#patti

"Hello everybody, welcome back to the show! Up next we have, from the amazing Agatha All Along cast—Y/N L/N, Kathryn Hahn, and Patti LuPone!"

The host's voice rang with the kind of polished enthusiasm only years in daytime television could produce, but his name slipped right through your memory like water in your palms. There had been too many interviews. Too many lights, too many faces, too many times you'd had to be "on."

You smiled automatically, your hand already lifting in a wave to the studio audience. The sound of their clapping pulled you out of the fog, snapping your spine a little straighter in your seat on the velvet couch. Kathryn gave your knee a little nudge under the table—a private gesture to ground you, knowing interviews made you nervous.

"Deep breaths, babe," she whispered with a wink. "You’ve got this."

You smiled back, grateful.

Patti, seated on your other side, didn’t say anything.

You turned slightly to glance at her, catching how tightly she crossed her arms and how she stared dead ahead, jaw tight. Her crimson nails tapped softly against the upholstery, rhythmic and controlled. Her face was unreadable—except for the slight downturn of her mouth whenever Kathryn leaned a little too close to whisper something to you.

"Now," the host said, turning his grin toward the three of you. "Fans loved the chemistry on-screen, especially between Agatha and Y/N’s character. But there was something else folks couldn’t stop talking about—you two," he gestured toward you and Kathryn. "Is that spark all acting?"

Kathryn let out a charming laugh. "Oh, we adore each other. She’s my favorite scene partner." She slung an arm around your shoulders playfully, and the crowd gave a collective “aww.”

You laughed too, bashfully leaning into her. "We had a lot of fun filming together," you said softly, careful with your words.

Patti shifted in her seat.

"Don’t let her fool you," Kathryn teased. "Y/N gets so flustered during romantic scenes. You should’ve seen the blooper reel."

Your face flushed and you looked down, laughing despite the heat in your cheeks. But before you could respond, Patti finally spoke.

"Well," she said coolly, voice cutting clean through the light banter, "maybe if the scenes were written for real chemistry, they wouldn’t be so hard to get through."

The temperature dropped slightly. Kathryn stiffened, but her smile didn’t falter. You felt it more than saw it—that little current of something under Patti’s tone. It wasn’t new.

"Don’t mind Patti," Kathryn said sweetly. "She just likes to pretend she’s not jealous."

The crowd laughed. You didn’t.

You looked at Patti again. Her expression hadn’t changed, but her fingers had stopped tapping.

You didn’t know what made your stomach twist more—Kathryn’s arm still looped around you, or the way Patti wouldn’t meet your eyes.

The second the cameras stopped rolling and the host wrapped things up, you exhaled sharply, already peeling the mic from your lapel with trembling fingers. Kathryn gave your arm a squeeze before heading toward the hallway, chatting easily with the crew.

Patti hadn’t said a word.

You kept your eyes down, trying to stay out of her way—but she was on your heels the moment you left the stage.

"Y/N."

You froze, just outside the dressing room hallway. Her voice was lower now, quieter than it had been on the couch, but unmistakable.

You turned slowly, heart thudding. “Yes?”

She stepped closer. Not hurried. Not angry. Just focused. Her gaze pinned you in place.

"You want to tell me what that was?"

You blinked, confused. "What what was?"

“That performance,” she said, voice cool but laced with something simmering underneath. “The one where you giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl on national television while Hahn practically sat in your lap.”

You flushed. "We were just playing along—it was the interviewer, he asked—"

“I know what he asked,” Patti snapped. Her arms crossed again, but it didn’t look casual this time. It looked like restraint.

You tried to laugh it off. “It’s all pretend, Patti. You know that.”

She stepped forward again, close enough for you to smell her perfume—something expensive and heady and distinctly her.

“That’s the thing, sweetheart. I don’t think you do know.”

You blinked up at her. “What?”

"That what you’re doing—whatever game you think you’re playing—it has consequences."

"Patti—"

“Because I see the way you look at me when no one’s watching. I see how your hands shake when I stand too close.”

Her hand reached up, slow, trailing just under your jaw—knuckles grazing skin, so light it burned.

"And I don’t think you want Hahn,” she said, voice now velvet-smooth and low. “I think you want me. But you’re too scared to admit it.”

You swallowed, hard. Her fingers tilted your chin up.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

You couldn’t answer.

She leaned in, lips brushing your cheek—not quite a kiss. A warning. A promise.

“Inside. Now.”

The dressing room door clicked shut behind you, and before you could even turn around, Patti had your back pressed to it. Her hands found your hips with no hesitation, guiding your body flush against hers.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks,” she murmured, lips brushing your ear. “With those looks. With that pretty little laugh.”

You whimpered as her hand slipped under your blouse, skimming up your stomach, nails grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp.

“I wasn’t—” you started, breathless.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Her mouth curved into a smirk against your neck. “You really think I’d believe that?”

She kissed you—finally—and it wasn’t sweet or slow. It was hungry, possessive. Like she’d been waiting to do it since the day you were cast. Your hands scrambled for purchase in her blazer, gripping the lapels, letting her tongue part your lips and take everything.

When she pulled back, she didn’t give you time to recover.

“Take it off,” she said, voice commanding as she nodded to your top. “Now.”

You obeyed with trembling hands, heart in your throat, heat pooling low in your belly. Patti stepped in closer, her hands sliding behind your back to unhook your bra with practiced ease.

“Fuck, look at you,” she whispered, finally touching you—palms warm, slow, worshipful over your breasts, teasing your nipples until you whimpered.

She kissed her way down your neck, biting gently when you gasped.

"All that squirming on the interview couch, and this is what you were thinking about, huh?” she taunted. “Me doing this?”

Your hips rocked toward hers involuntarily, and she grinned against your skin.

“God, you’re soaked already,” she murmured as her hand dipped between your thighs, pressing the heel of her palm against you through your trousers. “You want me that bad?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes—Patti, please—”

“Oh, you’re gonna beg?” she said, grinning. “Say it again.”

“Please,” you moaned. “I need you.”

She unbuttoned your trousers with quick fingers, shoving them down with your underwear in one go, then lifted you effortlessly onto the dressing table behind you, the mirror rattling behind your back.

“Keep looking at yourself,” she commanded. “I want you to see how pretty you look when I fuck you.”

Then she was between your legs—mouth hot and filthy, tongue unrelenting, fingers holding your thighs open like she owned you. You sobbed her name, watching your reflection blur through tears as she licked you through your first orgasm.

And then another.

And another.

By the time she stood, lips wet, eyes dark with hunger, your legs were trembling and your voice was wrecked.

She kissed you again, letting you taste yourself on her tongue, and whispered against your lips:

“You’re mine now. You hear me?”

You nodded desperately. “Yes. Yours.”