Dyke2000

dr. dyke

[vidrkness]

Second nature

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x female!reader

Summary: The fragile thread that holds everything together is starting to tear

Word count: 8.3k

TW: +18 MDNI, power imbalance, age gap, imposter syndrome, angst, light smut, mentions of alcohol and drugs.

A/N: *Taps on mic* Is this thing on? Hola ! First, a round of apologies: Sorry for taking so long to post this, sorry if it feels rushed or nonsensical, and sorry for sticking to the angst lol. This chapter is more of a bridge for what comes next, hope y'all enjoy it ! Adios :)

Song for this chapter: Pool - Samia

Previous chapter

Chapter seventeen : Breakable

"We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty."

Day 10

“Dude, come on. You’ve been there for like ten minutes” 

“Shut up, I need this to look perfect” 

“Why?” you say, very done already “I mean, the guy already loves your tiny ass. Sure as fuck the bag is secured” 

Two days ago Billy told you that apparently the things with Eddie were going well, so much that his parents invited him over to their house in the lake. You have seen him like two times, not having really a proper introduction, because Billy insisted on making sure first thing we’re going to work before involving him fully into his life. 

And to your surprise, that was the most serious and mature thing Billy has done ever since you know him. 

He comes out of the dressing room, wearing a pair of dark blue fitted pants and a grey cashmere sweater “Eddie, yes. But his parents? That’s a whole different story, and I’m not taking chances”

You huff in exhaustion, Billy always gets so anxious about these things. And you, a professional overthinker, love to help others in distress as a way to escape from your own shit. So that’s why you have spent almost five hours of your day off helping him to get the perfect outfit for the dinner. 

It’s been almost three weeks since New York. And you have mastered the art of detachment and avoidance, it helped that Agatha had that gutting idea of taking you out of her service and trading you as pokemon cards with Strange for one of his interns. The reason she gave him; she had taught you everything she could (in her words, of fucking curse) but you knew how to take the big L and nod along to her lies as the big girl you are.

So now, you find yourself petting Strange’s ego in order to survive the horrors. At least, you still have Bucky by your side when things get tough and Billy is not around to soothe the pain. Maybe that was what you actually needed. Getting back to your normal life, try to live it without the constant reminder of the woman that owns your completely. 

“Did you hear me?” Billy says, now in a different outfit. This time in the same sweater but in white and khaki pants that makes him look like a church boy. 

“Sorry, what?” You say, shaking your head. 

“I was saying that if this one makes me look like a church boy”

You chuckle “Kinda, maybe the other one was better?

He takes another look in the mirror, then nods in agreement “Yeah, you’re right”

You exhale, finally relieved that Billy made up his mind. Then, after a very greasy burger and fries from the food aisle you make your way back home, the dread of the day washing over you when your body finally makes contact with the soft cushion of the sofa. Clementine jumps into your chest and immediately starts purring with her not so tiny anymore head nuzzled in your throat , making herself comfortable there. 

Exhaustion completely takes over and before you know it you're already fast asleep, not even the heavy storm outside can wake you up at this point.

Surprisingly, since the events in New York, you’ve been able to focus on getting a little more sleep, shutting off your brain every now and then, trying to get the peace you've been chasing for so long now. And yet, you still find yourself wondering if it was the best idea.

When Agatha said she was poison, when she crushed your heart with her sharp heels, the ones she always wears to intimidate people, when she lied to your face and made you believe this was the best option, even as you watched both of you bleed. 

But now…

You thank her for helping you see things clearly, 

Day 9

If working for Agatha was a time bomb, for Strange was like a roller coaster. One day you'd be in the middle of a surgery that felt like the end of the world, and he'd handle it with incredible ease, just by moving his hands with such precision. And the next... you'd spend hours sitting at the interns' lounge doing absolutely fucking nothing. That's the problem with surgeons who also seem to be rock stars, he and Bucky were always traveling from city to city fixing people's brains.

You once went with them to Texas, where the team performed a partial resection of an ependymoma on an 8 year old girl. It was truly amazing and surely will be one of the best memories of your career.

But then, back in Westview you spent the next two days organizing your charts and practicing sutures on the old manikins. It felt strangely comforting, almost like a vacation.

Until the third day of your shift, when you had to eat your words and go through what could have been the most chaotic night of your life.

The emergency room erupted into a sea of people that had a nasty accident in a bus that had veered off the road returning from a music festival. Thankfully, just exactly one brain was in need of specialized help. So the rest of your night passed on suturing people that were very drunk that your usage of anesthesia was practically nonexistent. 

By the time the sun was already setting, you were sewing back the split eyebrow of a dude that sadly just lost his piercing during the commotion, when a familiar voice called your name. 

“Excuse me doctor, where do I get a turn?” Carol says, peaking through the curtain. 

You chuckle, not turning to face her yet continuing threading the skin  “Sorry, I’m leaving after this one. You’re gonna have to find another one to torture” 

She laughs, that rich and surprisingly warm laugh that has been making you forget how sore your heart is supposed to be.

When you finish the guy's eyebrow, looping the needle and thread to make a perfect tiny knot is when you finally look at her and your blood runs cold.

“Jesus, Carol what the fuck happened to you?” You say as you rush to get closer to look at her very injured head, a tiny crimson line running down her forehead and a couple scratches on her cheek. 

“Fought a lion and won” she jokes “Emergency at a construction site, didn’t went as planned”

You carefully examine the thin cuts, then you take her hand leading her out the room looking back at the patient before stepping outside “Sir, a nurse will be here in a minute to give your discharge info”

The very now conscious guy gives you a two thumbs up before laying down again without complaining. 

You leave the exam room and lead Carol to another one that’s empty and clean. She sits on the bed while you get the suture kit and other medical supplies to treat her.

“Do you realize you’re supposed to be there to help patients, not be the patient?”

She laughs “Just a little collateral damage, nothing serious”

You look at her in disbelief “Carol, there’s literally a hole in your forehead. If I drop a coin on it, will it give me a piece of gum?”

This time she lets out an even louder laugh, having to cover her mouth “Ouch, don’t make me laugh. It hurts”

“Good. Hopefully that’ll teach you not to try to be the hero”

“Will do, boss”

You shake your head and start to treat the wound. The moment the alcohol-soaked cotton ball touches her skin, she hisses. The bright red is now replaced by a faint trace of pink. You switch to a new one and press it against the wound once more, trying to remove all the remaining blood. Without realizing, you apply enough pressure to make Carol react.

Her hand flies to yours, holding your wrist preventing the cotton from touching the wound again. You lower your gaze slightly, and your eyes meet hers. Are they a deep amber, or perhaps brown topaz? Either way, they make you lose your concentration a little. Her hand still firmly holding your wrist.

“Careful, doctor” she says, and at this moment you don’t know if she’s referring to the wound on her head or to the fact that, for the first time in a few days your mind is playing tricks on you.

You clear your throat and, without giving it much thought and continue cleaning the wound. “You're the one who needs to be careful, or you'll become a regular at the emergency room”

She smiles, big and bright. Squinting every time she does and you can’t stop noticing how this makes your stomach churn.

“What will you do on the day I'm not on call?”

“Hopefully, taking you out for drinks or dinner, pretty one” She says, winking at you shamelessly 

You roll your eyes at that and continue getting the needle ready to suture her forehead “That was very cheap, even for you. You could do better”

She chuckles, and pauses for a minute, looking directly at you “Oh, I will”

Day 8

“Incsicion, muscle moving, accessing the spine, removing pressure, checking the nerve, closing” You keep repeating to yourself as the elevator moves. It’s been a month now since you have been on Strange’s service, and it has helped you to polish your basic surgery skills. 

You've noticed that he has a knack for pop quizzes. Sometimes they cover topics that are too simple, like identifying the pairs of cranial nerves and their functions or the Glasgow Coma Scale.

And there was that one time when, while he was casually eating a tuna sandwich and filling out paperwork, he suddenly asked your group to list the symptoms, types, diagnosis, and treatment for Chari’s malformation.

The most recent one, a few days ago. When during an aneurysm clipping he bombarded you with questions about a spinal decompressing procedure, you looked at him very confused because it had absolutely nothing to do with the current one. But as you turned to Bucky and saw his eyes reassuring you to answer, it started to make sense. 

You were going over the steps with him, but still focused on Strange’s hands working with precision around the very tiny and delicate blood vessels and at the same time he would deliberately ask the nurse for the wrong instruments to see if you were paying attention to what was happening.

By this point, you were already a pro. You had answered most of your quizzes correctly.

Incision, muscle moving, accessing the spine, removing pressure, checking the nerve, closing. That kept echoing in your head.

You were just floors away from the residents' lounge when the elevator stopped at the 8th floor. Instinctively, you stepped away from the door, 8th floor: post-operative recovery. But when the doors opened, the only thing they saw right in front of them were those two blue eyes that continue to haunt you even when you go days without seeing them.

Agatha was standing in front of you, her lab coat as pristine as ever, no scrubs this time. Just a delicate black Tom Ford that you painfully recognized. God, she looked as precious as always. 

At that moment, you felt like a caged animal; the four metal walls seemed to be closing in on you. It wasn’t until she stepped into the elevator and the doors closed that you realized you’d been holding your breath. The scent hits you immediately, of course she was going to pair Tom Ford with Tom Ford. Her signature Black Orchid filled the elevator in seconds.

“Morning” she says, her back turned to you.

Incision, muscle moving, accessing the spine, removing pressure, checking the nerve, closing.

You swallow hard, a desperate attempt to keep your composure “Morning” You say back, keeping your eyes down, looking at how your hands tremble. Dammit, you thought you had this controlled by now, but its seems you absolutely fucking not.

Incision…

“I heard things have been going well for you with Strange, you're learning new things. That's great”

Checking the nerve. Wait, no. That’s not-

Finally, you look up and see how stiff her body is. Her long hair falls perfectly down her back, the dark, shiny waves reminding you that your fingers once ran through them. This is ridiculous, you need to get out of here immediately.

The elevator keeps its constant slow movement, the low hum being the only thing that fills the uncomfortable silence. 

Accessing the spine.

“Yeah, I think so” You say before you can stop yourself. 

“I told you it was the best thing to do, less…” She trails off, then very slowly turns to face you again “...complicated” 

Removing pressure. What is causing it? Shit, focus y/n. 

You hold her gaze, fighting back an overwhelming urge to cry. There was a time when you wouldn't have cared about this, when you could have thrown yourself at her until you were on your knees begging her not to leave you. Honestly, you wouldn't have minded being a little pathetic for her. But now, the fire inside you isn't because you want her hands on you, her mouth on your neck, or her thigh between your legs.

God, how you miss her, how you hate her.

Incision, muscle moving, accessing the spine, removing pressure, checking the nerve.

“I guess” You say, venom taking over your tongue “you’re always right”

You look at her closely, searching for any sign. But her usual expression, showing no surprise or anger at such an accusation. And it only reminds you of how well she has mastered the art of hiding the fact that she’s dying inside. She knows it’s true, she knows the damage is done.

Without you noticing, the elevator doors open again on the 6th floor, and two people step inside. The little bubble you were in bursts the moment Agatha steps aside and stops looking at you with that intensity that’s so characteristic of her, moving to one side and leaning against the wall, leaving a space between you so that the other people can get settled.

You look at her one last time, and she holds your gaze, steady, defying. Your frown doesn't change her expression at all. Just as the elevator doors are about to close, you stop them and step out. You can take the stairs.

Closing.

Day 7

The pleasant October weather envelops the residents of Westview in the perfect atmosphere for Halloween celebrations. Orange leaves are already covering the streets, kids everywhere and the overwhelming scent of pumpkin spice filling the coffee shops on every corner.

“Okay, now look at this side” Bucky says, holding the camera as Carol, you and Billy stand outside the ambulance bay.

“Barnes, it's just a stupid photo, not a GQ shoot” Carol says, trying to sound annoyed, even though she actually has no problem flexing her powerful muscles for the camera.

Her incredibly well executed Xena costume is making it hard for you to breathe. Who are you trying to fool? You see a pretty girl in a costume of someone who was one of your many gay awakenings. Fucking sue me, you think.

“Speak for yourself" says Billy as he adjusts his fake blonde wig. Which, for some reason, doesn't look cheap at all, making it clear that he really put a lot of effort into his Ken costume this year “Eddie is sadly not coming this weekend to celebrate, so I need to send him good pics”

Bucky laughs and snaps another one “Allright, Ken. Pose for your Allan” 

You and Bucky were still wearing your sad light blue scrubs. Bucky was wearing a Batman mask, while you had simple cat ears and whiskers drawn on with eyeliner, copying the style of your beloved Clementine.

For the ER, halloween night meant working nonstop, treating cases of indigestion from eating too much candy or dealing with drunk people in ridiculous costumes. You and Bucky offered to help Alice cover part of the shift since you had a party planned later by Carol's friends.

“You look cute” Carol says as her arm tightens around your waist “love the whiskers”

That little nervous, pathetic, involuntary laugh that escapes you in response just reminds you of how starved for affection you are. It’s a little sad that you’ve been reduced to this. You know Carol likes you, but ever since what happened at the bar, when Agatha was still flooding your thoughts and your body seemed to belong only to her.

For you, the very thought of being with anyone other than Agatha seemed impossible. But you were determined to change that. 

“And you look hot” you say, as a wave of confidence washes over you.

She smiles, and you feel her fingertips gently caress your skin through your scrubs. An electric sensation courses through your body, and all you can do is hold your breath. Finally, when Billy runs over to Bucky to look at the photos, Carol turns and looks at you.

“See you at the party, kitten” she says, and plants a quick but intoxicating kiss near the corner of your lips.

She walks toward her car without saying another word, and the only thing you can focus on is the sensation of her lips… until your eyes catch sight of what’s behind her.

Agatha.

A freshly lit cigarette between her fingers. She looked tired, smaller than you’d expect from a goddess like her. Her glasses rested on the tip of her nose, revealing the dark circles that now framed her eyes. What surprised you was a small, pointed black hat with purple glittery spiderwebs resting on her head.

She took a long, slow drag as she fixed her piercing gaze on you. You stood motionless, watching as smoke drifted from her mouth with deadly elegance. The tip of her cigarette was stained by the dark red of her lipstick, it felt as if she were casting a spell on you.

Your hands were trembling at your sides, clutching your scrubs pants tightly. If what had happened a few moments ago with Carol was like an electric shock, this felt like a bolt of lightning striking you right on the spot.

“Doctor Harkness!” Bucky's cheerful voice suddenly snaps you out of your daydream and back to reality “Love the hat, that’s definitely your color”

Agatha forces a polite smile “Thank you, Barnes. Or should I say Wayne”

A joke, a fucking joke, by Agatha Harkness. Is this a sign of recession? Now that was something to be impressed by. 

And thank god, before anything else could happen, Bucky speaks again “That was a good one, you really know your stuff. Well, I’ll keep saving Gotham City for a little while longer” he says, giving you a few light taps on the shoulder.

And before he could leave you alone with Agatha, you started moving along with him “Yeah, me too.

“But I thought you were going to smoke” Bucky says as he turns to look at you.

“Nope, actually I have to go to the bathroom. It's you know… urgent. Bye doctor Harkness”

Agatha looks at the two of you curiously as she continues to enjoy her cigarette in silence. And just as you're about to walk through the glass doors of the emergency room, you can hear her voice very faintly.

“You look cute” she says, and a second bolt of lightning strikes you. 

You’re not sure you survived the impact until later that night, when you’re in Carol’s car, sitting on her lap, her hands under your skirt making you gasp. And you trying to erase those three words from your mind.

Day 6 

The screams echo through the residents' lounge, where a few people have already gathered to watch the commotion. At one end of the room stands Kate, with her arrogant expression, trying to look like a little lost lamb. And at the other end is you, your body visibly trembling with anger. It took Kate exactly three weeks to get on your nerves again.

“Just admit that you did this on purpose” you say, your voice calmer but still resentful.

Kate pulls off what the Razzies might call the worst “best” sad face in the industry. holding her hands to her chest as if she were trying to soothe the stab wound you had just inflicted on her.

Oh for fuck's sake.

“I would never do such thing. It hurts me so much that you'd think something like that. Is it really your thirst for success that drives you to such extremes just to be the best?” she snaps, her voice so confident that even you believe her lie.

The people around you turn to look at you, as if they were waiting for you to finish that comment. God, this was a circus.

“All I want…” you continue, standing firm with your arms crossed, as if trying to keep your hands from magically finding their way into Kate’s hair “Is to know if you deleted all my charts that were on this computer”

You point to the station where you've been working all this damn week. Endless nights of doing all the work you foolishly left until the last minute so you could spend your days with Strange and Bucky in the operating room. All went down the drain in a matter of seconds.

“The very one you were using just a few moments ago” You say again. 

As if it were a silly cartoon, the audience turns their gaze back to Kate, who already looks nervous.

"It could have been anyone, you're only accusing me of that because it's me. Seriously, are you that jealous of me?” she says, and you hear murmurs. Oh no, fuck no. She won’t win this time.

You’ve spent the last month trying to get past this whole damn problem, which has cost you so much, but you can finally see the light at the end of that dark and demanding tunnel. Kate wouldn’t take that away from you.

You walk toward her, and the others are taken by surprise, just like she is. When you’re just a few centimeters away, you can see that she’s trying with all her strength to appear to be the stronger one in this confrontation, but deep down you know just how terrified she is.

Yes, she may have some power over you, but you decide this will be the last time you have to tolerate this shit.

“Maybe you're still resentful because, deep down, you know I'm better than you, and that if you're chosen, it's not necessarily because you're good. It’s because you're just an obstacle that's being used strategically” 

A collective “oooh” goes up, accompanied by some mocking laughter, and the blush on her face gives away that you've struck a nerve. Yeah, maybe you've put yourself in a vulnerable position. Maybe she'll finish things off by spilling the beans about your thing with Agatha, maybe you were reckless. 

But you don't care anymore, not at all.

“And you're a slut” she says, pride all over her face. 

The kick off comes right after this, right? Right?

“How do you sleep knowing that?” 

Your body suddenly feels hot, as if lava were flowing through it. You weren't afraid of being called a slut. Insecure people always use those terms to belittle others when they know they've lost.

But what you didn't expect was the next. Kate had every weapon at her disposal, and she didn't miss a single opportunity to use them.

“Or is all this because you can't sleep with Harkness anymore?” The room goes silent and your body that was fire hot a second ago, it's now a huge block of ice. You look around and everyone is whispering things you can’t even hear because of the loud buzzing sound that now fills your ears. 

“Wait, did she really….” someone says. 

The grin on Kate's face grew wider with every passing second, another damn victory for her. My god.

There were so many things you wanted to say, but for some reason they got stuck in your throat because of the growing lump that made you want to cry, to shatter you into pieces. You felt humiliated, violated, and so powerless.

As if by some force of the universe, all the strength you had left concentrated in the palm of your hand. You didn't even realize you'd hit Kate in the face until some of the crowd burst into cheers.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” She said, her hand flying to her face. 

You look at her, coldly and as if something had taken control of you “Everything, fucking everything” you say before lunging at her again.

Your hands burrow into her silly, perfect braid. You start moving her head from side to side until both of you fall, as the other interns, very hungry for action, make room for you so you can comfortably bury your careers.

“Y/n, get off me!!” she screams with that annoying voice.

Yanking it harder you are now in her lap, pining her to the ground “In a minute, hon” 

Her hands finally leave her face and one flies to your pony tail. You try to dodge it, but don't succeed. The first pull actually hurts as she tries to get free from your grip at the same time. 

“Hey, what's going on?” someone in the back of the crowd asks, Bucky.

“ Harkness and Strange girls are fighting” one of the med students says as he pulls out his cell phone to record the scene.

He tries to take a look only to find white lab coats and heads “What the- hey!” he says as he pushes his way through the crowd. When he finally spots the two of you lying on the floor, he immediately runs over to grab you.

He grabs you firmly around the waist, lifting you effortlessly as he tries to pull you as far away from Kate as possible, while the audience continues to cheer you on enthusiastically.

You kick and flail your arms, trying to break free from him “Let me go!” you say breathlessly. “Bucky, I swear to god, if you don’t let me go, I’m going to kill you”

“I want to see you try, superstar” he warns.

Kate stands up and tries to fix her hair when, without a second thought, she lunges at you again, trying to get past Bucky to get to you.

“You've just signed your own death sentence, y/n,” she says, placing her hand on your bare arm. Her nails manage to scratch a part of it before Bucky pulls her hand away.

“You two, stop!!” Bucky raises his voice. But suddenly the room is silent. 

Wanda appears in the doorway. Her usual warm, comforting gaze is replaced by a more stern expression. With just one glance around, the group begins to scatter like cockroaches when you turn on the lights. You're kinda relieved that it's her who's here. 

If it had been Agatha, you'd probably have died right there.

“Can any of you explain to me what the heck is going on at my hospital?” 

Bucky tries to speak, but she just raises her hand to stop him. Her gaze shifts from Kate to you, and then back to Kate and her messy braid. It then settles once more on your arm and the three reddish lines that are emerging.

“Bishop, Y/l/n. My office, now” she says and without another word she leaves. 

Bucky looks at you, trying to find any other injuries, but he sees nothing but a pale, frightened face “Hey, everything’s going to be okay” he says, trying to get you to look him in the eye, and when you do, he softens his voice “Look at me. Everything’s going to be okay, I’m gonna call Strange”

"Of course, saint y/l always getting away with her shit, right?" Kate spits again, the venom spreading quickly. 

Bucky looks at her and speaks firmly “Bishop, cut it off. I think you have more important things to think about right now” 

“Whatever” As she walks away and you try to control your breathing, you can't stop thinking about one thing.

Agatha.

It took Wanda ten minutes to calm you down and only two to suspend you both for the fight. You don't remember the rest of the conversation; your mind was too overwhelmed to even process what had happened. You could have died right then and there, and you wouldn't even have realized it.

Day 5

Three days later, you're sitting on the floor of your living room, your back pressed against the sofa, and the movie you were watching is completely forgotten. Your eyes are focused on just one thing: the phone in your hand. Agatha's name calls to you like a siren's song. From the moment you set foot outside the hospital, you've been torn about whether to call her. And it has taken everything you have not to do so.

Your fear of not knowing what to say and the fact that Wanda strictly forbade you from doing so.

There's a knock at the door, followed by the jingle of keys. Billy and Carol appear on your porch, both carrying your reusable grocery bags, stuffed to the brim.

Both of them have been right by your side. Billy, keeping you company as usual, something you’ve come to rely on at all times. And Carol, without judging you even once, without saying Told you so, just being there for you. Bucky and Kamala visited you the day before. You could see the understanding on Bucky’s face and the confusion on Kamala’s, whose shyness kept her from asking the questions she probably wanted to ask.

Yet, the one person you wanted to see walk through that door, to hug you and tell you that everything would be okay, never came. And the worst part is that you can't blame her for anything, even if your heart wanted to.

When your gaze meets Billy's and he immediately notices how incredibly red your eyes are, he quickly sets the bags down on the table and walks toward you.

“I'm going to feed Clementine and start the laundry, and then we can eat together, okay?” Carol says as she walks down the hallway, with the fluffy orange ball of fur following right behind her.

Billy nods, then takes the phone from your hands.

“I couldn’t, I just-” You say, eyes filled with tears  “I fucked it up again, Billy”

He hugs you and tries to calm you down “Everything's going to be okay. You didn't do anything wrong, and I need you to understand that”

And the thing is that you try, you really fucking do. And just when you were about to pull it off, another bomb went off right in your face.

The email from the intern's management department arrived exactly at the worst moment. Billy has been teaching you how to drive since the day your suspension started, and you were actually getting the hang of it, even when your dad's old Bronco gave you a hard time. And that day, after a fight over something so trivial that it almost tarnished your friendship, you never expected your day to get any worse.

The subject only contained two words: Privileges Revoked. Both you and Kate had been removed from Pepper’s surgery due to inappropriate behavior.

You hadn't even finished reading the message when your stomach decided it was enough to make you sick. And while you were throwing up in the toilet, the next email that landed in your inbox contained an apology from Strange, saying that he had done everything he could to prevent this but there was no solution.

That night, you drove alone for the first time for hours and ended up at the bridge where you had said goodbye to your entire family. Only the sound of the night kept you company, and as you crossed the guardrail, your mind went blank. When your phone vibrated in your pocket, you slowly pulled it out and saw Billy’s name and face filling the entire screen.

“Hey, so Tommy got you some new lights for the truck” He said, his voice a little too excited “We think they're original and in very good condition. He'll come by this weekend to install them!”

You looked down once more at the dark and ominous river stretching out before you. Then you looked up at the starry sky “Sounds good, thank you”

Then you drove back home. 

Day 4

“OH MY DEAR GOD, SHE’S BACK!” A loud and cheerful voice filled the ER as soon as you walked through the doors and you didn’t have to even look to know it was Alice’s. The intensity and strength of her embrace almost took your breath away.

“Missed you, too” You say.

“I’m really glad you are back, kid” her hand reach over the counter pulling a big stack of charts and her best big smile “Now, help me save this place”

The stares and whispers you’d heard all morning faded away as soon as you had time to have lunch with your friends. The table was filled with laughter and that familiar feeling that they’re telling the truth when they say things might turn out okay. No one asked any awkward questions or made any comments that might lead to them. But most importantly, you haven’t run into Kate all day, who according to Bucky, has been spending her time in the obstetrics ward with Dr. Kale. Later, while you were doing your rounds in the ER, you were paged to Wanda's office, and the knots in your stomach tightened instantly.

“Did I get you in trouble?” you ask, your gaze fixed on your lap while your leg nervously bounces up and down.

Wanda sighs, gently and calmly “There was some damage control to do, a few sacrifices and a lot of paperwork”

Finally, you turn to look at her and see that look of understanding and tenderness. It isn't until that moment that you realize how starved for maternal love you are. 

“I’m so sorry, I just-” You start but words seem so heavy right now. 

Wanda reaches out her hand across the desk, and you instinctively do the same to take it “I want you to understand something, honey” she says, and you immediately feel the urge to cry “What happened was really unfortunate. I'm so sorry about taking you off the team, but it was the only decision that would give us a slight advantage”

You nod, completely agreeing with what she says. Because what else could you do?

“Even so, I want you to know that although the matter hasn't escalated beyond hallway gossip, Strange, Agatha, and I have all assured you that none of these accusations will affect your position at this hospital”

You flinch at the mention of Agatha. God, how you miss her, how you need her.

“Everything you've earned here has been thanks to your intelligence and skills. I'm absolutely certain that no one has given you any special treatment” she continues “And fortunately, anyone you've worked with can confirm that”

The sense of relief his words gave you was something you needed so much and were very grateful for. After chatting for a few more minutes, Wanda also mentioned that the issue might not be completely resolved yet, since the right thing to do would be to give Kate the right to respond as well. And even though everything might be stacked against you, you agreed with this, too.

When your shift was about to end, you headed to the locker room to gather your belongings. Your feet hurt like fucking hell, and all you wanted to do was get home, take a shower, and sleep until your alarm went off again.

Day 3

Usually, you're not the one in the waiting room; you're always behind the counter, where the magic happens.But now, twice a week, you have to read trashy magazines that have seen better days while you wait for someone better or worse than you to come out of the small room at the end of the hall. 

You met Dr. Simmons through Rio. After your suspension, you and Kate were required to attend separately mandatory anger management therapy. When Rio gave you her card she said it was one of the best and thankfully she was part of the program the hospital has with third party practices. Because even when there was patient confidentiality, you were sure the fuck you didnt wanted to go back to the hospital’s psych ward.

As your name gets called and you collect your bag and traumas you can’t stop thinking about if the plant at the corner is fake or the receptionist really really has a good hand. 

Later that day you crossed paths with Kate at the hospital for the first time in days. She was standing in front of her locker, getting ready for another day at work. When you walked into the room, she looked at you for about two seconds before slamming the door shut and walking past you without saying a word.

You've heard from Kamala that she's totally pissed off about being pulled out of the surgery. And honestly, you thought there would be an even harder blow after this, since you had taken that opportunity away from her.

“Ignore her” Billy said as he came out of the bathroom. His curls were still wet from the shower he'd just taken “You really need to stop overthinking everything she does, Y/n. Nothing is going to happen”

You sigh, because even when you are trying your best, when you keep your mind busy with work and thousands of things more, it just… it doesn’t work. Because you know that the bomb is still not defused completely.  

“I don’t know, B” You say, as you change into a fresh pair of scrubs “The day is just starting” 

Day 2

“Perfecto! You did it on your first try, carina. I bet this little one is very thankful for that” Calderu says as she examines the arterial line you just installed to the small little human in front of you.

You smile big and bright as you take the tiny hand to admire your work “Thank you, doctor”

You've started to grow fond of pediatrics. What used to terrify you is now becoming one of your favorite rotations, especially because you have someone like Dr. Calderu as your mentor. The first time you worked with her alongside Rio, it completely changed your perception of the area.

“Now” she starts, closing the incubator and making sure all wires are placed perfectly “let’s give this strong boy a moment for himself. He must be exhausted having this two women on his business all day long” 

You chuckle and the comfortable warmth that fills your body is all different from when you want to throw yourself into traffic. Your rotations have gone well, and even your therapy has gone surprisingly well. You've become more open to talking about things you don't even repeat to yourself

Everything else  has also improved quite a bit. With Carol, you've been exploring many things that you thought would be Agatha's exclusive, and that fucking terrifies you. Because, what are you supposed to do now that you're not thinking about her 24/7 anymore? It feels weird, as if you were betraying her. And every time you walk past her office, every time you see her coming out of the OR or during rounds, or even in the cafeteria, your first thought is no longer to run over to her.

Or at least that’s what you are forcing yourself to do.

You don't remember how you got to the residents' lounge or when you made that coffee so strong it could bring the dead back to life, when suddenly, a voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“Ground control to major Tom” Rio says. 

You blink, a bit confused but now fully awake “Oh, Dr. Vidal” Yo say, “Hi, sorry. Do you want some coffee?"

She shakes her head “No, thank you. Already did three lines” 

You roll your eyes at her joke and pull out one of the chairs from the dinner “For legal purposes can you state that was a joke, please?” You take a sip from your coffee, whincing after burning your tongue at the contact

“You are not fun, let me build a reputation” 

“Yeah, that not very recommended”

“Why not? It worked for Taylor Swift, that album is fucking amazing.

You laugh, genuinely. Rio has becoming for some fucking reason one of your best supports, you have talked about the Agatha situation just one time now. What you thought would be a disaster turned into a strange friendship. A little weird? Probably, but you rarely talked about it anymore. 

Day 1: FRIDAY NOVEMBER 21 2025 00:18 AM

The emergency room was too quiet. But it was the kind of quiet that makes you brace yourself for the worst. Some of the on-duty residents were sleeping in the available beds, trying to get a little rest.

Alice and you were playing UNO at the counter. A pair of med students charting and complaining about the vending machine that stole their money after Alice explicitly told them it was having issues. 

“Girl, I’m not hungry. Stop making me eat!” Alice barks as she takes four cards again. 

You chuckle, enjoying how bad she's losing her shit that will probably backfire you since she will be your boss for the next week.

“Hey, not my problem you really suck on this”

She groans and fixes her cards looking for one for the next round. You're so focused on your game that you didn't notice Bucky behind you. Still in his scrubs, looking like a total mess after he practically had to split himself in two today, handling along with Agatha all of Strange's work while he was away due to a family emergency.

“She has a lot of blue cards, Al” He says, peeking at your cards and Alice lets out a wicked laugh.

You gasp and give him a nudge, making him laugh like a fool “Fuck off, man!”

He leaves a stack of papers on the counter, separating the cases Agatha is handling from the ones you’ll help review during your rounds.

“Harkness already left about half an hour ago” he says, and your mind immediately starts wondering how her day went, whether she ate, if she was able to sleep, or whether you might have crossed her mind today.

“Okay, I’ll take a look at this. When is Strange coming back?”

“Probably wednesday. Apparently doctor Palmer is getting transferred back to New York from DC, so he will help her to get settled”

You nod and respond to Alice's move “Kay, you should get going. Go to sleep”

“You don't have to tell me twice, superstar. Have a nice shift guys” he says waving as he walks toward the exit.

Two hours later, you find yourself lying on one of the most secluded beds in the ER, your lab coat shielding your face from the intense white light. Just as you were finally starting to drift off into a deep sleep, everything around you exploded. 

Alice walks into the room and wakes you up abruptly “Wake up, sleeping beauty. Emergency at the heliport, let’s go!”

In about five seconds, you find yourself running down the long hallway toward the elevator.

“What's going on?” you ask as you adjust your lab coat again.

Alice hesitates, a look on her face that you can't quite read, but you know it's something important.

“Pepper Potts” she says, and your body goes numb “She had to be rushed here from New York, she's been having seizures for half an hour. We don't have all the information yet. Agatha is already on her way”

The elevator feels like it's moving impossibly slowly, with every floor it passes, you brace yourself for the impact. Once you reach the top of the building, the paramedics rush to move Pepper onto the gurney.

As soon as you and Tony look at each other, you can tell what's going on. You think of Morgan, who probably has no idea what's happening right now.

“I just-” He starts, tears already threatening "Everything was okay, she was- she was doing fine”

You try to calm him down, but deep down you know that’s exactly how you’d react, too. You see reflected in him the pain, fear, and uncertainty that these moments bring you.

As soon as the elevator reaches the operating room floor and the doors open, Agatha is already there. Her hair is tousled from the rush, and she’s wearing a pair of black pants and her Harvard sweatshirt.

She looks at Tony, then at you, and then at Pepper on the gurney. Time freezes for a few seconds, then everyone starts moving.

“OR five is ready, anesthesiologist is on his way” Agatha informs.

Wait. 

Oh, wait. 

You keep running alongside the whole team, holding one end of the gurney as you make their way to the pre-op area.

When you reach the door, one of the nurses stops Tony, telling him he can’t go through. Agatha immediately approaches him and says something you can’t quite hear, you just see him clutching his head, trying to make sense of it all.

The nurse steps back out when she sees Agatha signal to her, accompanying Tony to the exit and likely to the waiting room. Agatha comes back and heads toward you. Your stomach is in knots and your heart is racing a mile a minute.

“I need you to get ready” she says as she begins to take off her extra clothes to change into the pair of scrubs and her scrub cap that another nurse had already laid out for her.

You can't see the look on your face, but judging by her reaction, you can sense what's coming next.

You swallow hard before speaking “What are you talking about?”

“You'll scrub in with me. We used to be a team of six, and now there are just the two of us. Barnes is on his way, so he can take over for you when necessary”

You don't know what to say, your mind is racing a mile a minute. Suddenly, all those years of medical training that were practically etched into your subconscious just vanished. Agatha kept getting changed right in front of you, she didn't even care that you were watching her. It was a routine that had been repeated many times in a different context, but it still felt intimate and very familiar.

You were probably silent for a long time, because when she didn't hear a response from you, Agatha stopped completely. Her wine-colored lace bra makes a contrast against her pale skin. The pattern of freckles scattered across her chest were accompanied by a soft pink, probably as a reaction to all the running she'd had to do to get here.

“Y/n, did you hear me?”

“I- “ You are unable to respond “I- I can’t, I’m not part of the team anymore”

She looks at you in disbelief and probably a little annoyed:“I don’t give a shit about that, you’re going to help me save this woman’s life”

Seeing that you can’t seem to recover from what she said to you, and that your mind is completely overwhelmed by the stress of the situation, she drives you even further out of your mind.

She places both hands on your cheeks. You notice instantly they're a little cold, probably because she rushed out of the house without her gloves. But as they touch your skin and fuse with the warmth of your body it feels like coming back home.

Trying to keep you still, she looks into your eyes. And in that moment, it’s as if it were just the two of you in the world. A small smile appears in her lips, and you don’t know if you’re already dead and this is the version of heaven that they were talking about.

“Look at me” she says, and you do everything you can to obey her "That's it, there you are.

“I can't, Agatha. I'm not even up to date on the case I-”

“Yes, you can” she interrupts “You can because you still know the case, because you are brilliant enough to handle this, and because I really need you”

You know she's saying this because of the surgery, because she needs your help, but a very small part of you wants her to keep needing you. 

in her life.

A moment of clarity brings you back to your senses. And all the sounds around you that seemed to have disappeared just a few minutes ago, brings you to your feet again.

Agatha’s hands are still on your face, and the dangerously incredible nature of this situation is what finally helps you come to your senses.

“All right” you say “let’s do this”

She nods, finally removing her hands from your face and the sudden loss makes you feel nauseous. But before you can think of anything else, she takes one of your hands and gives it a light squeeze before continuing to get dressed.

Once she’s ready, the two of you begin making your way to the scrub area.

You prepare side by side and the crew gets Pepper ready inside the room, you can’t help but think about everything that has brought you this far, all the pain and sacrifice you’ve endured just to be here at this moment.

Agatha turns to look at you once more, scrubbing hard under her fingernails.

“We can do this, okay? I believe in you” she says and smiles at you one last time before stepping into the OR

You take a deep breath and it comes out a little shaky but definitely confident, then smile back, hoping everything makes sense just for a couple of hours 

“Okay”

*

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[essiesc]

Just gonna post this here

[alcinadommetrescu]

My favourite show growing up was Greys Anatomy, i really loved that show so i ended up as a surgeon. Before that I used to write and enjoy gay smut💔Now my job takes up all my time and i don’t have time to write or read fanfictions😭

[mortalscience]

[specialvalentinesunit]

[witchwolfwriter]

Elevator Stopped

AO3  | My Stories MasterList  | Tip Jar💰| Agatha + Reader List | 

Warnings: A/O / Alpha Boss Agatha / Love and Humping / G!P / Trapped AU / Knot / wlw / Boss x Reader / quitting / love declarations / scenting / clothed grinding / Possessive / 18+

You slammed your finger against the elevator button harder, begging for it to close.

But the second you saw your boss’s blue eyes clock you, she was moving towards the door with gusto.

No matter how many times you pressed the button, the doors didn’t close.

She was 10 feet, 9, you saw the blue black bouse you loved on her. 

 8, oh come on.

You spotted the envelope opened the letter creased in her hand. 

There was a a metal scratching noise as finally the elevator doors groaned and started to close. 

7 feet, and can hear her heels now.

You really didn’t want to do this, that’s why you’d waited until she was in a lunch meeting to drop the letter on her desk. 

The elevator door is less than a foot from being closed but the fifty year old woman in her pencil skirt, heels, and blouse is jogging fully to the elevator now and her hand reaches out.

Sliding between the metal doors, and it doesn’t so much as kiss her knuckles before it opens

Your eyes cast down at your shoes. 

Mrs. Harkness presses the elevator button that your sweaty fingers had just been jabbing. 

The doors close once more, and you are holding your breath. 

“What is this?” Your boss turns to you, she looks positively put out. Or maybe something more?

“It’s my resignation letter.” Your voice doesn’t shake, thank god for small favors. 

You slink back to the metal handlebars on the side of the ugly metal elevator. 

“I have my PHD I promise you I know how to read. Look at me!” Harkness's anger flares and you flinch. Hating yourself for not getting your scripts filled, hating yourself for being emotional. 

You tried to open your mouth but Harkness snapped again. 

“Look at me, damn it!”

Your eyes snapped to hers, you smell the alpha in the metal box. 

The spit glistening on her bottom lip, you’ve never seen her so furious. 

You shifted on your feet and tried to look away, but Mrs. Harkness wasn’t having it. Fisting your resignation, she yelled again. 

“Don’t you dare look away from me while you abandon me! Look at me, while you throw away-all we’ve-” Her face pales and she changes her sentence mid way “-worked so hard to do-to do here!” 

“Mrs. Harkness, I said in my res-”

“I don’t accept, I don’t accept your letter or resignation. You cannot leave me.” Harkness insisted and you hated how your heart ached. 

She ripped up the paper like a child throwing a tantrum. It was stubborn and ridiculous, and god if you didn’t love her. 

How her pheromones were bursting, you smelled her rage, her fear, her…want. 

The elevator dinged and the two of you spun to see the doors opening on a floor you hadn’t chosen. 

Three people about to get on. 

“Elevators full, get the next one!” Harknes shouts and they look irritated. 

“There’s plenty of room.” The guy said but the CEO is pounding the buttons again, not allowing for such 

“Step onto this elevator and you're fired before you can press a button.” Mrs. Harkness's lip curled like some kind of caged tiger. 

They all backed up, like the floor was in fact lava. 

The doors closed once more, and this time, your boss smashes her fist against the emergency shut off. 

You're both cast in darkness except for the low white light glow. 

The air unit shuts off too and now you are in for a world of hurt. 

“No, bad idea, very bad” you whisper, but she’s by the buttons, and you can’t figure out how to explain the terrible error she’d just committed. 

“What did I do? Why? Why would you want to leave? Is it the pay, I’ll give you a pay raise! I’ll double it!” She says, chest heaving, and your panic is misread. 

“I’ll triple it, god your worth that and ten times more? Is it the workload? I know I ask too much of you-I call all hours! You need space-” Her voice cracks and you see the sweat trickle down the column of her neck. 

You press your sweaty palms against the metal wall and feel the heat. 

“Mrs. Harkness-” You try professionally but the alpha was practically snarling at you. And the chemical reaction was causing your heat to kickstart. 

Still, the CEO was terrified, and she was spiralling, and not understanding that the woman of her affections, the omega, was in a very intense predicament. 

Nor was she aware of what you were doing to her own body. 

Her hand went into her hair and her forehead as she tried to stop the panic attack, but losing you wasn’t something she thought to fear. 

“All those nights, I-I get it -but I thought we were. I mean I thought you-” She’s losing her mind in front of you. Real time, right here, in a metal coffin hanging in a skyscraper.

“Agatha-” You pant again, but the slick is rolling down your own legs, soaking through the expensive slacks, and you would soon drip down onto the floor. 

Your underwear like sandpaper on your puffy lips. 

Your knee tilted in, making you look like you were going to piss yourself. 

Agatha tried to stand up straight, but as you stared at her you wanted to yell, surely she could tell physically something was off. 

Her inability to read this situation was out of character on every one of her CEO business deals. 

And her face was flush, as she tried to stiffen up, not look like she wanted to fall to her knees and beg. 

But as she tried to find some model of decorum, her voice broke open;

“I-I’ll do anything-I-I can be better.” Your boss loses her ability to pretend this was about work. 

“Harknes, it’s just business. You’ll find someone else who ca-” You say, trying to detach, but your voice is hoarse. Your heat is already clouding you, and you can smell her. 

It’s not the perfume that sits on the top of her blouse fabric and wrists. 

Nope. 

You swear that feral bit of your vein can see the vein in her neck, the sweat, the heat - you blink a few times. 

What did your ancestors do without supressents? How were you supposed to do this?

“I need you-not not for work I can’t.” Agatha is making fists as her adrenaline skyrockets. 

“You need to start the elevator again,” you groan body completely pressed against the wall now. Your wincing, it’s painful, way worse then you had

“I don’t mean for work I mean for-” Agatha’s losing her ability to speak and you grunt and twist in pain. 

“ALPHA FOR FUCKS SAKE START THE ELEVATOR!” You scream and Agatha’s eyes bulge.

But so did the shaft in her pencil skirt.

Her hand reached out to the metal wall.

“You-you’ve never called me-“ The arousal deepens her voice and it’s doing things to your womb. 

You double over grabbing your stomach in pain, but you lift your face to see your boss. 

Fuck it.

“I quit because I was doubling the medically recommended doses of suppressants. We are too compatible, not just how we both order the same stupid take out! Not like I know how to help you in business deals or can anticipate your moves. Like stupid chemical type of compatibility. I’ve been heat sick for the past month and I’m out of suppressants- and I can’t sleep and all I can think of is the way you lick your lips - I can’t focus! I can’t do business because my uterus is just as in love with you as I am! NOW START THE ELEVATOR BEFORE I MOUNT YOU!” You yell at her and Agatha hesitates but her hand numbly reaches out for the elevator emergency button. 

Then her fingers flick the metal lever up, then down, and up again, back and forth it clicks, and you groan out an angry noise.

“Agatha!” You yell but the highly educated CEO is flicking the lever over and over and nothing is happening. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, this isn’t happening.” You shook and then knelt onto the ground. Hand trembling as you reached inside your pants pocket to pull out your phone. 

No bars. 

Of course not. 

Agatha is pressing buttons on the elevator, but her PHD must have in fact been in resignations and not the electrical work in lifts. 

“Your phone! Did you bring your phone?” You cry out at your boss. Her dark hair whips quickly as moves her hands to her hips. 

Pencil skirt, no pockets, of course not. 

“No, come on!” You looked up into the dead elevator ceiling. 

“Stay calm.” Agatha put her hands out, spreading her fingers but not coming near you. You can see the tent in her skirt, down to the girth and swelling knot near her base. 

“Oh my god, you so not telling me that right now!” Your fingers dig into your own thigh. 

“Bunny, what do you want me to say freak out, that’s what people say, right?”

“Oh my god!” You don’t - you can’t. 

“Take a deep breath!” Agatha’s nostrils flared, she was taking deep long intakes - high off the smell of you. 

“I’m not in labor I’m in heat and you smell like your going to be in a rut so don’t tell me to breathe! GOD SO LIKE AN ALPHA!”

The vein in Agatha’s forehead was pounding so hard you could see it from the three feet away. 

You were in the corner on the floor, and the CEO of this building was clinging to the corner with the buttons. 

“Bunny, I’ve been on suppressants for a rut since you interviewed. Trust me I’ve masturbated more than a frat boy. It’s amazing there’s anything left in my balls, it’s like you have a string connected to my cock!” Agatha shouts at you, and you wince again. 

“Don’t call me Bunny- Fuck and don’t yell at me! God poor you and your hyper sex drive and your lonely hand! I’m going to-” You stop degrading the most terrifying CEO in the United States.

Too embarrassed, the pheromones your body was trying to push out to calm the alpha. 

“I-my god, you smell so sweet.” Alpha puts a hand up to her mouth and nose but she’s inhaling like a pervert sniffing panties. 

“Tell you what, you stay in your corner and I’ll stay in mine.” You regard her like a prize fighter. 

“I-”

“No, don’t say anything kind or dirty- I like you too much. Just stop looking at me.” You say but Agatha spots the puddle on the floor, all the blood goes right to her shaft. 

“Baby-I.” Agatha’s voice deepens, she’s sorry, she feels horrible you know, you can tell. 

“Don’t look at me, if we do this-I get pregnant and you keep your fast track CEO life with your penthouse life and your rich parties! It’ll be me who’s got to quit and get big and fat! I’ll be alone putting child locks on my apartment with cracked nipples and endless nights of screaming baby and vomit in my hair! SO STOP THINKING OF FUCKING ME AND IMAGINE CHILD SUPPORT!”

The elevator shifts, no not shift, it lurches forward, and the alpha’s basic desire kicks in. 

So Agatha falls to the floor and grabs you. Cradles your body like it was all that mattered. Lifting you into her lap and curling around you so that whatever hell fell on you, fell on her first. 

But as the ground slanted to the right, your boss held on and waited for you to to descend to the bottom of the building.

But as you lie in her lap, her erection presses against your butt and you whimper and moan. 

You two are a sweaty heap on the floor. In the dark. 

Agatha holds herself back from biting your neck, deciding right there that if you two died, she wanted her last act to make sure you knew. 

You were it. 

You were panting faster, it was painful and erotic and all you wanted but now you felt crazed. 

You're scared, but Agatha’s arms around you are so tight, her lips move to your ear, and she speaks the truth;

“I would give up the penthouse, I’d get rid of the jag, I hate the damn lonely place and the stupid car. It’s just stuff, it’s all dumb, I’d- I’d get a minivan-”

You laugh weakly in her hold. Unable to ever seen that.  

“You would never get a minivan in this city.” You whisper and wince in pain again. 

“I’d get us a paddled bubble on wheels, keep you two safe. Plus the best car seat. I’d rub your feet when you're gorgeous and swollen. I’ll wash the vomit out of your hair, buy you French fancy creams, and put them on your nipples yourself.”

You both moaned when Agatha’s cock tip seemed to like that idea too much. 

“You just want to fuck an omega in a heat without a condom.” You squirm in her lap and Agatha’s arms wrapped around your middle don’t lessen. 

“I want to push inside of you and bite your neck so no one ever gets the chance to.” Agatha admits trying to make a joke, and be honest. But you both moan as you shift against her. 

“Stop flirting.”You whined, but you felt her shaft press against you and you didn’t want her to be such a gentleman anymore. 

“You're in my lap, it’s all I can do to breathe in your scent and pray I don’t devour you whole.”

“Aggie-” You moan, having never called her that outloud before. 

But the lights turn on. 

“What fresh hell?” The alpha growls. 

“The elevators working.” You wine, and Agatha pushes a possessive scent. 

“Please don’t attack the nice firefighters trying to get us out of this- Agatha?” You groan as she moves her arm and reaches as far as she can. Smashing it to stop the elevator again. 

“Agatha!” You yelp but she pushes you onto the ground, her blue blouse ripping open, and she has you in a cute little bunny humping position. Her fingers finding the waistline of your trousers and yanking the wet fabric down. 

A cute little breeding pose. 

You gasp at the cool air against your pussy. 

“I’ll learn how to put a car seat in tomorrow, okay?” Your boss promises and you’ve seen her build companies and empires of money and power. If the powerful alpha could do all that, well, she could do anything. 

You grunt, and the idea of Agatha being a good parent only makes you want her more. 

The alpha’s hands move down your ass cheeks, and you’ve never wanted to be someone's so badly.  

Agatha’s cock leaks in her tight skirt as she pushes your lower back further down. Loving you with your hands and knees. Your ass in the air, slick coating the inside of your thighs. 

Agatha’s mouth waters, and her knot pulsates at the scent of you. 

“Fuck,” you can’t breathe, and try to hump her face. 

“Bunny, call me Aggie again. I’m not your boss; you resigned.” 

Happy 100th Story!

[prettypurplewitch]

Early Riser Part 21

CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU

Other parts & Tip jar

Word count: 11k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power dynamics, toxic relationship, d/s dynamics, absurd mean sugar mommy behavior, Agatha is emotionally constipated but trying, themes of corruption, smut, anal fingering, discussion of crime, fluff, angst, CUDDLING, secrets, threat, she's not nice but she's also nice.

"I always want to be where you are. I see the good in you." She scoffs. "There is no good…You're so naive. Coming here. You couldn't leave even if you wanted to." Your skin feels hot. You can't tell why.

The helicopter is loud. Even louder is your heartbeat in your chest. Hard thuds against your ribcage, barely containing the feelings inside of it.

It's too dark to see the water below you as the blades buzz above your head. It's almost a relief as the wind picks up, rocking the tiny little floating lounge above vast amounts of terrifying nothingness.

You don't remember the last time you were able to breathe normally.

Was it at the club with her hands on your skin? Was it in your apartment with your lovely new roommate and Agatha's portrait on the Forbes magazine cover? The image glossy and half rolled over where you'd shoved it into your bag. Maybe a little careless. Maybe you knew you'd get the real deal soon.

Goosebumps on your cold skin despite your cheeks feeling hot and if being in her penthouse somehow wasn't safe enough for you, her island certainly will be.

Certainly? Hopefully.

A private paradise for the two of you. All those things she'd talked about...did she expect you to come here so soon?

You'd imagined a romantic vacation. Hammocks out of place for the Hamptons and waking up together in the private bubble of bliss. Like a honeymoon that lasts forever.

Just the two of you, and all the peace money can buy.

How long will it take you to realize that Agatha can't and won't live like that?

Every instance of normality is quickly replaced by something complicated, terrifying or an alluring combination of the two.

Including Agatha herself.

It's hard to imagine her preparing for you to come here at all, despite her words. A new level of sharing her space with you, somewhere so private she's retreated there in whatever emergency this is.

Despite her bragging, you don't actually know that much about this island of hers. Is it one big house? A little village? Wanda's island seemed like one massive complex, but Agatha had made a point of having lots of special rooms.

Her island is almost certainly bigger, you think. If everything else is anything to go off of. If there's something to compete at, Agatha is making sure she's winning.

How are you supposed to process all of this?

If only there was somebody you could talk to. Properly talk to. Jake could never have been your friend, it seems obvious now. The late nights with him watching the television too loudly. His gross cups stacking up in the sink and the subtle digs thats have become far less subtle as time has passed. He didn't understand you, and it seems he never will.

But Maggie, maybe there could have been something there. It didn't seem like she was the kind of person to be nice to you just because you lived there. Someone sweet, with pure intentions and a kind heart.

She seemed like she wanted to be your friend.

And predictably, you've picked the woman that looks at you like you're lunch. The woman that has committed so many absurd HR violations, she's somehow forced you into needing her to feel human.

But you can't think like that.

Agatha is difficult, and she is intense. But she cares. It's obvious in the cherry syrup she keeps in her penthouse and the laugh she lets out when you press her buttons. In the way she looked at you when she didn't think you noticed back at the gallery.

When she rented the whole space out so you could take a closer look at the artwork. A thoughtful memento from the date stored as a surprise in the car. Teaching you wine like she wouldn't ever judge you.

It can be hard to get her into that headspace.

But you've made your decision.

Floating above the midnight sea, it's too late to turn back even if you wanted to. So, you try to focus on your breathing and hope you’ll be landing soon.

Despite it all, you just can't wait to be in her arms again. Despite her causing these problems, intensifying them and running away without telling you where she was even going.

It's push and pull. A shifting conversation of not being able to stay away from you, and sending you away without a text message…only to tell you she's been recording you in secret while you lay on her bed.

Even though you've shared her space, eaten dinner in her bed and met her friends, one thought makes you question everything.

What if for her this is some kind of game that's gotten out of control?

And for you, well, this is your whole life.

Although your bag holds almost nothing important, although you're yet to rest or remove the image of that man from your brain, all you can think about is whether she's okay. Whether she's stressed. Scared. Overwhelmed. Whether she's changed clothes, whether she's had anybody bring her food or make her coffee. How much whiskey she's gone through while on strategy calls.

Swept from the rough sheets of your apartment and flown to a private island at the hands of the only person who can make your life more meaningful and more disastrous at the same time.

And you probably won't even get a raise for it.

Dim lights come into view as the helicopter sways and drops slowly, you suspect it must be landing but it's almost hard to tell with the dark and the breeze.

You grab onto the arm of the chair. The leather squishing between your fingers as your grip intensifies.

Landing.

It's certainly landing and it feels worse than when her hand was in yours. At least you knew she had it under control. Something about how she can switch between her silly sarcasm and the quick, controlled voice she can command boardrooms with. It makes you feel like she could fix anything.

Just close your eyes. Imagine her warmth, her skin finally on yours, the smell of her perfume and her shampoo. The safety and security she brings you just by being near. You pull out your phone to check the time. The battery is low. This day is too fucking long.

The pilot says something through the headset and you pick up approximately none of it trying to focus on not losing your shit as the whole thing moves about in the wind. You'd hoped there’d be more test runs of this thing before you had to ride it to the island, and you never imagined doing it on your own.

Well, maybe in some distant fantasy you'd indulged once or twice. When your head hits the pillow and your brain shows your subconscious in vibrant shapes and colors. When her bed becomes your bed, and her house becomes your house, and flying to the island to see the Agatha Harkness is a normal occurrence. You'd cook dinner for her and rub her shoulders after a long day. She'd finally learn to make you pancakes and buy you a teddy bear on valentines day.

You know you can't think like that. But if you could control your dreams, would you change any of it?

With your eyes forced closed so tightly you start seeing glittery squares, the whole thing finally stops moving.

It's silent.

Less bumpy than maybe you expected.

Your fingers are still bursting through the leather when the door is opened for you and with wobbly legs, you're able to step out. Your useless bag in one hand and the other trailing along the exit of the helicopter, grabbing onto the arm of the pilot as he helps you stand.

The helipad is enormous, and you suspect Agatha was being somewhat modest about the island as well as the yacht. Maybe less modest, and more financially clueless.

Agatha.

She knew you were coming, she'd sent for you.

You need her. Her body holding yours. Her warmth on your freezing skin and the sound of her voice purring in your ear.

So where is she?

"Thanks." You're able to muster up as you release the pilot from your clawed grasp. It comes out barely audible and you clear your throat before attempting anything else.

The place is almost entirely dark, with red lights on the helipad. As the sound of water hits the shore, you fully grasp the fact that you're on an island.

She literally owns the ground you're walking on.

It’s hard to take in, looking around as you head toward what you assume is her house. One large building surrounded by several smaller ones. Orange lights coming through the windows.

It’s almost too dark to see, like she hadn't plan on you coming at all and somehow hasn't prepared in any way to collect you. The firm texture of the helipad becomes crunchy as you head up the path. Gravel or sand under your feet, something unsteady.

Is she as bad as you'd worried? Sat hunched over a laptop covered in crumbs and drunk out of her mind?

You wouldn't care. You could help her.

Helping her is part of your job.

Maybe she's picking snack wrappers up off of the carpet. Maybe she's brewing you a pot of tea or cooking you a hot dinner. Putting on a jazz record and warming you pajamas.

The thought is preposterous, but you walk towards the lights anyway.

Other buildings and trees pass you as you head further up the path, small lights on the ground lighting up as you stumble up the gravel texture. It seems mostly modern, with large windows and a chimney. Most of the house already in darkness.

Is she really not coming to find you?

The gravel turns solid as you wander up the steps of the house like some kind of confusing trial you're now a part of. The door enormous, rounded at the top with the shape of the moon inside of the glass.

Do you knock? This feels like a humiliation ritual all on it's own.

What could she possibly be doing?

You hesitate for a second before your knuckles hit the wood three times.

Despite the frustration that's becoming more noticeable within you by the second, it’s hard to outweigh the excitement and sense of relief already bursting out your chest.

For a long minute, there's nothing.

The sound of the water.

The whistling of the breeze.

Your breath as you continue to grow more and more annoyed....she really didn't bother to pick you up?

After everything she's put you through?

Until the door pulls open, and your eyes finally rest on her once again.

A cream colored sweater high on her neck, a brown blazer draped over the top and a glass of red wine in her hand.

She looks surprisingly, perfect?

"Agatha!" You burst towards her without thinking, the stress of the past god knows how many hours bundling inside of you until you can't hold yourself back as she stands in the dim lighting.

You hadn't even registered the expression on her face as you collide with the expensive fabric of her jacket.

Her free arm catches you, and the softness of your body that was preparing for a wholesome hug is thrown off when she shoves you against the wall without a second to spare.

Air leaving your chest in surprise and exertion as the smell of cherry and red wine hit your senses.

You don't get a hi.

You don't get a hug.

Her hand is on your throat, looking over your face like she's examining you. Keeping you in place as she scans over your skin. Nails digging into your cheeks as she inspects your features.

"Did anybody hurt you?"

Her words are sharp and her eyes are wild.

You suddenly feel embarrassed you even went in for a hug in the first place. She’d just been so soft recently. You’d been playing a game of silly dates and romantic dinners before it all fell apart.

Shaking your head, Agatha takes a sip of her wine and releases your neck.

Already desperate for her touch as soon as it leaves you.

You didn't realize how hard she was squeezing until the pressure is suddenly gone.

Her hand presses firmly down your chest, trailing hard over your stomach and finding the waistband of your pants.

It's not even been a minute since you showed up here.

"Agatha I–"

"Shh. Do you even know how frustrated I am right now? I can't even think straight I just—" her left hand fumbles with the button on your pants until it pops open, she doesn't waste a second longer before she's pressing against you with her fingertips. "—just let mommy relax..."

You're not sure how you're already getting wet, is it from the simple action of her hands on you despite their intention? Are you conditioned by the smell of alcohol on her tongue? By the roughness of her hands when she grabs you like that?

It would be embarrassing. But Agatha doesn't make you feel embarrassed.

She makes you feel important and necessary.

You push back against her without thinking as she slips aside the fabric of your underwear. You should have worn something prettier, for some reason you thought maybe you'd just go to bed.

She doesn't care, the fabric is only a barrier for her. She doesn't look, she doesn't need to.

Her eyes closed as you study the gentle lines of her skin. A soft hum leaving her lips. Her touch making you shudder, the salvia you swallow making a louder noise than you anticipated.

Agatha's movements are slow, delicate and controlled as she lets your body adjust to her. Collecting your wetness on her fingers without another word, without a question or a demand or a kiss.

There's apparently no time for pleasantries as she presses two fingers inside of you before even saying hello. The pressure of the intensity is soothed instantly as she groans. Like the simple act of being inside of you is enough to relax her after the disaster that was the past few days.

"What are you—fuck–" you struggle for words as she thrusts into you, her expression easing and softening as you adjust around her.

"You can take it, can't you?"

Agatha gives you a moment, feeling your body melt against her touch. Her thrusts slow as she studies your face, is this what she was thinking about while she watched you on her bed?

Wanting to fuck you right here in her isolated hallway?

"Just couldn’t help myself” she whispers as she picks up the pace, her palm flat against your clit, her voice hot against your ear.

Your legs begin to tremble beneath you as she picks up the pace, quick and erratic, like she's been waiting to do this all day.

Maybe she has.

"There's my girl, come on." Her words are deep and settle right through you as she shamelessly takes what she wants, it's too much too quickly, your stomach tightening and your hands in her hair before you can stop yourself.

Her softness. You missed her softness. But you missed this too.

"Let me feel it. Let go. There you go." She gasps, watching you through hooded eyes, blues dark as she curls her fingers in your throbbing cunt.

It's too much and not enough as soon as you're reunited with her, the way your body welcomes her like it's branded with the same initials as her cars.

The smell of her is in your throat.

She looks far too perfect for a woman on the run.

She knew she wouldn't be able to wait.

That's why she didn't meet you at the helipad.

You come right there, whimpering against the wall with her name on your lips.

Her hair still in your hands as you settle. Deep breaths and shallow breaths between the two of you.

Your chest feels things it shouldn't. Words it shouldn't for a woman so rough with you, your boss no less.

You push them away.

"I uh—" The blues of her eyes instantly softer as you finally move in too quickly for that hug. Her free arm pulls around your waist, the other outstretched so you presumably don't knock her wine over.

Priorities.

Agatha's hand settles on the small of your back as you inhale the cherry of her perfume, and something salty. Maybe it's the jacket.

Her brooch digs into your chest, shoving against your collar bone. You don't care.

You could live in this hug forever.

"Hi." You finally exhale after a long, long second.

Expecting her to pull away.

She doesn't budge.

She rests her head against yours. The woman in that suit on the cover of your magazine.

"Hi."

"You smell like salt."

"That'll be the sea, hon." Her words are matter-of-fact. Her body warm and comforting, the stability after your legs were shaking is a bonus.

You hug her tighter.

She let's you.

"I missed you."

"I know."

She pulls back so she can take a sip of the red liquid, and you're finally able to get a little look at the hallway. Lamps on the wall light the expansive space. Artwork in expensive frames.

You'd be excited if you weren't so damn exhausted.

"Can I get you a glass of wine?"

She seems far too casual about the situation and although you would have killed for a glass of wine on the way out here, all you can think about is being unconscious next to her while she sucks up all the air in the room with her snores.

"God no. No thank you I mean. I just...It's been a really long day."

"Well, that's why I offered." Her hips sway as she moves down the corridor ahead of you, you follow her without question as she leads you into a kitchen, the bottle of wine sits almost empty on the side. The label isn't something you recognize from your wine tasting adventure.

"Just as well. I think this one is too strong for you." Agatha's long fingers grip the bottle as she empties the rest of the wine into her glass. "It's a little bolder, a little more full-bodied."

In this light you can see the lines under her eyes.

She does look tired.

The kitchen is wide, small dim lights under wooden countertops glow in the room. You know you're sleepy, because you don't even care about gleaning every piece of information you can out of the space.

Until your eyes fall on the overflowing trash can. Ready to pity her for having to do her own chores and ask questions about how it's already gotten so full, when you see it hanging out the top of the trash mountain.

"Agatha you ordered Taco Bell to your island?"

She almost flinches on the pour.

"What are you, the taco police?"

"Oh my god. Did you send a helicopter to get that? Was it even hot?"

She screws the lid back on the bottle before launching it in the recycling bin anyway. Recycling all the wine bottles must really offset all of the jet emissions. The things a woman will go through for queso. That was not in the Forbes article. You've created a monster.

"I mean, no, not really. But that's why I have staff. To fetch me things."

"I knew I would regret taking you there. You need actual nutrients. You need to eat vegetables.”

“Tacos have vegetables. Although I did pick most of the lettuce out. But you’ve seen me eat a salad.” She drips the last few red splashes into the glass, holding it upside-down to make sure she's really getting the last of it.

"I don't greatly enjoy you telling me what I can and can't do. You know i'm in charge?"

“Please just try and balance the things you eat.”

"I lived a long time before you started bringing me lunch, you do know that, don't you?"

Agatha's sauntering towards you, nails drumming on the counter as she approaches. Your arms fold over each other like you're on display in the middle of the mostly-empty room. Where are all her appliances?

"Well yeah but...not as well."

Good one. Heiress Harkness didn't know true living until she met you.

She laughs one loud 'ha!' with her head thrown back. It's hard to pretend to be even a little mad when she's so outrageous.

You can't wait to be in her bed.

She's already beginning to leave, waltzing away a few steps ahead of you. You were hoping she wouldn't go so soon, playing hard to get even when you've been in her vehicles more than you've been in your apartment recently.

"Come on. Let me show you to your room. You look worn out."

You start following her anyway as she pushes off of the counter and begins to enter her hall-maze again. You are worn out. That doesn't mean you want this to be over. You only just got her again.

Wait did she say?

"My room? Wait. No."

You plant your feet firmly on the floor. "...I don't want my own room. I want to stay with you."

She turns on her heel. Swallows in the silence between the two of you, you're slightly further away than you initially thought, it feels tense again. Like maybe you had imagined all the fun you had at the movies and the club. Maybe the taco wrapper is all the evidence that's left of that.

Your eyes focus on the way her body moves under the dim light. The waves of her hair as the highlights catch under the lamps. It's messy. Messier than usual maybe. You know she's been running her hands through it the way she does when she's overwhelmed. You could untangle it, if she'd let you, you doubt she will.

Her posture is perfect, but there's something behind her eyes that's clearly bothering her. Maybe it's just all of the recent problems. Maybe all of the problems aren't just recent, and she hasn't lived a normal and relaxing life since...well, ever.

There's no way you're sleeping without her.

"I just thought you might want your own space, because of tonight and because of—" her eyes wander from your face to your half-empty bag "—all of your luggage."

The smirk from her own joke is plastered on her face as she spins, contunuing down the hallway, past several oak doors and various paintings you'll get a better look at tomorrow.

"Please can I stay with you?"

Your voice comes out smaller and more distant than you intended. She doesn't turn back, she doesn't reply. Just a swig of the wine and finally stopping at one of the many doors.

Agatha turns the doorknob, the house responds with a croak as it settles. Like it's welcoming you.

Her hand ushers you inside the room, your feet finding the soft dark carpet as you brush past her into the space.

Is this the guest room? She's really going to make you beg to sleep with her after everything?

You are not above begging.

She knows it.

"As if i'd let you sleep on your own." She slams the door shut behind her.

You nearly pass out at the tenderness of her words as a lamp shaped like a paper lantern casts a warm glow across the bed. The sheets crisp white and delicate looking like a clean hotel.

Your body aches for it almost as much as it aches for her.

You throw yourself down, sitting at the edge of the bed and kicking off your shoes like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like being swept away to the CEO's island after a break-in is just a normal weekday afternoon. The people at work wouldn't believe this. And if they did, they'd call you some help immediately.

The sheets smell too fresh. Too clean, ironed and perfect.

She didn’t sleep here last night.

You should be thinking about how she got into this mess. About the danger that comes with being with her. About her secrets, her temper, your differences. About what she was doing last night, and what she'll do tomorrow to solve it.

But all you can think about is hoping she doesn't spill red wine on the white sheets as she leans over you, taller now you're sat. Moving in close until she's a shallow breath away from you.

The heat from her skin in your breathing space.

You swallow. Not sure what's happening now.

Not wanting to look stupid from asking.

And not wanting to apologize in case she tells you off.

You brace as Agatha Harkness places a delicate kiss on your forehead.

Your body relaxes so much at the unusually sweet gesture you practically melt into the high thread count beneath you.

"I'm glad you're safe." She whispers, her lips are soft against you before she's standing tall again like she's cracking her shoulders. "...And that..." She clears her throat, almost kind of awkwardly. "...That you're here."

"...Me too."

You want a thousand more kisses.

You don't want to scare her off.

"It was scary. At the penthouse. I didn't know, I mean— I didn't know what was going on for a second. I thought that would be the best place to be, you know? I hope I didn't intrude going into your house like that."

Agatha turns, facing away from you as she takes off her jacket and delicately hangs it over the back of a chair. Her thin wine glass placed on top of her dresser next to some objects you can’t quite make out. Maybe a photograph, definitely some books.

You don't mention how you snooped through her stuff. You just open your bag, tipping the contents onto her bed to grab one of the many snacks that fall out onto the sheets. You are so glad you bought a lot of these things.

If you weren't so emotionally and physically drained you'd probably feel odd. Like you're intruding. Like you shouldn't be treating her space like this. Like you don't belong.

Instead you finally feel the familiar domestic comfort of the woman you're dating.

Even if she's not going to let you call it that.

But two dates is dating.

That's just science. Or dating law.

Agatha is rolling up her sleeves as she takes off her necklace and unclasps her bracelet. You watch her as she unwinds for the evening. Her hair flows down her back as she faces away from you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You realize that outside of sex, Agatha seems to mostly get undressed in different rooms.

Her taking off her jewellery feels soft...and unusual.

In a good way.

"It should have been safe. It's never happened before...I have top notch security." She doesn't sound comforted by the thought of the security, she suddenly sounds extremely frustrated.

"I pay the best of the best to watch over all of my belongings. My safety. Fucking—"

Her voice is louder like she's remembering how she feels in real time. Her house. Her things. Her safety. Her girl.

"One of them has seriously got some explaining to do, I don't even know where to begin with him."

You rummage through your snack pile for something that'll curb your stress cravings. Although her talking about the incident as she undresses, discussing it like she has a plan, even though each word feels louder and angrier than the last, it feels like you can let her take over and passenger princess this whole runaway thing.

"And for god's sake, they found out he knew the code because someone had left little melted chocolate fingerprints on the keypad, I mean can you believe it?! It's probably the fucking housekeeper! I knew she was—"

She turns as if on cue to see you holding a Snickers.

You didn't even register what she was saying. Fuck. Wait. Is she serious? You were that focused on getting out of your apartment you didn't even notice? Are you five?! Wait. Did you even eat any candy before you left? Should you defend yourself? It's been so intense you can't even remember.

You want to drop the chocolate. You don't. You clutch it tighter like it'll protect you from her wrath, her eyes are angrier than you've seen her in a while, vicious and furious as she marches over to you, her eyes flickering between the snack pile and your face.

You miss the forehead kiss.

"Are you fucking serious?!"

She raises her hand without thinking about it as you sit below her, you gasp, eyes closing quickly as you brace for impact.

You're not sure whether you flinched or not as you cower beneath her like a terrified animal.

Agatha settles for a growl and an angry grasp of the air instead of instinctively hitting you.

"How old are you? You're getting melted chocolate all over my penthouse and now you're bringing it to my island? Why do you even have all of this?”

You shy away.

“Look at me when I’m taking to you!"

"I don't— I don't know!"

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

Don't bring up the m&ms you found in her stuff-drawer.

Don’t tell her she’s messier than you’ve ever been.

Don't say it might not have even be you.

"I mean I— I bought it all because I was trying to get your attention, with the credit card. I'm sorry I didn't mean to, I left so quickly I was just...I said I bought food—"

"This isn't food. This is what you bought with my money?"

You're not sure what you're supposed to do now.

"You have no idea how much trouble you're in oh my god."

She paces on the ground, her hand on her forehead.

"Do you know what that penthouse is evaluated at? And you rubbed your little chocolate fingers all over it? I should—"

Don't cry.

Don't mention you do know what it's evaluated at because you were literally Googling it this morning.

Don't cry.

"—I don't even know what I should do with you. I don't even know."

Her hands are wild in the air and you can tell she's trying to hold back on terrifying you.

You shrink back into yourself. Are you supposed to say something?

"I'm sorry."

She stops. Her nostrils flared as she looks down at you.

"I'm really sorry, he came to my house and I was really scared and...the day before at the club was scary and I just— I just wanted to feel close to you and I wanted snacks I guess and I— I left my house all stressed and nervous I didn't even think about it I didn't even notice I feel so stupid!"

You can't tell yourself not to cry again, it's already too late as the tears stream down your face. They're hot against your flushed skin as the overwhelm of the last few days all floods out of you at once.

And Agatha just watches.

Just for a minute.

Just blank behind the eyes in a way that's new and unreadable.

Both hands grabbing the air as she watches you break down on her bed.

The silence is uncomfortable and you hesitate in your realization that this can't be the relationship you need.

Agatha swallows, sits.

"Oh."

The weight of her body settles in beside you on the bed as her arm wraps around your waist once again and the familiar sense of comfort returns.

You should flinch. You don't. You nuzzle closer to her like she didn't just hold herself back from hurting you. Your mascara on her cream sweater.

"My baby."

Her voice is slightly above a whisper as you sob onto her cashmere. "I shouldn't have..." But it trails off when she can't decide whether to apologize or make an excuse for her behavior.

Should you have even come here? Leaving behind Maggie and Jake and the only normality you had left to be here with her?

Her hand doesn't move in a way that's relaxing. It stays rigid like she's not sure how to hold you, she just knows she has to.

And although you expect her to pull away, Agatha makes no attempt at moving when you can finally breathe again.

She takes a deep breath.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice like that."

You sniff. "It's okay."

"...I just, I'm sorry...I usually wait for you to leave."

"I know."

She nods as she takes a second before moving off of you, her hand flexing as she picks one of the snacks from your pile. You aren't sure what will happen now as the air feels lighter, but not quite right.

You accept her apology.

You don't mention the S word.

She's ripping the packet open before you can lecture her about her health again.

"You should have brought the magazine too."

You blink.

"What?"

"The Forbes." She takes a bite of the candy bar. "You should have brought it. Did you see how good I looked in that photo?"

You did.

"How...did you know about that?"

"Did you like the interview? Or just the photos?"

You laugh, taking a bite of your own. Your breathing back to normal. It's okay. Everything is okay.

"I mean, I liked the photos the interview was..."

Agatha stands, pulling her sweater over her head and throwing it on the ground, the chocolate held between her teeth.

She's not wearing a bra and the dim lighting shows off the muscles in her shoulders.

You try not to stare as she opens up a mahogany set of draws, pulling out a black vest and slipping it on.

There's no fucking way you're going to sleep next to her like this tonight oh my god. Will this ever begin to feel normal? Will your moments with her ever feel ordinary, even when they are?

"I mean, it was fake. Obviously."

"Fake?" Her face is a dramatic shocked expression as she turns to look at you. "You think I'm fake?"

She makes you giggle like a baby.

"I mean, I've spent time with you. I think you were pretending to be somebody else. Which makes sense, I mean you're in the public eye I wouldn't—"

"Stop talking."

You nod.

“Do you have pajamas in your snack bag or do you need a t-shirt? I don't really have anything else in this room." She rummages aimlessly as you try not to stare at her biceps. "I can go find something. A dress shirt, or—”

The concept of what’s even in your bag falls right out of your head at the mention of her giving you a shirt.

“—Can I have a t-shirt?”

She’s already sifting through her drawer again before you finish the sentence, fabric of different colors squished all around as she finds something for you.

In a second she’s flung a large grey piece of cotton at you, and you’re glad your reflexes don’t fail you as you reach up to shield your face from it. Spreading the fabric open you get a good look at the yellow faded print.

Yacht Club Italiano '93.

Like something you'd find in the back of a thrift store. But you know she wouldn't shop there. Agatha probably doesn't even know what a thrift store is. This is a memory. A memory of hers, draped across your skin.

The woman from the magazine. Your boss, cold and cruel. The woman people refuse to make eye contact with as she walks through the corridor. The woman who owns this house, and this land, and this city, is eating a KitKat as you get changed into her Italian yacht club shirt from 1993.

Your clothes feel suddenly uncomfortable as you stand to change, Agatha slips out of her pants and leaves them in a lump on the ground. You're too tired to tell her to use the hamper.

You're too distracted by the skin of her thighs to see when she finishes the KitKat and instantly reaches for another candy bar, before pushing the rest of them onto the floor in one big careless swoop.

The cotton slips over your skin like it was always meant to be there.

Did she really wear this in the 90s? Does she wear it still? Does she keep all of her old clothes? It dawns on you you've always seen Agatha as so current, so present. Always this terrifying, this powerful and this perfect. Even when she tells you stories about when she was younger, or even when your eyes scanned that photograph of her and Rio. She just seems so...constant? Always knowing exactly what to say and do. Always having this element of control, despite you knowing that isn't true.

"How old were you in 1993?" You ask as you slip under the covers. You should really brush your teeth after the sugar but the thought of getting up again makes you feel like you might die.

"Twenty."

Agatha isn't looking at you, she's fishing through a different drawer for a makeup wipe and begins rubbing her eyes much, much too hard.

The stress of your day and the anxiety of the evening rub away with her mascara. You're not sure why she bothered wearing any makeup, or such a precise outfit. Unless it was for you? No. That's a silly thought.

You snuggle into the softness of the white sheets as the old shirt holds you in it's thirty years of memories.

"Did you enjoy it? The yacht club?"

Agatha had mentioned she could drive boats, she must have done it more recently than 1993 though.

She hums, long and slow as she leaves the makeup wipe on the dresser and takes a couple steps over to the bed. She's so beautiful in the light. Her hair waved and wild as she fixes her parting.

She makes you feel feral.

The sheets are soft under your fingers as you pull back the covers for her to get in next to you.

"No. Not really."

Of course she'd give you the shirt with the shitty memory.

You're not sure whether to pry as her head hits the pillow. Her side profile a perfect series of backlit shapes as you watch her think. The lamp glow bouncing off of the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.

"It's ok. You don't have to talk about it."

"Mhm. It's not entirely bad. It wasn't my intention to give you that one. I didn't look at the print."

Well now she's just being ominous.

"Then?"

"They just didn't like me, at the yacht club. It's stupid." If you could go back in time and start a riot in the Italian yacht club in 1993 maybe you would. But you can't. So you stay quiet and let her relive the memory. "...Well. I mean. I don't know. I probably deserved it."

That's probably true. She slides her hand over her face.

"But you're so friendly and welcoming?" You smile, catching your lip under your teeth.

"I know right?" Her hand reaches out and forcibly turns out the light so you can't look at her. Either it's one of those ones that's touch sensitive or she's just murdered it.

You shuffle a little closer to her body. You were hoping to be in her bed, but this is more than you could have ever asked for.

"Then what happened?" You don't touch her, not right away. Settling your skin in the warmth that’s radiating off of her.

"I just...I got out of boarding school when I was eighteen. The yacht club was something my mother signed me up for after she refused to let me buy a boat. I should have known it'd be agonizing."

"I thought you liked boats and stuff?" It's hard to avoid your words spilling out like you're talking to a toddler.

"I do. Like boats....and stuff." Her tone mocks your voice, before she clears her throat like she's in too deep to back out of this conversation.

"I don't know...I think they thought I was bad. Pompous and annoying...I liked the sailing. They stopped inviting me to their dinners and group activities after the first day. I spent the rest of my time there on my own."

If you could go back in time and start a riot in the Italian yacht club in 1993 absolutely you would.

Really, you should be asking questions about the poker club. The island. The break-in. But you want nothing more than to imagine a twenty year old Agatha Harkness buying a t-shirt because she wants to learn to sail.

You pity her.

You know she doesn't like that.

"Isn't everyone at a yacht club pompous and annoying?"

In the dark you hear her raising both of her arms up, before slamming them back on the bed.

"Yes! I'd hear them whispering rumors in the hallways in exactly the same way I'd heard them when I was at the school and I just—" she takes a sharp breath, her words are faster like she can't quite catch up to what she's going to say.

It's unlike her.

She's usually so in control.

"—and it’s exactly the same way my mother would talk about me, exactly the same way they talk about me in the headquarters and I think maybe—" you're startled as she stands too quickly, blinding you suddenly when she turns the lamp back on.

"—if everyone thinks i'm so fucking terrible already, maybe it's easier if I just am."

You're not sure how this all started from your yacht club shirt, shielding your eyes with your arm as they adjust to the sudden change, sitting up you watch her grab her robe from the hook on the back of the door.

"What? Agatha, where are you going?"

"For something stronger than wine."

For the amount of drinking Agatha does you've yet to see her properly intoxicated, but the combination of anger and whiskey sounds relatively terrible for the two of you right now.

"Don't. Please. Please just stay here?" You gesture to the bed, patting it which you regret instantly when she her eyes turn cold like something inside of her has been switched on.

"I need to calm down."

"Have you tried breathing? That always helps me?"

Her smile sits the wrong way around on her face. The blues of her eyes look almost wet as she swallows. Is she about to scream or cry?

"Breathing? What are you, a shrink?"

You knew you shouldn't have suggested that, crawling to the edge of the bed to try and reach for her.

She flinches away.

"Please just come back to bed."

"You talk to me like...I don't even know." Like she's important? Like she's more than the mask she puts on? "It's ridiculous."

And just when everything feels so right, she loves to make it feel so wrong.

"Everything they say about me is true, you know that, right?"

You clear your throat in a room that suddenly feels too quiet.

"No. It's not. I've met you."

"No you haven't."

Will this relationship always be like this?

Your heart race increases like you're prey, when it suddenly dawns on you that you might be. Agatha drops the robe, leaning against the door when she sees you waiting for her.

Not leaving, not cowering. Waiting. Kneeling at the edge of the bed without even being aware of where your body is, and what it's doing.

"Well then I want to."

"You don't."

Her voice is low.

"Why?"

Maybe you shouldn't be poking her, encouraging her when the fire is behind her eyes and there's nobody around to save you. But you're hers. And whether she knows it or not, she's yours.

"You wouldn't want to be here with me."

"I always want to be where you are. I see the good in you."

She scoffs. "There is no good…You're so naive. Coming here. Now you couldn't leave even if you wanted to."

Your skin feels hot. You can't tell why.

"Agatha. Stop trying to push me away. It's not going to work."

"You know what people say about me. Online. In the newspapers. At the galas when they think I can't hear them."

A few steps closer, and she's able to reach out and touch you, holding your chin in place to look at her, too soft for the spite in the words. "At the club...and on Wanda's island."

"Why do you let people believe those things about you?" The words come out half-baked.

Croaky and more nervous than you perhaps realized.

Her grip is firmer as you grab onto the sheets beneath you, balancing yourself as she stares upon you with an expression you can't read. Somewhere between awe, desire and pure, true disgust.

"You hear all of those things and you still follow me everywhere...like a sad little fucking puppy."

One hard shove to your chest and you're flat on the bed, her frame climbing onto yours. Straddling your hips. Her hands finding your wrists, pinning you down as her face hovers above yours.

That look in her eyes.

Perhaps that look is pity. Pity you can't see the truth. Pity you've fallen for her charms and constant disarming. Pity you've ignored the warnings from others. Ignored the warnings from Agatha. Pity she can't truly respect you, because you're just that pathetic.

"I don't believe them." You try again, harder. the words feel firmer in your mouth this time. "I don't believe what anyone says about you."

You aren't sure if you're telling the truth or not.

"Then you're dumber than I thought you were." But her lips are inches away from yours. And deep down, you don't think she means that either.

Her hands are slow and controlled as they move from your wrists to your neck. Wrapping around your throat softly like a warning, eyes pale like she might kill you, or kiss you. Maybe you'd let her do both.

Her hands rest. No pressure. Just the promise of what she could do to you if she wanted to.

"And it wouldn't matter if they were true." You breathe heavy, in time with her. She grimaces.

And this time, you know you are telling the truth.

The smile that spreads across her lips is a cruel one, and this is not the same woman that kissed your forehead earlier.

"You don't even care?"

"No."

Her fingers tighten, slowly, steady. The smell of wine on her lips.

"If they were true, you wouldn't want me to let go of you right now?"

You shift beneath her.

"No."

"Does anybody even know you're here?"

"...no."

"The tallest penthouse. A private island. Nobody even knows you're with me...where exactly would you be able to go? Your apartment is in my name."

The vein in her forehead is more prominent than it was a half hour ago, but as you lay beneath her, focused on the tone of her words and the venom in her voice.

"I fucking own you."

You still feel safe.

"I know. You can't keep me away from you."

"Does anybody even know you belong to me?"

"...No. Nobody."

Agatha's lips crash into yours before you're able to process what's happening, the taste of merlot and lies and things she can't or won't tell you.

And you still see the good in her.

If the world says you’re wicked, why not just be wicked?

Her tongue is in your mouth, deeper as your fists find her hair.

She doesn't like that, releasing the grip on your neck and finding your wrists again. Interlocking her fingers with your own as she grinds her body against yours.

"They will." She breathes when you break free from her lips.

Another kiss. Heat and fire and the thin fabric of her vest and yacht club italiano separating you from her.

"I thought it was a secret." You breathe, mouth dry.

"I have too many secrets."

You don't care. You want the gardens of the chateau with her. You want to see the yacht club anyway. The french attic. Every house of hers in every country. Every terrible club in every terrible neighborhood she bought. All of it.

Agatha shifts her weight, her bare thigh slipping between yours, a gentle moan spilling into your mouth as she kisses you again. Grinding her body against yours as you push against her. The fabric of her underwear is soaked as she moves against your thigh.

You know she can feel you too.

"My poor little slut. You're awfully wet for someone who should be scared of me."

You gasp against her lips.

"I'm not scared of you."

"God. Shut up."

Agatha climbs off of you abruptly, watching you lean back onto your arms as she peels off her underwear, probably dumping it on the floor with everything else.

"Lay back down."

You obey as she crawls over you again, continuing to move until her thighs are either side of your head.

You swallow.

You don't move.

She's dripping.

Fuck. Settling down on your mouth until all you can taste is her, all you can breathe is her and even if you have been manipulated, you don't care about that either.

She's everywhere, your hands on the soft of her thighs as she rides against the flat of her tongue. The taste of her consuming you, looking up at her head thrown back. Hair wild and free. Lips parted.

Your cover star. Your boss. Your everything.

"This is the only way I can get you to shut up, huh?"

You try to talk. You can't. She groans against the vibration of your lips against her clit.

Her mess dripping down your chin.

"Mommy's pretty little doll loves saying all the wrong things. Lay there and be useful."

And you do.

As if you'd want to be anywhere else.

She's rough. Her hand reaching to find something to grab onto. Your hair, the wall, she settles on the bed frame, shifting her weight as she forces herself against your lips. Your air overtaken by her.

"You don't even know what you're saying. Just that fucking desperate for me."

Her nipples hard under the thin fabric of her vest, but you don't dare try to touch.

"My perfect, pathetic girl."

Her thighs lock against your cheeks as her moans get louder above you. Your fingers in the soft skin of her thighs, smooth and warm. Her legs shudder as her breaths stutter.

"Fuck—stay fucking still"

Not being able to breathe is a privilege when it feels like this. When it's all for her pleasure.

“Ggonna come on your pretty lips baby—fuck—" her voice is higher, weaker "—so glad you came.”

Her cheeks flushed as her hands move back to her hair, pushing it out of her face as her forehead wrinkles. That face you've come to love. The silence that comes right before the cries.

She shakes, pornographic noises erupting from her, eyes forced shut as her movements become more erratic.

Throbbing against your tongue as she finishes making use of your face.

You can’t help but gasp when she shifts back a little.

Her breathing loud as she wipes the sweat from her eyebrows with the back of her hand.

“Jesus Christ.”

With your eyes closed you can feel her climbing off of you, your lips covered in her.

She's silent only for a moment as her chest rises and falls.

“You look pretty like that.”

You swallow.

“Thank you.”

The ache between your own thighs is unbearable as she settles herself back on the pillow besides you.

It’s hard not to squirm as she catches her breath and wets her own lips, she notices without even having to take a proper look at you, obviously.

“Aw.” She coos, rolling over to get a better look at your soaked face and desperate, pleading eyes. “Is someone feeling needy?”

Embarrassingly so.

“I— yeah”

“Well, you did come all this way…” she taunts, propping herself up on one arm, her palm flat against the yacht shirt as she feels your nipples harden beneath her touch. Your skin alert as she drags her experienced fingers across your stomach, walking down to grip your thigh.

Goosebumps left in her path.

“…I bet you’re already leaking for me...You always are.”

That is an understatement.

Her fingernails tease across your skin, clit aching with desperation as she reaches under your waistband again.

Gasping softly when she feels you against her.

“My my, is this all for mommy?”

“Yeah— yes.” You nod your head furiously, bucking up into her, the taste of her still on your tongue. Desperate for something, anything.

“Even after everything?”

"Always."

She glides against your clit too easily, the pressure perfect like she's done this a thousand times. Like she knows you inside and out. Circling slowly, and then too gently. Too precise. Too much and not enough.

"All alone with me." She laughs, biting her lip as she watches you fall apart for her, and only ever her. "Nowhere to go."

You can't tell if she's trying to scare you off again.

"I just want you."

"...You have me...The things I'll do to you."

Her fingers dip lower, collecting your wetness between them as she presses against your entrance, teasing gently before following the curve of your body further. Placing the gentlest pressure against your ass.

"Aw…You're so wet my cute little thing, I could probably slip right in...I never did get to see that pretty diamond..."

God. You almost forgot about that. Her touch is so much gentler than when you tried that. Maybe she should help you next time.

"But your mistress needs to keep you nice and ready for when she wants to use you, you understand don't you?"

You nod, choosing words when her eyes shift colder.

"Yea. Yes. I understand."

"You know how stressed out I get during meetings." She purrs. "I want you to be the perfect assistant. My perfect little toy."

The pressure of her finger is more intense as she pushes against you, the feeling not foreign but certainly less familiar. Her eyes are on you, looking for any suggestion of a safe word or hesitation.

"Are you going to let me touch you here? You'll like it. I always know best, don't I?"

You nod, a firm and pleading "yes" when she hisses in response.

To your surprise she removes her hands from you, only to flip you onto your stomach in a quick, controlled move. Her grip already pulling your panties down before you can get comfortable on your front.

"Mommy wants to see everything she owns."

Exposed and trembling as her hands return to you, kneading the soft curve of your ass before she's right where she wants to be.

She's right.

She slides in easily.

Slowly, little by little. A wide soft smile painted on her face as she watches you relax around her. Your head turned to the side, straining to try and see her as she takes what she wants.

She thrusts just a little, enjoying the visual of you letting her decide what’s best for you.

"Oh." You gasp, reaching for her. Her eyes on yours as she moves a little more, and a little more after, picking up the pace as your brows furrow.

"There's my girl." She purrs as her thumb grazes your clit.

You swallow the spit on your tongue, tasting her as she watches you unravel.

"You're doing so well hon, fuck...I can't wait to feel this tight little ass stretch around my cock while I'm on a stupid fucking client call."

You clench around her at her words, at the thought of being so perfect for her. Picking up her dry cleaning, bending over her desk, and getting right back to making photocopies when she's done.

Your moans become more and more raw as she fucks you harder, the sound of skin on skin and ragged breath as she crawls palms your flesh with her free hand.

"There you go honey. My good girl. Do you love it?"

She can tell your close, she always can. But your body is so sensitive, she could be doing anything and it would be enough.

"Answer me slut, do you love it?"

"I— yes."

The pressure on your clit is too much as she pushes you over the edge, she gasps as you tense around her.

"Aw, you do?"

Your body hot and tense as she slips out of you agonizingly slowly, her thumb gentle as you ride out the aftershocks.

Until it's just the two of you in the silence again.

Mouth dry as she looks down at you. Agatha watches you as your heartbeat slows, sitting back on her heels.

You wish you could read her mind.

"Well..."

She starts, and you know the rest can't be good because the only possible thing you want to do next is go to sleep.

"…We should probably go get cleaned up."

The worst thing anyone could ever have suggested.

"I really don't want to do that." You need a glass of water.

"You have to." Her tone is stern, your body feels like jello. "Do I have to bend you over my knee?"

"Maybe."

"What if I lure you in?"

She's Scooby snacking you right now and you know it.

"With what?"

"I'll give you a t-shirt with a good memory."

You sit bolt upright.

"And you'll tell me about the memory?"

She rolls her eyes but she's already standing and opening the drawer.

"Yeah. Whatever I'll tell you about the memory. Just take a shower."

"Will you shower with me?"

She takes a deep breath.

"...no. I'll meet you here in 10."

---

The shower is scalding hot and you can't quite figure out the dials, opting to pre squeeze the gel on your body, and hop in fast and smart. You'd ask for help if Agatha wasn't so anti showering with you.

But even though you want it all, the roughness, the softness, the domestic moments and the care. You want to respect her boundaries.

So you spin fast in the shower and hope you're clean enough to pass potential inspection.

Does she shower with it this hot? You thought she was from Salem, not hell.

You're in the towel before you can ponder anything else. Drying yourself off quickly so you can skip to the part with the t-shirt and the pretty cheekbones of your boss.

She's already on the bed with messy hair and the same vest when you return, making you wonder if she even showered or whether she just wanted you clean.

But as you get closer, the smell of freshness radiates off of her. Expensive bath products like she's a human spa.

You're sure you'll grow to love it, but it all you want are the smell of cherries and coffee and wine.

The t-shirt is already laid out as Agatha scrolls through her phone. Does she even get signal all the way out here? It occurs to you that you know nothing about owning islands in any way, and have one million questions she'll hate you for.

The shirt on the bed is black, less faded, with a small chest design.

Employee of the month, 2015. The company logo right underneath.

"What is this?" You ask, picking it up and taking a closer look. This thing is hardly worn.

"It's your happy memory shirt."

She's still on her phone as you drop the towel and slip it over your head.

That gets her attention.

The phone is on charge in an instant as she watches you climb back onto the bed. It's even softer than you remember and it must be so, so late by now.

"I didn't know we had employee of the month shirts." You state flat and confused. is this a joke? This is a joke.

"We don't."

Agatha climbs under the covers, seemingly uninterested in telling you her story.

"So....story?"

The eye roll again.

"I had an advisor in 2015, because we had terrible employee retention and I couldn't figure out why."

She's certainly the why.

You don't tell her that.

"He said if we gave people employee of the month stuff, they'd feel happier. They'd want to stay longer."

This somehow doesn't make any sense still. Who was employee of the month this year?

"And did it work?"

"Well I gave myself the shirt and fired him. So I don't know."

"Why do you even want the shirt?!" You can't help but laugh as you crawl under the covers opposite her. She's ridiculous.

"Well I was the best employee, and I hated that guy so... We never did it again. I guess you're employee of the month now."

"Wow thanks boss this means so much to me. I love it."

"Does it make you want to work harder for me?"

"Yes that's absolutely why I work so hard for you, not any other reason."

“I picked you to be employee of the month because you never spill a drop of coffee when you get it from the store. You’re great at replying to emails and my plane journeys are always perfectly stocked.”

“Any other reason?”

“Hmm. Let me think…no.”

The tender playfulness between you settles. It feels comfortable. Right.

And kind of like you're at a sleepover.

Your skin feels on edge, in a good way. Butterflies in your chest that risk escaping as she suddenly reaches out and pulls you closer to her by your waist.

You place your arms on her chest as she holds you close.

You want to poke fun, and you also don't want to draw any attention to her actions.

"I'm just cold." She states like she can read your mind. "Don't get used to it."

But she's warm. She’s so warm. You’re both probably too warm to be this close.

Her hair still smells like cherries and salt.

"Can I ask you a question?'

If you focus you might be able to hear her brain work.

"No."

"What if it's an easy one."

She sighs. You can feel her hands clench for a moment.

"Okay. What is it?"

"What perfume do you wear? I like it...it’s so sweet."

"I have it custom made from an Italian company. I went to the factory, to sample the scents I liked."

She swallows in the silence that follows.

“Before you had to leave…” she starts up again, half awkward and half sleepy “…I had fun. On our date. Like I was young and stupid instead of old and stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“…neither are you.” She blinks slowly and softly. Her body relaxing into the bed. “…but I make stupid decisions.”

“Me too.”

Maybe that’s why you’re both right here right now. Or maybe you can tell yourself that. You both know the clear, obvious reason.

“Can I ask about—"

The blackmail. Your mother. The man. The accusations she’d half confirmed were true.

“No. Not right now...”

It’s frustrating, it’s scary.

“…please.”

She’s too soft to argue with.

“Okay.”

But as her hands hold you close to her chest, and as you settle in to sleep close to the woman you’ve been chasing. Your brain has the same things on repeat.

Lies. Fraud. Other women. Murder. Secrets. Dirty money. More secrets. Agatha’s terrible memories.

“Tell me something nice about you?” You ask, voice slow and sleepy.

“Something nice? No.”

“Please. You have stuff to say, you’re nice.”

“I am not nice.”

“You’re so nice. I think you’re nice.”

“I think you’re tired.”

You are tired.

You can’t sleep.

“Tell me about your rabbit.”

Agatha leans over and slaps the lamp shut, you’re crawling over to her and filling the space before she even has a chance to adjust.

“My rabbit?”

“You told me you had a rabbit.”

She sighs.

“I have a rabbit. As in currently.”

The gap between you opens again as you pull back to try and see her face in the darkness. Moonlight shifts through the curtains just a little, her face fresh but exhausted. The tiny lines on the side of her lips.

“You have a rabbit?”

“Yes.”

“You have a rabbit. As in now. The present. And he’s alive?”

She makes a face you can’t quite see in the shadows.

“What you think I’m nice but not nice enough to have a pet?”

“I thought you’d like, have a goldfish you killed by accident. Maybe a scary dog. Oh, or a cat. You guys could ignore each other.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Rabbits are so floppy and cute!”

You squeal as she groans. The woman who made you cower earlier has a little soft friend. Unless she’s lying again.

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god and you’re serious? Where is he, what’s his name?”

“He’s in France. And I’m not telling you his name.”

Her sleepy voice is almost as cute as the rabbit information.

“Oh you’ll fly me to your island but you won’t tell me the name of your secret rabbit?”

“He’s not a secret. He just didn’t come up. And don’t get too attached to him. You don’t even know him.”

Is she defending herself or the rabbit?

“You don’t get to know rabbits. They start off great and only get better. Unless he’s like, evil. Does he bite?”

“He’s not evil and he doesn’t bite. I mean, unless he’s has evil thoughts. He seems normal. He just sort of, I don’t know. Hops around.”

“You let him LOOSE?”

“Oh my god. Yeah. I’m not gonna cage the rabbit...Then where would I put you?”

You’d playfully smack her but you don’t want to discourage her from that idea

“Why did you get a rabbit?”

“Can a woman not want a rabbit? What’s with all the questions? Go to sleep.”

She pulls you in again so you’re pressed against her, despite her words sounding more serious.

“Okay.”

You close your eyes, breathing her in. The security you needed last night.

“…why are you so surprised?”

She wants to keep talking.

She wants to keep talking.

“I’m just so excited imagining you talking to a little rabbit. Being all cute with it. I can’t wait to see this.”

“Oh I see, you think you’re gonna get to meet him.”

“Well when you take me to France duh I’ll meet him. He lives there, Agatha.”

She scoffs.

“We can talk about it. Go to sleep.”

"Why did you lie in your interview? You pre-approved the questions."

"Go to sleep." She grunts.

"You said you listen to podcasts. You hate podcasts."

"I hate everything."

"You like rabbits."

She shuffles, her grip loosens and tenses again, like she seriously debated ending the cuddle over this.

"Go. To sleep."

"I've never seen you eat a healthy breakfast."

"Coffee is healthy."

"Coffee with syrup is not healthy. And that's not breakfast. Breakfast is like, an egg or—"

"—Stop talking about the interview. I say that stuff so people get off my back."

"Because you're famous?"

You tense your whole body in case she hits you.

"I'm actually going to kill you dead if you don't go to sleep right now."

The wind picks up outside. The sound of it against the windows, the sound of Agatha’s breathing slowing, calming. You hope you sleep before she starts snoring.

Her sheets under your skin as you rest in her safety, knowing tomorrow you’ll need to have a conversation.

A real conversation.

A real unveiling of secrets.

—-

omg. i'm alive?

This will be on ao3 like I said. I was going to post it today but predictably my wifi is messing up, so i'm on mobile ( I may have continued to draft in tumblr ). Would rather sort it soon on web. I'll let you know! <3

Taglist: @mommyissuesismypersonality @chlondykebar @sweetmidnights @rmaximoff @hannah-0730 @milflovers4 @neverfindmegone  @absolute-memegarbage @wifeofmanymilfs @marcelinaceciliarose @marcelinaceciliarose @6stolenangel9 @pianogirl2121 @hagofswords @natashasmuse @htinha157 @@wandanatsub @morgananyx @galaxybaby @greyella @w4ndsversew0nder @daffodil-heart @isixxxx

@idonutevnno @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @deathbylesbianwitches @angelxblink @sapphicandgraphic @wwwtonikixxes @z3mos @chloeelou02x @peskygremlin @seaoflittlefires @ughidunn0  @three3ofswords @langeskovstg1 @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @agathaspett @starrgirll05 @wifehahn @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @lowlyjelly @ladyd8

[prettypurplewitch]

Early Riser Part 21

CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU

Other parts & Tip jar

Word count: 11k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power dynamics, toxic relationship, d/s dynamics, absurd mean sugar mommy behavior, Agatha is emotionally constipated but trying, themes of corruption, smut, anal fingering, discussion of crime, fluff, angst, CUDDLING, secrets, threat, she's not nice but she's also nice.

"I always want to be where you are. I see the good in you." She scoffs. "There is no good…You're so naive. Coming here. You couldn't leave even if you wanted to." Your skin feels hot. You can't tell why.

The helicopter is loud. Even louder is your heartbeat in your chest. Hard thuds against your ribcage, barely containing the feelings inside of it.

It's too dark to see the water below you as the blades buzz above your head. It's almost a relief as the wind picks up, rocking the tiny little floating lounge above vast amounts of terrifying nothingness.

You don't remember the last time you were able to breathe normally.

Was it at the club with her hands on your skin? Was it in your apartment with your lovely new roommate and Agatha's portrait on the Forbes magazine cover? The image glossy and half rolled over where you'd shoved it into your bag. Maybe a little careless. Maybe you knew you'd get the real deal soon.

Goosebumps on your cold skin despite your cheeks feeling hot and if being in her penthouse somehow wasn't safe enough for you, her island certainly will be.

Certainly? Hopefully.

A private paradise for the two of you. All those things she'd talked about...did she expect you to come here so soon?

You'd imagined a romantic vacation. Hammocks out of place for the Hamptons and waking up together in the private bubble of bliss. Like a honeymoon that lasts forever.

Just the two of you, and all the peace money can buy.

How long will it take you to realize that Agatha can't and won't live like that?

Every instance of normality is quickly replaced by something complicated, terrifying or an alluring combination of the two.

Including Agatha herself.

It's hard to imagine her preparing for you to come here at all, despite her words. A new level of sharing her space with you, somewhere so private she's retreated there in whatever emergency this is.

Despite her bragging, you don't actually know that much about this island of hers. Is it one big house? A little village? Wanda's island seemed like one massive complex, but Agatha had made a point of having lots of special rooms.

Her island is almost certainly bigger, you think. If everything else is anything to go off of. If there's something to compete at, Agatha is making sure she's winning.

How are you supposed to process all of this?

If only there was somebody you could talk to. Properly talk to. Jake could never have been your friend, it seems obvious now. The late nights with him watching the television too loudly. His gross cups stacking up in the sink and the subtle digs thats have become far less subtle as time has passed. He didn't understand you, and it seems he never will.

But Maggie, maybe there could have been something there. It didn't seem like she was the kind of person to be nice to you just because you lived there. Someone sweet, with pure intentions and a kind heart.

She seemed like she wanted to be your friend.

And predictably, you've picked the woman that looks at you like you're lunch. The woman that has committed so many absurd HR violations, she's somehow forced you into needing her to feel human.

But you can't think like that.

Agatha is difficult, and she is intense. But she cares. It's obvious in the cherry syrup she keeps in her penthouse and the laugh she lets out when you press her buttons. In the way she looked at you when she didn't think you noticed back at the gallery.

When she rented the whole space out so you could take a closer look at the artwork. A thoughtful memento from the date stored as a surprise in the car. Teaching you wine like she wouldn't ever judge you.

It can be hard to get her into that headspace.

But you've made your decision.

Floating above the midnight sea, it's too late to turn back even if you wanted to. So, you try to focus on your breathing and hope you’ll be landing soon.

Despite it all, you just can't wait to be in her arms again. Despite her causing these problems, intensifying them and running away without telling you where she was even going.

It's push and pull. A shifting conversation of not being able to stay away from you, and sending you away without a text message…only to tell you she's been recording you in secret while you lay on her bed.

Even though you've shared her space, eaten dinner in her bed and met her friends, one thought makes you question everything.

What if for her this is some kind of game that's gotten out of control?

And for you, well, this is your whole life.

Although your bag holds almost nothing important, although you're yet to rest or remove the image of that man from your brain, all you can think about is whether she's okay. Whether she's stressed. Scared. Overwhelmed. Whether she's changed clothes, whether she's had anybody bring her food or make her coffee. How much whiskey she's gone through while on strategy calls.

Swept from the rough sheets of your apartment and flown to a private island at the hands of the only person who can make your life more meaningful and more disastrous at the same time.

And you probably won't even get a raise for it.

Dim lights come into view as the helicopter sways and drops slowly, you suspect it must be landing but it's almost hard to tell with the dark and the breeze.

You grab onto the arm of the chair. The leather squishing between your fingers as your grip intensifies.

Landing.

It's certainly landing and it feels worse than when her hand was in yours. At least you knew she had it under control. Something about how she can switch between her silly sarcasm and the quick, controlled voice she can command boardrooms with. It makes you feel like she could fix anything.

Just close your eyes. Imagine her warmth, her skin finally on yours, the smell of her perfume and her shampoo. The safety and security she brings you just by being near. You pull out your phone to check the time. The battery is low. This day is too fucking long.

The pilot says something through the headset and you pick up approximately none of it trying to focus on not losing your shit as the whole thing moves about in the wind. You'd hoped there’d be more test runs of this thing before you had to ride it to the island, and you never imagined doing it on your own.

Well, maybe in some distant fantasy you'd indulged once or twice. When your head hits the pillow and your brain shows your subconscious in vibrant shapes and colors. When her bed becomes your bed, and her house becomes your house, and flying to the island to see the Agatha Harkness is a normal occurrence. You'd cook dinner for her and rub her shoulders after a long day. She'd finally learn to make you pancakes and buy you a teddy bear on valentines day.

You know you can't think like that. But if you could control your dreams, would you change any of it?

With your eyes forced closed so tightly you start seeing glittery squares, the whole thing finally stops moving.

It's silent.

Less bumpy than maybe you expected.

Your fingers are still bursting through the leather when the door is opened for you and with wobbly legs, you're able to step out. Your useless bag in one hand and the other trailing along the exit of the helicopter, grabbing onto the arm of the pilot as he helps you stand.

The helipad is enormous, and you suspect Agatha was being somewhat modest about the island as well as the yacht. Maybe less modest, and more financially clueless.

Agatha.

She knew you were coming, she'd sent for you.

You need her. Her body holding yours. Her warmth on your freezing skin and the sound of her voice purring in your ear.

So where is she?

"Thanks." You're able to muster up as you release the pilot from your clawed grasp. It comes out barely audible and you clear your throat before attempting anything else.

The place is almost entirely dark, with red lights on the helipad. As the sound of water hits the shore, you fully grasp the fact that you're on an island.

She literally owns the ground you're walking on.

It’s hard to take in, looking around as you head toward what you assume is her house. One large building surrounded by several smaller ones. Orange lights coming through the windows.

It’s almost too dark to see, like she hadn't plan on you coming at all and somehow hasn't prepared in any way to collect you. The firm texture of the helipad becomes crunchy as you head up the path. Gravel or sand under your feet, something unsteady.

Is she as bad as you'd worried? Sat hunched over a laptop covered in crumbs and drunk out of her mind?

You wouldn't care. You could help her.

Helping her is part of your job.

Maybe she's picking snack wrappers up off of the carpet. Maybe she's brewing you a pot of tea or cooking you a hot dinner. Putting on a jazz record and warming you pajamas.

The thought is preposterous, but you walk towards the lights anyway.

Other buildings and trees pass you as you head further up the path, small lights on the ground lighting up as you stumble up the gravel texture. It seems mostly modern, with large windows and a chimney. Most of the house already in darkness.

Is she really not coming to find you?

The gravel turns solid as you wander up the steps of the house like some kind of confusing trial you're now a part of. The door enormous, rounded at the top with the shape of the moon inside of the glass.

Do you knock? This feels like a humiliation ritual all on it's own.

What could she possibly be doing?

You hesitate for a second before your knuckles hit the wood three times.

Despite the frustration that's becoming more noticeable within you by the second, it’s hard to outweigh the excitement and sense of relief already bursting out your chest.

For a long minute, there's nothing.

The sound of the water.

The whistling of the breeze.

Your breath as you continue to grow more and more annoyed....she really didn't bother to pick you up?

After everything she's put you through?

Until the door pulls open, and your eyes finally rest on her once again.

A cream colored sweater high on her neck, a brown blazer draped over the top and a glass of red wine in her hand.

She looks surprisingly, perfect?

"Agatha!" You burst towards her without thinking, the stress of the past god knows how many hours bundling inside of you until you can't hold yourself back as she stands in the dim lighting.

You hadn't even registered the expression on her face as you collide with the expensive fabric of her jacket.

Her free arm catches you, and the softness of your body that was preparing for a wholesome hug is thrown off when she shoves you against the wall without a second to spare.

Air leaving your chest in surprise and exertion as the smell of cherry and red wine hit your senses.

You don't get a hi.

You don't get a hug.

Her hand is on your throat, looking over your face like she's examining you. Keeping you in place as she scans over your skin. Nails digging into your cheeks as she inspects your features.

"Did anybody hurt you?"

Her words are sharp and her eyes are wild.

You suddenly feel embarrassed you even went in for a hug in the first place. She’d just been so soft recently. You’d been playing a game of silly dates and romantic dinners before it all fell apart.

Shaking your head, Agatha takes a sip of her wine and releases your neck.

Already desperate for her touch as soon as it leaves you.

You didn't realize how hard she was squeezing until the pressure is suddenly gone.

Her hand presses firmly down your chest, trailing hard over your stomach and finding the waistband of your pants.

It's not even been a minute since you showed up here.

"Agatha I–"

"Shh. Do you even know how frustrated I am right now? I can't even think straight I just—" her left hand fumbles with the button on your pants until it pops open, she doesn't waste a second longer before she's pressing against you with her fingertips. "—just let mommy relax..."

You're not sure how you're already getting wet, is it from the simple action of her hands on you despite their intention? Are you conditioned by the smell of alcohol on her tongue? By the roughness of her hands when she grabs you like that?

It would be embarrassing. But Agatha doesn't make you feel embarrassed.

She makes you feel important and necessary.

You push back against her without thinking as she slips aside the fabric of your underwear. You should have worn something prettier, for some reason you thought maybe you'd just go to bed.

She doesn't care, the fabric is only a barrier for her. She doesn't look, she doesn't need to.

Her eyes closed as you study the gentle lines of her skin. A soft hum leaving her lips. Her touch making you shudder, the salvia you swallow making a louder noise than you anticipated.

Agatha's movements are slow, delicate and controlled as she lets your body adjust to her. Collecting your wetness on her fingers without another word, without a question or a demand or a kiss.

There's apparently no time for pleasantries as she presses two fingers inside of you before even saying hello. The pressure of the intensity is soothed instantly as she groans. Like the simple act of being inside of you is enough to relax her after the disaster that was the past few days.

"What are you—fuck–" you struggle for words as she thrusts into you, her expression easing and softening as you adjust around her.

"You can take it, can't you?"

Agatha gives you a moment, feeling your body melt against her touch. Her thrusts slow as she studies your face, is this what she was thinking about while she watched you on her bed?

Wanting to fuck you right here in her isolated hallway?

"Just couldn’t help myself” she whispers as she picks up the pace, her palm flat against your clit, her voice hot against your ear.

Your legs begin to tremble beneath you as she picks up the pace, quick and erratic, like she's been waiting to do this all day.

Maybe she has.

"There's my girl, come on." Her words are deep and settle right through you as she shamelessly takes what she wants, it's too much too quickly, your stomach tightening and your hands in her hair before you can stop yourself.

Her softness. You missed her softness. But you missed this too.

"Let me feel it. Let go. There you go." She gasps, watching you through hooded eyes, blues dark as she curls her fingers in your throbbing cunt.

It's too much and not enough as soon as you're reunited with her, the way your body welcomes her like it's branded with the same initials as her cars.

The smell of her is in your throat.

She looks far too perfect for a woman on the run.

She knew she wouldn't be able to wait.

That's why she didn't meet you at the helipad.

You come right there, whimpering against the wall with her name on your lips.

Her hair still in your hands as you settle. Deep breaths and shallow breaths between the two of you.

Your chest feels things it shouldn't. Words it shouldn't for a woman so rough with you, your boss no less.

You push them away.

"I uh—" The blues of her eyes instantly softer as you finally move in too quickly for that hug. Her free arm pulls around your waist, the other outstretched so you presumably don't knock her wine over.

Priorities.

Agatha's hand settles on the small of your back as you inhale the cherry of her perfume, and something salty. Maybe it's the jacket.

Her brooch digs into your chest, shoving against your collar bone. You don't care.

You could live in this hug forever.

"Hi." You finally exhale after a long, long second.

Expecting her to pull away.

She doesn't budge.

She rests her head against yours. The woman in that suit on the cover of your magazine.

"Hi."

"You smell like salt."

"That'll be the sea, hon." Her words are matter-of-fact. Her body warm and comforting, the stability after your legs were shaking is a bonus.

You hug her tighter.

She let's you.

"I missed you."

"I know."

She pulls back so she can take a sip of the red liquid, and you're finally able to get a little look at the hallway. Lamps on the wall light the expansive space. Artwork in expensive frames.

You'd be excited if you weren't so damn exhausted.

"Can I get you a glass of wine?"

She seems far too casual about the situation and although you would have killed for a glass of wine on the way out here, all you can think about is being unconscious next to her while she sucks up all the air in the room with her snores.

"God no. No thank you I mean. I just...It's been a really long day."

"Well, that's why I offered." Her hips sway as she moves down the corridor ahead of you, you follow her without question as she leads you into a kitchen, the bottle of wine sits almost empty on the side. The label isn't something you recognize from your wine tasting adventure.

"Just as well. I think this one is too strong for you." Agatha's long fingers grip the bottle as she empties the rest of the wine into her glass. "It's a little bolder, a little more full-bodied."

In this light you can see the lines under her eyes.

She does look tired.

The kitchen is wide, small dim lights under wooden countertops glow in the room. You know you're sleepy, because you don't even care about gleaning every piece of information you can out of the space.

Until your eyes fall on the overflowing trash can. Ready to pity her for having to do her own chores and ask questions about how it's already gotten so full, when you see it hanging out the top of the trash mountain.

"Agatha you ordered Taco Bell to your island?"

She almost flinches on the pour.

"What are you, the taco police?"

"Oh my god. Did you send a helicopter to get that? Was it even hot?"

She screws the lid back on the bottle before launching it in the recycling bin anyway. Recycling all the wine bottles must really offset all of the jet emissions. The things a woman will go through for queso. That was not in the Forbes article. You've created a monster.

"I mean, no, not really. But that's why I have staff. To fetch me things."

"I knew I would regret taking you there. You need actual nutrients. You need to eat vegetables.”

“Tacos have vegetables. Although I did pick most of the lettuce out. But you’ve seen me eat a salad.” She drips the last few red splashes into the glass, holding it upside-down to make sure she's really getting the last of it.

"I don't greatly enjoy you telling me what I can and can't do. You know i'm in charge?"

“Please just try and balance the things you eat.”

"I lived a long time before you started bringing me lunch, you do know that, don't you?"

Agatha's sauntering towards you, nails drumming on the counter as she approaches. Your arms fold over each other like you're on display in the middle of the mostly-empty room. Where are all her appliances?

"Well yeah but...not as well."

Good one. Heiress Harkness didn't know true living until she met you.

She laughs one loud 'ha!' with her head thrown back. It's hard to pretend to be even a little mad when she's so outrageous.

You can't wait to be in her bed.

She's already beginning to leave, waltzing away a few steps ahead of you. You were hoping she wouldn't go so soon, playing hard to get even when you've been in her vehicles more than you've been in your apartment recently.

"Come on. Let me show you to your room. You look worn out."

You start following her anyway as she pushes off of the counter and begins to enter her hall-maze again. You are worn out. That doesn't mean you want this to be over. You only just got her again.

Wait did she say?

"My room? Wait. No."

You plant your feet firmly on the floor. "...I don't want my own room. I want to stay with you."

She turns on her heel. Swallows in the silence between the two of you, you're slightly further away than you initially thought, it feels tense again. Like maybe you had imagined all the fun you had at the movies and the club. Maybe the taco wrapper is all the evidence that's left of that.

Your eyes focus on the way her body moves under the dim light. The waves of her hair as the highlights catch under the lamps. It's messy. Messier than usual maybe. You know she's been running her hands through it the way she does when she's overwhelmed. You could untangle it, if she'd let you, you doubt she will.

Her posture is perfect, but there's something behind her eyes that's clearly bothering her. Maybe it's just all of the recent problems. Maybe all of the problems aren't just recent, and she hasn't lived a normal and relaxing life since...well, ever.

There's no way you're sleeping without her.

"I just thought you might want your own space, because of tonight and because of—" her eyes wander from your face to your half-empty bag "—all of your luggage."

The smirk from her own joke is plastered on her face as she spins, contunuing down the hallway, past several oak doors and various paintings you'll get a better look at tomorrow.

"Please can I stay with you?"

Your voice comes out smaller and more distant than you intended. She doesn't turn back, she doesn't reply. Just a swig of the wine and finally stopping at one of the many doors.

Agatha turns the doorknob, the house responds with a croak as it settles. Like it's welcoming you.

Her hand ushers you inside the room, your feet finding the soft dark carpet as you brush past her into the space.

Is this the guest room? She's really going to make you beg to sleep with her after everything?

You are not above begging.

She knows it.

"As if i'd let you sleep on your own." She slams the door shut behind her.

You nearly pass out at the tenderness of her words as a lamp shaped like a paper lantern casts a warm glow across the bed. The sheets crisp white and delicate looking like a clean hotel.

Your body aches for it almost as much as it aches for her.

You throw yourself down, sitting at the edge of the bed and kicking off your shoes like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like being swept away to the CEO's island after a break-in is just a normal weekday afternoon. The people at work wouldn't believe this. And if they did, they'd call you some help immediately.

The sheets smell too fresh. Too clean, ironed and perfect.

She didn’t sleep here last night.

You should be thinking about how she got into this mess. About the danger that comes with being with her. About her secrets, her temper, your differences. About what she was doing last night, and what she'll do tomorrow to solve it.

But all you can think about is hoping she doesn't spill red wine on the white sheets as she leans over you, taller now you're sat. Moving in close until she's a shallow breath away from you.

The heat from her skin in your breathing space.

You swallow. Not sure what's happening now.

Not wanting to look stupid from asking.

And not wanting to apologize in case she tells you off.

You brace as Agatha Harkness places a delicate kiss on your forehead.

Your body relaxes so much at the unusually sweet gesture you practically melt into the high thread count beneath you.

"I'm glad you're safe." She whispers, her lips are soft against you before she's standing tall again like she's cracking her shoulders. "...And that..." She clears her throat, almost kind of awkwardly. "...That you're here."

"...Me too."

You want a thousand more kisses.

You don't want to scare her off.

"It was scary. At the penthouse. I didn't know, I mean— I didn't know what was going on for a second. I thought that would be the best place to be, you know? I hope I didn't intrude going into your house like that."

Agatha turns, facing away from you as she takes off her jacket and delicately hangs it over the back of a chair. Her thin wine glass placed on top of her dresser next to some objects you can’t quite make out. Maybe a photograph, definitely some books.

You don't mention how you snooped through her stuff. You just open your bag, tipping the contents onto her bed to grab one of the many snacks that fall out onto the sheets. You are so glad you bought a lot of these things.

If you weren't so emotionally and physically drained you'd probably feel odd. Like you're intruding. Like you shouldn't be treating her space like this. Like you don't belong.

Instead you finally feel the familiar domestic comfort of the woman you're dating.

Even if she's not going to let you call it that.

But two dates is dating.

That's just science. Or dating law.

Agatha is rolling up her sleeves as she takes off her necklace and unclasps her bracelet. You watch her as she unwinds for the evening. Her hair flows down her back as she faces away from you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You realize that outside of sex, Agatha seems to mostly get undressed in different rooms.

Her taking off her jewellery feels soft...and unusual.

In a good way.

"It should have been safe. It's never happened before...I have top notch security." She doesn't sound comforted by the thought of the security, she suddenly sounds extremely frustrated.

"I pay the best of the best to watch over all of my belongings. My safety. Fucking—"

Her voice is louder like she's remembering how she feels in real time. Her house. Her things. Her safety. Her girl.

"One of them has seriously got some explaining to do, I don't even know where to begin with him."

You rummage through your snack pile for something that'll curb your stress cravings. Although her talking about the incident as she undresses, discussing it like she has a plan, even though each word feels louder and angrier than the last, it feels like you can let her take over and passenger princess this whole runaway thing.

"And for god's sake, they found out he knew the code because someone had left little melted chocolate fingerprints on the keypad, I mean can you believe it?! It's probably the fucking housekeeper! I knew she was—"

She turns as if on cue to see you holding a Snickers.

You didn't even register what she was saying. Fuck. Wait. Is she serious? You were that focused on getting out of your apartment you didn't even notice? Are you five?! Wait. Did you even eat any candy before you left? Should you defend yourself? It's been so intense you can't even remember.

You want to drop the chocolate. You don't. You clutch it tighter like it'll protect you from her wrath, her eyes are angrier than you've seen her in a while, vicious and furious as she marches over to you, her eyes flickering between the snack pile and your face.

You miss the forehead kiss.

"Are you fucking serious?!"

She raises her hand without thinking about it as you sit below her, you gasp, eyes closing quickly as you brace for impact.

You're not sure whether you flinched or not as you cower beneath her like a terrified animal.

Agatha settles for a growl and an angry grasp of the air instead of instinctively hitting you.

"How old are you? You're getting melted chocolate all over my penthouse and now you're bringing it to my island? Why do you even have all of this?”

You shy away.

“Look at me when I’m taking to you!"

"I don't— I don't know!"

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

Don't bring up the m&ms you found in her stuff-drawer.

Don’t tell her she’s messier than you’ve ever been.

Don't say it might not have even be you.

"I mean I— I bought it all because I was trying to get your attention, with the credit card. I'm sorry I didn't mean to, I left so quickly I was just...I said I bought food—"

"This isn't food. This is what you bought with my money?"

You're not sure what you're supposed to do now.

"You have no idea how much trouble you're in oh my god."

She paces on the ground, her hand on her forehead.

"Do you know what that penthouse is evaluated at? And you rubbed your little chocolate fingers all over it? I should—"

Don't cry.

Don't mention you do know what it's evaluated at because you were literally Googling it this morning.

Don't cry.

"—I don't even know what I should do with you. I don't even know."

Her hands are wild in the air and you can tell she's trying to hold back on terrifying you.

You shrink back into yourself. Are you supposed to say something?

"I'm sorry."

She stops. Her nostrils flared as she looks down at you.

"I'm really sorry, he came to my house and I was really scared and...the day before at the club was scary and I just— I just wanted to feel close to you and I wanted snacks I guess and I— I left my house all stressed and nervous I didn't even think about it I didn't even notice I feel so stupid!"

You can't tell yourself not to cry again, it's already too late as the tears stream down your face. They're hot against your flushed skin as the overwhelm of the last few days all floods out of you at once.

And Agatha just watches.

Just for a minute.

Just blank behind the eyes in a way that's new and unreadable.

Both hands grabbing the air as she watches you break down on her bed.

The silence is uncomfortable and you hesitate in your realization that this can't be the relationship you need.

Agatha swallows, sits.

"Oh."

The weight of her body settles in beside you on the bed as her arm wraps around your waist once again and the familiar sense of comfort returns.

You should flinch. You don't. You nuzzle closer to her like she didn't just hold herself back from hurting you. Your mascara on her cream sweater.

"My baby."

Her voice is slightly above a whisper as you sob onto her cashmere. "I shouldn't have..." But it trails off when she can't decide whether to apologize or make an excuse for her behavior.

Should you have even come here? Leaving behind Maggie and Jake and the only normality you had left to be here with her?

Her hand doesn't move in a way that's relaxing. It stays rigid like she's not sure how to hold you, she just knows she has to.

And although you expect her to pull away, Agatha makes no attempt at moving when you can finally breathe again.

She takes a deep breath.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice like that."

You sniff. "It's okay."

"...I just, I'm sorry...I usually wait for you to leave."

"I know."

She nods as she takes a second before moving off of you, her hand flexing as she picks one of the snacks from your pile. You aren't sure what will happen now as the air feels lighter, but not quite right.

You accept her apology.

You don't mention the S word.

She's ripping the packet open before you can lecture her about her health again.

"You should have brought the magazine too."

You blink.

"What?"

"The Forbes." She takes a bite of the candy bar. "You should have brought it. Did you see how good I looked in that photo?"

You did.

"How...did you know about that?"

"Did you like the interview? Or just the photos?"

You laugh, taking a bite of your own. Your breathing back to normal. It's okay. Everything is okay.

"I mean, I liked the photos the interview was..."

Agatha stands, pulling her sweater over her head and throwing it on the ground, the chocolate held between her teeth.

She's not wearing a bra and the dim lighting shows off the muscles in her shoulders.

You try not to stare as she opens up a mahogany set of draws, pulling out a black vest and slipping it on.

There's no fucking way you're going to sleep next to her like this tonight oh my god. Will this ever begin to feel normal? Will your moments with her ever feel ordinary, even when they are?

"I mean, it was fake. Obviously."

"Fake?" Her face is a dramatic shocked expression as she turns to look at you. "You think I'm fake?"

She makes you giggle like a baby.

"I mean, I've spent time with you. I think you were pretending to be somebody else. Which makes sense, I mean you're in the public eye I wouldn't—"

"Stop talking."

You nod.

“Do you have pajamas in your snack bag or do you need a t-shirt? I don't really have anything else in this room." She rummages aimlessly as you try not to stare at her biceps. "I can go find something. A dress shirt, or—”

The concept of what’s even in your bag falls right out of your head at the mention of her giving you a shirt.

“—Can I have a t-shirt?”

She’s already sifting through her drawer again before you finish the sentence, fabric of different colors squished all around as she finds something for you.

In a second she’s flung a large grey piece of cotton at you, and you’re glad your reflexes don’t fail you as you reach up to shield your face from it. Spreading the fabric open you get a good look at the yellow faded print.

Yacht Club Italiano '93.

Like something you'd find in the back of a thrift store. But you know she wouldn't shop there. Agatha probably doesn't even know what a thrift store is. This is a memory. A memory of hers, draped across your skin.

The woman from the magazine. Your boss, cold and cruel. The woman people refuse to make eye contact with as she walks through the corridor. The woman who owns this house, and this land, and this city, is eating a KitKat as you get changed into her Italian yacht club shirt from 1993.

Your clothes feel suddenly uncomfortable as you stand to change, Agatha slips out of her pants and leaves them in a lump on the ground. You're too tired to tell her to use the hamper.

You're too distracted by the skin of her thighs to see when she finishes the KitKat and instantly reaches for another candy bar, before pushing the rest of them onto the floor in one big careless swoop.

The cotton slips over your skin like it was always meant to be there.

Did she really wear this in the 90s? Does she wear it still? Does she keep all of her old clothes? It dawns on you you've always seen Agatha as so current, so present. Always this terrifying, this powerful and this perfect. Even when she tells you stories about when she was younger, or even when your eyes scanned that photograph of her and Rio. She just seems so...constant? Always knowing exactly what to say and do. Always having this element of control, despite you knowing that isn't true.

"How old were you in 1993?" You ask as you slip under the covers. You should really brush your teeth after the sugar but the thought of getting up again makes you feel like you might die.

"Twenty."

Agatha isn't looking at you, she's fishing through a different drawer for a makeup wipe and begins rubbing her eyes much, much too hard.

The stress of your day and the anxiety of the evening rub away with her mascara. You're not sure why she bothered wearing any makeup, or such a precise outfit. Unless it was for you? No. That's a silly thought.

You snuggle into the softness of the white sheets as the old shirt holds you in it's thirty years of memories.

"Did you enjoy it? The yacht club?"

Agatha had mentioned she could drive boats, she must have done it more recently than 1993 though.

She hums, long and slow as she leaves the makeup wipe on the dresser and takes a couple steps over to the bed. She's so beautiful in the light. Her hair waved and wild as she fixes her parting.

She makes you feel feral.

The sheets are soft under your fingers as you pull back the covers for her to get in next to you.

"No. Not really."

Of course she'd give you the shirt with the shitty memory.

You're not sure whether to pry as her head hits the pillow. Her side profile a perfect series of backlit shapes as you watch her think. The lamp glow bouncing off of the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones.

"It's ok. You don't have to talk about it."

"Mhm. It's not entirely bad. It wasn't my intention to give you that one. I didn't look at the print."

Well now she's just being ominous.

"Then?"

"They just didn't like me, at the yacht club. It's stupid." If you could go back in time and start a riot in the Italian yacht club in 1993 maybe you would. But you can't. So you stay quiet and let her relive the memory. "...Well. I mean. I don't know. I probably deserved it."

That's probably true. She slides her hand over her face.

"But you're so friendly and welcoming?" You smile, catching your lip under your teeth.

"I know right?" Her hand reaches out and forcibly turns out the light so you can't look at her. Either it's one of those ones that's touch sensitive or she's just murdered it.

You shuffle a little closer to her body. You were hoping to be in her bed, but this is more than you could have ever asked for.

"Then what happened?" You don't touch her, not right away. Settling your skin in the warmth that’s radiating off of her.

"I just...I got out of boarding school when I was eighteen. The yacht club was something my mother signed me up for after she refused to let me buy a boat. I should have known it'd be agonizing."

"I thought you liked boats and stuff?" It's hard to avoid your words spilling out like you're talking to a toddler.

"I do. Like boats....and stuff." Her tone mocks your voice, before she clears her throat like she's in too deep to back out of this conversation.

"I don't know...I think they thought I was bad. Pompous and annoying...I liked the sailing. They stopped inviting me to their dinners and group activities after the first day. I spent the rest of my time there on my own."

If you could go back in time and start a riot in the Italian yacht club in 1993 absolutely you would.

Really, you should be asking questions about the poker club. The island. The break-in. But you want nothing more than to imagine a twenty year old Agatha Harkness buying a t-shirt because she wants to learn to sail.

You pity her.

You know she doesn't like that.

"Isn't everyone at a yacht club pompous and annoying?"

In the dark you hear her raising both of her arms up, before slamming them back on the bed.

"Yes! I'd hear them whispering rumors in the hallways in exactly the same way I'd heard them when I was at the school and I just—" she takes a sharp breath, her words are faster like she can't quite catch up to what she's going to say.

It's unlike her.

She's usually so in control.

"—and it’s exactly the same way my mother would talk about me, exactly the same way they talk about me in the headquarters and I think maybe—" you're startled as she stands too quickly, blinding you suddenly when she turns the lamp back on.

"—if everyone thinks i'm so fucking terrible already, maybe it's easier if I just am."

You're not sure how this all started from your yacht club shirt, shielding your eyes with your arm as they adjust to the sudden change, sitting up you watch her grab her robe from the hook on the back of the door.

"What? Agatha, where are you going?"

"For something stronger than wine."

For the amount of drinking Agatha does you've yet to see her properly intoxicated, but the combination of anger and whiskey sounds relatively terrible for the two of you right now.

"Don't. Please. Please just stay here?" You gesture to the bed, patting it which you regret instantly when she her eyes turn cold like something inside of her has been switched on.

"I need to calm down."

"Have you tried breathing? That always helps me?"

Her smile sits the wrong way around on her face. The blues of her eyes look almost wet as she swallows. Is she about to scream or cry?

"Breathing? What are you, a shrink?"

You knew you shouldn't have suggested that, crawling to the edge of the bed to try and reach for her.

She flinches away.

"Please just come back to bed."

"You talk to me like...I don't even know." Like she's important? Like she's more than the mask she puts on? "It's ridiculous."

And just when everything feels so right, she loves to make it feel so wrong.

"Everything they say about me is true, you know that, right?"

You clear your throat in a room that suddenly feels too quiet.

"No. It's not. I've met you."

"No you haven't."

Will this relationship always be like this?

Your heart race increases like you're prey, when it suddenly dawns on you that you might be. Agatha drops the robe, leaning against the door when she sees you waiting for her.

Not leaving, not cowering. Waiting. Kneeling at the edge of the bed without even being aware of where your body is, and what it's doing.

"Well then I want to."

"You don't."

Her voice is low.

"Why?"

Maybe you shouldn't be poking her, encouraging her when the fire is behind her eyes and there's nobody around to save you. But you're hers. And whether she knows it or not, she's yours.

"You wouldn't want to be here with me."

"I always want to be where you are. I see the good in you."

She scoffs. "There is no good…You're so naive. Coming here. Now you couldn't leave even if you wanted to."

Your skin feels hot. You can't tell why.

"Agatha. Stop trying to push me away. It's not going to work."

"You know what people say about me. Online. In the newspapers. At the galas when they think I can't hear them."

A few steps closer, and she's able to reach out and touch you, holding your chin in place to look at her, too soft for the spite in the words. "At the club...and on Wanda's island."

"Why do you let people believe those things about you?" The words come out half-baked.

Croaky and more nervous than you perhaps realized.

Her grip is firmer as you grab onto the sheets beneath you, balancing yourself as she stares upon you with an expression you can't read. Somewhere between awe, desire and pure, true disgust.

"You hear all of those things and you still follow me everywhere...like a sad little fucking puppy."

One hard shove to your chest and you're flat on the bed, her frame climbing onto yours. Straddling your hips. Her hands finding your wrists, pinning you down as her face hovers above yours.

That look in her eyes.

Perhaps that look is pity. Pity you can't see the truth. Pity you've fallen for her charms and constant disarming. Pity you've ignored the warnings from others. Ignored the warnings from Agatha. Pity she can't truly respect you, because you're just that pathetic.

"I don't believe them." You try again, harder. the words feel firmer in your mouth this time. "I don't believe what anyone says about you."

You aren't sure if you're telling the truth or not.

"Then you're dumber than I thought you were." But her lips are inches away from yours. And deep down, you don't think she means that either.

Her hands are slow and controlled as they move from your wrists to your neck. Wrapping around your throat softly like a warning, eyes pale like she might kill you, or kiss you. Maybe you'd let her do both.

Her hands rest. No pressure. Just the promise of what she could do to you if she wanted to.

"And it wouldn't matter if they were true." You breathe heavy, in time with her. She grimaces.

And this time, you know you are telling the truth.

The smile that spreads across her lips is a cruel one, and this is not the same woman that kissed your forehead earlier.

"You don't even care?"

"No."

Her fingers tighten, slowly, steady. The smell of wine on her lips.

"If they were true, you wouldn't want me to let go of you right now?"

You shift beneath her.

"No."

"Does anybody even know you're here?"

"...no."

"The tallest penthouse. A private island. Nobody even knows you're with me...where exactly would you be able to go? Your apartment is in my name."

The vein in her forehead is more prominent than it was a half hour ago, but as you lay beneath her, focused on the tone of her words and the venom in her voice.

"I fucking own you."

You still feel safe.

"I know. You can't keep me away from you."

"Does anybody even know you belong to me?"

"...No. Nobody."

Agatha's lips crash into yours before you're able to process what's happening, the taste of merlot and lies and things she can't or won't tell you.

And you still see the good in her.

If the world says you’re wicked, why not just be wicked?

Her tongue is in your mouth, deeper as your fists find her hair.

She doesn't like that, releasing the grip on your neck and finding your wrists again. Interlocking her fingers with your own as she grinds her body against yours.

"They will." She breathes when you break free from her lips.

Another kiss. Heat and fire and the thin fabric of her vest and yacht club italiano separating you from her.

"I thought it was a secret." You breathe, mouth dry.

"I have too many secrets."

You don't care. You want the gardens of the chateau with her. You want to see the yacht club anyway. The french attic. Every house of hers in every country. Every terrible club in every terrible neighborhood she bought. All of it.

Agatha shifts her weight, her bare thigh slipping between yours, a gentle moan spilling into your mouth as she kisses you again. Grinding her body against yours as you push against her. The fabric of her underwear is soaked as she moves against your thigh.

You know she can feel you too.

"My poor little slut. You're awfully wet for someone who should be scared of me."

You gasp against her lips.

"I'm not scared of you."

"God. Shut up."

Agatha climbs off of you abruptly, watching you lean back onto your arms as she peels off her underwear, probably dumping it on the floor with everything else.

"Lay back down."

You obey as she crawls over you again, continuing to move until her thighs are either side of your head.

You swallow.

You don't move.

She's dripping.

Fuck. Settling down on your mouth until all you can taste is her, all you can breathe is her and even if you have been manipulated, you don't care about that either.

She's everywhere, your hands on the soft of her thighs as she rides against the flat of her tongue. The taste of her consuming you, looking up at her head thrown back. Hair wild and free. Lips parted.

Your cover star. Your boss. Your everything.

"This is the only way I can get you to shut up, huh?"

You try to talk. You can't. She groans against the vibration of your lips against her clit.

Her mess dripping down your chin.

"Mommy's pretty little doll loves saying all the wrong things. Lay there and be useful."

And you do.

As if you'd want to be anywhere else.

She's rough. Her hand reaching to find something to grab onto. Your hair, the wall, she settles on the bed frame, shifting her weight as she forces herself against your lips. Your air overtaken by her.

"You don't even know what you're saying. Just that fucking desperate for me."

Her nipples hard under the thin fabric of her vest, but you don't dare try to touch.

"My perfect, pathetic girl."

Her thighs lock against your cheeks as her moans get louder above you. Your fingers in the soft skin of her thighs, smooth and warm. Her legs shudder as her breaths stutter.

"Fuck—stay fucking still"

Not being able to breathe is a privilege when it feels like this. When it's all for her pleasure.

“Ggonna come on your pretty lips baby—fuck—" her voice is higher, weaker "—so glad you came.”

Her cheeks flushed as her hands move back to her hair, pushing it out of her face as her forehead wrinkles. That face you've come to love. The silence that comes right before the cries.

She shakes, pornographic noises erupting from her, eyes forced shut as her movements become more erratic.

Throbbing against your tongue as she finishes making use of your face.

You can’t help but gasp when she shifts back a little.

Her breathing loud as she wipes the sweat from her eyebrows with the back of her hand.

“Jesus Christ.”

With your eyes closed you can feel her climbing off of you, your lips covered in her.

She's silent only for a moment as her chest rises and falls.

“You look pretty like that.”

You swallow.

“Thank you.”

The ache between your own thighs is unbearable as she settles herself back on the pillow besides you.

It’s hard not to squirm as she catches her breath and wets her own lips, she notices without even having to take a proper look at you, obviously.

“Aw.” She coos, rolling over to get a better look at your soaked face and desperate, pleading eyes. “Is someone feeling needy?”

Embarrassingly so.

“I— yeah”

“Well, you did come all this way…” she taunts, propping herself up on one arm, her palm flat against the yacht shirt as she feels your nipples harden beneath her touch. Your skin alert as she drags her experienced fingers across your stomach, walking down to grip your thigh.

Goosebumps left in her path.

“…I bet you’re already leaking for me...You always are.”

That is an understatement.

Her fingernails tease across your skin, clit aching with desperation as she reaches under your waistband again.

Gasping softly when she feels you against her.

“My my, is this all for mommy?”

“Yeah— yes.” You nod your head furiously, bucking up into her, the taste of her still on your tongue. Desperate for something, anything.

“Even after everything?”

"Always."

She glides against your clit too easily, the pressure perfect like she's done this a thousand times. Like she knows you inside and out. Circling slowly, and then too gently. Too precise. Too much and not enough.

"All alone with me." She laughs, biting her lip as she watches you fall apart for her, and only ever her. "Nowhere to go."

You can't tell if she's trying to scare you off again.

"I just want you."

"...You have me...The things I'll do to you."

Her fingers dip lower, collecting your wetness between them as she presses against your entrance, teasing gently before following the curve of your body further. Placing the gentlest pressure against your ass.

"Aw…You're so wet my cute little thing, I could probably slip right in...I never did get to see that pretty diamond..."

God. You almost forgot about that. Her touch is so much gentler than when you tried that. Maybe she should help you next time.

"But your mistress needs to keep you nice and ready for when she wants to use you, you understand don't you?"

You nod, choosing words when her eyes shift colder.

"Yea. Yes. I understand."

"You know how stressed out I get during meetings." She purrs. "I want you to be the perfect assistant. My perfect little toy."

The pressure of her finger is more intense as she pushes against you, the feeling not foreign but certainly less familiar. Her eyes are on you, looking for any suggestion of a safe word or hesitation.

"Are you going to let me touch you here? You'll like it. I always know best, don't I?"

You nod, a firm and pleading "yes" when she hisses in response.

To your surprise she removes her hands from you, only to flip you onto your stomach in a quick, controlled move. Her grip already pulling your panties down before you can get comfortable on your front.

"Mommy wants to see everything she owns."

Exposed and trembling as her hands return to you, kneading the soft curve of your ass before she's right where she wants to be.

She's right.

She slides in easily.

Slowly, little by little. A wide soft smile painted on her face as she watches you relax around her. Your head turned to the side, straining to try and see her as she takes what she wants.

She thrusts just a little, enjoying the visual of you letting her decide what’s best for you.

"Oh." You gasp, reaching for her. Her eyes on yours as she moves a little more, and a little more after, picking up the pace as your brows furrow.

"There's my girl." She purrs as her thumb grazes your clit.

You swallow the spit on your tongue, tasting her as she watches you unravel.

"You're doing so well hon, fuck...I can't wait to feel this tight little ass stretch around my cock while I'm on a stupid fucking client call."

You clench around her at her words, at the thought of being so perfect for her. Picking up her dry cleaning, bending over her desk, and getting right back to making photocopies when she's done.

Your moans become more and more raw as she fucks you harder, the sound of skin on skin and ragged breath as she crawls palms your flesh with her free hand.

"There you go honey. My good girl. Do you love it?"

She can tell your close, she always can. But your body is so sensitive, she could be doing anything and it would be enough.

"Answer me slut, do you love it?"

"I— yes."

The pressure on your clit is too much as she pushes you over the edge, she gasps as you tense around her.

"Aw, you do?"

Your body hot and tense as she slips out of you agonizingly slowly, her thumb gentle as you ride out the aftershocks.

Until it's just the two of you in the silence again.

Mouth dry as she looks down at you. Agatha watches you as your heartbeat slows, sitting back on her heels.

You wish you could read her mind.

"Well..."

She starts, and you know the rest can't be good because the only possible thing you want to do next is go to sleep.

"…We should probably go get cleaned up."

The worst thing anyone could ever have suggested.

"I really don't want to do that." You need a glass of water.

"You have to." Her tone is stern, your body feels like jello. "Do I have to bend you over my knee?"

"Maybe."

"What if I lure you in?"

She's Scooby snacking you right now and you know it.

"With what?"

"I'll give you a t-shirt with a good memory."

You sit bolt upright.

"And you'll tell me about the memory?"

She rolls her eyes but she's already standing and opening the drawer.

"Yeah. Whatever I'll tell you about the memory. Just take a shower."

"Will you shower with me?"

She takes a deep breath.

"...no. I'll meet you here in 10."

---

The shower is scalding hot and you can't quite figure out the dials, opting to pre squeeze the gel on your body, and hop in fast and smart. You'd ask for help if Agatha wasn't so anti showering with you.

But even though you want it all, the roughness, the softness, the domestic moments and the care. You want to respect her boundaries.

So you spin fast in the shower and hope you're clean enough to pass potential inspection.

Does she shower with it this hot? You thought she was from Salem, not hell.

You're in the towel before you can ponder anything else. Drying yourself off quickly so you can skip to the part with the t-shirt and the pretty cheekbones of your boss.

She's already on the bed with messy hair and the same vest when you return, making you wonder if she even showered or whether she just wanted you clean.

But as you get closer, the smell of freshness radiates off of her. Expensive bath products like she's a human spa.

You're sure you'll grow to love it, but it all you want are the smell of cherries and coffee and wine.

The t-shirt is already laid out as Agatha scrolls through her phone. Does she even get signal all the way out here? It occurs to you that you know nothing about owning islands in any way, and have one million questions she'll hate you for.

The shirt on the bed is black, less faded, with a small chest design.

Employee of the month, 2015. The company logo right underneath.

"What is this?" You ask, picking it up and taking a closer look. This thing is hardly worn.

"It's your happy memory shirt."

She's still on her phone as you drop the towel and slip it over your head.

That gets her attention.

The phone is on charge in an instant as she watches you climb back onto the bed. It's even softer than you remember and it must be so, so late by now.

"I didn't know we had employee of the month shirts." You state flat and confused. is this a joke? This is a joke.

"We don't."

Agatha climbs under the covers, seemingly uninterested in telling you her story.

"So....story?"

The eye roll again.

"I had an advisor in 2015, because we had terrible employee retention and I couldn't figure out why."

She's certainly the why.

You don't tell her that.

"He said if we gave people employee of the month stuff, they'd feel happier. They'd want to stay longer."

This somehow doesn't make any sense still. Who was employee of the month this year?

"And did it work?"

"Well I gave myself the shirt and fired him. So I don't know."

"Why do you even want the shirt?!" You can't help but laugh as you crawl under the covers opposite her. She's ridiculous.

"Well I was the best employee, and I hated that guy so... We never did it again. I guess you're employee of the month now."

"Wow thanks boss this means so much to me. I love it."

"Does it make you want to work harder for me?"

"Yes that's absolutely why I work so hard for you, not any other reason."

“I picked you to be employee of the month because you never spill a drop of coffee when you get it from the store. You’re great at replying to emails and my plane journeys are always perfectly stocked.”

“Any other reason?”

“Hmm. Let me think…no.”

The tender playfulness between you settles. It feels comfortable. Right.

And kind of like you're at a sleepover.

Your skin feels on edge, in a good way. Butterflies in your chest that risk escaping as she suddenly reaches out and pulls you closer to her by your waist.

You place your arms on her chest as she holds you close.

You want to poke fun, and you also don't want to draw any attention to her actions.

"I'm just cold." She states like she can read your mind. "Don't get used to it."

But she's warm. She’s so warm. You’re both probably too warm to be this close.

Her hair still smells like cherries and salt.

"Can I ask you a question?'

If you focus you might be able to hear her brain work.

"No."

"What if it's an easy one."

She sighs. You can feel her hands clench for a moment.

"Okay. What is it?"

"What perfume do you wear? I like it...it’s so sweet."

"I have it custom made from an Italian company. I went to the factory, to sample the scents I liked."

She swallows in the silence that follows.

“Before you had to leave…” she starts up again, half awkward and half sleepy “…I had fun. On our date. Like I was young and stupid instead of old and stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“…neither are you.” She blinks slowly and softly. Her body relaxing into the bed. “…but I make stupid decisions.”

“Me too.”

Maybe that’s why you’re both right here right now. Or maybe you can tell yourself that. You both know the clear, obvious reason.

“Can I ask about—"

The blackmail. Your mother. The man. The accusations she’d half confirmed were true.

“No. Not right now...”

It’s frustrating, it’s scary.

“…please.”

She’s too soft to argue with.

“Okay.”

But as her hands hold you close to her chest, and as you settle in to sleep close to the woman you’ve been chasing. Your brain has the same things on repeat.

Lies. Fraud. Other women. Murder. Secrets. Dirty money. More secrets. Agatha’s terrible memories.

“Tell me something nice about you?” You ask, voice slow and sleepy.

“Something nice? No.”

“Please. You have stuff to say, you’re nice.”

“I am not nice.”

“You’re so nice. I think you’re nice.”

“I think you’re tired.”

You are tired.

You can’t sleep.

“Tell me about your rabbit.”

Agatha leans over and slaps the lamp shut, you’re crawling over to her and filling the space before she even has a chance to adjust.

“My rabbit?”

“You told me you had a rabbit.”

She sighs.

“I have a rabbit. As in currently.”

The gap between you opens again as you pull back to try and see her face in the darkness. Moonlight shifts through the curtains just a little, her face fresh but exhausted. The tiny lines on the side of her lips.

“You have a rabbit?”

“Yes.”

“You have a rabbit. As in now. The present. And he’s alive?”

She makes a face you can’t quite see in the shadows.

“What you think I’m nice but not nice enough to have a pet?”

“I thought you’d like, have a goldfish you killed by accident. Maybe a scary dog. Oh, or a cat. You guys could ignore each other.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Rabbits are so floppy and cute!”

You squeal as she groans. The woman who made you cower earlier has a little soft friend. Unless she’s lying again.

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god and you’re serious? Where is he, what’s his name?”

“He’s in France. And I’m not telling you his name.”

Her sleepy voice is almost as cute as the rabbit information.

“Oh you’ll fly me to your island but you won’t tell me the name of your secret rabbit?”

“He’s not a secret. He just didn’t come up. And don’t get too attached to him. You don’t even know him.”

Is she defending herself or the rabbit?

“You don’t get to know rabbits. They start off great and only get better. Unless he’s like, evil. Does he bite?”

“He’s not evil and he doesn’t bite. I mean, unless he’s has evil thoughts. He seems normal. He just sort of, I don’t know. Hops around.”

“You let him LOOSE?”

“Oh my god. Yeah. I’m not gonna cage the rabbit...Then where would I put you?”

You’d playfully smack her but you don’t want to discourage her from that idea

“Why did you get a rabbit?”

“Can a woman not want a rabbit? What’s with all the questions? Go to sleep.”

She pulls you in again so you’re pressed against her, despite her words sounding more serious.

“Okay.”

You close your eyes, breathing her in. The security you needed last night.

“…why are you so surprised?”

She wants to keep talking.

She wants to keep talking.

“I’m just so excited imagining you talking to a little rabbit. Being all cute with it. I can’t wait to see this.”

“Oh I see, you think you’re gonna get to meet him.”

“Well when you take me to France duh I’ll meet him. He lives there, Agatha.”

She scoffs.

“We can talk about it. Go to sleep.”

"Why did you lie in your interview? You pre-approved the questions."

"Go to sleep." She grunts.

"You said you listen to podcasts. You hate podcasts."

"I hate everything."

"You like rabbits."

She shuffles, her grip loosens and tenses again, like she seriously debated ending the cuddle over this.

"Go. To sleep."

"I've never seen you eat a healthy breakfast."

"Coffee is healthy."

"Coffee with syrup is not healthy. And that's not breakfast. Breakfast is like, an egg or—"

"—Stop talking about the interview. I say that stuff so people get off my back."

"Because you're famous?"

You tense your whole body in case she hits you.

"I'm actually going to kill you dead if you don't go to sleep right now."

The wind picks up outside. The sound of it against the windows, the sound of Agatha’s breathing slowing, calming. You hope you sleep before she starts snoring.

Her sheets under your skin as you rest in her safety, knowing tomorrow you’ll need to have a conversation.

A real conversation.

A real unveiling of secrets.

—-

omg. i'm alive?

This will be on ao3 like I said. I was going to post it today but predictably my wifi is messing up, so i'm on mobile ( I may have continued to draft in tumblr ). Would rather sort it soon on web. I'll let you know! <3

Taglist: @mommyissuesismypersonality @chlondykebar @sweetmidnights @rmaximoff @hannah-0730 @milflovers4 @neverfindmegone  @absolute-memegarbage @wifeofmanymilfs @marcelinaceciliarose @marcelinaceciliarose @6stolenangel9 @pianogirl2121 @hagofswords @natashasmuse @htinha157 @@wandanatsub @morgananyx @galaxybaby @greyella @w4ndsversew0nder @daffodil-heart @isixxxx

@idonutevnno @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @deathbylesbianwitches @angelxblink @sapphicandgraphic @wwwtonikixxes @z3mos @chloeelou02x @peskygremlin @seaoflittlefires @ughidunn0  @three3ofswords @langeskovstg1 @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @agathaspett @starrgirll05 @wifehahn @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @lowlyjelly @ladyd8

[legacies-safari]

[storiesofsvu]

Tour Guide

Olivia Benson x fem!reader x Emily Prentiss warnings: language, smut, threesome, daddy!olivia, mommy!emily, derogatory talk, dirty talk, oral, fingering, rough sex, a little bit of slapping, some pussy spanking, a hint of brat!reader, some minor cum play. safe to say this one got away from me. somewhat hilarious that House Tour was stuck in my head while i wrote half of this. 6.5k

Over the years Olivia had become accustomed to the feds crashing in and taking over a case, what she wasn’t used to was them sticking around and actually using NYPD to help solve it. The BAU was a welcomed change in her squad room, seamlessly fitting in with her team, cooperating to the tasks at hand. Emily Prentiss was a welcomed person in her office, slowly pacing back and forth while spit balling ideas as Olivia watched from behind her desk.

It was only when a knock came from the door that Emily stopped, turning on her heel to face the noise and Olivia leaned back with a sigh. Both sets of eyes were locked on you when you stepped through the doorframe, navy pant suit perfectly fitted to your frame, hair swept back into a styled bun. An air of confidence came into the room as you did, barely noticing Olivia had company, or if you did, you didn’t care, whatever you needed was clearly more important.

“You know normally when detectives are so stubbornly annoying about getting a warrant they actually show up to pick them up.” You stated, dropping papers down onto Olivia’s desk.

“We were a little pre-occupied.” She replied, her voice stiff as she gestured to the other woman and out to the bull pen bustling with people.

Your eyes finally slid from the woman behind the desk to the silver haired stunner also in the office and you flashed her an apologetic grin, “sorry. I’m their ADA, Parker.”

“Emily Prentiss.” She stuck out a hand that shot a spark through both of you when you took it, “Unit Chief of the BAU.”

You let out a low whistle, “BAU…” you glanced between the two of them, “the big guns… you two must have your hands full.”

“Only because you decided to walk in the door.” Olivia shot back and you gave her a side eye before perching yourself against her desk.

“So, tell me Agent Prentiss, first time in the city?”

“Won’t be the last, that’s for sure.” The grin on her cheeks spread, corner of her lips curling up almost into a smirk.

“Hope you get some well deserved time off before having to jet home.” Your tongue darted out to wet your lips and Emily felt herself pulse at the sight, “I’d love to show you around.”

“You like playing tour guide?”

A shoulder raised then lowered, the grin spreading on your face, “for the right people.”

Behind you, Olivia rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. You hated galivanting around the city and she was more than well aware of it. If she’d knew you any better, she would have thought you forgot she was in the room, but that was the thing, she knew you all too well and knew what kind of a game you were playing. 

And it was totally working. 

You were chuckling at something Emily said, a coy smile on your face as your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning the shyness so you could drag your eyes up her entire body. Somehow while doing so, you’d managed to lightning fast adjust your shirt, tugging the hem of it just right so the swell of your chest was teasing the other woman. When Emily’s eyes lingered a little too long, pupils darkening as a carnal look took over her features, Olivia couldn’t take it anymore, loudly clearing her throat.

“Counsellor, you have anything else for us, or are you just here to gossip?” 

A puff of air resembling a laugh left your lips, your arms crossing over your chest as you turned over your shoulder to look at her, “and here I was thinking you loved it when I came by.”

“Not when you’re being a brat.” She raised a brow in challenge and you rolled your eyes, hopping off the corner of her desk.

“I guess I’ll be on my way then” You pulled a business card from your bag, flourishing it between your fingers to extend towards Emily, “call me if you get bored.”

With a flash of a glittering smile, you were gone from the office and Emily was left glancing between the piece of cardstock in her hand and Olivia.

“Well… she seems like a shark.” She finally settled on.

“In the courtroom maybe.” Liv glanced up with a knowing smirk and Emily balked. 

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” she felt the pink creeping its way onto her cheeks, sucking her lower lip into her mouth. 

“What?” 

“You two…” She gestured between Olivia and the direction of the door.

Liv shrugged, “have history. Nothing serious. You’re more than welcome to call her.”

“Oh, I, no, that’s not—”

A laugh burst from Olivia’s lips as she slid her glasses back on, “please. You didn’t need to be some fancy, specially trained profiler to pick up on the tension in the room.”

Emily, still chewing on her lip looked through the glass window into the bullpen, that familiar pulse between her legs when you felt her gaze and looked up from Bruno’s desk, locking eyes with the woman. There was a sparkle in your eye that was incredibly intriguing and definitely had her wanting to know more. 

“Well…” her head tilted, mouth drying when you winked at her before sauntering out of the squad room.

“No harm in having a little fun when you’re away from home.” Olivia suggested.

“I suppose there isn’t.”

“But don’t let the upfront behaviour fool you…” Olivia chuckled darkly, “she’s a pretty little mess of a slut. Doesn’t take much to fuck her dumb.”

Emily felt her stomach drop, a pulsing between her legs growing stronger with each beat of her heart and her mouth went dry. She’d been fiddling with the business card but her hands froze before she pivoted back to face Olivia.

“Oh?”

“Seems like that piqued your interest.”

“It certainly did.” Emily slid the card into her back pocket, “be a shame to leave you high and dry though, it’s been a long stressful week for both of us.”

“Oh…” Olivia leaned back in her chair, a wicked grin forming on her lips, “now there’s an idea. As long as you’re not thinking this is some good cop, bad cop routine. If she has the audacity to come into my office and eye fuck you so boldly, she’s gonna answer for it.”

“You always play this ruthless Captain Benson?”

“When it’s deserved.”

“And let me guess, it always is with her?”

Laughing, Olivia closed her laptop, “our case is solved, but by all means if you need to hurry on back to D.C…”

“You know… I’ve been thinking my team needs a little break… a little fun.”

“Without you?”

“If I leave them my credit card they won’t bother asking any questions.” With a smirk she settled into a chair across from Olivia’s desk, “now tell me… how far can we push her?”

**

The knocking on your apartment door roused you from the agonizing paperwork in front of you and you glanced over your shoulder to the noise. With a soft sigh, you rearranged the confidential information and flipped the file closed as you stood before padding through the room to pull the door open. 

“Liv?” Your brow raised at the two women standing on the opposite side, “what’re you doing here?”

There was a dark look in her eye, a mischievous glint in Emily’s as you stepped back from the doorframe, Olivia pushing past you, letting herself into your apartment while you left the door to swing shut behind Emily. Liv chuckled, already stepping out of her shoes, tossing her blazer over the back of your couch before invading your liquor cabinet.

“What do you think? You were a fucking brat today.”

A shiver ran through your entire body, your shoulders dropping as every muscle seemed to relax, already turning to mush after just one sentence and a look. You glanced between the two of them, picking up your abandoned wine from the coffee table as Emily crossed the space to accept the glass of whiskey Olivia was offering.

“And you brought the fed?” You raised a brow and Liv looked over the rim of her glass at you.

“Well, I thought maybe I should, considering you were so busy eye fucking her in front of me earlier. Thought maybe that was the sneak peek of the show you wanted to put on for me,” she drained her glass, leaving it on a spare table before she crossed the room toward you and you felt yourself already fluttering. She watched your tongue dart out to wet your lips, the almost silent whine that followed making her chuckle, “figured I could let her have her way with you before Daddy does.” 

This time your whimper was audible, Olivia’s hand tangling into your hair, yanking your head back to gain access to your neck. Her teeth scraped over your skin, lips leaving a trail of messy kisses before she husked into your ear.

“What do you think of that? Hmm? Are you gonna play nice for Agent Prentiss and be a good girl?” Her hand gave your hair a harsh tug and you did what she wanted, dropping to your knees in front of her, “or are you gonna be the dirty slut Daddy knows you want to be?”

“I can be good.” You panted, eyes darting between them as Emily approached from the side, glass of liquor still in her hand. 

She laughed darkly, “somehow I doubt that.” Her free hand reached out, stroking the side of your face before pulling back, slapping the apple of your cheek, “colour?”

“Green.” You replied, already aching between your legs.

Emily smirked, “dirty girl.” She took a sip of her drink and Olivia’s hand dropped your hair, shifting around your face so her thumb could trace your lower lip.

“Open.” Oliva instructed, pulling your lips apart and you tilted your head further back, “good girl.”

Emily leant forward, parting her lips and letting the amber liquid trickle from her mouth into yours, watching it drip down your tongue, pooling in the back of your throat. Your tongue twitched, a droplet escaping the corner of your mouth and trailing down onto your neck. Emily was quick to duck down, catching it with her tongue and licking her way back up to your open mouth, her hand slid up your throat, replacing Olivia’s in keeping your lips parted and as soon as her tongue was sucked back into her mouth her jaw shifted then spat onto your waiting tongue. 

“Swallow.” She tapped your chin twice, humming happily as you did as told, tongue sticking back out to prove it. She glanced over to Olivia before looking back down at you, “so obedient so far…maybe she’s just more of a Mommy’s girl.”

You couldn’t help the shiver that travelled up your spine, you pussy clenching around nothing as your thighs rubbed together and both the women took the time to laugh.

“I told you she was a little whore.” Olivia clicked her tongue, “now are you going to stay on your knees for us or should we move to the bedroom.”

“Bedroom.” You nodded a little too fast, a little too eager, your eyes begging as you looked up at them with a pout, “please. Use me.”

Olivia’s hand circled your throat once again, gently tugging you up to your feet before nudging you towards the hall, “well… you better start stripping then princess.”

With an eager nod you darted down the hallway, removing clothes as you went, tossing them in the direction of your closet once in the bedroom. Your body was so alit you couldn’t even risk a glance over your shoulder when you heard the other two talking softly, a chuckle you now could recognize as Emily’s echoing down the hall. The sound made you shiver, a tingle starting between your legs at the husk of her voice. Your thighs squeezed together, the damp spot in your underwear growing right before you peeled them off, leaving you fully bare in the cool room. Footsteps got closer, and not wanting to disappoint, you positioned yourself on your knees on the bed, ready and waiting for the two other women. 

Olivia stepped into the room first, her grin widening at the sight of you, eyes raking over your body as she moved slowly through the room, beginning to unbutton her shirt. 

“What a good girl you are.” She praised, “you must be eager tonight.”

“Sitting so pretty.” Emily purred, her eyes lingering on your bare chest, “shame you aren’t all on display though.” 

“Mmm.” Olivia nodded to her before glancing to you, “lie back and spread your legs, let us see that greedy, dripping cunt of yours.”

Your eyes darted between the two of them, heat crawling its way up your neck as you leant back into the pillows, slowly opening your legs. Your hands smoothed down your body, cupping and pinching at your chest before sliding over your stomach, pressing your thighs further apart, your knees falling open on the bed. 

“Fuck…” 

Emily couldn’t help it, the word slipped from her lips before she realized she’d spoken, her eyes trained on your pussy, glistening in the low light of the room. She hadn’t expected you to be so wet already, so pliant and needy, aching to be touched, to be tasted, stretched and filled like the dirty little slut you were. She was suddenly very happy for sticking around a little longer than needed.

A sense of pride flooded your system at the way she was watching you, a smirk finding its way onto your lips as your cockiness returned. Your hand moved between your legs, fingers swiping over your clit before spreading your pussy lips open, wetness slicking your fingers as you angled your body towards Emily whose eyes darkened at the sight. 

Olivia watched with a smirk of her own, letting her shirt drop to the floor before unbuckling her belt and she beat you to the punch.

“Looks like someone likes what they see.” She teased and Emily was finally able to tear her gaze away from between your legs. 

“Yeah.” Her voice was a husk of a breath as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, feeling the desire throbbing between her own legs. 

A satisfied hum came from the back of your throat as your fingers rubbed your pussy lips, smearing wetness around, your back slowly arching off the bed, putting on a little show for them. 

“Well…” Olivia lifted a shoulder, a grin on her lips as she slid her pants down her legs, “get comfortable. And have a taste.”

Emily felt like she couldn’t move fast enough, tearing off her shirt and bra, kicking her way out of her pants as she crawled onto the bed. The pulsing between her legs growing stronger when her hands finally met your burning skin, cooling paths as they made their way up your legs. 

Your breath caught in your throat, your body arching into her touch as your eyes began to flutter shut, her fingertips left sparks beneath your skin, ones that sent tingles throughout your entire body. You felt your nipples harden, your clit pulsing as your heart began to race, and she’d barely touched you. Your head lolled to the side, your eyes cracking open just enough to see Olivia watching with a grin on her cheeks. You struggled to form a thought as Emily’s hands traced up your thighs, drawing patterns across your skin and just as you were about to get a sassy remark out, Emily’s tongue swiped through your pussy. 

“Oh god!” Your entire body spasmed, your head thrown back into the pillows at the feeling of her mouth on your most sensitive spot. Your hands shot downward, fingers threading into her silver locks and she happily let you nudge her deeper into the apex of your thighs. 

Emily’s tongue sunk as deep into you as it could, savouring your taste, lapping as much wetness as she could into her mouth, her nose bumping your clit, eliciting a gasp from you. Her mouth moved against your pussy with such ease that you just knew this was one of her favourite pastimes, that she was a woman who absolutely adored the taste of another woman. This was the type of woman who could read you in a millisecond, know just by the way your thigh twitched exactly what it was that made you come undone, the type of woman who was going to make you come faster than anyone else ever had. 

It was like your body was on high alert, ultra-sensitive, as if you hadn’t been touched in years, pent up frustration, yearning and need all bursting at the seams. As if the two of them had been riling you up throughout the entire day with dirty words and naughty images playing through your mind. You weren’t quite sure what had come over you, but you weren’t about to complain. 

Certainly not when Emily let out a low groan into your cunt, the noise vibrating through you, pulling shudder after shudder from you, your nails digging into her scalp. Her mouth shifted up, the tip of her tongue flicking your clit and you cried out, back bowing as your head and shoulders lifted off the bed, hips dipping deeper. 

“Fuck…” You gasped out, eyes cracking open just enough to catch Emily smirking up at you from between your legs. The gleam in her eye was so seductive you barely even felt Olivia take advantage of your altered position, sliding onto the bed behind you. 

It was only when her hands yanked you back toward her that you realized you were slotted between her legs, her breath hot on the back of your neck as you settled back against her. 

“That’s it pretty girl.” Liv cooed, her hands ghosting around your sides, fingers moving to pinch at your nipples, pulling a whine from you. “That feel good?” Another pinch, “You like what mommy’s mouth feels like?”

Emily’s lips wrapped around your swollen clit, sucking it into her mouth and your head fell back onto Olivia’s shoulder as you let out a moan. Your hips jumped up off the bed, eager for more, you were certain you were so incredibly close it would only take another flick of her tongue to have you seeing stars.

“Answer me.” Olivia’s hand suddenly came down over your chest, spanking at one side and then the other, her lips brushing at the side of your neck, “or are you being a fucking brat?”

“No daddy.” You groaned, body trembling again as Emily continued her movements, “f—eels, so good!”

A second later and the damn was breaking when Emily’s teeth ever so gently nipped at your clit in the same moment that Olivia began rolling your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. 

“Fuck!”

Your body arched off Olivia’s, thighs shaking as your orgasm burst through you, one hand clenching around Olivia’s wrist while the other tugged at Emily’s hair. You could feel your wetness smearing down Emily’s chin as your pussy pulsed around nothing, begging to be filled despite the pleasure soaring through you. 

“Oh my god…oh my god…” You shivered, your eyes fluttering open in time to see Olivia grinning down at you, a darkness in her eyes before her gaze flicked down to Emily who reluctantly pulled her mouth off you. 

“Such a sweet girl.” Emily purred, nipping at your inner thigh, “with such a greedy little pussy.” Her eyes trained between your legs, a smirk pulling up her lips as she watched you pulse. 

“She came so quick I think maybe she needs another one.” Olivia suggested, kissing at the side of your neck, earning a soft sigh from you. 

“What do you say, princess?” Emily asked, tongue laving over the bite mark she’d left on your thigh, “you want another one?”

You sucked in a breath, barely able to get out a nod much less real words right now, your lips parting to try and form something but only a gasp came out when Emily’s hand spanked your cunt. 

“Answer me.” Her voice hardened, spanking you once again, this time harder than the last. 

“Oh fuck,” your hips jolted off the bed, juices dribbling out of your pussy and Emily chuckled, the desire burning deeper in her at the sight. 

Olivia’s hand closed around your throat, fingers squeezing to get your attention, “don’t be fucking naughty now you little slut. Answer her.”

“Y—ye—s.” Through half open eyes you looked down at Emily, “please Mommy. Make me come.”

“Mmm.” Emily’s hand pressed against your pussy, giving just enough pressure to tantalize you, to bring the heat prickling back under your skin, “good girl.”

“Hit her again.” Liv suggested, and the other woman smirked before spanking your clit.

“Oh god!” Your hips jolted up off the bed, wetness pooling between your legs.

“God that’s fucking hot.” Emily mused, tapping her fingers against the pulsing nub, “just a little bit” rough tap, “more” tap, “wet,” tap, “with every touch.” Spank. She looked up to Olivia, “I take it she can squirt?”

Olivia laughed and there was almost a hint of darkness to it as her fingers squeezed at your neck, “she can make quite the fucking mess. Can’t you sweetheart?”

“Mmhmm.” You nodded eagerly.

“Messy little whore she is.” Liv pressed a kiss to your lips, her tongue plunging into your mouth and you couldn’t help but surge upwards, eager for more, to be lost to the two women currently in your bed. 

You groaned into the kiss when Emily’s tongue swept through you again and Liv was quick to pick up on it, her free hand returning to your chest. Squeezing and groping at your body, pinching your nipples as hard as she could one at a time before letting them release in the cool air. You whined against her lips, trembling as Emily’s mouth wrapped around your clit once more. Though this time you felt her fingers pressing against you, ever so slowly inching into your drenched cunt until they were buried inside you.

Head falling back you let out a groan, “fuu-ck.”

“Yeah?” Olivia asked, “you like your pretty pussy being stretched out?”

“Yes Daddy.” 

Emily’s lips curved up against your skin at your response and she began slowly moving her fingers in and out of you, relishing in the way your breath would hitch, the little twitches of your lower stomach, the sudden jump of a thigh muscle as she brushed back and forth inside you.

Your teeth sunk into your lower lip in a feeble attempt to hold back whatever noises were trying to come from the back of your throat. Your entire body was glistening with sweat, tingles and jolts spreading further and further until you could feel them under every inch of your skin. Emily’s mouth was like fucking heaven, her tongue swiping patterns over your clit while her fingers began to curl. It only took her a few passes to find the sweet spot on your inner walls, a high pitched whine coming from you when she did. 

She laughed softly, her mouth lifting off you as her hand continued its movement, “there it is.” She teased, finger tips pressing into the spot again, watching the way you scrunched your nose up, your pussy clenching around her fingers. “You gonna come again for Mommy?” She fucked into you harder, swirling her fingers around, her knuckles brushing the spot on the way out, “squirt for me? Make a mess of yourself like the dirty girl you are?”

“More!” You cried out, “please!”

Her free hand spanked down on your throbbing clit, “please, what?”

“Please, Mommy.” You whimpered, “p-please! Need your mouth.” Your hand reached downward and she turned her face, sucking two of your fingers into her mouth at the same pace her fingers moved inside your cunt. “Fuck...” Your head dropped back onto Olivia’s shoulder, letting your eyes shut, your pussy throbbing.

Satisfied, Emily let your fingers go with a lewd pop, unsurprised when your hand instantly tangled into her hair again as she moved her mouth back to your body. She felt the way you jumped at the contact, how tightly you were squeezing around her, how with every push of her fingers the noises from your pussy got wetter and louder. 

It was downright filthy and she absolutely loved it. 

“Such a fucking dirty girl.” Olivia husked into your ear, teeth nibbling at your earlobe, “are you gonna come, little slut?” Her mouth latched onto your neck, “pussy’s so nice and loud for us, you must be close now.”

She sucked on your neck, teeth sinking in right as she squeezed your chest again and that was all it took, a strangled moan built its way from the back of your throat, echoing out into the room as your orgasm burst through you. Juices spilling out of your cunt, dripping down Emily’s wrist as she fingered you through it, her own lips parted, slightly out of breath, watching you come down. 

“That’s it,” Emily praised, her fingers sliding out of you, groaning over the juices that pooled between your legs. “Good girl.” Her fingers gently pushed back into you, as if she was fucking her own cum deeper into your pussy, “just fucking soaked.”

“And yet,” Olivia nipped at your neck, her hands smoothed down your body, palm coming to rest just above your clit, “I guarantee you she still wants more.” Her hand pressed against you and your breath hitched, your gaze stayed locked on hers as she dared you to look away, her hand moving between your legs. “Isn’t that right, slut?” Her hand slapped your pussy; a lewd wet sound accompanied the whimper you made but you still managed to not look away. “You want daddy’s cock?”

“Yes!” You probably replied too fast, too eager, but you didn’t care. Still trembling from your last orgasm all you could think about was the feeling of being stretched around Olivia’s favoured dildo as she pounded deep into you.

“I think she’s about earned it.” Emily commented, sitting up on her knees, her eyes dark while she watched Olivia toy with your body. 

“I suppose.” Liv leant down, pressing a kiss to your lips, “greedy girl’s already got two, you want one from Daddy?” Her hand closed around your jaw, tilting your gaze towards Emily, “how about you show her how good you are with your mouth while I fuck you? Hmm?”

Nodding, you scrambled up to your knees, letting Olivia slide off the bed behind you while Emily shifted toward you, pulling you into a deep kiss. You moaned over the taste on her tongue, sucking it deeper into your mouth to get as much as you could. Her arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you to her as the two of you fell into the pillows. Your hands slid up, exploring her body, groping at her tits, pulling a low groan from her when you did. She broke the kiss, her head falling back and you were able to smear messy kisses down the column of her neck. 

The bed shifted behind you and you knew Olivia was ready, cock thick in her hand as she smeared lube up and down the toy between her legs. With Emily on her back, you crawled down her body, sucking one nipple into your mouth, flicking at it with your tongue before repeating the motion on the other side. The grin on your face grew wider as she fell under your spell, her skin flushing, heat creeping through it as her breathing picked up, perfect tits swaying when her back arched, her body shifting on the bed. Your fingers slipped into the waistband of her underwear and tugged them down her legs, eyes immediately jumping to her pussy. 

She was already soaked, pussy glistening as if it was calling to you and your mouth practically watered at the sight. You felt Olivia’s hands on your waist, nudging you forward, one slid up your spine, pressing you towards Emily’s pussy while the other slipped between your legs. 

“God she really made a fucking mess of you, didn’t she?” Liv chuckled, fingers spreading open your folds and you nodded, “well, get going.” She spanked you, “make it up to her.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

You dropped to the bed, hands sliding up Emily’s legs, a thumb tracing through her cunt, gently rubbing her clit, a satisfied smile on your lips when she let out a soft moan, her body pushing towards the touch. Your fingers toyed with her only a little longer, tracing her pussy, listening to the little noises she was making that were getting breathier, louder, you felt yourself pulse at the sight of her getting wetter, knowing it was your touch and the anticipation of your mouth that was turning her on. 

Behind you, Olivia’s fingers pressed into you, slowly inching in, then pulling out all the way again, teasing you in an attempt to get you to hurry up. When her fingers disappeared from your body all together you whined, your thumb pressing against Emily’s clit, pulling a gasp from the other woman. Then you felt the nudge of Olivia’s cock pressing against your pussy and your entire body melted, aching to push your hips back. She always chose the largest toy, the one she could fill with lube to coat your greedy little cunt when she was finally done fucking you. The one you loved the most, the one that was almost too big some days. 

Tearing your head from the clouds, you surged forward, finally getting a taste of Emily’s perfect fucking pussy and you couldn’t help but groan. She was fucking incredible, your tongue traced every inch of her that you could, not letting a single drop of her wetness go to waste.

“Oh my god.” She groaned, your mouth was so warm against her, moving with precision she barely needed to guide you when her hand tangled into your hair. 

You wasted no time, knowing the faster you got Emily panting, the faster Olivia would finally fuck you. Her cock still just nudged at your entrance, heavy and waiting, slowly getting slick with your juices. There were days you were absolutely amazed at Olivia’s self-control and today was certainly one of them. If the roles had been reversed you would have been buried as deep as you could inside her the second she was on her hands and knees.

“Shit!” Emily swore, “right there, oh fuck yes.”

Olivia chuckled, “she’s good at that, isn’t she?” Her cock shifted, nudging just the tip inside your waiting pussy.

“Yeah.” Emily managed to gasp out, right as your tongue flicked across her clit, “oh fuck.”

“Such an eager slut.” Olivia mused, her hands squeezing around your waist and with one fast, heavy thrust you were shoved deeper between Emily’s legs, a muffled cry escaping your lips at the sensation of finally being so full.

“Fuck.” You whimpered, pussy fluttering around the toy, your walls squeezing and dripping as you tried to focus on eating Emily out. 

“Don’t stop.” Liv ordered, her hands on your hips, holding you in place so you couldn’t start fucking yourself on her cock. She stayed still, buried deep inside you, stretching you out until Emily was gasping, a hand clawing at the bedspread, every second breath a curse on her parted lips. 

“Shit, fuck. Fuck.” Emily’s nails dug into your scalp and you doubled down, sucking her clit into your mouth, groaning around it, the noise vibrating through her. Her hips jumped off the bed, juices dribbling into your mouth, smearing across your chin as she hit her peak, chest heaving, fingers twitching. “Oh my god…”

You kept your mouth on her, gently cleaning her up and Olivia patted your ass, “good girl.” 

Then she began to move, her cock slowly dragging against your walls, leaving you empty and stretched before pushing all the way back in. Your hands clenched into Emily’s thighs and you risked slowly rocking your hips backwards, sinking down onto the toy. 

“God,” Emily breathed, “she wants it bad.”

“Doesn’t matter how many times you fuck her.” Liv’s hips snapped forward and your body jerked, “she always wants more.” Her hand slid into your hair, yanking your head back, “isn’t that right?” She circled her hips and you gasped, “dirty girl who can never get enough.” She pulled all the way out of you, laughing darkly as your pussy clenched around nothing, cum already dripping down your thighs. 

“Daddy, please.” Your whine was high pitched, body trembling, hands still grasping at Emily’s thighs. Olivia’s grip on your hair tightened as she leant over you, teeth sinking into your neck.

“Suppose you want it hard and fast, don’t you?”

“Yes!” You did your best to nod with the vice grip she had on your roots.

“Dirty slut.” Olivia husked before plunging her cock back into you as deep as she possibly could; the front of her thighs meeting the back of yours. 

“Oh my gooddd!”

She set a relentless pace, the one you’d asked for, the one you craved, one that it seemed only she could truly master. Having dropped your hair, her hands were squeezing your waist, pulling you back to her faster and harder, pants of air leaving her lips as whimpers left yours. Her cock stretched you out so perfectly, you always felt so full when she fucked you like this, leaving no room for tenderness. Her palm spanked the globe of your ass and your pussy throbbed. You could feel how drenched you were, the apex of your thighs slick with arousal, the sound almost sticky each time Olivia’s body met yours. She shifted her weight just right and the head of the toy pressed into your g-spot on her next thrust. 

“Fuck!”

“Yeah?” The cocky tone returned to her voice, “right there?” She pushed into you again with such force that you fell into Emily, barely able to keep yourself from being fucked into the mattress. 

“Yesss…” you groaned, voice muffled by the sheets, body trembling as she continued to pound into you. A gasp left your lips when hands were suddenly groping at your chest, sneaking between the bed and your body. A second to open one eye and you found it was Emily, watching with a heavy gaze. 

“God the sound of her fucking cunt.” She murmured and Olivia chuckled.

“Desperate little slut,” her thrusts slowed ever so slightly so she could plunge into you with full force, “with the messiest fucking pussy. Just fucking sopping.”

“Pull her up.” Emily suggested and Olivia’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck, yanking you flush to her as she continued to fuck you. 

The new angle had you gasping for air, you could feel every single thrust down to your bones, your vision blurring as the head of the toy pressed harder and deeper against your g-spot each time it passed. A second later and Emily’s hands were on you again, pinching your nipples before one sunk lower. 

“Fuck.” The word barely made it past your lips as Emily’s fingers started toying with your clit. 

“Faster.” Liv instructed the other woman, “she’s so fucking close.”

Emily hummed, watching your face as she increased the pace and pressure, fingers almost slipping with just how slick you were. She felt herself beginning to pulse with need at the sight, at the noises coming from both your lips and your cunt, her free hand quickly sliding down her own body. A low moan broke free of her lips when she began to play with herself and your vision managed to come back just enough to watch. 

“Jesus…”

“So pretty when you come.” Emily murmured, “makes me hot.” Her fingers slipped down, sinking two digits into her wet cunt, “oh god, yes.” 

Olivia’s hand slunk up your body, closing around your neck as Emily’s fingers pressed harder against you and your body began to shake, there was no chance of even trying to form words any longer. Emily rocked her hips in the same rhythm she rubbed your clit; her lips parted in a silent ‘O’ as she fucked herself faster. She was so ready, half of her thought maybe she could have gotten off without even touching herself, just the sight of you so fucking wrecked enough to drive her mad. 

“Daddy…” you managed out, the word slurred on your lips and Olivia’s hand squeezed around your neck.

“That’s it baby,” Emily cooed, fingers moving faster, “come with me.”

“Make a mess sweetheart, come all over Daddy’s cock.” Oliva panted, “I know you want to, little cock slut.”

A strangled cry left your lips and your body thrashed, juices dripping down around the dildo as you almost forgot how to breathe. The only thing left holding onto you, the only thing that didn’t make your vision white out completely was the sight of Emily coming on her own fingers right in front of you. That she was coming because of you, because of how messy and horny you were. She let out a low groan, her thighs trembling and her hand vanished from your clit before she fell back into the pillows with a very satisfied sigh.

“Shit.” She muttered, watching with half open eyes as Olivia’s grip on you dropped and you fell back onto your stomach.

“Need your cum.” You moaned into the sheets, body still quivering in aftershocks. 

Olivia chuckled, somehow, she still hadn’t stopped moving, her cock pushing in and out of you at varying paces, watching how much cum smeared across it each time she pulled out. She thrust her hips sharply, once, twice, then a third, a small groan leaving her lips when she squeezed the base of the toy and lube coated your insides.

A dreamy sigh caught on your next exhale, lips curving up into a smile at the sensation. Olivia slowly pulled out, watching the lube mix with your juices as it dribbled out of your used cunt.

“Such a dirty girl.” She said, fingers scooping up the mixture and fucking it back into you, “greedy for Daddy’s cum.”

“Mmhmm.” You did your best to nod, humming at the gentle hand smoothing your hair off your face.

“Did so good for us.” Emily cooed, thumb brushing across your cheek.

“Perfect little whore.” Olivia murmured, leaning over your back to press a few kisses between your shoulder blades before she shifted off the bed to deal with the toy.

“Who knew you were such a good tour guide.” Emily said with a tease, pulling a small laugh from you as she helped you settle against the pillows.

“You, can come back anytime you please Agent Prentiss.”

__________

@red1culous @imlike-so-gaydude @altsvu @lesbianspacecowboy @wannabe-fic-reader @venablemayfairgoode @mysticfalls01 @beccabarba @littlegaybabe @cmmndrwidw @bumblebear30 @enduringalexblake @wosoimagines @solemnnova @infernumlilith @yourtaletotell @australiancarisi @cerberus-spectre @wandas-wife @lawandorderuswnt @wandasbrat @hbkpop @samwithnoplan @multifandomlesbianic @sia2raw @ladysc @narvaldetierra @dxtery @poisonedcrowns @momlifebehard @holycrapraewth @alexxavicry @onmykneesformarvel @kmc1989 @temp0rary-bliss @gamma-rae-bursts @oliviasgayvibe @schemmentisimpasours @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @emilyprentisssluvr @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @inlovewithemilyprentiss @regalmilfs4me @ara-a-bird @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @irishavengersassemble @hopedoesntknow @venromanova @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx @momily @nilaues @soverign @v3nusxsky @mccdreamys-writes @l4yne @obsessedwjill @asolitaryrose3 @lisqueen @mrs-prentiss @whitewinewithice @daffodil-heart @maximoffcarter @i-lovefandom @moonlightjxuregui @chestnutninny @just-moondust @idkifimasub @gaydragonwitch @dowsedwithbleach @m1lfsh4ke @idkwhatever580 @ohlookmypeach @hausoffun @suckerforcate @xenafan25 @decadentcatcrusade @mybraininblood @piiinco

[agathaspett]

need my hot angry politician wife back in my life asap

[specialvalentinesunit]

[prettypurplewitch]

Early Riser Part 20

CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU

Other parts & Tip jar

Word count: 10k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power dynamics, implied toxic relationship, d/s dynamics, absurd mean sugar mommy behavior, Agatha is emotionally constipated but trying, themes of corruption, jealousy & obsessive thoughts. No smut but references to past sex. Themes of stalking and watching through hidden cameras. Crime.

Broken down day after to day with exhaustion, controlled with sex and expensive gifts, tracked and trained and crawling on your hands and knees to the point of helping her commit a crime. A petty crime, but still a crime and your old-money romance love story may not be as wholesome as you had daydreamed about when you first started watching her through the glass.

No missed calls. No notifications.

Agatha Harkness dropped off the face of the earth approximately seven hours ago. Your message app flooded with outgoings from you.

"What's happening?" "Where are you?" "I'm scared." "Can you tell me where you are????" "Hello???"

And nothing from her. Not even a read receipt.

The first few hours before sleep were the worst. Stumbling through the front door in some kind of hectic rush you couldn't quite understand. Scrambling to lock it behind you in a state of fear and confusion.

The place empty despite having two roommates now, expecting them to be squished in this apartment that certainly isn't big enough for the three of you.

Your sheets between your fingers as you tried to sink beneath the covers, calling her once. Twice. Calling her fifteen times. Never answering and never replying. Thoughts overcrowding your head about the day, about the night, the club. About Agatha. About her secrets. About the threat she's apparently under for something you don't even understand and can't even ask about.

Insecurity followed shortly after. Whether she's not getting back to you out of choice. Why she dropped you here instead of taking you with her to her mystery location.

Should you even go into work? How would that work when the person you're assisting isn't even in the office? How do you explain this to the people asking for her in your email inbox?

So, you react the same way any other person would react. Googling her In your bed as you face the wall. Trying to find some news that isn't just business or a gala. Nothing. Trying to fall asleep. Imagining some kind of flickering red light coming from your dresser.

Thinking about her room, her view and her lap beneath you as the events of the day slowly force you into sleep.

--

At seven in the morning you're already awake without an alarm. Heart pounding and dehydration shoving your eyes open before you have the chance to realize where you are. And who you're without.

Back in a place you knew you'd have to return to someday, but not yet. Not now and certainly not like this.

The silence that follows the sound of you chugging water is as deafening as Agatha's helicopter.

Peace and a moment of allowing your brain to actually, really think for once. Without someone swaying you, manipulating you and tracking your phone.

A moment where it's just you and the low count cotton thread under your skin. It's rougher than you remember and the air is mustier. The bleach from the laundromat downstairs makes its way up the building, the smell subtle but present.

Is this what it's like to be one of the rest? Did they get swept up in an almost-romantic whirlwind, wined and dined and restrained only to be discarded on the roadside? Did they Google her afterwards? Did their firing come from her directly or a generic email?

Were they this attached to her too?

Agatha Harkness had come into your life as your boss. Your hot boss yes, who you may have watched a few too many times after bringing her coffee. But your boss nonetheless. Someone who you admired for her business reputation and fantastically crisp shirts.

You'd never expected yourself to get so caught up in her antics so quickly you couldn't even realize what was happening. Broken down day after to day with exhaustion, controlled with sex and expensive gifts, tracked and trained and crawling on your hands and knees to the point of helping her commit a crime. A petty crime, but still a crime and your old-money romance love story may not be as wholesome as you had daydreamed about when you first started watching her through the glass.

But your fingers shake over the phone again, checking for a notification. Checking for the check mark that means she's at least glanced your way. Tapping your finger on the Getty image of her attached to her contact info and god she looks beautiful.

How could you ever question her actions when she looks like that and tells you that you're special?

She must be safe, you know she must be. Surely. With all the security buzzing around her like flies.

Your body aches as you stretch it, stepping out of the bed and trying to pick out a work outfit. Maybe it would look more weird if you didn't show up for work.

You're still not really sure if this is allowed to be public or not. If people would ask questions.

So, you try your best to look normal. To hide the marks on your neck yet again and wear something appropriate, but not too expensive. Taking the subway despite the unlimited credit card in your purse and playing it cool.

Maybe Agatha just got into a misunderstanding with that man and his friends. Maybe she's talking it out with them right now, too busy to get back to you.

But she will.

You know she will.

---

The sun is shining more than it has in weeks, the temperature a little warmer today and the craving for a cherry latte is as strong as ever. The office is empty and anxious as always, probably waiting for her to show up and glare at people.

Those around you use the instant coffee machine in the kitchenette and talk about their weekend plans, checking every now and again to see if their big scary boss is here yet.

You do too, but you know it's not for the same reasons.

The chair beneath you spins as you boot up the computer. It hums a little too loud, meaning it probably needs an update. If it were last year you'd have been all too thankful, letting it waste the workday for you.

But now you need something to take your mind off of everything, it's less fun and more annoying. You should have just stayed home and watched TV.

As you click the update button your eyes fall to the loading bar at the bottom of the screen. Maybe it'll pass quickly.

1%

You spin around on the chair, antsy and trying not to think of last night. How your perfect two-day-hot-billionaire-dating-experience was cut short by a sweaty man you don't recognize.

2%

You check your phone again. Nothing.

3%

You turn your phone off and on, just to be safe.

4%

Still nothing.

5%

People filter through the elevator, heading behind their desks and getting ready to waste their morning with this update and why is the wifi so slow right now?

6%

Your eyes pull to the glass walls of her office. Brightly lit with the sun through the gigantic windows she pushed you up against when you stayed late. How her skin felt against yours for the first time. When you realized this could be something more. When she realized she still couldn't stay away from her assistants because you're somehow too damn special.

7%

The chair the others make fun of against the mahogany desk she'd hit your head on when she bent you over it, so you could help her unwind like any good assistant would. The one you hid under when you found out she wasn't as innocent as you thought she was.

8%

The curtains that hang thick around the glass walls that offer privacy. The ones that shielded you when you first got on your knees for her, finishing your work only for her to destroy it out of jealousy.

9%

How long is this going to take?

10%

The clock ticks on, and the craving for coffee, or the smell of Agatha –you aren't sure which, is still at the back of your throat. Now would be a good time to go get it.

But what if she shows up?

You think back to the panic on her face, the sadness as she apologized to you unprompted.

She's probably handling it right now, and she'll absolutely let you know when she'll be at work.

Won't she?

--

As always, you try not to bump into Zara in the elevator, and as always the problems of having Agatha so intertwined with your life just seem to keep coming and continue to intensify. So much so it's easy to forget that Zara was the enemy to begin with.

Back when your problems were about what time train you'd get home from work and what kind of microwave meal you'd have for dinner.

You haven't had to eat one in too long, and the thought is doing the opposite of making your mouth water.

The elevator ride is smooth, with a soft 'ding' when it reaches the city, the lobby empty and quiet, maybe even too quiet as your shoes echo along the ground.

What if she she never comes back? What if she does come back, but things are different? What if somebody asks where she is, aren't you supposed to know?

You push the thoughts to the back of your head, focused on the well-dressed businessmen forming a line at the coffee store. More new iced specials on the menu as the barista makes four flat whites back to back.

Apple cinnamon iced latte. Sounds delicious, and maybe if you weren't so obsessed with the smell of the crook of her neck you'd order it, but you ask for the cherry without having a second thought.

Another check of the phone just in case she's back and she needs anything.

Nothing.

You reach into your purse to pay when the total is read out, fumbling around for some cash and finding only the solid metal of Agatha's credit card. Remembering her words.

"You do know I get notifications about that card, don't you?"

Maybe this is how you get her to see you, to reply to you. To tell you something, anything.

And you pay with her card.

Still no text. Still no anything. But you know she's seen it, you know she's felt some type of way about it.

Unless the coffee isn't enough. Maybe you need more. More purchases more money, more notifications. Stopping in the street as you suck the cherry coffee up the straw, your eyes scan for a store nearby. There are only a few in this area, mostly places that sell sandwiches bars and soda.

But maybe that'll do for now.

You hold the drink by your side as you cross the street, trying not to drop it as you head into the store, not wanting the cashier to see you holding a coffee. Maybe you should have read if they allow beverages in here. Maybe you don't even care.

Your eyes are on the shelves, stuck between looking down at the phone in your hand and the items on display. Waiting for her to react. Tasting the cherry on your tongue.

You grab a candy bar. You grab three. It's almost too much to carry. A Coke. A hand basket so you can fill it with more Coke. Fuck it. You head to the next section of the store, aware of the time.

It's almost hilarious when your eyes catch it.

There, on the magazine shelf. The latest issue of Forbes, is Agatha Harkness. Stood like she owns the world on the front cover, a crisp black suit and her cheekbones as sharp as ever.

You remember signing her up for this. You didn't think you'd get to see it, not keeping up to date with the releases of these things but jesus christ maybe you could ask her to wear this suit again too.

"Steel and strategy. Inside the Agatha Harkness empire."

Steel and strategy. They forgot the stealing part.

The gloss of the magazine is smooth against your finger tips before you even notice you're touching it. Staring at it like you're in some kind of trance.

Maybe it's how fantastic she looks in that outfit, or maybe it's the whirlwind of waiting and not fully understanding her or her motivations. How she's here on the cover of this magazine like some kind of business enigma and you ate Chinese food in her bed just a few days ago.

So naturally, you buy that too. Taking everything to the cashier and trying to stack it all gently on the counter.

The man doesn't greet or acknowledge you in any way. It's a relief really, giving you time to drown in your own thoughts of her. Of what to do next. Of what happened last night. Of the purple lights of that strange odd place.

Of her face when she let you go out of the car.

She's fine, isn't she? She's safe? The thought feels too big for your head. Of course she is. It's a misunderstanding. You already told yourself that one. It's something she doesn't want you wrapped in for her convenience. She might cheat at poker, but that doesn't mean she'd actually scam that guy, right?

--

You transfer the store haul to your work bag when you're back at the desk, keeping them for later and most importantly check your phone one last time before opening a candy bar. She must have gotten that notification too.

But still no message, and it's still empty in here from the mass-firing she's committed in her of jealous rage.

The chocolate is a little melted from how warm it is in the office today, the AC must not be working correctly and you're not sure who to talk to in order to get that fixed.

Agatha's office is probably cool. It's probably on a different system, you think. Only the best for her. But there's no way you could be in her office without her. Somebody would surely notice, they'd say something. They'd start talking.

So you plop down the melty latte and the magazine and look about as busy as the people chatting next to the coffee machine. Everybody seems relieved Agatha isn't in today. You could at least try to blend in. To pretend you feel the same.

You could at least try to hide that you're looking at an A4 glossy photograph of her stood serious and dominant in a pantsuit with perfectly painted lips that have kissed yours, and a visible inch of the hand that grabs you like she can't keep herself away from you.

Like a little secret. You do want to be public with her, but you'd be lying if you said this wasn't kind of exciting when your co-workers know nothing. They've never seen the sides of her you have.

Everybody else in the magazine is irrelevant to you as you skip through the pages. People you kind of recognize from event lists and most people you don't. Then you find it. The double page spread.

She looks even better here if that's possible. Two large photographs of her and a full interview. It's no wonder almost every woman who's worked for her has ended up under her. She's everything.

There's a variety of questions, from "how do you decide what areas are best to develop?" to "how has technology impacted your industry?" It's almost boring, if it wasn't for your 'only medium evil billionaire' staring back from the photographs as the chocolate melts under your touch.

"At a certain level of wealth, what continues to motivate you?"

Her answer is neat and practiced underneath:

"What motivates me is making a difference. Using my influence to support charities, to build places that people really care about."

The laugh is caught in your throat as you take a poorly timed bite. She fails to mention the properties, island, yacht and inconceivably expensive diamond necklace that's currently on your bedside table. The money she threw at you as you knelt before her, and didn't even bother collecting before leaving.

"You've maintained a low public profile, is that intentional?"

Yes. Because of her awful reputation. Because of the stack of NDAs and rumors surrounding her. Because she hates people.

"I prefer to focus on the work. I show up when needed, to support local events and meet clients. I'm uninterested in being a public figure."

She says from a magazine.

"What does a typical day look like for you?"

Waking up. Working. Fucking her assistant over the desk to calm down from being late again. Yelling at at least four people before three pm. Too much alcohol. Cheating at casino games. Getting all riled up from the power of closing a deal, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulders, eating with her mouth open and falling asleep face down snoring on the silk sheets.

"I'm an early riser. I like to take some time to focus on the tasks of the day. Reading or walking in the morning. A healthy breakfast. Coffee of course! I make sure i'm productive all day by staying off of my phone, and I like to unwind with a podcast in the evening."

Ha! And lying, it would seem.

You close the magazine. Aside from the images this could be an interview from anybody. She's good at this press thing. It makes you wonder about the words she'd said in the car. About buying a PR company to clean her slate. But damn, from what exactly?

And why is none of this putting you off of her the way it should?

The rest of the day moves past at a reasonable pace. Some emails you forward to her. Googling lunch places nearby out of curiosity, googling her penthouse and gawking at the $250 million price tag which is so far out of reach it doesn't even feel like a real number. Googling what a pangolin is when you hear someone mention one across the room. It's some kind of creature. Nobody is productive, and you still have to RSVP to her gala at the end of the month.

---

Getting home feels like you're back too early, despite this being the time you used to leave the office. Before her asking you to leave late. Before helping you with chopsticks and testing your limits by delivering blackmail money.

The smell of tomato sauce hits you as soon as you open the heavy door. Jazz and giggling from the far end of the room. Your heart jumps for a second. Your poor, dumb little heart. For a split second imagining the same Agatha Harkness from the shallow Forbes interview in your apartment making you a surprise dinner. Spinning you around the kitchen like you're in a rom-com.

But if you felt like this wasn't really your home before, now it certainly doesn't. Jake feeding his pretty girl counterpart with a wooden spoon. She's in pink PJs. And are those throw pillows on your couch?

Maggie has truly already moved in. And it seems she owns the place.

She takes a step back as you close the door behind you, trying to make your presence obvious so they don't start canoodling or something.

Jake's face is nothing short of displeased, but she looks friendly and excited to see you. If you didn't feel like you were haunting your own apartment maybe you wouldn't be so upset having a potential new friend.

After all, the only person you talk to is an avoidant anti-social socialite.

The apartment isn't just prettier, it's clean. She's taken out the trash, cleaned the mug collection and lit a scented candle. You'd be actually excited to cook in it if they weren't hogging the appliances and the tiny space.

"Hi roomie!" Maggie holds out her arms as she walks over to you, pulling you into an awkward hug that must be weird for her too. "Jakie and I were about to watch a movie and have some pasta, you wanna join? There’s extra. I always make way too much food!”

"Babe she doesn't." He's already butting in before you can process her calling him Jakie. Barf. It’s bizarre that she’s with this man. Run, girl. His socks are more holes than fabric.

But you are hungry. And would it be more weird if you ate pizza alone in your room? Probably. If you're gonna live together you might as well just rip the bandaid off. Especially if it takes a while for Agatha to message you. A bit of normality might be good after the whirlwind of the last few days.

She’ll reply any minute. You know she will. Maybe you could message Rio or Wanda to see where she might have gone. Would that be insane? Probably. Last time you were with them you were humiliated beyond measure, but maybe that was just a normal weekend for them.

“Sure. I’d love to.” You fake a smile you’re hoping she can’t see through and it’s unclear whether she’s genuine or not but she does seem friendly.

Jake’s already pulling out another bowl from the cupboard like his mom just asked him for a favor. You hope he didn’t double dip the spoon after tasting the sauce.

He doesn’t want you here. But you’d rather not be here either.

—

The sauce is fantastic, which means Maggie must have made it because you’ve never seen Jake eat something not from a plastic box or a can.

He slurps quietly as Maggie cuddles into his side. The television playing some kind of generic film you’re sure you’ve seen before. Whatever romance is on the Netflix homepage. A boy kisses a girl in the rain. Maggie 'awws' as the score plays on. Would Agatha ever kiss you in the rain? Probably not. She'd probably have someone standing next to the two of you holding an umbrella.

Your legs are crossed on the couch as you try not to stare at them. Sitting next to them enjoying their evening like this is come kind of college house. Like you’re all friends. But if she’s trying to be friendly, you should at least try back.

You check your phone again for your rescue message. For an explanation. The darker it gets, the more you worry about her. The closer it gets to the twenty four hour mark like she's about to pop up missing on a news alert.

She's fine. She's probably ordering takeout right now.

“I have a bunch of soda and snacks and stuff, you guys want any?” You’re pulling your bag onto your lap and dishing the contents onto the coffee table before they can reply, but they both lean forward with the anticipation of snacks.

It feels weird and domestic and mildly uncomfortable.

“Damn you got the goods!” She says reaching forward, grabbing one of each and opening the cola with a small fizz. Her eyes wandering to the magazine that’s fallen face up on the table. You’d almost forgotten how hot your boss looked in the photograph. “Forbes huh. You must be smart.”

Jake looks bored at the interaction, but grabs a Coke anyway.

“Oh. I mean, I’m her assistant. I wanted to...read the article.” You gesture vaguely to the cover trying to seem as normal and relaxed about it as possible. Hoping they can't hear your heartbeat as you lie. You bought it to stare at tonight, maybe with your hand down your pants, and it feels like you're being too obvious about it.

“No way? That’s so cool! So she’s like, famous? What’s she like?”

Agatha would hate her for saying that.

Jake stares at it a little too long and back to you, like the cogs are manually turning in his brain and you’re not sure if you even told him about who you worked for. His hand creeps tighter around Maggie and you’re nothing but jealous all of a sudden in your chest.

Will you ever get a movie night with Agatha?

“She’s intense.” You try to keep it low-key. Taking a big sip of your own drink to try avoid conversation.

“Oh yeah? I bet.” You bet. You bet.

She could never possibly understand.

Understand how overwhelmingly all-consuming she is when she stands above you, treating you like you’re nothing and everything at the same time. How her laugh sounds when you introduce her to your world and how her jaw tightens when she introduces you to hers.

You’re sitting on the couch having snacks and a movie in a normal, real situation. And all you can think about is a corrupt cover star who you’re sure you’d let ruin your life. How badly you want to go back to her bedroom and never be set free.

"Well thats good." Maggie is clutching at straws to be friendly to you. "I hope you're paid well, someone like that could afford it."

The necklace that sat around your neck like a collar while she poured champagne all over your skin is probably worth more than this street.

"Yeah it's not so bad!l." Is all you offer. "So what do you do?" You don't care, but you'd rather Jake not use his last brain cell to figure out you're fucking the woman from Forbes.

"I'm training to be a teacher!" She's enthusiastic. "Love to shape young minds, you know?"

Bless her. She's adorable. You almost feel a little guilty at how wholesome her prospects are compared to yours.

"Oh no way, that's so cool. I bet it's rewarding."

"Yeah it is, I mean i'm still figuring it out, I didn't figure out I wanted to do it until a little while ago."

"Agatha actually does a lot of charity stuff for children, she's really passionate about it." And oh my god why are you talking about Agatha again? Think about something else for a second. She's going to ask follow up questions.

"I would loooooove to do that that's amazing do you think she'd ever—"

Everybody jumps at the sound of the doorbell.

Looking to each other to see who’s expecting a guest or a pizza. Your eyes fall on Jake, the token man one. Maggie’s already forcing him off the couch, checking the time. Already getting dark outside.

“Tell them we don’t want God, or something.” She says as he’s standing.

Please be her. Please be her.

Jake takes a second to try figure out the figure at the door without having to open it. Trying to prevent a salesman or a preacher from interrupting the evening.

“It’s some guy?” He says, craning his neck out to try get a better look.

Maybe it’s paranoia, but your blood runs cold instantly.

“What guy?” You’re already standing, which seems to throw everybody off. No longer a cozy and relaxed movie night but some kind of uncomfortable stand off theyre all a witness to.

Maggie is pausing the tv and standing with you so she’s not the only one still on the couch.

“I don’t know. Some huge bald guy. I’ll just answer it. Probably got the wrong place.”

“Don’t.”

He freezes, hand on the door. Your voice coming out panicked and more hushed than you’d intended.

The doorbell rings again.

“He can probably see me through the glass. What’s the problem?” His voice is also lower, sensing the tension suddenly filling the room.

Maggie’s eyes flick between the two of you like she doesn’t know who’s side to be on.

“Tell him I’m not here.”

“What?”

“Fucking. Please Jake. Just say I’m out right now. Please.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

The door knocks again, he knows he can’t wait much longer, and you’re already scuttling to your room and getting behind the door, ear pressed to it.

Is it the guy from the bar?

Did this guy follow you from work?

The conversation is more muffled than you’d anticipated even pressed flat against the door. But it’s short and sweet. You try not to pull your hair out as your eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what would be important to take in an emergency. Diamond necklace. Pjs. Toothbrush. Who even knows?

Surely this is a mix up, of course it is. But the way the blues of her eyes looked when she dropped you outside makes you hesitant to show your face. Especially if he’s fucking stalked you here.

Once the doors closed you’re back in the living room and cramming the rest of the candy bars back in your bag, along with the rest of the stuff on the table.

“What’s happening? He was asking for you. Who was that?” Jake’s tone is accusatory. This is his building after all. And you’ve just put a target of some kind on it.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” You’re flailing, tripping over yourself as you try to figure out your plan. It was stupid thinking Agatha and her money could protect you the way it protects her.

She’s off in some fancy mansion while you’re figuring out whether this is a legal problem or a personal one.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Maggie doesn’t seem angry. She seems scared.

“Look I think I might be in trouble maybe like—“

“—wrong crowd? I figured as much.”

You try not to let his words affect you too much. Has he been analyzing all of your actions? It’s certainly not the first time he’s made a comment like that.

Maggie slaps him on the arm.

You steady your breathing. Opening your phone again. Still nothing. Opening the Uber app before even thinking about it. You’re typing in her address before you can stop yourself. “Look. I’m sorry. Fuck I’m sorry. If you promise to keep this quiet I’ll move out like, as soon as I can.”

“You will?”

“Jesus try not to sound too excited.”

He’s already looking at Maggie like he’s excited to fuck her in the kitchen. Gross.

“Okay...So is this like, about drugs?”

Suddenly he seems weirdly cool about the whole thing. The promise of not having you live here. Or maybe he wants drugs.

“No. It’s not about drugs. I uh— I cheated at a casino club thing look just—“ you grab the bag as the Uber Black driver connects. “—I know. I’ll get rid of him pay him or…somehow, I don’t know but he shouldn’t come back.”

“Wait, you did what?” Great. Now he’s laughing like he hoped it was something objectively cooler.

Imagining your spiral with Agatha from his perspective is a wild thought. Boring roommate who stays in her room all day comes home increasingly late, stops showing up overnight and starts wearing Prada.

“Why don’t you just stay here? He’s gone.” Maggie is gentle, reaching for you.

But it’s already too late as the car starts pulling down the street. A lucky quick connection.

And you leave your normality behind for Agatha, again.

—

The streets are dark as the driver takes you to the penthouse. Your heart in your throat as you try to call her, she must have seen the Uber notification too. A journey of your entire day via credit card alerts.

“Central Park Tower huh?” The driver looks into the mirror at you, you try to look as natural as possible.

“Yeah.” You’re double checking everything is in your bag like it’s not just diamonds, a toothbrush, a magazine, chocolate and a Coke.

“They call that Billionaires Row. You know that?” You can’t tell if he’s polite or nosy so you smile with tight lips.

“Yeah I know that.”

“Would love to see inside that place.”

And suddenly you’re on edge again like this isn’t just an Uber and he isn’t just your driver. The stress in your body becoming paranoia that started on that damn island and has escalated between Taco Bell visits and coffee in the bed.

“It’s pretty special.” You keep the response generic. He’s probably just being polite.

“You own the place?”

“Yeah.” You lie.

He nods once, like he’s suddenly not qualified enough to talk to you. Or maybe your bluntness was a big enough hint to stop him poking around in your business.

Luckily the traffic isn’t as bad as it is usually, and you’re there in no time. The air between the cab and the lobby a little chilly now, and as you enter you quickly realize you don’t have any sort of plan.

The security eye you as you wander in, trying to seem focused and like you belong. Hoping they don’t search your bag and think you’re some kind of stalker or thief.

The elevator bank is quiet, and you can tell the men are watching you in a way that’s subtle and relaxed. She’s almost certainly changed the passcode by now, sure that she had expected your first visit to be your last. Resetting the code for the next girl.

Yet, you try it anyway just to avoid explaining the situation to a stranger.

To your surprise, the elevator begins to move.

She’d really not changed it? You could have come here at any point? Although you suppose you’ve been her assistant for quite some time now. It does make sense she'd freely let you in.

When the elevator comes to a stop, you're once again right back where you started. Met with the smell of her and her lifestyle, but without Agatha's hand on your waist.

Instead, you're greeted with a sprawling dark living space, the floor under you warm with under-floor heating and the orange glow of a lamp further down the hallway.

Is she here? She said she wouldn't be here.

Instinct hits you harder than your thoughts do, choosing to move softly, quietly through the building. Feet attempting to be silent as you try and decide your next move. Do you call out to her? What if it's somebody else?

The place is entirely silent. Maybe you could actually explore it. Would that be weird?

Heading over to the giant windows she loves to peer out of, you're met with the tallest view in the city once again. The piano immaculate without a single piece of dust even though it remains unplayed. Her books stacked neatly on her coffee table. And although this place is gigantic, it makes you feel oddly safe.

Much like the touch of Agatha's hands, hands you know may have committed cruel and vicious acts that hold your face softly when she looks at you.

"Hello?" A disembodied voice calls out. Your entire body tenses. Hairs on the back of your neck stand without your control and your entire chest feels green when you recognize it's a woman's voice.

Turning in a startle, your hands covering your arms on an anxious instinct, you're met with a short young woman, round cheeks and adorable large eyes.

You hope you're hiding your anger as well as you're hiding your surprise. Trying to look instantly like you belong. Like you were asked to be here.

"Hi." Your lips form a smile you don't mean, she must be staff. Why else would she be here? Although this thought is logical, it doesn't really ease the jealousy because of course, you're also staff. "Who are you?"

"I'm Alana...the housekeeper?"

If you'd just divert your eyes away from her face and instead to her hand, you'd notice she's carrying a bucket and is dressed in sweatpants. You should relax a little, you can't.

And the thought of that man showing up invited to your house continues to keep your heart rate much too high.

Before Agatha you'd be sitting at home scrolling TikTok edits reposted to Instagram reels. Maybe watching a Netflix show that'll be cancelled inexplicably after two seasons and thinking about re-downloading Bumble. You'd be thinking about rent. About whether you feel ready to date again. About future plans you should probably have and whether re-training as something other than an artist is a good idea. You'd never consider using somebody else's credit card and you'd certainly never condone or participate in anything illegal. Like, properly illegal.

And yet you stand half-corrupted in a penthouse of the third richest woman in the country, in an overpriced outfit deciding where she'd fled to after she'd riled up the sketchiest man in a weird club she owned secretly, trying to figure out whether she's in real trouble, and trying to decide if she's fucked her maid.

Snap out of it. It's too late now.

"Oh. Right. She never mentioned you, sorry."

It's a low fucking blow and you probably shouldn't have said that. This is the woman who cleans and presses your clothes after Agatha rips them off of you.

"That's okay...and you are?"

"Her assistant. Is she here?"

Footsteps boom down the hallway and unless she's wearing loafers a size too big, they aren't Agatha’s. Alana turns a little to see the figure coming down the corridor before he steps into view. A bearded man with a suit.

"You're the assistant?" He stands next to the housekeeper like you're being interrogated. You were kind of just hoping to stay here for a while before Agatha calls you back.

She will call you back, won't she?

"Yeah. You security?" His outfit is exactly the same as the ones who escorted you last night and they really do hide in plain sight.

"Yes ma'am. I'm on shift until midnight, and then it'll be somebody else. We're round the clock inside the apartment until the matter is resolved."

Finally, a dash of context.

"What matter, exactly?" You relax your shoulders. They think you belong here. What are you even saying? You do belong here. You're hers.

"I've been informed you were with her at the location?" He seems confused, Alana looks closer at you like she knows exactly what you're trying to hide. She must get this a lot.

"Well...yes I was. But I mean, I don't know where she is I don't know what's going on we were just—" suddenly it's too much.

Tears start forming in your eyes like you're finally re-processing everything again and how it's been almost twenty four hours with not even a read receipt for a problem she caused. The panic bubble finally bursting in your chest as two strangers watch you fumble over your words in a dark room, the pressure of explaining to them making everything worse "—she didn't tell me what was going on."

You can't keep talking, the words are too wet when you try as the tears begin streaming down your face. Having them ask you questions feels humiliating. You should know what's going on, because she should have told you. It's obvious you're new to this side of her, no matter how much you feel intertwined with her life.

The security guard looks like he's not sure how to proceed. Alana places the cleaning supplies on the ground before she's approaching you with her arms out.

You recoil on instinct of somebody else's touch.

You just want her here.

"How about I make you a nice cup of coffee, and you sit down. I was about to leave, but I can stay if you need some company."

You're shaking your head before you've even noticed. Wanting to be alone with the smell of Agatha's perfume and her firm weird furniture beneath your body as you take a seat on the leather couch.

"Will you be staying here tonight?" The security guard asks you as Alana returns to her supplies, picking them up to take them to presumably a storage room. This place is still so confusing.

"I mean, if that's okay. She hasn't told me anything. The guy...the guy that was yelling at her from the club came to my house."

"He came to your house?" His voice is much more serious than you were hoping for. "Yes you should absolutely stay here. I presume you already have a bedroom here?"

You don't know the half of it.

"Yeah. I'm good." You're wiping your face with the back of your hand and Alana is already brewing you a coffee before you can stop her. The sound vibrating through the floor.

"Well i'll be in the security room if you need me, I can give you some alone time."

You nod at his words before realizing you didn't even know the apartment had a security room. But he's moving down the hallway, so it must be down there. How many rooms does this place have?

A black coffee is placed in front of you before you can explain you aren't Agatha, and you don't drink it like that. And if she really knew Agatha, she'd know she doesn't really like it like that either.

Now is not the time to feel like this. Maybe the thoughts wouldn't be so amplified if Agatha hadn't taunted you with jealousy foreplay you never fully got to resolve.

"I'm going to leave now if you’re certain.” You nod at her, clutching the warm drink you don’t want. “I'm going to be back in the morning, so don't let me spook you." Her words are gentle as she heads towards the elevator. You feel bad for even being angry.

When the elevator doors shut behind her, the penthouse is once again entirely silent. The faint buzzing hum of the refrigerator as you walk towards it for some milk. The light of it is much too bright as you pull on the door. Oat milk, a jar of pickles and a 6 pack of cherry soda you know she must keep in there for you.

You know she cares, it's so obvious. You just wish she could be more vocal with it.

The hum resets after you add the milk and close the door. The drink warm and grounding in your hands as you decide whether or not you're brave enough to explore the place.

The ceilings are so stupidly tall you're almost hurting your neck trying to look up. You move around the white and steel empty space, looking for an ounce of personality. You could fit at least twenty of your apartment in this one floor, and from the last time you were upstairs, you know this isn't just a place with stairs, it's a triplex.

Moving away from the enormous living room, you head a different way than you'd been before. Away from the kitchen, the dining room and the bedroom she'd taken you to the first time you visited.

Towards what seems to be, just another sitting room? The furniture seems essentially unused. No scuffs, no personal items. Nothing. You move on almost immediately and it's clear one person cannot inhabit this much space.

The next room seems to be a library and is largely more used, with a dark metallic wallpaper, a deep purple rug and a black leather couch. Books on the wooden shelf appear slightly worn, but not as much as the ones from her yacht. Organized neatly from Alana after Agatha no doubt leaves them around the house.

They're diverse. On myths, legends and languages. Your fingers run across their worn edges. When you're comfortable around her it can be hard to remember just how extraordinary she is.

The woman on the magazine cover, the woman everybody wants to talk to. You’re hers, and you're in her library drinking her coffee.

The stress in your body turns slightly to excitement and it seems clear that when this is all over...you'll have the best sleep of your life.

Back near the stairs, you hear typing coming from a small-looking side room, that must be the security office. Your cheeks flush wondering if this man is always here. He probably isn't. Agatha wouldn't like that.

Trying not to alert the suit, you hold tightly onto the hand-rail of the spiral stairs as you ascend as quietly as you can. You're familiar with what's up here to an extent. Agatha's bedroom, bathroom and all the weird sitting areas she has coming off of that. This is where you intend to sleep tonight, you think. Your face pressed against her cherry pillow waiting for her to come home to you.

But not before some little extra snooping, for good luck.

Peering around the corner you spot what must be her dressing room. At the risk of feeling like a stalker, you flick the light switch on as you approach. It's exactly what you thought it'd be. Like something out of a movie. An enormous room with rails, boxes and shelves.

A large ottoman in the centre. Shoes of unpredictable prices littered about and her clothes organized neatly from suit jackets to shirts to dresses and skirts.

You run your hand along the fabric, it's expensive and extremely Agatha. How she feels pressed close to your body, just without the warmth. Silk and velvet and luxurious cotton. No color organization, but clearly some kind of system.

A million incomprehensible memories inside of this room. Charity balls, different women and different countries. The opera, the casino and the island.

Maybe when she wears the suit she wore yesterday, she’ll think about you.

A large dresser sits in the corner. Dark wood, slightly out of place in the modern room. Should you? You shouldn't. You certainly shouldn't. That would be wrong. You know she doesn't like when you snoop.

But the answers from her are too slow, too disjointed and too hard to get out of her, so you reach for the drawer anyway.

It pulls open with a soft squeak. The wood smooth, the smell a little musty. Expecting to see maybe some old t-shirts or something, you're surprised to find items that look like they'd be better suited to an office.

You take a sip of the coffee as you fish out the items. It's still a bit too bitter, you should have added some syrup. You know she has it.

You wish you'd added some whiskey when the first photograph you flip over is her and Rio. Younger. The two of them smiling, really smiling, taken in some kind of meadow. The sky blue and cloudless. Agatha's cheekbones a little less sharp. You don't notice you're holding your breath as you study the image like it's some kind of ancient relic.

With clammy hands, you drop it back on the side, is this whole thing just a giant memory box? Receipts. Envelopes. The gloss of magazines. You rest the mug on the dresser, selecting another piece of paper with both hands. Newspaper clippings, cover photos and small articles. Of the business, of the success, of the rumors and claims and discussions. Of her family legacy. Of the attention. It's too much, too personal and you throw everything back in there, closing the drawer and trying not to think about it anymore.

It rattles as you shut it, stressing out when you think you’ve broken something, you’re pleasantly surprised to see just some stale loose m&ms rolling around in lint at the bottom of the drawer.

For someone you think you know so well, you still don’t know her at all. Her life has been longer and more interesting than your own, you probably only know a quarter of it.

She had asked on the yacht what you were doing, the two of you. You didn't know then, you don't really know now. Is it a crime to care for someone so different than yourself? Would she ever have photographs of you in a drawer somewhere someday? Would she ever even take a photograph of you?

You take the mug, heading back into the bedroom. The skyline of the city now just a twinkle of lights and silence. For now you're here, you're safe and that's what matters.

The bed is soft as you ease onto it, dropping the coffee mug softly on the nightstand. It's not good, and you can't keep drinking it. Being polite when nobody is even around to judge you.

Almost put off by going through her stuff already, you should probably stop. But there are so many cupboards in this room, and an entire other floor you've yet to look at. She could have anything in here, and will you get the chance again?

You should wait, you think. You should take a relaxing bath in the gigantic tub. Overlook the city in the one time you'll ever be above it all on your own. You should sleep off the stress, the worry and anxiety and fear.

Agatha will probably call you in the morning. The security are downstairs, and they'll be changing shifts soon.

If anywhere is safe to be, it's here. Taking off your shoes, you lay back onto the satin sheets. Now a dark red color, thank you Alana.

It’s even more comfortable than you remember. Maybe it’s because of the busy few days. Maybe the bath could wait.

Finally settling into the bed and despite the interaction in your own apartment being pleasant for the first time, you finally feel home.

Your breathing steady, chest relaxed as you let yourself think logically, about how this situation is temporary. About how it probably isn't anything, and will be handled soon. About how Agatha had only just taken you on a date, she cares for you, and you're in her bed. Soft, warm and safe. The thoughts become distant and as you drift off into sleep...

...your phone buzzes.

For the first time in so long the noise is basically foreign, you sit bolt upright, grabbing for it. Her name on the screen and you forget how to breathe. That Getty photo of her at that conference you sent her to flashes up as your heart pounds in your chest, your head. The emotional intensities returning to your body again, almost missing the 'accept call' button.

"Agatha!" It blurts from your lips before you can hold it in.

"You're in my penthouse." She says flatly, like she's not slept since she left you in that car. Her voice deep and gravely and you can't even take care of her.

"Yeah, yeah I'm at your place...I hope that's okay? Where are you?"

"I can't tell you right now."

She doesn't seem excited to talk to you, and it almost feels like you're fighting for her attention again despite putting yourself in danger for her.

"...He came to my house."

"He what?"

"The guy from the club, he came to my house so I just took a cab here, I wasn't sure where else to go but I just—"

"—Shh. You're alright. You'e okay." Agatha's tone shifts quickly as it relaxes through the phone, settling you again. "I wasn't sure where to take you."

"Why couldn't I come with you?"

Because she means more to you than you mean to her?

"Because I don't want to drag you into this more than I already have. I don’t know, you’ve only ever been honest with me…I’m not good at that."

You swallow, a lump forming in your throat at the implication of her words.

The silence dragging out.

She doesn't fill it, neither do you.

"...Does that mean this is—" You can't even form the word without effort. "—over?"

Silence again, the shuffling of sheets like she's under the covers.

"Don't be stupid. I didn’t say that."

The breath of relief is loud and she must have heard it, you reach for the lukewarm coffee to wash away the raw feeling in your throat.

"I just thought it’d be easier if I dealt with this alone. But evidently not. Some people just love to make things difficult."

Her words are as if someone’s giving her a minor inconvenience rather than her having to flee to an undisclosed location in the middle of the night.

"Dealt with what? I don't really get what's going on. Should we call the police?"

"Don't call the police."

Your breath is too heavy into the phone.

"Okay."

More silence. More shuffling.

"...You look pretty on my bed like that."

Your face flushes with heat instantly, looking around in a panic.

"You can see me?"

"Of course I can see you, I have cameras connected to my phone." Oh shit. Did she see you snooping? "One in every room, plus a couple of extras."

"Extras?"

"Well, I mean…places I might like to see you."

You think back to the flashing light in your bedroom. Surely she wouldn't have?

"If only you were wearing less clothes.”

You clear your throat.

“I met Alana.”

“…uh…who?”

Oh my god.

"The housekeeper."

"Oh of course, you did?"

"She's cute."

"She is. Pretty eyes, don't ya think?"

She wasn't supposed to say that.

"Is that why you hired her?"

Her chuckle is muffled through the phone.

"You want me to say yes? You enjoyed that so much yesterday…huh? You want me to say I hired her so she could help me out between loads of laundry?"

You know she sees you flop back onto her pillows.

"Or do you want to hear the truth...that I hired her because she can iron shirts faster than anyone I've ever hired? It really is fantastic in a pickle.”

You hope she can't see your eye roll on the camera.

"I could probably iron your shirts faster."

Honestly, you probably couldn't.

"Are you asking for a new job? You want to be my maid?"

"Maid? Isn't she a housekeeper?"

"Sure. But then you won't wear the little outfit. I'd quite like the outfit, you know."

Just like that you're smiling, and her charm has disarmed you.

"It would just be another level to my assistant job, I think. I already assist you in so many ways...boss."

"You want me to put her out of a job? Oh my. You really are daring.”

"Well, I would help you out between loads of laundry...in whatever way you need me to."

"Mhm. I bet you would. You're excellent at assisting me, aren't you?"

"And I have pretty eyes too."

"Oh honey I know you do. I watch them panic when I pull your hair."

You bite your lip. "Plus, then I'd be working here all the time, all alone in your lair."

Her tongue clicks through the speaker. "You want mommy to lock you in her tower all day long?"

"Only if you're with me."

"We could arrange that...I liked your little credit card purchases.”

“I was hoping you would see them.”

“You buy anything good?”

“Just food, drinks. An Uber.”

“Good girl…it’s important to take care of yourself.”

“I know. I try to.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I'll be home soon."

The comfort of her words wrap around you like the sheets do as you relax your body. Home.

"I miss you already." Your voice comes out a little croaky. Last time you told her you missed her she ignored you. So you aren't surprised when it happens again, when you're met with silence.

A few seconds go by as you know she's watching you on the camera, despite not knowing where from.

The red flicker seems to come from the corner of the room. You turn your body, looking directly over at it. Hoping she’s looking right back at you.

Imagining her alone somewhere watching you on her iPhone.

"I'll send someone to come and get you."

"What?"

"I'll send a car, and i'll send a helicopter. Bring your toothbrush, or whatever. I don’t know if I have anything spare here.”

"Wait, where?"

"To where I am, I can't watch you all precious in my bed like that and not have you underneath me. It’s quite frankly a bit of an outrage.”

"I can't get in a helicopter on my own." You're sitting up as you try to absorb her words.

"You can and you will."

You swallow. Hearing her tap her phone too loudly through the speaker.

"I'll see you soon."

She hangs up before you get the chance to protest any further. Your hands in your hair and your body filled with exhaustion, you spot the sweater you'd taken off in the office folded neatly on a chair in the corner. Perfect.

It slips on softly over your clothes, the comforting smell of her against your arms as you head back down the stairs.

Leaving the bed makes you realize how tired you really are. Brain and body. Grabbing your bag and trying not to panic about the impending helicopter ride you'll have to face without her.

But she’ll be on the other end of it.

Hopefully the plan isn't to go far. Hopefully it's only a short ride like last time. Surely if it was any further she'd call the jet. If you close your eyes for the duration of the ride, perhaps it'll pass by quickly.

Sitting back on the leather couch is a little stiff, but at least you've heard her voice.

It's cooler down here despite the warmth from the floor, the city doing most of the lighting now, it appears to be on some sort of timer. A soft orange glow coming from down the hall to the security office.

The building hums as the elevator ascends to the penthouse suite. You check your phone, close to midnight. That must be the new guy, or even better, the driver. Your phone is low on charge, you really should have noticed this before.

There's probably still time to charge it, it surely takes a while to organize an entire helicopter.

When the ding sounds and the silver doors open, your entire body freezes.

Not the driver.

The man from the club.

Your legs jump up instinctively, taking a couple of steps back. Hoping the security heard him so you don't have to yell. Don't have to draw any more attention. This guy is clearly serious and his expression is nothing short of absolutely pissed.

“You.” His meaty finger is pointing at you, only a few steps made into the room before the security guard is out of his office and grabbing at the intruder, the struggle loud and uncomfortable in the hallway as you clutch your belongings.

The sound echoing through the high ceilings and uncushioned floors.

"Where the fuck is she?" He yells, struggling against the security guard, he's large but already out of breath, how the hell did he get in here?

"This is the guy from your door?" The security asks, shoving the bald guy to the floor, he's already tired himself out from struggling too much. He seems kind of drunk, exhausted and furious.

"Yeah. Yeah that's him. From the club too. He came to my house." You're pointing, shaking, your body feeling floaty with the panic that travels through your body. Breathing shallower than it should be.

"I just want to talk to her! Fuck! Jesus!"

But he's shaking the guard off like he's angrier than that.

"You have to make an appointment." The security is calm, so calm you understand why he's been employed, and just a second later while your heart is still pulsing behind your ears the elevator dings, another security guard and thank god, the driver.

Perhaps Agatha's life is always this chaotic and they simply don't even notice it anymore.

---

The car is a blur as you repeat the image of the man behind the elevator doors, behind the door of your apartment. His face as you were rushed out of the club. Your confusion hasn't eased, but the fear has.

It's quiet back here, but the familiarity is comforting and knowing she's at the other end of the line eases the shaking in your hands when you're presented with a helicopter again. On your own this time.

You're helped into it, presented the headphones and a bottle of water, you kind of wish it was a glass of wine, your bag on the seat next to you as you're closed into the vehicle.

It's a long few minutes of noises and buttons as you focus on breathing. In and out. Imagining her hand on yours again. She does this all the time, you can too.

She did say you'd have to get used to it.

But she said that about the espresso too.

"Good to go?" The driver asks through the headset, static and loud.

The blades begin spinning, your stomach doing flips as you tense your entire body as it leaves the ground. Don't be sick. Don't be sick.

"Yeah...where are we going?"

"Not a long ride, just to the island."

---

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[rebelsromantic-deactivated20260]

Suddenly, she’s twenty feet away - P1

Claire Debella x reader - 5.5 k || Part two

you’ve been together with her for the last three years, the last six weeks she became a stranger to you and she treated you as one of her employees

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, age gap (Claire 50, reader 28), alcohol, emotional neglect, toxic dynamics, heartbreak, no happy ending

A/N: I did have a good cry writing this. I broke my own heart. So prepare tissues

Rebelsromantic’s Masterlist

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰ ⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰

The transformation didn’t happen with a bang, it happened in a series of quiet, devastating erosions.

Three years ago, Claire Debella was a storm of charisma. She used to look at you with an intensity that made the rest of the room fall away. Back then, the age gap felt like a bridge rather than a wall. She’d come home from the capital, kick off her heels and pull you into her lap, burying her face in your neck. Talk to me about something that isn’t a budget deficit she’d murmur and you were her sanctuary.

You were the one who loosened her blazer after a grueling press conference and the only person allowed to see the exhaustion behind the Governor persona. But lately, the air between you has turned brittle.

The Silence started with small, shorter texts, missed dinners. Now, it’s a vacuum. She doesn't ask about your day, she gives you instructions for the evening’s gala.

When you reach for her hand, she finds a reason to pick up her phone or adjust her papers. Her skin, once warm and welcoming, now feels as cold as the marble in the foyer.

When she looks at you, she isn't looking at you. She’s looking through you, checking if your dress is appropriate for the cameras, treating you like a strategic asset rather than a partner.

But the last six weeks have felt like watching a beautiful house being boarded up, window by window, until you’re trapped inside the dark.

It used to be coffee in bed. You’d wake up to the smell of espresso and Claire’s hand resting on your hip, her thumb tracing circles through your silk slip. She’d tell you about her dreams or read you the headlines with a witty, cynical commentary that only you were allowed to hear.

Now, you wake up to an empty side of the bed. The sheets are already cold. When you find her in the kitchen, she’s already fully armored in a power suit, her eyes glued to an iPad.

“Good morning, Claire” you say, moving toward her for a kiss.

She turns her cheek at the last second, a purely mechanical movement. “Did you see the itinerary for the fundraiser in Greenwich?” she asks, not looking up.

“I did. I was thinking we could go to that little bistro afterward? Just us?” you as with a smile

She finally looks at you, but her eyes are like shutters. “Don't be tactile tonight. The press is going to be there, and we need to look professional, not distracted. And wear the navy dress. The green one is too youthful.”

Youthful. A code word for the gap she suddenly seems ashamed of. You retreat to the counter, your heart thudding a slow, painful rhythm.

"Claire?" you whisper, the sound catching in your throat.

She doesn't look up. Her pen continues its frantic dance across the paper, scratching out notes in that sharp, decisive handwriting. "I told Sarah I needed the briefing on the energy bill by ten" she says, her voice clipped and professional. "You’re late with the coffee."

"It's me, Claire. It's not Sarah." you saw with confusion

The pen stops. She finally looks up, but her blue eyes are flat, devoid of the soft crinkle at the corners that used to signify she was happy to see you. She looks at you the way she looks at a lobbyist she’s about to decline.

"Right" she says, her tone barely softening. "I’m busy. Did you need something specific, or are you just hovering?"

The word hovering hits worse than a slap. You think of the last four nights you spent muffled by the sound of the shower spray, sobbing into your palms so the security detail wouldn't hear you. You think of the age gap that people used to whisper about, how you defended her, saying her maturity was a gift, not a barrier. Now, she’s using that authority to shut you out completely.

By the second week of this cold war, you realize you are no longer her girlfriend, you are her Junior Consultant of Domestic Affairs. One Tuesday, you try to surprise her. You bring lunch to her office, the grilled peach salad she loves. You bypass her secretary, Sarah, with a knowing smile, but when you step into her private study, Claire doesn't smile back.

“I’m in the middle of a conference call, for God’s sake” she hisses, her hand covering the receiver.

“I just wanted to make sure you ate” you whisper, feeling the heat creep up your neck.

“I have people to make sure I eat. I need you to be at the residence preparing for the committee dinner. Go.” she says harshly.

She doesn't say I love you. She doesn't even say thank you. She watches you leave with the same impatient flick of her eyes she uses on a lobbyist who has overstayed their welcome. That night, you sit in the shower for forty minutes, the water scalding your shoulders, crying so hard your ribs ache. You realize you’re mourning a woman who is sitting just twenty feet away in the next room.

The sound of her typing is a mechanical insult. It fills the gaps between your ragged breaths, a steady clack-clack that says your heartbreak isn't nearly as important as her latest policy memo.

"An interruption" you repeat, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. "That’s what I’ve been for the last six weeks, Claire? An interruption?"

She doesn't look up, but her jaw tightens, a tiny muscle jumping in her cheek, the only sign she’s even listening. "I’m in the middle of a crisis with the transit union and you're standing there asking for a performance review of our relationship. Yes, it’s an interruption."

You step forward, your bare feet silent on the Persian rug, until you’re standing right at the edge of her massive desk. "I haven't asked for a performance review. I’ve been asking for you. For six weeks, I’ve been a ghost in this mansion. I’ve sat at those dinners and smiled at donors while you ignored me under the table. I’ve waited up until 2:00 AM just to see if you’d say goodnight and you just walked past me like I was a piece of furniture you were tired of looking at."

You lean down, forcing yourself into her line of sight. "I cried in the shower this morning so the maid wouldn't hear me, Claire. Do you even know what color my eyes are anymore? Or have you forgotten because you haven't looked at me in a month?"

Claire finally stops typing. She slowly removes her glasses and sets them on the desk with a terrifying precision. When she looks up at you, her face is a mask of cool, political steel. There is no Claire Debella, the woman who used to whisper poetry against your skin. There is only the Governor.

"You want me to acknowledge the six weeks?" she asks, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. "Fine. For six weeks, I have worked eighteen-hour days to ensure this administration doesn't collapse. For six weeks, I have been under a microscope. And for six weeks, I have come home to find you moping around this house, looking at me with those accusing eyes."

She stands up, her height intimidating, her presence filling the room until you feel small, despite being nearly two decades younger. She rounds the desk, walking toward you until you’re backed against the cold glass of the window.

"I don't have the luxury of being soft right now," she says, her face inches from yours. You can smell her expensive gin and the faint scent of the mints she uses to mask it. "I am a Governor. I don't have time to play house and reassure a twenty-eight year old that she’s still pretty and loved every five minutes. If you want a girlfriend who has bandwidth for your tears, go find a barista. I am trying to run a state."

The cruelty of it is so sharp it almost feels physical. You look at her, really look at her and you see the stranger she’s become. The woman who loved you would have been horrified by those words. This woman? She looks satisfied that she’s finally silenced you.

"You think this is about me being twenty-eight?" you whisper, a single tear escaping and tracking down your cheek. "It’s not. It’s about you being a coward, Claire. You’re using your job as an excuse to stop being a human being. You’re not busy, you’re just cold."

She flinches, a flicker of pain crossing her eyes before it's replaced by a sneer. "Are we done? Because I have a call with the Speaker in five minutes."

You realize then that you could be bleeding out on her rug and she would only be annoyed about the stain. The three years of warmth, the shared secrets, the way she used to hold you like you were the only thing keeping her grounded, it's all been traded in for power.

"Yeah" you say, your voice suddenly dead and hollow "We're done. In every sense of the word."

The sound of her scoff is the final nail in the coffin. It’s a sharp, ugly sound, the kind of noise she usually reserves for a political opponent who just made a tactical error. It isn't the sound of the woman who once told you, over a midnight glass of wine, that she didn't know how she ever breathed before she met you.

"Oh, please" Claire says, her voice dripping with a condescending exhaustion. She turns back to her desk, the movement dismissive and cold. "Don’t do the dramatic exit. It’s beneath you. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it really is just synonymous with theatrical."

"I’m leaving, Claire" you say and the calmness in your own voice surprises you. The shaking has stopped. The tears have dried into salt streaks on your cheeks. "I’m leaving for good. I’ll be out by tonight."

She doesn't even pause her typing. The clack sound resumes, steady and indifferent. "Fine. Send Sarah a list of what needs to be forwarded. I don’t want movers cluttering up the driveway during the press briefing tomorrow."

You walk up the grand, sweeping staircase of the mansion, your hand trailing on the cold marble bannister. Every step feels like unravelling three years of your life.

In the master bedroom, the room that used to smell like her expensive candles and your shared laughter, you pull a suitcase from the back of the walk-in closet. You don't fold things neatly. You throw in the silk dresses she bought you for galas, the oversized sweaters you used to wear when you watched movies together, and the jewelry that now feels like golden handcuffs.

You see the framed picture on the nightstand, the two of you in Maine, Claire’s hair windblown, her arm draped over your shoulder as she laughed at something you said. You leave it face down on the wood.

The house is terrifyingly quiet. You expect to hear her footsteps. You expect her to burst through the door, eyes wide with the realization that she’s losing the only person who actually loves her and not the office she holds.

The door remains closed.

An hour later, you’re standing in the foyer with two suitcases. Your eyes are red, but your head is clear. You look toward the library. The door is still slightly ajar. You can see the glow of her desk lamp spilling out onto the hallway floor.

You walk to the doorway one last time. She hasn't moved. She’s hunched over a document, a red pen in her hand, slashing through lines of text.

"I'm going” you say.

Claire doesn't look up. She doesn't even break her rhythm. "Close the front door firmly behind you” she says, her voice as flat as a dial tone. "The draft interferes with the thermostat."

"Goodbye, Claire." your voice breas, a tear running down your cheek

"Goodbye" she says, already moving to the next page of her brief.

As you pull your suitcases across the threshold, the heavy front door clicks shut with a finality that echoes in your bones. The evening air is biting, a sharp contrast to the climate controlled stillness of the mansion.

You walk down the long, paved driveway, the gravel crunching under your heels. You look back once at the second floor window, the Governor’s office. You see her silhouette through the glass. She hasn't stood up to watch you go. She hasn't moved to the window to see if you’re okay. She is already buried in her work, the space you occupied already being filled by polls, budgets, and the cold, hard pursuit of power.

She didn't just let you go. She erased you. And as you reach the gate, you realize the woman you loved didn't exist anymore, she had been hollowed out by the very thing she worshiped.

The gravel of the driveway feels like it's grinding into your soul with every step. You reach the end of the iron gates, the heavy bars clicking shut behind you, a sound that feels like a sentence being served. You’re standing on the sidewalk of the silent street, two suitcases at your feet and the cold night air biting at your face.

For a moment, you just stand there. You wait for the front door of the mansion to fly open. You wait for Claire to realize that the house is too quiet, that the person who loved her without an agenda is actually gone.

The door stays shut. The upstairs light remains a steady, uncaring glow.

Your hands are shaking so violently you almost drop your phone. You scroll through your contacts, your vision blurred by a fresh wave of hot, stinging tears. You hit the name of your best friend, Lena.

It rings twice. "Hey! I thought you were at that policy dinner tonight?"

"Lena" you choke out. Your voice is a jagged wreck. "Can you, can you come get me? I’m at the gates. I’m out. I’m done."

There’s a beat of shocked silence on the other end, then the sound of keys jingling. "I’m coming. Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m coming, okay?"

Those ten minutes feel like ten years. You sit on one of your suitcases, shivering in your thin coat. Every car that passes feels like a spotlight, and you're terrified a stray photographer will catch the Governor’s interruption crying on the curb like a runaway.

Finally, a familiar pair of headlights rounds the corner. Lena’s beat-up sedan screeches to a halt at the curb, a jarring contrast to the fleet of black SUVs usually parked behind the mansion gates.

The door hasn't even fully swung open before Lena is out. "Oh, honey" she breathes, seeing you collapsed there in the shadows.

As soon as she reaches you, the dam doesn't just leak, it bursts. You lunge into her arms, your fingers clutching the back of her denim jacket so hard your knuckles turn white.

The sobbing starts from the center of your chest, a raw, guttural sound that you’ve been stifling for six agonizing weeks. You wail into her shoulder, your body heaving with the weight of every cold shoulder, every dismissive scoff and every night you spent wondering what you did wrong to make the woman you worshipped turn into a glacier.

"She let me go" you gasp between ragged breaths, your face pressed into Lena’s neck. "She didn't even look up from her desk, Lena. I told her I was leaving forever and she told me to shut the door because of the thermostat."

"I've got you" Lena mutters, her own voice thick with anger on your behalf, her arms wrapping around you like a shield. "I've got you. Let it out. She’s an asshole. Let it all out."

You sob until your lungs burn, until your eyes are swollen and your throat is raw. You cry for the three years of memories that feel like lies now. You cry for the girl who thought she found her soulmate in a woman who turned out to be nothing but a collection of poll numbers and sharp suits.

Lena gently maneuvers you into the passenger seat, tucking a stray hair behind your ear with a tenderness that Claire hasn't shown you in months. She loads your suitcases into the trunk, the heavy thud of the lid sounding like the final period at the end of a very long, painful sentence.

As Lena pulls away from the curb, you catch one last glimpse of the mansion in the rearview mirror. The library light is still on. Claire is still in there, perfectly composed, perfectly successful and alone.

You turn your head away, burying your face in a handful of tissues and for the first time in six weeks, you aren't crying in the shower. You're crying in the light.

The drive to Lena’s apartment is a blur of streetlights and the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal, a sound that feels mockingly steady compared to the wreckage of your chest. Lena doesn't ask questions. She just drives, one hand on the steering wheel and the other reaching across the center console to squeeze your knee every time a fresh sob wracks your frame.

Lena has been your sister since you were ten years old. She saw you through your first heartbreak, your college graduation and eventually, the whirlwind romance with the most powerful woman in the state. She was the one who warned you three years ago that Claire Debella was a shark but she was also the one who held your hand when you insisted that Claire was different with you.

When you pull up to her modest apartment complex, the contrast to the Governor’s mansion is staggering. There are no security details here, no marble foyers, no suffocating silence. There’s just the smell of rain on asphalt and the sound of a neighbor’s television muffled through the walls.

"C'mon, honey" Lena murmurs, guiding you up the stairs. "Left foot, right foot. That's all we're doing tonight."

Inside, the air smells like vanilla candles and laundry detergent. It’s warm. It’s lived-in. It’s everything Claire’s world wasn't. Lena leads you straight to the overstuffed velvet sofa, the one Claire always joked was aesthetic clutter and pushes a heavy wool blanket into your arms.

You collapse into the cushions, the weight of the last six weeks finally crushing you now that you’re in a safe place to fall. Lena disappears into the kitchen and returns a moment later with a mug of tea and a box of tissues, sitting on the floor at your feet so she can look up at you.

"She’s a monster" Lena says quietly, her eyes fierce with a protective rage that Claire hasn't shown for you in years. "To let you walk out like that? After three years? After everything you sacrificed to stand by her side through that election?"

"I was an interruption, Lena” you whisper, your voice cracking as you stare into the steam of the tea. "That’s what she called me. Six weeks of me trying to save us and I was just a distraction from her transit union crisis."

The tears start again but they’re different now. They aren't the panicked, silent tears of the mansion. They’re the exhausted, hollow tears of someone who has finally stopped fighting a losing battle.

"She didn't even look up" you choke out, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. "I said Goodbye, Claire and she told me to shut the door because of the thermostat. Not, Don't go. Not, I'm sorry. Just the thermostat."

Lena reaches up and takes your hand, her grip solid and real. "You have your whole life ahead of you and you’ve been spending it trying to warm up a woman who is made of ice. Let her have her mansion. Let her have her polls. She’s going to wake up in a week and realize she traded a soul for a seat in the office, and you aren't going to be there to pick up the pieces."

You lean your head back against the sofa, closing your swollen eyes. For the first time in months, you don't have to worry about what you're wearing tomorrow for a press briefing. You don't have to worry if your eyes look too puffy for the cameras.

You’re just a girl on her sister’s couch, heartbroken and exhausted, but finally, finally out of the line of fire.

"I love her so much" you whisper to the quiet room.

"I know" Lena says, squeezing your hand. "But you’re going to love being yourself even more."

The tea in your hands has gone cold but you don't care. You’re staring at a frayed thread on Lena’s rug, your body trembling with a exhausted chill that no blanket can fix.

"She’s my person, Lena" you whisper, and the words sound like a confession of a crime. "She’s not just some politician I dated. She’s my heart. She’s my soul. How am I supposed to just stop? How do I breathe when she’s the one who’s had my air for three years?"

Lena’s face crumples. She’s known you through everything but she’s never seen you this hollowed out. She reaches up, taking the mug from your shaking hands and setting it on the coffee table so she can pull both of your hands into hers.

"I know she was" Lena says, her voice thick with a sympathy that feels like a physical weight. "I saw the way you two used to be. I saw it."

"She used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered" you sob, the memory hitting you like a physical blow to the chest. "Before the polls, before the re-election stress, she’d come home and just hold me. She’d tell me that the world was loud and ugly but that I was her quiet place. She’d kiss the palm of my hand and tell me she didn’t deserve me."

You let out a broken, jagged breath. "And I believed her. I gave her everything. Every secret, every dream, every ounce of my support. I built my entire life around being her shadow because I thought her light was worth it."

Lena watches you and you can see the tears welling in her own eyes. It’s one thing to see a friend get dumped, it’s another to see a woman as vibrant as you were three years ago become a ghost of herself for someone who didn't even say goodbye.

"It breaks my heart to hear you talk like that” Lena whispers, her voice cracking. "Because the woman you’re describing? The one who loved you? She’s not the one in that library tonight. That woman died somewhere on the campaign trail and she left you holding the bill."

"But I can still see her" you cry, pressing your face into your knees. "Under the coldness, under the Governor mask. I know she’s still in there. I kept waiting for her to come back. Every morning I’d wake up and think, maybe today she’ll remember me. Maybe today she’ll touch my hair and call me sweetheart again."

You look up at Lena, your eyes bloodshot and desperate. "How did I become an interruption? How do you go from being someone’s soul to being a nuisance in six weeks? I didn't change, Lena. I stayed right there. I stayed by her side through every scandal, every late night, every headache. I loved her through the worst of it, and she punished me for it."

Lena moves from the floor to the sofa, pulling you into her lap like you’re a child. She strokes your hair, her own tears finally spilling over. "I know, Hon. I know. You love her enough for both of you. That’s the problem. You gave her so much of your soul that you didn't leave enough for yourself."

You lean into her, the familiar scent of her laundry detergent finally grounding you. But the silence from your phone, the lack of a Where are you? or Come home, is a screaming reminder that while she is your entire world, you have become a footnote in hers.

"I don't know who I am without her" you admit into the dark of the living room. "I feel like my life just ended in a library."

Lena doesn't let go. She holds you while the clock on the wall ticks past midnight, letting you weep until your ribs feel bruised and your eyes are too heavy to stay open. She knows there aren't enough words in the world to fix a heart that’s been systematically frozen out, so she does the only thing a sister knows how to do.

"Stay right there" she commands softly, tucking the wool blanket tightly around your legs. "Don't move. I’m getting the heavy artillery."

She returns from the kitchen with two spoons and a pint of double-chocolate fudge ice cream, the kind Claire would never allow in the mansion because of the sugar content. Lena sits back down, pops the lid, and hands you a spoon.

"Eat" she says firmly. "It’s not a soulmate but it’s a start."

You take a small, trembling bite. The cold sweetness is a shock to your system. For three years, your life has been about fine wines, plated galas, and maintaining a Governor’s partner physique. Eating ice cream straight from the carton on a velvet sofa feels like a quiet act of rebellion.

"She used to hate when I ate in bed” you whisper, a ghost of a sad smile touching your lips. "She’d give me this look, that Governor Debella look and tell me crumbs were a sign of a cluttered mind."

"Well, the Governor isn't here" Lena says, taking a massive scoop for herself. "And honestly? Crumbs are better than a cold bed and a woman who treats you like a line item on a budget."

For the next hour, you talk. Not about the Governor but about you. Lena reminds you of who you were before you became Claire's shadow. She talks about the art you used to make, the way you used to laugh until you couldn't breathe and the fire you had before it was dampened by the weight of Claire’s expectations.

"You’re not an interruption" Lena says, her voice fierce as she scrapes the bottom of the carton. "You are the whole damn story. She’s just a chapter that went on for too long. You loved her with everything you had and if she was too small to hold that love, that is her tragedy, not yours."

"It just hurts so much" you admit, leaning your head on Lena's shoulder. "Knowing she’s probably sleeping soundly right now while I’m literally falling apart."

"She’s not sleeping soundly" Lena counters, though her voice is gentle. "She’s just staying busy so she doesn't have to feel the silence. But one day, the campaign will end, the office will be empty and she’s going to look around and realize she pushed away the only person who actually knew her name. And by then, you’ll be miles away from her."

Eventually, the exhaustion wins. The adrenaline of the breakup fades, leaving behind a leaden heaviness in your limbs. Lena leads you to the guest room, where the bed is made with mismatched, soft cotton sheets that smell like home.

"Phone on the nightstand" Lena instructs, kissing your forehead. "Don't check her Instagram. Don't check the news. If she calls, which she won't tonight, because she’s too proud, you let it ring. Understood?"

"Understood” you murmur, sliding under the covers.

When Lena turns out the light and closes the door, the darkness feels different than it did at the mansion. There, the darkness was full of Claire’s heavy silence and your own muffled tears. Here, it’s just quiet.

You lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Your heart still feels like a raw wound, and every time you close your eyes, you see Claire’s cold blue gaze behind her glasses. You still love her. You love her so much it feels like a physical ache in your marrow. But as you finally drift into a fitful sleep, you realize that for the first time in six weeks, you aren't waiting for a door to open or a phone to buzz. You're just breathing.

Back at the mansion, the silence is no longer a tool Claire uses for productivity, it has become a living thing, prowling the corners of the library.

The call with the Speaker ends with a sharp click. Claire stares at the black screen of her phone for a moment, her reflection caught in the glass, sharp, composed, and utterly victorious in the argument she just had. She reaches for her red pen, intending to finish the final three pages of the brief, but her hand hovers an inch above the paper. The rhythm is gone. The mechanical drive that has propelled her for the last six weeks suddenly feels like gears grinding against sand.

She’s tired. A bone-deep, heavy exhaustion that settles into her shoulders. She stands up, her joints stiff, and moves to the crystal decanter on the sideboard. The amber liquid splashes into the glass, another gin. She takes a long, slow swallow, letting the burn numb the edges of her mind.

"Sarah?" she calls out, her voice echoing off the mahogany walls.

No one answers. Her staff went home hours ago. Usually, this is the time you would appear, poking your head through the door, wearing one of her oversized cashmere sweaters, asking if she was finally ready for bed.

Claire scoffs into her glass, a ghost of that earlier condescension flickering in her eyes. “Dramatic” she mutters to the empty room. She’s convinced you’re just in the guest room, or perhaps sulking in the kitchen.

She makes her way up the grand staircase, her heels clicking like a metronome on the marble. She enters the master suite, the air-conditioning humming a low, mournful tune. She doesn't turn on the overhead lights, preferring the dim amber glow of the hallway.

She sets her drink on the nightstand, on your side.

"I hope you're done with the theatrics" she says toward the bathroom door, expecting to hear the shower running or the rustle of a silk robe.

Silence.

She frowns, walking over to the bed. The silk duvet is pulled tight, perfectly smooth. No indent where a body had been resting. No discarded book. No scent of your floral perfume lingering in the air. Claire feels a strange, cold prickle at the back of her neck. It’s the first time in three years she hasn't felt your presence in this room.

She walks toward the walk-in closet, her hand already reaching for the handle to hang up her blazer. "If you're hiding in here to make a point, it's-"

She stops.

The door swings open, and the motion-sensor lights flicker on with a cruel, clinical brightness. Claire’s breath hitches.

The left side of the closet is a graveyard of empty hangers.

The space where your sundresses used to hang in a riot of color is now just a bare wooden rod. The shelf where your shoes sat, the heels you hated but wore for her, the sneakers you wore when you walked the grounds, is empty. Even the small velvet tray where you kept your everyday jewelry is gone, leaving behind nothing but a faint outline in the dust.

Claire’s hand drops from the doorframe. She moves deeper into the closet, her fingers brushing against the empty space. She finds one thing, a single silk scarf you must have dropped in your haste. She picks it up, and the scent of you hits her like a physical blow. It’s warm, sweet, and vibrantly alive, everything she has spent the last six weeks trying to extinguish.

The glass in her other hand trembles. She walks back into the bedroom and looks at the nightstand. The framed photo of the two of you in Maine is there, but it’s lying face down.

She reaches out, her fingers shaky as she flips it over. In the photo, she is laughing, really laughing, because you had just whispered something ridiculous in her ear. She looks at her own face in the picture and barely recognizes the woman. That woman had a heart. That woman had a home.

“Sweetheart…” she says in a whisper, the tears whelming up in her eyes.

She knows you’re left and the realization is hitting her harder than she’d ever admit. The silence of the mansion suddenly feels deafening. There is no one downstairs to make coffee in the morning. There is no one to tell her the truth when she’s being too hard.

There is no one who loves Claire, there is only a world that wants something from the Governor.

She sinks onto the edge of the bed, your side of the bed and the coldness she used to wear like armor starts to feel like a shroud. You weren't an interruption. You were the only thing making the noise worth listening to.

And for the first time in six weeks, the Governor of the state has absolutely no idea what to do next.

[prettypurplewitch]

Early Riser Part 19

CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU

Other parts & Tip jar

Word count: 8k+

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power dynamics, implied toxic relationship, d/s dynamics, absurd mean sugar mommy behavior, Agatha is emotionally constipated but trying, degradation and a lil sweetness as always, jealousy, talking about previous sexual encounters, minor blood ( lip bite), gambling, crime, sex, cigar smoking, gum sharing, cliffhanger ( sorry ), corruption

"Don't think of it as cheating, think it's just like giving everything to me on purpose." It's dangerous, and it's stupid. But she's smiling and you're smiling and maybe you're unsure of who you are now. Maybe changed for the worst. Maybe you were always supposed to be like this. "I always know what's best for you, don't I?" She adds as she laughs, watching your body relax against her. Knowing she has you right where she wants you.

Agatha's hand is firm on your wrist as she pulls you into the club. A place you'd never even noticed not too far from the penthouse. The penthouse. Like it’s some kind of shared commodity. Though with the amount of time you’re spending there, it’s starting to feel like it is.

The smell of the place hits you first. Smoke and liquor and something like a fog machine. It's dark outside, the street lit only by the purple neon sign hanging above the door.

It doesn't seem like somewhere she'd suggest. Expecting somewhere quiet and cozy. The warmth of the conversations inside is in your nostrils as she pushes past the line, the security moving out the way to let you in without so much as a second glance.

Air thick as she continues on her course. Lights and laughter. Dancing and flirting. Her grip firm as she guides you between the tables. The room parts instantly as you move past the wandering eyes of the guests. Her body and eyes forward, never looking back like you’re swept away in a movie scene.

You suspect you have a lot more to learn about her.

The place is a playground for the socialites you can't tell if you recognize properly. Classy and trashy and the rules out the window.

Men playing poker around a tiny table, a fully stocked bar, maybe for wine? And skimpy waitresses who must be making a killing on tips. The bass booming in a song you'd never heard before. A mix of seductive and dangerous. The lighting dim, the walls plush.

Is this really someplace she comes? The woman who won't stay outside for too long? The woman who sanitizes her hands after petting a dog? It doesn't seem right.

She hadn't said much before you left, just excused herself to the bathroom and called you into the elevator before you'd finished putting your socks on.

The plush suit is still soft against her skin as she moves under the orange glow, you try to pry your eyes away from it, knowing she's covered in champagne and covered in you.

The diamonds around your neck remain despite being back in your clothes, and maybe you'd be wildly uncomfortable being here if she wasn't here with you.

Suddenly her hand is off your wrist, finally turning to see you when you're pulled into the private booth.

VIP ONLY written on a half-wall, a soft black couch and a small table lit only by a candle. Agatha plops down onto the couch, shrouded in the shadows but not nearly as private as you'd like. Minimalist and unassuming.

Her eyes are bright and wild as you stand in front of her, waiting for some kind of explanation to her sudden desire to come here. It seems out of character. And does she always drink this much?

Closer to the version of her Rio was talking about on the island. Wild and spontaneous and free. You thought those days were long gone. The days of reckless abandon favored by paperwork and espresso.

Your lip between your teeth as she gets settled, a smile creeping across her face as she watches you decide where to sit. Opposite her. Next to her.

You don't have to think for long.

She taps her thigh twice, you look around instinctively, are you allowed to do that here?

"Babygirl I don't have all night."

You swallow, clouded in the darkness of the corner and the half-wall that can't be doing all that much. Surely somebody could look over and see. Is this relationship, or whatever, supposed to be a secret?

Sure you signed an NDA but you'd never had the conversation, not properly. Perhaps it's an unspoken rule of this place.

Perhaps that's why she comes here.

She doesn't back down, raising an eyebrow in confusion and frustration.

She must mean it, she always means it. So you hold back your questions and climb onto her lap.

Her hands are warm and firm when they grasp your waist, settling you so your legs are draped across hers, fingers possessive against your thigh as you settle.

Perhaps she's not as afraid of this as you thought.

Or you're pulling it out of her.

But this is heaven and you could very easily get used to this, fingers tangling in the thick of her hair as the music envelops you. As people walk nearby, but don't quite look over. Public and affectionate and comforting. Claimed and cherished and wined and dined. Waking up in her bed after she begged for you back, sharing a cooked meal and sitting on her lap as the bass booms through the speakers.

This might not be a real relationship, but it sure is starting to feel like one.

Agatha clears her throat, beginning to form a word when she's thrown off by the sound of footsteps approaching, a waitress stopping a few feet away.

So much for privacy.

You play it casual.

Maybe if you don't look at her, she won't see you.

A little embarrassed to be draped across her like this all of a sudden, almost forgetting her reputation for a moment. This woman doesn't know you. She doesn't know Agatha holds your hand. She doesn't know you actually mean something to her.

Don't you?

"The usual, Ms Harkness?" She calls, and the sudden irritation is hard to ignore.

An unwelcome woman.

Causing unwelcome jealousy.

And if you're jealous around every woman who looks at Agatha like that, being in public with her is going to be extremely difficult.

Suddenly you want this woman to see you. To notice you and realize you're important. Pressing further into Agatha's lap as her hand stays firm on your thigh, holding you in place.

She’s tall and blonde, a short skirt and a polite smile.

You shouldn’t hate her.

She’s a woman doing her job.

But maybe the CEO’s possessiveness is rubbing off on you.

"Thank you."

Agatha responds in a calm and professional manner, it's then you notice the waitress placing down one single neat whiskey on a literal silver platter.

You are on her lap, after all. There's no need to be jealous.

She smiles, but it’s clearly not at you. No attention paid to you whatsoever.

No offer of a drink.

No anything.

“One for me too, would you?” You call out to her before she heads out. Your pulse beating a little too hard even though there's no reason to be nervous.

Agatha's chest vibrates with low laughter at your response.

You don’t want the whiskey. You won’t drink the whiskey. This isn’t about that.

The waitress nods at your words, still refusing your gaze until she’s out of earshot.

"At the rate of sounding wildly cheesy–" your fingers toy with the creases on Agatha's now crumpled shirt collar "–you come here often?"

The creases. How you grabbed at her collar less than an hour ago. How she whimpered into your ear when she was inside of you.

Her eyes roll as she tilts her head back to get a better look at you and you almost forget you said something stupid.

"Not in a while."

"Why?"

Her grip is firmer against your thigh. Leaning a little closer to you, the champagne still on her breath. The heat of her skin warming you through the clothes separating you.

"You always ask so many questions, do you ever just enjoy things?"

There's a hint of annoyance in her voice, though it's mostly playful. Still, she's right. She's come here for fun. She doesn't want to be pressed further right now.

Not here. Not in the VIP section of this random club.

Maybe it isn’t that important. Maybe she just didn’t like dancing anymore.

Which reminds you.

"I thought you wanted to dance?"

Agatha's teeth are perfect when she smiles.

"I want you to dance for me." She gestures to the floor before her, covered with minimal privacy and candlelight.

You scoff without another thought.

"You want me to give you a private dance right here? Who do you think I am?"

But the tension between you is gone, not the sexual tension. The kind of tension that came first. Terrifying and uncomfortable and unpredictable.

“What’s wrong with here?” Her tone is accusatory.

“Maybe I just don’t want to.”

She doesn't scare you anymore. Not when she's smiling like this with her body pressed against yours. Not when you're wearing the diamonds she bought you and you brewed her coffee while her hair was still a mess from sleep. It's different now. In a good way.

She can frighten you when she needs to.

But you like that too.

Maybe it's silly, maybe it's dangerous. But she gives your hip a playful squeeze. Her tone dead serious as she talks and all you can think about is how fun it would be to push her buttons.

"I think you do whatever I want you to do. Don't you?"

That look is back in her eyes, hunger and winning.

So you tease her. Leaving her embrace as gracefully as you can.

You miss her lap as soon as you step away from her. Instantly colder despite the heat of the room. The music seems louder even just a few inches away from the cozy corner.

Agatha's arms settle back either side of her head. Relaxing into her personal show.

A perfect day for her.

Deals, money and sex.

Expensive wine and an even more expensive dinner, sealed only by lap dance from her perfect assistant in a dark and somewhat sleazy club you can't quite get the vibe of.

But that's too bad.

You're grabbing at that suit like it's not worth thousands of dollars and this isn't your boss. Your brain too high on the night for the fear of consequence, focused on the fun, on the wealth, on being untouchable and hers.

The look on her face is fury, but her body is loose and she lets you pull her up without too much hesitation, trying to hide her smile.

Maybe this is why she likes you, actually likes you. In a way that makes her drink your espresso when nobody is looking so you aren't embarrassed.

Maybe it's something else entirely.

"Can you not dance?" you tease as she's a little too stiff. Her body flush against yours as you wrap your arms around her neck. Still feeling daring despite everything you already told yourself.

How she doesn't really scare you. But the thrill of someone so powerful wrapping her arms around your waist, like a vampire hunting its prey, and you’re unlocking the fucking door.

"I'm not usually the one dancing." She sinks her teeth into your neck as she leans into you, like she can hear your thoughts. You want to yelp. You gasp instead. "I was asking for a lap dance."

Her mouth hot against your ear as you sway to the music, trying to warm her up.

"I know what you were asking for." You bite your lip. "You said you wanted to take me dancing. So now you're saying you can't dance?"

She rolls her eyes because of course you're already bothering her. Her face is tinted with the purple neon that spreads across the club, lost in the hue of her skin. "Of course I can dance. I'm exceptional. At everything."

The hands on your waist move lower, certain and firm as she pushes away any air between you. It's fiery and intentional when she moves your hips for you, encouraging you to keep moving to the music. It's warm and she's making you sweat just from her body being so close, the cool of her expensive watch contrasting against your body.

"If you wanted a lap dance, I could have done it in your penthouse." You offer, not that you could truly complain about being here. As strange as this feels.

Perhaps it's the sense of normality. Dancing with a woman on a sticky floor.

"You want to be cooped up in my lair all day?" She chuckles, pulling you a little closer.

"Your lair? What are you, the Joker?"

"Don't ever say that to me again." Her voice is firm like she's dead serious. "And maybe…maybe I wanted people to see you with me."

It's hard not to gasp at her words. Or cry. Or fall apart entirely.

"You like the risk of getting caught?" You ask quietly, studying her face under the neon. She swallows. That must be what she means. Surely not showing you off, not going public.

"You looked so pretty between my thighs when I was on the phone earlier." Her words spread warmth straight through your body. "Maybe I just wanted to keep it going."

Luckily you're able to maintain your composure on the outside, despite the intense beating of your heart inside of your chest.

"Just doing my job."

"My pretty assistant. I should keep you under the desk at the office. Maybe I should try it while we're in a meeting next."

"Oh you'd like that." You tease.

"Maybe I should make it a new rule for you, keep you stuffed with mommy's cock while she talks to all her clients."

She raises her eyebrow when you react by slapping her collarbone playfully.

"Ms Harkness, that is extremely unprofessional."

You fail at holding back the laugh inside of you.

"You're being bad." She purrs, Voice low, some of the bass of it getting lost in the music.

"You like it."

"Like you like my money."

And she will not let you forget that, the admittance of your love for the security she brings you, and the unpredictable lifestyle that might come with it.

But you know all the right things to get under her skin.

"Like I love your money."

Her hands are on your face before you can register them, keeping you steady, her grip probably a little too firm for what should be a gently flirtatious interaction.

"How'd you like more?" When you can finally settle your eyes on hers, it's a look you've never seen before.

Similar to the look she gives you when she's looking down upon you, similar to when she's closing an exceptional business deal.

But not quite the same.

Those hands push back your hair. Her head tilting to see your response.

Her voice is low and dangerous, holding you like she wants your full attention.

"You want to help me with something?"

You stop moving entirely, you don't know what she means, but you know it can't be good.

The one time she's suggested a normal date activity and you know already she's plotting something chaotic and almost certainly problematic.

Unless she just means working, which is even worse, so you have to get out with it.

"Help you with what?"

Please be something sexy. Please be something sexy.

Her voice is slow and sly, lips in a smile as she holds you firmly in her arms that are uncharacteristically strong for someone surviving off of whiskey, sugary coffee and pasta. Your heart beats against hers, knowing you couldn't get away even if you wanted to, especially with that tracker on your phone and her name on your rent payments.

It should be terrifying.

When you arrived at her office, you were independent and strong-headed.

Now you’re trapping yourself in the arms of a woman who could do anything she wanted with you.

Why does it feel good?

And why do you laugh when she suggests her plan?

"You help me win that poker game out there."

"Help you win? I don't know how to play poker." You blurt. Why would a woman with everything want to win something as trivial as poker?

Her tongue pokes her cheek as her hands return to your waist, refusing to set you free.

"You don't have to play, you just have to read the cards. Stand at the back over there behind the big bald guy, and–" her voice lowers, eyes looking around just a little bit, certain that nobody can hear. Or doesn't care. "–then you tell me what they are. You see?"

You try to wriggle back instinctively at her suggestion but the look on her face is a mix of desire and pure amusement.

You settle instantly.

"You want me to help you ch–" her hand covers your mouth before you get the chance to say the word.

"Don't you like a little fun?" Her eyebrows raise as she asks releasing you. Her voice dripping with seduction and oh.

This isn't about the money at all.

This is a power play.

"And what, you give me the money?"

The laugh that leaves Agatha's mouth is sharp and hearty. "God no. But I can take you shopping with it, if you're good."

"I'm always good."

She doesn't give you the satisfaction of a response, only pressuring the situation further. Fingertips snaking up your arm.

"Don't think of it as cheating, think it's just like giving everything to me on purpose."

It's dangerous, and it's stupid. But she's smiling and you're smiling and maybe you're unsure of who you are now.

Maybe changed for the worst.

Maybe you were always supposed to be like this.

"I always know what's best for you, don't I?" She adds as she laughs, watching your body relax against her. Knowing she has you right where she wants you.

And whether it's the high you're on from being this intertwined with her life, or the afterglow of the champagne sex has truly caused derealization, you seem to be doing her dirty work for her anyway.

---

You hold the silver tray the waitress dropped off, cool on the palm of your hand as the single scotch still sits centre. Standing close to the much too small table behind the man she had pointed out.

You never did get that drink from the pretty blonde waitress. Not seeing her again in a way that feels too intentional.

Hopefully you scared her off.

You want to scold yourself, but you don't have time for that. Watching the bald man check his hand.

He's clumsy with his cards, and you pretend to blend in with the other waitresses, despite feeling more out of place than you ever have.

Agatha is sat legs apart in the tiny chair, pompous and obnoxious as she pretends to take the game very seriously.

It's hard to pry your eyes away from her. The pale of her skin in the colored lighting. The way she reaches into her suit packet for some gum and placing it on her tongue. Not drinking. Clear head.

She doesn't look at you, you know she can't blow her cover.

But you can look at her, hair messier than it was this morning from your hands in it.

You had expected to feel guilty, stressed. You'd never have done something like this before her. Not wanting to get in trouble, and never needing to get into such a ridiculous situation.

But Agatha loves a ridiculous situation, it seems, and the rush you get from knowing she can get away with anything is buzzing inside of you. The way she pays and talks her way out of problems, sitting on the too-tiny table with confidence oozing out of her.

Ruminating thoughts in your head. What if you get spotted? What if they kick you out?

But they settle as you watch her.

You know Agatha would be there for you. Of course she would. And with every passing day you feel closer and closer to truly believing it.

The first section of the game went by too slowly, with her winning small subtle amounts to not attract too much attention. It's hard for her to act natural when she's spitting jabs at her opponents to throw them off guard.

It would have been painfully boring if she wasn't so magnificent to look at. If she hadn't taken her jacket off midway through, rolling up her sleeves when it got warmer. The suspenders over her shirt that's still crumpled and unbuttoned at the top from where you clawed at her earlier and in this moment she feels like yours.

The same way your skin is eternally covered in her bruises, you've left your mark. Even subtly. In a way she could have quickly fixed, but actively decided against.

With certainty, you know you'll be back in her bed tonight. Maybe if you're lucky, every night.

Your eyes blink hard as you try to focus on this game and definitely not on the too-early feelings you're trying to push down.

So far, nobody has noticed you standing nearby. Or if they have, they haven't said anything. Lurking and pretending to deliver the same drink to several people in the area without actually talking to anyone.

Agatha's words were simple.

“Touch your pretty necklace if they flash an ace. Touch your pretty lips if it's a pair.”

A few others you're trying not to forget as the game gets longer and the situation gets more heated. Drinks are sloshed around. The cards aren't in the best shape. The poker players are oblivious, but what's even easier is that this isn't a casino and these men are drunk.

And of course, Agatha despite her incessant cockiness is also extremely clever, losing a couple so she doesn't draw suspicion. Not that it's helping her case. The large man in front of you slurring and getting angrier with every passing minute. Her entire demeanor only irritating him more as his ego grows and shrinks in time with her wins.

"Fuckin' Christ. Much better before you came over here. You got an earpiece in or somethin?" He snarls as he points at her. You swear you see steam coming from the bald of his head.

Her touched-up lipstick is still a little smudged at the corner, another claim you haven't mentioned, just in case she hadn't noticed. Lips in a polite smile as he rages. Throwing her arms back at such a bold accusation.

"What a ludicrous remark darling! Don't be a sore loser." She chirps and tuts like she isn't actively cheating literally right now.

He slams his fist down in response.

"Just because you don't know how to play doesn't make me a cheat." She pouts.

That does it.

She's making him angrier on purpose.

He moves his hands erratically, giving you a good look at his cards again. This table is too small for secrets and every time Agatha gets him fired up he forgets he's supposed to be playing it cool.

He peeks carelessly at his whiskey soaked cards again.

Which means you get a nice, long look.

Her eyes don't pass over to you, somehow extremely obvious and intentionally careful at the same time.

You touch your neck to signal to her, as casually as you can. The outrageous diamonds against your skin as you balance this drink that grows dustier every passing second. It smells like her. Like it would burn you.

The man bets big.

Of course he does.

She's jeering at him to go all in before she does the same. Doing what she does best. Asserting her dominance by being difficult.

But surely she can't be this confident. She can't be this lucky. He looks around once, you suppose to double check if there's anyone behind him. Fuck. You turn quickly, grabbing and sipping on the burning liquid in your hand to blend in.

She'd laugh at you if she wasn't at least a little bit trying to act casual.

Deciding on his final move, he calls.

The money is hers before you know it and the man is kicking at the table, scrambling to his feet and marching over to his friends who yell and pat his shoulder.

Agatha remains unbothered, collecting her jacket and the thick envelope of cash, unfazed by the scramble of the men just a few inches away from her.

"Well lovely playing with you gentlemen, have a pleasant evening." She signs off, nodding her head towards the corner of the room. You catch the signal easily, dropping the whiskey tray on the table and following after her in way you hope is reading as natural and not 'i just cheated in poker'.

The men don't seem to notice, the big one being consoled by his friends as security eye him. Another drink placed into his hand already.

Agatha makes a dramatically wide smile as she shakes the envelope like she's luring over a dog with treats. You'd roll your eyes if you weren't so filled with adrenaline.

As you approach her, her hands are on you instantly. Pushing you back into the wall, which turns out to be a door. Your body falling back as she catches you, giggling to yourself as you're able to touch her again. Wrist aching a little from the way you were standing with the tray, even though nobody had instructed you to hold it like that.

Assuming you're sneaking into a restricted area, you try to move back towards where you entered, surprised when Agatha grabs your hand and pulls you up a staircase instead.

She isn't communicating at all. Just directing you with arm pulls and the sound of paper on paper. It's sleek and steel back here, with small orange lights and the smell of smoke in the area.

"Agatha." You whisper as she pulls you up behind her. She ignores you, set on whatever destination she's heading to.

"Hey. Agatha. I don't think we should be back here." You try again, but you're already at the top of stairs in a little corridor. A glass wall that overlooks the entire club, the shape of it makes more sense now. A little stage with drums and a whiskey bar, not a wine bar at all. 

People dancing in the fog. Sweaty bodies and friends doing shots.

More doors up here, all black and all reading PRIVATE, but she's pushing one of them open before you can protest.

The music bounces beneath the floor, muffling the sounds from below. The ground in here a soft cream carpet in contrast with the dark sticky floors outside, the smell of cherry and liquor in the air already as her lips are on your neck without hesitation.

You sigh as her body weight pushes against you.

Alone at last.

Your back against the closed door, eyes trying to adjust to the room before she's pinning your hands above you with one arm, her body trapping you against the door as she clutches the envelope with the other hand. Unable to leave even if you wanted to.

As ever, of course you don’t.

"You did so good out there." She whispers against your neck, "so proud of you."

Breathing heavy from the praise, head turning so she can leave her marks the way she likes to. She's aroused from the power and the money and the cheating and fuck, are you too?

When her mouth leaves your neck, she's impossibly close to your face. Her perfect facial features enhanced by the warm lighting as she looks at you with awe and desperation.

You don't wait or ask for permission, you kiss her deep and hungry, feeling her smile against your lips as her tongue meets yours, releasing your wrists as she pulls you closer at the waist, your chest, your ass. Grabbing and gasping. Hands tangling in her hair as she walks you over to a different part of the room you haven't quite noticed.

"I wanna count it." She catches her breath when she parts from you. Eyes blue and eager. Your fingers toy with the crumple of her collar, drifting a little lower.

Agatha freezes as you slowly unbutton another expensive button on that shirt, tracing the crumple of her collar with your fingertips. She's outrageously beautiful and a sea of red flags, but she's yours. Her skin buzzing with electricity as you touch her softly. Not sure why she's not already attacking you. You want to fuck her in this shirt, and you want to clean and iron it for her the morning after.

"Count it." You tell her, watching her smile grow, the fine lines either side of her mouth are delicious, but she's in her element now, pulling away from you and pulling the cash out. A stack thick with crisp and crumpled bills alike. Only an inch more of her chest exposed, but you did that.

"Why don't you come down here while mommy counts her money, hm?" She points to the ground, your eyes finally taking in the things in the room that aren't just her.

A dimpled leather sofa, a mahogany nightstand and another Persian rug? She's settling onto the leather before you can ask a question, legs spread as she points again to the ground between them.

You don't think about the fact this is a public space, or how dirty the floor probably is, you do as you're told. Resting your head against her knee as she slaps the cash down next to her. This is a private room. Has she hired it for the two of you?

Her delay as she opens the nightstand gives you a second to focus yourself, watching her delicate hands pull out a cigar from the drawer. Engraved into the depth of the wood:

A.H

You laugh immediately as she trims the cigar. No fucking way.

"Agatha, is this your club?"

Isn't she old money? Fancy and classy and raised probably on a french horse? Why on Earth does she own a sleazy socialite club she's never spoken about?

"You're observant." She smiles, reaching for a match and slamming the door shut. "I'm banned from the other clubs nearby so I just bought this one."

You close your eyes so you don't keep laughing, she seems serious right now and you don't want to ruin it. Why would she buy this place? Is this how she likes to party?

You think of the island, of the dainty glasses of champagne on arrival and the immaculate fire pit. Conversations about art and taxes.

This is not that.

Still with so many questions, but she's positioning your head away from her knee and holding you steady in front of her.

Your face in one hand and her cigar in the other as she presses either side of your lips, opening your mouth.

"Open."

You obey in trust as she spits her gum onto your tongue before you can object. "You take everything mommy gives you, don't you? You're welcome, hon." She coos, closing your mouth for you.

With the gum out of the way, she finally takes a draw of the cigar, flicking through the stack with her free fingers. It tastes very faintly of mint, but mostly of her.

"Thank you." You reply instinctively, the taste of her on your tongue as she tastes the smoke. Sat tall above you, exuding power and sex in this suit that smells like the two of you and a four thousand dollar bottle of champagne. The money in a stack in her hand as she takes a long, yearning look at you.

Before throwing the cash all over the room.

Ridiculous, with two hands and the cuban between her lips. Throwing it like you're stripping and not patiently waiting for instruction with a smile that's high on the essence of this life that she hides from everybody.

She's laughing, reaching forward to caress your face and most importantly not yelling, which means all the money must be there.

Or she doesn't care about that at all.

"So good. So damn perfect for me all the time. You did this." She gestures to the piles forming around you as the paper settles on the floor.

"Thank you." You repeat, settling into this headspace as she settles into her own. Tracing your cheekbones with the back of her hand.

Agatha's cherry perfume hits your nose as she leans forward, blowing out the cigar smoke between her lips as she decides what to do with you. How to celebrate her win. Whether this date will ever end or if this is even part of it.

You breathe her in, the perfume and the smoke. You know she's expecting you to cough, or to back away. You don't. You shuffle forward. Wanting more.

Wanting her in whatever form it takes.

It shouldn't be sexy. But it's Agatha, so it is. She's everywhere. Her smoke in your face, between your lips, in your lungs.

Another draw of the cigar.

Another blow onto you.

You breathe.

You don't break eye contact.

She swallows.

Interrupted with a knock on the door that brings you back to reality, almost.

This new reality.

The waitress from earlier, pretty and holding a clipboard is in the room before Agatha even gives her the clear to come in. "Ms Harkness I was just wondering if you'd be needing–"

She stops when her eyes move down to you, not enough time to scramble off the floor, and quite frankly not wanting to. Not when this is her space and you know this woman has signed an NDA. Obviously. Not when you're still a little jealous from earlier. She knows Agatha's drink order and that is your job.

Needing what?

"I can see you're already being taken care of." She smiles, a little forced, actually extremely forced as she shuts the door.

Agatha quickly running a hand over your hair and raising the cigar back to her lips. Slipping right back into it without so much as a second thought.

And you wish you could keep going but seeing that woman has stirred up a new pot of feelings inside of you.

"Taken care of?" You try not to sound so infuriated at the implication. Trying not to seem so curious about the whole thing, she didn't bring a drink here. "Does she think I'm staff?"

"Technically you are staff."

You'd roll your eyes if the slap you received wouldn't derail the conversation. "That's not what I mean."

She laughs in response. Rolling out her neck like she's tense. You can't shake the feeling in your chest from the intrusion.

"What did she mean?"

Her jaw tenses above you just a little as she decides whether or not to tell you.

You spit the gum onto her rug.

"Hey! Do you know how expensive that is?" She clicks in front of your face like she's trying to train you, eyebrow raised still waiting for an answer.

Even with Agatha being easier to read. Even with her emotions and temper being more consistent with you. Even with you being accepting of her mind games. Every day you spend with her it feels like two steps forward and one step back. Too much mess and too many problems.

But she could never be too much for you.

"You can tell me." You encourage, staying in your place. This is resistance, but it's not a fight.

She takes another puff, pondering how to word it. Deciding on blunt but bored.

"She means I don't need another girl in here, because you're in here."

She gestures to you.

Another girl?

"Another girl? Is she—"

She clears her throat like she might be uncomfortable in this situation.

"Well, sometimes. Or...fuck. Sometimes she brings me somebody. You know, when i'm here alone."

You close your eyes to try and process this.

Maybe you should have asked about the women outside of her assistants.

The jealousy feels like lava under your skin.

"Why do you want to hear this?" She adds, stubbing the rest of the smoke out on the nightstand. A delicate silver ash tray waiting for her.

The waitress probably put that there. Fuck. Do not let her into your head again right now.

You aren't sure why you want to hear it. Or even if you do. And you aren't sure how far you want to go, how many questions you want to ask. Whether you should ask any.

But you're special. Aren't you? You're the lipstick smudge she hasn't cleaned up. The crumple on her shirt.

And that feels good.

"How many?"

"What?"

"How many girls do you get up here?"

"Jesus. I don't know. In this room?"

"Yeah."

"I mean...." She takes a second like she might be counting and then grimaces. " I have no idea. It's not like I tally these things."

You swallow. Is not remembering better or worse?

"And that woman?"

"Mhm." She's standing above you before you know it, towering above you as you stay on your knees. "Is that what you want to hear from me? You want to hear about me using pretty girls and forgetting their names? What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with you?" You bite back, it's risky, probably the most risky thing you've ever said and you regret it as soon as you do. You didn't mean it like that. You don't get a second to take it back before she's shoving you down and bending you over the couch. Leaning down with her fingers in under your waistband before you can say sorry.

The delicate strokes of her fingers slither down your ass until she feels you undeniably wet against her.

"Oh. I get it. You get off when I hurt you, it's pathetic." And you feel it, trying to press against her, feeling torn between feeling special and wondering if she said that to everyone she had right here on this certainly filthy couch.

"Does it make you feel important when I touch you? Is that why you like it?" You don't know, so you don't respond. She sits herself firmly back down on the couch, her other hand grabbing you by the scalp when you don't respond to her.

"Tell me."

"I— I don't know."

"I fucked them here, you know that?" She pushes, trying to get a reaction out of you. You feel small at her words.

Just another number.

Fighting back tears to prevent her satisfaction as she releases your hair.

"I did exactly this, bent them over this imported furniture, fucked them until I felt better and didn't think about them again. They'd beg me to let them back in here with me."

You whine as her finger grazes your clit much too gently.

"Begging me to fuck them again, begging me to ruin them."

She withdraws her hand at the sound, pressing your face into the couch.

"It's harder to restrain in here, so i'd hold them down like this so I didn't have to look at them. That what you want to hear?"

You gasp heavy when she finally releases the pressure on you. You look up at her through your eyelashes. Watery and uncertain.

She looks back down at you. Jaw tight. Nostrils flared.

Chest heaving as she tries to process, or perhaps the opposite. To push the feelings down.

You blink in the silence of not knowing where you stand.

Then,

She taps her thigh twice. Your body aches already from the ground as you follow your orders again, straddling her as she digs her fingers into your thighs.

Back where you belong.

"Do you think I feel good about that?" She whispers.

You don't know. You can't tell.

You suspect it's complicated.

Her eyes flick down to the diamonds and back up to your eyes, your lips. Swallowing as she takes you in.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Cute?”

“Cute.”

Her hands cradle your face, slipping her thumb between your lips. Watching you suck on her. Taste her.

She isn't trying to make you angry.

She's proving a point.

Not one of hers. Not another number. Not a long line of simple stress relief. Dripping with diamonds and desperation and sleeping in her bed.

"You're mine." Her words are firm, hands on your hips as she pulls you closer, as she needs you so physically close to her you can't get away.

"You're mine." You repeat back. You mean it even though it scares you. Even though it isn’t guaranteed.

Not like you being hers. You can’t imagine anything else.

She says nothing in response, grabbing your hand and guiding you to the waistband of her pants. You steady yourself.

Your heart in your throat as she proves your status. Slipping you under her suit and finding the wetness between her thighs without any trouble.

Her breath catches at the first touch.

"Look at what you do to mommy. You think everybody gets that?"

You shake your head as you catch your breath, overcome with too many confusing feelings, collecting her on your fingers before finding her clit. “Come on honey. You know what I want.”

You move slowly, gently. A contrast to the implications of the room, leaning in to kiss her cherry neck, to kiss her perfect lips. To show her your devotion as you slip inside of her. Her mouth drops open, brows furrowed as she gasps.

"Fuck, babygirl. You're doing such a good job."

Trying not to come instantly at the thought, focusing on her, on her pleasure and the way she feels wrapped around your fingers. On the way her hands dig into your skin so hard they might leave marks, and how she can't focus on kissing because the muscles in her face are too tight.

“Slowly. Don’t rush. There’s a good girl.”

You can’t fix her, but her nose crinkles as she tightens around your fingers.

You make me feel alive again, she had said as she pinned you to the desk earlier. You aren’t sure how yet. Whether it’s the stability or the recklessness or the intimacy, but maybe she makes you feel alive too. In a different way. In the opposite way.

Maybe you’re two sides of a radically confusing coin.

"Harder." She instructs, and you obey, holding back your own sounds as her fingernails assault your thighs. Her kiss vicious and overwhelming. “Just like that…so…fuck.”

Body tense as she's silent, before her moans are in your mouth as she comes for you, biting your lip and drawing a little blood to muffle the noise.

You try to breathe properly as she stills your hand.

“I can fire her.” She suggests, catching her breath and gesturing with her head towards the door. “I can fire Heather.”

Heather. The waitress. Or whatever she is.

The way she’d fired everybody near your desk just to have you all to herself.

She’d give you the same privilege? Is that something you’d want? To ruin some girls life over a little jealousy?

You slip out of her waistband, sucking her off of your fingers as she watches you with heavy eyelids. The taste sweet and addictive.

She doesn't need to fire anyone.

Agatha’s hands are easing up your shirt when she licks the blood from your lip, her nails grazing lightly across your back, snaking forward to find your...

She stills at the noise.

An enormous crash from downstairs, followed by yelling. Screaming. Fighting?

You freeze too, her hands gently holding you a little tighter. You doubt she’s even noticed the change in her grip.

What the hell was that?

It’s less than a second later when a security guard opens the door without so much as a knock, bumbling into the room at speed. He’s tall, with wide shoulders and a tie. He doesn’t care what he walks into, his eyes locking onto her as soon as he’s finally able to find her.

“Ms Harkness you have to come with me right away.”

You don’t move, not right away. Clinging to her.

“Right away we don’t have any time.” He gestures to the door with a look in his eyes like any hesitation might destroy his entire operation.

“What’s this about?”

You don't want to leave. You don't want her to go.

But she’s already tapping her thigh and fixing her shirt. Acting quickly and leaving her winnings on the floor of the out of place room.

“Come.”

You follow, fixing your own clothes, pulse escalating and senses heightened, the man instantly following you as you leave the room. Another large man with a lanyard a little further down the staircase. The two of them either side of Agatha as you finally enter the club again.

It’s him.

The sweaty poker man.

Restrained by two of her security, a third holding back his friend. The others must have already been removed from the building, bottles smashed and a table upside down in the middle of the room. The lights all the way up and it doesn’t look near as shady as it did when you arrived.

His eyes lock onto Agatha instantly, going from red faced to burgundy as he spits his words.

“You! It’s you! I knew I fuckin’ recognized you!”

He’s being pulled back further, fighting with all his strength as they attempt to calm him.

“You sold me that goddamn penthouse! You told me it was safe! You fuckin’ scammed me! I can’t believe I didn’t clock it!”

She doesn’t look at him, head down as she follows her security out of the building, her hand on the small of your back as she guides you out.

“I don’t even know who you are.” She states calmly as she fixes her jacket. It obviously doesn’t help, his fury growing.

“Andy Vilanti. You’ll know me.” His voice is firmer and more certain this time. It takes a second for it to hit her.

You don't recognize the name.

The security do, looking at each other like they're sharing a thought.

Agatha swallows, she's composing herself. But you know her, and the way her jaw twitches when she’s uncomfortable. It’s radiating off of her skin and the intensity of her hold on you.

Suddenly the entire Zara situation feels like it might be the tip of the iceberg.

How much are you going to take?

You don’t have time to think as the security block the area, forcing you onto the leather seats of the car and into the quiet. One of them stepping inside and sitting next to the driver who seems calm and unbothered about the experience.

Your head is on her initials, body trembling at the sudden shock.

“Shit.” Her hands are in her hair before the car can even start. The ride smooth and what should be calming. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

“Agatha-“

“I should never have dragged you into my life. I’msofucking...” Her hands are flexed and then they’re fists. Like she can’t control how her body is reacting to her thoughts. You can’t even comprehend the severity of the situation.

Surely this is a miscommunication. A nasty man at a club who’s not understood his situation correctly. Who didn’t know who she was.

"I don't care what you've done. I don't care. Tell me where we're going." You try to talk louder than she did, but it comes out weak in your throat. You think you mean it.

You think you’re past the point.

Totally devoted to her, regardless of the problems in her past and who she might really be.

Agatha ignores you.

“Why would you even let them inside?” She asks the security, a sharp tone in her voice and you can tell she’s trying not to lose it. “I specifically requested we keep them out of anywhere I own, do you not remember me buying a fucking PR company?! Does that mean nothing to you? I was past all this!” Her words turn to yelling and it’s already too late.

The security guard seems disappointed, but he wasn’t the guy at the door.

It isn’t his fault and she knows it. She clicks at him anyway to get his attention.

"Agatha—"

You reach for her hand, she flinches away from you in anger and you try not to let it hurt as bad as it does.

“I’m going to have to take you home...I'm...I’m sorry.” She spits her words in one quick sentence before her eyes are already out the window.

“Home? Like to the penthouse?”

“No. To your house. I can’t be there right now it’s a public address and I don’t–“

She cuts herself off.

“Look it’s just better for you if you go back to your apartment and I call you when this is resolved.”

“But what happened? I don’t understand?” It’s hard to hold back the tears as they start to stream down your cheeks.

Her eyes are soft.

“I know. I’m– you have to go home."

She sees you tremble.

She takes your hand.

"It won’t be forever.”

“But where are you going to go? I want to go with you!”

The driver is already pulling up at your door before you’ve even realized where you are.

“I don’t know yet I just. I can’t think right now I need a minute I need you to be safe can you listen to me right now? Can you be good?”

She’s not angry.

She’s scared.

“Okay. Okay I…I can do that.”

“Good girl. You have my credit card for whatever you need I’ll contact you okay I...I–“

She swallows whatever the rest is like it’s heavy.

Reaching over to you as the driver opens your door.

“I need you to be safe.”

Her face is fragile.

And you step out of the car.

—

Damn that was not supposed to take this long, it has been a weird year, but we move. As always let me know your thoughts! Would also like to reference this Early Riser edit created by @wifehahn because I was literally listening to this song when I was doing full outline for this chapter when this edit was dropped! Crazy stuff.

In the same vein, below is the Early Riser Spotify playlist that was heavily requested, so here's all the songs I listen to that inspired different parts of this AU characters and their relationship. So do with that what you will. <3

Also quickly I knowwww we hate a cliffhanger, but i'm already working on the next part so fear not.

Taglist: @mommyissuesismypersonality @chlondykebar @sweetmidnights @rmaximoff @hannah-0730 @milflovers4 @neverfindmegone  @absolute-memegarbage @wifeofmanymilfs @marcelinaceciliarose @marcelinaceciliarose @6stolenangel9 @pianogirl2121 @hagofswords @natashasmuse @htinha157 @@wandanatsub @morgananyx @galaxybaby @greyella @w4ndsversew0nder @daffodil-heart @isixxxx

@idonutevnno @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @deathbylesbianwitches @angelxblink @sapphicandgraphic @wwwtonikixxes @z3mos @chloeelou02x @peskygremlin @seaoflittlefires @ughidunn0  @three3ofswords @langeskovstg1 @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @agathaspett @starrgirll05 @wifehahn @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @lowlyjelly @ladyd85

[rebelsromantic-deactivated20260]

The bottom line

Maya Mason x reader - 10.9 k

you’re Matt’s sister who hired you to be an addition to the studio, since they’re stuck on a project, you have the intelligence and attitude not just to pitch your ideas but to handle Maya. You will learn that being a brat brings you a long way.

Warnings: 18+ Minors & Men DINI, Power imbalance (Boss/Employee), Aga gap (Maya 45, reader 28), reader is a brat, rough sex, semi-public sex, somnophilia, Breath play, light choking, degrading/humiliation, scratching/nail digging, bruising, overstimulation, oral, edging inappropriate use of glasses, breeding kink, size kink, cleanup play, aftercare

A/N: Maya can bend me over that desk at any time and do anything. Taking some time, life is something. Sooo enjoy this my fellow Mayaholic’s and Lesbiaya’s, y’all are divas🫰🏻

Rebelsromantic’s Masterlist

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰ ⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰

The smell of expensive espresso and floor wax fills the halls of the studio as you follow your brother, Matt, toward his office. He’s been buzzing with nervous energy since he called you this morning, rambling about a project that’s bleeding out on the table and how your specific eye for design is the only thing that can stitch it back together.

"Look” Matt says, ushering you into his office and leaning against his mahogany desk. "The team is stuck. It’s a creative deadlock. We’re working on the rebranding for the solstice campaign and it’s too corporate. It’s stiff. I told them I knew someone with a fresher perspective, don't make me look bad."

You offer a small, confident smile. "I’ve got this, Matt. Relax."

He leads you down the hall to a glass-walled conference room. The atmosphere inside is thick with tension, three other executives are hunched over laptops, looking like they haven't slept since the previous fiscal year. You take a seat at the long polished oak table, feeling the weight of the silence.

Suddenly, the heavy door swings open with a sharp thud against the stopper.

Maya Mason walks in, she’s holding a iced coffee in one hand, her signature oversized glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her dark hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders in messy waves that look soft enough to touch.

"I swear to God" she starts, her voice a low rasp that vibrates through the room. She doesn’t even look at the table yet. "Everyone in this building is fucking irresponsible. I just looked at the latest mockups and I’m convinced we’re actually trying to go bankrupt. This project is leading nowhere. It’s bland, it’s beige, it’s-"

"Maya, if you’d just let me-" Matt tries to interject, raising a hand.

"No, Matt, I’m not finished“ she snaps, waving her drink dismissively. "I’m tired of playing nice with mediocre ideas. We need grit, we need soul, and right now all we have is-“

Her tirade hits a wall. Her gaze, sharp and piercing behind those thick frames, finally lands on you. The air in the room seems to thin. "Who the fuck is this beautiful thing?" she asks. The venom in her voice has faded, replaced by a sudden curiosity that makes your skin prickle.

Matt clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "This is my sister. I brought her in to-“

"She has a mouth, doesn't she?" Maya interrupts, her eyes never leaving yours. She leans against the edge of the table, just a few feet away, tilting her head. "Talk to me. Tell me why you're sitting in my meeting."

You meet her stare, refusing to look away. "I'm here because Matt said you were stuck in a loop of boring ideas" you say, your voice steady despite the way your heart is hammering. "I’m here to give this project the soul you’re looking for."

She sucks in her cheeks, her cheekbones looking sharp enough to cut glass and her eyes darken significantly. The way she looks at you isn't just professional interest, it’s a deliberate look that feels like a physical touch.

"A Remick with a backbone and a vision" she murmurs, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Finally. Someone worth listening to."

You stand up, smoothing your skirt with a motion that you know captures Maya’s gaze. You walk to the head of the table, clicking the remote to dim the lights. The room plunges into a soft, moody glow, the only sharp light reflecting off Maya’s oversized glasses.

"The problem” you begin, your voice low "is that you’re playing it safe. This campaign shouldn't be about luxury. It should be about hunger."

You slide a mood board across the table, a stark contrast of deep obsidian, crushed velvet textures and raw photography. "You’ve got these models looking like mannequins. It’s boring as hell. People don't want to buy a lifestyle, they want to buy a feeling they’re too scared to admit they have."

The room is deathly silent. The other executives look like they’re waiting for a lightning strike.

"I think what she’s trying to say" Matt starts, leaning forward to translate for you, "is that the demographic-"

"Matt." Maya’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. She doesn't even move her head, her eyes remaining locked on your mood board. "Shut the fuck up. I heard her the first time. I don't need a middleman to tell me what genius sounds like."

Matt freezes, his mouth hanging open slightly. Maya finally looks up at him, her expression chilling. "If you interrupt her one more time with your corporate-speak, I will personally throw your desk out the window. She’s the only one in this room who hasn't bored me to tears in the last forty minutes."

She turns back to you, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip before she sucks her cheeks in again. "Go on, beautiful. Finish your thought."

You offer a tiny, devastating smirk. "I’m done with the presentation. The rest is just execution. But I don't think these people have the hands for it."

Maya lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. She stands up, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she walks toward the door. "Everyone out" she snaps at the room. "Take your half-baked ideas and get the fuck to lunch. Remick, that includes you. Your sister and I need to discuss the execution in private."

The room clears in seconds. Matt gives you a look that is equal parts worried and confused, but Maya’s sharp gaze sends him scurrying out last. The heavy glass door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Maya turns around, leaning her lower back against the door, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s dropped the boss facade for something much more dangerous. She pulls her glasses off her face, letting them hang from one hand, her dark eyes scanning you from head to toe.

"You’re a real piece of work, aren't you?" she murmurs, her voice dropping to a gravelly purr. "You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming into my studio and calling my project beige to my face" she says. The sass is back, but it’s laced with a heavy layer of intrigue. "And you’re a tease, aren't you? Using my own brand of 'unapologetic' against me?"

You walk around the table, stopping just inches from her chair, leaning your hip against the edge of the desk. "I don't know, Maya. I thought you liked things with grit. Or are you only tough when the room is full of people who are afraid of you?"

She laughs then, a dry, genuine sound that sends a shiver down your spine. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just an inch away from the hem of your sleeve.

"God, you’re a brat" she whispers, her eyes darkening again as she looks up at you from the chair. "A brilliant, irritating brat. Now, sit down and show me exactly how you’re going to fix the rest of this mess before I decide if I’m going to hire you or just keep you here for my own amusement."

You don’t sit down. Instead, you hold her gaze, enjoying the way the power dynamic in the room has shifted from a corporate hierarchy to something much more primal. You reach out, your fingers grazing the condensation on her discarded coffee cup before you look back at her, a slow, challenging smile spreading across your face.

"I don't think I feel like sitting, Maya" you say, your voice a playful velvet. "I think better on my feet. And as for your amusement I have a feeling that’s a full-time job."

Maya’s breath catches, a tiny sound that fills the quiet room. She lets her glasses clatter onto the table behind her, freeing her hands to grip the edge of the oak surface. She looks you up and down again, her eyes lingering on your lips for a second too long before snapping back to yours.

"Fucking hell" she mutters, shaking her head as a short, breathless laugh escapes her. "Matt didn't mention his sister was a brat. You’re coming in here, tearing apart my campaign, insulting my staff, and now you’re trying to play me? You’ve got balls, I'll give you that."

"It's not playing if I’m winning" you counter. You pick up one of your sketches, a raw, charcoal-heavy image of a woman shrouded in twilight and hold it out. She doesn't take the paper, instead, she reaches for your wrist, her skin surprisingly warm and soft. Her thumb brushes against your pulse point, and for a moment, the intelligent tease facade you've built nearly cracks.

"You think you’ve won already?" Maya asks, her voice dropping to that dangerous, gravelly register again. She pulls you half an inch closer. "We haven't even talked about the budget, the logistics, or the fact that I’m probably going to have to fire three people just to make room for your ego."

"Then fire them" you whisper, leaning down so you’re eye-to-eye with her. "They were giving you beige. I’m giving you blood and obsidian. You know which one sells."

Maya sucks her cheeks in, her gaze dropping to your mouth again, her pupils blown wide. The sass is still there, but it’s buried under a thick layer of undeniable tension. "You're a bratty, arrogant, brilliant little shit" she says, her voice trembling with a mix of irritation and heat. "Fine. You want the project? It’s yours. But that means you’re in my office, under my thumb, every fucking day until this launches."

She lets go of your wrist, but her hand lingers, her fingers tracing a slow path up your arm. "And don't think for a second that being a Remick gets you a pass. If you mess up, I’ll be twice as hard on you."

You wink at her, leaning back just enough to drive her crazy. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Boss. So, do we start now? Or are you going to keep staring at me like you’re trying to figure out if you want to hire me or devour me?"

Maya groans, a sound of pure, frustrated desire, and runs a hand through her loose hair. "Both. Definitely both. Now get over here and show me the rest of those 'obsidian' ideas before I lose my mind."

You don't just sit down; you slide into the chair directly beside her, invading her personal space until your shoulder almost brushes hers. The scent of her, sandalwood and expensive hairspray is intoxicating, but you keep your focus sharp.

"If we're going to talk about execution, Maya, let's talk about the only thing that actually keeps the lights on in this place" you say, reaching over and pulling her sleek, matte-black laptop toward you.

She raises an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing her face as you navigate her desktop with practiced ease. "The fuck are you doing?" she asks, though she doesn't pull the computer away. She leans in, her chin almost resting on your shoulder as she watches you open a fresh spreadsheet.

"I'm showing you that I’m not just a brat with a mood board" you murmur, your fingers flying across the keys.

For the next ten minutes, the only sound in the room is the rhythmic click of the keyboard and Maya’s steady breathing next to your ear. You build a comprehensive cost-benefit analysis from scratch. You break down the pivot from high-gloss studio shoots to raw, on location photography. You slash the bloated budget for CGI and reallocate it to high end tactile materials for the physical launch. You’re calculating margins, projecting engagement and factoring in the risk tax of a darker aesthetic.

Maya’s initial skepticism melts into silence. She’s staring at the screen, her eyes tracking the formulas as you link cells and generate a pivot table that shows a 15% reduction in overhead with a projected 40% increase in brand stickiness.

"There" you say, hitting Enter with a flourish and leaning back. "That’s the cost of the soul. It turns out, authenticity is actually cheaper than faking it."

Maya is silent for a long beat. She looks at the data, then turns her head to look at you. Being this close, you can see the slight flush on her neck. She sucks in her cheeks, her expression unreadable for a second before she lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

"You’ve got a mind for numbers that’s just as filthy as your design sense" she says, her voice a rough, sultry rasp. She reaches out, closing the laptop lid with one hand while the other rests on the back of your chair, effectively pinning you between her and the table. "Most people here can either draw a pretty picture or balance a checkbook. Nobody does both. Especially not while looking like that."

She leans in closer, her gaze darkening as it drops to your mouth again. "It’s fucking annoying how good you are."

"Does that mean I'm hired?" you tease, tilting your head so your lips are inches from hers. "Or do I need to make a few more charts to prove my worth?"

Maya’s eyes flash with a mix of sass and heat. "If you make one more chart, I might actually have to kiss you just to shut you up," she whispers, her thumb grazing the line of your jaw. "You're hired. But you're staying late tonight. We’re going through every single one of these line items and maybe a few other things."

You don't pull away. Instead, you lean in further, closing the final inch of space until you can feel the radiant heat coming off her skin. You mirror her posture exactly, propping your elbow on the table and reaching out to trace the sharp, elegant line of her jaw with your thumb. Her skin is like silk and you feel the sharp intake of breath she tries to hide when you touch her.

"One more chart to shut me up?" you repeat, your voice low "That sounds like a very expensive way to handle a problem, Maya. Usually, people pay extra for my input."

You let your thumb linger at the corner of her mouth, feeling the slight quiver of her lips. You tilt your head, your eyes dancing with a shimmer.

"And what exactly are these other things we need to go through?" you ask, dragging the words out. "Logistics? Lighting? Or are you just trying to find an excuse to keep me in this room because you can’t handle the fact that a Remick just ran circles around you in your own conference room?"

Maya’s eyes go nearly black, her pupils dilating as she absorbs your aditude. She doesn't move your hand, she leans into your touch, a low dangerous purr vibrating in her chest.

"You really are a brat” she whispers, her voice thick with a mix of irritation and pure want. "A loud, arrogant, fucking brilliant brat. Most people are shaking in their boots when I dismiss a room. You? You’re sitting here trying to negotiate the terms of my surrender."

"Is that what this is?" You trail your thumb down her neck, stopping right where her pulse is thrumming fast "A surrender? I thought we were just collaborating."

Maya lets out a laugh, her hand sliding from the back of your chair to the nape of your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair. She pulls you just a fraction closer, her forehead resting against yours.

"Don't get cocky" she breathes, her scent of woodsmoke and coffee wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. "The other things involve me seeing if that mouth of yours is as good at following orders as it is at giving them. I have a feeling you're going to be a lot of work and I've always preferred the difficult projects."

She sucks her cheeks in, her gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that makes the air feel electric. "Now, are you going to keep teasing me, or are you going to show me exactly how unapologetic you can really be?"

The tension in the room is so thick it feels like a physical weight, vibrating between your bodies. Maya’s hand is firm at the nape of your neck, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin there, her eyes pleading for you to close the distance. You can see the slight tremble in her hands, the unfiltered hunger of a woman who is used to getting exactly what she wants the moment she wants it.

You lean in, agonizingly slow, until your breath hitches against her lips. She closes her eyes, her head tilting back just a fraction in anticipation. But instead of a kiss, you let the tip of your tongue graze the seam of her lower lip, a wet, fleeting ghost of a sensation that makes her let out a sharp gasp.

Then, before she can react, you slip out of her grip with the grace of a cat.

You stand up, smoothing your skirt and picking up your bag, the intelligent persona back in full force. You glance at your watch, offering her a look that is pure mischief.

"Oh, look at that" you say, your voice bright, a sharp contrast to the heavy atmosphere. "It’s officially noon. And I’m a big believer in a strict lunch break. A girl’s got to keep her energy up if she’s going to fix your entire company, Maya."

Maya stays frozen for a heartbeat, her hand still hovering in the air where your neck had been. She opens her eyes, the look she gives you is completely captivated. Her chest is heaving, her lips parted and damp from your touch.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me" she rasps, her voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. She slowly stands up, her heels clicking against the floor as she stalks toward the table where you’re standing. "You’re going to walk out of here now? After that?"

"I'm an independent contractor" you chirp, walking backward toward the glass door, watching her dark eyes track your every move. "I set my own hours. Besides, I think the executives are probably wondering if you've eaten me alive yet."

You reach the door and pull it open, the cool air of the hallway rushing in. You know, with a sudden spike of adrenaline, that you are going to regret this. Maya Mason is not a woman who takes a no lightly, especially when it’s wrapped in a tease.

Maya leans against the conference table, her knuckles white as she grips the edge. She sucks in her cheeks, her eyes narrowing into dangerous, beautiful slits.

"Go ahead" she says, her voice low and promising. "Go have your lunch. Enjoy every bite. Because when you come back, I’m locking this door. And I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who the fuck is in charge of this studio."

She flashes a smirk that sends a genuine shiver down your spine. "I’m going to put you in your place, brat. And I promise you, you won't be sitting down for the rest of the afternoon."

You pause in the doorway, the handle cool beneath your palm as you look back over your shoulder. Maya is still leaning against the table, looking like a high-fashion storm cloud, her hair a wild halo around her face.

A slow, playful grin spreads across your face, and you let your gaze rake over her one last time "Setting me in my place, Maya?" your voice carries just enough of a daring edge to make her jaw tighten. "That sounds like a very ambitious afternoon. I hope you’ve cleared your schedule, because I’m not exactly easy to tame."

The look she gives you is pure heat, a promise of the absolute hell and heaven, she’s going to put you through once the clock starts again. You don't give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you hold her gaze for a beat longer, drop a slow wink and step out into the hallway.

The glass door clicks shut behind you, echoing in the sudden silence of the executive wing.

You walk down the long hall, the rhythmic click of your heels sounding a lot like a countdown. You pass Matt, who is hovering near the breakroom looking like he’s aged five years in the last hour. He tries to catch your eye, probably wanting to ask what the hell happened in there, but you just keep moving.

You can feel Maya’s eyes on your back through the glass walls, her silhouette still poised in the moody light of the conference room. You know you’ve pushed her buttons and you know she’s currently in there counting down the minutes until your lunch break is over.

As you reach the elevators, you can’t help but bite your lip. You’re smart enough to know you’ve started a fire you can’t put out, but you’re also just bratty enough to want to watch it burn.

The elevators open back onto the executive floor with a soft chime that feels like a starting bell. The hallway is quieter now, the midday rush having settled into a low, productive hum. When you reach the conference room, it’s empty, the lights are back up, the previous energy has vanished and your mood boards have been cleared away.

You head toward the heavy set of double doors at the end of the hall. Maya’s assistant, a young man who looks like he’s lived on nothing but stress and green juice for a month, looks up from his desk. He eyes you with a mix of awe and pity.

"She’s in there” he mumbles, gesturing toward the private office. "She told me to cancel her 2:00 PM. And her 3:00 PM. Actually, she told me not to open that door unless the building is literally on fire."

"Good to know” you say, flashing him a bright, innocent smile that clearly unsettles him.

You don’t knock. You push the doors open and step into a space that is pure Maya Mason expensive, and smelling faintly of that dark woodsmoke perfume. The floor to floor ceiling windows overlook the city, but the blinds are partially drawn, casting long shadows across her desk.

Maya is sitting in her high backed leather chair, her feet propped up on the corner of the desk. She’s ditched the blazer, her silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous and she’s holding a fresh drink. She doesn't move when you enter, she just watches you through those oversized glasses, her expression unreadable.

You close the door behind you with a slow, deliberate click of the lock.

"I thought a woman of your stature would be much busier. " you tease, leaning your back against the door and crossing your arms. You let your gaze wander around the room, acting entirely unimpressed by the power play she’s trying to stage. "Did you finish all your little tasks early just to wait for me?"

Maya’s feet drop from the desk with a heavy thud. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the surface, her eyes tracking you like a predator watching its dinner walk back into the cage.

"You’re ten minutes late" she says, her voice a low, warning growl.

"Am I?" You stroll further into the room, running a finger along the edge of a marble bust on her bookshelf. "I must have lost track of time. It’s hard to stay on schedule when I'm busy thinking about line items."

You stop in front of her desk, leaning over it so your face is level with hers, your hair spilling over one shoulder. You give her a look that is challenging "Besides, I figured you needed the extra time to come up with a better plan to tame me. You looked a little flustered when I left. Did you have a nice little tantrum while I was gone?"

Maya sucks in her cheeks, her jaw muscle twitching. She reaches out, grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling you just an inch closer across the desk. Her eyes are dark and focused. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?" she whispers, her breath hitching. "You think because you’re smart and you have a pretty face, you can just walk in here and play with me?"

"I don't think I'm playing, Maya" you murmur, your voice dropping to a challenge. "I think I’m winning. Again."

Maya doesn’t answer with words. She lets out a sharp, frustrated breath that is half-laugh and half-growl, and in one fluid motion, she stands up and rounds the desk. She moves with a grace that catches you off guard, her hand snaking out to grab your waist and hauling you flush against the edge of the table.

"You think you’re winning?" she repeats, her voice vibrating against your collarbone. "You’re so focused on the tease that you’ve forgotten whose house you’re in."

She reaches up, her fingers hooking into the belt loops of your skirt to keep you pinned against the desk. She’s so close now that the heat radiating between you is stifling. Her glasses are pushed up into her hair, leaving her dark, narrowed eyes completely exposed. They are wild and absolutely fixated on you.

"You’ve been a brat since the second you sat down in that meeting" she whispers, her thumb tracing a firm circle over your hip. "You talked back to me in front of my staff, you insulted my vision, you touched me and then you walked out the door like you didn't just set this entire floor on fire."

You tilt your head back, exposing the line of your throat, still determined to keep the upper hand. "And yet, here you are” you breathe, your heart thudding a rhythm against your ribs. "Looking like you're about to give me a promotion. Or a lecture. Which is it, Maya? Are you going to keep talking about what I did, or are you going to do something about it?"

Maya’s eyes flash. She sucks in her cheeks, her expression hardening into something terrifyingly beautiful. "Oh, I'm doing something about it."

She reaches past you, her hand landing on the laptop you brought in. With a sharp flick, she slides it across the desk, away from you. Then, she grabs your wrists, pinning them to the wood on either side of your hips. She leans in, her lips hovering just a hair’s breadth from your ear.

"You're going to sit in that chair," she commands, her voice a rasp. "And you’re going to work. You’re going to give me every single detail for that ritual you promised. But every time you open that mouth to give me one of your smart-ass comments, every time you try to tease me instead of doing your job-"

She nibbles sharply on the lobe of your ear, a quick, stinging bite that makes your toes curl. "-I’m going to remind you exactly how much trouble you’re in. I’m going to make you regret ever thinking you could play me, Remick."

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, her gaze heavy and dark. "Now. Pick up the pen. Start with the blood and obsidian color codes. And if you so much as wink at me again, I’m taking that skirt off and making you finish the budget on your knees."

You bite your lip, a smile tugging at your mouth. "Is that a threat, Maya? Because it sounds a lot like a reward."

Maya’s grip on your wrists tightens for a split second before she lets go, pointing a shaking finger at the chair. "Sit. Down. Now."

You don’t move. You remain leaning against her desk, your wrists still buzzing from where her grip had been, watching the way her chest heaves under that silk shirt. The defiance in your eyes hasn't dimmed, if anything, her threat has only added a glint to your stare.

"You're very good at giving orders, Maya" you say, your voice dropping to a low, smooth purr as you slowly straighten your skirt. "But I think we both know I don't work well under traditional supervision."

Maya’s eyes track the movement of your hands, her jaw tight. "I’m not being traditional. I’m the person who will sign your checks. Now, sit the fuck down before I lose what little patience I have left."

Instead of sitting, you take a slow step toward her, forcing her to either back up or let you into her personal space again. You choose the latter. You reach out, your fingers dancing over the lapel of her unbuttoned shirt, before you reach up to slowly pull her oversized glasses back down from her hair to the bridge of her nose.

"There" you whisper, adjusting them with a smirk. "Now you look like the boss again. It’s easier to focus when you’re not looking at me like you want to ruin my life."

Maya lets out a frustrated sound, a noise that is dangerously close to a moan. She grabs your hand, stopping your movements, her palm hot against yours. "I do want to ruin your life" she rasps, her sass returning with a vengeance. "I want to ruin your day, your schedule, and that smug little look on your face. You think you’re so fucking clever."

"I know I am" you reply, finally dropping into her leather executive chair, the one she was just sitting in. You spin it around, leaning back and propping your boots up on her desk in a perfect mirror of her earlier posture. You pick up a fountain pen from her desk set, twirling it between your fingers.

"Now" you say, looking up at her through your lashes, "about those blood and obsidian codes. Are you going to stand there and look pretty, or are you going to come over here and help me pick the right shade of I’m-going-to-make-you-regret-this red?"

Maya stares at you, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of you sitting in her chair. She sucks in her cheeks, a smile finally spreading across her face. It’s the look of someone who has finally decided to stop fighting the storm and start enjoying the wreckage.

"You’re a dead woman, Remick“ she says, her voice low and full of promises. She walks around the chair, leaning over the back of it so she’s looming over you, her hair falling around your face like a curtain. She reaches down, her hands sliding over your shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to ground you.

"Start typing" she whispers against the shell of your ear. "And keep that mouth shut. If I hear one more bratty word out of you before we finish this spreadsheet, I’m turning this chair around and showing you exactly how demanding I can be when I’m actually angry."

You feel a thrill of genuine heat shoot down your spine. You open the laptop, your fingers poised over the keys, but you can't help yourself. You tilt your head back, looking her right in the eye.

"Yes, Boss" you whisper, the words dripping with enough sarcasm to keep the fire burning all afternoon.

The following hour is a blur of high-stakes creativity and suffocating tension. You’re hunched over the screen, the blue light reflecting off Maya’s glasses as she looms over your shoulder, her presence a constant, heavy weight. You work through the technical specs of the campaign, your fingers flying across the keys while she barks out critiques, her voice a mix of professional genius and irritation.

Every time you move, your shoulder brushes her ribs. Every time you pause to think, you feel her gaze burning into the side of your neck. You play the part of the diligent strategist, but you can’t resist the occasional jab.

"Is this shade of deep crimson soulful enough for you, Maya?" you ask, clicking on a color hex code. "Or do you need it to be as dark as your mood right now?"

Maya’s hand comes down hard on the desk beside your laptop, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Keep talking, Remick" she warns, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You’re on your last line of data."

You finish the final projection, hitting the Save button with a satisfied click. You spin the leather chair around slowly, looking up at her with a bratty grin. "There. The budget is balanced, the vision is articulated and I even managed to save you enough money for a new pair of glasses since you keep tossing them around."

Maya doesn't laugh. She stands perfectly still, her shadow stretching long across the office floor as the sun begins to dip behind the city skyline. The boss persona finally cracks, falling away to reveal the hunger she’s been white knuckling for the last three hours.

"You’re done?" she asks, her voice low and focused.

"Completely" you reply, leaning back and spreading your arms as if to say come and get it.

In an instant, Maya’s hands are on the arms of the chair, trapping you. She doesn't hesitate this time. She leans down, her face inches from yours, her eyes dark enough to swallow the room. "Good“ she rasps. "Because I’ve been remarkably patient and I’m fucking tired of being patient."

She reaches out and sweeps the laptop off the desk with one hand, the expensive piece of tech sliding across the wood with a clatter. She grabs the front of your shirt, pulling you upward until you’re forced to stand, your body pressed firmly against hers.

"You wanted unapologetic?" she whispers, her thumb hooking under your chin, forcing you to look at her. "You wanted grit?"

Before you can fire back another tease, she follows through on her promise. She doesn't kiss you softly, she claims your mouth with a ferocity that matches her temper, her tongue tracing the same line you teased her with earlier, but with a desperate intensity. It’s a collision of all the sass, the swearing and the sparring of the day.

She pulls back just an inch, her breath hot against your swollen lips, her forehead resting against yours. "I told you-“ she breathes, her hands sliding down to your waist, gripping you with a possessive strength. "I told you I was going to set you in your place. Do you still think you’re winning, you beautiful, irritating brat?"

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands finding their way into her loose hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp. "I don't know, Maya" you whisper against her lips. "I think we should probably review the data one more time."

Maya groans, a sound of pure, frustrated surrender, and lifts you onto the desk, scattering your sketches to the floor. "The only thing we’re reviewing is how long it takes to make you scream my name."

The heavy thud of your body hitting the desk sends a few stray pens rolling across the floor but neither of you notices. The ritual you described in your pitch is happening right here, between the shadows of her office and the sharp, expensive lines of her furniture.

Maya’s hands are everywhere at once, tangled in your hair, gripping your waist, pinning you to the cool wood of the desk. She kisses you with a punishing hunger, her tongue slick and demanding against yours. It’s the taste of espresso and dark promises.

"You've been begging for this all day" she growls against your lips, her voice low "Walking in here with that mouth, looking at me like I was just another problem for you to solve."

"Maybe you are" you gasp out, your hands sliding down her back, feeling the tension in her muscles through the fine silk of her shirt. You pull her closer, your legs wrapping around her waist, pulling her into the heat between your thighs. "But you’re a very pop distracting problem."

Maya lets out a sharp sound and breaks the kiss to bury her face in the crook of your neck. Her teeth graze your skin, a sharp nip that makes your back arch off the desk. She follows it with a wet, soothing lick that sends a fresh wave of electricity straight to your core.

"I’m going to make you forget your own name" she whispers, her breath hot against your pulse point.

Her hands move to the hem of your skirt, her fingers brushing against your skin with a touch that is mpossessive. She slides the fabric up, her palms rough and warm against your thighs. When her fingers find the edge of your lace underwear, you let out a strangled moan, your head thudding back against the desk.

"Still got something smart to say, brat?" she teases, pulling back just enough to look at you. Her glasses are gone, her hair is a mess and her eyes are blown wide with a dark, primal focus.

"I think I'm losing my train of thought" you admit, your voice trembling as you reach for the buttons of her shirt. You flick the first two open, exposing the lace of her bra and the pale flushed skin of her chest.

The shadows in the office have lengthened, turning the space into a den of obsidian and deep, exactly like the mood board you pitched. Maya has you pinned to the edge of the desk, the hard wood pressing into your lower back but you barely feel it over the searing heat of her body.

"You wanted grit?" she rasps, her hand suddenly sliding up from your waist to wrap firmly around your throat. It’s not enough to choke you, but it’s enough to command you, a possessive weight that forces your head back and exposes the vulnerable line of your neck. "You wanted something visceral? Here it is."

She crashes her mouth against yours, a demanding kiss that tastes like the salt of your own skin and the expensive bourbon she’d been sipping. Her tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming territory with a force that leaves you lightheaded. You try to moan, but the sound is caught in your throat, muffled by the pressure of her hand and the intensity of her lips.

While she holds your gaze, those dark eyes narrowed behind her messy hair, her other hand disappears beneath your skirt. She doesn't hesitate. She finds you already wet, a testament to how much your own teasing had backfired into genuine need.

She pushes two fingers inside you with a sharp force. You let out a muffled cry against her mouth, your hips jerking upward. She’s not being gentle, she’s fingering you hard, her knuckles bumping against your entrance as she mimics the relentless pace of her own ambition.

"Look at me, brat" she commands, pulling back just enough to see your blown out pupils. Her thumb finds your clit, pinning it down with a pressure that makes your vision spark.

She works you with a precision, her hand moving in a blurred rhythm that sends you spiraling toward the edge within seconds. Your breath hitches, your back arches and just as the first wave of release begins to crest in your lower belly, she stops.

She pulls her hand away entirely, leaving you pulsing and empty. You let out a frustrated, broken whine, your legs trembling where they’re hooked around her.

"Not yet" she whispers, a cruel, beautiful smirk playing on her lips. "We’re on my schedule now."

She waits until the tension in your body subsides into an aching throb before she starts again. This time, she’s slower, more deliberate, her fingers curving inside you to find the exact spot that makes you lose your mind. She watches your face, enjoying every twitch of your features. Again, she builds the fire until you’re sobbing her name, your fingers digging white into her shoulders and again, right at the precipice, she rips it away.

"Maya, please” you whimper, your voice a wrecked version of the confident woman who walked in earlier.

"Please what? Please do my job?" she mocks playfully, her eyes darkening. She leans in, biting the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "I thought you liked the unapologetic approach."

For the third time, she pushed her fingers back in. She uses her thumb to grind against you while her fingers stretch you, pushing you further than you thought was possible. The friction is intense and perfect. You’re begging now, all your bratty defiance melted into a puddle of pure desperate want. You’re right there, the colors of the room fading into white light as the orgasm starts to take over.

She snaps her hand back, stepping away from the desk entirely.

The sudden lack of contact is a physical shock. You’re left draped over the table, your skirt hiked up, your breath coming in gasps. You look up at her, your eyes pleading, a soft whine escaping your throat as you realize she’s standing there, calmly smoothing out her silk shirt.

The heavy silence of the studio is broken only by the ragged sound of your breathing. Maya looms over you, her presence a physical weight that pins you to the desk. She doesn't put her glasses on, instead, she holds them by the hinge, the polished, cool acetate gleaming under the harsh industrial lights.

She watches the way your eyes widen as she brings the slender arm of the glasses toward you. The contrast is agonizing, the cold material pressing against your feverish, sensitized skin. When she slowly, deliberately slides the smooth tip inside you, the sensation is so sharp and unexpected that a broken, high pitched moan is ripped from your throat.

Your back arches off the wood, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the edge of the desk. Maya’s expression doesn't soften, her gaze turns more dark, more predatory. She moves the glasses with a slow precision, testing your limits, watching the way your muscles twitch and jump in response to the intrusion.

"There it is” she whispers, her voice a low, dark purr that vibrates against your ear. "That's the sound I wanted. The sound of you realizing you don't belong to yourself anymore."

She twists the frame slightly, the movement calculated to draw another desperate sound from your lips. You’re trapped between the cold wood table beneath you and the cold plastic within you, both controlled by the woman who hasn't let go of your throat for a single second. Her grip remains firm, a bruising reminder of who is in charge of your next breath.

Maya leans in closer, her glasses still held firmly as she uses them to stir a fresh wave of heat through your core. "You thought you’re done?"

The atmosphere in the studio is suffocating, a heavy mix of dominance and the sharp, metallic tang of your own arousal. Maya looms over you, the weight of her gaze more restrictive than any physical binding. She holds the glasses, slick and glistening from the contact she just forced inches from your face.

"Open” she commands. It isn't a request, it’s a law.

Your jaw drops instinctively, your breath hitching as she guides the cool, damp arm of the glasses toward your lips. You take them into your mouth, the taste of yourself and the polished acetate grounding you in the reality of your submission. You look up at her through your lashes, your eyes blown wide and glassy and you begin to suck on the frames with a desperate, rhythmic intensity.

A low, guttural moan breaks from her throat, a sound of pure hunger that vibrates through the hand still firmly anchored around your neck. Her knuckles whiten against your skin. The sight of you, ruined and obedient, servicing the very object she just used to break you, sends a visible jolt through her. Her eyelids flutter shut for a fleeting second, her head tilting back as she drinks in the sound of your wet, rhythmic breathing.

"You little brat" she rasps, her voice thick and strained. "You really do know exactly how to push me, don't you?"

Just as quickly as the vulnerability appeared, it vanishes. She abruptly pulls the glasses from your mouth with a sharp tug that leaves you gasping.

With a terrifyingly steady hand, she shakes off the excess moisture and slides the frames back onto the bridge of her nose. The lenses settle into place and suddenly, the woman looking down at you isn't just your lover, she’s your keeper. The glasses act as a barrier, turning her eyes into a cold flint.

She leans down, her face inches from yours, the scent of her perfume clashing with the saltiness of your skin.

Maya doesn’t pull away to end the torment. Instead, she keeps her hand firmly around your throat, her grip a bruising reminder of her dominance as she watches you come down from that third, agonizing edge. Your chest is heaving, your skin slick with sweat, and your eyes are unfocused as you let out a weak, broken sound of protest at the sudden loss of her fingers.

"You think I just sat here pining for you while you were out having your little break?" she murmurs, her voice a terrifying purr. She leans in, her lips grazing your ear. "While you were gone, I ran an errand. I realized that if I’m going to have a brat like you under my thumb, I need the right equipment to keep you there."

She reaches into the deep shadow of her desk and pulls out a sleek, blood-red shopping bag. The logo on the side is a high-end boutique you recognize, one that specializes in leather and luxury pain.

Your heart hammers against your ribs as she reaches inside. She pulls out a harness of supple, black Italian leather and a strap on, heavy, realistic and intimidatingly large. The sight of it makes your stomach flip with a mix of genuine fear and a desperate, sickening heat.

"I saw this and thought of you" Maya says, her eyes darkening behind her glasses as she begins to strap it on with practiced, clinical movements. She doesn't look at you, she looks through you. "I thought about how much you like to talk. How much you like to tease. And I realized that the only way to truly shut you up is to give you something so big you can't breathe, let alone think of a comeback."

She steps back between your legs, the leather creaking as she moves. The weight of it presses against your opening, and the sheer reality of what’s about to happen hits you. You’re ruined. The intelligent, sassy woman who walked in here is gone, replaced by someone shivering on a mahogany desk, staring up at a woman who looks like she’s about to dismantle you.

"Maya-" you gasp, your voice cracking.

"Shh" she commands, her hand returning to your throat, her thumb pressing into that sweet spot that makes your head swim. She leans down, her face inches from yours, her expression completely devoid of mercy. "No more talking. No more charts. No more Remick attitude."

She positions the tip against you, the pressure intense. She sucks in her cheeks, a predatory glint in her eyes. "I’m going to do this until you forget your own name. I’m going to drive every single thought out of your head until all you can see is me."

Without another word, she lunges forward, driving herself into you with a single, devastating thrust that pins you to the desk. Your scream is cut off by her mouth crashing onto yours and the office dissolves into a blur of black leather, red bags and the absolute, crushing weight of Maya Mason finally setting you in your place.

Maya doesn't give you a second to adjust to the sheer, stretching weight of her. She grips your thighs, hitching them higher onto her shoulders until you are completely open, vulnerable and pinned against the cold desk. The contrast of the cold wood against your back and the invasive heat of the strap-on makes your head whip back, a loud, echoing moan tearing from your throat.

"That's it" Maya growls, her voice a shredded rasp. She doesn't care that the walls of her office aren't soundproof. She doesn't care if your brother is still lingering in the hall. She wants the whole floor to know exactly what she’s doing to you. "Let them hear you. Let them hear how the smartest girl in the room sounds when she's being filled up."

She begins to move with a relentless, punishing rhythm. It’s not the rhythmic sway of a lover, it’s the steady, driving force of a woman reclaiming her territory. Every thrust is deep, bottoming out against you with a wet heavy thwack that vibrates through the desk. Your intelligent thoughts are being hammered out of you, replaced by the hot sensation of the leather harness clicking against your skin.

She reaches down, her fingers finding your clit and grinding against it with a ruthless pressure that sends you spiraling. You’re close, so close you’re sobbing, your fingers scratching at the desk, trying to find purchase as the world begins to tilt.

"Maya, please, I'm-I'm going to-" you sob out

"No” she snaps, suddenly pulling back until she’s barely inside you, the sudden absence making you whimper in agony. She stares down at you, her glasses reflecting the dim city lights, her face a mask of pure, dominant focus. "You don't get to come. Not until I say so. Hold it."

You’re shaking, your internal muscles clenching around the void she left, your body screaming for the release she just dangled in front of you. You look at her, your eyes wide and brimming with tears, the bratty attitude completely vanished. You look broken, needy and hers.

"Good girl” she whispers, seeing the shift in your eyes.

She plunges back in, even harder than before. She edges you again, driving you to the very brink of a blackout, her hand around your throat keeping you grounded as the pleasure turns into a beautiful kind of torture. She does it a third time, making you beg, making you plead, making you promise anything just for one second of release. Your voice is hoarse from moaning, your throat raw, but she shows no mercy.

Finally, when your body is wound so tight you’re vibrating, she leans down, her teeth grazing your ear. "Now. Come for me, Remick. Show me how much you need this."

As the orgasm finally rips through you, a violent, soul shaking release that makes your entire body go rigid, Maya doesn't let you drift away. She pulls you up by your waist, dragging your shaking body off the desk and into her arms, crashing her lips against yours in a heated, desperate kiss. You taste your own salt and her expensive perfume, the world spinning as you cling to her.

But before you can even catch your breath, before the aftershocks have even faded, she feels the way your body is still soft, still reacting to her. She remembers what you whispered earlier about grit and soul. She remembers your craving to be claimed.

"You think you're done?" she breaths against your mouth, her eyes darkening with a predatory light. "I’m not finished breeding the attitude out of you."

She doesn't give you a break. She pushes you back down, her movements becoming even more primal. She knows about your kink, she knows that you want to feel like she’s leaving something permanent behind, like she’s marking you as hers. She mimics the action of breeding you, her thrusts becoming rhythmic and deep, her hands gripping your hips so hard they’ll surely leave bruises.

"I'm going to fill you with the thought of me until there's no room for anything else" she vows, her voice dropping to a guttural snarl. "Every time you look at a spreadsheet, every time you talk back to a client, you're going to feel exactly how it felt when I broke you."

She fucks you with a renewed intensity, ignoring your exhausted whines, pushing you back toward another peak before you’ve even recovered from the last. She is relentless, a force of nature in silk and leather, making sure that by the time she finally lets you go, you won't even remember how to be a tease. You'll just be Maya Mason's favorite project.

Maya’s grip on your hips is like iron, her knuckles white as she anchors you to the desk. Your new boss from this morning has completely vanished, replaced by someone driven by a territorial hunger. She doesn't just want to finish, she wants to overwrite your entire personality with the sensation of her.

"You like the idea of being mine, don't you?" she growls, her voice vibrating deep in her chest as she slams back into you. The leather of the harness creaks with every punishing thrust, a rhythmic, clinical sound that underscores the intensity of what she’s doing. "You want to be filled up until you can’t think. You want to be bred."

She leans her full weight into you, her chest pressing against yours, making the mahogany groan under the pressure. Every time she bottoms out, you feel the blunt force of her against your cervix, a sensation so deep it makes your toes curl and your vision go white at the edges. You’re sobbing now, your voice gone from the hours of screaming and moaning, reduced to needy whimpers that only seem to egg her on.

"Look at me” she commands, her hand gripping from your hip to your hair, winding her fingers into the strands and pulling your head back.

You open your eyes, your face flushed and damp with tears. Maya looks lethal. Her glasses are long gone, her silk shirt is soaked with sweat and clinging to her skin, and her eyes are fixated on you with a terrifying, beautiful clarity. She begins to pick up the pace, her thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more frantic.

"I’m going to leave you so wrecked you won’t be able to stand for the morning briefing" she whispers, her breath hitching as she nears her own peak. "Every time you try to be a brat, every time you try to tease me, you’re going to remember exactly how this feels. How it feels to be completely used by me."

She doesn't hold back. She treats your body like the grit unrefined and entirely hers to shape. The breeding becomes an obsession, she mimics the act with a desperate, heavy rhythm, her hips snapping forward to maximize the depth of every strike. You are a mess of friction and heat, your internal muscles clenching around her in a desperate, involuntary rhythm that tells her exactly how much you’re enjoying the ruin.

"That's it, take it" she snarls, her teeth baring as she reaches her limit. "Take all of it."

With a final, bone deep thrust that pins you so hard against the desk you think the wood might snap, Maya lets out a cry. She holds herself deep inside you, her body shuddering with the force of her release, her head dropping to your shoulder as she finally lets the tension break.

You’re shaking, your legs falling limp from her shoulders as the world slowly comes back into focus. The silence of the office is heavy, broken only by the sound of your synchronized, ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city lights outside.

Maya doesn't move for a long time. She stays buried in you, her hands still possessively gripping your waist, her forehead resting against your damp skin. The brat has been thoroughly set in her place.

The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of sex and the cooling sweat on your skin. Maya stays draped over you for a long minute, her heartbeat a frantic thrum against your chest. Slowly, she pulls back, the leather creaking as she detaches herself from the friction of your body.

You’re a mess, draped over the desk, hair matted to your forehead, legs trembling so violently they can barely stay hooked around her hips. Your voice is completely gone, reduced to a faint, airy rasp.

Maya looks down at you, and the sharpness in her eyes has softened into something darkly satisfied. She reaches out, her thumb tracing the bruised line of your jaw with a tenderness that feels more grounding than any apology.

"Deep breaths, Remick" she murmurs, her voice a low, soothing vibration. "Come back to me."

She helps you sit up, her hands firm on your waist as she guides your shaky body until you’re perched on the edge of the desk. She doesn't let go, she keeps you tethered, watching the way your chest heaves as you try to find your footing in a world that no longer feels.

She reaches down and unbuckles the harness, the leather slapping softly against her thigh as she frees herself. She holds the toy in her hand for a moment, looking at the slick evidence of how thoroughly she just dismantled you. A slow, wicked smirk returns to her face, the sass isn't gone, it's just sated.

She holds it out toward you, her eyes locking onto yours with a command that is quiet but absolute.

"You did a good job today” she whispers, leaning in until her nose brushes yours. "But we’re not quite finished with the cleanup."

She nudges the tip against your bottom lip, the weight of it a reminder of every deep thrust from minutes ago. "I told you I was a demanding boss, didn't I? I don't like leaving a mess behind."

You look up at her, your pride a distant memory, replaced by a deep- seated need to please the woman who just redefined your limits.

"Suck it clean for me" she commands, her voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "Every inch. I want you to taste exactly what you did to me today. I want it to be the last thing you taste before you go home to dream about me."

You don't even think about a witty comeback. You reach out, your hands shaking as you take it from her, leaning forward to follow her final order of the day. As you work, Maya stands over you, her fingers tangling in your hair, her eyes closed in a moment of pure peace.

"Good girl" she breathes, her hand tightening slightly in your hair. "I think you’re going to be a very valuable asset to this studio."

Maya stands over you, her legs braced wide, watching with a hooded intensity as you obey her. The office is silent save for the rhythmic, wet sounds of your tongue working over the silicone, cleaning away every trace of the afternoon’s collaboration. She keeps one hand firmly anchored in your hair, not pulling, but reminding you with a heavy palm that she is still the one in control.

"That's it" she whispers, her voice low "Take care of your mess, brat."

She watches the way your eyes flutter shut, the way your throat swallows and she feels a surge of something more than just triumph. It’s a possessive heat. When you’re finished, she takes the toy from your hands and sets it aside on the desk without a word.

The harshness has melted into something different, still dominant, still undeniably the boss but with an underlying sweetness that catches you off guard. She reaches for a box of silk tissues and a bottle of mineral water from her desk.

"Come here" she murmurs. She doesn't wait for you to move, she hooks her arms under your knees and pulls you forward until you’re sitting on the very edge of the desk.

She begins to clean you up, her movements slow and meticulous. She wipes the sweat from your forehead and the tear tracks from your cheeks with the tenderness of someone handling fine art. When she moves to clean your thighs, her touch is firm but gentle, soothing the friction burned skin where the harness rubbed.

"You're shaking" she notes, her voice softening as she looks up at you through her disheveled hair. She unscrews the water bottle and holds it to your lips. "Drink. You've been screaming for two hours, you're going to lose your voice if you don't."

You take a few sips, the cool water hitting your raw throat like a blessing. You look down at her, seeing the smudge of your lipstick still on her jaw and the way her silk shirt is ruined, and the bratty spark flickers back into your eyes for just a second.

"Does this mean I get a corner office?" you rasp, your voice barely a whisper.

Maya pauses, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. She leans in and kisses your forehead, her lips lingering there for a long beat. "It means you get whatever I decide to give you. And right now, that's a ride home and a very long bath."

She stands up and pulls you into her arms, tucking your head under her chin and holding you in a tight, grounding embrace. You can feel the steady thrum of her heart against your ear, a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few hours.

"You were brilliant today" she whispers into your hair, her hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. "Irritating, arrogant and a total pain in my ass but brilliant. I’ve been looking for someone who isn't afraid to push back. I just didn't expect them to be quite so delicious."

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, her thumb grazing your bottom lip. "I’m going to take care of you tonight. But don't think for a second that this makes us even. You still owe me a full set of mockups by Monday morning."

She gives you one last lingering kiss, this one is sweet, slow and full of a different kind of promise.

"Now, put yourself back together" she says, her dominant edge returning as she gestures to your clothes. "We have to walk past your brother and I’d prefer it if he didn't realize I actually have a heart."

Maya lets out a long, grounding breath as she finally releases you from her embrace. The office is still charged with the lingering electricity of the last few hours, but the boss in her is starting to reassemble the pieces.

She turns to the mirror behind her desk, a sleek piece of smoked glass that catches the dimming light. You watch from the desk, your legs still a bit shaky, as she begins to systematically erase the evidence of her hunger. She runs her fingers through her messy waves, shaking them out until they fall back into that intentional, high fashion tumble. She adjusts her silk shirt, buttoning it back up with steady fingers and smoothes the wrinkles from her skirt with a sharp snap of the fabric.

When she leans in to check her makeup, she catches sight of the smeared crimson lipstick on her jawline, the physical mark of your mouth on her. She doesn't look annoyed, instead, she lets out a low, melodic chuckle that vibrates in the quiet room.

"You really did try to leave your mark, didn't you?" she murmurs, reaching for a makeup wipe to clean the stain. She catches your eye in the reflection, a playful, knowing glint behind her glasses. "Arrogant little thing."

You manage a weak but defiant smirk as you begin to adjust yourself. You slide your lace back into place, feeling the ache in your muscles that serves as a permanent reminder of her weight. You smooth your skirt and fix your hair, trying to recapture at least a fraction of the polished woman who walked in this morning. Your hands are still trembling slightly as you tuck your shirt back in but you keep your chin up.

Maya watches you in the mirror, her gaze softening as she sees you struggling with a stubborn clasp. She turns around, stepping back into your space to help you. Her fingers are cool and steady as she fixes your collar, her touch lingering just a second too long against your neck.

"There" she whispers, her thumb grazing your throat one last time, right over your pulse. "You look presentable. Almost like you didn't just spend two hours being dismantled by your new boss."

She reaches over and grabs her handbag, then pauses to pick up your mood boards from the floor, stacking them neatly on her desk. She looks at the blood and obsidian sketches and then back at you.

"Come on“ she says, her voice returning to that commanding, raspy purr. She hooks her arm through yours, pulling you close to her side as she heads for the double doors. "Let’s go give your brother something to worry about. And remember, Remick, walk tall. You’re on the Mason payroll now."

She winks at you, mirror of your own earlier tease and pushes the doors open, leading you out into the hallway where the light is bright and the world is waiting.

[witchwolfwriter]

Valentine's or WorkWives?

Poll Winner : Work Wives to Wives - Prof Harkness/ Prof Reader

Warning : Valentines Fluff / Professor x Professor / Small Oneshot 3k /Kissing and Feelings / Professor Harkness is very smart but a little love stupid / Misunderstandings / Jealousy / Obvious love / Workplace romance / Printers were harmed in the making of this stories / 18+

You kicked your boot against the printer and it hummed to life. 

“Wow,” Wanda said as though you were some kind of Jedi sage master. 

The printer sprang into action, lights flashing as it scanned the page. 

You smirked at the machine as you ignored the staff room’s red and pink hearts decorations everywhere. Whoever decided to decorate the low lit lounge obviously was getting laid, unlike you. 

“I love a woman who can manhandle some machinery.”  Professor Harkness dark purple heels clicked as she walked towards you two. You snorted at her but didn’t twist to see her. 

You’d be ashamed to say you’d pictured what she’d wear on valentines day, that you pondered it while driving into work. 

Wanda with her obnoxious reds wasn’t even on your mind, though when she had lacey bra poking out as you poured coffee this morning, you knew there’d be a responde from Agatha. 

“I was just complimenting your work wife, did you teach her how to tickle the printer to work?” Professor Maximoff was always trying to get on the Physics Professor to finally like her, to no avail. 

Professor Harkness always bristled, like today - when you were around Maximoff. 

You weren’t a scientist, or a professor of chemistry, so you wouldn’t make any kind of jokes on what any of that meant. 

But you did have an affinity for the romantics, the poets and all around day drinking yearners. Thanks to being an English Lit Professor yourself, you wouldn’t try and connect Professor Harkness to Darcey, Gatsby, or Heathcliff.

But she’s got the broody misunderstood thing going on, those dark eyebrows, the fact that even though all of the staff referred to you as her work wife, closer to her than anyone before had gotten. You still found that you were desperate to figure out what she was thinking. 

Your face was glowing with the light from the scanner as you copied more paperwork for a quiz - your next class would need it. 

Harkness shared a glance with Maximoff, you could imagine how she eyed her, then her bra, then back to your form. As though she couldn’t be bothered with Wanda’s girly attempt at attention. 

“I didn’t realize your Mr. Robot was in today.” Harkness snippily said, low and uninterested, but you felt her body coming close to the back of yours, closer than normal. 

Closer than a normal professor and professor relatnionship. 

Close enough, she could smell your shampoo, your perfume, maybe even the brown sugar you liked in your coffee. Fuck Agatha Harkness was too good at this, the slight heat of her breath dancing across your neck made your skin break out in goosebumps. 

“I don’t know what you're talking about, I thought you’d be in a better mood since you get to see your wife on valentines day.” Wanda pushed back, but her voice changed just enough that it was clear she’d lost this battle. 

“Your adolescent joking about why our professor is smarter than everyone else in this wing has nothing to do with how the two of us can use a simple machine.” Harkness voice is even, but you recognize her to be molified that she’s gotten under the other professors skin. 

You hold out your hand, effectively stopping them both from amplifying this, and you wiggle your fingers in the air at your work friend. 

“Wanda, I’ll make your copies. You don’t have class until ten, you need fifty I’ll get them to you.” You say effectively, having picked up on the movings of the English department, even parts that don’t change how you do your day. 

Wanda lets out a little sigh, but moves to the metal to go coffee container lifting it to leaf through some pages. 

The silence is uncomfortable as she drops the papers in your hand.

Then gives up on being nice to Professor Harkness for the rest of the month. Maybe in spring she’ll try again.  

“Happy Valentine's Day Dr. Darwin, hope you two figure it out and finally go out on a real date. Half the Biology departments placed their bets you marrying by spring! I said you’d rather a fall wedding seeing as you’re more comfy on a broom stick.” Wanda let’s her tongue make a clicking noise on the inside of her cheek then walks out feeling strong about her last rizz. 

Only you hold back a smile as you already feel as though you can hear the cogs in Agatha’s mind working. But she holds back, surprising you as the tenth page shoots out.

The sliding of the machine mixed with the heavy heaving as it delivers another page doesn’t swallow the noise of the heavy door closing on Wanda’s exit. 

You find it almost a form of flattery that Harkness didn’t deliver the final word, always proving she’s the smartest in the room. 

“You aren’t celebrating?” Harkness asks after a beat, coming around the side of you. 

You try not to think of how this feels like a type of mammal mating. 

Her desire to be closeted in front of a threat, not that Wanda was but the simple fact is that Harkness found her to be. So when she moved out of the room, Harkness could cirule you like some kind of hyena.  

Still you can’t hide your grin at her antics, so you wait, she comes around you, leaning against the wall with it’s cherubs with arrows and bows. 

You don’t linger on the decorations around the gorgeous woman’s head. You’d been crushing on them since your first day at the college. 

You place Wanda’s papers behind your back and shift a little, as though it’ll ease the sexual tension. 

“Do you need the printer Professor Harkness?” You say with enough cheek that it’s flirting. 

Agatha’s gentle leaning in still doesn’t clue you in that she’s liking your banter. 

“I finished the book. Hey, why don’t you ever recommend romantic books, I mean your last reading unit was romantics…it’s February…?” Harkness shrugged a little, but she wasn’t coy. She stood straight, her hair gorgeous, lipstick and eyeliner sharp. 

The image of confidence. 

You arch one eyebrow. 

“Sitting in on my lectures?” Your grin is infectious to the older woman. 

“Maybe.” She admits just as delighted as you are. 

The door opens and a TA comes in with a stack of papers. 

Harkness bends to look around you, you bite your bottom lip and don’t say anything. 

But it’s clear that the dreaded witch of physics has scared away the poor young thing. 

As the door is quickly opened again with the person on their way across the university to find the opposite lounge. It was about a thirty-minute fucking walk, but that’s what the famous glare would do to a person. 

“So?” She asks and you put your palms on the fax machine and lean a little closer. 

“So what?”

“You aren’t celebrating? Going out with some friends or anything?” Professor asks you and you laugh a little. 

Making her confused, your face hurts, you’ve smiled a lot these days. 

“What is it?” Harkness asked, a little anxious now, but you don’t see the cracks in her facade. 

“I know you don’t like Professor Maximoff.” You start a topic you don’t try to work often. 

Agatha’s face instantly changes, with microexpressions mixed with obvious displeasure. She shifts back just a bit, sighing. The Professor doesn’t want to talk about the woman; she wants to talk about you. 

About books you like, about why you don’t text her, about why you two eat lunch together every day, but you won’t take it further. 

Agatha’s never worked this hard, but she’s also never found anyone this intelligent who wasn’t in one of her textbooks. 

“Maximoff hangs out in your office hours often.” She tries to seem unengaged with the statement. 

You gawk at the older woman, who brushes her hair out of her face. 

“You’re going soft,” you says, and now her face snaps to you in offense. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Agatha’s not sure how to take such teasing from you. She shifts in her suit jacket, always so business fashion forward, but there was this way she’d blush that made you wonder what it would be like to see her in nothing but that blush. 

You place Wanda’s papers on the printer and think for a moment, playing this long game of never really saying what you want to. 

“Darwin.” You say simply, but Agatha just seems unyielding, her blue eyest staring into yours, waiting for you. Always waiting for you. 

Professor Harkness doesn’t say anything so you continue. 

“You normally would have brought Wanda down by reminding her of where she went to school. Or how tacky her and her workplace romance with Vision is. You would have called her out for thinking Darkwin was into Physics which he’s not. She could have called you oppenheimer or fuck so many other scientists names who actually study what you teach. Fuck, it’s like physics 101 and there’s a million different people she could have named. You’re dissertation wasn’t even close to biology. I just….” You trail off.. Embarrassed at how many times you’d cursed in front of her. 

Harkness is still waiting. 

She wants you to say it, needs you to say it. 

To connect the dots. 

But you won’t do it, and why she simply cannot tell. 

Harkness was making a rather large fool of herself following you like a puppy. But she’d walk on broken glass at this point for a shot at some real alone time with you. 

Not just sex either, she wanted to know you, really know you. 

But you simply wouldn’t go there, and Agatha thought of all days today would be it. 

You look up at the ceiling and the older professor holds her breath. 

“I don’t get it, I guess.” You say in a self deprecating kind of way. 

While you miss Agatha begging you to stop it, to admit you very much do get it. 

“The reason I don’t like Professor Maximoff..” Agatha starts, trying to not grind her teeth while thinking of how you’d referred to her by first name. And yet she’d been called Professor Harkness only, for months. “I don’t care about her workplace romance-”

You interrupt her with a distrusting scoff. 

“What?” She says again this time more gruff. 

“You look down at workplace romance.” You say strongly, only to see the physics teachers completely shocked. 

Agatha had never considered that was something you were concerned about. 

She tried to figure out a non-confrontational way of saying how pro workplace romance she in fact was. 

“Maximoff-” She starts again frustration seeping into her entire being. 

The door opens again with a TA and a student coming in for god knows what, this time. Agatha hits the side of the printer in anger and doesn’t simply glare at them. 

“Use the one in Bartons office! This ones broken!” She shouts a little too aggressive even for her at this hour. 

You swallow dryly as they flee for their lives. 

Your printer stops printing, you use the uncomfortable moment to open the scanner and put in Wanda’s papers. 

Agatha see’s that she’s running out of time, another window closing on what could be a date. 

She can’t stand the idea that you might be seeing someone else tonight, Maximoff, Vision, or whoever else. 

She needs to break this workplace wife shit, and finally get a god damn date. 

You lick your bottom lip and try to understand what’s got Professor Harkness all worked up. 

She’s running her hands through her hair with too much aggression, not her usual demeanor at the coffee pot. 

“I-” Agatha’s worked for a very long time on the laws of physics. So she doesn’t understand how she’s falling this short of understanding how to get you to eat a meal with her outside of the university. 

“You want me to recommend a different type of book?” You try to supply only to see the gorgeous woman's eye twitch. 

You hadn’t seen her this mad in your direction ever before. So you think of something else to say. 

The day the rumors started about her being your work wife you’d expected this type of upset, but Harkness only responded with a small smile and further jokes that you would have made an amazing physics professor. A higher praise in her book than an ‘I Love You’ really. 

When she failed to make words come out you looked over your shoulder to see valentines cards on the counter. 

“You-” She tried again now resembling the freshmen boys she refused to allow into her advanced classes. You try to figure out what these broken sentences are. 

“I don’t uh-celebrate normally no. I mean I’m single and a book worm at a university. I think a few of the guys put valentines day poems on my desk, which is sweet. But my writing students I told to make a poem and half of them haven’t even finished it yet, but uh- I guess that’s my plans. Grading, tomorrow enjoying the cheap candy. Wanda offered to do this like singles speed dating thing with me. But I think Vision is trying to commit, or is jealous that she was going to date a woman again…anyway-I always wanted to be someones valentine. But I’ll stick with the books I guess.” You say with a sorta dreamy off to the side look. 

“No one, uh dating then?” Harkness isn’t sure if she’s having a stroke, or if her IQ points are actually dropping real time. 

The last page prints for Wanda, giving a soft of fed up heave the printer goes in to low power mode. Making angry beeping noises. 

You smile a little, then think of the rom coms before. 

Try not to look Agatha in the eye, afraid the honesty would weigh you down like rocks. 

“There’s the dream of someone. I don’t know, maybe one day I’ll be someones valentine. For now I’ll just fix the printers and try to teach twenty year olds what yearning really means.” You laugh a little at the absurdity of it. 

“Be mine?” Agatha says it so fast you aren’t sure if she’s just bit her tongue and made an upset noise. 

You lift the scanner giving a confused sort of scrunching in your face. 

“You okay there Prfoessor?” You question, wondering if she’s hurt. 

“Be my valentine?” She says the least romantic thing that she’s envisioned in all the daydreams about asking you out. 

When you further seem confused Agatha thinks of the only language she understands, Physics. Agatha knows about Newtons Law, and god she hopes that the third law that you’ll react to her reaction. 

She reaches out and kisses you, right there, over the clunky printer. 

Your not too shocked to melt into her body though, reaching out and holding her wait to cling on for dear life. 

Agatha tastes of mint and spring, a promise of something new. 

You close your eyes and let her lips guide yours. 

Her lipstick rubbing to be your new favorite color, far better than any shade of candy heart or construction paper hearts. 

A color that the faculty and students would notice going into your class, as it would be on your lips for the first time and your neck. 

Agatha kicks the printer in her hunger for more of you, afraid if you two stopped kissing you’d deny her a chance to ever do it again. 

You smile into her kiss and drop all the papers onto the floor. 

They flutter like feathers around you both and land unceremoniously like petals around a declaration of love. 

You throw your arms around her neck, and both of you push against the wall now. 

You're graced with Agatha’s tongue as she dominates you, but you lean into her, a soft grinding of sorts. As you teach an old professor new tricks, it seems, she moans at the sexual nature. 

Agatha had never been so turned on from a kiss; maybe she’d not studied with the right partner. 

You slow the kiss and you can feel Agatha’s hands go to your jaw, trying to hold onto you for one more second. 

You whisper in her frightful hold against her lipstick-smeared, puffy lips. 

“No more work wife? I get to be your valentine?” You try to joke, but there’s a hopeful way about it, you keep your eyes closed, too. 

Scared that this isn’t happening, that you’d slept past your alarm again. 

“Both, let’s do both,” Agatha says, out of breath, a neediness you’ve never experienced, her eyes open as she studies you. The way your eyelashes curl as you keep yourself tight against her, afraid of what happens next. 

Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“You can open them,” she whispers so sweetly, your heart might break. 

“I don’t want it to be over.” You admit just as quietly back, it’s so tender that Agatha’s hands move to your cheeks, desperate to feel you. 

“If time is relative-” Professor starts and you laugh at her, but she’s not offended this time. 

“I’ve never had a first kiss feel like a promise.” You say back, unable to look at her yet, for her to see how much you want this. 

Agatha steps on a paper, but her hands move to your waist as she holds you close, it’s almost a painful strength. It gives you comfort, like it has to be real to be in this bear hug. 

She’s unsure of where to touch you first, how to convince you of everything. 

“Will you call me a fool if I say the first of many?” Agatha hates that she’s unable to say all of what she means. Reeling for words, angry she chose physics now. Why couldn’t she be a poet like you? Her breath against your lips makes you scared that this all will slip away. 

“Is this because of what they’re saying I mean the jokes the work wife thing or the-”

Agatha’s hands are moving erratically up your spine to your face, rubbing and a pressure of lovers hands that knew you too soon. 

“No, no, no, how could you think that?” Her voice cracks and you swear if someone else walks through this door before this conversation is over you were calling a snowday in Febuary. 

“I don’t want to…I don’t want to be a consolation prize. I mean I can fix your computer and we are able to do so much for the faculty bu-” 

Agatha’s kissing you again and you swear your toes curl from the strength of her. 

Then shes kissing your nose and cheeks and forehead and you can’t not open your eyes to see her smiling back at you, no beaming at you. 

Your lip quivers at the love shinning back at you, warming you through your clothes. Just like cuddling in the morning light. 

Blue eyes shine at you with a declaration better than any hallmark card;

“Be my valentine, be my work wife, be my everything.”

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