders rigid. Heels rooted. She didn’t look at her. She didn’t answer.

Rio leaned in.

Not enough for the crowd to notice. But enough that Agatha could feel the breath behind her ear - warm and intentional.

“Is that your kink?” the menace behind her murmured - intimate, dangerous. “Playing dumb every time I speak Spanish?” Her arm remained locked in place, still shielding Agatha from the falling column. “Or are you just that proud - you’d rather get hurt than do what I say?”

Agatha could feel it - that familiar smirk. Not seen, but sensed. Arrogant. Infuriating. A phantom brush at her ear, like a dare dressed as breath.

Still she gave no answer, though.

So Rio acted.

No ceremony. No theatrics.

One hand found Agatha’s hip. The other slid around her waist. And then - pull.

Unapologetic. Controlled. Certain. Firm

Agatha's body collided with hers. Back to chest. Spine to sternum. A clean hit.

No space. No air. No way out.

The breath punched from her lungs like a confession.

Rio didn’t apologize. Didn’t release her.

Her grip wasn’t possessive. Wasn’t soft.

It was...inevitable.

A current. A truth long overdue.

Her breath skimmed the back of Agatha’s neck. A hum that spoke in three dialects: danger, memory, and promise.

“There” she said. Voice lower now. Rougher. Closer “Safe.”

But this wasn’t about safety.

They both knew that.

It was taunt. A challenge. A test. .

It was exactly what Agatha had been wishing for.

And so, instead of speaking, she chose gasoline.

She pressed back - barely. Subtly. Just enough to feel Rio fully behind her, the subtle curve of hips meeting hips.

A jostle from the crowd shoved them tighter.

Someone cracked a joke about set-piece decapitation.

None of it registered.

Not when Agatha’s ass brushed against Rio’s front.

Not when both of them froze - caught in the kind of stillness that wasn’t quiet at all.

Agatha’s eyes fluttered shut. The contact - brief, charged, almost obscene - lit her from the inside like a struck match.

Her body remembered. And it wanted.

And Rio - God help her - breathed her in like she’d been starved. Like Agatha’s scent alone could bring her back to life.

Ding

The doors slid shut again. The crowd spilled out. The noise faded.

Silence rushed in behind it.

For the second time, they were alone.

No crowd. No distractions. No excuses.

And still...Rio didn’t let go.

Her hands stayed exactly where they were - one at Agatha’s waist, the other pressed low on her stomach. Not suggestive. Not playful. Not moving. Just there.

A punctuation mark.

A statement without a sentence.

Agatha leaned back - further this time. On purpose. Just for the pure, unapologetic pleasure of feeding the fire that crackled between them.

Rio adjusted instantly. Both arms wrapped around Agatha now - fingers splayed across her body, anchoring them both with quiet, terrifying ease.

The contact deepened - dense with friction, thick with unsaid things and unfinished nights.

This wasn’t just contact.

This was history.

This was intent.

This was a claim.

A wordless plea: - Please. Can we stop pretending we don’t want this? -

Agatha burned in want. Every inch of her pulled taut with restraint, need, and three months of almosts.

She wanted to pull Rio closer. To turn. To take. To erase every wasted minute of denial.

To fuck the calm out of her - again and again - until Rio stopped pretending she didn’t belong exactly where Agatha wanted her: on a leash.

Metaphorical or literal? Still debatable.

Because now wasn’t the moment.

Not yet.

This needed precision. Intent. A perfectly executed sin.

So she stayed still.

Holding herself like a queen at the edge of war.

Just as she found her footing again...

“Agatha.”

Not “Boss.” Not “Miss Harkness.”

Just Agatha - spoken in Rio’s real voice. Soft. Unfiltered. Dangerously close to reverence.

A voice that tasted like smoke and sex and the good kind of trouble.

The sound alone nearly undid her.

Her eyes fluttered closed again.

Rio sighed.

A soft, steady exhale. But not neutral.

Intimate.

The warmth of it slid across Agatha’s shoulder and into her bloodstream like a drug. It was unnerving. Disarming. Sweet in a way she didn’t trust.

It hit her like...hope?

And Agatha almost turned. Almost.

But she didn’t.

Because Agatha - razor-sharp Agatha - didn’t understand why this felt so... good.

Maybe the truth was simpler than she wanted to admit:

Maybe she just missed her future girlfriend.

Not that she’d figured that part out yet.

Not that she’d let herself.

Denial was a fortress.

But that was a problem for Future Agatha.

Right now she had plans to make. And one hell of an idea forming fast.

Ding.

The final chime echoed like the end of recess. Like a door closing on something that hadn’t quite begun.

Agatha didn’t open her eyes.

But she felt it.

The loss.

Rio’s hands slipping away. - not brushing, not lingering touch. Just gone.

She bent to pick up the bouquet - one side slightly crushed, petals pressed to the tile like a crime scene in bloom.

For the first time, her pet was the one who walked out.

No glance back. No smirk. No parting word.

As if nothing had happened.

As if everything had.

Chapter Text

The bouquet was a nuisance tucked under her arm, all thorns and unnecessary sentiment.

Her loafers tapped out a steady rhythm against the pavement, like war drums marching against the noise in her head.

A streetlight buzzed overhead - flickered once, twice - then held. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed: thin, insistent. Proof that this city, like her pulse, never really quieted.

She walked like someone trying to shake a ghost.

Because Rio was still thinking about what had just happened in the elevator - still feeling the heat under her skin, the lingering shape of Agatha’s body in her hands. The taste of something reckless, forbidden, and incredible still clung to her mind.

She had barely made it two blocks before she heard it:

The low purr of an engine slowing beside her.

She tensed.

Kept walking. Even strides. Even breaths.

But the car didn’t pass.

The window slid down with a quiet whir:

“Need a ride, handsome?”

The voice of a woman you either survive or regret - never both - hit her like a pressure point. Too familiar. Too smooth. Sliding down her spine like a heatwave.

Instinct snapped her head toward the sound.

Agatha.

Lounging behind the wheel like she belonged to the night. Leaning lazily against the open window. One arm draped over the door, the other on the steering wheel.

Streetlights traced her face in gold and shadow, sculpting the sharp edge of her jaw and the sly curve of her mouth. She looked dangerous. Ethereal.

And that look - the one that had once been a challenge, an invitation - was waiting for Rio again.

Rio let out a dry breath, part exasperation, part reflex. “Seriously?”

She kept walking - three, four steps forward - before Agatha’s voice followed her again, softer now.

“Listen, about the gala...”

“No.”

It came out sharper than she intended. Final. Clean. No room for interpretation.

“You don’t get to start there.”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, mock-considering. Then, ever so casually, with all the confidence of someone who was used to getting her way: “Where would you like me to start, then?”

Rio rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath "Oh, fuck off."

Her favorite headache didn’t react. Just kept watching her – waiting - with that quiet, patient, infuriating smirk. The one that said she already knew the ending to this little fake tantrum.

“Just get in the car. I promise I won’t bite.” Her voice was almost gentle. Not a command, but a suggestion.

It wasn’t the words themselves. It was how she said them. Like a peace offering dipped in something strange and potent.

That’s what made Rio stop.

The engine idled patiently beside her, like it had nowhere better to be.

She should’ve kept walking. Should’ve slammed the door in that too-beautiful face.

But a ride would get her home faster. Her apartment was nearly two hours away in the outer sprawl of the city, where the air turned cold at night and streetlights had long since given up . She was tired. And Agatha - damn her - was still sitting there, magnetic and impossible, waiting like the inevitable thing she was.

So Rio sighed - heavy, reluctant - and opened the door. She slid into the passenger seat without a word and tossed the flowers into the backseat like they burned.

She didn’t look at the goddess in the driver’s seat.

Agatha’s mouth twitched into a small, private, victorious smile as she pulled the door shut.

The car smelled like leather and something expensive.

And her boss - sitting right there, so close it hurt - smelled like trouble with an aftertaste of heaven.

Rio kept her gaze trained on the windshield as she punched her address into the GPS.

"Just drive" she muttered.

Agatha’s laugh was low, warm, thick with satisfaction. “Yes, sir.”

The car glided into traffic, another smooth purr against the night.

Silence fell.

Not the easy kind, born from shared peace.

This was the other kind.

Dense. Claustrophobic.

The kind that built pressure, molecule by molecule, until something shattered.

Rio folded her arms tight across her chest, watching the neon blur of the city smear across the pavement - red lights bleeding into endless alleys yawning like broken mouths.

She didn’t look at Agatha.

Wouldn’t.

Which only made the weight of her attention more palpable. Heavy as a hand pressing against the back of her neck.

A glance.

Another.

Lingering, steady, reflected in the rearview mirror like a secret trying to be caught.

Studying her.

Expecting... something.

Rio didn't know what was going on beneath that carefully constructed facade.

The wheel creaked under Agatha’s grip.

The once self-proclaimed promising young talent shifted, fingers tightening around her jacket.

Tense. Uncertain.

Still, she said nothing.

Agatha finally cracked the silence:

“So” she drawled like she’d rehearsed this “What’s the deal with you and Darcy Lewis? Special friendship?”

Rio blinked, incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”

Agatha shrugged, one elegant shoulder lifting without an ounce of guilt, eyes still fixed on the road . “What? She’s always around. I’m just... curious. ”

Rio let out a laugh - bitter, humorless. "Now you’re curious? About who I spend my time with? After you left me at the gala without a single fucking word? To do what, exactly?"

The queen of vanishing acts didn’t miss a beat. “I thought we weren’t talking about the gala.”

Rio exhaled sharply through her nose.

Agatha’s knuckles whitened on the wheel.

"I didn’t leave with Elektra" she said at last, her voice rougher now. "If that’s what you’re implying."

The words fell flat. Heavy. Like a bridge too broken to cross.

Rio turned her head. Finally looked at her.

Her voice, when it came, was a whisper. “Wanda, then?”

The name dropped between them like a cleaver.

That did it.

The air shifted. Thickened.

The city outside blurred into a smear of meaningless golds and reds.

Agatha went utterly still.

That terrible, brittle kind of stillness that only came from hurt deep enough to fossilize.

Wanda.

Her ex-fiancée.

The woman she’d almost married.

The mistake whose shadow always seemed to be there, even now, even here.

Her fingers twitched on the wheel again.

Something flickered across her face - quick, sharp, gone before her cute copilot could name it.

"I wouldn’t go anywhere with Wanda" she said at last, voice scraped raw, edged with something uncomfortably real. "Not even if my life depended on it."

And that - more than any polished lie she could’ve given - was what shook Rio the most.

Because for once, Agatha “the Reaper” Harkness sounded almost... sincere.

A brief, lingering glance.

The air between them buzzed, electric.

Rio should have let it go.

She didn’t.

“Then what happened?” she asked, the words slipping out like a blade. “Why didn’t you come back?”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her silence stretched - elastic, uneasy.

When she finally spoke, it was in that careful, deliberate way of hers. “Side quest.”

* Of course she said something cryptic. Of course she deflected with charm and cheek like always. Why had she expected anything else? *

Then Agatha smirked again.

And damn it, Rio felt it.

The promise of something irresistible coiled behind that smirk, ready to strike.

Her personal haunting kept her gaze on the road letting silence stretch between them again. She looked unaffected.

She wouldn’t give Rio more than that.

Not now. Not ever.

Rio, still blind to the real reason the most painful almost of her life hadn’t shown up that night, couldn’t stop picturing her with that prickly, domineering redhead.

Sharing space.

Sharing memories.

Sharing a bed.

Sharing...more.

As if reading her mind through the rearview mirror, Agatha cut straight to the point. “What else has that overactive brain made up about me and Wanda?”

Rio stiffened in her seat.

Something had been festering in the corners of her thoughts - persistent, stupid, crushing, embarrassing, petty - and before she could stop herself, the question slipped out.

Too casual. Too raw. Too much.

“What did she like… in bed?”

Silence. A full beat. Then another.

Nothing.

Agatha didn’t react. Not right away.

Her fingers, never still, drummed lightly on the wheel. Her gaze tracked a woman walking her dog across the crosswalk. The car idled at the red light, the engine humming.

She waited.

Let the question sit there, let it take up space.

When the woman reached the other side of the street she press her foot to the gas.

Then, finally, she glanced at the rearview mirror with that practiced smile as if nothing was wrong - locking onto Rio’s reflection.

"That’s what you want to know?"

Her voice was even. Too even. Like silk hiding a knife. A reminder that Rio was dangerously close to pushing past whatever counted as Agatha being reasonable.

She should have backed down.

She didn’t.

She nodded - too quick, too reckless - her breath catching as she studied the profile of the sinister, attractive promise-shredder driving her home, the sharp angles of her face lit in turns of gold and shadow by the passing headlights.

The tension in the car turned unbearable, savage.

But Agatha’s smile didn’t crack.

“Would you rather I lie?” she asked, almost playfully, flicking her gaze sideways. “Or should I tell you the truth?”

The way she said it - the way a predator tests the softness of its prey before sinking in - made Rio's pulse trip over itself. It wasn’t just flirtation. It was assessment.

Agatha reached out without warning, her fingers wrapping around the wrist of the girl she couldn’t seem to leave alone - possessive, practiced - pulling it from the false sanctuary of her jacket pocket.

Rio barely had time to process what was happening before her hand was resting on Agatha’s thigh - the slit in her skirt parting like an invitation far too delicious to resist.

Smooth. Tempting.

Still with Rio's hand on her leg, Agatha’s fingers slid over hers - tracing the cool metal of her rings, one by one.

Slow. Intimate.

“I could tell you…” she murmured, lifting Rio’s hand to her mouth. “...she used to beg me to start teasing her like this.”

Her voice dipped low. Smoky. Ruinous.

Rio went totally still.

Stunned. Awestruck.

Agatha’s teeth skimmed the tip of her fingers. Barely there. A whisper of contact.

A sharp, molten heat licked through her pet’s body, pooling low in her stomach.

Agatha didn’t rush. She dragged her lips across Rio’s knuckles, pressing slow, intentional kisses before pulling away.

The car kept moving. Her focus never left the road.

Rio swallowed hard, pulse hammering. It felt like slipping a hand into a lion’s mouth - caught between fear and the intoxicating hope that it wouldn’t bite.

Agatha turned Rio’s hand palm-up, fingertips pressing lightly against the delicate skin of her wrist. Feeling. Measuring. Mapping out the unsteady rhythm pulsing beneath.

She smiled and parted her lips.

And took Rio’s index finger into her mouth.

Wet heat. A slow, torturous drag of her tongue, crafted with the focus of someone who knew exactly what destruction felt like.

She sucked lightly, lips closing around the joint before pulling back just enough to nip at the tip. Slowly, torturously, she slid it back in.

Rio inhaled, trying – failing - to steady her breathing. Her blood was on fire.

For a second, she wondered if the distant ambulance siren was coming for her.

* What were the symptoms of a heart attack again? *

And because Agatha was pure, exquisite excess - refined to perfection - she did something worse. And much, much better.

Keeping the full length of Rio’s finger inside her mouth, her tongue flicked against the base of the ring, coaxing it loose with just the right amount of pressure - a perfect balance of suction and teeth.

The ring slid off with obscene ease, and she held it between her lips as she pulled Rio’s finger out, agonizingly slow, letting the absence linger for just a beat. Then, with precise control, she pushed the ring forward with her tongue, caught it between her teeth, and tilted her head down - slipping the piece of jewelry onto her own finger.

She did it again.

And again.

One by one, Rio’s rings vanished, stolen in slow, torturous succession - claimed by Agatha’s lips, tongue, and teeth.

Each motion deliberate. Each touch a declaration. A silent, devastating possession.

By the time the last ring had transferred from Rio’s hand to Agatha’s, her breath had turned uneven. Her thoughts tangled in heat and something dangerously close to desperation.

A consuming need.

Everything else faded into background noise.

“Or maybe she liked something else entirely” Agatha said, flashing a grin that could shatter commandments. “And I’m just messing with you.”

That said - with infuriating ease - she let go.

A flick of her wrist, a casual dismissal, as if none of it had mattered. As if Rio’s fingers hadn’t just been in her mouth. As if desire wasn’t still crackling between them like exposed wires.

Flammable. Irresistible.

And Rio’s hand fell, once again, onto that seductive, imprisoning stretch of bare thigh.

Agatha's hand returned to the wheel.

She took a sharp turn without a glance.

Cool. Untouchable.

The light caught on her newly adorned fingers - Rio’s rings - flashing like trophies.

Rio was in shambles. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn't think.

Of course Agatha was addicted to deception. Of course her flirting was sleight of hand, all trick mirrors and vanishing acts. Still - knowing that didn’t help.

Maybe it wasn’t right to find something so unbearably sexy when it might not even be meant for her. Maybe it was just a game. One this alluring bossy creature had played before. One she’d perfected.

* But the way she used her tongue... Holy fuck *

Rio’s gaze dropped to her left hand - now resting on Agatha’s perfect thigh. Her breath hitched with the fresh memory: the slow drag, the teeth, the practiced pressure. She yanked her hand away like Agatha’s skin burned, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of her thoughts.

It was almost identical to the first time Agatha had done it in the writers’ room - back when Rio still believed she was immune to office politics and impossible women.

Déjà vu. Or muscle memory?

Had it been for Wanda once? Or was this just who Agatha was - every lover getting the same routine?

No. It felt different. Personal. Targeted. Tailored to her.

Which was worse.

Or was it something else?

Something uniquely, intentionally Agatha - something that just happened to drive both of her lovers insane?

Did certain people bring out different sides of her? Or was the flirting just a costume she wore for anyone she planned to undress?”

Agatha was the kind of chaos that didn’t just burn bridges - it set entire cities on fire.

And right now, looking at her, the answer to those questions felt terrifyingly unclear.

But also terrifyingly compelling to someone like Rio, who had a bad habit of walking straight into the flames.

She swallowed hard.

The car suddenly felt too warm. Too small.

Her skin prickled like it was being rewritten.

Thoughts tangled, nerves wound tight, skin too hot.

The silence pressed in. Suffocating.

She had nothing to say - nothing that wouldn’t make her sound unhinged...or two seconds away from smearing Agatha’s lipstick with her mouth and causing a damn accident.

Across from her, Agatha toyed with one of Rio’s rings - rolling it between her fingers like a cat playing with something half-dead. Her gaze was heavy-lidded, lazy, amused. Predatory.

Words unfurled next - slow, cruel, and sticky as honey left too long in the sun.

“Is it the knowing that gets you off” Agatha drawled, savoring each word, each carefully placed dagger. “or just the thought of me with someone else?”

The words didn’t land - they detonated.

“Because if you’re dying to know how I treat people in bed…” she added, her voice dropping a notch - smoky, slow, cruelly evocative. “There are ways to earn that privilege “

Heat slammed through the woman beside her - neck, chest, stomach. Her molars locked like she could trap the reaction in her mouth.

She wouldn’t react. She would not give Agatha that.

But that poised fucking killer watched her unravel like it was a private performance.

Every flicker of resistance mirrored back at her from the rearview.

Agatha wore the moment like a queen wears blood-red silk - effortless. Regal.

A slow, knowing smile curled on her lips.

“Yes” Agatha murmured - more to herself than anyone - evaluating her co-pilot through the mirror with unnerving certainty. “I think you’d enjoy what I’ve got planned for you... even more.”

Rio’s palm curled into a fist, nails biting skin. Want and fury coiled inside her like twin storms chasing the same sky.

“You really think I’d play your game?” she growled. “That I’d give you what you want?”

Agatha didn’t answer at first. She just reached across and slipped her hand into Rio’s pocket.

The rings slid in.

But her fingers didn’t leave.

They lingered. Pressing through the thin fabric of Rio’s pants - slow, steady, undeniably deliberate - settling against her thigh.

A whisper of pressure.

A quiet display of power.

“Oh, sweetheart” she whispered, her voice so close it brushed skin. Her hand slid deeper. Curved.

A pause. A breath.

Then lower - rougher. Feral: “I know”

* Fuck. She was doing it again. Full predator mode, Agatha-style. *

Rio’s breath hitched. Her brain scattered, thoughts fleeing while her body - traitorous, hungry - leaned closer.

* Was this real? Or some near-death hallucination her mind had conjured to torture her? *

Her breath stuttered. Her mind lagged behind the slow, inviting press of Agatha’s touch. She felt herself split down the middle - logic sprinting for the exit, desire anchoring her to the seat.

Agatha shot Rio a wink and withdrew her hand with infuriating composure, like she'd simply adjusted the air conditioning instead of rewriting the atmosphere.

Heat surged low in Rio's belly. Wetness pooled between her legs, thick with gay panic and desire.

She said nothing.

Couldn’t.

Like a cornered animal, her breathing fractured - short, shallow.

Her silence wasn’t calm; it buzzed with static, like the air before a lightning strike.

Agatha was clearly amused by the damage.

Her eyes glinted with that particular cruelty reserved for artists admiring their own work - studying the effect like brushstrokes.

“Cat got your tongue?” she purred “Or do you only talk tough after you’ve cum?"

The smirk that followed wasn’t wide. It didn’t need to be. It curled like smoke - thin, invasive.

She let the pause bloom between them, ripe and heavy. Then, almost offhand: “I mean… that can be arranged.”

Her gaze slid lower, slow as a caress.

And that smile - * God, that smile * - was the kind that didn’t ask for surrender.

It expected it.

Naturally, she pushed it further.

“Because” she added, feigning casual “those desperate little sounds you make?”

Her eyes flicked to the windshield. Then back to Rio, her voice honeyed and cruel.

“I can’t wait to hear them again.”

Silence.

Just… silence.

Rio opened her mouth - whether to argue or just suck in air, she wasn’t sure - but the car slowed before she could figure it out.

The moment cracked like a fragile spell. But the tension didn’t vanish.

Before she knew it, Agatha parked. They’d arrived.

She should’ve felt relief.

She didn’t.

Because now the blue-eyed volcano was turned toward her. One hand still on the wheel, the other casually draped over the back of Rio’s seat, fingertips brushing the shell of her ear.

Like she was waiting.

Daring her.

She was so close.

And that gaze? That stare - dropping, unapologetically, from Rio’s lips to her chest. To the way her nipples strained visibly through the thin white T-shirt.

The fabric clung in all the wrong places - or maybe all the right ones.

No bra. No defenses.

She swatted Agatha’s hand away. “You are...”

She stopped. Swallowed hard. Heat spiked behind her eyes.

“I’m what?” Agatha asked, entirely unbothered. Pleased, even. Like she’d just cornered a mouse and was waiting to see what it would do next.

Rio glared at her. “Fucking unbearable.”

At that Agatha - of course - smiled.

Wicked. Knowing.

“And yet” she murmured softly “here you are.”

She shifted slightly in her seat, the neckline of her earth-toned blouse slipping just enough to show a sliver of lace. It was effortless.

Which meant it wasn’t.

* God. Whatever this was - this dark magic, this voodoo, this relentless pull - it was working. *

Their eyes locked.

There it was again - that glint. That secret Agatha never said out loud.

Rio swallowed hard, flushed and flustered, overwhelmed by the sheer force of the attack. “Agatha, no.”

Her tone was sharp. Scolding. Like she was trying to rein in something already too far gone.

Like she was the tamer, trying to train the beast Agatha was - so that one day, she might trust her.

She reached for the door handle, ready to get out. To run. To leave before she did something truly stupid.

But Agatha wasn’t finished.

Without a word, she dropped a folder into Rio’s lap.

Rio blinked.

* Had that been there the whole time?  *

Frowning, she flipped it open - and froze.

Her spec script.

Covered in red ink. Margin notes in Agatha’s neat, merciless handwriting - cutting through the pages like scalpels.

Her head snapped up. “What the hell is this?”

Agatha gave a lazy shrug. “Sent the edits to your inbox before I picked you up. But…” - she nodded at the document - “...I figured you’d want something… tangible.”

Rio stared down at the paper as if it had chosen sides - and not hers.

*  Oh my god. Was this a grand gesture?  *

Part of her wanted to slap Agatha; the other part wanted to throw her arms around her.

Agatha tapped the headrest idly with two fingers, unfazed. “These notes’ll give you an edge. Separate it from the pile of mediocrity.”

Rio blinked, caught in the crossfire of too many emotions.

Then the kill shot:“You have a meeting about it next month with the board” Agatha said casually, like it wasn’t the single most seismic thing she could’ve said.

Rio’s entire brain short-circuited. “I’m sorry, what?”

Agatha’s tone didn’t change. Calm. Controlled. Her producer’s voice taking full command. “I’ve already worked it out with Dottie. You should probably loop in your co-writer, though.”

The screenwriter just stared. She wasn’t sure what stunned her more - the move or the fact that Agatha had kept this quiet.

“Why now?” she asked

Agatha’s cool and proud smirk returned - That maddening, self-satisfied curve. “Because I’d rather back something actually good than let that team of rejects vomit another cliché-laced mess onto my desk. And in case you’ve forgotten…” she leaned in, voice lower, more intimate now “I’m partial.”

Rio’s stomach twisted. Fury, disbelief, want - all of it knotted together like barbed wire in her chest. How dare Agatha do something so… kind? So decent?

Now?

After everything?

All she managed was a strangled “Well. Thanks, I guess.”

She told herself to believe it. That Agatha had remembered her promise. That she’d actually come through.

The apex predator across from her offered a slow, self-satisfied smile - one that made her intentions painfully clear. 'Am I generous, or what?'"

Rio didn’t answer.

Because yes. Or what.

Definitely Or what.

She flipped through the script, scanning the blood-red annotations. Naturally, this gorgeous bastard had immaculate penmanship - elegant and elongated, like it belonged in a love letter.

Agatha, meanwhile, wasn’t looking at the pages. No - her eyes were locked on Rio, studying her like she was the only thing worth seeing. Like nothing else existed.

Softly, almost thoughtfully - as if testing a theory - she asked: “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

The question landed with the weight of a spell. Strucking like thunder in a quiet church.

Without lifting her head, Rio looked up from the paper to meet Agatha's gaze.

Her whole body tensed. Every survival instinct screamed: Leave. Run. Escape.

Get out of the damn car. Get away from this complicated woman.

But she didn’t move.

Almost involuntarily, she heard herself whisper: “If you kissed me right now…”

* God. If Agatha kissed her right now… *

She might just let her.

She might kiss her back.

She might dissolve into her entirely.

“No”

The word broke from her lips like a gasp, shattering the spell. She blinked herself back into her body, into the seat, into the real world.

It felt like falling straight into the lion’s den.

“You can’t just...” She shook her head, heat flaring beneath her skin. “You don’t get to pull shit like this and expect...”

* Why did this imposible woman have to look at her like that? Like she wanted to tear her open just to taste what was inside?  *

She crossed her arms, a feeble attempt at composure - one that didn’t go unnoticed. Much to Agatha’s delight, it only emphasized the no-bra situation beneath her fitted white T-shirt.

Still, her Rio held her ground. “It’d be the wrong move, Agatha.” Her voice had steadied. But only barely.

Agatha let out a low, knowing laugh. She leaned in. Close enough to invade her prey's space. Close enough to make her pulse skip again.

“You want to test that theory?” she whispered.

Rio’s fingers tightened around the script, using it as a barrier between herself and the storm of temptation Agatha was provoking.

She really needed to leave if she wanted to regain some self-control.

Now.

With a sharp inhale, she yanked the door open and stepped out, her body moving on autopilot, her composure nothing but a mask stitched together by panic.

“I’ll see you at work” she said over her shoulder.

The conviction in her voice wavered, brittle and unconvincing. It was a lie, and they both knew it. Aside from a couple tense moments, they hadn’t seen each other in days - maybe weeks. The words rang hollow in the space between them, like a promise neither believed.

One foot, then the other. A clean exit, or so she told herself.

She reached to slam the door shut behind her - pause.

Then, softer than she meant, like it slipped past her defenses: "I’m closing this door in your face now, okay?"

Her voice came tentative, her hand still gripping the door as if it might tether her to something she wasn’t ready to leave.

Agatha chuckled from the driver’s seat, low and knowing. She could hear it in Rio’s tone - the reluctance, the ache.

“Don’t you forget something?”

Rio blinked. “What...?”

* The bouquet. Shit *

In her rush to flee the emotional wreckage behind her, she’d left the damn thing sprawled in the back seat. Without thinking, she leaned back into the car, half her body crossing the threshold she’d just escaped, crossing back into enemy territory. One knee on the passenger seat, her arm stretching deep between the front seats, her face just inches from Agatha’s.

Agatha simply exhaled, slow and loaded, her breath brushing the air beside Rio’s cheek.

Rio’s fingers closed around the bouquet - now wilted, its earlier charm collapsed. She yanked it back with a small grunt and slammed the door harder than necessary.

But she stood there. A beat too long. Bouquet in one hand. Script folder in the other.

Caught between walking away and diving right back in.

She turned back to the window - still rolled down - and lifted the folder like it was an important peace treaty.

“Thanks. For this.”

The words were awkward, heavy with all the things she couldn’t say.

Agatha’s smile came slow and real, her gaze drifting from the folder to Rio’s eyes - pinning her in place with the kind of look that made gods misstep and mortals lose their minds.

“I’ll… I’ll call you” Rio added, softer now. Unsure.

Agatha inhaled sharply, her stare laser-sharp - like she could see through every wall she had ever built. Something flickered in her expression, a flash of something real before she buried it under the smooth mask she always wore.

And then...

“Please do” she said.

Simple. Polite. But to Rio, it hit like a pulse through the chest.

She’d heard her say that phrase a dozen times at work. Cold. Formulaic. A way to end meetings or emails or conversations she was done with. A neat, professional period at the end of a line.

But this?

This sounded different.

It didn’t feel like punctuation.

It felt like Agatha was indulging her - allowing Rio to make her wait.

The open target that was Rio nodded once. A decision made. A line drawn in the dark.

She turned away.

“Goodnight, Agatha.”

The words were quiet. Almost sweet. Almost an apology.

They barely made it past the tightness in her throat.

A melted version of herself was still wondering what the hell had just happened during that crazy ride as she walked toward her apartment.

Each footstep peeled her farther from the car - from the hot woman still watching her from behind the wheel.

Said hot woman just sat there, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel as if they could anchor her to reason.

The image of Rio - trying not to stumble, her legs shaky from the heat this car ride had stirred in her - lodged itself like a thorn between Agatha’s ribs.

The ache in her chest wasn’t poetic.

It was hunger.

Raw. Stupid. Real.

She should let the girl go.

She should let it all go.

She almost did.

Almost.

But then the elevator thing happened, and now…

She knew this - this reckless, magnetic, maddening thing between them - it wasn’t over. Not even close.

It was a kind of hunger she didn’t know how to starve.

She pictured Rio.

Breathing heavy.

Lip-bitten.

Wanting.

Desperate.

Naked.

Moaning in pleasure.

* God, she wanted her so bad *

She let out a low breath, telling herself to wait.

To be patient.

To play it cool.

And for one, excruciating second, she almost believed she could.

Strong in the almost.

...

Something moved outside - fast, with purpose.

A blur in the periphery of her vision.

The driver’s side door flew open, jarring and loud.

Rio was there - ragged breath, wild eyes, pupils blown wide with something primal.

She reached down without hesitation and yanked the lever at the side of the seat. A bold, no-nonsense motion, dripping with heat and control.

And just like that, she was on her.

Agatha barely had time to smirk before Rio straddled her in one fluid motion, thighs bracketing her hips, hands planted on her shoulders, pinning her down - not hard, but firm.

Just enough to keep her in place.

No room to run.

No way to move.

“Where’s your ludicrously enormous bouq…?” Agatha, sprawled beneath her, tried to quip. But the words came out weightless. Pointless.

Rio didn’t let her finish.

She fisted the front of her blouse and crashed their mouths together, kissing her like this was her last night on Earth and Agatha was the only altar she would worship.

* Unexpected...but undeniably welcome. *

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tentative.

It was violent. Unforgiving. Beautiful. Cataclysmic.

And so fucking desperate.

Teeth. Tongue. Fire.

A wildfire in the shape of a woman. A complete and utter loss of reason. A declaration of war disguised as a kiss.

Agatha gasped into it, welcomed the impact, the aggression, the sin of it all.

One hand flew to the curve of her favorite bad girl’s thigh, the other to the back of her neck, pulling her as close as physically possible.

Rio didn’t slow down as her pernicious obsession’s claiming hands roamed over her.

She kissed like someone trying to consume, to kill, to own, to control - like she wanted to carve her name into Agatha’s mouth and brand her from the inside out.

And Agatha smiled into it.

Met her there, tongue sliding against hers, feeding off everything the other woman had been holding back for weeks.

Her nails scraped through Rio's hair, anchoring her in place, wordlessly commanding her not to stop.

Rio didn’t. Not for a long, glorious time.

Abruptly, she pulled back - just enough to breathe, just enough to leave Agatha suspended on the edge of something lethal. Her pulse loud in both their throats. Her hands still on Agatha’s chest. Her body still pressed flush against hers.

Agatha let out a low, frustrated sound. Propped on her elbows now, she hovered close, lips parted, breath uneven.

Rio’s voice was rough, broken around the edges. “You don’t deserve this.”

It sounded like an accusation. But also... a confession. A prayer.

Agatha tilted her head, lips parting in amusement. The kind of look a tiger wears when it already knows how the hunt will end.

Smug and drunk with want, Agatha murmured: “Don’t I?”

A dare. A trap.

Unhurried and purposeful, she rose into a seated position, eyes locked with Rio’s, blazing.

And bit her bottom lip.

Hard.

The force didn't seem to bother the other woman, who moaned - a low, guttural sound born of frustration, need, and desire.

Not only she didn't pull away. She surged forward again, mouth crashing into Agatha’s with even more force.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a reckoning.

Like she had made a decision she’d regret later, but for now, couldn’t bring herself to care.

Agatha groaned into it, her hands gripping Rio’s ass and lower back, dragging her closer - deeper. Claiming her like territory long denied.

Exultant.

She had unraveled every thread of Rio’s restraint, twisting it between her fingers just to see how far she could stretch it before it snapped.

And she’d been right to do it.

Because Rio was gone.

Restraint - scorched.

Hesitation - reduced to ash.

Logic - obliterated.

She wasn’t just kissing Agatha.

She was taking her.

Agatha not only let her. She encouraged her. Testing how far her brand new 'fuck project' would fall if she kept cutting her ropes one by one.

Finally she did what she’d been dying to do for months - she bit down into the curve of Rio’s neck and shoulder

* God, it felt so fucking good to do that again. *

Rio pulled back just enough to whisper a delicious protest against Agatha’s lips.

“Ouch.”

Driven by a sudden impulse, she yanked open the collar of Agatha’s blouse, exposing the pale stretch of her collarbone - and the delicate lace of her bra. Her fingers curled into the fabric like she was seconds away from tearing it.

“Say it” she hissed.

“What?”

“Say you don’t deserve this.”

A demand. A command.

Each word sliced through the electric silence, sharper than the pulse hammering in her ears.

No response.

Her breath fractured into shallow gasps, her voice frayed with something like desperation. Her eyes dropped, along with her hands, to the lace barely concealing Agatha’s breasts - rising and falling with every ragged breath, practically begging to be touched. Savored. Devoured.

“You don’t deserve this” she said, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have this.”

Agatha tipped her head back, lips parted in blind ecstasy. Her fingers trailed up Rio’s thighs - slow, unapologetic.

“I definitely don’t” she whispered.

It was a lie.

A soft, sugar-laced, venom-tipped lie.

Because she had orchestrated this.

Earned this.

Every glance. Every taunt. Every razor-sharp note scrawled in the margins of Rio’s work had been a breadcrumb.

Leading her here.

To this moment.

To Rio, burning in her lap, body trembling, control long gone.

To Agatha, sitting there like she hadn’t been pulling the strings during all this car trip, like the puppet master she knew she was.

She leaned in, her voice a deadly sin cloaked in sugar. “But I bet you’ll give it to me anyway, won’t you?” she murmured against Rio’s lips - so close, they could’ve kissed by accident.

But, then again, nothing about this was accidental.

Rio exhaled - sharp, shaky - then surged forward.

She wasn’t about to let the chance to devour Agatha slip through her fingers again - not for all the gold in the world.

Her mouth found Agatha’s throat like it had always been meant for it.

She bit.

She sucked.

She marked.

Agatha gasped, her composure slipping for the first time.

She trembled.

Yes – trembled - under the sheer ferocity of it.

A low, sinful laugh tumbled from her lips as Rio’s breath hitched against her flushed skin. As her mouth began to roam.

Lips dragging lower - ravenous, greeedier - down to the lush, maddening curve of the chest that had tormented her for months. The same chest she’d been aching to ravage ever since the Witch of Westview told her to break a leg with the presentation of the very script she’d just returned, bleeding with notes.

Agatha’s fingers tangled in Rio’s hair, threading with purpose - guiding her down, down, to where her skirt had ridden up, exposing heat, hunger, and the promise of no mercy.

Rio needed no further encouragement. She already knew - had dreamed - how the devil beneath her liked to be worshipped: with obedience, with fire. No talking back.

And she was about to become the teacher’s pet.

No words now. Just breath. Just touch. Just her.

She was starving.

And Agatha was a feast - decadent, devastating, endless.

In the end, it wasn’t a cat that got Rio’s talented tongue.

It was Agatha.

And she devoured every gasp, every tremble, like they’d always belonged to her.

Chapter Text

Lately, mornings had quietly become Rio’s favorite part of the day.

Even when the nights were fire - limbs tangled, soft thighs pressed between hers, firm legs locked around her waist - it was the mornings that held her the tightest.

Wrapped her in a chokehold she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to escape.

With that certain je ne sais quoi.

With the kind of afterglow that lingered in bone and breath, sweet and ruinous.

With that rare, blissful sensation of being both invincible and thoroughly - worshipfully - fucked.

Golden sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows in streaks, casting soft halos across the polished floor and over the bed where Rio stirred - rumpled, warm, and entirely somewhere she didn’t belong. Not yet.

The room felt reverent. Like even the walls remembered what had been whispered in gasps.

What had been taken.

What had been given the night before.

The air still tasted like salt, sweat, and the dirtiest, naughtiest sex of her life.

She blinked once.

Twice.

Let the morning seep in as her mind caught up with her body.

* Oh, right. This wasn’t her bed. This was Agatha’s. *

And this morning - blessedly - was a Saturday.

And Rio was deeply pleased that both facts - the Saturday, and waking up in Agatha’s bed - had aligned so perfectly

She rolled over, reaching instinctively for the god tier dirty talker who’d left her flushed, trembling, overstimulated, and desperate to be touched again.

But the bed was empty.

Just a tangle of sheets gone cool and a pillow still faintly shaped by absence.

No tousled dark hair.

No slow, knowing smile.

No voice like warm bourbon and trouble.

No eyes that could strip her bare without laying a finger.

She shifted beneath the sheets, the warmth clinging to her bare skin. Her body hummed with a pleasant ache that coaxed a smile to her lips. She let out a quiet groan - not of discomfort, but of delicious, satisfied exhaustion. Every inch of her pulsed with memory. Her lips curved.

It wasn’t pain. Not really.

It was a keepsake.

A tender echo of everywhere Agatha’s hands had held her, marked her, hurt her in the most unapologetically carnal ways.

And that ache between her thighs?

That was no injury.

It was a gift.

A souvenir.

A lingering reward for having survived a night that had begun in a car parked right outside her place, with her tongue buried in the most exquisite pussy she’d ever tasted.

A night that, unexpectedly, had continued at her boss’s house - where the welcome had been nothing short of promising: “Take off everything you don’t want me to break.”

And it had ended - no, climaxed - with her bent over this very mattress, moaning Agatha’s name like a sacred litany.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Rio sighed, the exhale threading close to longing and stretched - long, slow, lazy - as if waking from the best dream of her life.

She glanced at her phone to check the time.

A flood of texts from her bestie lit up the screen:

DARCY:
Am I trippin' or did our spec got PRE-APPROVED??

DARCY:
Just read the email. So. Many. Notes. Like... srsly, a lot.

DARCY :

Just 1 mo?! Are u fkn kidding me rn?? WTAF.

DARCY:
Gonna go ahead and assume the silence = u got snatched by Bru.

DARCY:
Or by whoever keeps sending u those monster-sized flower drops.

DARCY

Look. I ❤️ u. I support u. Always. But get ur skinny ass back here. We need to rip this thing apart. Like, yday.

Rio snorted softly. Her thumb hovered over the screen.

What could she possibly say? - Yes. I’ve been taken hostage by a sex goddess. Willingly. Enthusiastically. Do NOT send help -

She set the phone down without answering.

And then she rose. Bare. Unbothered. Entirely unashamed. Unapologetically herself.

The sheets peeled away from her skin like water.

Each step across the floor sparked something low and electric in her muscles.

Vivid, filthy flashbacks kept ambushing her as she moved through the house.

As she reached the hallway, a particularly graphic one hit her.

She found herself licking her upper teeth, brows lifting, a slow grin curling at her lips.

* God. That one. *

The hallway opened around her like a minimalist dream: sleek, modern, suspiciously pristine. Clean lines. Sculptural silence. Glass everywhere. A shimmering pool beyond. Beautiful, yes - but too curated.

The kind of house you feature in a magazine spread, not the kind you live in.

But Rio had an eye for what others missed.

The way a stack of books sat askew. The candle that had burned down too far. A coat thrown, not placed.

There was chaos here. Realness, half-tamed. Like the house had been taught how to behave, but every so often forgot. Like it couldn’t help leaking its mistress wildness through the cracks.

Rio smirked to herself.

The house, like its owner, was pretending.

“On brand.” she muttered, entertained.

She followed the hallway of that luxurious maze toward the staircase - still bare, still glowing, still a little dazed from the night before.

No sign of her yet.

But she would find her.

Suddenly...

A voice.

Soft. Affectionate. Apologetic.

And very clearly not meant for her ears.

Rio slowed, curiosity blooming in her chest. Barefoot and silent, she crept down the stairs, each step more cautious than the last, until the sound sharpened into words.

At the far end of the sunlit kitchen, Agatha knelt on the floor.

Her hair, unbound and wild, tumbled down her back in that exact state of beautiful disarray Rio had left it in hours earlier.

A silk kimono - dark as spilled ink, laced with violet blossoms and golden birds - clung to one shoulder, the hem hitched just enough to tease the curve of a thigh. Every subtle movement made it shift, whispering profane promises.

And nestled in her lap?

A rabbit.

A real, breathing, floppy-eared rabbit.

Agatha Harkness - the infamous Reaper of Westview, a master of cruelty and psychological warfare - was cradling it with almost ceremonial care. Her fingers moved gently through its fur, her lips brushing the top of its head like she was casting a charm.

“You poor thing, Mommy left you with nothing but kitchen appliances, didn’t she? Not even a crumb.” she cooed, her voice barely more than breath. “You’ve got to be patient with mommy. Mommy knows nothing”

* In the name of everything unholy and queer. *

Rio nearly missed a step.

Because her heart had just somersaulted without asking permission.

This woman - the same one who, just hours ago, had bitten, commanded, devoured her and reduced her to a trembling, incoherent bloop - was now cuddling a rabbit and apologizing like some half-redeemed fairy tale villain.

Rio’s breath caught.

She wasn’t made for tenderness like this.

Not for soft, domestic magic.

And definitely not for a barefoot enchantress in a silk robe, murmuring lullabies to woodland creatures like it was second nature.

Agatha hadn’t noticed her yet.

Still kneeling, still regal, still perfectly composed in that careless way that made Rio want to fuck her all over again - harder, better, dirtier.

She gently placed the rabbit on the floor, where it hopped over to a ceramic bowl and began nibbling - blissfully unaware it was in the presence of sin incarnate.

The whole scene was absurd.

Laughable.

Ridiculous.

Surreal.

Rio hadn’t thought she could fall deeper.

But... she just had.

Violently.

Stupidly.

Hopelessly.

She descended the rest of the stairs in reverent silence, her eyes drinking in the impossibly tender scene unfolding before her - still trying to make sense of how someone could be both apex predator and rabbit mom, and make both look like acts of seduction.

Could Agatha truly be the perfect contradiction?

Witch and nurturer?

Agony and remedy?

Sin and sanctuary?

Rio had never been more certain of anything in her life.

She wanted this magic.

And whatever after-effect came tangled up in it.

Agatha rose - slow and languid, all feline grace - and turned at the soft sound of bare feet meeting hardwood.

At the foot of the stairs, bathed in sunlight like some mischievous deity freshly conjured into existence, stood Rio.

In all her morning-after magnificence.

A vision composed of heat and havoc.

Her body still bore the relics of the night before: faint bruises, the ghost of teeth, fingerprints pressed into the plush of her thighs like a signature. A living canvas of indulgence.

Agatha’s gaze swept over her. The ink on Rio’s skin shimmered faintly in the golden light - each line now threaded with evidence of Agatha’s appetite.

The sight stole her breath.

She admitted it. Last night, she’d been a bully in the sheets - didn’t just fuck to please; she fucked to conquer. Bulldozed her way through every gasp and shiver - fucked like she was owed something. Aggressive, insatiable, loud with need. No inch left untouched. No softness.

That’s exactly why she found her curious that Rio was still here.

Still standing.

Not running.

Not even flinching.

Still looking at her like that.

Rio lingered on the last step like a statue carved from lust and fevered oaths - lips parted, chest rising slow and even, as if to tame the heat beginning to brew beneath her skin.

That look in her eyes - somewhere between awe and disbelief - was becoming the kind Agatha craved the most.

Open. Glowing. Unguarded. Undone.

She let a slow smirk curl across her lips.

“Oh. Right” she drawled, her voice honeyed, lethal. “You.”

Her eyes raked over the unexpected vision one more time - slow, possessive, unapologetic - pausing on every delicious detail.

Well, if she was staying longer, Agatha had no intention of letting that body rest. Not yet. Not for a very, very long time.

As if obeying some silent summons, Rio began to walk toward her.

Slow. Measured. Certain.

How had she never noticed the way she moved?

Like a threat disguised as a blessing.

Like a dance too blasphemous for public view.

Every step a warning.

Every sway of her hips, a promise that the trouble would only deepen.

Watching her approach - then stop just a few steps away - felt like witnessing a celestial collapse: impossible, magnetic, inevitable.

And in that moment, serving cunt wasn’t just a phrase.

It was revelation.

It was art.

Rio, never one for modesty, stretched.

Arms raised above her head, fingers laced behind her neck.

Her posture was casual, almost lazy - if not for the glint in her eyes and the wicked curl tugging at her lips.

She looked utterly well-fucked - and as a result, gloriously victorious. Insolent.

Agatha couldn’t look away.

How had this woman - this walking, talking statue of Aphrodite that belong in a museum - ever hidden beneath slouchy office clothes?

That body, sculpted from the holiest clay, was standing right in front of her now: naked, glowing, divine.

And those eyes...

They flicked from Agatha… to the rabbit… back to Agatha again.

Playful. Daring.

As if asking, So, what now?

Agatha felt the sudden urge to fuck her all over again - thoroughly.

“That’s your fault, you know? You made me miss his dinner” she murmured, beginning to close the distance between them - the living embodiment of temptation.

The kimono whispered around her thighs, swaying with each step, hinting at what Rio already knew: there was nothing beneath it. Just bare skin, bad intentions, and the vague, unbearable promise of more sex.

Her gaze followed the motion, transfixed.

“Tragic” she murmured, casting a solemn glance at the rabbit. “My sincerest apologies... Mister?”

“Scratchy” Agatha replied, perfectly deadpan.

* Scratchy!? Oh my Grrrdmkskds! The literal goddess of the underworld cuddled rabbits named Scratchy? Oh, fuck, that make her even sexier *

Agatha was nearly on her now - so close the air between them felt less like space and more like tension incarnate, a narrow breath charged with intent.

Her hands lifted with slow precision to cup Rio’s face. Thumbs brushed the contours of her cheeks - not casually, not sweetly - but with the kind of attention that made the skin beneath them feel chosen.

With a shift in pressure, her fingers glided downward, charting the line of Rio's jaw, pausing at the corners of her mouth like she was reading a secret there. Not a map, no - maps were for the lost. This was ownership, quietly reaffirmed.

Her voice, when it came, was dusk made audible - low, velveted, laced with something playful but edged in want.

“What are you doing down here, sweetheart?” she murmured, her lips pulling into a smile that unstrung thought, that tugged at the mind like a dream just out of reach. “Looking for something to eat too?”

The grin that followed was conspiratorial - like she’d already written the answer on her brand-new lover’s skin hours ago and was just waiting for her to remember.

Rio was melting in real time, like bakery butter on a summer sidewalk. There weren’t enough words for the kind of want pulsing through her. Horny didn’t even graze the surface. It was deeper. Older. Elemental.

Her eyes dropped, unthinking, to Agatha’s mouth - soft, lush, maddeningly close. The kind of mouth you could fall into. Drown in. Die happy. The kind of lips that could undo you, slowly or all at once.

Agatha saw it. She always saw it.

“Oh…” she murmured knowingly “You’re not hungry.” Her eyes gleamed, pupils dark and dancing. “You’re thirsty.”

The crystal-clear implication in her words shattered what was left of Rio’s brain. Language evaporated. Coherence vanished. All that remained was heat.

“Mmm... I...uh...” was all she could manage. Her mouth refused to cooperate. Her mind had already left the building.

Agatha laughed - low, unhurried. Elegant in that infuriating way only a woman completely in control could be.

Her eyes sparkled, pleased.

That tiny stutter? It only made her want Rio more.

Her gaze carved a slow, possessive line down the inked marvel in front of her stopping at those soft lips like she already owned them.

Because, in every way that mattered, she did.

“Back to losing the art of articulation, are we?” she teased, tilting her head with exaggerated innocence, her voice sugar-laced and smug.

Rio laughed too - breathless, flushed.

Her body hummed with nervous energy, with subtle tremors simmering just beneath the surface.

And, as always, when words failed her, instinct stepped in.

She reached for Agatha’s wrists, catching them gently. Not to stop her - but to ask her, silently, not to pull away.

“We could eat now and fuck later” Agatha murmured, her breath brushing the delicate edge of Rio’s cheekbone. “Or fuck now and eat later.”

She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper as her lips grazed the shell of Rio’s ear.
“I’ll let you choose.”

Rio’s grin unfurled - crooked and slow.

“Why do I get the feeling this is a trap?”

Agatha’s nose skimmed hers. Their foreheads nearly touched. Their mouths, a breath apart - maybe less. But still not kissing. Not yet.

“There’s no wrong answer” she whispered, her voice molten, thick with heat. Her lips hovered so close Rio could feel the shape of every syllable. “But there’s definitely a right one.”

Rio’s hands slid down, fingers finding the knot at Agatha’s waist. She tugged - once. Sure. Slow.

“How would you feel...” she murmured, her voice barely more than a ghost of sound “...if I ate you right here on the counter?”

Agatha chuckled - low and delighted, the sound a dark purr of approval. “Such a fast learner.”

And she meant it. Every word.

Last night, Rio had touched her like someone who had known her body for years and was only now giving it a name. Every motion had been intention. Every breath, a revelation. As if her body had been speaking in tongues only she could translate - fierce, focused, impossibly attuned.

This strange, singular girl had touched her like she’d been custom-made for her.

The knot slipped loose beneath Rio's fingers and the robe opened for her.

Agatha didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

She simply smiled.

Not kindly. Not sweetly.

It was the kind of smile that made anyone pounce.

Rio’s gaze dropped.

The marks she’d left on Agatha’s body the night before finally appeared before her eyes - still there, subtle and hidden, precisely where Agatha had allowed them to bloom.

Nowhere clothing wouldn’t cover. That was the order.

And now, her generous breasts were exposed, bearing quiet testimony to the attention they'd received.

So was her navel. Her torso. Her...

* Fuck. Right now, Agatha looked like she was hers. *

Rio leaned in, brushing her lips over Agatha’s shoulder.

She kissed it - softly, reverently - then slid the silk from her skin with slow, precise fingers.

The delicate garment sighed to the floor.

And Agatha stood before her - completely naked, bathed in sunlight, in want, in the wreckage of restraint.

Rio stepped back, just for a second.

To look.

To take her in.

That’s when she noticed:

Agatha had caught the silk sash mid-fall and now held it loosely in one hand, like a cat who’d stolen your favorite pen and dared you to take it back.

“You’re still expecting me to explain all those scribbles I left on your script, aren’t you? ” she asked, eyes glinting, amused by her own question.

Rio’s arms slipped around her waist, drawing her close, anchoring her to the heat of her own breath.

“Only if you promise to wear exactly that while doing it”

Agatha arched a brow, looked down at herself, and faked a pout. “But I’m not wearing anything.”

Rio smiled against her lips. “Exactly.”

And kissed her.

Slow.

Deep.

Certain.

Agatha opened to her with a soft sound - half sigh, half gasp - her tongue meeting hers in a slow, sinuous slide.

Rio caught it between her lips like a promise - one she fully intended to keep.

Her hands slid downward, cupping the exquisite curve of Agatha’s ass, claiming it like familiar territory she had never stopped craving.

The contact was delicate. Not rough. Not rushed.

Executed with surgical precision - just to watch her come undone

Then she pivoted - swift, precise - and pressed Agatha against the nearest kitchen counter with practiced control.

The impact was gentle. Exact.

Agatha moaned into her mouth, momentarily lost. But soon came the smirk - unrepentant - as she began sliding the silk tie around Rio’s neck like a collar.

Slow. Teasing. Intentional.

One leg curled around Rio’s waist, drawing her closer with something between need and command.

Rio groaned - low, rough, involuntary.

She eased back just enough for her self-appointed owner to slip the impromptu leash into place.

Something obscene and honest was already forming on her tongue...but, as always, Agatha beat her to it.

“Shut up and fuck me with your tongue already” she demanded.

Then she gave the silk a little tug.

Just enough to steal Rio’s breath and send it spinning.

Another moan slipped from her - helpless, heady - as Rio lifted her in one smooth motion and sat her on the counter.

She eased one of Agatha’s legs over her shoulder and lowered her onto the cool marble surface, her muscles tight with want, breath snagging against the weight of restraint.

Rio’s mouth found her jaw, then her throat, then her lips again, just as Agatha pulled her in for another kiss.

Agatha arched into the touch, eyes closed, lips parted in pure pleasure - but she didn’t stop, not for a second, tugging the silk tie looped around her pet's neck.

She pulled with delicious pressure - controlling, unrelenting, claiming her by breath and body alike.

They moved like time didn’t apply to them.

Like if they just fucked each other right - hard enough, deep enough - they could rewrite the laws of the universe.

In the corner of the room, Scratchy twitched his nose, entirely unmoved by those two emotionally volatile, naked women composing their own epic story out of sweat, sighs and lust.

_______

Just two days later, Rio woke to another unforgettable morning.

They’d spent the entire night fucking in Agatha’s living room - on the couch, on the floor, against the bookshelf, against the wall near the bookshelf, sprawled across the plush rug like they were trying to leave permanent imprints on every surface. Pushing the limits of what the human body could endure and redefining the expression ‘fooling around’ in ways that would make the dictionary blush.

It had been wild, raw, and even tender in turns. They had kissed like thieves and clung to each other like shipwreck survivors.

By the time they collapsed from exhaustion into the cushions, sweat-slicked and gasping, the sky had already started to lighten in that soft, traitorous way that promised reality was coming.

Less than an hour later, Rio’s alarm was already going off.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she shifted, reminding her exactly how many times she'd screamed Agatha’s name into the night.

She groaned, face buried in the couch cushion. Her body felt like it had been lovingly destroyed - limbs heavy with fatige, back sore, neck, wrists, tits, stomach, and thights marked.

Her hair was a crown of tangles - left behind by Agatha’s violent, expert hands when she’d yanked her head back with a broken smile and growled, “Too stubborn, aren’t you?” - utterly undone by Rio’s smugness.

She rolled over and hissed when the raw scratches along her back grazed against the textured fabric of the sofa - evidence of nails and passion, stacking night after night like tally marks neither of them intended to erase.

She blinked up at the ceiling, confused by the silence and sat up slowly, stretching with a wince.

The couch beside her was empty.

No Agatha.

No shared body heat.

No whispered greeting brushing the curve of her ear.

Just the lingering warmth where her body should’ve been - hot, gorgeous, and very much present - and the scent of sweat and sex still clinging to her skin.

Before heading upstairs, she made a detour into the kitchen.

Barefoot, unhurried, she moved like she owned the house - or maybe like the house had already claimed her.

The morning sun spilled across the counters like liquid gold, but everything else was still.

The only sign of life: Scratchy.

Posted by his bowl, ears twitching, judging her with the quiet disdain of a creature who’d seen too much and been fed too little in this household.

She crouched beside him, rubbing the space between his ears with one lazy hand.

Scratchy twitched his nose and stared at her.

“I know, buddy, but you gotta understand” she sighed, affection warm in her voice. “She’s irresistible.”

She stood again and padded back toward the staircase.

Upstairs, the sound of running water drew her like a siren call.

She followed it past Agatha’s bedroom door.

The room was as pristine as it ever got - bed made, sunlight slicing through the sheer curtains, casting patterns across the floor.

Agatha’s perfectly curated outfit for the day was already laid out with obsessive precision on the made bed they hadn’t even touched the night before. A crisp white blouse. A plum blazer paired with dark purple slacks. Heels with red soles - sharp enough to double as weapons. That unmistakable Agatha signature: power and seduction, tailored to perfection.

Rio stared at the clothes and let out a low whistle. She could already picture Agatha strutting into the office in that outfit - looking downright criminal.

She bit back a grin, imagining herself peeling it off, slowly. Well, maybe not that slowly, depending on how well Agatha behaved. One smug layer at a time, until the only thing she was wearing was attitude - and a couple of fresh bruises on her tits.

Yeah. she was definitely coming back here to get Agatha naked again.

But it was Monday. And that was the thing - weekends ended. What if Agatha thought their little adventure had ended, too? What if this was the last time she’d get to have this - Agatha?

Near the bed sat her bag - the one she’d taken to work on Friday - tucked off to the side like it had been hiding.

She hadn’t brought it up two nights ago. In fact, she’d completely forgotten about it. Hard to remember something as mundane as a bag when you’ve spent the weekend naked, your head... otherwise occupied. Specifically, between Agatha’s legs, as many times as humanly possible.

The last thing she recalled was the dull thud it made hitting the floor in the entryway the moment Agatha opened the door. She hadn’t even worried about the laptop inside.

Rio had been on her immediately - pressing in from behind, mouth hot at her neck, hands everywhere. Buttons undone. That treacherous skirt finally hitting the ground. Coordination lost in the urgency of unclasping Agatha’s bra.

She didn’t even catch what Agatha murmured - something frayed and low, something that might’ve been “So eager.”

She didn’t process it. Not through the thick haze of want.

Agatha must’ve gone back for the bag the next morning.

Rio chuckled at the image: Agatha, stark naked, opening the front door and hauling her bag upstairs. Hips swaying, that delicious ass moving like a pendulum, sauntering through the house like a woman with nothing to hide and everything to flaunt.

Shaking her head, still smiling, she pulled out the same jeans she’d worn Friday and a backup shirt - wrinkled but clean - the one she always kept in her bag in case of spills. She started changing, already late for work.

Might as well try to look slightly less thoroughly ravished today. Maybe even avoid being accused of the walk of shame - though honestly, she’d never felt less ashamed in her fucking life.

The water stopped.

Rio glanced toward the en suite door. That was her cue.

It hung slightly ajar, steam curling out like a beckoning hand. She knocked anyway - out of decorum.

“I left it open for a reason” came Agatha’s voice from inside - rich, amused, like the steam itself had made her drunk.

Rio smiled to herself. She pushed the door wider, stepped in.

And stopped, stunned by the vision before her.

The bathroom was filled with a soft haze.

Agatha was sunk deep into her clawfoot tub, half-submerged in clouds of steam and iridescent bubbles.

Morning light streamed through the bathroom windows in soft streaks, catching on her wet skin.

One bare knee jutted above the surface, slick and glistening like a lonely island in paradise. Her head rested back against the porcelain, damp hair clinging to her shoulders like dark vines, the curve of her throat exposed - not so much a woman as the mirage Rio had been chasing, panting after, for months at the office.

With those piercing ocean eyes, she looked like a goddess of mornings.

"Did you sleep well?" she purred - her voice hoarse and low, more incantation than greeting.

“Did you sleep at all?” Rio asked back, leaning in the doorway.

Agatha shook her head, lips curling into a pout - clearly for effect, given the glint in her eyes.
"Not a second" she murmured. "Didn’t need to."

And Rio believed her. She recognized that glow. She knew exactly what had caused it.

* And God, was she proud of herself. *

She crossed the room in three slow steps and sank to her knees beside the tub like it was an altar.

Her arm draped over the edge. Her cheek pressed against the porcelain. Her face leveled with Agatha’s.

Their eyes met and held.

No words. No need.

Agatha smirked first. Rio mirrored it, slow and sure.

Without breaking eye contact, her hand moved - fingertips brushing over the exposed knee.

Agatha’s smirk deepened, eyes locked on Rio’s hand as it kept going - slow, reverent, deliberate.

Her fingers slipped beneath the bubbles, disappearing under the surface to find the heat of Agatha’s thigh.

Rio bit her lip, watching every flicker of reaction dance across Agatha’s face.

Her mermaid gripped the edges of the tub, pulling her shoulders back, arching just enough to give Rio full access.

The surface of the water rippled.

Her breath caught as bubbles slid down her chest. Her body rose, slightly, and Rio’s eyes flicked up in time to see her breasts break the surface - nipples peaked from the change in temperature.

Rio let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, as her open hand continued its slow path along Agatha’s long, flawless thigh, pressing just enough to feel her trembling.

No matter how unreal the weekend had felt - how fever-dream perfect, how completely out of time - Agatha, stripped of all armor and breathtakingly present, still had the power to undo Rio completely.

She kept moving her hand lower until her fingers brushed the crease where Agatha’s thigh met her center - then lower still, her fingertips tracing her folds with practiced, possessive pressure.

Agatha’s breath hitched.

Rio licked her lips without thinking, stunned to feel just how wet she was, even underwater.

Agatha arched a brow, clearly aware of the effect she was having on her fuck toy. The smirk that curved on her lips wasn’t coy - it was confident, amused. She was offering a view, and she knew exactly what it was worth.

Rio's fingers kept caressing and exploring her, slow and sure, while her thumb slipped in - pressing gently on her clit, tracing soft, teasing circles.

Agatha’s breath caught. “Fu...” she whispered, covering her face with one hand as if that could hide the way her cheeks flushed.

Rio ran her fingers slowly through Agatha's delicious and wanting sex, gathering the wetness she’d been gifted and watched her, utterly entranced, soaking in every trembling breath, every twitch. She looked sacred and forbidden all at once.

Seeing her personal sea witch still had her eyes closed, head thrown back against the edge of the tub, she teased the edges of her entrance with slow strokes before pulling her thumb away.

Her voice cut through the quiet. “Uh-uh, Agatha. Eyes on me.”

It was a bold command - one Agatha, given her nature, could’ve easily ignored or even turned against Rio. But she didn’t. There was something in that dark, confident tone that echoed through her like the toll of a distant bell.

She’d heard it a few times over the weekend - like Rio was slipping away from herself, letting something darker, more thrilling, and intoxicating take hold.

She couldn’t help but wonder if all that smugness and cool confidence beneath her pet effortless exterior was powered by some hidden force she kept carefully locked away from prying eyes.

And Agatha, endlessly curious about anything powerful, was more than willing to play along - eager to push Rio’s limits, to see just how far that will could stretch and how fiercely it could burn. Was her sweet treat ready to take it to the max?

After a long pause - during which Rio’s fingers moved tenderly, dangerously tracing the edges of her entrance without slipping inside, just teasing - Agatha’s hand fell away from her face.

Her eyes dropped first, drawn to the quiet ripple beneath the surface. They followed the path of a submerged arm, traced the arc of strength and softness climbing upward - shoulder, neck - until they met brown eyes - steady, watchful, and waiting.

In that moment, something dark and shimmering sparked in the alluring gaze of the sultry gorgon lounging in the tub - something that didn’t just match Rio’s own shadowy heat, but magnified it, turned it up, set it ablaze a thousand times over.

She almost lost herself right then. But she held on, savoring the control as her tongue slid along the inside of her cheek.

She groaned quietly. Agatha was so wet, so ready.

“That’s it, baby” she whispered, her voice lower, thick. “ Look only at me as I make you cum”

Another soft sound slipped from Agatha’s lips - low and heady.

People were usually intimidated by her gaze - even in bed. Especially in bed.

But this reckless little bitch...

She always wanted their eyes to meet while they fucked.

And truthfully? It wasn’t just intense.

It was hot.

Straight-up rocket fuel for her most primal instincts.

Through the shifting foam, Rio caught fleeting glimpses of Agatha's submerged body: her navel, her torso, all of her in fervent, restless motion.

From the bedroom, an alarm buzzed again, distant and useless.

Time was trying to reclaim them.

But Rio didn’t move. She couldn’t. Not while Agatha was looking at her like that - lips parted, blue eyes wide, pupils blown wide with lust and something else. Fascination? Intrigue?

Agatha’s eyes flashed with defiance. Between gasps, she managed, “Do you... mmm... know how late you’re going to be?”

Her voice broke in places, sending a shiver through the woman who had started as her employee and somehow become her undoing.

“Your boss is gonna be... fuuck... so pissed.”

Rio’s hand moved without pause.

“I think my boss will let it…” Her voice dropped an octave as three fingers eased into Agatha with slow, worshipful precision “…slide.”

And her hand did exactly that, deep and unrelenting.

The woman who was supposedly in charge gasped - breath catching on the edge of a whimper.

Every time their gazes met mid-thrust, something deep and feral awakened in her - a slow, smoldering hunger that pulsed behind her ribs and demanded more. She didn’t bother to hide it.

No.

She thrived on it. Fed on it like it was oxygen.

Her voice dropped to a growl, low and electric.

Water spilled gently over the rim, Rio rythmn now too intense to contain.

Agatha whined - high-pitched, a little startled by the sudden thrust of her lover's hand, her hips jerking forward on instinct.

“You love fucking me, don’t you, pretty girl?”

The question tore through Rio like a live wire, setting fire to every nerve ending. Her pulse pounded.

The way she was watching her - intense, unwavering - it only made her want to fill her more.

And then, as if that weren’t enough, came the rest - those raw, visceral groans spilling from Agatha’s lips, perfectly syncing with the firm, steady rhythm of her hand.

Her wet, wicked fantasy sank deeper into the tub, her back arching instinctively. But those deadly eyes where the sky and the ocean met, never left Rio’s - sharp, glinting, unrelenting - as she kept moving her fingers in that newly discovered way that made her seducer lose her breath.

If this drenched muse had been beautiful before, now she looked mythic - cheeks flushed, hair slicked to her skin like strands of ink.

A woman on the verge.

And still impossibly, defiantly composed.

“Just like that” she moaned, her voice ragged, urgent. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Rio smiled. That line was supposed to be hers.

* Fuck that. *

She didn’t care - not with Agatha looking like that. The way her fingers tightened on Rio’s arm, the slight widening of her eyes - it said everything. She was close. And hearing it come from those lips? That only made it hotter.

Agatha was the one naked, spread open, the one unraveling beneath the surface, yet there was still something sovereign in the way she held Rio’s gaze - like she would never fully surrender, no matter how close she came.

So her mischievous little secret played her next card carefully.

Because this wasn’t just flirtation.

This wasn’t just heat.

This was Agatha giving her power in inches and pretending she wasn’t.

And during this past shared weekend, Rio had enthusiastically learned how to take it.

"Or what?" she asked in a falsely innocent tone, pulling her thumb away from Agatha’s clit and stopping her fingers inside her all at once - right in the middle of a particularly deep, punishing thrust.

Her smug, amused expression stayed perfectly in place, her head resting lazily on her forearm, as if the scene unfolding in front of her - caused by her - wasn’t affecting her in the slightest.

At that, Agatha's free hand shot up from the water and clutched her delicate destroyer's jaw, her fingers trembling, dripping wet.

It wasn’t a caress - it was a grip.

Fierce. Anchoring.

Like she was both claiming and damning her.

Like a high priestess turned on sacrifice, lost in her own ritual, clinging to something solid before she shattered completely.

"You know I'll make you pay for this, right?" she inhaled sharply.

Oh, she would. Rio was counting on it. That was the whole point of this little game - to keep the fire burning, to keep this menacing minx wanting more.

"Tonight?" Rio murmured, her voice silk-soft. Her thumb returned to its post, brushing over Agatha’s clit with maddening lightness - just enough pressure to draw another helpless whimper from her.

But the exasperating emotional vandal in front of her, true to form, didn’t answer. Of course she didn’t. In her mind, bad girls didn’t deserve answers. And Rio, right now, was being the absolute worst kind.

The kind that tried to made you surrender and bend to her will.

When she didn’t reply, Rio pushed her fingers back in - hard, deep, unrelenting.

“Agatha, answer me” she whispered, voice rough, almost a growl.

Agatha didn’t. This time, it wasn’t defiance.

This time, she couldn’t.

Her entire body tensed, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring. Her cry - low, guttural, entirely unguarded - bounced off the tile walls, raw and glorious. It was a sound Rio would carry with her forever, a perfect, feral kind of music that settled somewhere deep inside her chest.

She was hooked. She was cooked. She was completely and utterly in awe.

Because even as the tremors rolled through the woman losing herself in the tub, even as wave after wave of pleasure took her over, she never once looked away. Her gaze locked on Rio’s - piercing, eternal, unblinking.

It was reverence and resistance.

It was power and surrender, held in equal, exquisite balance.

When Agatha's breathing began to steady, when the tension finally melted from her shoulders, Rio slowly withdrew her hand.

She rose, leaned in, and pressed her mouth to Agatha’s in a kiss that was soft, slow, and soaked in something too sacred to name. Gratitude. Worship. A kind of burning.

Agatha’s fingers curled into her shirt, pulling her closer, biting at her lip before sliding her tongue into her mouth.

Rio melted into it - into her. Like wax meeting flame.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Agatha felt it - that last inch of space between them, that flicker of control Rio thought she still had.

If she believed she’d won, she was dead wrong.

In one fluid, sudden motion - graceful as ever, but with zero mercy - Agatha grabbed her by the neck and arm, tightened her hold, and dragged her down.

Rio gasped, laughter bursting from her lips just a heartbeat before her body followed, crashing into the tub fully clothed.

Water and foam exploded in every direction.

The floor. The walls. The mirror. The ceiling.

Steam curled around them like conjured mist - thick and blinding - wrapping their skin in heat and secrecy.

Rio landed facedown with a splash and a startled laugh, soaked to the bone, wild and delighted, her clothes plastered to her skin in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She looked up at Agatha, blinking through the haze, hair dripping, face flushed - and grinning like a woman who would gladly drown in this exact moment.

Agatha, chest still heaving, lips red and parted, smiled back with the kind of satisfaction that could end wars.

“Why did you do that?” Rio asked, laughing breathlessly as she pushed drenched hair from her face, grinning like a lunatic.

Agatha didn’t bother to answer. She was already pulling her closer, guiding Rio’s limbs with the same intuitive arrogance she used for stage directions - and foreplay.

Confident. Exact. Inevitable.

With practiced ease, she positioned the giggling embodiment of desire exactly where she wanted her, fitting her body perfectly between her thighs. The movement was effortless - a choreography she'd mastered over the past two days.

Her hands wandered slowly down Rio’s soaked form, fingers trailing over drenched fabric clinging to bare skin. She took her time, treating her like a landscape she was determined to memorize by heart.

“I’m officially banning clothes in this bathroom” she muttered - half delighted, half ravenous.

When her hands finally settled - one gliding lower to claim her hip, the other rising to cradle her cheek with aching tenderness - everything in the woman with midnight eyes went still. The smile on her lips faltered. Her whole body tensed, breath caught mid-inhale.

The contact was sharp, hot, maddening - in the best possible way. That dual touch - possessive and worshipful - cut through her like nothing else.

She slipped snugly into the space Agatha had made for her, settling between her slick, magnificent thighs. And a low, desperate whimper escaped her lips as Agatha’s thumb brushed just beneath her eye, the warmth of her palm grounding her in the moment.

That touch - so intimate, so possessive - left her breathless. The sound slipped out of her before she could stop it, raw and needy in a way that would’ve mortified her if she hadn’t already been too far gone to care.

Agatha tilted her chin up, smug and unapologetic. “What was that?” she taunted.

That sound, that involuntary slip of vulnerability, was all the confirmation she needed.

Rio was under her spell again.

Realizing the trouble she was in - feeling how lost she already was - the soaked intruder now entwined with her in the tub shook her head and kissed Agatha again. Harder this time. Slower, too.

But right before she surrendered fully - before falling into that delicious abyss where she'd never want to be found - she wrenched herself back, out of the trap Agatha was so skillfully weaving around her.

Bracing her hands on the edge of the tub, she pushed herself up and forward, her torso rising from the water while still pinning the fiery seductress beneath her, caging her face between her arms. Her drenched jeans dragged roughly across Agatha’s silk-soft skin - until her knee pressed firmly against her most adored cunt.

Agatha gasped, the kiss shattering as surprise overtook her.

Rio laughed against her mouth, the sound low and triumphant, feeling herself take back control - not just of her own body, but of the moment. Already considering her next move.

Agatha let out a sharp exhale - half amusement, half disbelief - as her thumb glided across Rio’s lower lip.

Between the unwavering intensity in Agatha’s eyes and the molten heat between their bodies, Rio could barely think. Her thigh pressed harder against Agatha on instinct, drawing a sharp swallow from her as she rubbed herself against the rough fabric of those damp jeans.

Rio knew she had to get out that bathtub before she gave everything away. She had to leave Agatha wanting more.

Making the hard choice, she rose - unshaken, in control - water cascading down her soaked clothes as if the tub itself couldn’t bear to let her go.

Agatha leaned back against the tub wall, watching her stand with that signature unreadable expression carved across her face.

Standing there dripping - clothes clinging, hair slicked back like a water nymph risen from the deep - Rio let her voice drop, low and teasing.

“I won’t keep you any longer” she said. “Go get your purple back.”

Agatha’s brows lifted. “My what?”

She was too caught up - too spellbound by the vision of Rio, standing there like a dripping fountain of defiance and desire - to register the full meaning of the words.

Rio stepped out of the tub with unhurried confidence, peeled off her soaked shirt slowly, letting it cling to her skin a second longer before tossing it into the sink behind her.

Agatha’s eyes followed the motion, then dropped - lingering on the curve of Rio’s perky tits, the slope of her ribs, the way the damp denim hugged every line of her body like a second skin.

She tried not to stare. She failed spectacularly.

Rio smiled to herself, knowing she had Agatha’s full attention now.

“Your power outfit” she clarified, nodding toward the bed beyond the open door, where Agatha’s carefully curated clothes lay untouched. “Go on, put it on. Wield your terrifying authority. Make some CEO cry before lunch. Have your Monday fun.”

Just before leaving, Rio leaned in - close enough to kiss her - but didn’t.

“Then come find me… so I can strip you down and let you ride whatever part of me you’ve been thinking about all morning.”

She didn’t bother hiding the hunger in her gaze as she reached down and traced the end of a damp curl that had slipped from Agatha's shoulder, now clinging to the porcelain edge of the tub.

Agatha’s breath caught.

Because - fuck - that look.

That gleam in Rio’s eyes.

Like she was the one playing games now.

Like Agatha was the toy.

With that signature strut that made it impossible not to watch her go, Rio headed for the door.

At the threshold, she paused, glanced back over her shoulder with a grin sharp enough to bruise.

“Same place. Sundown. Don’t keep me waiting.”

And just like that - leaving puddles behind like breadcrumbs - she was gone.