when i was younger i had a really bad fear of danny devito when i was going to sleep so my older brother gave me a watch that he set to like 8 hours ahead so that it was always daytime on the watch when i was asleep and he told me it would confuse danny devito and he would think it was daytime and get scared of the sun and leave me alon
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU
Other parts & Tip jar & ao3
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.
You said something in “Smith” which I hope I grasped, and there was a feeling almost of recognition. An odd feeling of grief overcame me when I read it. I cannot explain my feelings any clearer. It was like hearing a piece of music from way back, except that it was nearer poetry by Graves’ definition. Thank you very much for writing it.
Terry Pratchett, in a letter to J. R. R. Tolkien, 22 November 1967
Thank you very much for your letter. The first one that I have received with regard to Smith of Wootton Major. You evidently feel about the story very much as I do myself. I can hardly say more.
J. R. R. Tolkien, in reply to Pratchett’s letter, 24 November 1967
And he did in fact say on at least one occasion that it was this that pushed him to always engage with his own fans in the same kind and conscientious manner.
Okay, that's IT. As a bisexual ranch dressing supporter I just can't continue to follow you in good conscience. Why do you industrial carpet shippers all think it's okay to use bland women as a scapegoat for premium disco culture? Maybe if you actually bothered to read the ukranian degeneracy thesis you'd understand batman's suntan technique, but I guess you're just too busy making free insurance consultation posts, so whatever.
Blocked, flambéed and unfollowed.
I want this as a medieval calligraphy manuscript framed on my wall.
Soviet swimmer Maria Havrish congratulates her rival Elena Kovalenko, who defeated her in the breaststroke competition at the Spartakiad of the Peoples of the USSR in Moscow, 1956 (photo by Lisa Larsen)
You know, I don't think I'll ever get over how that one post I made about women as knights in history, made it all the way to Reddit only for a bunch of redditors to argue that women couldn't actually be knights because:
- "the term is gendered" (it's not, and feminine equivalents were sometimes created specifically for the purpose)
- "they didn't actually do things as knights" (who didn't? The Hatchet women fought the Moors. A few other Orders had women as masters of arms. Both martial and formal examples)
...and a few other reasons that come down to "I don't like imagining my manly men in steel had women in their ranks, girls have cooties".
And the reason I say this is because recently, Wikipedia updated their page on "Knight", specifically adding a section about women with the title of knighthood, and what function they performed. And I know: "Wikipedia is not an academic source"--but every academic institution will accept the sources and articles used to back up wikipages, which confirm what has been said.
The gendered versions of 'knight' come from Romance languages, and literally just change the word to fit the gender of the subject (within a binary). So it isn't like English, where a female knight has always been a 'Dame', but, using Spain as an example, the word for Knight in Spanish is 'Cabellero'. This is the default masculine.
The feminine word for Knight? 'Cabellera'.
Similarly in French: "Chevalier" becomes "Chevaliére".
In Italian, "Cavaliere" becomes "Cavaliera".
Outside of Romance languages, "knight" is just a title for a social rank, so even the English Dame is by default a knight by rank, but may not have the title (although not impossible).
So it's not a silly infantilisation, than using a word for the knightly class and gendering it in a binary, which means we can actually tell that, yes, women as knights existed, enough that the feminine form of the word pops up now and then, so we know it existed.
Just a note about translations and ... well, patriarchal bullshit.
When you say "Hatchet women fought the Moors" I was like "hey, that seems to be part of my local history, how have I never heard about it?", and when I googled it ... I actually have heard about it, it's the Orden del Hacha from Catalonia (Orde de l'Atxa in the original Catalan). But ... there's something odd going on. Why the fuck in English they have translated like "Order or the hatchet"? You know, in Spanish and Catalan there's no really a difference between "Axe" and "Hatchet": There's a single word for them, "Hacha/Atxa". But in English, there's a difference. A Hatchet is a hand axe, pretty much the smallest one you can think of:
So It's pretty remarkable that whoever translated the name of the order to english first decided to use "Hatchet" and not "Axe". I'm pretty sure if this was a order of men warriors the name would have been pretty different. Specially when THIS was their coat of arms:
So dear academic-who-translated-this-first: Does that look like a hatchet to you, motherfucker?!?!?
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