Chapter Text
You sit there quietly, sipping your coffees and gazing out at the sprawling canyon. And you try to relax as Agatha’s words replay in your mind. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t felt yourself ache at her words; lying if you said you hadn’t clenched between your thighs all over again as you remember whose underwear you’re wearing.
And suddenly, Friday can’t come soon enough.
Agatha’s been quiet since your questions about Rio, but she catches you staring at her twice while you wait for your food to arrive, and each time she offers you a small smile that helps ease the anxious ache within you a little.
And once your food arrives, you’re grateful for the distraction.
Her phone goes off shortly after.
“It’s the studio, one sec, hon,” she says with a mouthful of omelette before swiping to answer. “Hit me.”
You tuck into your French toast, suddenly ravenous, and you watch her face shift as she takes the call.
“Yeah? Uh-huh… Oh, good,” you watch as she nods. “So it’s fixed now? Excellent. So we’re good for tonight, then. Thanks for letting me know, you’re a star.”
She hangs up. “Looks like they managed to get the power back on.”
Memories of last night flash before you; Agatha had tried to brush it off, but you still feel like something was off. Something is off. The flickering lights above you in Stage 21 as she ruined you; confession after confession spilling from her lips on breathless moans as she lost herself on top of you. The bizarre lucid dream you’d had, the buzzing in your head, the nosebleeds, and then the power going out—it was all too strange to dismiss as coincidence.
You shift in your seat, trying not to dwell on it.
“So, everything’s back on track for tonight?”
“Seems that way,” she replies, spearing a piece of omelette with her fork. “Eat up, hon. We should get you home soon so you can rest. You’ve got some big scenes tonight.”
You nod, but you can’t help the small nervous flip that your stomach does. You’ll see your co-star again, where she’ll no doubt try to get under Agatha’s skin once more.
And then there’s the threat of another nosebleed or that awful, droning headache returning to knock you sideways.
Agatha notices, and replies as if she can read your mind.
“Don’t worry about her. I’ll be having a quick word with her before we shoot tonight. Mama will handle it.”
You cough suddenly, accidentally inhaling a piece of French toast too quickly at her words.
“And if you feel unwell at any point again, you let me know. Okay?”
You manage to swallow the bite of French toast, your face still burning as you nod. “Okay. I will.”
Agatha watches you for a moment, takes you in and assesses.
“Good girl.”
You duck your head slightly, hiding the pink of your cheeks because your praise kink really will be the death of you.
“Now,” she says, setting her cup of coffee down and pointing her fork at your plate. “Finish your breakfast. You’re gonna need your strength for tonight.”
The way she says it, with that signature warm mischief and certainty, means you don’t dare question her. Instead, you pick up your fork and do exactly as she says—like the good girl you are.
Agatha is stopped twice by other breakfast goers before you leave Café on 27. Once, when she goes to pay the bill for you both:
“Oh, Ms. Harkness!” A flamboyant voice rings throughout the place as one guy asks for an autograph. Agatha handles it with her signature charm, “Thanks, doll. Here you go,” and she signs his receipt that he handed her.
The second interruption comes just as you both exit out of the café:
“Oh. My. God!” comes a voice which grabs your attention. You turn around to see a girl a couple of years younger than yourself start babbling on about how much she admires Agatha’s work. About how much she adored her last film.
“Thank you, hon. Appreciate it,” she gives a polite smile.
But it’s then it happens. Just as the fan surveys you as well.
“Is this your daughter?”
And you just about die.
And you can tell that Agatha does more so.
She turns to the overly enthusiastic fan with a smile that’s just a little too tight. “What? No,” she says with a shake in her voice. “This is—”
“I’m her friend,” you cut in, because you can see how Agatha’s feeling. “I’m just a friend. I’m an actor.”
The girl’s eyes dart between the two of you, clearly embarrassed by her blunder. “Oh, oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean… wow, that was so dumb of me, I just—”
Agatha waves it off with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “No harm done.”
The two of you walk away from her swiftly and get into Agatha’s car in tense silence, and you watch as she grips the steering wheel and stares at nothing ahead of her as she lets out an exhale.
“Wonderful. I feel about a hundred years old.”
You watch as she simmers in embarrassment.
“Oh, come on, she can’t have been a true fan if she thought you had a daughter. Besides,” you pause, grabbing at ideas on how to lighten the mood. “You would have been young when you had me. You’d have been, what? Twenty?”
Agatha groans dramatically, slumping back in her seat as she pulls her sunglasses down just enough to glare playfully at you over the rim. “Not helping.”
She starts the engine, reversing out of the parking lot. You let the pause linger for a while, but then you can’t help yourself.
“Is it weird that I found that kinda hot?”
She freezes, shooting you a slightly stunned look. “What?”
You shrug, feigning innocence but failing miserably as the corners of your mouth betray you with a smirk. “I mean, she thought you were my mom, and we both know the truth.”
“Enjoying yourself there, are you?” she says through almost gritted teeth. “Freud would have had a field day with you.”
You lean back, grinning. “Oh, come on. Admit it. It was kind of funny. If only she knew…”
Agatha shakes her head as her face flushes pink. “God, you are just—” She stops herself as she grips the wheel.
“I’m just what?” you press. And you let yourself revel in the thrill at the way her voice caught. “Go on. Continue...”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.” She shoots you a sideways glance as she tries to focus on the road ahead. “You’re lucky I’m driving right now.”
“Or what? What would you do, ‘mommy’.” And you draw out those two syllables on purpose, sticking your tongue between your teeth as you wait for her reaction.
“I could strangle you.”
“But…” you pause, gripping your bottom lip with your teeth as you run your fingers up to playfully clasp around your throat. “You know I’d like that…”
For a second, you notice Agatha look in the rearview mirror, peer at potential exits in the road, looking for places she could pull over and teach you a lesson for being a brat. She’s biting in her bottom lip, licking it a little in frustration.
Then she’s looking at the time. Because she knows that you need to rest ahead of tonight’s shoot, and she needs to get into director mode.
“Save it.” She mutters bluntly.
“For what?” you ask, sounding ridiculously amused as you’re practically grinning at her.
This time, she doesn’t take her eyes off the road.
Instead, she drops her voice dark and rasping. You know what’s coming. You can practically hear it already as your green eyes stare at her, begging for it.
“For when ‘mommy’ has time to deal with you properly. Friday. Let’s see how much you’re still smirking then.”
Welp. That does it. Her words leave you momentarily speechless. Your skin hums with a heat that scolds, and for the rest of the drive, you wish away the week.
You end up falling asleep on the rest of the drive as Agatha navigates the roads back to your place in Santa Monica.
“Here we are, sleepyhead.”
You wake up groggily as you stir, hearing her turn off the engine.
“God, sorry—” you feel guilty for letting Agatha drive back without conversation. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Oh, honey. You obviously needed it,” she looks you over, before pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “Now, go and get some real rest.”
“Can I just ask…” you pause, “what are you going to say to her before we start filming tonight?”
She sighs, leaning back in her seat as her fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel. “It’s my problem to handle. Not yours.”
“Except it kind of is my problem,” you counter. “She threatened both of us. And it’s kinda my fault she found out in the first place.”
Agatha sucks in a breath.
“Just… let me deal with her. She’ll learn that her antics have consequences. I promise you that.”
Your stomach flips, not entirely sure what that means. Because although you think you know Agatha, there is so much that you actually don’t know.
And it scares you a little.
Because if anything, last night had shown you just how foreboding she can be.
“Agatha…”
“I’m not going to lay a finger on her,” she replies, as if reading your thoughts. “Christ hon, who do you take me for? But I will make sure she doesn’t pull something like this again. She’s underestimated me, and that’s her mistake.”
And you’re not sure what else to say. You’re in awe of her, almost. In the way that she calmly wields her power. You notice her pause on a thought, looking at her fingers on the steering wheel before she adds:
“And no one messes with my girl.”
Jesus.
You part your lips without realising as your breath catches. You stare at her for a heartbeat or two. And the second her eyes meet yours again, is the second that something snaps.
And before you know it, you’re unclicking your seatbelt. You’re leaning over, one hand cupping her face, staring into her eyes for just a moment before you let your lips crash into hers. It’s firm, insistent, desperate, and you feel her stall in surprise for just a second, before she melts into it too.
But then she pulls back, slightly breathless, looking around at the street outside your apartment as if someone may have been looking. Watching for prying eyes.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I just… I had to kiss you then.”
“It’s fine,” she whispers, “just, we need to be—”
“—careful, I know,” you finish for her, almost sounding bored.
She doesn’t particularly pick up on it, though.
Instead, she lets out a breath, regaining her composure before giving you a smile. “See you on set later, superstar.”
You open the door to step out of the car, but you can’t help yourself—just before you leave, you lean over, planting one quick, daring kiss against her cheek.
“See you on set.”
Back in your apartment, you see your roommate on a Zoom call for work in the front room. You quietly take off your shoes and head straight to the comfort of your bedroom. The second you hit your bed, you let out a huge sigh as you stare up at the ceiling.
You look down at your legs, bent with your knees up as you lay on your bed. You look at the bruises on your thigh—her marks of ownership—and run your thumb over them as you let out a shaky breath.
Your mind races and hums all at once as you press into a bruise with your thumb, you hiss and feel a faint vibration in your temples. A buzz in your mind.
Okay, let’s leave those alone for now, you think. Blinking away the threat.
You’re still trying to clear your head when there’s a knock at the door, and you already know what this is about.
“Hey, come in,” you call, although you know you might regret the invitation.
Your roommate opens the door, leaning against the doorframe as she studies you.
“So? How’s it going? Did you thank sugar mommy for the new iPhone?” But then her eyes fall to the bruises visible on your thighs. “Oh, shit. Looks like she left her mark, huh...”
You feel your face flush instantly, hands fumbling as you tug your skirt down in a desperate attempt to hide the purple blooms on your thighs. But it's no use.
“God, dude. Don’t. I’m—” you try to think of the words, and although you sound exasperated, you can’t help but smile. “I am so screwed.”
“Looks like it,” she looks at you with an almost sympathetic smile. “Are you... sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I mean... I guess?” But you think it over, because you’re not entirely sure you do. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that you look like a smitten kitten. This isn’t just some casual fling to you, is it?”
You feel your cheeks flush. “I… I don’t know, we—” you stop, looking down to nervously pick at the bedsheet beneath you. “We haven’t talked about what it is.”
“Well, are you exclusive?”
Her words hit you in the chest even if she doesn’t mean for them to. And your mind starts to run away with you, because realistically, if you were honest, you didn’t even know. You’d not had that conversation yet.
You are, to her.
But is she, to you?
And now? It feels like the only thing you can think about.
“God, I don’t know. I think so?”
“And let’s be real here,” she continues. “I know she’s hot as hell. But… the age gap, the power dynamic… aren’t you just sort of playing with fire?”
“I think we’re just figuring it out as we go,” you reply, forcing your voice to sound more confident. “But we’re on the same page, and that’s all that matters.”
Because it’s true. You’d gotten your confirmation from Agatha—she was just as fucked over this as you are.
“Okay, well. As long as you’re happy,” she walks over to you, flopping down on your bed next to you. “Now, come on. Spill the tea. How is she in bed?”
“Oh my god.”
“Come on, I told you I want to know everything,” she nudges you with her foot. “My closest glimpse into stardom is that my roommate is sleeping with an A-list Hollywood director. I didn’t move to Hollywood for nothing! You’ve got to indulge me a little. I bet she’s into some freaky shit…”
“You,” you poke her back with your own foot, “are a pervert.”
“Pwetty pwease?” she says in the most obnoxiously cute voice she can muster, giving you her best puppy-dog eyes.
You roll your eyes, unable to resist her charm. And you finally cave, because if you were honest, it’s nice to actually be able to talk about it with someone who isn’t going to judge you for it.
“Honestly?” you bite down on your bottom lip, “She’s… mind-blowing. Like, I can’t even explain. Ugh. And she’s dominant as hell.”
“Like, 50 Shades of Harkness dominant?” she asks with mock seriousness.
“Ew, gross. No.”
“Sorry, or, whatever the lesbian equivalent of that is,” she holds her hands up in surrender. “Continue...”
“She’s just so intense, as well. Not just in bed. But everything. It feels like she sees and knows everything,” you pause, thinking. “It’s kinda scary sometimes.”
“Damn, dude.” And even your roommate sounds flustered. “God, you are down so bad.”
“I know I am,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. “Help me?”
“Sorry, babe,” she laughs, shaking her head. “It sounds like you’re already too far gone.”
And you are.
You really, really are.
You manage to get some sleep in that afternoon, and you need it. Tonight is another night of stunts and huge explosive scenes as the confrontation between Selene and the coven continues. Agatha said it herself; you’ll need your strength.
And even more so if she plans on “dealing” with your co-star before call time tonight.
You start to get ready for the shoot in your usual low-key way: minimal makeup ready for when the makeup department work their magic later, and you grab some casual clothes from your closet. As you undress, you glance at the bruises on your thighs one last time, and then you’re suddenly remembering the brand-new iPhone Agatha had bought for you.
The brand-new phone just for her.
The brand-new phone just for mommy.
You walk to your nightstand, collecting it out from where you’d hidden it. You bite your lip as you angle yourself on the bed just right, sitting at the edge of it with your legs crossed. With a quick snap, you capture pink-purple blooms on your thighs.
And then you swipe across to the only contact you have in your new phone:
Think the makeup team will notice these? x
You set your phone down on the bed and smile with a sense of smugness and heat, because you can’t quite get enough of the idea of riling her up before you’re about to shoot a night full of scenes.
But your phone buzzes almost immediately, a reply already glaring at you, before another message comes through in quick succession:
Let them look. I like the idea of them knowing you’re marked as mine.
You wear me so well, baby girl.
You feel yourself take an involuntary gulp as you read her words. And your cheeks flush with the thought that comes into your head. You glance at yourself in your long mirror, looking at yourself in just your bra and Agatha’s underwear; the thong she loaned you. You turn around, bending over just enough with one hand on your bed, and angle the camera at your reflection.
Do you think I wear this well too?
You put your phone back on your bed and try to distract yourself by doing your hair, but your phone is buzzing again before you know it.
You’re so fucking perfect. That there is exactly why you belong to me.
You feel your thumbs quiver as they hover over your phone. Your phone for mommy. You look at yourself in the mirror, letting your mind runaway with the thoughts and feelings of being bent over for her on that hospital bed. Your skirt flipped up, your ass exposed, all for her.
Better with your hands marking me pink though, don’t you think?
Her reply arrives on your phone sooner than you expected. You sit on your bed and read every word over and over again.
You enjoyed that last night, didn’t you? Being put in your place?
And suddenly, you want to be back in Stage 21 with her all over again. Crawling on your knees to her, worshipping at her altar, being everything she needed you to be.
I did.
I want to be yours in every way.
And it’s true, it’s so true. And you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted anything more. Your phone is buzzing again:
Oh, you are honey. You just wait until Friday. I’ll ruin you. Mommy’s ordered you something special for it, too.
Something for you to wear while you’re at your little dinner as well.
This woman really will be the death of you, you think to yourself. Because now your mind is running away and fantasising about all the things she could possibly have planned for you. You notice the time ticking away, and you’re hot. You try and wince away the heated ache between your legs at every word she sends you.
But you manage to type out a response, and now you can't wait for whatever it is she's ordered for you to arrive.
You’re too good to me. Whatever it is, I’ll wear it for you. I'll do anything you ask.
Your breath hitches at the mere thought of it all, but you're quickly drawn back as you watch those the three dots indicate that she's typing her reply.
Good girl. You’ll look perfect in it. It means that when you’re at dinner with her, all your pretty head will be able to think about is me.
You feel your stomach flip and do that thing at her words. And, god, why is it only Tuesday? You have to leave for work soon, and the craving to see her again is almost overwhelming. But then your phone buzzes again with a second text from her:
How’s this for tonight’s shoot?
And then a photo comes through. It’s Agatha—a mirror selfie that nearly sucks the air out of your lungs. She’s standing there in all her breath-taking glory. She’s wearing a white and black striped shirt, high-waisted black leather pants with her free hand in the pocket and—jesus— red stiletto heels; razor-sharp and gleaming. The kind that could bring someone to their knees with just a look.
The kind that could bring you to your knees with a flick of her wrist.
She’s in what looks like a large lavish dressing room, just off of what must be her bedroom. There are glimpses of racks of expensive clothes, rows of designer shoes. All of it radiates luxury. All of it so unmistakably her.
You feel your mouth practically hang open at the sight of her as you tap out your reply.
Those heels aren’t very practical for set tonight, are they?
But they’re perfect for me to lick all over again.
You pause, reading over your words. And you can’t help yourself as your fingers type away the main thought that swirls around your mind:
You are so fucking beautiful.
And you know her reply will come swiftly, but when it does, it has you weak in the knees.
It’s all for you, pretty girl.
You’re dying. Fumbling as you stare at your phone. Your roommate is right, and you almost hate her for it. You are smitten. You briefly think back to that first fateful day, when you walked into that room to audition for her and first laid sight on her. And your heart thuds. Because how on earth have you ended up here?
You come out of your trance, seeing the time on your phone and realising you need to get going; set won’t wait.
And you can’t find the words.
So you type simply:
❤️
By the time you arrive on set, the oppressive heat from earlier in the day has finally faded, leaving behind a refreshing chill in the LA air. You can't help but feel relieved. Like you can breathe a little easier.
You think about trying to find Agatha before you start shooting. You think about trying to eavesdrop; to hear and see exactly how she plans on dealing with your co-star. But when you arrive, neither Agatha or your co-star are anywhere to be found.
Just the buzz of the crew as they prep lighting and props ahead of tonight’s shoot.
And you almost wonder if either of them will even show tonight.
Of course they will, you think to yourself. You’re overthinking things. It’ll all work out, it’ll all be fine.
And you head to hair and makeup to get prepped for tonight.
The transformation feels like it always does. You feel your cheeks glow pink as you are almost certain both the makeup artist and costume assistants catch sight of the bruises glowing on your thighs. A silent reminder of her ownership.
A hot heat rushes through you at the thought—if only they knew who had left them. The formidable, magnetic Agatha Harkness, the one who directed and was in charge of all of you. The one who wielded control so effortlessly, the one who pushed you beyond limits, marking you with her touch.
You shift in your seat, trying to focus on your lines, but every corner of your brain is flooded with the memory of her dominance.
Eventually, you're pulled back to the now as your bruises get covered with the long lace of your costume. Your witchy makeup is painted on, complimenting your features just right, your dark eye makeup making your green eyes even more striking. You sit down in the chair and let them work their magic as you try to focus on your lines.
You flip through the script again, trying to stay focused.
Because your lines tonight? They’re some of your most important so far. You practically need to deliver a monologue. You feel nervous, and you almost regret letting yourself be so distracted over the past couple of weeks.
Because it’s hard to stay focused when your heart keeps wandering back to Agatha. Thinking about what she’s doing right now.
How mommy’s handling it all.
You can’t shake the thought of her—the way she seems to command the very air around her, demands nothing but everything.
There’s less than 30 minutes before shoot now, and you can feel your breath getting shaky. Your palms start to sweat a little, because your co-star should have joined you in here by now.
And with every second that ticks closer to shoot, you feel like something’s off.
As the makeup artist finishes up, you take in your reflection. And you begin to feel it again: a gnawing at the bridge of your nose, a twitching at your temples, a humming in your ears that starts like a low bassline.
But then the dressing room door swings open.
Your co-star arrives at last.
Your mouth goes dry as soon as you see her. All this waiting for her, and you hadn’t thought about what you’d say when you finally saw her.
And she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you.
She just walks straight to the chair across from you, sitting down in silence as the makeup artist rushes to begin work on her. There’s a tense stillness in the air that fogs the room and presses down on you.
For a second, you’re not sure if you should speak. Because your throat feels tight, your words caught somewhere between guilt and curiosity. You want to say something, just to break the silence, but all you can think is how fragile she looks right now.
There’s no cheery smile. No mischievous glint in her eye as you’re so used to.
You notice how stiff her shoulders are; notice how her eyes remain fixed on her own reflection in the mirror and dare not look anywhere else. It’s as if she’s holding her breath.
The makeup artist leaves for a moment, and suddenly, the room feels impossibly small.
And the words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them.
“Are… are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer. Not at first. You can see the muscles in her jaw tighten as she stares at her reflection, and for a moment, you almost wish you could take back your question and shove it back into your mouth.
But then she turns her head slightly, just enough for her eyes to catch yours in the mirror.
Cold. Dull. Emotionless.
“Don’t.”
The word is simple. A warning.
And you frown without meaning to, searching her face for any sign or clue as to what exactly Agatha did or said to her. The distance between the two of you feels like it grows, stretched into a chasm that you’re not able to cross.
What have you done? What has Agatha done?
You probably shouldn’t speak, but for some reason you do anyway.
“Can you tell me what—”
“—she is going to ruin you. You know that, right?”
You blink at her words, shoving down inappropriate thoughts of how yes, you know—she already has. In more ways than one. You shift in your chair, your stomach tugging a little at the small ache between your thighs.
But you don’t have time to question it or push her further. Because a set PA comes in telling you that they’re ready for you on set.
It’s showtime. And tonight? You’re the star of the show.
You both leave the dressing room in silence. She lets you lead the way, but the way she walks behind you puts you on edge. You feel uneasy, and you can’t help but glance over your shoulder at her, taking in her stone-cold expression.
You pull the hood of Elara’s cloak around your hair as you walk to set, letting yourself sink deeper into character. And if anything? The coldness that your co-star is giving you—the pure fury in the way she looked at you—only helps you get into the mind of Elara: the witch who was once helpless to the pull of a more powerful witch… at first.
And now? Tonight?
The tables are set to turn.
You both meander through the crew and equipment. You breathe a sigh of relief at the bustling energy of set; relieved that the power outage you feel like you somehow caused hadn’t been too much of an issue, because every corner is alive with movement and sound. Crew members are rushing to and from their stations, carrying cables, adjusting equipment, and shouting instructions to each other.
The chaos from last night’s scenes still lingers, the metallic tang of pyrotechnics lingers faintly in the air.
Large rigs surround the set, and their lights cast a stark glow on the scene ahead under the LA night. The witches’ shared home—once a sanctuary—is now a charred husk. Remains of books litter the lot, furniture reduced to ashes. Smoke machines add an eerie haze to the air, and you can feel the anticipation crackling among the crew as they prepare for the big stunts.
And then you see her.
Agatha.
She stands near the monitor, one hand on her hip, the other holding a headset to her ear. Her outfit hits you all at once.
Because you’d seen it already today.
She’d posed, snapped a glimpse of it just for you.
“It’s all for you, pretty girl.”
Her high-waisted leather pants that hug her in all the right places. Her white and black striped shirt tucked in, the open collar exposing the line of her clavicle. And those red stilettos. Those damn stilettos.
And now your mind is rushing and racing. Rewinding back to licking the angle of her ankle just last night. Her in her director’s chair, putting you in your place. Stepping on you with the point of her heel. Marking you as hers.
How you ache for her. And, god, how your tongue dances behind your lips for her.
You feel like you’re melting on the spot. How does she manage to be so devastatingly put-together, so perfect—and why does it always leave you feeling like your pulse is going to burst through your skin?
She looks up, catching your eye, and offers what could perhaps be called the sexiest smile you’ve ever seen. Not because it’s obvious—it’s not, no.
But because it’s just for you. A smirk at the corners, a glint in her blue eyes as she cocks an eyebrow at you slightly.
No words. Just that look. And suddenly your stomach is sent into freefall.
You smile at her, your eyes locking, greens meeting blues, as if no one else exists for just a second in time.
And then you force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the chaos of the crew around you. Because you want to impress her tonight.
The stunt team is huddled together, rehearsing the final timing for the big sequence to come, their voices hushed and full of technical jargon. Nearby, the pyrotechnics team is triple checking their rigs.
A props assistant brushes past you, muttering something about ensuring all the burned books are in place for continuity, passing notes to the script supervisor while a camera operator adjusts the angle of a massive crane shot.
“Alright, everyone, we’re going for a take.” Agatha’s voice cuts through the din; that warm, heady rasp that makes your heart buzz. It’s commanding, sure, and utterly intoxicating. “Places, people.”
The crew scatters, taking their positions. You make your way to your mark, the adrenaline already beginning to course through you. You watch as your co-star has the harness of the stunt rig adjusted, with final safety checks being carried out by the stunt team.
Because in this scene, she’ll be in the air on wires, poised and weightless, like a dark angel, suspended above the chaos she caused.
The clapperboard snaps shut in front of you.
“Witching Hour, Scene 46, Take 1.”
And then comes Agatha’s voice. Unmistakable and commanding all at once:
“And… action.”
Everything shifts.
You’re not you anymore. You’re Elara, standing amidst the wreckage of your home, watching as the flames devour everything you’ve ever known. The air is thick with smoke; the distant crackle of fire interwoven with Selene’s ferocious incantations.
Your co-star commands the space. She’s glaring at you, but you can’t tell if it's you or Elara she’s glaring at.
And then you realise—it’s both.
“It's too far gone already, Elara.”
She continues her last line from the previous scene. Her voice is different from yesterday’s shoot. Something pained. Something exhausted. It drips with anguish as she unleashes hellfire, her spells tearing through the night like a force of nature. Sparks fly, embers dance in the air, and the set feels almost too real.
Like a living, breathing thing.
Because tonight, something is different.
You step forward. Your feet drag you through the scorched earth, and you let the weight of grief and loss bear down on you. You feel it in your bones, in your chest, in your throat as you take a breath and let the words pour out.
Because now? You’re trembling with rage and desperation.
“No! It doesn’t have to end like this! You say it’s too far gone, but that’s a lie. That’s just what you want me to believe. You want me to give in, to let it all burn, so you can have your victory and call it fate. But I won’t. I can’t.”
You walk forward, closing in on Selene as she stands there with her arms outstretched, revelling in the destruction as she begins to lift off the ground.
But you don’t stop.
“Do you know what it’s like, Selene? You promised me that you’d give me my power back, but all you ever did was take.”
You stride closer, watching as her gaze falls down on you, surprise flicking across her dark features as she floats higher in the air above you.
“You told me all I had to do was trust you. You made me crave you. You drew me in. I gave you all of me. But do you know what it’s like? To be told over and over that you’re too small, too quiet, too weak to change anything? And then to see it—to feel it—right there, just out of reach?”
You stretch your fingers, moving them one by one. You let them feel and absorb the sparks that seem to be flying in the air.
“I’ve tried to resist. I’ve tried to hold on to the pieces of myself that still feel good, and kind, and worthy. But you’ve taken everything, haven’t you? You’ve ripped me apart, and now all that’s left is this… this thing inside me, clawing to get out.”
You can feel the tears threatening behind your eyes. The magic that seems to have lain dormant within you all this time slowly simmering, awakening. Escaping its cocoon having been in hibernation for so long.
“I hate it. I hate you. Because you’re the one who showed me what I could be. And now you want me to watch as you destroy it all?”
You bring your hands down to your sides.
You stand the tallest you ever have.
You grasp at your palms, outstretch your fingers.
“No. Not this time. Not this way.”
The words echo through the night, rising above the roar of the flames. For a moment, there’s silence—Selene’s spell falters in mid-air. Her expression caught between anger and disbelief.
But something deeper stirs inside you.
It starts as that familiar hum, low and electric, spreading through your body in waves. It’s in your veins, it’s in every strand of hair, in your lungs, in the tips of your fingers. You feel a buzz dance across your hands, channelling down each finger as your heart pounds against your ribcage; as if trying to escape.
And then it’s not Elara anymore.
It’s you.
The lines between reality and the scene blur until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
You look around, and suddenly you can’t see the crew anymore. There are no cameras, no rigs, no equipment, no lighting. Just the ruins of everything that you’d worked so hard to build. Everything you’d ever known is smouldering and ruined, turned to ash.
And in the middle of it all, the cause of all the destruction, is Selene.
And then you hear it.
A sound that starts as a breath, like something caught in the wind.
And it travels up your spine, curls around into your ears.
A warm, husked whisper that makes your tongue dance.
“Nurture that spark... give in to it.”
And then you see it. Harsh black lines flash behind your eyelids, clouding your vision. Her handwriting, clear as the day you received that note after you walked out of her audition, stark and black:
I see a spark in you. Let’s nurture it.
A. Harkness
And then you see her, striding through the shadows, through the darkness.
Her smile is almost wicked as she catches your eyes.
She’s clad in deep purple and blue, her long, flowing coat sweeping behind her like a cloak. The rich fabric shimmers faintly, catching the light just enough to reveal the intricate embroidered runes along the edges. Her dark hair cascades down her shoulders, and the signature brooch at her collar sits proudly. She wears heels, and every step she takes radiates power and control.
Agatha.
“It’s time, superstar.”
Her voice rings in your ears, the rasp of it sending a hot heat rumbling over every inch of you.
And you see Selene—no, your co-star—look around at Agatha in disbelief, her eyes widening as she floats in mid-air.
“I told you I saw a spark in you,” Agatha clasps her hands together, her stare never leaving yours. “Give in to it, angel.”
And then the thunderclap happens, harsh in your head, so much so that it feels like you might fall through the earth. You yell out, your mouth wide open and screaming as you feel it, the fire within you burning.
Because you’re a dormant volcano. Laid dormant for years, now erupting.
You raise your hands.
As if on instinct.
You feel it, a drip of crimson escaping your nose as the air thunders and claps. Atoms of energy, purple-black and violent, surging from your fingertips like a tidal wave.
You throw your hands forward, aiming at Selene and honing in. Because she'd threatened to take this all away; threatened the very person who makes you feel more alive than anyone or anything ever has. Threatened to take everything from you.
And then it happens.
Selene—no, your co-star—is thrown backwards, her body flying across the forest—no, the set?!—with a force that’s too real.
And then everything melts away, the forest backdrop giving way to the familiar facades of the studio buildings, and you’re thrown back to set with a whiplash that leaves you swaying on the spot.
You catch the end of it all and watch, stunned.
You watch helplessly as your co-star crashes into the rigging, thrown tens of feet backwards into the air. The sound of breaking wood and metal cuts through the stunned silence.
Gasps ripple through the crew. And people are yelling.
“Cut! CUT!”
“—holy shit.”
“What the hell just happened?!”
“Medic!”
You can’t move. Can’t breathe.
The tingling in your hands fades, but your head is rattling, vibrating. Pounding. Your entire body feels alive, buzzing with something that shouldn’t be possible.
And your nose is bleeding profusely.
The set is chaos. Crew members rush to your co-star, calling for medics, scrambling to figure out how a scene went so catastrophically wrong. But you’re rooted in place, your gaze locked on your trembling hands.
But you were just acting, right? A stunt gone wrong.
Except, it didn’t feel like acting. It didn’t look like a stunt gone wrong.
And then you look around desperately, searching for her. For Agatha.
Because what the fuck just happened.
She’s in her director’s chair—that fucking chair—behind the monitors as if she’d never left. But how. Because you had seen her in the scene that you'd somehow been thrown into. You'd watched her striding towards you amidst the chaos; her long coat flowing and sweeping behind her. You had heard her, almost close enough to touch as you were absorbed into the scene of chaos.
She’d appeared from the shadows. Encouraging you, commanding you.
You see her whiz around to look at the rigging your co-star was sent flying into.
And within a second, her eyes are on you—watching with a mixture of stunned amusement and utter approval. There’s a look in her blue eyes, a curve to her smile, every little microexpression oozes complete wonderment as she stares at you in awe.
She holds your gaze for a moment, a slow, almost proud look passing from her eyes to yours. Then, as if snapping out of it, she rushes towards your co-star. Reverting back to the role of director seamlessly. And her expression shifts to one of genuine concern as she calls out orders to the crew.
You stand there bewildered.
Some of the crew members stare at you in stunned silence, confusion written all over their faces, before rushing to your co-star’s side. And finally, finally it feels like you can move again as your limbs unlock.
You pull the hood of your costume from off your head, rubbing the blood from your nose on the sleeve of your costume before rushing to the commotion with your heart pounding in your ears.
Agatha’s authoritative voice cuts through the noise. You can hear her already, speaking to the medic, before directing the rest of her cast and crew.
“She’ll be fine. Can we have some space, please? Let’s clear the set.”
You reach the scene just as the medic is assessing your co-star. She winces in pain and her body twitches from the impact, but there’s no sign of anything gravely wrong. A few grazes here and there, but she’s clearly shaken. Her face is completely pale.
And thank god she’s okay—because “accidentally killed a co-star” isn’t exactly the career milestone you were hoping to add to your IMDb page.
You reach her side, touching her arm but then she flinches away from you. You look her up and down, panic in your face and in your voice.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened—are you… are you okay?” The words fall out of your mouth desperately. And then, as she’s being carefully lifted onto a stretcher by the medics, her eyes find yours.
And she drops her voice low enough so only you can hear.
“You’re just as twisted as she is,” she hisses. “You two deserve each other.”
Before you can even react, she’s whisked away, the stretcher disappearing into the chaos of the set.
And you survey your surroundings, look at the bloodstain on your sleeve from where you’d wiped your nose. You look at Agatha with wide eyes, helplessly confused, and she stares back at you, holding you with a look you don’t recognise.
You shake your head; part in disbelief, part willing away the headache that’s pulsing in your skull.
And you turn on your heel and run. You’re not really sure where you’re going, you just need to get away.
You round a corner, finding a deserted alleyway, and slump against the wall. You stare upwards, noting a few stars just peering through the light polluted night sky.
What happened? What did happen? And what the fuck is happening?
You can still feel the energy buzzing through your fingers. So much so, that your fingertips almost burn. It felt too real, too powerful. A scene turned lucid, like a dream.
You try to tell yourself that it was just the stunt rig gone wrong. A bungee snapping that had held your co-star in mid-air.
You press your hands to your temples, trying to push away the wave of panic that’s threatening to overtake you. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’ve heard about stunt mishaps happening on sets before. But the deeper you think about it, the more you feel the gnawing suspicion growing inside you.
It wasn’t an accident. It couldn’t have been.
But then the silence around you is broken by the sound of footsteps approaching. The unmistakable click of heels. You freeze, but when you look up, you see her.
She’s walking towards you, her blue eyes never leaving yours as she approaches from the shadows. And it seems to calm the storm almost instantly. Her eyes soften when she sees you, and in a flash, she’s at your side, her hand resting gently on your arm.
You’re trembling.
You didn’t even realise it until her touch pulls you back from the edge of your spiral. But you can’t shake the look on her face—the quiet understanding and something else, something deeper, as if she already knows the storm inside you.
Without a word, Agatha pulls you into her arms.
She cradles you against her chest. The warmth of her body, the smell of her fucking perfume, the steady beat of her heart—it’s enough to stop the panic from swallowing you whole.
And you just stay there, with nothing but the sound of your breath and the quiet hum of the set far off in the distance. Agatha holds you with an ease that feels familiar now.
She runs one hand up your back, holding your head against her, gently stroking long fingers through your tresses. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t say anything about the chaos that just unfolded.
“You’re okay,” she soothes. Her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m here. You’re okay, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You nod into her chest, trying to believe it, trying to trust her, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of your head that won’t let it go. And you feel tears escape your eyes.
You pull back slightly, looking up at her face.
Agatha’s hand moves to cup your cheek as you look up at her. Her thumb softly brushes away the dampness of your tears.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t understand what happened, I just—”
You’re silenced by her as she pulls you back in, holding you even closer.
“You don’t need to apologise, sweet girl,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.” She kisses your forehead. So light yet searing it shoots a warmth straight to your chest. Her hand drifts to your hair again as she lets her fingers stroke through the strands. “You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I won’t let it.”
You close your eyes, feeling the gentle pressure of her palm against the back of your head, pulling you closer again, and you feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of her. The smell of her perfume brings you back down to earth, the floral woody scent so familiar now that it only brings you comfort.
“Agatha, I didn’t mean for—”
“—shh, you’re okay. I’m here,” she stops you. “No one will ever hurt you, darling. Not anymore. I’ve got you. Always.”
You sigh into her, holding on to her as if to stop yourself from floating away and into space.
Because in the dark of the studio alleyway, beneath the vast California night sky, the chaos begins to dissipate. Because you can feel it. She’s got you. She’s safe.
She pulls away for just a moment, her arms holding you. Her eyes never leaving your own.
“She can’t hurt us now,” she whispers, and then her forehead is resting against yours. “I told you. No one messes with my girl.”