#reader au

You brandish a smile with blood in your teeth, as you gaze up at your killer, with spite and kisses - it’s a dare. Come towards me, come out of the shadows, let us play the most ancient of games. You and me, we will gnash our teeth as we hang on the edge of the blade. Let’s play a game of life and death. 

The witch hunter lunges and you don’t show fear, as the knife glides against your clavicle. His aim is true, as it splits open the spot where Agatha’s lipstick moments prior was still wet against your adored skin. How poetic. The image of Billy Loomis licking fake blood comes to mind. You hear your lover let out the angriest of growls, ready to retaliate, to fight for your life. Your shoulders quake without your consent, the bit of carved flesh opening from cursed metal. A witch killer was such a coward, how is it they were able to find such a weapon? Unworthy of a blade used with magic. 

 Agatha scrambled behind you, ready with a spell, purple magic bubbling up to kill for you. To fight for you, as you had fought together over the centuries. 

“CUT!” The director screamed but her grin told you everything you needed to know. “Oh my god it was so good! Can we get her a spit bucket?” Jac called, to one of the amazing practical effects guys, Barton - with his soft mowhawk. He carried himself like a set dad would. And was already next to you with fake blood in one hand and an orange spit bucket. You thanked him before trying to get all of the corn syrupy ‘Billy-Loomis-Hollywood-Magic’ blood out of your mouth. 

You gave your Billy, Billy Maximoff - sweet young queer actor who was just getting his first big movie, a thumbs up. Letting him know you were okay and he visually relaxed. Dark curls bouncing, his smile was darling as he broke character. The twenty-something-year-old boy stepped forward to talk to you. Jac was faster hugging him and spinning to you.  

“YOU GUYS, THAT WAS PERFECT! Better than I could have ever hoped!” 

Agatha rounded to Billy to peck his cheek with a kiss, leaving a bit of lipstick before getting where she really wanted. Crouching to where you were and trying to act casual as she wiped the blood off your cheek, the pads of her thumb warm in contrast to the congealed fake goo. It was a ploy to touch your skin, to get a little closer than co-stars and you didn’t mind it one bit. As she wrapped an arm around your waist to help you off the floor.  

“Need water?” Agatha’s gentle concern towards you was said under her breath. Trying to make a moment a little private, the illusion was lost quickly. Jac, who was vibrating with excitement, heard and quickly panicked at you being uncomfortable. 

“CAN WE GET WATER?” Jac’s panic made Barton with his spit bucket turn and jog towards the craft table with purpose. 

“I’m completely fine!” You call at poor Barton. But he has worked with you long enough to know you’ll just sneak off to get your own, so he goes anyway. 

“Okay, lunch first. Bloody you both up again. Then we’ll run Lilia and Alice in after. Everyone okay with that?” Jac checks in, and you nod along with the cast. 

Agatha’s arm hasn’t left it’s home around your waist. 

She’s been so affectionate on and off set. The two of you wanted to make great chemistry for this film. But sometimes you struggled to pull back, which was new. You had worked with all genders and had never felt this safe before. It didn’t help that Agatha was endlessly hilarious, brilliant, stunning, and overwhelmingly kind. You had thought meeting her would be like every hero. A complete disappointment. Amazing in front of a camera for a project or interview, but off camera, vapid as Hell. 

Not Agatha Harkness, she had old movie star effortless glamor. You could plop her on any set and she placed everyone at ease, and was notorious for effectively getting everyone to break character with non-scripted shinanginas. But it was her dry humor that you found yourself unable to stop giggling on set from. 

Yeah, Agatha Harkness had made this an unforgettable experience for you, and everyone around you. Just as you’d heard copious amounts of reviews from other people about her in the industry. And she worked hard, knowing that as a woman in her 50s in the industry, she set the way everyone treated each other. As her name was on the top of the call sheet.

  So when you two were whispered online to be the leads for this film franchise. You were honored, but overjoyed when you were sent the script. You didn’t expect to hear Agatha ask Jac to scene read with you first. That you were her pick. Now Jac and the whole cast and crew clicked with you, and you were having a great time. 

But that first scene read, the chemistry reading at the start. Well…you were still not sure if you were acting. Not when Agatha grabbed your hand. Once you signed your contract and the studio told everyone you and Agatha were filming the first movie of this beloved franchise, you were clear that this was a blessing. And you all had a responsibility.

The first film was called ‘The Witches Road.’ And it was queer characters in love in horror. This was a big deal, what you were doing, young queer kids already were sending you fanmail, edits, presents, and letters. And it wasn’t even out yet.

The book series rights had been bought by Continental Studios. And Jac Schaeffer had been a no-brainer to direct.  

Agatha and you had exchanged numbers before the big whole cast and crew table read. Sending poems, songs, and your own lore on the relationship you two were about to dive into. You’d been shocked a month before the table read as you were devouring the last of books and you got a FaceTime call. 

Shocked, but not about to ignore the famous Agatha Harkness, you answered, in your pajamas and beanie, sitting on top of your kitchen counter, eating dried mango. Not camera or co-star ready, but authentically how you spent your evenings off set. 

You had not expected to see Agatha in her raw state as well, no barriers between you now. She had innocently called to ask where you were in the book. You two gabbed, and then what had started as a work call, got personal. She knew where to step in conversation, it put you at ease. Somehow, Agatha had gotten you both to open up.  Agatha told you things, stories, facts, and memories no one else knew about her. And you observed the weight of these words, the gift that Agatha wanted you alone to have. Not for a press junket, or to feel safe in a future scene. Agatha wanted to talk to you, to know you. 

In this industry, that was rare; everyone was a business contact. A co-star who you may play a game with for Buzzfeed. But even though you spent a year or two making these films, not many people ever stayed in touch. Sort of like situationships, not relationships. 

However, on a weeknight, on FaceTime - your whole destiny changed. As your mind tried to flimsily capture the image of this woman, the one you were enraptured by. With her geeky large glasses, fingers pressing the frames up her nose, no makeup, glowing in the low light of her home. You wished your mind could snap this moment like a Polaroid. Something to tack to your wall as proof. The moment you fell for someone you never meant to. 

Agatha laughed so hard she snorted at something you said, and you hoped this feeling would pass. 

No such luck on ‘The Witches Road,’ because at no point, did Agatha ever disappoint. Your relationship only grew closer; physically, you both subconsciously reached for the other. Verbally, there wasn’t a joke or part of your day you didn’t want to tell Agatha. And the dates off set were lined under the thinly veiled lies that you two were ‘working.’ Watching classic horror movies or queer indie films to help your character study. Somehow your head fell against Agatha’s shoulder and your socked feet met every time. 

Film intimacy was supposed to be on sets. Two actors having a raw experience together. So then why could you not turn it off once the makeup and costumes were shed at the end of the day? 

Why did Agatha call you as soon as she got in her car to go home? Why did you two Facetime in the evenings? Why did she bring you coffee? How is it you were always invited to this ‘one book store’ she just found? 

How was the stunning actress Agatha Harkness, no longer who you saw. But instead, the gorgeous woman who ate all your blueberries when she came over? Where was the image on billboards, how was it so quickly replaced in your psyche with the picture you’d taken of her trying on a fan-made T-shirt? The one that had a print of her witchy fictional characters with the large letters saying ‘MOTHER’ across it. She was so confused as you giggled and rolled on the ground, as she asked what it meant.

Agatha Harkness had gone from being on your Hollywood idol list, a pedestal that dehumanized her. To your best friend in the whole world. The first person you talked to in the day, and the last person you spoke to before bed. 

It wasn’t fair, no one should love someone this much.

So when Agatha rounded Billy’s body to get to you, no one else was under any illusion. That love had blossomed on set. Maybe people saw you two as the newest versions of Freddie Prinze Jr. and Sarah Michelle Gellar, no, that was too straight. Maybe more like Stephanie Allynne and Tig Notaro? Whatever it didn’t matter, because as much as your fans hoped for the two of you to get together in real life. It wasn’t true. Agatha was just lovely; she was just being kind, right?

“You sure you are okay?” Agatha whispers lower this time, and you nod and hope she doesn’t notice how your knees go just a tad weak being this close to the actress. 

People wizz by you, and Billy is even swept up as a Pa assist in the taking off of his prosthetics and blood. Agatha’s arm sticks to your side still, as she guides you offset. Before Barton can even come back to hand you water. 

The two of you lazily walk back to your trailer, and Agatha open the mini fridge, surveying for a second before pulling out a cold glass bottle of black cherry soda. Easily swiping your bottle opening and cracking the top off. Then, walking over to where you’d plopped onto the trailer sofa. You wanted to watch her, to study her, but instead you closed your eyes and let your head fall back. The taste of fake blood making your tongue feel bloated and numb in your mouth. 

The sofa cushion dips next to you, and you wonder if Agatha will reach out and touch you, like two lovers reconnecting after a long day. But she waits instead, and you give up, opening your eyes to see her admiring your face. 

“You should keep more than soda in your trailer.” It’s not said with any kind of malice, it is stated as a fact. And you want to ask if she means for you, or for her. But the metal door is banged on, and you whimper, closing your eyes,  Agatha tells the intruder to come in. Which you wish didn’t make you feel domestic with your co-star. 

But Dottie walks in with two plastic bags full of catering, and you open your eyes and gush at her. 

“Dottie, you are the best!” 

Agatha opens her hand to receive the food, and Dottie blows you an air kiss before leaving to go to the next person on her list. Agatha dispensed both of your lunches, and you couldn’t stop the urge to openly stare at your costar. 

“You’ll get a nosebleed trying that hard to read my mind.” Agatha teases without looking at you. Cracking open her plastic clamshell to-go container with the huge Greek salad she had every afternoon. 

“You can’t quote movie lines to me - offset!” You laugh through the outrage. “That’s plagiarism!” 

Agatha twirls a plastic fork and hums as if she’s pretending to placate you, and you both smirk now. This flirting was coming too easily. 

“You have-” Agatha stops, and you wonder why she suddenly seems bashful. 

“Fake blood and open wounds just now bothering you for lunch?” You make fun of Agatha, knowing she had a pretty strong stomach as you’d forced her to screen an unholy amount of 80’s slashers. It assisted her in the long-term, as your characters ran on this practical movie set with fictional magic, making stunt doubles excrete copious amounts of blood and guts. Earning it’s R rating and bending towards NC-17 discussions. 

Agatha reached out a hand to your skin to wipe her thumb over your collarbone. Right where the fake blood didn’t reach, but her dark red lipstick stain was tattooed onto you. It was in an important scene in the script, and Agatha had kissed this spot enough; you found it funny how shy she suddenly was touching the place her lips had scorched you. Where no other would ever be able to kiss again. 

“You can’t wipe that off! It’s my lipstick stain!” You jerked away from her touch. 

“I didn’t realize it belonged to you!” Agatha chuckles, rubbing her fingers together from her lipstick. Her overall demeanor appeared gratified by your words. 

“Lipstick stains are earned and you can’t take them away!” You play it up, but the sincerity in your words rings true to you all the same. 

Agatha takes a moment to really digest what you said, and you wish you could hide from her gaze. So when you reach for a napkin to rub off the blood from your own fingers. You make yourself busy, as Agatha doesn’t move, like she’s goin through thoughts about you. Ones you aren’t privy to, but also don’t know how to interrupt. Agatha’s face resembles that of a main character in a fundamental moment of the plot. 

So you try not to shrink from the intensity of her stare. Your hands deliberately move with too much effort as you take your lunch of melty, steaming quesabirrias. You can’t stand this one more moment; blame it on the way you were raised. But your broken home created an excessive need to fill in the gap with conversation. So you broke Agatha’s authentic moment, as she was getting lost in the curve of your cheek.       

“You know, you don’t have to babysit me, I’m okay after that scene.” You want to defend yourself as an established actor. Agatha didn’t just do this on the bad scene days though, not just as you pretended to fight for your life. Agatha had been on you like a magnet, more so than all the other cast. Though she didn’t let them feel left out, always being conscious of the call sheet of people. 

“What makes you think I’m not just here to soak up your company before I have to see you covered in blood, again?” Agatha tries to frame it in a way that would make you laugh. But it’s a little too forced. You scrunch your nose up, a habit you’d picked up from her. Before answering in a way that would not be forgotten by either of you. 

“I think you gotta learn to act better.” 

It sat there for a moment, you saying this to an actress of her caliber, with her awards, and large fan base. Before you couldn’t stop the laughter, and Agatha snorted along with your infectious laugh. Putting a hand to cover her mouth, trying to stop the fit. 

“I’ll just have to get on that, thanks for the advice, Superstar.” Agatha’s nicknames for you sticks. Though it only ever sounds genuine and affectionate when the leading lady Harkness, says it. 

“Yeah, you gotta fix it, or you’ll be the next Madame Web.” You kid and Agatha nod like this is very serious. 

“Did you ever consider that I’m a bad actress around you because I don’t want to lie to you. That I can’t lie to you?” Agatha didn’t mean to say it like that, but as her eyes avoid yours, you hear something new in the in-between of it all. And a million different answers flood you.  

But a pounding on your trailer stops any hope you have for understanding more. Your lunches were short this last few weeks because of the amount of blood and prosthetics you needed to have applied. 

Agatha tries to give you a reassuring smile, and you don’t know how to comfort her now. 

“I guess we’ll have to act for a while longer,” Agatha says it, and it stings instead of her intention to cool the disappointment you are both feeling. 

The special effects team floods in your trailer two seconds later, and Jac comes in to tell you both there is a party tonight, a work event with booze. That the studio wants a photo opportunity and a chance to shmooze with some investors. And that the film franchise you were entering into was such a big money grab, that they wanted the chance to suck you at the source. 

Agatha stayed and stabbed her salad passively, as blood was re-applied to your neck. You didn’t eat, and tried to limit the number of times your eyes would fall on your co-star. Jac was digging into Agatha’s thoughts on the next scene, how she felt the character needed to portray her intentions. 

You wished you could have the powers of your characters now, to talk to her privately in your mind. You wondered why Agatha couldn’t look at you, no matter how many times you tried to steal her gaze, wow. Agatha Harkness was an amazing actress in this moment. 

After shooting, you tried your best to avoid Agatha. Leaving the set to go home and change,  your people had already sent over a gorgeous dress and heels. With a sticky note for makeup to come over in an hour. So no nap for you, okay that was fine. You’d go to your kitchen, build an Italian sub, pound it down. Crack open a blue can of Monster mango energy drink, and take the fastest shower ever. It would all be fine. Your phone vibrated three times and you ignored the text from Agatha and Billy. Instead opening Twitter to see new fanart made with you on your knees licking Agatha’s character. Your cheeks became hot and you pocketed the phone, no time for that. Time to get battle-ready. 

_________

The first hour of the party had been fine, photos taken on the mini carpet outside with big wigs. Patti, Sal, and Matt gushed and you all cheesed as sixty photographers blinded you. You got your photo op with Jac, you gave a real grin when she hugged you close and kissed your cheek affectionately. Like a mother or an aunt would their child going to prom. You couldn’t help but love Jac for all she was doing for you, with you. 

When Agatha wasn’t outside for pictures, you ignored the pull in your gut to go find her. To crawl into her embrace, like you two did so often on the sofa with a scary movie. Platonicly though, yeah completely platonicly…You got inside and B-lined it for the bar. Knowing that the Monster and half of sandwich wasn’t the best for the amount of alcohol you’d drink tonight. But it was better than nothing. 

The bartender seemed momentarily starstruck by you, his dark curls and freckles reminding you a little of Billy. But there was something way more Harrison Ford about him. A younger you would have let him fuck you in the bathroom, knowing he’d never call. Or worse he could and you’d date for a few months and have to pretend you liked red hot chilli peppers while he attempted to eat you out. Or let him man splain Yeats to you from his college class. As though he hadn’t read more than one of Yeats poems. This white boy would look at you through his hipster glasses and say ““There are no strangers, only friends you have not met yet.” Being proud of his quote, and you’d open your legs for this failed playright, or actor, or author, or whatever he was aspiring to be. Because he was in love with aspiring. Thank god you’d killed that version of you, that girl long gone. With enough failed romance and well-timed Paris Paloma albums. You’d found you couldn’t take another three-month romp with a guy who was convinced he’d been the first to ever listen to Bon Iver. No thanks, so you smiled casually and ordered your drink. And after he made it, his perfect lips opened to shoot his shot. And you were all too relieved when  Hilary Swank cut him off - ordereding her vodka and cranberry juice. Eyeing you and giving you a small nod, like she could see where that was going. You returned the look, and she smirked in enjoyment of your camaraderie for washed-up poets who were allergic to condoms. 

You swiped your drink and lifted it to say thanks and goodbye and she laughed as the bartender set down her drink and you made your great escape. 

The image of Steve McQueen in ‘The Great Escape’ played in your cinematicly committed mind, like the films were on reels in your brain. Stacked up against the walls, ready to be pulled out and slapped into a projector. It was your job, but it was also your biggest love. The love of your life. 

You weren’t completely ready for more people or cameras, so as you scouted actors and producers rubbing shoulders, finding potential business deals, you needed to find a happy, quiet, isolated corner.  

You eased out to the half outdoor patio and squeezed past Karyn Kusama and Jennifer Kent. As the two debated wildly about Krampus folklore to Coralie Fargeat. You couldn’t help but smile at the powerhouse of women horror directors you were slipping by. Coralie clocked you, and nodded as the two other directors were arguing on Krampus's queer coded origins. You nodded back, hoping one day to be lucky enough to work with any of the three. But tonight was about surviving, you paused at a small, tall table overlooking a large pool and a buffet. Inside, they had been playing Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN album loudly. As people talked and got drunk. It seemed outside was a more relaxed party. As they were playing Albert Hammond Jr and The Smiths songs here, like this was the less rowdy crowd. Or perhaps they just knew people would come outside to smoke weed, and inside in the bathroom to do cocaine? You catch a glimpse of Kathryn Newton heading towards the food arm and arm with Winona Ryder. That’s when you realize, this was for sure more your crowd. 

That was until your calm was broken with heads turning in your direction, or not your direction, but behind you. You took a long gulp of your Moscow mule, ready for something bad to happen. Calculatedly turning to see the one person who would definitely make this crowd of stars part like the Red Sea. Or maybe like; Catherine Tramell from Basic Instinct

Maya Mason, head of Continental Studio’s Marketing department, one of the biggest pulls in the whole town of Hollywood, really. 

And her sights were locked in on you, the predator noises played in your head, heat signature jokes coming too quickly to your sarcastic palate. 

Maya smiled widely at you, like you were exactly the tall glass of water she’d been looking for. In her 5’5 glory, with a little help from designer heels, in an outfit that could only be worn by her. Nails long enough to shred any man who interrupted you two, like motherfucking Wolverine. Maya Mason was an enigma to you. You just couldn’t figure out why she seemed to enjoy singling you out, finding you at parties, picking at you. Like a child pulling the legs off of a spider. 

Maya seemed to enjoy tugging at the ends of your threads, and she’d been doing it since you worked on your first film, so it had nothing to do with your stardom. Maya Mason just liked you, if you could call it like? As the force to be reckoned with got closer she called to you.  

“Macbeth, you look positively wicked this evening.” Maya’s outfit cost more than you made from your first two movies combined. So she was really one to talk. You wouldn’t ignore that Maya was gorgeous, that she held power, that it was nice to receive compliments from her. Just because you didn’t wanna suck off Mr. Chillipeppers didn’t mean you couldn’t get wet from Maya Mason’s flirtatious nature, even if you wouldn’t do anything about it. 

As her heels echoed on the fancy patio, you wonder why she gives such little distance, why the Studio’s head of marketing desires being in your personal space. But it felt incredibly intimate as you both were now standing closer than two people who worked together, than even two close friends. This was the space and body language you gave to someone you shared sexual fluids with. 

“I figured you would have forgotten that nickname by now.” You try to be friendly, and Maya tilts her head to the side just a little. Like a dog would it’s owner. Her left hand held an expensive drink in it, and she uses her free hand to take a pack of smokes out of her back pocket. 

“You don’t lie so well, Macbeth. I sent you a dinner invite, you declined.” Maya states with more ease than you’d given her credit for. As though it did hurt, but she wasn’t angry about it, just disappointed. 

“I don’t think - I mean I’m not sure I’m your type. Besides, the movie has been-”

“Kind excuses are still excuses. You really do look beautiful tonight.” Maya’s eyes don’t leave yours, and you see she’s being earnest. Which is even more unsettling, as she is able to mouth the cig, holding it between her teeth, pocketing the pack, and bring forth a golden lighter. 

Your eyes catch an inscription. 

“What does your lighter say?” You ask, hoping she’ll forget the date that never was. Maya smirks and then hands it to you, and you hesitate before taking it between your fingers. It’s heavier than you expected, and you flip it over. 

“Screw your courage to the sticking place and we will not fail.”

You repeat the writing of Shakespeare out loud, and your fingers trace over the deep texture. 

“I just thought you were teasing me.” It sounds stupid as it rolls out of your mouth. What did this fucking mean? Macbeth jokes, a lighter with the play quote transcribed, Maya’s continuous tugging on your pigtails like she was in elementary school. The fuck was Marketing getting at here?

“You did, huh?” Maya’s question doesn’t seem like it’s just conversational, but deeper. 

“I didn’t realize, I mean I-” You ponder too long, you haven’t given the lighter back, and it’s silly but Maya leans forward. As if it were a film noir moment, the girl gets her cigarette lit by her paramour. Her warm gaze lidded, blue eyes looking up at you through long lashes. 

You waver, and being off kilter seems to bring a small bit of satisfaction to Maya’s demeanor. 

Maya Mason, in this moment, appears to you like a prince does in a fairytale, bowing in respect to a princess, excitement in his eyes for a dance that he may ask for later in the night. 

And you stumble, but flip the light, a tiny blue and orange flame springs to life, contrasting with the one in your belly now. You light the end of her cigarette before handing her back the lighter, but Maya is too smooth for you. And she cups your hand. 

“You are something else, ya know that?” Maya’s voice carrys nothing but admiration, and it kicks the oxygen out of your lungs. 

“She’s a Superstar.” Agatha’s voice breaks the trance, and you take your hand out of Maya’s, who doesn’t let go like you did. Lingering in your warm palm as long as she can. She holds the lighter like it’s a memento of something real you two shared. 

“Macbeth has a long, fruitful career ahead of her, this studio will make sure of that.” Maya’s eyes flicker to Agatha, but return to stare at you. And Aagatha crosses the space to lean against your side now, and you wonder if this is what people mean when they talk about food aggression in dogs. 

“Maya Mason.” Agatha lets the name sit, like one does after saying a serial killer's name in casual conversation.

“Agatha Harkness, the MILF of witches. How are you enjoying the party?” Maya asks her, taking a drag of the cigarette and then flicking ash a little to pointedly in her direction. Agatha laughs, but you don’t recognize that sound, as it is the first fake thing you’ve heard from your co-star. 

“The Masacre of Marketing and you really are gonna use the word MILF? What are we twelve?” Agatha shows her teeth in this smile, but looks like she’s baring down just a bit too hard. Her hand finds the middle of your back and it is claiming - like a game of Battleship. And Maya isn’t about to lose. 

“I think some of us may be more youthful than others, but whatever. Ya know, some of us are just more in touch with what’s happening.” Maya’s glance towards you was like a politician trying to get you to agree with her message but you can’t believe how rude this conversation has gotten. And you open your mouth to defend Agatha, only for it to get worse. “Macbeth, here, now she’s exactly what the people want.”

“What the people want, or what you want?” Agatha calls her out, and you can’t believe either of them now, as you look between the two. A unfriendly hand of verbal warfare - of wit, only with a scalpel. 

“I do want her, can you say the same, Harkness? I hope that dull bulb in your closet is still keeping you warm.” Maya takes a stab, and now you are pissed. You hiss lowly, so that others can’t hear. 

“Maya, don’t.” Your voice is angry, and the studio head looks momentarily at a loss, like perhaps she should not have gone to that level. Not because of Agatha, but because of your reaction. 

“No, it’s okay. You think I’d be bad for her brand?” Agatha isn’t stupid, and you see she’s making conversationaly handing Maya a rope and waiting for her to tie the noose. Your best friend should not be underestimated, Maya’s downfall is her inability to back down from a good old fashion bloodsheding. But she’s unable to see that Agatha isn’t like other opponents. 

“Let’s just say, she’s Sarah Paulson, and you ain’t Holland, honey.” Maya’s jaw is tense and Agatha bends a little forward, her long dark hair moves like the tendrils of Medusa with her, as she goes to bite. 

“All you can think about his how we ‘look’. You couldn’t ever imagine a love without analysing how it would look with an Instagram filter. If all your relationship goals are centered around going viral. It’s no wonder she turned your advances down.” Agatha pin points the very real reason you had said no. Not wanting to be someone’s photo op, you wanted romance without the need to send out a press release. Agatha was good, damn. 

“At least I’ve made advances towards Macbeth, what are you doing, Harkness? You two gal pals? You what? FaceTime goodnight and share your favorite books, how second grade. Maybe she wants more than a BFF? Maybe she needs something a little…thicker?” Maya lets the last innuendo sting before smiling at her strap-on joke. 

“You are vile, and disgusting.” Agatha snarls before adding. “And you don’t deserve her.”

“Macbeth should decide, maybe she doesn’t wanna play in the shadows with you anymore? I can push her career, open doors, I can love her in the daytime. Something you’ll never do for her.” Maya spits truth and you hate every moment of this. A photographer comes over and Maya flicks her cigarette into a planter, then throws her arm over your shoulder. But Agatha is bolder, she wraps her arm around your middle, letting her hand securely grab your hip bone. Fingers dangerously sprawled against your dress, centimeters next to the line of your thong. 

He thanks you both taking too many pictures and you all fake smiles of enjoyment. With clenched teeth Agatha gives a blow that you can’t smile at anymore.  

“You have no idea what I would do for her.”

You drop your cocktail and yelp as it splashes everywhere, the photographer even panics, but three waiters come over as you crouch down to grab the broken glass. It’s a non-famous person move, and Maya grabs your left hand to stop you from getting on the floor. 

“No don’t - too many cameras.” Maya thanks them as you do too, apologizing, but Mrs. Mason is far more relaxed. Taking out a fifty and handing it to one of them. You go to help one more time but this time Agatha grabs your right hand. 

“Maya’s right, pictures of you on the floor will spread so fast, and you’ll be the story. Just let them do it, sweetheart.”

You were flushed, embarrassed, and aware of the party's eyes on you. Two gorgeous women grabbing you, controlling your movement, it should be hot. Yet, you just want to catch on fire and melt into the floor. 

“Continental Studios and their strong drinks!” Someone yells in the crowd and you feel even worse. Stealing your hands back out of theirs and smiling falsely before heading towards the bathroom. 

“Macbeth!” Maya shouts but Agatha isn’t going to let you run away. You throw open the bathroom door and look down at the bottom of your dress, which is soaked in your drink. 

“Damn it,” you hiss, going over to the cloth towels, thank you fucking fancy party. You try to figure out how to blot at your wet dress. Agatha pushes the door open and then locks it behind you.

“Sweet girl, you are okay. It wasn’t as big as it seemed. Let me see.” Agatha cooed at you, and you felt tears threatening to form. 

“I’m fine, please go enjoy the party.” You panic and you try to hold your breath to stop the embarrassment. But Agatha is already bending down to help you, which seems impossible in her gorgeous suit. But she does, blotting with the gentleness saved only for Nonna doing laundry. 

“It’s a silly work thing. I’d rather be curled up on the sofa with you watching - what was the next movie on our list, Beowulf?” Agatha pretends and smiles at you as she puts a cloth against your dress, looking up at you. Knowing that distracting you was the best way to stop a panic attack, and you chuckle wetly. 

“It was 2017’s ‘Life’ and you know that.” You fake chastise.

“Maybe I did,” Agatha whispers intimately, and she quickly wipes the tear you didn’t know fell away, before pulling back to get another hand towel.

“And you said you didn’t want to watch that one.”

“Well, maybe I was just acting poorly again.” 

You don’t play along to your inside joke. 

“I told you I had a crush on Rebecca Ferguson,” Agatha scoffs like that’s stupid and you continue your sentence. “- and you told me you didn’t like space movies. Which was not true, because you love Space Odyssey.” You reason, no longer helping as Agatha cleans your dress, bending over so you can’t see her face. 

“If you are going to walk down the red carpet with anyone, it’s not gonna be the ‘Reverend Mother’ in Dune.” Agatha mumbles, irritated, and you grab her arm to stop her. She seems confused, and you feel like something in you is breaking. 

“Agatha, what Maya said…What..Do you - I mean…” The knock on the bathroom door startles you both. 

“Out in a minute!” Agatha shouts before she stands and grabs your face with so much certainty it shakes your fragile heart. 

“I want to have this conversation. But I will not have it with you in a public bathroom. Please be patient?” Agatha asks you, and you can’t find it in yourself to tell her no. And she looks for a moment ready to kiss you but decides last minute to kiss your cheek, right under your right eye. Lipsticks stains were earned afterall. 

And you aren’t sure if you are holding your breath as Agathat lingers a little longer than necessary. When she steps back, she noticed you have some alchol splatter on your hip. So Agatha problem solves as you fell the wet lipstick on your cheek and it makes you dizzy. So many screen kisses, and yet it still stopped your heart like it was the first kiss.  Agatha doesn’t make time to indulge in teasing you about your reaction to a mere kiss on the cheek.

She’s busy  taking her suit jacket off, guiding your shaking arms through the holes.  And it looks like you two planned it. The jacket matches your dress and seems trendy. Agatha’s button-down is low and your eyes can’t help but try to follow the rabbit hole down her breasts. 

Agatha notices and seems to drink in your clear desire for her. You bite your bottom lip and Agatha licks hers like she wishes it was you. 

The knock on the door happens again and this time Agatha breaks the secret bathroom reality you two were living. Going to the door and flipping the lock as you turn with a fake smile, and the two of you leave the room. 

As Agatha is quickly grabbed by Lilia and four gay men who are trying to get her to tell them about a film from a decade ago. You see the instant regret as they pull her away from you.

But you attempt to give her a comforting smile, something reassuring that doesn’t meet your eyes, and she doestn’ buy it. Guess you two needed to work on your acting game in front of each other. 

But you head towards the bar and ask for another cocktail. 

“Don’t give it to her! She just wants to wear em this evening anyway!” Billy jokes, and you turn to glare at him good naturely, and he gives you a real hug. Not a fake L.A side hug, his skinny frame pressed against yours, gives you comfort now. “You okay back there? Two lesbians fighting over you looked a little intense even for my gay ass.” He giggles, and you laugh along.

It all was a tad absurd, and felt more like fiction than fact, Maya and Agatha playing for your favor. Far too close to Nora Ephron, and you could never be Meg Ryan no matter how much you’d love to wear the frumpy jumpers. Fuck, movies were really so much better than reality. 

Billy’s outfit was leather and little chains like a baby goth. And he looked like he could be a model, his perfectly sharp cheekbones and light lipglosss made him practically aetherial, not of this world. 

Billy hands you a small napkin that was a makeshift coaster.

“You have dark red lipstick on your cheek.” He tells you and you take the napkin out of his hand and you hesitate, not ready to be rid of your brand. 

“Thanks,” you said it because you are supposed to. 

“You okay though?” Your fellow cast member seemed to really mean it, chewing on his lip absent mindedly, a trait that appeared so distinctly adolescent. He’d lose this habit, this town would skin him, and he’d lose his sweetness, his fragility. The things that make a young soft gentlemen into a detached actor with a codeine problem. And you didn’t want to see Billy lose this, fuck if you could bottle it for him you would. 

But you long ago stopped chewing on your straw tips, overly thanking everyone in emails, and seeking validation in the wrong people. The image of Agatha’s character slapping the floor and saying ‘Time to Grow Up’ rings true here as well. 

“Oh that, that was nothing.” You shrug your shoulder and try to play it off and you must be a better actor than you thought, or Billy is afraid of awkward moments. Because he just nods and smiles. 

“You wanna dance?”

“Fuck yeah I do.” You can’t believe how relieved you are as he grabs your hand, drinks forgotten, and yanks you down into the party where the young queer people are dancing to some remixed Cher  Dark Lady. You try not to feel old, as you wish they hadn’t put all this techno and new age base drops, but you dance with Billy. Not caring about the eyes watching you, and Billy made sure to twirl you. You gently grind on him and Alice comes over to grind on his other side and Billy’s ears turn red. Two actresses touching the queer man was enough for him to blush, but not enough for him not to twirk against you and giggle. You wondered what it was like to be twenty one with this much limelight. 

After the fifth song you were a little sweaty and for sure convinced you didn’t have the stamina you once did. They were blaring a remix of ‘I Lied to You’ from the film Sinners. And it was making people dance a little more intimate than before, Patrick Swayze would have been proud. And Alice and Billy try to capture you back onto the floor you laugh but decline. Already too exhausted. So when you pull ourself to the bar and one of the heads of Paramount starts to walk over to you. Your heart sinks but your white knight comes in a strange package. 

“You looked good out there. Hope there’s dancing in the movie.” Maya’s voice hits you like a steam room and you flinch. 

“Please don’t do this again.”

Maya’s palms opened towards you. As the bartender slides what he already knew she’d been drinking that night. 

“I come in peace Macbeth. ”

“Stop it.” You close your eyes and wish that Mr. Paramount would come back. Anything but this again. Maya’s voice dropped an octave and the room started to spin, were you in Vertigo now?

“Hey, I’m not a bad guy.” It was more whiney then defensive, and Maya’s shoulder twitched just enough to confirm that. 

“What do you want?” Your voice was strained, all sense of respect for a studio head leaving. 

“I want what Agatha Harkness got freely.” It sounds transactional, but remains egotistical like a teenage boy with his first spout of jealousy. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You won’t give me the time of day. You heard the rumors about me, you made up your mind. But all I’m asking for is the same thing you gave your leading lady. Hey, if you don’t want to date me fine. Well, not fine really. I’m not a great loser, so I’ll win you over through friendhsip and excessive gifts.”

The image of Margot Robbie in Wolf of Wall Street play against your eyelids and it makes you angry.

“I don’t want anything from you.” The idea that Maya could buy your affection, your time, your body. It was a slap in the face. You acted in Hollywood for a living -  you weren’t Maya’s personal cam girl. You didn’t need a Sugar Mama. You could make your own money, and fame without Mrs. Mason. 

“Neither do I, I just want to get to know you.” This stopped your tirade, but still - it felt performative from the woman who rocked Burberry like it was a religion.  

“You don’t know me, and I’m not worth your trouble.” You wondered if that was your trauma talking or you. But you meant it either way. Maya’s eyes narrowed as she looked at you like you were wounded in a way she wasn’t expecting, before she changed tactics. 

“Macbeth, I’m not here for PR. I came here tonight to try to be your friend.” You blink at her and give her a pathetic smile and she nods, seeing she’s been caught. Or perhaps having a change of heart. “Okay, I came for you to fall in love with me, but if that’s the long game then so be it. Let me take you out.”

“Maya-” Your voice softens now, seeing the cracks in her Gucci war gear, all of this was armor. Maya was broken, just like you. And now that she was human to you, it was harder to villainize her. 

“Let me take you somewhere.” Maya’s voice resembles Leo in Romeo and Juliet. Fuck who hurt Maya Mason. She inches closer to you sitting on the barstool next to you. The low light of the evening, sun having gone down only made this more romantic, harder to hide away from her rawness. 

“Maya-” You try, and it sounds like ‘no.’

“Let me take you to a movie, come on. Let me be your friend.” It’s a little Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail. But you see she’s not gonna let this go. Maya’s conviction lacked it’s previous courage. Her ego long gone, this unguarded woman seeming to beg - ‘Love me, please let me be wrong about myself.’

“Friends?” You question and it doesn’t even seem honest as you say it but Maya’s face lights up. Maya wouldn’t stop at friends, but you also found it impossible to ignore the pull to her. 

“We are going to be good friends.” Miss Marketing sounds very sure of herself. Like a Disney cartoon type of optimistic. 

You snort at how excited this adult was at the idea of your meanial friendship. 

“You and me like; Thelma and Louise!” 

Now you glare at her as she sips her whiskey sour. Of course Maya would pick the gayest straight friendship of all time. Suprising she didn’t say ‘Friend Green Tomatoes.’

“More like Freddie and Jason.” You correct - keeping the humor but not allowing such romance to bud. And Maya cackles in delight at the power couple you compare them too. 

“That’s cute, but I’d say we’re more like Bogart and Bergman or Morticia and Gomez.” Agatha steps in once again and it hits you like a record scratch. But you turn to the gorgeous woman who’s jacket you are wearing. She had been mucking it up, doing her homework assignment. But was tired of playing nice in the sandbox, while people picked at you. Her demeanor screamed ‘she’s mine.’ And you gas lit yourself to believe that Agatha didn’t care, and you were imaging this. 

“Nice outfit swap, but Gomez I’ll tell you right now that you didn’t wear it best.” Maya rolls her eyes but taps her glass for another drink. Like she was going to need it for round two. Agatha rolls her white silk blouse sleeves up, like she was ready to get into the muck and scoop you out again. 

You order whiskey now, and Agatha puts up two fingers to signal she wants the same. 

Agatha moves to your left, so that the two of them are on either side. Whiskey splashes against the one ice cube and the bartender serves Agatha first but she pushes the drink to you. Before taking the second glass. And you want to thank her for the chivalry, but your tongue has forgotten how to roll in your mouth correctly. Instead you took a large gulp of your drink, letting it burn down your throat and warm your chest. 

“Can you two maybe come in peace for the rest of the night? I don’t want to wear anymore drinks.” And it takes a beat and then Maya opens her mouth to say something, probably snarky, but Agatha stops her with a hand. 

“Listen, we both don’t want to make a scene for her. Truce for now?” Agatha asked, but didn’t look at Miss Marketing, blue eyes trained ahead to the mirror. Reflecting behind where people were pointing and whispering at the three powerful women in Hollywood speaking to one another at the bar.  Maya laughed dejectedly taking a long sip of the drink. 

The night draws to an end, you get a photo with more people you won’t remember, and you wish you had eaten more. As someone sorta creepy from Hulu tells you he’s interested in making a mini series with you about a lesbian retelling of Horai. You tune him out at one point when he starts mansplaing greek mythology and telling you how much of your naked body needed to be in it. That’s when you wondered if he really worked for Hulu. 

So when Lilia interrupted you two -  he gasped and said what a fan he was of Miss Oscar winning Calderu. You were grateful Lilia had a good poker face, she thanked him and said you were needed. Lila chaperoned you outside, and you asked once out of earshot. 

“Jac needs me for more photos?”

“Heavens no, but you just met Loki and he’s disgruntled and hungry to turn Hulu into Showtime or HBO with his crusade for sex in films. And you my dear, need to leave this party. All the good oxgyden is leaving the room.” Lilia used the phrase and you really caught on to her meaning. It was like the hyenas stayed to get the scraps off the floor of fame. 

Lilia stopped outside where valets and limos were congesting the front of the building. Lilia kissed your cheeks, noticing the lipstick stain that Agatha wore still stuck to you. The famous woman tilted her head to the side to study you. Her grin grew like flowers blooming and she whispered how gorgeous you looked. 

“You know, Agatha and I may bring our names to this film. But you are it’s star. Doll, you are gonna be the next Janet Leigh.” Lilia meant it too, as she squeezed you on last time and walked off towards a nineteen year old with her and a rather handsome gentlemens car. He looked around twenty years younger than her, and giddy at the possibility of getting lucky. You smiled at her, good for Lilia. 

But it seemed your babysitting was only being changed from one to another, as  Jac and Agatha flocked to your sides from behind. 

“Wow, Leigh is iconic.” Jac murmured sticking her hands in her suit jacket pockets and Agatha shrugged. Her hair dancing at the ends from the breeze, but she had to add:

“Think bigger, you’ll put Ingrid Bergman and Jane Fonda to shame, Superstar.” Agatha’s confidence in you made you blush and you turned to her just as she put her hand on the back of your bare neck. It isn’t subtle; it is an intimate placement and you wonder if she’s sober enough to think it through. But Jac wraps her arm around your arm, and you hope if they take a photo it won’t be as incriminating this way. 

“We have seven more movies, with how much the fans are responding already. This is gonna make Hitchcock stir from the grave.” The three of you walk towards the every moving line of limos to get home. And you bite your lip not wanting to leave Agatha yet. “Enjoy the quiet before the storm, once this movie premieres, you won’t get to so much as go to Barns and Noble without a whole secret service team.” 

Jac snorts before releasing you and kissing your cheek, something it seemed everyone was doing to you. You returned the gesture, like one does to a family member out love admiration and respect.  And Jac appreciates it as she squeezes Agatha’s free hand. The one not still holding you, like she could ground you. Which you realize her warm hand was the only thing that was doing such an act tonight. 

Jac went to the next limo and opened the door before turning to tell you. 

“Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. ” 

Jac stopped in the middle of the quote, seeming to let this weight hit you. You couldn’t help but be bewildered at her words, finding that Marilyn Monroe fell from your fearless leaders lips so easily. But Agatha’s hand stayed firm, and she finished the lesson. 

“-I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.” Agatha answered it seamlessly and Jac nodded like it calmed her, this secret code answered back.  

The exchange made it unquestionable to you, standing in the warm night of L.A. With the Santa Ana winds flicking the corners of Agatha’s suit jacket, the one that wrapped you in her safety. 

Jac, Lilia, Agatha Harkness and fuck even Maya Mason, were in your corner. They were women in Hollywood, in this industry, making art. Women who have fought to get to these positions. To tell the stories they wanted, queer stories, women-empowered stories.  And they were changing the game, making history with their work. And they were shielding you, protecting you, and teaching you. They paved the way and fought for Hollywood to be a better place for young people like you in this business. Queer yes, women in hollywood in general, of course. You hadn’t needed to give any sexual favors to get this part. These women were moving this industry forward, and the way they treated you would change how you treated the next generation as well. 

You were their legacy, and they would fight for your right to enjoy the limelight. 

It wasn’t that they were sucking the fame from your fingertips as you rode the success up and up and up. It was that this group of strong women, were making sure you were going to be okay. Get your awards, the money, the fame of course. But at the end of the day, they wouldn’t let you slip. Would catch you long before you felt the pain. 

So you wouldn’t be found dead, naked, like Marilyn. 

It made you feel safer than you ever had before. Jac winked at you, as if she saw the light turn on in your attic. Before gazing at Agatha one last time. 

“Take care of each other.” She mouthed, and you both inched closer to one another as she sat in the car. 

You went home alone that night, much to you and Agatha’s dismay. As she seemed weary of leaving you alone, not sure if it was the fear of you being alone after such a night. The underlying unease at the idea of you going into the arms of Maya. Or because she wanted to have that conversation, the one that started in a restroom. 

But either way you went home alone, and changed into comfy sweats. Crawling into your bed you don’t notice your phone blowing up with notifications. Twitter and Instagram coming into the 100’s of retweets and comments. Still you don’t see it. Not even the ones from Jac and the cast. Or of Maya’s repeated DM’s or Agatha’s frenzy of calls. You melt into your bed - pulling the comforter up to your chin - and flipping on your TV. Finding the 1960’s black and white ‘Psycho’ playing just as Leigh checks into the Bates Motel. 

Alfred Hitchcok wasn’t a good person - that was clear. Yet you couldn’t ignore the Bergman and Leigh comments on the night. The screen calmed you down, as your phone vibrated on repeat lost in the sheets. The TV screen was the light -  the only one in your bedroom. Cascading over the lumpy comforter and pillows. 

Chewing on your cheek you reflect on the night, on Monroe and Harkness. On the idea of Agatha as either Mortica or Gomez, pondering which was more likely. Damn, she would be delicious in that dress. Your eyes close just as the bathroom liner is pulled back and Leigh shrieks in horror. 

How quick everything could change, just as the curtain was pulled back for all to see.

To be continued...

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