harknessxo

[harknessxo]

happy pride :) ‼️

[harknessxo]

"I pledge allegiance to the LGBTQIA flag under the united witches of all countries. And to the Coven for which it stands, one orgy under Rio, indivisible, with sexual liberties, and fucking gay justice for all gays and gays only"

[harknessxo]

Reader is injured and Lilia treats her or vice versa 👀

Injured headcannons

SFW

Reader is injured, Lilia treats her :

Lilia freezes for a split second when she sees you hurt—it's rare to see her shaken, but nothing terrifies her more than you in pain

Her hands tremble while she’s cleaning your wounds, but she keeps whispering reassurances

"You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Just breathe with me"

If you flinch or whimper, she instantly softens, pressing kisses to your forehead

"I know, I know it hurts. You’re being so brave for me."

She insists on carrying you to bed—even if you say you can walk—and sets up an elaborate little healing station: herbal compresses, tea, and all her attention fixed solely on you

For days after, she refuses to leave your side. Her tone gets sharper with others ("She needs rest. Don’t make her talk.") but stays gentle with you

When she thinks you’re asleep, she kisses your knuckles and whispers, "You can’t scare me like that again. I don’t know what I’d do."

Lilia is injured, Reader treats her:

At first, Lilia tries to brush it off with a tight smile

"It’s nothing, darling. Just a scratch."

But the blood soaking through her sleeve says otherwise.

You insist on helping, your hands firm despite how your voice wavers with concern She’s used to being the caretaker—being fussed over makes her shy

She watches you in awe as you clean and bandage her wounds, your touch so careful

"You’re good at this." she murmurs, her voice warm and fond

When you ask her to stay still, she teases softly "Only because you said it so sweetly." But you can see her eyes flicker with gratitude

She melts when you tuck her in with extra pillows and run your fingers through her hair while she rests

Later, when she wakes up with a dull ache, you’re curled beside her, holding her wrist like a lifeline. And for the first time in a long time, she lets herself be held

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 25)

Synopsis: You want to believe this is the moment she breaks — that finally, the walls come down and the silence between you softens. Maybe this time, it’s real — a fragile opening in her guarded heart, a quiet promise that the cold won’t hold forever.

Word count: 9.5K

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Subtle angst, Unresolved emotions, Sexual tension, Mild language, Soft aftercare

A/N: Hey guys! I finally finished our midterms and thank God for that😭 Not sure if I slayed or if I got slayed LOL. Anyway, here’s Chapter 25! I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you so much for always supporting me, it means so much. Love you all!💜

The sunlight was soft through the half-drawn curtains, casting pale golden ribbons across the hotel bed. The kind that didn’t demand anything of you—just made everything look quieter, gentler. The kind of light that didn’t feel real, like it borrowed itself from a memory you hadn’t made yet.

You were awake first.

Not dramatically or suddenly, just… quietly awake. A slow kind of awareness, blinking against the ceiling and the silence, the distant hum of city noise outside and the shape of Agatha’s breathing beside you.

She was turned toward you, but still asleep, her mouth faintly parted, her hair a little messier than usual, like she forgot to care last night. And for a moment, you forgot to be cautious. You just looked at her. Just looked.

Then her lashes fluttered, and she let out the softest sigh, like waking up wasn’t something she wanted to do.

“…Hey,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

You smiled. “Morning.”

She blinked again, then squinted. “What time is it?”

You reached for your phone. “Almost eight.”

She groaned into her pillow. “That’s illegal.”

You chuckled, rolling onto your side to face her, propping your head up on your arm. There was something tender about being this close—no makeup, no performance, no years between you. Just her and you, in a quiet hotel room, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

For a while, you didn’t talk. Just laid there in the stillness. It was strangely domestic. Safe, even with the tension still hanging in the corners like old wallpaper.

Then Agatha shifted slightly, staring up at the ceiling, her voice hesitant. “Last night…”

You stayed still, heartbeat suddenly sharp. “Yeah?”

She glanced at you. “You meant it?”

Your brow furrowed. “Meant what?”

“That you were… in love with me,” she said softly. “For a long time.”

You hesitated. “Yeah. I did. I do.”

A silence. She was watching you now, not like she was surprised—but like she was finally letting herself believe it.

“For how long?” she asked, almost whispering.

You exhaled through your nose, laughing once under your breath. “God. I don’t know. I think I’ve been trying not to know for years.”

“Try,” she said, like a dare.

You stared at the ceiling, counting the invisible years. “Seventeen years?.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “That’s… a long time.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I was going to tell you before. Years ago. But you got married. And I didn’t want to be that person, so I told myself to just moved on.”

Agatha didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “…That night. On the beach at the Malibu. Was that why you kissed me?”

You turned to her. “At first, no. I wasn’t going to. But then you kissed me and I panicked, pulled away, but… I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And I grabbed you again.”

She laughed faintly. “You really did.”

There was a pause. You gathered your breath.

“So, why did you kiss me?” you asked quietly. “That night.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She looked back at the ceiling, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly:

“I think… something broke in me that night. In a good way, maybe. I was so tired. Of pretending everything was fine with Ralph. Tired of the weight of it all. And then there you were. Just… there, with your stupid sarcastic comments and your careful eyes. And you saw me in a way no one else did.”

You swallowed. “So, it was a breakdown kiss?”

“No,” she said, firm. “It was you. It’s always been you. I just didn’t know it then.”

You didn’t say anything.

Agatha continued, softer now. “There’s always been something about you. Since the day we met. Like I was… drawn to you. Even when I hated you. Especially when I hated you.”

You smiled faintly. “We were pretty terrible to each other back then.”

She nodded. “And yet… I still wanted to sit across from you at every dinner. Still noticed when you weren’t around. Still picked fights with you because that was easier than admitting I liked you.”

You turned your head toward her again, the air still between you.

“And Malibu?” you asked.

Agatha hesitated. Then said, “Something changed. I saw you and I realized—really realized—that you weren’t just a friend. You were the person I always ran to when I felt like drowning. And that scared the shit out of me.”

You smiled, though it trembled.

Another beat of silence.

“I think…” Agatha said slowly, “I was scared to admit what I wanted. Because if I admitted it, I’d have to face everything else. My marriage. My image. My… everything.”

You nodded, eyes stinging a little. “I understand. I do.”

She turned to face you now, close. Close enough to brush her fingers over your wrist, if she wanted to. But she didn’t. Not yet.

“But you’re not scared anymore?” you asked.

Agatha met your gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe I still am. But last night? Having you here? It didn’t feel like fear. It felt… right.”

Your heart ached at that.

You smiled again, smaller this time. “Then maybe we can just… take it slow. Reheat what we had, see if it’s still warm.”

She laughed, soft and warm. “Are you calling me leftovers?”

You grinned. “The best kind. Better the next day.”

Agatha rolled her eyes but didn’t look away.

Then, very softly, she said, “You know what’s wild?”

“What?”

“I think I loved you before I even knew what that meant. I just didn’t have a name for it.”

And just like that, the morning didn’t feel so soft anymore.

It felt alive.

Then there was a sudden knock on the door.

Sharp, but not urgent. Followed by a familiar voice:

“Governor? It’s Billy.”

Agatha blinked, then sighed—her softness folding back into composure like muscle memory.

You watched as she sat up, brushed her fingers through her hair, and adjusted the sleeve of her shirt. Her face settled into that steady, professional calm she wore in public, but you could still see traces of sleep and softness lingering in her eyes.

She glanced at you. “Just a second.”

You gave a small nod.

She stood, walked to the door with measured steps, and opened it halfway.

Billy’s voice was hushed but quick. “I know you're technically off the clock, but there’s a policy brief that needs initialing before your 10 a.m. call—just two pages, I promise.”

Agatha took it with a tired but patient smile. “Alright. Thanks, Billy.”

He hesitated. Then, catching sight of you in bed behind her, gave the quickest blink and turned politely away. “Uh—I'll be in the lobby downstairs when you're ready.”

Agatha nodded, closing the door softly behind him.

You slipped out of bed. “Excuse me,” you murmured.

She turned just slightly, watching you cross the room.

But you didn’t look back. Not yet.

You shut the bathroom door behind you and exhaled. The quiet inside felt like a whole different universe. You leaned over the sink, turned on the tap, and let the cold water run over your hands before splashing it on your face.

Then you stared at yourself in the mirror.

Your hair was a little messy. Your lips still remembered the smile you wore when Agatha told you last night hadn’t felt like fear—it felt right. You touched your cheeks and blinked hard, trying not to smile too wide. But it was there. You couldn’t stop it.

You leaned closer, whispering to your own reflection, half-laughing:

“Okay. Just breathe. Don’t ruin it. Not this time.”

You stared a moment longer.

“She’s soft with you,” you murmured. “She’s actually soft with you.”

You breathed out a shaky breath and laughed once under your breath, like you couldn’t believe this version of reality had unfolded. But it had. You felt it.

Another deep breath.

You fixed your shirt, smoothed your hair down, and stood straighter. Then turned, walked back into the room—this time steadier.

Agatha was standing by the little table now, holding her phone in one hand, but when she saw you, she smiled.

That real smile. That private, small one just for you.

“I ordered room service,” she said. “Figured you’d want coffee.”

You smiled back, something warm blooming in your chest. “You figured right.”

She gestured to the chair across from her. “Stay for a bit?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And just like that, the morning settled around you again. Quieter this time. Softer.

Two people on the edge of something new, something old, something slowly healing.

Together.

The dishes had been cleared. Coffee cooled in the cups. Outside, the light through the curtains was soft and overcast, like it knew something delicate was happening inside.

You were still sitting, leg tucked under you, fingers tracing the rim of your cup.

Agatha glanced at the time.

9:27 a.m.

You noticed. She’d checked it twice already.

“I should probably head back,” you said gently, not meeting her eyes. “Olympia’s still a long drive.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. She reached for her coffee, held it for a beat too long, then set it down without sipping.

“Right,” she said. “That makes sense.”

You shifted in your seat. “You’ve got that call at ten.”

“Yeah.”

Silence pressed at the edges of the room. You looked toward the armchair, where the clothes you wore yesterday were folded neatly—laid out with care sometime between last night and this morning. Her doing, obviously.

You rose, slowly. “I’ll just get changed and—”

“You can take a bath first, if you want.”

Her voice cut in quiet, too casual. Too practiced.

You blinked at her. “A bath?”

She didn’t look at you, just tapped her fingers lightly against her mug. “Before you drive. Might help you not feel like… a car crash by the time you get home.”

You smiled, soft and warm. “Agatha.”

She finally looked up. And the flicker in her eyes—the brief, hesitant weight of them—wasn’t casual at all.

“I’m fine, really,” you said gently. “I don’t want to take up more of your morning.”

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, too quickly. Then she added, quieter, “It’s not taking anything.”

You paused.

Then nodded. “Alright. Just a quick one.”

Agatha gave a small smile, a grateful one. You turned toward the bathroom, pausing by the folded clothes on your way. You gathered them in your arms and glanced back.

“I’ll leave after,” you said.

She nodded, but her eyes said something else entirely.

And as you closed the bathroom door behind you, you could feel it in your chest too—how much she didn’t want this to be the end of the morning. How much you didn’t, either.

How it already felt like you were leaving too soon.

The water felt too good.

You hadn’t realized how much tension you were holding in your shoulders until the heat started working into them. You exhaled, head tipped back, water sliding down your spine.

You took your time. Not too long, but long enough to enjoy the rare silence of just… being. A pause. A reset. You’d gotten her back, in some strange way. You weren’t about to ruin it.

But as you reached out to where a towel should’ve been—

“Shit,” you whispered, blinking water from your lashes.

There was nothing. No towel, no robe, no backup hanging on the hook.

You looked down at yourself, completely soaked, dripping, already starting to chill.

“…Fuck.”

You debated it for half a second—maybe just wrap yourself in clothes straight from the floor like some chaos demon? But they were still on the counter. Dry. Safe. You sighed.

Then, from behind the closed bathroom door, you called out:

“Agatha?”

A pause.

“Yeah?” Her voice came through, muffled, casual.

You hesitated a second, hand pressed against the door.

“…Can I borrow a towel? I forgot to ask earlier.”

Silence.

Then a laugh. Warm. Rough. Flustered.

“Of course. Shit, sorry—I should’ve brought one in.” You could hear her shifting, the sound of drawers, rustling fabric. Then, “I’ll leave it just outside the door, okay?”

You smirked, still dripping, still flushed. “Thanks.”

A second later, there was a soft knock.

“Towel’s here.”

You pressed your forehead to the door for a breath. Then opened it just enough to reach your hand out and grab the towel she left hanging neatly on the hook.

But your fingers brushed hers—she hadn’t stepped away yet.

You froze.

So did she.

And then—

“Sorry,” she said, softly.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, gripping the towel tightly.

“I’m gonna go sit down,” she said quickly, but her voice had that strained edge now. Like tension tucked under humor.

You were grinning as you shut the door again.

You stepped out quietly, still toweling off the ends of your hair, damp strands sticking to your cheeks and collar. You were back in yesterday’s clothes, but somehow it didn’t feel the same. Your skin felt clean, soft. You felt… exposed. Not because of what you were wearing—but because of what had just happened between the two of you. What had been said. Or almost said.

Agatha looked up from where she sat at the edge of the bed, cradling a cup of now-lukewarm coffee. Her eyes found you instantly—and stayed there.

You didn’t say anything at first. Neither did she.

You smiled, small and simple. “Thanks for the towel.”

Agatha’s throat worked as she swallowed. “You look—”

She stopped herself, blinked, corrected: “Refreshed.”

You tilted your head. “I feel like a new woman.” A soft tease. A peace offering.

She exhaled a quiet laugh through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching. But her eyes—her eyes were still watching you like you were sunlight. Too bright, too much, too close.

You glanced down, brushing your fingers through your wet hair. “I should probably hit the road before it gets too late. Olympia’s a bit of a drive.”

Agatha’s hand tightened slightly around her cup. “You don’t have to rush.”

You looked back up at her, meeting her gaze.

“I know,” you said gently. “But you’ve got that call at ten. And you’re leaving Lynden after.”

Agatha nodded once. Composed. Almost.

But not quite.

“Right,” she murmured. “Right. Just—don’t forget your things.”

You looked at the small pile in the corner—your keys, your shoes, the coat you’d peeled off last night. “Thanks.”

Another pause.

You could feel it again—that charged silence. Like something crackling in the air, aching to be named. You could almost see her jaw clench. Not with anger, but restraint.

She stood.

Walked over slowly.

“I wish…” she started, but then stopped. Her fingers twitched at her side, like they wanted to reach out but didn’t trust themselves to.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Waited.

She looked at you, eyes softer now, but guarded at the edges. “I just—I wish we had more time.”

Your breath caught.

You whispered, “Me too.”

You reached for your phone first, screen lighting up with a few messages you didn’t care to read just yet. Then your wallet. Then your keys. The soft jingle of metal felt louder in the quiet room. Agatha was still standing there, unmoving, watching you.

Your coat was draped over the armchair. You slipped it on.

And then your shoes.

Somehow, tying them felt like a goodbye.

Agatha stepped forward, slow and hesitant. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

She opened it for you, but didn’t step out. Just stood there.

You turned to her, standing now with barely a foot between you.

“Thanks for breakfast,” you said softly. “And… for everything else.”

Agatha’s eyes lingered on you, flickering between your eyes and your mouth like she couldn’t decide which was more dangerous. “You don’t have to thank me.”

You smiled—shy, unsure.

Silence fell again, humming with something thick and heady and right on the edge of too much.

And then it happened—your eyes dipped to her lips.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

Because she saw.

And she looked at yours too.

One heartbeat. Two.

And still, no one moved.

Your breath hitched.

“Agatha…”

Her name wasn’t a question. It was a feeling. A warning.

Or maybe a plea.

Her eyes darkened just slightly, and she inhaled—sharp and shaky—like she was about to say something, or do something, or fall apart.

But instead, she whispered, “Drive safe.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Another pause.

A twitch of her hand, a shift of your weight forward—too much and not enough.

And then, finally, you turned away.

You walked out into the hallway with your heart pounding in your ears, the ghost of her gaze on your back.

The hallway was quiet as you walked toward the elevator, your steps light and uneven, like your body was still unsure if it wanted to float or sprint.

You pressed the button.

Waited.

And then the doors opened, and you stepped inside alone.

The moment the doors slid shut, you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding—then let out a small laugh under your breath.

You leaned your back against the mirrored wall, staring at your reflection.

“Jesus,” you whispered to yourself.

Because you were smiling.

Like a fucking idiot.

A wet-haired, wrinkled-yesterday's-clothes-wearing idiot.

But God, what just happened?

Last night’s almost-date. The soft laughter. The quiet confession. Her eyes. The way Agatha looked at you like she’d been waiting for that moment for years too. And then this morning. That tension. That pause by the door. The way her eyes lingered on your lips like she wanted—

You groaned, forehead dropping against the cold metal wall.

"God, I should've kissed her. I should’ve—" you muttered, half-laughing at yourself, flushed and dazed.

It was almost laughable how easily she had you undone.

You weren’t even trying to be giddy. Your body just… was.

You reached your car in the hotel parking lot still smiling to yourself, still reliving that charged pause in front of the door—your mouth nearly brushing hers. Her breath mixing with yours. That look.

And then, unavoidably, your thoughts wandered—to that night in Malibu.

The camping night.

When everything felt too real. Too much.

Your skin flushed at the memory of how her hand brushed yours by the fire. How the world disappeared when she kissed you. How your mouth moved with hers like you had known each other in lifetimes before this one. How her lips tasted like smoke and sin.

You swallowed hard, pulling open your car door and sitting down, the seat feeling unfamiliar in contrast to her warm hotel suite. You took a deep breath, fingers already reaching for the AUX.

Music. You needed music.

You scrolled your playlist, still smiling like an idiot, then tapped the one song that made perfect sense for your chaotic, lovesick heart.

“I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)” by Whitney Houston blasted through the car.

You laughed, threw your head back against the seat, and sang along—off-key and loud and borderline euphoric.

You drove with the windows cracked open, letting the early afternoon breeze rush through, letting your thoughts carry you miles away—to the softness of her sheets, to the shape of her mouth, to that look in her eyes that morning.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Your car suddenly lurched—twice—then stuttered to a stop.

“What the fuck?” you muttered, pulling over to the shoulder of a deserted stretch of highway. You frowned, twisted your key back in the ignition—nothing.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You popped the hood, got out, and checked it—fuel wasn’t the issue. You’d topped off this morning. But the ignition coil?

You sighed in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Of course the problem had to be the ignition.

Out here, in the middle of nowhere.

You pulled your phone out—no bars.

Not even a single dot.

“Great. Just fucking—great,” you groaned, dragging your hand down your face. You leaned against the car, arms crossed, tapping your foot impatiently.

You waited.

30 minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Still no cars, no signal, and the sun was blazing overhead, inching toward its peak.

You were just about ready to start screaming into the void when a van finally appeared down the road.

You waved frantically, half-jumping, arms in the air.

The van slowed.

Then stopped.

Your heart skipped when the door opened—and then stopped entirely when you saw her.

Agatha.

Agatha Harkness. In tailored slacks. Sunglasses. Her wavy hair falling freely around her shoulders in deliberate disarray. Looking far too casual and devastating for someone who had no business being here right now.

She stepped out of the van, followed by Billy—chewing gum like he owned the road—and two security personnel.

You stared.

She raised a brow.

“Well,” she said, slowly, amused. “Fancy seeing you again.”

You blinked, then laughed, exasperated. “You have got to be kidding me.”

She tilted her head. “Car trouble?”

“Ignition coil’s shot. I checked.”

She nodded like she understood, then turned to Billy. “See? I told you she was the type to know what an ignition coil does.”

Billy snorted.

You glared at him. “This is not funny.”

He raised both hands, grinning. “I didn’t say anything.”

You turned back to Agatha. “Still. You showing up here feels like… I don’t know. Fate?”

Her expression faltered just a bit at that. But her voice was even when she said, “I’ll take it as a sign.”

She turned to her driver, murmured something, and the driver moved to hook up your car to tow it behind the van.

Then she turned to you. “Come on. You’re not staying stranded out here.”

You hesitated, heart still beating from the shock of seeing her again so soon.

Agatha stepped back into the van first, casually.

Then she looked back at you, her tone softer. “Sit with me?”

You stared.

Then nodded.

When you climbed in, you didn’t sit across. You didn’t keep your distance. You slid into the seat beside her.

Agatha’s knee brushed yours.

And didn’t move.

Your breath hitched slightly, your body aware of every single inch between you—and the way it felt like too little and too much all at once.

She didn’t speak.

You didn���t either.

For a full minute, the van was quiet except for the rumble of the road under the tires.

Then you caught her watching you from the corner of her eye.

Her gaze dropped—once—then darted back to your face.

Like she’d just let herself look too long at your lips.

You swallowed.

Hard.

Your legs were buzzing. Your head was spinning. The air inside the van felt warmer than it should’ve been.

And god, your thoughts—

They weren’t pure.

Not when you remembered how her hands felt brushing yours that night.

Not when you remembered the shape of her collarbones this morning, the sleepy rasp of her voice when she told you to stay.

Not when her thigh was pressed against yours now and you were both pretending not to notice.

The van rumbled steadily down the wet road, the sound of tires on asphalt filling the silence between you and Agatha. You sat beside her, the warm space between your thighs and hers just barely untouched, but it might as well have been a magnetic field the way you kept noticing it. Her coat lightly brushed against your arm every time the van hit a bump, and your whole body went too still—too aware.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Billy was up front with the driver, and the bodyguard was looking out the window on his phone, but that didn’t help ease the tight tension that had settled in the backseat.

You cleared your throat softly, glancing at her profile. She was avoiding your eyes too, fiddling with the rings on her fingers like she always did when she was uncomfortable. Her composure—so often pristine, politician-perfect—had hairline cracks in it

“We’re not alone this time,” you finally said under your breath, just enough for her to hear.

That made her huff out a soft laugh through her nose. “Yes. Tragic, isn’t it?”

You smiled at that, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s probably for the best.”

“Is it?” she replied too quickly, eyes still on the road ahead. Her voice was quiet, guarded—but there was something in the way she said it. The question hung between you for a breath too long.

You swallowed, heart climbing a little. “I mean… I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d survive if it was just us.”

She smirked at that, glancing sideways. “Such fragile restraint.”

You gave her a flat look. “You’re one to talk.”

Agatha let out a breath that sounded like a laugh trying not to be one, then turned her gaze out the window again. You let the silence return, not quite comfortable but not heavy either.

After a beat, you asked gently, “How are the kids, by the way? Valentina and Nicky?”

That softened her instantly. You saw the way her posture eased, shoulders dropping. “They’re good. Val’s in that age now where everything is a big deal. And Nicky is obsessed with building robots. Last week he put wheels on one of the cat’s bowls and said he invented a self-driving snack system.”

You grinned. “Genius in the making. Did it work?”

“It ran into a wall, then spun in circles until the cat slapped it.” Agatha chuckled. “But it’s the effort that counts.”

You leaned your head against the seat. “They sound like tiny whirlwinds.”

“They are,” she said fondly. “But—fun ones. Exhausting, but fun.”

You glanced at her, watching the rare softness settle in her expression. It looked so good on her. “I miss them,” you admitted. “I miss giving them outrageously expensive presents.”

Agatha rolled her eyes. “They still talk about the mini grand piano you gave Valentina. She tried to convince her music teacher she was a prodigy because her ‘rich fairy godmother’ said so.”

You laughed. “She is a prodigy. I’d never lie.”

Agatha turned toward you with a genuine smile, and for a second you both just looked at each other—quiet, still. There was something whole about this, something that tugged deep in your chest. A life you never got to live.

“We should have dinner,” she said suddenly, like she was trying to keep her voice light but couldn't hide the way it cracked around the edges. “When we’re back in Olympia. At my place. The kids would love to see you.”

You blinked at her. “Yeah? I mean, yeah. I’d love that.”

She nodded once, brushing a hand down her coat. “Good.”

And maybe you would’ve said more, maybe asked why now or what is this, but Billy twisted around in his seat, face slightly alarmed.

“Governor? There's a hurricane alert,” he said. “Looks like it’s hitting the coast hard. We’re just outside Seattle. I suggest we book a place and wait it out.”

You watched Agatha’s jaw tighten. Her smile was gone. “Damn it,” she muttered. “How bad?”

“Getting worse by the hour,” Billy said, glancing down at his phone.

The shift in her energy was instant. The governor mask slipped back on, brisk and focused. But you saw it—the flicker of worry. Her hand had curled slightly into a fist on her lap.

Without thinking, you reached over and laid your hand over hers.

She stilled, her eyes falling to where your fingers gently wrapped around hers. You didn’t squeeze, just… stayed there. Present. Reassuring.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “We’ll be fine.”

Agatha looked at your hand, then slowly up at you. For once, there was no sharp comment, no teasing smirk—just a long, unreadable stare.

And maybe she was felt that almost kiss too. Maybe that was what was sitting behind her eyes, behind the thin wall of calm she always wore in public. Or maybe she was just tired. But when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet again.

“I’m glad it was you we found on the road.”

You gave her a soft smile. “Me too.”

The van turned slightly, and the skyline of Seattle finally started to emerge beyond the misted windows. You didn’t let go of her hand.

And she didn’t ask you to.

The van slowed to a smooth stop in front of the grand entrance of a five-star hotel nestled just off the highway into Seattle. Its sandstone exterior gleamed under the gray sky, rain glistening on the marble driveway. The bellboys and doormen were already waiting, holding umbrellas like practiced dancers in a storm.

You were still holding Agatha’s hand.

It was warm, steady, real. Her fingers hadn’t moved to let go, and yours hadn’t dared either. That soft silence was still hanging between you when Billy suddenly twisted in his seat, looking over his shoulder from the front.

“Governor,” he said, “we’re here. I booked us rooms online just now. I’ll go ahead and get the keys at the front desk.”

The sound of his voice made Agatha flinch slightly—just enough to notice—and she slipped her hand from yours in a quiet, practiced motion. Not cold, but cautious. You let it happen, saying nothing.

“Thanks, Billy,” Agatha replied smoothly.

He opened the door and hopped out, coat flaring as he ran for cover. The bodyguards followed, one of them already pulling Agatha’s bag from the back. You and Agatha stepped out together, the light drizzle instantly misting your hair.

Before joining the others under the hotel’s grand awning, Agatha turned back to the driver. “Call someone about her car,” she said, nodding toward your beat-up ride parked just behind the van. “Have them tow it to a garage nearby. And tell them not to overcharge—she’ll notice.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I would’ve handled that myself, y’know.”

“I know,” she said, eyes flicking to yours. “But you looked too comfortable back there.”

You tried not to smile.

With a quick “thank you,” you jogged toward your car. The rain had picked up just a little, and the wind tugged at your coat as you opened the back and pulled out your bag. One of the guards approached, umbrella in hand.

“I got it,” you said politely. “Not that heavy.”

He nodded and backed off without argument.

By the time you got inside, Agatha was already in the lobby, standing under the chandelier like she belonged there—which, of course, she did. Rain clung delicately to her coat, but not a single hair on her head seemed out of place.

Billy returned a second later with five keycards. “Here you go,” he said, handing one to Agatha and another to you. “We’ve got time to settle in. I’m starving. Can we eat after?” He smiled, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

Agatha just nodded with a faint smile. “Yes, Billy. You won’t die of hunger.”

“I might,” he quipped, then wandered off toward the elevators with a dramatic sigh.

You and Agatha followed, both of you silent but not quite awkward now. It was that kind of silence that came with exhaustion and a thousand unspoken things crackling under the surface. The elevator’s quiet chime broke the stillness.

When you reached your floor, Agatha found her room immediately—just a few steps from the elevator. Yours, as it turned out, was directly across.

You unlocked the door, pulled your bag inside, and gave the suite a quick once-over. Warm lights. Minimalist decor. Marble counters. Nice, but not your usual style. You weren’t picky. You weren’t like that. You sat on the edge of the bed, letting the soft silence wrap around you for a moment—until a sharp knock snapped you out of it.

You opened the door.

Agatha was leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed.

“What’s taking you so long?” she said with a raised brow. “Checking if the room is fancy enough for you, Ms. CEO?”

You stared at her. “You know I don’t care about any of that.”

She blinked, faux-innocent. “Don’t you?”

“Agatha. I’m staying at that little inn your campaign booked in Lynden—the one with the creaky stairs and mystery stains. If I were the type to care about thread counts, I would’ve checked out on day one and booked a hotel somewhere with valet and spa water.”

She smirked. “Fair point.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed your coat. “Are we going, or do you want to audit my pillow firmness first?”

She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Tempting.”

You stepped out, locking the door behind you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still dramatic.”

“Me?”

She just gave you a teasing glance and turned toward the elevator. You walked side by side again, the same quiet hum between you—but lighter now. Familiar. Not fixed, but… soft.

The storm hadn’t reached the city yet. But something was definitely in the air.

And neither of you wanted to name it.

Not yet.

Lunch was better than you expected.

The long wooden table in the hotel’s restaurant was laid with warm lighting and the smell of fresh pasta, grilled seafood, and garlic butter. You sat beside Agatha—again. Billy had plopped himself on her other side, launching into a story about a hurricane drill gone wrong at the Capitol. One of the guards was trying hard not to laugh with food in his mouth. The other one, the one with the buzzcut, had the driest sense of humor you’d ever heard. Even the driver, seated quietly at the end of the table, was smiling into his glass of water, clearly used to the chaos.

It wasn’t tense anymore. It was easy. Laughter spilling between bites, forks clinking on plates, soft jazz humming in the background. Even Agatha had leaned back in her chair, one arm lazily draped over the rest, her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile—but something lighter than what you were used to seeing from her.

The food was excellent—well-seasoned, warm, fresh—and when the bill came, you reached for it without thinking.

“I’ve got it,” you said.

Billy raised his brows. “CEO privilege?”

“Common courtesy,” you corrected, flashing him a look.

Agatha studied you for a second, then nodded once. “Let her,” she said simply, and that was that.

After lunch, you all stepped out of the restaurant into the cool hush of the carpeted hallway.

The group began to splinter naturally—Billy wandered off to find a vending machine for candy (“dessert,” he claimed), the driver stepped aside to make another call about your car getting fixed, and the guards exchanged glances before heading toward the elevator. And Agatha? Agatha paused, rolling her shoulders back.

“I’m fine on my own,” she told them. “Go wander off. You deserve more than standing around looking menacing all day.”

They hesitated. She gave them a look.

“I’m not going to disappear, alright?”

They glanced at each other, then nodded, thankful, and left.

You were about to do the same—head to your room, maybe walk around the hotel when you heard her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned. Agatha was looking at you, hands in the pockets of her coat.

“You wanna try the indoor pool?”

There was something casual about the way she said it, but her eyes were sharp—watching your reaction.

You smiled. “I mean… yeah. Obviously.”

She smirked. “Thought so.”

Back in your room, you pulled open your bag and took out the sleek black two-piece you barely wore anymore. You paired it with a sheer mesh kimono for a cover-up, letting it flow loose over your shoulders. For a second, you stood in front of the mirror.

You sprayed your perfume.

You knew it was a little pointless—chlorine would erase it in seconds—but you wanted to smell good. Around her.

You combed your hair, added a hint of blush and mascara. Nothing heavy. Just something to say, I was thinking of you when I got ready.

When you stepped out of your room, she was already there��leaning against the wall beside your door, arms folded, her head tilted slightly.

She was wearing a long cream-colored cover-up, something satin and soft, and her hair fell effortlessly over one shoulder, loose and free.

Her eyes skimmed you once, and then came the tease.

“Makeup? Perfume?” she said with a grin. “Trying to seduce someone, Ms. CEO?”

You scoffed, already flushing. “It’s called self-care.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said. “Very impressive effort. For someone who just wants to swim.”

You rolled your eyes, and she raised her hands in mock surrender.

“It’s working though,” she added, voice softer. “You look… nice.”

There was a pause between you. Not awkward. Just full.

She smiled again, tilting her head. “Shall we?”

You smiled back. “After you, Governor.”

The elevator ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. You stood beside her, watching the numbers light up. The air between you was different now—thicker, but familiar.

When the doors opened on the pool level, you stepped into a hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows and soft recessed lighting. The scent of chlorine floated in the air.

You reached the door. She opened it.

Empty.

Before you could ask—

“I rented it,” she said simply, already walking forward. “Don’t look so surprised.”

You just nodded, stunned for a beat.

She walked to the edge of the pool and untied her cover-up.

It slipped off her shoulders and fell to the bench beside her.

You didn’t mean to stare.

But there she was—in a rich purple two-piece, her skin glowing in the light, curves accentuated by the shimmer of water reflection dancing across her.

Her collarbones, her waist, the strength in her thighs, her confidence—

She cleared her throat.

You blinked hard, jerking your eyes up to meet hers.

She was smirking. “You’ve been staring at me a lot lately.”

Your mouth opened. “I wasn’t—”

“Mmhmm.”

You were too warm all of a sudden.

Agatha turned and slipped into the pool, graceful and slow. Her shoulders rose with a soft sigh as she adjusted to the water.

You took a breath, then untied your own cover-up. You felt her watching you this time. You didn’t look directly, but you felt it.

And then—

Splash.

You were about to step in slowly when suddenly, her hands reached out, grabbing your wrist—and she yanked you forward.

You gasped as your body crashed into hers, water swirling around your thighs, chests pressed together.

You didn’t move.

Neither did she.

Your faces were inches apart. Your breath hitched.

You could feel her.

Every detail of her against you.

Her gaze flicked to your lips.

And just like that morning—you looked at hers too.

“Y/N,” she whispered.

Your name, from her lips, so softly—like it meant more than it used to. Like she couldn’t say anything else without falling apart.

Your eyes met hers again.

Something was there.

Yearning. Longing. Hunger. Restraint.

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

Agatha flinched hard, breaking the moment with a swift step back. She swam away quickly, almost too quickly.

You did the same.

The cleaner paused in the doorway. “Oh! I’m sorry—I didn’t know anyone booked the pool today.”

Agatha’s voice was clipped. “It’s alright.”

The cleaner left.

And then… silence.

That strange, echoing kind of silence where something just broke—something you weren’t sure you were allowed to feel yet.

You knew why. You weren’t stupid. Agatha was still married, still tangled in a reality where the world expected her to be someone else.

You let the quiet hang for a second, treading water.

And then—

“You swim like a dog,” she said suddenly.

You turned, blinking.

She smirked. “Scared of messing up your makeup?”

You laughed, a little breathless. “That’s rich coming from you. You flinched like someone dropped a toaster in here.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

“Alright then,” you said, grinning. “Race?”

Agatha raised a brow, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “You really wanna lose that badly?”

That got you. “You’re on.”

You lined up at the edge of the pool. She counted you off. “Three… two… one—go.”

You both took off.

You were good. Fast, even.

But she was something else.

Sleek, confident, fierce. You lost—by half a lap.

When you reached the end, breathless, hair slicked back, Agatha was already grinning, holding onto the side of the pool.

“You look devastated,” she teased, pushing wet hair from her face.

You laughed. “I’ll recover.”

“You always do,” she said, her smile softening—just slightly.

You both floated there for a moment longer.

The tension hadn’t disappeared.

But now, it felt gentler.

Like it was waiting.

You swam a little longer after that race—less for the laps and more to fill the silence. The water between you cooled the earlier heat, but it didn’t quite wash it away. You both lingered, exchanging a few quiet words, making gentle waves, brushing past each other like it didn’t mean anything… though it absolutely did.

Eventually, you both decided to head back.

The walk down the hallway felt different now—your steps softer, your heart unsure. There was a quiet between you, not cold exactly, but Agatha wasn’t saying much. In the elevator, she stood a little to the side, one arm across her waist like she was trying to hold something in.

You glanced at her and nudged her with a sly smirk. “Cold already, Governor? Thought you’d be tougher than that.”

Agatha didn’t look at you at first, but you caught the slight smirk tugging at her lip.

“I’m not cold,” she said, coolly. “Just… thinking.”

“About how impressive my doggy paddle was?” you teased, bumping your shoulder against hers. “You looked intimidated.”

That earned you a real laugh, low and rich. “Sure,” she said. “You’re a true threat. I was seconds away from drowning myself just to end the humiliation.”

You both laughed, and the ice cracked open again, just enough.

When the elevator opened to your floor, you stepped out side by side, your hair damp, your steps quiet on the carpet. There was something soft in this walk, like the ending of a really good day.

Outside your doors—her suite across from yours—you both slowed. The air turned thick with hesitation.

“Well,” you said, trying not to sound like you were waiting for something. “Good swim.”

Agatha nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for… earlier. For lunch. And everything.”

You offered her a soft smile and reached for your doorknob. “Anytime, Governor.”

You were halfway through closing the door when it suddenly slammed back open—hard.

You gasped as Agatha stepped forward, grabbed you by the neck—not forcefully, but like she had to anchor you—and then her mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t delicate. It was need.

You didn’t even get the chance to kiss her back right away—she was already walking you backward into your room, her other hand reaching behind her to slam the door shut and twist the lock.

The click echoed in your chest.

Her lips were fierce, tasting of adrenaline and something darker, more desperate. You finally caught up to her hunger, your hands moving—one to her neck, the other to the bare skin at her waist, just under the hem of her cover-up. She was so warm. So real.

Your bodies pressed together, just skin and barely-there swimwear. She backed you into the wall, and the soft thud of your shoulder hitting it only made you kiss her harder.

Her lips left yours only to trace your jaw, then your neck. You tilted your head back, breathless and open, and when her mouth latched onto the side of your throat, you let out a moan—a soft, surprised sound shaped like her name.

“Agatha…”

She hummed against your skin, low and indulgent. Then you felt it—teeth. Gentle pressure. A bite. She was leaving a mark, and you swore your knees almost buckled.

But then her lips were soothing the sting with a kiss. Slow. Intentional.

She pulled back just enough to cup your cheeks. You both stared at each other, panting, your foreheads nearly touching.

You smiled first—soft, giddy, helpless.

She smiled back. It ruined you.

Then, voice hoarse, her lips still slightly parted, Agatha joked, “Are we just going to stand here making out against the wall… or are we taking this to bed?”

You laughed, breathless and flushed, pushing gently at her shoulders. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

You walked backwards toward the bed, your fingers brushing down her arm before slipping away. She stayed standing near the wall, watching you with heat in her eyes, her arms hanging loosely by her sides, her chest rising and falling.

You stretched out across the bed, one knee slightly bent, hair still wet, skin kissed by chlorine and perfume and her mouth.

Then, grinning, you tilted your head. “You like what you see?”

Agatha let out a soft, knowing sound in her throat.

“I always do,” she said, her voice rough.

And finally—finally—she walked toward you.

Agatha climbed onto the bed with the grace of someone who knew exactly what she wanted, but still treated you like something precious. Her knees sank into the mattress, her eyes never leaving yours. Her hair framed her face in soft waves, her mouth a little red and wet from the kissing.

You reached for her as she hovered above you, and she let you pull her down.

Your lips met again—warmer now, deeper, slower. Less about frenzy, more about feeling. Her hands cupped your face like she was memorizing the shape of it. You kissed her with the same reverence, letting your fingertips roam the line of her back, brushing up under her cover-up to feel bare, warm skin.

When you broke for breath, your nose brushed hers. You exhaled shakily.

“I’ve missed this. I missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly at the end.

She looked at you then—really looked. Her mouth softened. Her fingers tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

“I know,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I missed you too.”

Your eyes stung. You tried to blink the tears away, but she caught the first one with her lips, kissing it from your cheek.

“Hey…” she murmured, kissing you again, slower this time. “I’m here now. You have me.”

You nodded, breath hitching as you held her tighter. You let the ache melt into the kiss, let it pour out of your mouth and into hers. She met you with the same kind of hunger, but now it was laced with softness. Like the need had found a home.

Her hand slid between you, fingers hooking gently around the edge of your cover-up. You lifted your arms so she could shrug it off your shoulders. You watched her eyes trail over your body with a kind of quiet reverence—her gaze not greedy, but grateful.

“God, you're beautiful,” she said, almost to herself.

Then she shed her own cover-up, her fingers working slowly. You let your hands help—tugging the damp fabric off her shoulders, down her arms. Your bikini top came next, and she kissed you again as she reached behind your back to untie the strings, her fingers brushing gently along your spine.

You were chest to chest now, skin flushed and damp with warmth, and it made everything feel more electric. More real.

Her mouth explored you slowly—your collarbone, the dip of your sternum, your breast. Each kiss was unhurried, every touch deliberate. You threaded your fingers into her hair and arched into her lips when she circled your nipple with her tongue, a soft gasp escaping you.

Her voice was low when she spoke again, lips brushing your skin. “Tell me what you need.”

You swallowed. “I just… I want to feel you. All of you.”

That was all it took.

Her mouth retraced the path it had taken earlier, lingering this time. Her lips kissed along your chest, your ribs, the dip of your waist, as if worshipping you inch by inch. Her fingers found the strings of your bikini bottoms and she tugged, slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

You raised your hips wordlessly, offering yourself to her, the air between you thick with more than just lust—it was full of ache, reverence, devotion.

She pulled the damp fabric down your thighs, then off your ankles with care, folding it neatly and placing it aside, like it mattered.

You were bare for her.

Agatha sat back on her knees for a moment, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, lips flushed, chest rising with quiet hunger. Then she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottom, sliding the strings slowly down her hips with a slow, graceful ease. You watched every movement like you’d been starving for it. Because you had.

And now, she was bare too.

For a breathless second, you both just looked at each other—really looked. Naked not just in body, but in spirit. No words. Just the sound of your shared breaths and the ache blooming in your chest.

Then she crawled forward again, crawling between your legs like she belonged there.

And she did.

Her skin brushed yours, warm and alive, and you gasped when her thigh nudged yours open a little wider. Her hand caressed up your leg, her fingers spreading across your inner thigh like she needed to feel every tremble.

Then she kissed you.

God, she kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense. Her lips moved slowly, coaxing yours open again and again, taking her time. She kissed you until you couldn’t remember how to breathe without her.

One of her hands slipped down, fingers brushing so gently where you were aching for her. Your hips lifted in response—reflex, desperate—and she rewarded you with a low, quiet moan that vibrated into your mouth.

Her fingers found your clit with aching gentleness. She circled it slow, deliberate, like she wanted to make you fall apart one breath at a time.

You whimpered into her mouth, clinging to her shoulders.

“Still okay?” she murmured between kisses, her voice hoarse, like gravel softened by velvet.

You nodded fast, chest rising and falling. “More than okay,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t stop, please—don’t stop. Fuck.”

And she didn’t.

Her mouth found your throat again, your jaw, your ear. She whispered your name like a secret between kisses, like a prayer. Her fingers moved with maddening care, never rushing—just coaxing, drawing sounds from you didn’t even know you could make.

Your thighs trembled.

Your hands fisted the sheets, then reached for her again, needing her closer, needing her pressed to you. She let herself fall into you, chest against chest, her mouth meeting yours again just as her fingers slipped inside you.

You gasped—soft, broken.

She stilled immediately, watching your face.

But you only nodded, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. “Please, Aggie… I need you.”

She kissed your tears like she was kissing away every ounce of ache. “You have me,” she breathed.

And then she moved.

Slowly. So slowly.

Her fingers moved inside you with such unbearable tenderness it made you cry harder. Not from pain, not even from pleasure—but from the overwhelming flood of emotion. Her body, her mouth, her hand—all of it was worship. Like she was trying to pour every silent confession, every swallowed feeling, into the rhythm of her touch.

You held onto her like she was your lifeline, gasping into her neck, kissing the skin there between ragged breaths.

She whispered softly in your ear, words that weren’t quite coherent. Just shivers of love, of comfort, of I’m here. Her thumb stroked your clit in time with her thrusts, and the pressure built slow and steady, your body tightening around her, your breaths coming quicker, shorter.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her own voice thick with emotion. “Let go, baby.”

And when you did—when the pleasure hit, cresting like a wave from somewhere deep inside—you cried out her name, your whole body trembling with it. The release came not just from your body but from your soul, from everything you’d been holding in.

Agatha held you through it, murmuring soft things against your temple, her hand never leaving yours.

You pulled her down into your arms, legs wrapping around her waist, needing the full weight of her on top of you, needing the warmth of her skin and the beat of her heart against yours.

She was still inside you when you kissed her again—messy, breathless, open-mouthed. You wanted her there. You wanted every part of her.

And she gave it.

She pressed her forehead to yours, brushing your hair back with shaky fingers.

“I’m yours,” she whispered.

Tears spilled from your eyes again as you kissed her. You didn’t say I love you. You didn’t need to. It was in every breath, every heartbeat, every tear on your cheeks.

You just whispered, “Stay.”

And she answered with a kiss.

You lay curled up against Agatha’s chest, her strong arms wrapped around you like a shield against the world. The steady beat of her heart beneath your ear was a quiet rhythm that calmed every anxious thought. Her breath ghosted over your skin as she pressed a slow, lingering kiss behind your ear, down the curve of your neck, and onto your shoulder.

You melted into her warmth, your fingers tracing light patterns along her arm.

“You know? I wanted to kiss you this morning,” you murmured softly, your voice barely more than a whisper, afraid to break the magic of the moment.

Agatha’s breath hitched against your skin, then she teased with a low, amused chuckle. “Chickened out?”

You felt the corners of your mouth lift into a shy smile. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Her fingers tightened gently around you, a silent reassurance, and she laughed—a deep, soft sound that filled the space between you.

The silence that followed was comfortable, a quiet cocoon where nothing else mattered but the two of you. You felt safe, cherished.

After a long pause, you spoke again, voice soft and wistful. “I just want to stay like this… forever. To lie here with you, away from all the noise and the chaos out there.”

A low hum of contentment vibrated through her, her lips brushing your hairline as she whispered, “We could. But first…” Her fingers trailed teasingly down your ribs, tickling just enough to make you squirm. “We need to wash the chlorine off. The pool’s not exactly gentle on skin.”

You groaned softly, reluctant to move, eyes fluttering closed as you savored the moment.

“But I don’t wanna,” you grumbled, your tone half-protesting, half-pleading.

Without warning, her hands darted to your sides, tickling mercilessly. You jerked, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “Agatha! No! Stop—”

She grinned against your skin. “Only if you get up and shower with me.”

Squirming in her hold, you tried to break free, but she held you firm, her grip warm and unyielding.

“Fine! You win!” you gasped between laughs, surrendering completely. “We’ll shower.”

She helped you up, your bodies still pressed close as she pulled you gently toward the bathroom.

Steam curled lazily from the warm water already running in the large tub. Agatha knelt beside it, sprinkling bath salts in—a soothing mix of lavender and eucalyptus. The scent filled the room, soft and calming.

You both slipped into the tub, water enveloping you like a warm embrace. Agatha’s arm circled your waist, pulling you close so your bodies molded together perfectly.

Your head rested against her shoulder, your cheek pressed to the soft skin just beneath her ear. You felt her breath, steady and slow, like a heartbeat syncing with your own.

Her lips found your temple, then trailed a featherlight kiss to your hairline, lingering there with a tenderness that made your chest ache with affection.

“Better?” she asked softly, voice like a caress.

You nodded, eyes closed, feeling utterly safe and loved. “So much better.”

Her fingers found yours beneath the water, weaving together like they belonged there—like you belonged with her.

You let out a soft sigh and tilted your face up to catch her gaze. Her eyes were warm, full of that fierce, quiet love you’d ached for—always. And now that it was finally here again, you didn’t know how to hold it without breaking.

She smiled, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. “We don’t have to rush anything. We have all the time in the world.”

You leaned into her touch, your heart swelling with something sweet and fragile.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

You tangled your fingers in her hair, pulling her closer until your lips met again—soft, slow, full of promise. The world outside faded completely, leaving just the two of you, wrapped in warmth and love and the quiet sighs of a moment that would stay with you forever.

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[harknessxo]

don’t go, not tonight - agatha harkness x reader

summary: Christmas Eve. A snowstorm. You weren’t expecting to spend the night with your ex-wife… but here she is — as infuriating, charming, and impossible to ignore as ever. Some things never change. Some… never really ended. | words: 5k (apprx)

warnings: Heavy tension; exes with unresolved feelings; suggestive smut (non-explicit); intimacy; passive-aggressive bickering; divorce angst; modern no powers AU; minor language; mutual pining.

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

-x-

You weren’t expecting the doorbell.

Not tonight. Not with the snow coming down in heavy, lazy flakes and the street already covered in a quiet white blanket. William had texted barely an hour ago—just got to Teddy’s! they have hot chocolate AND matching pajamas lol—and you'd smiled, actually smiled, for what felt like the first time all week.

Everything was supposed to be settled. Calm. Predictable.

So when you open the door and see her, your entire body tightens.

“Agatha?”

She blinks at you, startled—though not as startled as you are. Her hair is slightly damp from the snow, dark curls tucked beneath a beret that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. She’s wearing that navy coat you used to steal in the mornings when she left too early for work. Her cheeks are pink, eyes tired, and still, somehow, she smirks.

“Evening,” she says, like this is normal. Like she didn’t just explode your entire evening with one unexpected visit. “You’re looking very... festive.”

Your sweater has reindeer on it. You resist the urge to fold your arms across your chest.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. “William’s not home.”

Agatha falters. “He’s not?”

You stare at her. “Are you serious?”

She sighs, brushing snow from her shoulder with exaggerated delicacy. “I thought—he was spending Christmas with me and New Year’s with you.”

“That was the original plan,” you say, voice tightening. “Then you said you’d be working straight through the holiday, and we all agreed he’d spend Christmas with Teddy’s family. You agreed. Weeks ago.”

She blinks, processing. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you echo, full of bite.

Agatha shifts on her feet, suddenly looking very human and a little embarrassed. “Things have been insane at the firm. I must’ve... missed that.”

“Missed the texts or missed being a functioning adult?”

That earns you a sharp look—but no retort. She exhales, watching her breath fog up in front of her like even that is trying to avoid confrontation.

You should close the door. You should let her freeze in her own mess for once.

But the snow’s getting heavier, and there’s something in her eyes—soft, worn-down, real—that knocks against your ribs. You hated loving her. But you loved her hard. That kind of thing doesn’t vanish just because it hurts.

“Come in,” you say, against better judgment. “You can dry off. Then leave.”

Her smirk returns—smaller this time, but real. “How generous.”

You step aside. “Don’t push it.”

Agatha walks in, trailing cold air and old memories behind her. You close the door, and suddenly the quiet of Christmas Eve feels a lot less peaceful.

The living room smells faintly of cinnamon and clean laundry. The heater hums softly. And yet, with Agatha standing in the middle of it all, snow melting onto the hardwood, you feel like you’ve stepped into enemy territory.

Or worse—familiar territory.

She slips off her coat like she still owns the space, drapes it over the arm of the couch, and makes a slow circuit toward the fireplace, touching things she shouldn’t: a framed photo of William and Teddy at the pumpkin patch, a half-burned candle, the throw blanket you always kept folded a certain way.

“You rearranged the furniture,” she notes casually, then glances back at you. “I liked the couch by the window.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “The draft was awful.”

Agatha hums. “Right. I forgot how sensitive you are.”

You cross your arms, half for warmth, half to stop yourself from doing something dramatic. “Do you want tea or something?”

“I’ll take coffee, if you’ve got it. Decaf.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Since when do you drink decaf?”

“Since my heart started racing every time I opened a work email,” she says, deadpan.

You snort—despite yourself—and head into the kitchen. From there, you can still hear her footsteps, the way they hesitate near the bookshelf, pause near the pile of opened mail on the dining table.

“You’ve been working,” she calls out, like it’s a revelation.

You glance at your laptop, still open on the kitchen counter, the blinking cursor accusing you silently from the half-finished paragraph.

“I have a deadline,” you reply, a little too quickly. “I’m submitting an article for the Review before the end of the break.”

“Of course you are.”

You glance back through the doorway and find her leaning against the frame like she belongs there. Like this is just a regular night in a life you don’t share anymore.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She shrugs, smile lazy. “Just ironic. You used to lecture me about knowing when to disconnect.”

“That’s different,” you snap. “I never let work ruin my personal life.”

Agatha’s eyebrows lift, just slightly. “Mm.”

You turn back to the coffee, pressing the machine button harder than necessary. The silence she leaves in her wake is the kind that says everything.

When you finally hand her the mug, she takes it with a soft thank you and walks straight to the couch. Sits down. Crosses her legs. Just like she used to, as if the cushion remembers her weight.

You hover near the kitchen, unsure if sitting feels like surrender.

“You always kept this place so... warm,” she says after a sip. “Cozy. It still smells like you.”

You ignore the way your pulse stutters.

“You said it smelled like vanilla and unresolved expectations,” you remind her.

Her smile deepens. “Well. I wasn’t wrong.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Is this going somewhere?”

Agatha shrugs again, sipping her coffee, eyes fixed on the twinkling lights wrapped around the staircase bannister.

“Not really,” she murmurs. “Just... nice to be somewhere that feels real. Even if I don’t belong here anymore.”

You don’t answer.

Because if you do, the words might come out wrong.

Or worse—true.

You clear your throat, eyes on your half-finished document, not on the woman comfortably curled on your couch like she’s just visiting an old friend instead of an ex-wife - that still turns your stomach inside out with every sigh.

“You’re welcome to stay a bit,” you say, keeping your tone neutral. “Warm up. Wait out the snow.”

Agatha looks up, surprised, but not enough to hide it well. She gives a slight nod, as if you’d offered her a blanket instead of unspoken hospitality. “Thanks.”

You sit back at your desk in the corner, trying to will your focus back into place. The blinking cursor stares at you like a dare. Your fingers hover above the keyboard, then slowly begin to type. One sentence. Two. Delete. Rewrite.

Agatha settles into scrolling her phone, the sound of occasional taps and soft chuckles drifting across the room. Time slips strangely. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. The snow outside grows thicker, heavy flakes blanketing the windowsills and erasing the world beyond the glass.

You shift in your chair, trying to stretch your spine without groaning aloud. Your neck twinges—sharp from the awkward angle, the hours of tension hunched over a screen. You wince and roll your shoulders.

And then she’s behind you.

Before you can react, her hands are there—firm and warm, sliding over your upper back, her thumbs pressing gently into the knots beneath your shoulder blades. It’s muscle memory. Her touch. The way she used to wordlessly soothe you when words failed.

“Jesus—” you start to say, but it melts into a soft sound—something embarrassingly close to a moan as your head tips forward under the instinctive relief.

Agatha chuckles behind you. “Still got it.”

You freeze.

And suddenly, you’re too aware of everything—the heat of her palms, the way her fingertips lingered just a beat too long, the way your body reacted without your permission.

You jerk up from the chair, heart hammering, and put a few feet of distance between you and her.

Agatha lifts both hands in a lazy peace offering. “Hey—relax. It’s just a massage.”

You glare, pulse still racing. “You don’t get to just do that anymore.”

Her smile falters for the first time. “Right,” she says quietly. “Sorry. Habit.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too busy trying to ignore the tremble in your fingers and the fact that for one stupid moment, you forgot why she doesn’t live here anymore.

You cross to the window, arms tightly folded, desperate for an anchor. But all you see is a wall of white swallowing the street whole.

“It’s worse,” you mutter.

“What?”

“The snow. It’s coming down harder now. You’re not driving in this.”

Agatha joins you at the window, gaze tracking the same invisible path that you once drove together, late-night fast food runs and whispered arguments in the front seat.

“Huh,” she says. “Looks like I’ll be here a while.”

You don’t look at her. You just breathe.

Of course she will.

And of course part of you already knew.

The storm doesn’t let up.

You check the forecast once, then again. Then once more just to make sure you’re not losing your mind. But the warnings are all the same: Hazardous conditions. Stay indoors. Avoid unnecessary travel.

You resist the urge to scream into your mug.

Agatha has made herself at home again—not in the obvious ways, but in the small, treacherous ones. She lingers near you when she doesn’t have to. Her fingers brush yours when she reaches for the wine glasses. Her hip grazes your back as she squeezes past you in the narrow kitchen, even though there’s plenty of room. And every time you tense, she just smiles. That maddening, amused little smirk like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She helps herself to your cabinets. Picks a record that she bought two years ago and plays it like it still belongs to her. The soft hum of jazz fills the room like warm smoke, and it’s not even ten minutes before you realize you’ve stopped typing entirely.

When you glance at her, she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, glass of red wine in hand, watching you over the rim with eyes that know you too well.

“This used to be your focus face,” she says. “The squint. The lip thing.”

You immediately stop doing the lip thing.

“I have a working face,” you reply, reaching for your tea instead of wine. “Not that you’d know. You barely let me finish a sentence without distracting me.”

Agatha laughs, low and knowing. “Well. Some of us are naturally distracting.”

You almost choked on your tea.

“God, seriously?” you say, setting the mug down hard enough to clink against the counter. “Are you always like this, or did you get worse after the divorce?”

“Depends,” she says, wandering closer again. “Am I getting to you?”

You stare at her, and the worst part is—she knows the answer before you can deny it.

Dinner is a reluctant truce. You throw together something simple—pasta and a jarred sauce—and Agatha insists on helping. Only, helping apparently means standing too close, bumping your arm with hers, brushing flour from your cheek like she still has that right.

She hums softly to herself while stirring, barefoot now, sleeves rolled, like this is just one more quiet night in your kitchen.

You grit your teeth and keep cooking. But your body betrays you—warming in ways it shouldn't, breath catching in your throat every time her skin finds yours, even by accident.

And by the time the dishes are done and the house has gone still again, you’re genuinely considering walking outside barefoot just to cool off.

The record has long stopped playing. The wine bottle is mostly empty. The windows are frosted over, and the heater kicks on again with a low sigh.

You sit on the edge of the couch, one knee bouncing, trying not to look at her.

Agatha stretches, then leans back into the cushions with a soft groan. “So. You gonna offer me the couch, or do I sleep in the bathtub?”

You exhale slowly. “You know the couch kills your back.”

She grins. “So generous tonight.”

“It’s not for you,” you snap. “It’s for my conscience.”

Her smile softens just enough to hurt. “Right.”

You don’t move right away. But eventually, you stand, rubbing the back of your neck, still sore from earlier. Still remembering her hands.

“The guest room’s made up,” you say, refusing to meet her eyes. “You’ll be here through Christmas at this rate.”

Agatha stands slowly, brushing past you again with that same unbearable calm, that same quiet weight. “Merry Christmas, darling,” she murmurs as she passes.

You flinch at the endearment—and at the way your traitorous body responds to it like a match to dry wood.

You don’t look back until she’s gone down the hallway, the door clicking softly behind her.

The house feels too warm. The storm rages outside. And all you can think about is how you let her in again.

Literally. Emotionally. Too far.

Steam curls in the bathroom mirror as you splash cold water on your face, trying to scrub off not just the exhaustion, but the heat clinging to your skin ever since she stepped through the door.

You don't hear her come in—but then again, you never really had to hear Agatha. She moves like memory: always present, always near, even when she shouldn’t be.

She slips in beside you like it's the most natural thing in the world, toothbrush already in hand. You catch her reflection just as she opens the drawer—her drawer—and pulls out a familiar travel-sized toothpaste. The kind only she ever used.

You freeze, water still dripping from your chin.

She notices your silence, glances over, then lowers the toothbrush slightly.

“What?” she says, too casually. “You kept this drawer.”

You say nothing.

Agatha shrugs, smiling to herself as she uncaps the tube. “Guess some habits die harder than others.”

The laugh she lets out is soft and low, almost fond—but it lands wrong in the narrow space between you.

Your stomach tightens.

You reach for the towel, pat your face dry, and without a word, you step out. Away from the heat. Away from her.

She calls your name, but you don’t stop until you’re in the hallway, heart pounding too loud in your ears. You’re halfway to your room when you hear her footsteps behind you, slower now. Less sure.

Agatha stops just outside your doorway.

You turn to face her before she can speak.

“What is this?” you ask, voice tired and flat and utterly done. “Seriously. What are you doing here, Agatha?”

Her brows lift, but there’s a flicker of guilt in her eyes. She opens her mouth—but all that comes out is a vague, “It’s snowing.”

You laugh, bitter and thin.

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t insult me like that. I’m tired. It’s Christmas. Just—if you’re going to lie, at least make it worth the effort.”

Silence stretches long between you.

Agatha’s gaze drops for a beat. When she looks back up, some of that charm, that effortless confidence, has cracked around the edges.

She breathes in slowly through her nose, then lets it out.

“I knew William wasn’t here,” she says.

The words hang in the air, fragile and too loud.

“I saw the messages. Or… some of them. I got the gist. He was spending Christmas with Teddy. And I knew you’d be here. Alone.”

You stare at her, stunned. “You knew?”

Agatha nods, no smile this time. No smirk. Just the truth.

“I didn’t want to spend the night in my apartment. I didn’t want to be surrounded by silence and regret and ghosts of Christmases we didn’t survive. And I guess… I was hoping maybe you wouldn’t want that either.” She folds her arms, her voice quieter now. “So yeah. I came here on purpose. Not just because of the snow. Not just because I missed a few messages. I came because—” she hesitates, then finishes with a whisper, “—I didn’t want to be without you tonight.”

You blink once. Twice.

Your pulse hammers like it did hours ago. But this time, it’s not from lust. Not even anger.

It’s something deeper. Something raw and aching.

She stands there, waiting, like she’s bracing herself for the cold after stepping out into the storm.

You let the silence stretch just a second too long.

Then something in you snaps.

“Of course you didn’t want to be alone,” you say, your voice rising sharp and cold. “You never did. That was always the problem, wasn’t it? You hated being alone, but you also hated showing up. For me. For us.”

Agatha flinches, but you’re already moving, pacing a slow circle around the edge of your own anger, too far in to stop now.

“You chose work. Every damn time, you chose work. Missed school meetings, missed dinners, missed me. And every time I brought it up, you smiled like it was nothing. Like I was overreacting.”

“I was trying to build something for us,” she snaps back, finally. “I didn’t want you to have to worry about anything—”

“You didn’t want to worry.” You jab your finger toward her. “So you just vanished into your office with your shiny projects and your perfect assistant.”

Her jaw tightens. “Oh, God, not this again.”

“Yes. This. Again.” You laugh, harsh and hollow. “I know what I saw, Agatha. I know how you looked at her when you thought I wasn’t watching.”

“Nothing happened with Rio.”

“Maybe not physically,” you spit. “But I was already sleeping alone in our bed most nights. What difference would one more betrayal make?”

Agatha looks like she wants to argue—but she doesn’t.

You shake your head, your voice cracking just slightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

You turn to leave. To close the door and let this conversation die like everything else between you.

But her voice stops you:

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, quietly. Intense.

You turn slowly.

Her eyes are locked on yours, something molten burning just beneath the surface.

“There’s still something here,” she says. “Don’t pretend there isn’t. I see the way you look at me. I feel it every time I get too close.”

She steps forward, slow but certain. “You never stopped being mine.”

You should move. Should shout. Should slam the door in her face.

But you don’t.

You just stand there, frozen, as she closes the distance between you.

Her hand lifts, fingertips ghosting up your arm—soft, reverent, dangerous. Your breath stutters.

“You want to fight?” she whispers. “Fine. But don’t stand there pretending this isn’t still real.”

Her mouth is inches from yours. Her presence swallows the space, pulls you under like a tide.

And damn it all—she’s right.

You’re tired. You’re hurt. You hate her for all the ways she let you down.

But your body remembers her.

Your heart, traitorous thing that it is, still reaches.

So when she kisses you, you don’t stop her.

You fall into her like muscle memory—like a habit you never broke.

And when her hands tangle in your hair, and her lips press against your throat, and the wall finds your back with a thud—you don’t fight it.

You let yourself burn.

Even if it leaves nothing but ashes by morning.

You barely register the way her hands frame your face, the way her thumb brushes just below your bottom lip. You're too busy trying to breathe.

Because she knows exactly what she's doing.

Agatha never needed time to build momentum—never cared for ceremony or slow-burning build-ups. She always struck like lightning: sudden, intense, unavoidable. And it’s no different now.

One second, you're still leaning against the wall, dazed and uncertain.

The next, her mouth is back on yours, and her body presses flush to yours, no hesitation, no asking. Just claiming.

You gasp into her kiss, and she swallows the sound like it belongs to her.

And maybe it does.

Her hands slide down your sides, firm and familiar, skimming the curve of your waist like she’s reminding herself you're still real. That you're not just a memory she’s conjured up in some late-night fantasy.

You clutch at her shoulders, but it's not resistance. Not really. It’s grounding. It’s instinct. It's need.

She groans softly against your mouth, like the taste of you still drives her mad.

"God, I missed this," she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the place just behind your ear that makes you shiver. "Missed you."

Your head falls back against the wall, traitorously exposing more skin, giving her more room. You feel like you're unraveling beneath her touch, like every nerve in your body remembers this rhythm, this pressure, this woman.

She guides you back a step—then another—until your bedroom door is nudged open by the weight of your bodies.

But she doesn’t drag you in.

She holds you right there, half in the hallway, half in the dark warmth of the room you used to share. Like even gravity doesn’t quite know where to place you now.

You feel her fingers trace the hem of your shirt, tugging slightly, not asking permission but not quite pushing it either.

“I know every part of you,” she whispers against your throat. “Still dream about them all.”

You grip her wrist.

“Agatha,” you breathe, and there's warning in your voice.

But there’s also longing.

She lifts her head, eyes locking with yours.

There’s no triumph in her gaze. No smugness. Just something raw and unguarded.

“I just want to feel close to you again,” she says. “Even if it’s just tonight.”

You close your eyes.

Because you shouldn’t let her.

Because you know how this ends.

But her hands are warm, her lips are softer than you remember, and your body… your body stopped pretending hours ago.

So you pull her in.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

Just desperately.

Like you’re drowning and she’s the only breath left in the world.

Your shirt is gone before you realize it.

Not torn, not rushed—just removed, like second nature, like her hands were made for this, for you. Her fingers skim along your spine, a touch so precise it feels designed. You’re not sure if you're trembling from cold or heat, but she holds you like she's memorizing the shape of every breath.

Agatha’s mouth finds the hollow of your collarbone, and something inside you breaks. Not loudly. Not violently. Just the soft, clean snap of surrender.

You tug her coat off her shoulders, feel the silk of her blouse beneath your fingertips. The smell of her perfume hits you all at once—familiar, warm, almost cruel in how much it still makes your stomach twist.

She presses you down to the bed like you’ve never been anywhere else.

Like this is gravity.

And it is.

She moves over you with purpose, with rhythm, with knowledge—touching the places she once claimed with confidence, now with hunger. There’s reverence in her hands, but also possession. Like she's remembering and rediscovering you all at once.

And you let her.

You arch into her like you’re offering yourself up, but it’s not submission. It’s muscle memory. It’s everything your body never unlearned.

Her name escapes your lips more than once. Sometimes breathless. Sometimes a warning. Sometimes a plea.

She responds to each like a prayer.

There’s nothing frantic in it—just heat, deep and slow and unbearable in its intensity. The kind of intimacy that leaves you shaking not from what’s being done, but how it’s being done.

She whispers things against your skin. Half apologies. Half confessions. None of them clear. All of them felt.

And when it’s over—when the storm inside you has quieted and your heartbeat has finally begun to settle—you realize you’re still tangled in her arms, legs looped together, her hand resting just above your heart like it belongs there.

You should pull away.

You should turn your back and put a wall between you like you've done every night since the divorce.

But her lips are at your temple now.

And her fingers are still tracing slow circles into your ribs.

And against all better judgment, you stay exactly where you are.

The room is dim, wrapped in the hush of snowfall and the soft creak of bedsprings beneath shared weight.

Your breathing is still uneven. Hers, steadier, almost smug. She's always been like that—composed after chaos, a storm in human form who never seemed to feel the damage she left behind.

You feel her shift beside you, one thigh still pressed between yours, her skin warm and slick where it touches yours. Her fingers are splayed lazily over your hip, thumb stroking back and forth in a slow, thoughtless rhythm that makes your spine arch just enough to betray you.

She leans in, her lips grazing your ear.

“You still make the sweetest sounds,” she whispers, voice thick with satisfaction and something softer beneath it. “I missed hearing them.”

You swallow hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You should tell her to stop. That this doesn’t mean anything. That it was just sex.

But her touch lingers—deliberate.

She dips her head to press a kiss just beneath your jaw, then lower, to the hollow of your throat, her tongue warm against cooling skin. You feel her smile against you.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” she murmurs. “The moment I touched you in that hallway…”

You turn your face away, cheeks burning, but she follows you, nuzzling closer.

“You still want me,” she says, not asking. Stating. Certain.

You hate that she’s right.

Her hand moves—up, over your ribs, across the curve of your breast. Her thumb circles the peak with maddening slowness, enough to make your body stir again despite everything.

“Agatha…” you whisper, but it’s not a protest. Not really.

She hums, low and pleased, her mouth trailing down your chest. The scrape of her teeth over sensitive skin makes you gasp, and when her thigh shifts just slightly between yours, you feel your entire body light up with need again.

“I shouldn’t still know you this well,” she says, half against your breast, voice shaking just a little. “But I do.”

Your fingers grip the sheets. You want to push her away. You want to pull her closer.

You settle for threading your hand into her hair.

“I thought about this every night,” she confesses. “About touching you like this. Hearing you fall apart under me. Wondering if I ruined everything beyond repair.”

You bite your lip, and then, softer than you mean to, “Maybe you did.”

Agatha stills.

The silence is sharp.

But you don’t let go of her.

You feel her breath at your ribs, shaky now. Not from desire, but from something like regret.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” she says.

And for the first time, there’s no seduction in her voice.

Just sorrow.

You close your eyes.

“I didn’t want it to end at all,” you admit.

She rises slowly, leans over you, her face just inches from yours again. Her eyes are searching now, not hungry—haunted.

There’s so much you could say. So much that would hurt to hear.

But instead, you lift your hand to her cheek.

Just once.

And she leans into the touch like she’s starving for it.

You kiss her this time.

Slowly.

Not like earlier—when it was raw and desperate and filled with everything unsaid. This kiss is quieter. Softer. The kind you used to share in the middle of the night, tangled in sheets and half-asleep, just to remind yourselves you were still there. Still together.

Agatha melts into it with a quiet sound in the back of her throat. Her hands return to your body, reverent this time, like she’s not trying to ignite you—just remember you. Every inch. Every curve. Every place she used to know by heart.

You roll with her, bodies aligning instinctively. Your thigh between hers, your mouths parting to breathe the same air. It’s almost painful how familiar it feels.

She looks up at you like she can’t quite believe you’re real.

“I missed you,” she whispers, like it hurts to admit.

Your hands slide down her arms, over the lines of muscle and softness, until your fingers are laced with hers, pressed into the mattress.

“I know,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “I missed you too.”

Your hips move together, slow, steady, drawn by memory and need. There’s no rush—just the rhythm of old lovers rediscovering the language only their bodies speak. Her breath stutters against your skin with every motion, every brush of your chest against hers, every press of your hips that makes her fingers clutch tighter around yours.

She murmurs your name like a prayer, your real name—not the clipped version she used when you were fighting. Not the bitter one she spit out when you signed the papers. This is the version only she used when you were happy.

You bury your face in her neck, lips pressed to her pulse. Her skin tastes like perfume and sweat and something you still recognize as home.

When her body tightens beneath you, trembling and arching, she gasps your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. You follow moments later, breath catching, forehead resting against hers, both of you shaking.

She wraps her arms around you before you even think to move. Holds you there. Doesn’t let go.

“Don’t go,” she breathes against your temple. “Please. Not tonight.”

You feel her heart pounding against yours, wild and afraid.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you murmur, and her arms tighten, like she doesn’t believe you.

You shift slightly, just enough to press a kiss to her shoulder, to the edge of her collarbone, where you used to rest your head on lazy Sunday mornings.

She pulls the blanket over you both with one arm, never breaking contact.

And slowly—gradually—your breathing finds hers.

Outside, the snow keeps falling, burying the world in white and silence.

But inside, everything is warm.

Her skin against yours.

Her fingers threaded through yours under the covers.

Her heartbeat still echoing between your ribs like it belongs there.

And somewhere between the hush of the storm and the weight of her body curled around you, sleep finds you both. Not with finality.

But with the softness of something still possible.

Of something not quite over after all.

[harknessxo]

Rooftop Regret (NSFW)

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You're not Rio Vidal's girlfriend. Not really. Not officially. But the way she looks at you, touches you, takes you—it always feels like more. So when you catch her kissing someone else at a party, it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. But it does.

–OR–

You catch her kissing Agatha and storm off, she follows, and the stairwell turns into a mess of whispered lies, wandering hands, and control you never meant to give up (but maybe, deep down, you wanted to). It's not love, but God, it feels like it.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dom Rio has a penis, reader wears a dress and heels, light dom/sub themes, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship, manipulation, gaslighting, praise kink, semi-public sex, fully clothed sex, spanking, creampie, background/historical agathario

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Let's just pretend that I totally didn't fall off the face of tumblr in between announcing this fic and actually posting it...

AO3 | Masterlist

The party pulses with life, a haze of cigarette smoke and perfume thick in the air. Bodies sway in time with the deep bass that thrums through the walls, shaking the floor beneath your heels. Laughter rings out from somewhere near the makeshift bar area, sharp and bright, cutting through the low hum of conversation. The scent of alcohol—rum and cheap vodka, mixed with something fruity and artificial—wraps around you, mingling with the heat of too many bodies pressed into one space.

But you’re not here for the party.

Your attention has been locked on Rio all night. Or rather, where she had been, because every time you look, she’s gone, slipping into another darkened corner, another whispered exchange with someone you don’t recognise.

Your relationship with her is a dangerous game: passionate, intoxicating, and “undefined”. It’s not real in the way you want it to be. Not yet at least.

Still, Rio has been relentless tonight. Dragging the backs of her fingers down your bare arm as she passes. Letting her touch linger on your waist for just a second too long. Teasing you. Promising something she never quite delivers.

You exhale frustratedly as you adjust the hem of your dress—it’s short, shorter than you’d usually wear, but it was something Rio once said looked good on you. You head towards the staircase, thinking maybe she’s just slipped upstairs for some air. 

Maybe she’s waiting for you. 

Maybe.

—

The rooftop door creaks open, the cool night air rushing over your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms.

You take a step forward and then freeze.

You were right; Rio is up here, standing just a few feet away, half-illuminated by the neon glow of the city skyline. But she’s not alone.

The woman pressed against her is just a little bit shorter than her, with wavy brown hair. Her fingers trail beneath Rio’s shirt, pushing the fabric up just enough to reveal a sharp, defined v-line. It makes your breath catch. The sight of her toned abdomen, the very sliver of skin you’ve traced your own fingers over countless times before, it sends an unwanted jolt of arousal through you. Your body reacting before your mind could have a chance to catch up, a fire being stoked low in your stomach.

Stupidly, it’s only then that you realise that the two of them aren’t just up here for a chat; they’re kissing, and passionately at that. It’s the kind of kiss that isn’t just casual, isn’t just careless indulgence. It’s deliberate. And it’s intimate.

Your stomach twists, the moment fracturing into a thousand jagged pieces.

Suddenly everything feels too tight, like you’re being suffocated from the inside, and there’s a sharp sting building behind your eyes.

You hear the door slam shut behind you as you turn and flee.

A muffled curse comes from the rooftop. Then hurried footsteps.

Rio had seen you.

— Your heels clatter against the stairs as you bolt down, lungs burning, throat tight with the effort of your unshed tears. The party is still in full swing just floors below, laughter and music vibrating through the walls, but it feels distant—like you’re trapped in some cruel pocket of time where the only thing that exists is the image seared into your mind.

Rio.

That woman’s hands all over her.

Her mouth on her.

A fresh wave of nausea knots in your stomach. You push harder, willing your trembling legs to go faster.

Before you can reach the next floor, a firm hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you back with controlled force. A gasp escapes you as you spin, momentum shoving you into Rio’s chest.

The scent of her leather and amber cologne assaults your senses, unwelcome in its familiarity. Your pulse stuttering violently against your ribs.

"Wait. Just stop," she says, voice level but edged with command. “Let me explain.”

Her fingers are firm, wrapped around your wrist, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. She isn’t squeezing hard, but there’s no mistaking the quiet authority in her grip.

"Let me go, Rio," you say, jerking your arm trying to free yourself. But all it does is make her grip tighten, not painfully so, but it’s definitely possessive now. 

"Don’t be a brat," she says smoothly, head tilting as she watches you struggle. "It’s not what it looked like."

Seriously? She’s using that line?

"Not what it looked like?" Your voice is shaky, not just with anger but with something more humiliating. "I saw you."

Rio exhales sharply, a smirk tugging at her lips, though there’s a darkness lurking in her eyes. "And?"

It makes your stomach lurch.

"You were kissing her! You cheated on me!"

Her gaze is heavy-lidded, appraising you like she finds your reaction amusing. Like your heartbreak is nothing more than an inconvenience to her.

"Cheating?" she echoes, dragging the word out as if it’s foreign. "Baby, we’re not even dating, remember? I can’t cheat on you."

The words cut deeper than you expect.

But then her voice shifts—firmer, more demanding. "But that’s beside the point! Like I said, it wasn’t what it looked like."

You scoff, wrenching against her grip again. "Bullshit! It was exactly what it looked like, Rio. I saw your hands on her, I saw—"

"She’s a friend," Rio snaps, frustration flashing in her eyes. "She was having a panic attack; I–I was helping her out of it. Trying to snap her out of a spiral. Kissing her was a distraction technique, baby, nothing more. I promise."

You freeze for half a second. Your breath faltering as doubt wedges itself between your ribs, suffocating and unwanted.

No.

No, no, no, no.

You saw it. The way Rio was leaned in, the way their lips moved together, the way the woman’s hand slid under her shirt. 

Your nails dig into your palms, shame and fury battling for dominance. "You—"

You twist, trying to wrench yourself free yet again, but Rio is stronger. The struggle shoves you off balance, and in the chaos of limbs and movement, your body crashes against hers.

It happens before you can stop it.

You feel it. The press of her semi-hard dick against your thigh. The undeniable proof of her arousal that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

Heat pools low in your stomach, mortifying in its intensity.

As she notices your brief change in demeanour, her grip on your wrist loosens just slightly, fingers brushing lower, almost like a caress. A slow, knowing smirk curves her lips.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Rio’s pulled you down onto her lap as she sits on the stairs, settling you in a way that makes your body flush with heat.

"Don’t you trust me, baby?" Her voice is like a soft, dangerous promise against your ear, the words slow and soothing in their delivery. "Nothing was going on, I swear."

You stiffen in her lap, your body still at war with itself. A part of you wants to believe her, maybe you are overreacting; maybe you misinterpreted what you saw and have jumped to the worst possible conclusion.

Her hands shift higher on your thighs, fingertips skimming the edge of your dress, pushing the fabric just slightly higher with each touch. It’s nothing forceful, but it’s enough to send another wave of heat between your legs. 

You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you with a sudden pulse of desire that seems to rise in time with the beat of your heart. You can’t stop yourself from squirming in her lap, your body desperate for both distance and closeness all at once. But that slick heat between your legs won’t stop growing, the friction between you and Rio’s bulge making it nearly impossible to think straight.

Her hands on your skin are a reminder of your vulnerability, of how easily she can make you forget everything else. "You know you’re the only one I care about, right?" Rio’s breath ghosts over your neck, hot and insistent, as she tilts her head to kiss the soft skin just below your ear. "You’re the one I want. Only you."

The words are intoxicating, a twisted blend of reassurance and possessiveness, but they hit their mark. 

The way her fingers tighten on your thighs, the way her lips feel against your skin, it all feels too good to be wrong, too sweet to be poison. You shiver, your mind a jumble of conflicting emotions as Rio’s touch stirs something deep inside you, and you can’t deny how desperately your body wants more.

Her breath brushes your ear, warm and soothing. “You know I want you, right?” Her voice is low and velvety, like honey dripping into your soul. “Only you. Nothing’s going on with anyone else, baby. I swear.”

You want to push away, to demand a proper conversation, but the heat in her touch, the way her hands move with careful precision, has you rooted in place. You find yourself tilting your head, instinctively inviting her closer, unable to resist the pull of her presence.

Rio’s lips capture yours with a fierce hunger, the kiss deep and slow, as if she’s savouring every moment. Her hands slide up your sides, pulling you flush against her, and your breath quickens in response. You barely have time to process before her hands drift higher, fingertips teasing over the fabric of your dress before cupping your chest. She kneads softly, her rings cool against your heated skin even over the fabric, sending a shiver down your spine.

A quiet gasp escapes you, swallowed instantly by her kiss. The warmth pooling in your stomach tightens as you shift in her lap, instinct taking over. Without thinking, your hips roll against her, a slow, hesitant drag that makes her grip tighten. The sharp inhale she takes only urges you further, a thrill sparking through your veins.

"That's it, baby," Rio purrs against your lips, her voice thick with something dark and knowing. Her thumbs brush teasing circles round your nipple through your dress, her touch unhurried, like she has all the time in the world.

Rio’s low groan, a sound that vibrates against your lips and echoes in the empty stairwell, masks the now persistent tremor in your breathing. The tension is palpable, a charged hum in the air between you. And when you grind down a little bit further, you can feel her now fully hard cock straining against the fabric of her jeans. The realisation sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, making your thighs clench instinctively.

"Yeah, you like the feel of that?" Rio says, smirking against your jaw before nipping at your pulse. "Like feeling how hard you make me?"

Before you can respond, she moves. With effortless strength, her hands slide down to grip your thighs, lifting you with ease. A startled gasp escapes you as your back meets the cool metal railing, the contrast to the heat of your body making your head spin; it makes the stairwell suddenly feel smaller, the air heavier.

But Rio isn’t done.

In one smooth motion, she shifts her hold, turning you in her grasp so your front presses against the railing instead. The metal bites against your skin, grounding you for only a moment before the warmth of her body is there again, flush against your back. One of her hands spreads over your stomach, keeping you close, while the other ghosts down the curve of your hip.

"You trust me, don’t you?" She whispers against the shell of your ear, lips brushing over a patch of sensitive skin, her breath hot and teasing.

It feels impossible to string any coherent words together, so all you can manage is a faint nod in reply.

"Spread," Rio instructs, her voice low, edged with amusement, as she presses a knee between your legs. 

When you hesitate, she makes the choice for you—nudging your feet apart with the tip of her boot, her grip tightening at your waist, her silver rings cool against your skin. 

"Good girl," she says, dragging her lips along the side of your throat. "Now, let me help you forget all about that little misunderstanding."

Her fingers start to trace slow, deliberate patterns over the thin fabric of your underwear, the barely-there friction making your thighs tremble. She hums in amusement at the way your body reacts to her touch, the way your breath catches whenever she moves her hands somewhere new.

"You're already shaking, baby," she taunts. "And I’ve barely touched you."

A soft whimper escapes before you can swallow it down, and you try to twist away—not because you want her to stop, but because the stairwell is too open, too risky.

"Rio, someone could—"

She cuts you off with a quiet, mocking chuckle, pressing closer, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Don’t act like you don’t love this. Like you don’t want me to ruin you right here."

Your breath stutters, shame and arousal tangling into something impossible to fight.

When you don’t deny what she said, Rio takes the opportunity and hikes your dress up over your hips, exposing you to the cool air, and brings her hand down in a sharp, stinging slap against your ass. The sudden contact sends a shock through you, a yelp spilling from your lips.

The sting barely has time to settle before your body betrays you, instinctively pushing back into Rio’s hips, seeking more of her.

It makes her chuckle, the sound dripping with amusement as she rubs slow circles over the spot where her hand just landed. “Look at you,” she coos, her voice laced with mock sympathy. “Acting all shy, but the second I put my hands on you, you melt.”

She lands another sharp slap, this one firmer, the sound echoing in the stairwell. Your fingers clutch the railing as another startled gasp escapes you, heat prickling over your skin.

"Such a needy little thing," Rio muses, her rings cool against your flushed skin as she soothes the sting, only to deliver another slap a split second later. "I know you like this. You love it when I put you in your place."

The truth in the statement sends your head spinning, shame curling around your arousal, making your thighs squeeze together.

"Ah-ah. None of that," Rio tuts, nudging your legs apart again with her knee. "Let me see you."

Your stomach tightens as she presses her body fully against yours, her dominance swallowing you whole.

“You know,” she continues, dragging her nails lightly up the backs of your thighs, “if you had just behaved, if you hadn't tried to run, I might’ve been nice.” Her breath ghosts over the shell of your ear. "But misbehaving brats don’t get nice."

She waits a beat, like she’s expecting you to argue, but you don’t. You can’t. Not when her presence alone has you teetering on the edge of something you don’t dare to name.

Without warning, she tugs the gusset of your underwear aside, her touch rough and unapologetic. A strangled sound catches in your throat as she runs two fingers through your slick, slowly but firmly, claiming every inch like she owns it.

Rio hums in satisfaction, then lifts her hand into your line of sight, her fingers glistening under the dim stairwell lights. “Look at this,” she muses, tilting her head as if genuinely admiring the sight. "Such a pretty mess for me."

You gape at just how wet her fingers are, heat rising in your face as you realise all it took was a bit of grinding and a few spanks for you to get you this worked up.

Rio uses your stunned expression and pushes her fingers between your parted lips, pressing down on your tongue. “Taste yourself,” she orders. There’s no hesitation, no shame on her end—only control, only expectation.

As you begin to suck her fingers clean, the sound of fabric rustling and a zip being undone behind you makes your pulse jump and more arousal pool between your thighs.

Still fucking your face with her fingers, Rio brings her other hand to your crotch and that’s when you hear her spitting into her other hand before you feel her fingers start to stroke from your entrance to your clit, gliding through with even more ease. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, but her thighs prop you up, keeping you right where she wants.

A low chuckle rumbles from her chest as she works you over, the motion lazy and indulgent—like she’s savouring every reaction that courses through you. 

When she starts to push her fingers inside you every once in a while, the obscene sounds fill the stairwell, mingling with the distant hum of the party below, a filthy reminder of just how exposed you are.

“You hear that, baby?” She taunts, her voice a husky whisper. “That’s all you.”

Heat rushes to your face, humiliation and arousal tangling together until you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. Then, just as you begin to melt into her, she pulls her hand from between your legs, leaving you twitchy and desperate.

Behind you, there’s another slow, deliberate shift of movement, followed by the unmistakable sound of Rio’s breath hitching, her pleasure evident as she begins stroking her cock, coating every inch of it with the evidence of just how much you enjoy her toying with you. 

"Fuck," she breathes, her voice thick with something dark and indulgent. "You do this to me, you know that?"

She settles her hand at the base of her cock; then, with a wicked sort of patience, she taps it up against your pussy before dragging the tip of it through your folds. Each slow pass sends a fresh wave of anticipation coursing through you, your body betraying just how much you crave what she’s withholding.

Rio hums in approval, removing her fingers from your mouth, instead resting her hand on your neck. "Tell me you want this," she demands, her teeth nipping at the shell of your ear. "Tell me how much you need my cock."

Your breath stutters, your body betraying you again, even as your mind still barely clings to the remnants of resistance. "Fuck Rio, I–I want this, I need this," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need you inside me. Please. Please, Rio." You can feel your heartbeat in your clit as the words tumble free, raw and breathless, fuelled by the way she has you unravelling with nothing more than the weight of her presence and the command in her voice.

Rio chuckles, a smirk ghosting over her lips. “That’s what I thought,” she says lowly, the praise cutting straight through you. “Such a good girl.”

The words curl inside your chest like smoke, warm and heady. 

You don’t even register the shift in her stance before she’s gripping your hips with one hand while the other lines up her cock. Gently, she pushes herself inside until you can feel every inch, pausing momentarily before starting in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like she’s savouring just how easily you yield for her.

You tense instinctively, but Rio only leans in, her breath hot against the back of your neck. “Relax,” she murmurs. “You take me so well, baby, every time.”

As your shoulders lower and your breath syncs with hers, she hums approvingly and tightens her hold. Her hips start to move with greater intent, pressing her control into every motion. And just when you begin to lose yourself in the rhythm, a sharp sting lands across your outer thigh, followed by another and another. The sound of her palm meeting your skin echoes in the stairwell, leaving a delicious ache in its wake.

“You like that,” she says, almost smug. “Say it. Tell me how much you like it”

You don’t respond fast enough, which earns you another spank, firmer this time, and you bite your lip, swallowing the whimper rising in your throat.

“Don’t pretend you’re shy now,” she growls, teeth grazing your earlobe, the heat of her breath sending another wave of shivers through you. “You knew exactly what you were doing coming here in that slutty little dress.”

Her hips continue their rhythm behind you—measured and relentless. The motion is enough to knock your breath loose again, each shift of her body coaxing another dizzying rush of sensation. You clutch the railing harder, the metal cold against your palms, grounding you in the haze threatening to swallow you whole.

Your legs tremble beneath you, the railing biting into your skin, but it only fuels the fire curling low in your belly. The world shrinks, reduced to Rio’s grip on your hips, the commanding rasp of her voice, the weight of her control threading through every second. You don’t know if you’re shaking from the pressure, the pleasure, or the power she holds over you—but none of it matters any more.

"You’re mine, baby," she growls, her words like velvet over a blade. Each slap against your skin is punctuated by a low, satisfied exhale from her, like she's orchestrating every second for her own satisfaction. You whimper, not entirely from pain. Not entirely from pleasure.

You nod weakly, and that's all she needs.

Her grip on your hips tightens. She drags you back, reaching that little bit deeper to make you feel how easily she could take everything—your balance, your trust, your heart—and tilt it all off-centre. She’s fucking you more deliberately now, it’s less about coaxing and more about claiming.

"You don’t get to run from me," she hisses, teeth nipping your shoulder. "You don’t get to cry and make me the villain. I’m good to you. I show up. I give you everything."

You blink, dizzy from the intensity and the praise tangled with rebuke. You moan gutturally as the pressure insides you builds up again, your hands scrambling to find purchase.

You shove a hand into your underwear and furiously begin circling your clit, chasing something just out of reach. 

But it’s not enough. It still feels like you’re dangling, like the tension has nowhere to land. Almost without thinking, your other hand slips up to your throat. Your fingers wrapping around your throat; a flicker of control in a moment that feels like you’ve given it all away.

From behind, you hear Rio groan lowly. “Fuck,” she rasps, her voice dark with delight. “Look at you. Such a dirty little whore choking yourself like that… can’t even wait for me to ruin you properly.”

Her praise drips with something unholy, half affection, half possession. She leans in closer, chest pressing to your back while her hips continue their assault, her voice coils around your ear like a chain. “You don’t even know how good you look like this, do you?”

Your orgasm builds slowly at first, a low thrum under your skin, barely containable. Each snap of Rio’s hips pulls another gasp from your throat, your breath catching, eyes fluttering shut. The pressure coils deep in your core, tightening with every motion — sharp, undeniable, and electric. You push yourself into the railing as your grip tightens and your fingers move even faster, legs shaking as the sensation crests, higher and higher, a wave gathering force just before it crashes.

Your mind blanks. There’s nothing left but the overwhelming heat crawling down your spine, the way your body trembles under the strain of holding back, of being held. Every nerve screams for release, and still Rio moves behind you with focused intensity, her grip unforgiving, her breath rough against your ear.

And then — you snap.

Your whole body arches as pleasure crashes through you, stealing sound and breath in its wake. It’s blinding, full-bodied, a warmth that floods your limbs and leaves you weightless. You feel unmoored, suspended in the haze of it all, and you don’t care who hears you, don’t care about the party below, or the chill of the railing biting into your skin. All that exists is the way it feels to fall apart in her hands, to be undone so completely.

Rio doesn’t stop. If anything, your orgasm fuels her — her grip tightening impossibly more, movements growing rougher, sharper. But you can’t focus on anything else, lost in the aftershocks still echoing through your body like waves, trembling under her touch.

Your entire body trembles, knees weak, the world blurred at the edges. You're lost in sensation—every nerve alight, every thought scattered like ash in the wind. The railing digs into your skin, a reminder of how exposed you are, how entirely at her mercy. And Rio knows it.

She starts to thrust into you even harder, chasing her own release, her rhythm unrelenting as her voice shifts—no longer soft, no longer coaxing. It’s steel now. Cold and sharp.

“Don’t you ever doubt my actions again, darling,” she hisses near your ear. “I’m so good to you, letting you cum on my cock like that. Is that not proof enough for you that you’re mine?”

The words slam into you, dizzying in their cruelty, but it’s the conviction in her tone that leaves you gasping. Like she believes it. Like hurting you is just another way for her to prove her affection.

“You’re going to take everything I give you,” she continues, her hands firm on your hips, anchoring you in place. “Because you won’t be able to second guess me when you can feel my cum dripping out of that pretty little cunt of yours, will you?”

You can’t even speak. Your body is shaky and overstimulated, every nerve pulled taut and then snapping loose all at once. The tension that had been coiling deep inside you had finally broken, leaving you breathless; spun out, undone, and clinging to the railing like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

Behind you, Rio’s breathing becomes erratic, hips pressing harder, more desperate. There’s a guttural sound coming from her chest—a raw, uncontrolled moan as her rhythm falters. Her, fingers dig into your skin like she’s marking you, like she doesn’t want to let go. She holds you there, locked in place, until the shudders that wrack her finally begin to settle.

When her dick finally stops twitching, she exhales a long and deep sigh, before pulling out and wiping her cock on your bunched up dress. She roughly pulls the gusset of your underwear back into place before landing a quick spank to your crotch for good measure.

The sudden impact against your already oversensitive pussy makes you yelp.

Then, with a quiet efficiency, Rio stands you up straight and adjusts your clothes like she’s closing a book she’s finished reading. “Fix yourself up, baby,” she says as she spins you round to face her, the sharp edge of command slipping back into her voice. “Party’s still going.”

When you're finally satisfied that your dress is back into place and Rio has tucked her semi-hard dick back into her pants, she takes your hand and walks the both of you back to the thralls of the party. Just as the two of you get there, she leans in close with a whisper that sends another wave of arousal through you. "Hey, babe, I gotta go catch up with some friends for a bit, and then we’ll head back to yours, okay?"

You nod, not trusting your voice, your chest tight with the remnants of what had just happened. Rio flashes you one of her trademark smiles before disappearing into the crowd, her figure instantly commanding attention.

You try to focus on the music, but the feeling of her cum slowly seeping out of you makes you keep your eyes on Rio. You see her in the midst of her friends, laughing, her usual charisma on full display. Suddenly, your stomach drops when she shifts to speak with her—the woman from the rooftop. You can’t tear your eyes away as Rio leans in close to her, a smile you can’t quite read on her lips.

It makes you startle when a man sidles up next to you. 

"Jeez, who let Agatha and Rio talk to each other again?" He says to no one in particular. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it that immediately piques your curiosity. "You’d think after they broke up for the umpteenth time, they’d finally be done with each other."

His words hang in your mind like a cloud, dense with meaning. Agatha. The name lingers, the truth of it dancing just beyond the edges of your consciousness. You know Rio’s never mentioned anyone named Agatha before, at least not to you. So why does it feel like your world is suddenly about to fall apart?

You stand there, unable to tear your gaze away from Rio and Agatha, who laugh like you don’t even exist. You try to convince yourself that it’s just platonic between them now. But still, the knot in your stomach tightens, and doubt creeps in like a slow poison.

You’ve never seen Rio like this before—not in this way, not with someone else so close. You don’t want to believe the guy, but the more you watch them together, the more you begin to wonder.

And then, just like that, Rio catches your eye from across the room. Her smile is everything—charming, seductive, and knowing. She makes her way back to you, all confidence and ease, like nothing ever happened.

She wraps her arm around your waist, pulling you close. "You okay, babe?" she asks, brushing her knuckles over your cheek, her touch gentle yet deliberate. She genuinely looks concerned as her eyes search yours for an answer

You nod, but your thoughts were far from settled.

What if…

Before you could question further, Rio takes your hand, her fingers lacing with yours in a gesture that was possessive and almost protective, like she could tell you were on the verge of full-blown panic. "Let’s go, yeah? I want to spend some more time with just the two of us." She gives you a reassuring smile before kissing your forehead and heading towards the door.

As she leads you through the crowd, a part of you still grapples with what the guy had said. But you trusted Rio, if she said it was nothing, then who are you to disagree? Especially since you’re the one going home with her right now. If the guy could see the state of your underwear right now, he’d know for sure that whatever Rio had with this Agatha woman was well and truly over.

Right? 

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uhhhhh hey folks. I am so sorry this is janky I am so out of practice with writing and it turns out it's quite hard to pick up a story I hadn't touched in months 😅😅

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[harknessxo]

MY TYPE🤭

[harknessxo]

Agnes x reader age gap headcanons (NSFW)

Writing is hard right now but I'm having thoughts about a coworker/age gap (where agnes is a bit insecure about it) agnes x reader relationship so thought I'd just bullet point them to get it out lol but I might try to write the whole thing at some point

You've known Agnes from afar for a long time but you've gotten closer to her over the past few weeks now and even though you're about twenty-five years younger than her and new on the police force, you both get along very well

She's a tough nut to crack and known as the sarcastic grump around the station but you always manage to make her laugh

It's hard to tell how she feels because sometimes she's cold but sometimes she pats you on the knee and invites you to her office so you can sit there while she works

You like to tease her and be a little bit of a brat towards her but you think that she likes it

Someone tells her that she "looks good for her age" and she's a bit offended so you crack jokes about it because she's the hottest woman you know and it's easy to hide that if you say it sarcastically (but you also want her to know that she's attractive)

She calls you "kid" sometimes and you know that you shouldn't like it as much as you do and it's supposed to put some distance between the two of you but you think she might like calling you that too

At the end of the quarter, a few officers go out to a bar to celebrate and the only reason you go along is because Agnes is going

You talk to her the whole time, but what's more important is that she wants to talk to you the whole time

Two drinks later, you're a bit tipsy and being overly touchy with her and she says, "Didn't take you for a lightweight, kid." And because you're not thinking clearly, you tell her that you just want her attention

She smirks and says, "You always have it" and your stomach heats up with a mix of the alcohol and the sentiment

You don't remember much after that but you do know that you end up almost sitting in her lap without a care in the world about if anyone else sees you

The humid air sobers you up when it's time to leave and you slowly walk next to Agnes to where your cars are parked (because you parked right next to hers just to make the evening last longer) and you're desperate to keep her here with you

But she just leans against the hood of her police cruiser because maybe, just maybe, she doesn't want to leave yet either

The conversation becomes more flirtatious on both sides and you're so close to her that your knees are brushing against hers and you can still smell the beer on her mouth

She says something funny and flattering and the faint buzzing in your brain overrides all logic and you lean into kiss her softly

"Come on, kid, you don't want someone old like me," she scoffs

You show her just how much you do by wrapping your arms over her shoulders and riding her thigh right there in the parking lot until you come

Her hands dig into your hips to guide you while she grunts in your ear and all you can think about is how thankful you are that you both parked far away from everyone else

"Not bad for someone your age," you quip after her pant leg is drenched with your wetness and she barks out a laugh before spanking your ass and pulling you into the backseat of her car to fuck you properly

She likes to pack while at work and make sure you know about it from the beginning of the day and then tease you by pressing against you and making suggestive comments but she doesn't give you any relief until work is over

It's absolute torture but there's something so rewarding about sinking to your knees under her desk after everyone else leaves to pull the toy out from her pants and look up at her through your eyelashes while you suck on it and she gives you praises through gritted teeth

"Such a good slut" and "you're sucking on my cock so good, hon" and "what a desperate whore for someone twice your age" and "come on, kid, I know you can take more"

You straddle her in her chair and ride her until she picks you up and lays you on her desk and fucks you hard and rough and then both of you come all over her police reports that you distract her from doing

The chief makes comments about how they're always sticky when she turns them in and you just snicker while Agnes glares at you

You make it up to her by getting under her desk during your lunch break and eating her out until she comes all over your face twice and has to actively pull you away while you're going for a third time because she's too sensitive

"Kid, you're going to kill me," she says, trying to sound gruff but her voice is thick

You smirk and lean your wet cheek against the inside of her knee. "Too old for more?"

Agnes frowns and you know you're going to pay for that later, but it's completely worth it

You make sure to tell her how hot she is all the time because you know she gets a little insecure about her age but she can't call you a liar because you'll just drag her hand down between your legs so she can feel for herself just how hot you find her

The age stuff stops bothering her after a little bit

[harknessxo]

Summer Starts With You

Agnes x reader

You're bored at your graduation party until your mom's best friend, Agnes, shows up.

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: agnes has a penis, blowjob, sex, age gap, bratty reader, choking, handjob

“So, graduation…what’s next?”

It’s the only question you’ve been asked for the last few months. It’s gotten boring—you’ve lately started switching it up. Sometimes, you’ll tell them that you have absolutely no clue. Other times, you’ll tell them you’re thinking of going on to get your doctorate. 

God forbid they give you more than two seconds after graduating college to figure out the rest of your life. All you know is that you want to have a free summer so you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, with no responsibilities or school or work to worry about. You’re owed at least that. 

You plaster a smile onto your face. “I’m going to probably take a small break, maybe a gap year, and then apply for my Masters.” 

A lie, or maybe not. You don't know yet.

It’s a distant relative you’re talking to, a cousin a few times removed that you haven’t seen in a few years, but for your grad party, your parents pulled out all the stops and invited as many people as they could. It’s a party at their house and guests have been trickling in and out for the past two hours. 

Only one more hour of The Question to go. 

“Don’t take too long in between,” your cousin advises solemnly. “Super hard to get that motivation back.” 

You nod. “That’s what everyone says.” 

There’s people hovering in your periphery, just waiting to talk to you. You told your parents you didn’t want a big thing but of course, this was more about showing their daughter off to everyone rather than actually giving you the small get-together you actually asked for. 

All you want is a break. 

Or someone interesting for you to talk to. 

As if on cue, the front door opens and in walks Agnes O’Connor, one of your mom’s best friends. She’s a detective and you’ve had the hots for her ever since she pulled you over your sophomore year of college for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. She had ultimately turned you down after you had flirted for a bit—you could tell she was thinking about it, at least—but she didn’t give you a ticket. A good sign.

That's actually how she met your mom, after you had exaggerated just a little when you told your parents about getting pulled over and your mom had flown into the station in a rage, hellbent on finding the woman who had “accosted” her darling daughter. 

Agnes had explained what really happened—although she left out the flirting; another good sign—and for some reason, that’s what made them click. 

You watch her look around the crowd of people and you lock eyes. She raises a brow and you wink. 

Just because she turned you down the first time, and the second time, and all the other times you’ve tried, doesn’t mean you stop. She’s fun to tease, even if you know it’s probably not going anywhere ever. Plus you see the heat in her eyes, the way she checks you out when she thinks you're not looking. She wants you just as bad, she just has a harder time admitting it to herself.

Agnes walks over into the kitchen where platters of subs, chicken nuggets, and fruit are laid out and she picks up a plate. Her long, dark hair is tied back and she’s wearing a royal-blue checkered shirt with navy pants and black boots. Your vision is glued to the subtle swaying of her ass in those pants that fit her just right and someone says something to you that you completely miss. 

She grabs a sandwich and spoons some watermelon onto her plate and then takes a beer. You feel hope rising in your chest that she’ll come over and save you, but much to your chagrin, she walks over and finds your mom. They strike up a conversation and you’re left having to answer The Question again. 

This time, you tell them that you’re going to try to find a job and the couple says, “Good luck.” You know what that means—you’re not finding a good job right out of college and you better get your ass back in school. 

All of your friends are outside, actually having a good time. You long to join them, but your mom will kill you if you disappear into the backyard, or anywhere. You’ve thought about making a break to your room a few times, but she always stares you down like she knows exactly what you’re thinking and she’s just daring you to try. 

But then Agnes touches your mom’s arm, whispers something in her ear, and walks right past you into the sitting room at the front of the house. It has doors and she’ll be the only one in there. 

“Will you excuse me?” you say to the person you’re talking to now—a neighbor of your parents, maybe a friend of your dad’s—and avoid your mom’s eye contact as you follow Agnes into the room. 

Just as you suspected, it’s only Agnes, and she’s sitting on the gray couch against the wall, right in the middle. Her legs are spread just a bit, the plate of half-eaten food on the end table next to her, and her beer in hand. 

“Thanks for coming, Agnes,” you say as you close the door behind you. She smirks and rakes her eyes over the crop top and definitely too-short jean shorts you’re wearing. “Were you expecting someone in here?” 

She gives you a crooked, wry smile. “Just wanted a little break from the festivities.” It’s not a definitive “yes, I wanted you to follow me,” but you can read between the lines. 

You grin and cross the room in a few long strides and slide right onto her lap sideways, so your thighs are perpendicular on top of hers. You steal the beer bottle and take a swig. 

“Congrats, kid,” she says in a gruff voice and she shifts beneath you. Her lashes are long and you’re so close you think you could count them. Her blue eyes are deep and full of something. You can see her pupils expanding. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing after graduation?” you simper and hand the bottle back to her. 

She huffs and takes it and ignores your fingers blatantly brushing against hers. “Figured you’ve been drowning in that question.” 

You shrug with a coy smile playing on your lips. “I’d happily answer anything you ask.” 

Agnes shifts again and you bite your lip. There’s a hardness—or at least a semi-hardness—in her pants that’s now pressing into your thigh. 

Her cock. 

The outline has been visible before and it makes your head foggy and your cunt wet. You’re not sure when the last time you came not thinking about it was. 

You push your leg further into her cock and she grimaces, but she doesn’t pull away. You can hear people outside talking and you can’t remember if you locked the door. You’re friendly with Agnes in front of others—albeit, not sit-on-her-lap friendly—so it wouldn’t be super damning if someone were to walk in right now, but you don’t want to be interrupted. 

“Did you get me a gift?” you ask teasingly, but there’s no mistaking the heat in your voice. 

Agnes takes a deep breath and she takes a sip of beer before resting the bottle on your thigh. It’s cold and your chest flares. “There’s a card on the gift table. Wrote in it that you shouldn't roll through stop signs.” 

“If it gets you to pull me over again, Agnes, I’d do anything,” you say sweetly and she rolls her eyes fondly. As much as she puts up a front, you know she secretly likes you like this. “But I know something else you can give me.” You wink, just so she knows exactly what you mean, and she scoffs. 

“I’m best friends with your mom and you’re like twenty-five years younger than me,” Agnes points out, as if you can’t feel her erection right now. 

“So?” you breathe, pushing your leg harder against her cock and she presses the bottle harder into your leg with a glare. “Don’t act like that doesn’t turn you on. I can feel you.”  

Agnes grits her teeth. The lines on her face are hardened and you want to drag your tongue over them. “You need to go back out to your party, kid. Your parents will be mad.” But her resolve is weakening, you can tell. 

“Please, Agnes?” you say, giving her puppy-dog eyes. She refuses to look at you so you get out of her lap and sink to your knees on the white carpet in front of her. 

Now she does look at you and there’s no denying the heat in her pupils. You put your hands on her knees and drag them up her thighs until your right hand is right below her bulge. 

“Let me give you what you need,” you plead, taking a chance and laying your fingers over her length. She jolts and bites her lip. 

It’s her, in the end, that unbuckles her belt and unzips her pants for you. She doesn’t take them off, just opens them enough for you to eagerly reach into her boxers and wrap your fingers around her. 

She groans quietly when you pull her out and you’re surprised she made it this long without fucking you if this is the reaction you have on her. Her cock is standing tall in the air, rigid and leaking, and blue veins stretch from the base to right under the head. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper and it’s echoed by her when you start slowly moving your hand up and down her length. You collect the liquid beading at the top to reduce the friction and it works because Agnes’s head drops back onto the couch and her eyes flutter shut from just your hand. 

“I shouldn’t fucking want you this bad,” she spits out, almost as if she’s angry at herself for it, and you chuckle sweetly before rubbing your thumb over her tip. Her hips jerk up. “Your mom would kill me.” 

It should be a turnoff, her mentioning your mother, but something about the forbidden nature of this—and Agnes bringing it up as you're stroking her cock—makes your cunt ache even more. 

“What would she say if she knew you fucked her daughter?” you ask and twist your wrist so she can’t answer the question. She clamps a hand over her mouth because if she makes a loud sound, your mom will know. 

“I don’t fucking care right now,” Agnes growls and a thrill runs through you. She’s leaking copious amounts of precum right now and it’s getting all over your hand and the only thing you want to do is taste her. 

She watches your mouth get closer to her cock and her breathing becomes short and shallow like she can’t actually believe what you’re about to do. 

Your tongue darts out to flick the head and Agnes gasps. You smile up at her and then enclose your lips around her before sucking gently. She moans and it’s muffled by her hand as she struggles to keep eye contact. 

Her hand buries into your hair when you start to move further down her cock, always bobbing back up to give yourself a break and some time, and her fingers tighten but never push. She’s being gentle, even though you can feel the restraint in her thighs. 

One of your hands strokes the bottom half of her cock while you mouth at the top part, dragging your tongue filthily over the tip and tasting the salty precum. You moan softly around her and she screws her eyes shut at the vibrations. 

Agnes is having a really hard time staying quiet and you’re loving every second of it. You almost want her to make noise just so you can know how much you’re affecting her, but her cock is twitching and pulsing and throbbing on your tongue, so you have a good idea. 

There’s an ocean between your legs and you’re a bit worried you’ve soaked through your underwear and shorts. Your entire body is humming with energy and you’ve never felt so alive, even when you take Agnes’s cock all the way down and you feel it hitting the back of your throat. You gag and spit flies out of your mouth and gets on your chin and the bottom of her flannel, but she just whimpers lowly and tugs at your hair as encouragement. 

Her hips thrust up, pushing her cock over and over into your mouth, and more precum is dripping onto your tongue, which you rub on the underside of her length. Her legs spasm and she sharply inhales. 

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” she pants and you chuckle as much as you can with her cock in your mouth, which only makes her whine more. You lose yourself in sucking on her, closing your eyes and getting more enthusiastic with your movements, and you think she’s about to come very soon. 

You open your eyes and look up at her through your hooded lashes and she groans at how you look with her dick in your mouth. The only sounds in the room are her quiet but heavy breathing and your slurping sounds and you wish you were able to hear her falling apart for you properly. 

Maybe next time. 

Your throat is raw but your clit is aching and if you don’t get some relief soon, you’re not sure what will happen. And you have to go back out to your party after this. 

That’s enough for you to pull back with a pop and it takes a moment for the strands connecting your swollen lips to her wet and messy cock to break. You stand up while she watches you, too dazed out with pleasure to ask what you’re doing, and shimmy off your shorts. 

Agnes’s cock lurches forward and spills precum on her shirt when she sees the purple underwear you have on underneath. Can she see how wet they are from there? You can certainly feel it. 

“Do you have—”

She knows what you’re asking for before you finish and she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a gold, square packet. 

You smirk. “Do you always come over to my house with a condom or were you just feeling lucky today?” 

Agnes doesn’t answer; she just tears the wrapper open with her teeth and rolls it onto her cock. You ache for her, you long to feel her inside you, so the moment the condom is on, you’re straddling her lap again, only this time, facing her. 

Her tongue pokes between her teeth as she reaches down between you to pull your panties to the side and then position her cock at your entrance. Even the slight pressure brings you pleasure and you can only imagine what she’ll feel like inside you. 

You move down slowly, pausing after the tip slides inside to adjust to the girth—she’s big, bigger than you realized even when you were sucking her off. Her head drops back again and your forehead falls onto her shoulder, your mouth open-breathing against her flannel as you take her in. Your walls stretch to accommodate and it burns in the best way and you whimper when you feel her finally all inside you. There’s a feeling you’ve never felt before in your stomach, almost like you have to pee, because of how deep her cock is. 

“Fuck, Agnes,” you whine into her shirt and her hands grip onto your hips to hold you still. You can feel her pulsing and she’s holding her breath like she’s afraid to let too much out. 

When you pull back, you see her bottom lip is sucked in between her teeth and the vein in her forehead is throbbing. There’s a pink tint to her cheeks. She’s never looked so hot to you right now. 

“You feel so fucking good,” she groans, voice rough as gravel, and it sends tingles down your spine; you unconsciously clench around her. “Your cunt is so tight. So fucking wet.” 

You nod, not able to put how good she’s filling you into words, and you need to start moving. 

Her fingers dig into your hips when you lift yourself back up, putting your hands around her shoulders to stabilize yourself, and you feel her cock drag against every groove inside your pussy. It’s delicious and mind-blowing and this is the best thing you ever could’ve gotten. 

What are your plans for after graduation? 

Agnes. 

Both of your mouths drop open when you start to slide back down her cock and your warm, wet walls are once again wrapped around her. 

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Agnes says sternly, but thrusts her hips up so she hits even deeper inside you and that’s the message you choose to listen to.

She gasps when you grind on her and then swirl your hips around and it feels like her cock is swelling inside you. 

Her nails scrape against your skin and you stop going slow because both of you need this so insanely much right now. You start riding her, fast and hard and determined, and she bucks up to meet you each time. 

It’s getting harder to stay silent and you reach down to tug at her left hand and pull it up and around your throat. Her eyes flash, her breath catches, and her rhythm stutters and you’re worried for a second that you’ve gone too far, but her fingers tighten around you, not too much, but just enough to make your thoughts blur. 

The light pressure makes your gasps more breathy, but they’re definitely quieter and Agnes’s lip starts to bleed from how hard she’s biting it while watching you move up and down. You arch your back on the way up and her hand still on your hip claws at you. 

Your walls are clenching furiously, spasming and convulsing around her, and you can feel her pulsing inside of you, too. 

“Agnes, fuck,” you moan and her fingers on your throat tighten, making your vision swim for a second. It only makes you wetter and you can feel the slickness on your inner thighs from the mess leaking out of you. Her pants are going to be soaked. 

She nods frantically, cheeks a bright red now, and you never break eye contact. It’s strangely intimate, but you know how long both of you have been waiting for this. 

If only she had let you blow her for rolling through the stop sign the first time you met her. It could’ve been two years of her cock inside you. 

But in some ways, the wait just makes it better. 

The pressure in your stomach is building and it’s getting harder to keep moving up and down on her and she’s feeling it too, based on how sloppy her thrusts have become. Your breaths intermingle and your forehead is resting against hers, sweat mixing, and you’re so fucking close. 

“Agnes, I’m going to—fuck—I’m gonna come,” you pant out and she laughs breathlessly and the hand on your hip moves down and effortlessly finds your clit. You clench around her with a steel grip and you crash your lips against hers without even thinking so you don’t moan loudly. She groans into your mouth and then her tongue is sliding against your tongue and you momentarily forget that you’re supposed to be riding her. 

Her hand tightens around your throat and you keen into her mouth, clenching, and she keeps rubbing your clit and you’re so close, you’re so fucking close—

“Come for me,” she growls and nips at your bottom lip, drives her hips up, squeezes your throat, and presses hard on your clit. 

That’s all it takes and she swallows all of your moans even though a few escape as you fall apart for her, but you can’t find it in yourself to care that someone outside this room at the party—your party—could come barging in and see you coming all over your mom’s best friend’s cock. Your mind goes blank and your vision goes white and for a moment, the only thing that exists is Agnes. 

She hasn’t come yet and she takes her hand away from your throat, letting air finally rush in unrestricted, and paws at your hips with a desperate look in her eyes. 

“Your mouth,” she whispers like she’s hurt and you quickly get off her, the emptiness gaping in your cunt now, and sink to your knees. 

Agnes rips off the condom and her cock is weeping precum and it looks angry and painful with how red it is. 

She grabs your hair preemptively before you envelope her tip with your mouth and hollow out your cheeks. She lets out a strangled groan, both of you apparently past the point of caring if you get caught, and she throbs on your tongue. 

Agnes pumps her cock in hard and fast and you gag but relax your throat so she can use you however she wants. Her face contorts with pleasure; she’s close, you can see and feel it. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come in your mouth,” she gasps and you nod eagerly, sucking and licking and swallowing around her thick length that’s making your jaw ache. You feel tears gather in your eyes and you’re not sure how you’re going to hide your ruined state from the partygoers. “And you’re going to be a good girl and swallow all of it, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” you garble around her cock. 

Her hips jerk and the vein in her forehead throbs furiously and then she thrusts up one last time, stiffens, and lets out a slow groan, idly moving her hips while she pumps a load of cum into your mouth. It’s salty and hot and you make a muffled sound as more strands keep shooting out. 

You swallow all of it the best you can and Agnes nods approvingly. You can feel some of it leaking out of the corners of your mouth and you hope that none of it is dripping onto your shirt. 

“Fuck, you’re good,” Agnes says despite herself and you hold her cock in your mouth as she softens and then she slides out, fully limp. The praise settles warmly in your cunt.

She leans forward to wipe off the excess cum and holds out her finger to you. You suck her off it and she bites her lip at the feeling. Her spent cock gives a little twitch and you wonder if you’ll get her back in here before the party is over. 

You’re willing to bet that you will. 

Agnes stands up and you scooch back on your knees to give her some space. She tucks her cock back into her boxers and zips her pants before fixing the buckle. Her booted foot slides your jean shorts back over to you and she holds out a hand. 

You reluctantly take it and she pulls you up. You fix your underwear and then put your shorts back on while evaluating Agnes’s pants. There’s a few wet spots, but someone would have to look closely to see them with how dark the fabric is. 

Agnes looks at you and barks out a laugh. “You look well-fucked.” 

And of course, you smirk. 

When you both rejoin the party, no one notices that you came out of the sitting room together, looking significantly more disheveled than before. Thankfully, there was an incident with the dessert that your mom had to take care of, so she didn’t have the chance to send out a search group for you. 

Agnes crumples her plate up and slips the condom in between the folds and throws it away, all physical evidence of your tryst gone. 

You’re pulled into a group of relatives, who are all so excited for you and can’t wait to hear about what you’re going to do next. 

You feel someone’s eyes on you and you look across the room to find Agnes staring at you. You give her a wicked smirk and she raises her bottle of beer. 

A silent toast. 

It’s going to be a fun summer. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @500daysofmarissa @tobeawriter98 @hapuchika

[harknessxo]

You'll Taste Me Too

You're staying in your aunt and uncle's apartment for the summer while they're away on vacation and you meet their neighbors, Agatha and Rio, who take quite the interest in you

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings: rio has a penis, mommy kink (agatha), daddy kink (rio), voyeurism, cum eating, sex, dirty talk, degradation, oral sex, masturbation, slight praise kink

A/N: not really sure where this came from lol but just wanted to switch it up for a sec but POL will be back soon! and I'll probably get around to at least a part 2 of this as well

Your aunt and uncle’s apartment is on the thirteenth floor of the complex in the center of New York City. It’s expensive—way more than you would ever be able to afford on your own.

But your relatives are rich, so rich that they are traveling to their home in Napa for the summer, and have extended the invitation to you to apartment-sit and take care of their dog, Russel. They would pay, of course, and you had just finished law school, were broke, and tired of living with your parents for the past two months. 

So you jumped at the chance. The money they were paying would be much more than you’d make as a public attorney and you were hoping that you could scope out potential jobs in New York. 

But you were determined to make the best of the summer while you could. With any luck, there would be some cute girls in the complex that you could meet. Your love life has been lacking lately, to say the least. A summer fling might just be the thing you need. 

The elevator doors open on the thirteenth floor—your uncle made jokes about the irony of how lucky they were to find it when they were looking for some place to move—and you jolt to find two older women standing there. 

You feel severely underdressed in your shorts and tank top; the one on the right, who looks slightly older, pale with long dark hair and blue eyes that pierce through you, is wearing a cream colored dress with silver sequins that falls all the way to her ankles. It cuts low and you make a pointed effort not to stare at her chest but you think she notices by the way her maroon-painted lips curl into a smirk. 

The woman standing next to her on the left is tall and lean, dark hair like her partner but shorter, with light hazel eyes that pop with mascara. She’s sporting a black blazer over a tight white shirt tucked into forest green pants. 

It’s still relatively early in the evening. You wonder where they’re going dressed this nicely. 

“Excuse us,” the woman on the right says, raising an eyebrow as if she’s challenging you. You blink and then realize you’ve been standing in the open elevator, blocking their path. 

The other woman chuckles, pushing her tongue against the side of her cheek in amusement. You feel your cheeks flush. “Easy, Agatha. Don’t scare the poor girl. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.” 

But the one in the dress—Agatha—just snorts. She takes a step closer and you feel the vague sense that she is scrutinizing you. “Haven’t seen you around here before. What’s a pretty young thing like yourself doing up here all alone?” It feels predatory, almost, but there’s a hot twisting in your stomach. 

“I’m staying in my aunt and uncle’s apartment for the summer,” you say finally after swallowing hard. You raise your hand in slow motion and point down the hall even though you feel stupid for doing it. 

The elevator doors start to close, realize that you’re standing there, and slide back open. 

They share a glance and there’s a glint in Agatha’s eyes that’s shared by the other woman. 

“I’m Rio,” the one in the suit says after a moment of silence, sticking out her hand for you to shake. You take it and the firmness of her grasp causes a tugging in your gut. Rio tilts her head. “This is my wife Agatha. We live right next to your aunt and uncle, so we’ll see you around.” 

It’s a statement. A promise. 

You nod, at a loss for words. Agatha smiles, baring her teeth to you, and steps around you into the elevator. Rio walks in on the other side. 

One of them puts their hand on your back and the heat radiating from their fingers makes you shiver. 

“If you need anything,” Agatha whispers into your ear, lips so close you can feel them moving, “don’t hesitate to ask.” 

The hand pushes you forward and you stumble out of the elevator, whipping around to catch Rio winking at you before the doors close. 

What was that? 

You feel rattled, but there’s no denying the heat that’s running through your body. 

Fumbling with the keys in your hand, you slowly walk down the hall to room 1307. It’s at the end of the hall, so there’s no wondering which room your neighbors are in. 

There’s something about them—you can’t decide if it’s enticing or strange. 

Russel, their golden retriever, runs up to greet you, tail wagging furiously, when you push open the door. Your aunt and uncle left this afternoon, but there’s a sense of emptiness in the apartment that makes it seem like it’s been uninhabited for weeks. 

You drop the keys in the bowl on the end table by the door and lead an excited Russel down the hallway and into the kitchen. The gray tile contrasts nicely with the white cabinets and marble countertops. The island in the center has three bar stools and you take a seat to look at what they left you. A bottle of red wine, almost fifty years old, sits there next to a glass and a note addressed to you. 

It’s from your uncle, giving you instructions on how to take care of Russel, even though his wife had gone over it in extensive detail over the phone last weekend, and telling you to enjoy the wine. 

You pour yourself a big glass and sip on the earthy flavors while you walk through the apartment, seeing it in a new light now that it’s all yours. 

The living room has an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the City and you lose yourself in the view for a moment before Russel hits the back of your knee with his nose. You pet him affectionately before checking out the bedroom. 

A king-sized bed is positioned across from the wall with the door, with matching wood nightstands on either side. The duvet is a plain blue with a dark headboard and when you snoop through the drawers, you find a bottle of lube. You wrinkle your nose in disgust and decide that you’re never looking through anything ever again. 

The ensuite bathroom has a huge stand-up shower in it with a gray tiled backsplash and a rain shower head. The counter for the sink is granite with a silver faucet and the toilet has its own sliding door for privacy. 

A huge step up from the cramped two-bedroom house you were living in with your parents and the dorms from law school. 

Even just being here has already made your head feel more clear. This is what you need. Just to be alone, take some time for yourself, and figure out what you’re going to do with your life. 

For the first time in a while, you feel actually hopeful for your future. 

——

Thump. 

Thump. 

Your eyes shoot open and you jerk up in the bed, woken from your slumber. What is that? Is someone knocking? 

Thump. 

It’s not coming from the door. It sounds like it’s the wall. 

Thump. 

You strain your ears and then—

“Oh, fuck,” a woman moans and you groan, head flopping back onto your pillow. For as much money as your aunt and uncle pay for this apartment, this is how thin the walls are? 

“You feel so good,” someone else says, another woman. Your hand flies to your mouth as the pieces connect. 

“Fuck, Rio, please.” 

It’s your neighbors. Having, by the sounds of it, very good sex. You realize that the wall that your bed is against must be the one you share with them. Your entire body starts to burn and you unconsciously try to lower the sound of your breathing. 

Not so you can hear it more. 

Just so they don’t hear you listening. 

“Are you going to come for me, Agatha?” Rio asks in a breathy voice, clear as day. 

How do your aunt and uncle live like this? 

“Yes, please, Rio,” Agatha gasps. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

There’s an unbearable heat growing between your legs and you squeeze your thighs together. Your hand is still clamped tightly over your mouth and you’re willing your blood to stop rushing so loud in your ears. You can feel their touch against your back, feel Agatha’s lips so close to your skin. 

Fuck, what is happening? 

“Come for me,” Rio says, “come on my cock. Let me fill you up.” 

You sharply inhale and your eyes widen. Your heart is pounding in your core. You can see them so clearly in your mind—Agatha on her hands and knees, back arched, Rio’s cock driving in and out of her with a fast pace. Rio’s hands on Agatha’s hips with a bruising grip. 

Do they know that Rio’s thrusts are shaking the bed so much that you can hear everything? 

A delusion thought takes hold in your mind—do they want you to? 

No. That’s crazy. 

“Yes, fuck, Rio, I’m coming,” Agatha whimpers and there’s a high-pitched sound and then a low grunt. You wish you could see what’s happening, and then you instantly shoot that wish down. 

Because these are your two neighbors, who are married and much older than you are. You can’t exactly see either of them wanting to bring you into that. You’re just horny and lonely and maybe you need to try a dating app. 

There’s a few more sounds but none that you can make out super clearly. 

And then about five minutes later, there’s silence. 

There’s no proof that what you heard was anything more than a dream. 

None whatsoever except for the burning fire inside you. 

But you’re definitely not going to replay those sounds in your mind on repeat and pretend you were there. 

And you’re definitely not going to slide your hand into your shorts. 

—— 

Russel wakes you up a quarter after seven by licking your face repeatedly. 

It takes you a moment to gather your bearings and remember where you are but then you reluctantly get up and grab his leash after sliding on your vans. You came by the apartment a few days ago to drop some of your stuff here, but you do need to go back to your parent’s house to get the rest of it at some point. 

The bright lights from the hallway make you squint and you pull the apartment door shut behind you. You’re in so much of a daze that you don’t even notice the woman just a few feet away from you, also exiting her apartment. 

“Morning, hon,” a voice says, and you jump. Agatha is standing there, in a black quarter-zip and teal leggings, hair tied back in a ponytail. “Good first night?” 

The smirk on her face tells you that she knows exactly how your night was and heat bursts through you while you shift from leg to leg. 

“Yeah,” you say, a false confidence projected but you’re not sure where it came from, “but a little noisy.” 

Instead of even having the decency to pretend to be ashamed, a slow smirk spreads across Agatha’s face and she shrugs like she’s blameless. “You might want to invest in a pair of earplugs,” she says teasingly and then takes a step closer, something dangerous on her face. Her voice lowers. “Or don’t.” 

A strangled gasp tears itself from your mouth before you can stop it and her eyes flash. 

“Have a good day, pet. Try to stay out of trouble,” Agatha whispers, eyes raking over you, and chills erupt all over your body. 

She winks and turns around and you have no choice but to trail behind her because she’s also walking toward the other end of the hallway. Will you have to get in the elevator with her? 

How are you supposed to? After that? 

Your heart races so loudly you’re afraid she might be able to hear it. 

But at the last moment, Agatha goes to the right and pushes open the stairwell door. Thirteen floors down is a long way to go, but you think the game that she’s playing must be worth it. 

She gives you one last look over her shoulder with a smirk and then you’re left alone with Russel, wondering what the hell just happened. 

——

It’s two days later before you interact with them again. 

You’re walking back to the complex after picking up dinner, spaghetti and meatballs from the cheapest place you could find—which still means you spent about twenty dollars on it. 

New York City is fucking expensive. 

But if you were to get a job here, you’re not sure you’d say no. 

“Look who it is,” a voice says from behind you, just as you’re reaching for the handle to push the glass doors to the lobby of the complex open. 

A tingle runs down your spine. 

You’d recognize that voice anywhere now. 

Come for me, come on my cock. Let me fill you up. 

Praying Rio doesn’t notice your sudden breathlessness, you plaster a smile on your face and turn around, only to find her and her wife standing there. 

Rio has denim jeans and a green crop top on, while Agatha wears a satiny purple button-down tucked into black pants. Both of them have teasing expressions on their face and you feel a warmth in your stomach start to bloom. 

Agatha steps closer, close enough to you where you freeze, but she puts her hand on top of the door handle, almost on top of your hand, and pushes it open. She holds it open for you and her wife and you mutter a thank you as you brush by her. 

You can hear their footsteps echoing on the tile behind you as you walk to the elevator. You can see their reflections in the gold glass of the doors. 

And before you can press the up arrow, Rio reaches past you and does it herself. The button lights up but the doors don’t open. 

“So, how are you liking it here?” Rio drawls and you step back in line with them so you can look at her easier. 

“It’s nice to be on my own,” you admit. “I haven’t had much time to relax in the past few years.” 

Agatha tuts and nods. “I’m sure it is. All that freedom to do whatever you want to do?” You smile politely and her eyes get darker. “Just make sure you’re being a good girl.” 

“Yes, mommy.” It slips out of your mouth before you even know what you’re saying and your eyes widen in shock at yourself, but they both chuckle. It was supposed to be a mockery, but you said it in such a small voice, so pathetic, and now, it seems so much more. 

The elevator doors ding. 

Rio puts her hand on your shoulder blades and guides you inside. You’re almost nervous to be alone with them in a confined space. There’s something going on between you three already, and you’ve only actually known them for a few days. 

But when you step inside, they hardly even look at you. 

Rio advances on Agatha until the latter is against the wall with a hungry look in her eyes. Rio puts a hand on her waist and the other grabs Agatha’s chin and you watch with rapt attention as their lips meet. 

Despite the fact that you’re in here with them, along with a camera in the right corner of the elevator, Rio’s tongue licks into Agatha’s mouth and Agatha lets out a small groan that makes your fingers twist into the hem of your shirt. Your breathing grows heavy and you stumble to the opposite wall, mouth slightly agape. 

Agatha wraps her hands around her wife’s neck to pull her closer and Rio slots a thigh between Agatha’s legs. A heat unlike any you’ve ever known is spreading from your cheeks down your neck to your core. 

Agatha’s hips slowly grind on Rio’s leg and you can hear them kissing. Would they fuck right here? 

In front of you? 

They have to know what they’re doing. 

The doors ding and you feel the sore ache of disappointment inside your chest. 

They break away, both of their lips swollen and cheeks tinted red, chests heaving laboriously. Rio tugs Agatha out of the elevator, giving you a smug glance, and allowing you just enough time to flick your gaze down and observe the visible bulge in her pants. 

Your cunt clenches around nothing. 

Come on my cock.

There isn’t much else in your mind right now. 

What would it be like to have her inside you? 

Now you can’t stop picturing yourself in Rio’s lap, her cock inside you, while you bounce up and down. Agatha behind you, one hand on your hip and the other wrapped around you, rubbing your clit. 

You almost forget to get off the elevator. 

Agatha glances behind her to make sure you’re following and you are—even if you feel like you’re drunk. She whispers something in her wife’s ear and you feel a rush of paranoia that they’re talking about you, but you kind of hope they are. You just wish you knew what they were saying. 

The walk down the hallway is too short all of a sudden, but before they slide their key into the door, Rio turns to face you. You stop, half expecting an invitation in. The agreement is already dancing on your tongue. 

“Have a good night, pet,” she says, in the same tone as Agatha said the other morning and your knees almost buckle. Your fingers tighten around your bag of take-out. 

Agatha smirks and leans in like she’s going to tell you an inside joke. “I know we will,” she whispers with a smirk and a wink and your lips part with a heavy breath. 

Rio opens their door, revealing a glimpse of a hallway and a few picture frames of them on the wall, before her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek as she looks you up and down. You meet her stare, hot and heavy, and pray that she says something. 

But she just chuckles, like something’s funny, before walking inside. Agatha bites her lip and smiles crookedly before following her wife. 

The door closes and you’re left alone in the hallway, almost shaking. 

Russel greets you at the door to your own apartment the second you open it and you scratch his head while you kick off your shoes. They have to be flirting, right? 

All of that? 

It’s not just in your head. 

But why?

You puzzle over it the entire time while you eat your dinner, with Russel at your feet, begging for a bite. You give him a sad look, and maybe he understands, because he pouts and goes to curl up by the couch. 

Agatha and Rio have to want something. 

Do they really want you? Or is this just some ploy? Although, you can’t really think of an ulterior motive. 

You rack your brain for anything your aunt and uncle said about them, but nothing comes to mind. They never complained about anything or anyone in this place, and you think they would’ve mentioned the flirtatious neighbors next door. 

Unless your neighbors have just taken a special interest in you. 

No. You have a hard time believing that’s what it is. 

And yet, you don’t even fall asleep that night before you hear it. 

Thump. 

This time, you’re ready. You sit up straight in bed, teeth biting your bottom lip to control your breathing, while your fingernails dig into your thighs. It was a hot day today, and even with the fan on and the room temperature turned on low, you still haven’t been able to shake the feeling of sweat off you, so you’re only in underwear and an old t-shirt. 

“Fuck, Rio,” Agatha moans sultrily and you swear that you hear something that sounds like her wetness. “Your cock feels so good.” 

Thump. 

Are they doing this for you? It’s narcissistic and completely self-absorbed to even consider that they’re thinking about you right now, but you can’t help it. After everything? 

“Your cunt feels so good,” Rio says in a low voice and you start to drag your fingertips up and down your thighs, feeling the pull in your gut when you get close to your cunt each time. 

Thump. 

If you said something right now, how would they respond? Would they immediately call you a pervert and never talk to you again? 

Or would they like it? 

Either way, you can’t find it in yourself to talk because you think you’re scared of either option. 

There’s a faint whimper and then Agatha cries out, “Fuck, fuck, please, oh—god.” 

A small grunt. “What would she think? If she saw you taking my cock like this? Think she would want to join?” 

Is Rio talking about…you? 

There’s no denying the pool in your underwear and you preemptively bite on your pointer finger before you move the soaked gusset aside and slide two fingers on your other hand through your folds. They’re wet, even more than you were expecting, and you almost let out a noise at how sensitive you already are. 

“I bet she’d suck your cock like such a slut,” Agatha gasps and your hips arch up when your fingers finally touch your clit. It sends sparks racing up your spine and you breathe heavily around the makeshift gag of your hand. 

“Fuck,” Rio breathes. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

The hand that’s not rubbing your clit leaves your mouth and tweaks your nipples before sliding down to your cunt. You bite your lip again, feeling the sharp sting of pain because you’ve already chewed it raw, as you slip two fingers into yourself easily while you still circle your clit. 

“Think she’d let me fill her up?” Rio asks. 

Even though it’s rhetorical and obviously you’re not supposed to answer, let alone be listening to this in the first place, you can’t help but whimper, “Yes.” 

“Oh—fuck, Rio, honey,” Agatha whimpers and you can practically imagine Rio’s grin right now. 

“Yeah, sweetheart? Are you going to come for me?” 

There’s no answer; Agatha must be nodding though. 

Because you are. 

Your fingers curl up inside you, filling you in a way that’s satisfactory, but not enough, and you don’t think anything could be enough except for them. You want Agatha’s fingers on your clit with Rio’s cock buried inside you while they make your mind go blank because of the pleasure they’re giving you. 

Tension climbs up your spine and you gasp out loud while you clench around yourself. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

You line up your thrusts with each of the thumps and pretend that it’s one of them who’s driving into you right now. 

“Come for me,” Rio growls. 

Agatha and you both fall apart at the same time, based on her moans. You spasm around your fingers and make a noise of your own. Did they hear you? Did they know what you were doing? 

Rio comes not too long after her wife based on the low grunts. You have the sounds ingrained in your mind and even when the couple next door stops making them, they replay over and over, making sure you’ll never forget them. 

Much like the other night, there’s some quiet chatter that you can’t understand, faint rustling, and then silence. 

It takes you a while to fall asleep, even after your intense orgasm, mainly because you’re not sure where things go from here. 

——

It’s been four days since you’ve seen or heard them last. Since you masturbated to the sound of them fucking. Part of you wonders if they’re ashamed of how far things have gone; part of you wonders if you are. 

But deep down, you know that you’re not. 

It’s just fun. So what if your hot, older neighbors want to flirt with you a little? So what if you want to fuck yourself while Rio fucks Agatha so good that you can hear them through the walls?

Do they feel the same? Or do they feel that they’ve crossed some sort of line that they can’t come back from? 

It isn’t until you’re right outside their door that fateful night, coming back to your apartment after getting dinner with a law school friend, that you hear them. 

The same thump sound that you’ve become conditioned to, the sound that haunts your waking moments, the sound that you’ve started hallucinating because it’s impossible to stop thinking about them fucking. 

You stop, right outside their door, and then press yourself against it without even thinking. Your hands claw at the hard surface of it, ear pressed against the wood, and you might just have to accept that you’ve gone completely insane over them. 

But they wanted you to. 

At least, you’re almost convinced now. All those looks, those comments; this is what they wanted to happen, right? For you to become hooked on them? 

Was it just a game? Or was it real? 

Are they just rubbing it in that they have what you want? 

As if you’re in a trance, your right hand slides down the door to the handle. It will be locked, so why are you even trying? 

Except the handle turns smoothly with no resistance. 

The door opens. 

Your head spins with a million different thoughts. You should leave, you know that. The rational part of your brain is screaming that at you. 

But your body is on autopilot right now and you move through their apartment, practically the same layout as your aunt and uncle’s, trying to stay as silent as possible. If they catch you, there’s no telling how they’ll react. Sure, they’ve been flirting, but breaking in and trespassing in their home is a whole other story. 

You think you must’ve gone insane. What would your aunt and uncle say if they knew this was what you were doing? 

If you’re reading this the wrong way, if you get caught, and they find out? You’re as good as dead. Your parents will kick you out when you try to go back home, if you’re not thrown in jail first. Everything you’ve worked for is at risk. 

And yet you still keep walking. 

Through their kitchen that still smells of pasta. Through their living room with the blinds drawn open, showing you almost the exact same view as you have. You walk through the hallway on the left in the direction of your apartment, almost afraid of what you’ll find. 

The door is cracked open and you peer through it.

It is a bedroom, but a small one, and your brows furrow in confusion. It’s not the same size as yours, even though they’re relatively the same layout. You look behind you and across the living room and kitchen, see another closed door, and a spark of realization jolts through you. 

They must have a two-bedroom apartment. And they fully knew which one was against the shared wall.

This whole thing…they wanted it too. They set it all up, they knew you’d hear. The silence you’ve been hearing after they had sex must’ve been because they moved to their actual room. And why your aunt and uncle never complained about their noisy neighbors. 

You dare to take another peak and this time you can see them clearly on the bed—Agatha on her back, legs held open by Rio, who’s thrusting between them. Both of them are naked and you watch transfixed as Agatha’s supple breasts bounce with each stroke of Rio’s cock, which you can see glistening with wetness in the soft light of the lamp on the nightstand. The headboard hits the wall each time. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

Agatha rubs her face with her left hand and rolls her hips up to meet her wife’s thrusts. It snaps you out of your haze and you’re suddenly grounded in the moment. 

“Fuck, please, Rio,” Agatha breathes and Rio huffs out a laugh and snakes her hand between their bodies to rub at her clit. She leans over her wife to kiss her deeply, never breaking her fast pace, and you feel a hollow ache inside your core. 

If you snuck a hand into your shorts, neither of them would ever know. You could get out the second they were done. There would be no trace of you ever being here. 

Although you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to look at them again after this. 

“You like this?” Rio asks, driving deep, and Agatha’s mouth drops open with a silent moan. She nods frantically and you can picture the smug smirk on Rio’s face right now. You want both of them—you need both of them, and if this is the closest you can come to that, so be it. 

Whatever you can get, you’ll take. 

Even if this is really wrong. 

Their entanglement of limbs and being able to see Rio’s hard cock has your clit pulsing and you bite your lip again, the skin just barely having healed from the other night. 

“Fuck, please, more,” Agatha babbles and arches her back off the bed so Rio’s cock can get in deeper. You’re tempted to slide your hand into your shorts but you also just want to watch. 

Rio brackets Agatha’s face with her forearms and slows her thrusts down but makes them more powerful and you swear you can feel it in your cunt. 

Agatha picks her head up to whisper something in Rio’s ear and Rio lets out a guttural groan before picking the pace up again, her cock making a squelching sound each time it drives into Agatha’s pussy. 

You lean against the wall, biting on your nails, and your fingertips on your other hand rest against the slightly ajar door. 

Without realizing what you’re doing, you push it just a little more open. It creaks slightly and you freeze, somehow trying to push yourself more against the wall should they look, but they don’t. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, your cunt is so fucking hot,” Rio groans and Agatha tilts her head to the side, dark curls spread out beneath her. Rio’s hands grip her thighs and push her legs even further apart and is rewarded by a loud noise from her wife.

“Her cunt,” Agatha breathes and your chest stutters. “I bet her cunt would feel so good around your cock. So wet and tight…” 

Rio’s hips falter for a moment and her head drops down to rest against Agatha’s bosom. It almost breaks you but you stay strong. If you touch yourself right now, you’ll risk making a noise and it’ll all be over. 

Even though your core is aching, your clit is throbbing, and you’ve never felt so overheated. 

Agatha runs a hand through her hair again and Rio cups her wife’s breasts, pulling another moan from the woman on the bottom. Rio’s thrusts are becoming shorter and shallower and Agatha’s breathing is becoming heavier, both of their words becoming slurs that are hard to understand. You hear more things that you think are about you, but you’re stuck, unable to do something about it. 

If you were a bit braver, you’d walk right in there and join them. 

But you’re rooted to the ground, only able to watch. 

Not that you’re complaining. 

“Fuck, Rio, I’m going to come,” Agatha whimpers and Rio nods, picking up her thrusts again. She’s going deeper than before and you can almost feel her inside you, the phantom length dragging against your cunt walls, and you clench around the imagination. 

What you would give to actually have her fuck you. To have both of them fuck you. 

When this summer is over, you’re going to have to make up a million excuses to come back and visit your aunt and uncle, if only for the chance of running into their neighbors. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Rio groans, rubbing her wife’s clit once again. You squeeze your thighs together and shift, feeling the pressure and slight sense of relief between them. 

Agatha keens, all of her muscles stiffening, and then she lets out a loud sigh as she relaxes after a few moments. Pink stains her cheeks and her chest rises and falls rapidly and you can’t stop looking at her boobs and the rosy color of her nipples. What would it be like, to suck them with your mouth?

Rio snickers, slowing down her thrusts. “Seems like our voyeur likes this too. Do you think she’s about to come as well?” 

It takes you a moment to realize that she’s talking about you, even though you’re the only one she could possibly be referring to. 

A smirk stretches across Agatha’s face and then her blue eyes meet yours in the doorway and your heart skips a beat. 

Did they know this whole time? 

Rio doesn’t stop moving inside her wife, who lazily rolls her hips to meet Rio’s thrusts. 

But Agatha raises her right hand and beckons you into the room with two fingers. 

As if you have a line connecting you to her, you obey. The door creaks as you push it open so you can fit through and you walk, as if in a trance, to the edge of the bed, feeling like a kid who got caught. 

“We’ve been keeping the door unlocked,” Rio says, her voice strained even amidst her faux-casual tone, and she leans down to suckle on Agatha’s left nipple, who inhales sharply. 

“We were just wondering how long it would take you to stop by,” Agatha says, sounding a lot lighter than her wife. 

Even if you could say anything at the moment, you’re not sure what would come out of your mouth. An apology for spying? Or a question asking if you could join? 

Rio groans and you don’t know who you’d rather be right now. The sound of their pubic bones meeting fills the air and with each thrust, you feel your clit pulse in turn. 

“I thought I told you to be a good girl,” Agatha teases, bucking her hips up. It’s all surreal, watching them fuck in front of you while both of them are acting like this is completely normal. “But I guess you need mommy and daddy to teach you a lesson.” 

A moan rips from your throat, so deep that your ribs rattle. 

Rio finally looks at you, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek like always. “Would you like that, pet?”

There’s not a moment of hesitation before you frantically nod your head. Whatever it is, you’ll accept it more than willingly. 

Although you can’t help but hope that you get to suck on Agatha’s nipples while Rio fucks you. 

As if they know what you’re thinking, they both chuckle. Rio is still pumping inside her wife and you wonder how much longer she’s going to hold out for. 

“Look at her, Agatha, the little slut wants us to fuck her,” Rio mocks, reading you like a book. Your cheeks burn, from embarrassment and desire. 

Agatha shakes her head and meets Rio’s thrust again with her hips. “Well she’s going to have to learn to be a good girl first. I think…once you come, Rio, our pet is going to have to clean daddy’s cum out from mommy. What do you think?” 

She’s asking Rio, but you can’t help but voice your opinion with a loud and pathetic whimper. Rio leans down to kiss her wife, completely ignoring you, and it only turns you on more. 

Rio starts thrusting hard, pulling gasps from both of them, and you’re not really sure what to do other than sway weakly, your knees hitting the edge of the bed. 

“Oh, fuck, Aggie, I can’t—” Rio groans and Agatha huffs out a laugh. Your mouth opens, just at the anticipation, and your vision blurs. 

“Fill me up,” Agatha begs, scratching at Rio’s bare shoulders. “I want your cum inside me so she can lick it out.” 

Rio’s hips falter and her head ducks down, focusing on driving into her wife with a passion that makes your core burn even more. You want to help in any way that you can, but then you see Rio peeking at you from her position—you see that both of them are watching you. 

They’re both getting off on you being here, maybe just as much as you are. 

“I’m gonna come—fuck, Aggie,” Rio gasps and then her entire body stiffens with a low groan, the same sound you’ve been hearing through the wall. 

Watching is something you never even dreamed of, and you’ll never be the same. 

Rio twitches and you imagine the warmth of her seed spreading through you instead of Agatha. Will you get to feel it one day?

She gives a few more half-hearted thrusts while her wife writhes beneath her, and then Rio looks over at you. “Are you ready?” 

Mouth watering, you nod and climb onto the bed on your knees. 

Rio pushes her cock one last time into Agatha’s cunt before sitting up and pulling out and giving you your first good look at both Agatha’s pussy and Rio’s cock. 

Rio’s cock is red and slowly softening, but absolutely soaked with both her cum and Agatha’s. It still twitches and you have the sudden urge to take it into your mouth and coax it back to hardness so she can fuck your throat with it. 

But you turn your attention to Agatha, the task at hand. Her pussy is swollen and puffy and pink, her clit engorged and peeking out through her lips. It’s still convulsing and you watch in awe as she reaches down her hand and spreads her folds with her fingers, revealing her throbbing walls. 

And—Rio’s cum. 

A white strand leaks out, slowly sliding down to her ass and onto the bed beneath her, and you flick your eyes up to check with Agatha, who is looking at you expectantly. 

You move between her legs, still feeling like you’re having an out of body experience, and crouch down so you’re level with her cunt. She smells hot and musky and your mouth is dry, stomach twisting pleasantly. 

A hand—Rio’s—buries itself in your hair as another glob slips out and she pulls gently to lead you to her wife’s pussy. 

“Clean mommy up, sweetheart,” Rio says, rough and gravelly. 

Your tongue sticks out experimentally and drags through her folds and Agatha jerks beneath you. The mixture of Rio’s and Agatha’s cum in your mouth is a bit salty and relatively tasteless, but you’re immediately addicted. 

“How does daddy taste?” Agatha asks, a little breathlessly, and you moan as an answer. Agatha’s hips rock up against the vibrations and you eagerly begin shoving your tongue inside her entrance, scooping more of Rio’s cum out and into your mouth. You drink it, both of their wetness, eyes closing as you lose yourself more in it. 

“Look at the dirty whore enjoying herself,” Rio coos and Agatha chokes out a laugh before groaning quietly when you suck on her clit. You don’t know if you’re allowed to do anything more than just “clean her out,” but you want to. 

You want it all. 

“I think we need to keep her around,” Agatha gasps and Rio’s hand tightens in your hair, holding you right where you are. You can feel their cum getting all over your face and you continue delving right back in, wanting to get even messier. “I want to watch her suck your cock.” 

Rio groans and so do you, just as your tongue slides into Agatha’s cunt and curls up. Your nose roughly bumps against her clit and Agatha’s hand tangles into your hair too.

“Look how good she is with her mouth,” Rio says. “I bet she’ll be the perfect slut. I want her to eat you out while I fuck her hot cunt.” 

You keen loudly and feel Agatha clench around your tongue. You want to say that Rio could do that right now, just slide her cock inside you because you’re already so wet and desperate that you could take it easily, but both of them keep you exactly where you are. 

“Are you getting all of daddy’s cum out?” Agatha asks in a strangled voice and you nod as much as you’re able to and you hear one of them laugh. “You’re going to make mommy come if you keep that up.” 

And you never had an option after that. 

It becomes more about giving her an orgasm than it ever was about cleaning her cunt, and you start urgently mouthing at her, sucking on her clit, lashing your tongue against it, and then thrusting your tongue inside her. She’s clenching more, almost rhythmically, and Rio chuckles before tugging on your hair sharply. The sting makes you groan but you don’t stop and neither of them make you. 

“Oh, fuck, you’re going to make mommy come,” Agatha keens and when you peer at her through hooded eyelashes, you see Rio’s free hand rolling her wife’s nipple between her fingers. 

You scrape your teeth against her clit and then suck roughly while Rio whispers praises into your ear, and Agatha’s muscles lock, her hips jerking up, before she makes the same tell-tale signs you’ve been hearing for the past week through the walls and in your head. 

She grinds against your face, both of their hands tightening in your hair, while you stick out your tongue and let her take what she needs. 

It’s a moment before Agatha finally slows down and then she tugs you away because of her intense two orgasms and you sit back on your heels, inhaling deeply. You can feel the stickiness coating your cheeks and your tongue darts out to lick at the messiness and Rio watches you with a smirk, her cock half-hard again. 

You wonder if they’ll fuck you now, help you out with the arousal throbbing between your own legs. Rio glances at her wife, who is still recovering, and Agatha winks. 

Rio climbs off the bed and tilts her head so you follow her out of the room and back into the kitchen. She is still naked and you watch her pale ass sway as she saunters. 

Where is she taking you? Is she going to bend you over the counter, fuck you, and let Agatha spy on you? Your heart skips a beat—you hope so.

But instead, she takes you right to the door, and despite her state of undress, she opens it and clasps your shoulder. “Next time, don’t hesitate to walk right in.” 

You stare at her dumbfounded while her eyes twinkle with amusement. 

The next thing you know, you’re in the hallway and Rio is closing the door on you. You take a shaky step back, still tasting and smelling their mix of cum on your tongue and face. 

Does Rio mean that? Will they keep setting up scenarios like that to lure you into their bedroom? 

Not their bedroom though—the guest one. Right on the other side of the wall that your bed is. 

It was all a part of their plan, you’re starting to realize. How long have they been leaving the door unlocked for? How long have they been fucking in that specific room just so you’d overhear?

Since the first time they met you?

The thought makes your cunt clench again and you quickly go into your own apartment before anyone else on the floor comes out to see you in such a disheveled state. Russel meets you at the door and you pet him absentmindedly, walking toward the pantry to get his dinner ready. 

He digs in immediately when you set the bowl down and you collapse onto the couch, still in shock about what just happened. 

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your shorts and you pull it out without thinking, hoping somehow that Agatha or Rio got your number and texted you to come back over. 

It’s from your uncle. 

How are things going? 

You laugh out loud to yourself and Russel picks his head up out of his food dish for a moment before going back to it. 

Everything is going great. I’ve met your neighbors—they seem nice. 

It’s the understatement of the century. 

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @500daysofmarissa @tobeawriter98

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 23)

Synopsis: As the final day of the campaign winds down, old tensions and buried feelings rise to the surface in unexpected ways. In a night of laughter, chaos, and quiet confessions, some walls crack—but not everything broken can be so easily mended.

Word count: 7.1 K

Warnings: Subtle angst, Lingering tension, Unresolved emotions, Mentions of alcohol consumption, Mild language

You barely slept. 

You’d like to pretend it was just the hard day yesterday—the sun, the fertilizer sacks, the endless tasks—but it wasn’t. It was her. It was the way she said your name. The way she almost said something more. The way her eyes softened just a bit when she talked about that bunny, like it still meant something. 

It’s stupid how long you lay there after midnight, staring at the ceiling in your tiny inn room, letting every almost-moment replay over and over again like they were stuck on loop. What was she going to say? Why did she stop? Was she about to crack her walls open—just a little—or were you just reading too much into it again? 

You drag yourself up just as the sun begins to rise, shadows stretching long across the floor. The shower is short and cold, not because you want it to be, but because the hot water here is fickle. You towel off quickly and pull on your campaign shirt—wrinkled, but clean. You stayed up late enough doing a quick hand-wash in the bathroom sink last night, the cotton still smells faintly of soap. 

You don't bother with makeup. Just lip balm. Just something to make you look a little more alive than you feel. 

Downstairs, the inn’s breakfast spread is modest—just toast, butter, some scrambled eggs that taste like powder, and black coffee that tastes like survival. You eat automatically, not really tasting anything. Your fingers drum against your thigh, restless. 

Your phone is already open on the table. 

Coffee. 

Bouquet. 

Same one as always. 

You double-check the delivery details, pay extra for speed, and—on a whim—add her name to the order this time. Agatha Harkness. Maybe so the volunteers won’t accidentally take it again. Maybe because it feels like a quiet declaration. 

You don’t expect anything from it. You just need to do it. 

After breakfast, you slip on your jacket and step outside. The early air is cool against your skin, but it’s not enough to settle the hum under your ribs. You stuff your hands into your pockets and start the short walk toward the campaign site. 

It’s day three. The final day. 

And you still don’t know where is this going. 

But maybe today—you’ll find out. 

By the time you reach the campaign grounds, everything’s already alive with motion. Volunteers in green campaign shirts weave in and out of the main clearing, chairs are being carried from one end to another, and coordinators are barking out instructions with clipboards clutched tight to their chests. There’s a pulsing energy to the place—nervous, expectant, hopeful. 

It’s the final day. The big one. 

You walk in quietly, blending into the buzz, slipping your name badge from your back pocket and clipping it to the hem of your jeans. It swings lightly as you move, catching the breeze like it’s trying to wave at someone on your behalf. 

You barely get a moment before Kate’s voice finds you again. 

“There she is,” she says, sidling up next to you like you’ve been in mid-conversation for hours. “Lookin’ all serious and focused this morning.” 

You glance at her, offer a small smile, polite but automatic. “Morning, Kate.” 

She nudges your elbow. “You dream about fertilizer last night, or just too excited to see me again?” 

You let out a soft snort, shaking your head. “Definitely not fertilizer.” 

Kate laughs, the sound light and easy, but your attention’s already drifting—eyes scanning the crowd, the corners of tents, the edge of the makeshift stage still under setup. You haven’t spotted her yet. Agatha. 

You try to stay subtle about it, but you’re not sure how well you're doing. 

Before Kate can say more, one of the coordinators comes over—young, frazzled, already sweating through his campaign shirt. “Hey, you two—can you help unload one of the trucks? We need the chairs set up for the speeches later. Stage area. Please and thank you.” 

You and Kate nod in unison. Without much more instruction, you follow the trail toward the back lot, where a truck is parked with its back open, rows of white plastic chairs stacked inside. 

You move into work mode. Unload, carry, place. Repeat. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, but your eyes keep flicking toward the tents, toward the groups of volunteers, the flashes of green campaign shirts and white sneakers. Searching. 

Kate walks beside you with two chairs in hand. “You keep looking around,” she says casually, breath hitching a little as she walks. “You okay? Looking for someone?” 

You don’t stop walking. You just shrug. “Nah.” 

Kate raises a brow but doesn’t push it. She just flashes another grin and keeps moving. “Alright. Mysterious.” 

The chairs go up row by row in front of the small stage, angled just right for the eventual speeches. You barely even notice how sore your arms are getting—you’re too busy watching, waiting. 

But she’s still nowhere. 

Eventually, another coordinator waves you down. “Hey, you,” she says, pointing to you with a clipboard. “Can you stay with one of the campaign stalls for a bit? We need someone to keep an eye on the keychains and brochures. Just hand them out if anyone comes by. It’s a chill task. Thanks!” 

You nod, brush the sweat off your brow, and walk over to the table she points out. A small wooden stall tucked to the side, decorated in campaign colors, stacked with a few baskets of printed brochures and a small pile of keychains shaped like watering cans. A sign reads: "Plant a Future. Be Part of the Roots." 

Kate gives you a mock salute as she gets tugged into another task nearby. “Don’t fall asleep on the job.” 

You just smile faintly, watching her walk off, and then settle into the chair behind the stall. 

You’ve never been great at sitting still. 

You keep your eyes busy—watching the volunteers dart around, the coordinators lining up final logistics, and the stall across from you where someone’s trying to set up a half-deflated balloon arch. But more than anything, you’re still waiting—for that one familiar silhouette to show up. 

Agatha’s not here yet. 

Or maybe she is. 

You’ve been at the stall for over an hour now—maybe an hour and a half—handing out brochures and those tiny, cheerful watering can keychains to anyone who passes by. Most people just smile, say thank you, and keep walking. A few linger to ask about the campaign, some ask if it’s okay to take more than one. You tell them it’s fine. You don’t really mind. 

But your legs are starting to ache from standing too long, and your eyes keep flicking toward the gathering crowd inside the event tent. 

You can hear it now—the buzz is louder than ever. More people have arrived. Locals, yes, but also figures in crisp suits and shiny shoes, people you recognize from news snippets and articles. Press badges swinging from necks. Cameras flashing. Even from here, you can hear the laughter and the mic tests echoing from inside. 

And then you see him. 

Mayor Stark. Slick, smug, and somehow always a little too polished. He’s waving to the crowd like he just invented something, flashing a politician’s smile so forced it almost creaks. Your jaw tightens instinctively. You hate that he always looks like he’s performing. Like everything is a show. 

Billy’s voice crackles through the loudspeakers. “The program will begin in five minutes! Please take your seats. Again, we are requesting everyone to please find a seat as we begin shortly.” 

You glance down at the brochures in your hand. A quiet little sigh leaves your lips. You badly want to be in there. To see her. 

To see Agatha. 

But instead, you're still here. On brochure duty. 

“Still alive?” Kate’s voice breaks into your thoughts as she appears beside you, hands in her back pockets, lips curled into that usual half-teasing smirk. 

You nod. “Thriving,” you say with fake enthusiasm. “Best thing I’ve done all campaign, honestly. Peak achievement.” 

Kate chuckles. “Hey, don’t knock it. Those keychains? Collector’s item material.” 

You snort, handing another brochure to an old woman walking by. “What about you? What did they make you do?” 

She sighs dramatically. “Logistics. They needed someone to help with, I don’t know, rearranging delivery schedules or checking inventory or whatever. Naturally, they picked the most qualified person. Me.” She tosses her hair playfully. “I’m kind of a big deal.” 

You laugh softly, genuinely this time. “Must be exhausting being this excellent all the time.” 

“It is,” she says, mock-serious. “But I do it for the people.” 

Before either of you can say more, Billy’s voice cuts through again—this time smoother, more formal. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. We are incredibly honored to welcome our speaker…” 

You both instinctively glance toward the loudspeakers. 

Kate groans, only half-joking. “Oh God. I’m so glad I’m not stuck in there. An hour of political speeches? Hard pass.” 

You just smile at her, nodding along, but your thoughts are miles away. You know what you have to do. 

“Hey,” you say, careful, casual. “Can you watch this stall for a sec?” 

Kate raises a brow. “Sure. Everything okay?” 

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just… bathroom.” 

She waves you off. “Go, go. I’ve got it.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble, already turning. You’re walking fast but trying not to look like you’re in a rush. You slip around the side of the tent, heart climbing its own way up your throat, trying not to get caught by a coordinator who might actually redirect you to get supplies. 

But you make it. 

Just in time. 

Billy’s voice is calm, clear. “—and now, please welcome the Governor of Washington State, Governor Agatha Harkness.” 

Applause erupts from the tent. Loud. Warm. Earnest. 

You slip into the very back, blending into the cluster of standing volunteers who didn’t manage to grab seats. From here, you can see the stage perfectly. Your breath catches. 

There she is. 

Agatha walks up the steps, smile soft and poised, her black blazer catching the light, the green campaign shirt she’s wearing underneath like a quiet nod to the cause. Her trousers are crisp, her hair down and loose, brushing her shoulders gently. Cameras flash as she reaches the center, waving once, thanking Billy with a subtle nod. 

She’s breathtaking. Unshakable. Unreachable. 

You find yourself clapping, like everyone else, but your eyes don’t leave her for a second. 

She greets the crowd with warmth, her voice strong and calm, just the right touch of command. She starts with a story—something about a farmer from Walla Walla who once built an irrigation system from scratch after a drought nearly ruined everything. You’re not sure how long she’s speaking before you realize your chest aches just listening to her. 

Agatha talks about farmers, about caretakers of the land, about why they matter. About how they are often the ones forgotten, unseen, undervalued—just like the farmer in her story. 

And then she folds it in effortlessly—why this campaign matters. Why she needs them. Why they need to raise $100,000. She doesn’t sound desperate, but she sounds real. And that’s worse, somehow. That’s harder. 

You barely notice how your hands start to curl around each other. 

She ends the speech after a few more points. You don’t catch the last words because your ears are ringing a little from how hard your heart is pounding. You clap, of course you do, and you stay for just one more second to watch her leave the stage, stepping down as Billy thanks her. 

And then—Stark is next. 

The moment he starts speaking, you’re gone. 

You slip out of the tent, back into the sun and the buzz of people wandering around the outer stalls. You make your way back to yours, where Kate is now comfortably seated, thumbing through something on her phone. 

She notices you right away. “Took you long enough,” she says with a grin. “You good?” 

You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. Long line. And then one of the coordinators caught me and asked if I could grab some supplies from the tent. Took a bit.” 

Kate nods like she buys it. “Classic. They really never let anyone pee in peace.” 

You let out a dry laugh. 

She stands and offers you the chair. “Here. You’ve been up all morning.” 

You shake your head. “You keep it. I’ll find another.” 

She raises a brow, but doesn’t argue. 

You find another folding chair a few steps away, pull it beside her, and sit down, the tension in your back finally catching up to you. 

For a few minutes, you and Kate just talk—nothing deep, just enough to pass the time. She tells you about how someone accidentally locked one of the trucks this morning and they had to call the driver back. You joke about how everyone seems to be held together by caffeine and duct tape. 

But even as you laugh, your mind still lingers elsewhere. 

On the stage. 

On her voice. 

On what she almost said to you yesterday. 

And whether she ever will again. 

The rest of the day dragged on like a slow reel. After Agatha’s speech, you didn’t get to see her again—she disappeared into the sea of people, press, and politicians. And you were stuck. Still manning your stall, still handing out the last of the brochures and keychains to a steadily thinning crowd. It started off kind of fun, especially when Kate was around. But then she got called off to help with some other logistics, and now you were left alone. 

Alone, and honestly… bored. 

It was a busy day, but a lonely kind of busy. You barely got to eat. You just munched on a cold sandwich in between handing flyers to people who barely looked at you. The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, throwing long shadows across the field, but the campaign hadn’t hit its fundraising goal yet. 100,000 dollars. Still short. 

You stared at the donation meter on the app that was pinned on your phone screen, the numbers ticking up slowly—painfully slowly. And then something shifted inside you. 

You glanced around. No one was paying attention. 

You open your contacts, scroll until you find her name, then tap it. Without thinking twice, you press “Call.” 

It rang once. Twice. 

“Ma’am?” her voice answered, always calm, always professional. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice low and tired. “I need you to make a transfer.” 

She didn’t ask anything at first. She was used to this. But when you told her the amount, her silence lingered for a second longer. 

“One… million?” 

You leaned against the edge of the stall and looked out into the distance. “Yes. I’ll send you the campaign’s details. I want it anonymous.” 

“Are you sure?” she asked gently. 

“Positive.” 

“Alright,” she said. “Send me the info. I’ll do it right now.” 

You forwarded the campaign details to her, watching your fingers shake slightly as you typed. Not from nerves. From something else. Maybe from everything—fatigue, hunger, the way Agatha’s speech earlier made your chest feel like it was both splitting and whole. 

A few moments later, an email notification lit up your phone screen. The bank asking for your confirmation. You clicked it open and replied quickly. 

Confirmed. 

Then, silence. 

And then—ding. 

Another email. Transfer Successful. 

You stared at it for a while, then slipped your phone back in your pocket just as Billy’s voice came through the loudspeakers again. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice booming across the field, “we did it! We officially reached our 100,000 dollar goal—and more.” 

People around you turned to look, clapping and cheering. 

Billy continued, “In fact… we received a one million dollar donation just moments ago! Anonymous! I don’t know who you are, but whoever you are—thank you. You’ve changed the entire course of this campaign.” 

You watched people light up. Even the volunteers around you looked stunned. Everyone clapped. Some whistled. Some laughed in disbelief. 

You just smiled to yourself and sat back down. 

Eventually, the day thinned out. One by one, the guests left. The press, the business people, even the politicians. What was left were the volunteers—some exhausted, some still giddy, all of you quietly proud. The event was over, but there was still work to be done. 

Billy’s voice cut through the low chatter again, this time not through a microphone but with his ever-present megaphone. “Alright! Let’s wrap it up, folks!” 

You were asked to help move the chairs back to the truck—the ones set up for the speech earlier. Your body ached, but you didn’t complain. You lifted, stacked, carried. Over and over again. The big canopy tents came down, the banners peeled off, lights turned off, tables folded up. Everything was being put away like nothing ever happened here. Just a patch of grass and sunburnt soil again. 

By around 8 PM, everything was clean. The trucks were packed, the field nearly empty. 

Billy called out again, “Everyone, gather around!” 

You made your way over with the rest of the volunteers. People huddled in a loose circle, some with water bottles, some with tired smiles. 

At the front of the group, you spotted Agatha standing beside Mayor Stark. Not on a stage. Just on the ground with everyone else. 

Agatha was the first to speak. 

She looked around the group, and when she smiled—it was different. Softer. Less political, more personal. 

“I just want to say thank you,” she began, her voice a little hoarse from the long day, “and I don’t think I’ll ever have the words to say it enough.” 

She looked genuinely moved. Not the kind of gratitude people perform, but the kind that hits from somewhere deep. Her voice wavered slightly as she continued. 

“This campaign wouldn’t be possible without you—without every single person here who gave their time, their energy, their patience. You all believed in this cause and believed in me even when I was… honestly panicking earlier because we were nowhere near the goal.” 

Some light laughter from the group. You bit your lip to stop your smile from showing. 

“And then… I don’t know. Maybe the universe was listening. Because someone out there donated one million dollars.” 

She exhaled shakily. “And I still can’t believe it.” 

Her eyes shimmered a little in the lights from the nearby trucks. 

You looked at her and thought, I would do it again. 

Then, unfortunately, Mayor Stark stepped forward. 

“Well!” he said, clapping his hands. “That means… it’s time to celebrate!” 

Some people laughed. Others clapped politely. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of renting the resto-bar just nearby,” he added with a grin that was just a little too smug. “Whole place is ours tonight.” 

You didn’t clap. You didn’t even smile. He looked like he wanted people to pat him on the back for opening his wallet. 

Still, the idea of unwinding with the others… maybe getting a glimpse of Agatha in a relaxed setting… it wasn’t the worst thought. 

But you stayed silent. Just watching her. 

She was glowing. Exhausted, emotional, but glowing. 

And you… you were just glad to still be near her 

The resto-bar was bigger than you expected. One of those open-layout places with warm lighting, polished wood floors, and exposed brick walls that made it feel a little too curated for a "casual celebration." Still, it was packed. People scattered everywhere—some crowding around the buffet, some already settled into booths, a few drinking at the bar even though it was barely past 8:30. 

The noise buzzed around you. Plates clinking, laughter in waves, someone calling for more wine at one of the bigger tables. 

You grabbed a plate and loaded it without overthinking—pasta, a pile of glazed ribs, a scoop of mashed potatoes, and some fruit for dessert. Maybe you went overboard, but you didn’t care. You hadn’t eaten properly all day and your body was catching up to the exhaustion. 

You found a corner table, away from the busiest parts of the room, and sat down. It felt good to just… be still. You dug into your food without ceremony, chewing as your eyes flicked to the far end of the room—towards her. 

Agatha was at one of the larger tables, sitting with Billy on one side and Stark across from her. She looked more relaxed now, like the weight of the day had finally lifted off her shoulders. You watched as Billy said something, waving his hands in that overly animated way of his, and Agatha burst into laughter. 

You paused mid-bite. 

She tilted her head slightly back when she laughed, covering her mouth the way she always did when something genuinely got to her. Her curls had loosened since earlier, now falling a little messier around her face. Her wine glass sat untouched in front of her. 

You were still staring when someone slipped into your view and cut the moment short. 

“Hey,” Kate said, holding her plate with one hand, the other already pulling a chair. “Mind if I join you?” 

You blinked, pulling your focus back to the table. “Yeah, sure.” 

She sat down with a grateful sigh. “Been looking for you earlier. You disappeared.” 

You stabbed a piece of rib with your fork. “Lot of people,” you said with a shrug, not looking at her. 

Kate tried to start small talk. Something about how the turnout was better than expected, how the mayor actually wasn't as unbearable tonight, how the ribs were surprisingly good. 

You nodded, offered small mhms. But your mind wasn’t on her. 

Your eyes kept drifting back to Agatha’s table, scanning her profile from afar. The way she tilted her head when she listened. How her fingers tapped idly at the edge of her plate. How she leaned slightly toward Billy when she spoke, but never toward Stark. 

Kate didn’t seem to notice you weren’t really listening. She just kept talking, like she was too tired to care. 

Eventually, people started drinking more freely. Some of the volunteers got louder. A few were even singing along to whatever 2000s playlist was on the speakers now. You finished your plate quietly and stood up, muttering something about the bar. 

You moved to the other side of the room and found an empty stool. 

“Whiskey. Just neat,” you told the bartender. He nodded and slid you a glass a moment later. 

The first sip hit hard—but good. Warm. Grounding. Like you were finally letting your muscles start to loosen. 

Kate appeared again, pulling up the stool beside you like she belonged there. You didn’t stop her. 

She kept talking. About something funny that happened earlier with the volunteers. You nodded, murmured responses when appropriate, your attention barely there. 

Your eyes, again, kept going back. 

Agatha was still at her table, now sipping her wine slowly. She looked so present. So rooted. Still smiling, but more subdued now. Her eyes scanned the room once in a while. At one point, she leaned in to say something to Billy, and he laughed again. 

Your glass was half-empty before you realized you were gripping it too tightly. 

Kate laughed at something—her own joke, maybe. You gave her a faint smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. She didn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she didn’t notice. 

You tilted your glass again, swallowed the rest of the whiskey, and set it down. 

And through all the voices and the clinking glasses and the tired music overhead, the one thing that wouldn’t leave your head was her laughter. 

And how it wasn’t meant for you. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. 

The night had long since slid into that golden, easy haze—when the food was eaten, the speeches done, and people had swapped their name tags for half-empty cocktail glasses. The resto-bar pulsed with low music and chatter, laughter echoing off the walls like firecrackers. Some folks were at the buffet for round three, others crowded near the bar, where the real party had started. 

You sat at a high stool, nursing your second whiskey with Kate still beside you, half-listening to her talk about someone’s embarrassing karaoke moment earlier. You nodded along, but your eyes kept drifting—past the hanging lights and waitstaff, toward Agatha’s table. 

She was still sitting there, legs crossed, her arm draped casually over the back of her chair. Billy was saying something animated, and she was laughing—really laughing, the kind where her eyes squint and her nose scrunches slightly. You didn’t even realize you were staring. 

“—so then he just faceplanted,” Kate finished, grinning, before catching the direction of your gaze. “You’ve been looking over there all night.” 

You blinked. “No I haven’t.” 

Kate raised an eyebrow. “Okay.” 

Before you could respond, a voice boomed over the buzz of the room. 

“Alright!” Mayor Stark stood on a chair, holding up a half-full bottle of rum like a trophy. “Enough talking, let’s make this a real party. I say we do something fun. Who’s down for a drinking challenge?” 

A small cheer erupted around him. Stark was grinning like a college frat boy at a reunion. “Winner gets a thousand bucks. Cash. Courtesy of my own damn wallet.” 

That caught more attention. A few people hooted. Someone clapped. And before you could talk yourself out of it, your hand was in the air. 

“Count me in,” you said, standing from your stool, a little too fast. 

Kate blinked at you. “Wait, seriously?” 

You just shrugged. “Why not?” 

The game began fast. 

Five contestants, a table lined with clear shot glasses, and Billy shouting dramatic commentary like it was a boxing match. Every few seconds, another shot. Vodka, gin, tequila—it rotated with each round. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Just drinking, and laughing, and drinking again. 

By round four, one guy had tapped out, slurring something about his stomach. 

By round seven, it was just you and Stark. 

Someone pushed a glass into your hand and you raised it without thought, your cheeks flushed, your heartbeat rushing in your ears. 

Across the circle of people, you caught a glimpse of her. 

Agatha. 

She wasn’t laughing now. 

She was standing beside Billy, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed. Watching you. Closely. Her expression unreadable, but her body was tense. 

Before the next shot, she stepped forward. 

“Okay, maybe that’s enough,” she said, her voice just loud enough to cut through the noise. “This is starting to look less like fun and more like a bad idea.” 

You smiled, tipsy and stubborn. “It’s fine, Governor. It’s just a game.” 

Stark, already sweating, raised his glass and added, “Yeah, c’mon, let her finish. We’re this close.” 

Agatha gave him a sharp look, then turned back to you. “You don’t look okay,” she said, softer this time. Just to you. 

You blinked, a beat too long. “I’m fine. Promise.” 

Your voice came out slightly slurred, your grin uneven. And before she could say anything else, you took the next shot. 

And another. 

And another. 

And another. 

Then it hit you. 

The moment you slammed the winning glass down and the small crowd whooped and clapped, the room tilted. Just slightly at first—like the floor had shifted under your feet. You opened your mouth to say something clever, maybe something smug about winning. But then your knees buckled. 

Kate is the first to move, but Agatha is faster. 

They both lunge for you at the same time as your legs give out, catching you between them before you hit the floor. 

“Shit—" Kate breathes, struggling to steady you. 

Agatha’s hands grip your upper arms, tight but careful. 

For a second — just a second — she looks terrified. 

She and Kate lock eyes over your head. 

Something passes between them — something sharp, unspoken. 

Kate looks... realizes something. Her jaw tightens slightly. 

Agatha's mask almost slips. 

Her hand lingers at your cheek, brushing your hair back with a tenderness that doesn’t match the cool, professional expression she tries to force back onto her face. 

She catches herself, stiffening. 

Without looking at Kate, she says briskly, "Billy, get over here." 

Billy rushes forward, helping to steady you on the other side. 

You blink up at Agatha, smiling like a fool, so drunk you can barely see straight. 

Your fingers cling to her jacket lapel without thinking. 

“You're so pretty," you mumble, loud enough that a few volunteers nearby laugh awkwardly. 

Agatha stiffens visibly. 

She gently peels your hand off her jacket, but she doesn't let go of you. 

Not yet. 

“This is a disaster,” she mutters under her breath, voice tinged with something that might almost be fondness. 

You lean into her shoulder, nuzzling clumsily. 

“Is this a dream?” you mumble, voice thick, “...’cause you look like a dream...” 

Kate looks away, jaw set. 

Agatha closes her eyes for a second like she’s praying for patience. 

Then she pats your cheek lightly. “Alright, sweetheart. Time to go.” 

There’s a quiet scramble as she exchanges quick words with Billy and another volunteer. 

Kate hovers like she wants to protest, but in the end, she just watches, lips pressed tight. 

Agatha tugs you closer to her side, her arm firm around your waist. 

"I'll take her," she says, tone brisk, like it's just logistics. Just another thing to handle tonight. 

She doesn’t ask. 

She decides. 

Outside, the night air bites softly at your cheeks, the chill a sudden slap compared to the heat of the bar. The sky above is velvet-dark, and the buzz of voices and laughter fades as the heavy door swings shut behind you. 

You stumble a little on the steps, and Agatha catches you—again. 

“Careful,” she murmurs, her arm firm around your waist. “You’re not exactly walking in a straight line.” 

You laugh into her shoulder, your breath fogging the fabric of her coat. “M’fine... I’m totally fine, Agatha... ‘s just the floor that’s weird.” 

She huffs a quiet laugh, just a breath of one, then shakes her head. 

The SUV pulls up to the curb with the smooth purr of a well-oiled engine. One of the volunteer drivers—young, confused, trying very hard not to stare—gets out and opens the back door. 

Agatha starts guiding you toward it. You resist slightly, hands grabbing at her coat sleeve. You look up at her with glassy eyes. 

"Where... are we going?" you ask, slurring the last word just a bit. 

Agatha doesn’t hesitate. She tells the driver, gaze fixed on you. “Hotel Viné. My suite.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oooh... scandalous,” you whisper, like it’s a joke just between the two of you, before letting out a breathless giggle. 

You don’t notice the way her jaw tenses. 

She helps you into the backseat like you’re made of spun sugar—careful, delicate. You half-fall, half-collapse against the seat, head lolling back with a dramatic sigh. 

And then she slides in beside you. 

You’re still fiddling with her coat sleeve when she leans over, buckling you in with brisk, efficient hands. Her fingers graze your side, her perfume filling the small space between you. 

She doesn't say anything at first. 

You're slumped over, blinking lazily, your cheek brushing the shoulder of her coat. 

Then you sigh again and mumble, almost dreamily, “Pretty… pretty Agatha…” 

There’s a hiccup in your voice, like a laugh trying to escape and getting caught in a sob instead. 

“Is this... is this real?” you whisper. “Or is this, like… some kinda wish I made?” 

Her hands freeze. 

Just for a second. 

She turns her face toward the window, away from you. 

When the driver glances back through the mirror, she composes herself. 

Voice cool, clipped, distant: “Drive.” 

As the car glides forward, her hand remains close to yours on the seat. Not touching. Not quite. 

Until the driver looks away. 

Then, barely a breath—just a brush of her fingers against your knuckles. 

You flinch slightly, but not in fear. In recognition. 

And when your head tilts to the side and you rest it against her shoulder, there’s no hesitation. 

You just let yourself fall there. Like it’s the safest place you’ve ever known. 

Like there’s no aching history between you, no wounds still healing. 

Agatha stays very still. 

The low hum of the road fills the silence. 

And slowly—quietly—she exhales. 

You whisper something again, barely audible. She catches only pieces: 

"...smells nice..." 

"...so warm..." 

"...always wanted to..." 

She closes her eyes briefly, her mask nearly slipping once more. 

This time, she lets it. 

Just a little. 

The car rolls into the parking lot, the sound of the tires muffled by the thick carpeting of night. As it stops, you blink up at the glow of the hotel’s entrance. The lights shimmer softly across the polished floors, the faint scent of freshly polished wood and expensive perfume lingering in the air. 

It feels... different. Even though it’s just a hotel, just another stop in the long stretch of this event, this night. But you’re here now. In this new, unspoken space with Agatha. 

Agatha steps out first, a quick move of her hand, flicking her hair back as she pulls open the door for you. You stumble, just a little, as you get out, and she’s there instantly—her arm around your waist again, steadying you, almost like second nature to her now. 

“Careful,” she murmurs, the word so soft and familiar. You meet her eyes, blurry but sharp enough to see the flicker of something guarded there. 

Your pulse skips. It's impossible to deny it now—the crackling, electric tension between you two. 

“Yeah, yeah... I’m fine,” you say with a laugh that almost comes out as a snort, still leaning into her, even though you can feel yourself swaying a little. “I’m not that drunk.” 

Her lips curl in the faintest of smiles. “No?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, as you nearly lose your balance again. “You sure?” 

You nod seriously, but your face shifts. Something flickers behind your eyes, something not so confident anymore. You’re losing grip on that cold resolve you’d been holding on to so tightly since earlier. The conversation about fixing things with Agatha... it’s becoming less of a sure thing. There’s fear now. Fear that you’ve waited too long. Fear that Agatha won’t let you. 

Agatha’s arm stays around your waist, guiding you inside with quiet precision, her fingers warm and steady against the small of your back. 

The hotel lobby blurs around you—shiny marble floors, soft lighting, the smell of expensive polish and roses in the air. You trip over absolutely nothing and Agatha catches you again with a muttered, "For God's sake." 

Still, her hand stays firm at your back, guiding you through like you’re a lost, sleepy kitten. 

The elevator ride is silent except for your occasional hiccupy sniffles and Agatha's low sighs. 

You lean your forehead against the cold metal wall and mumble, “Gonna throw up on your shoes.” 

“Please don’t,” she says dryly. But there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. You can feel it. 

When the elevator dings, she hooks her arm around your waist and steers you toward her suite. 

Her room is big, too big for one person—high ceilings, big bed, bigger balcony. 

You immediately beeline toward the bed and faceplant, shoes still on. 

Agatha huffs again but doesn’t yell. Instead, you hear her moving around, setting things down. The zip of a mini-fridge opening. The thunk of a water bottle landing on the nightstand. The soft rustle of the blankets being pulled back. 

When she comes back to you, she crouches down beside the bed. 

"Sit up, darling," she murmurs, trying to coax you up like you’re a particularly stubborn cat. 

You roll over dramatically instead, sprawling your arms wide. "Nooo… bed nice…" 

Agatha laughs under her breath. "Yes, I'm aware. But you need water first." 

You peek one eye open, squinting at her. “Y'know... you're bossy.” 

“And you’re drunk,” she says, holding the water bottle out like a peace offering. “Come on.” 

Grumbling, you push yourself up. You grab the bottle and chug half of it, water dribbling down your chin. Agatha reaches over automatically with a napkin, dabbing at your mouth like you're a toddler. 

You blink at her. 

She's so close. 

So pretty. 

You forget to be scared for a second. 

"Hey..." you whisper, voice thick with sleepiness and whiskey and a little too much heart. 

Agatha raises a brow. "Hm?" 

You frown, trying to piece your words together carefully. "Yesterday... storage room... you were gonna say something. Remember? Before... before Billy barged in." 

You watch her face closely. 

A flicker crosses her expression. 

Something careful. Something cautious. 

She leans back on her heels, studying you like she's weighing options. 

"You’re drunk," she says eventually. 

You nod, very seriously. "Mhm. ‘S the perfect time for honesty." 

Agatha huffs out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. 

She rubs her hands together, looking away for a second—like she's trying to find the right words. 

"I was going to tell you..." she says slowly, voice quiet, "that I miss you." 

You stare at her. 

For a second, you forget how to breathe. 

"I was angry," Agatha continues, almost to herself now. "I am angry. But not just at you. At myself. At all the things I... let happen." 

You scoot closer without thinking, your knee bumping hers clumsily. 

“I miss you too...” you whisper. Your eyes sting suddenly, too full of stupid, drunk emotions. 

Her hand—God, her hand—almost reaches for you. Almost. But at the last second, she pulls back, fist curling tight in her lap instead. 

"You're scared," she says softly, reading you so easily it hurts. "Aren't you?" 

You bite your lip. Hard. 

Your lower lip wobbles before you can stop it. "Yeah," you croak. "I'm scared you... you won’t... let me fix this." 

Agatha closes her eyes. Just for a beat. 

Then, she leans in, resting her forehead against yours. 

It's so simple. So heartbreakingly simple. 

"I don’t know how to let you," she whispers. 

You sit there like that—foreheads pressed together, the world spinning slightly around you, everything too loud and too soft at once. 

You whimper a little, like a wounded thing. "I’m trying so hard..." 

"I know," she says, voice breaking just a little. 

Then—because you're drunk and dumb and brave—you grab her hand and squeeze it tight. 

"You're so pretty," you blurt out, tears slipping down your cheeks now. "You're so pretty and I hate you—" 

A choked laugh escapes you. "I hate that I love you." 

Agatha lets out a ragged breath, her mask slipping all the way off for one heart-wrenching second. 

She cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You ridiculous, stupid girl," she mutters, voice shaking, affectionate and pained all at once. 

You lean into her touch greedily. 

The door to her suite is still slightly ajar. 

The hallway outside is empty, but it wouldn't matter even if it weren’t. 

To the world, she still belongs to someone else. 

But here, right now, in this private little moment—you belong to each other. 

Even if neither of you knows what the hell to do with that. 

Agatha's hand lingers at your cheek for a second longer, then, with a sigh, she pulls away. 

"Alright, come on," she says, voice softer now, tugging at your arm gently. "Shoes off, in bed." 

You groan but let her guide you, flopping back dramatically on the mattress. 

Agatha crouches down at your feet, starting to untie your shoes. She's slow about it, careful, fingers brushing against your ankles. 

"You know," you mumble, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, "this is, like, domestic as hell." 

Agatha lets out a short laugh, the real kind. 

"You're a handful even when you're sober. Drunk, you're impossible." 

You grin sleepily. "Y'like it though." 

Her hands pause at your second shoe. 

Just for a second. 

Then she carefully slips it off without saying anything. 

She stands, brushing her palms against her jeans, like she's trying to shake something off. 

You push yourself up on your elbows, blinking at her. 

"Hey... Agatha?" 

"Hm?" 

You pat the mattress beside you. "Come here." 

She crosses her arms, giving you a very Governor Harkness look. "Absolutely not." 

"Pleeaaase," you whine, flopping back and reaching your arms out dramatically like a starfish. "It's a big bed. 'S cold. 'M lonely." 

Agatha pinches the bridge of her nose like she's fighting off a headache—or maybe a smile. 

"You are not lonely. You have a king-sized bed, air conditioning, and my undivided attention. You'll survive." 

You pout at her. 

She sighs again, long-suffering. 

But then—because she's her—she walks over to the side of the bed and sits down, perched right on the edge like she might bolt any second. 

You roll toward her instantly, hooking your arm around her waist clumsily. 

"God, you're clingy," she mutters, but she doesn't move away. 

Instead, she strokes your hair back off your forehead in slow, careful motions. 

So gentle it makes your throat ache. 

"You smell good," you mumble into her side. 

"You're drunk," she says, amusement coloring her voice. 

"Still true." 

You feel her smile against the top of your head. 

For a long moment, it’s quiet. 

Just her breathing and your breathing. The soft thrum of the AC. The pulse of something you don't dare name beating between you. 

And then, small and broken and a little bit scared, you whisper: 

"Don't leave me." 

You feel her whole body still under your arm. 

Agatha hesitates. You can feel it—the way she wrestles with herself, the way duty and fear and love all collide behind her ribs. 

Finally, she murmurs, voice rough: 

"I'm right here, darling." 

You sigh into her, relieved but still trembling a little. 

The sobering truth is — you know this is temporary. 

You know morning will come, and reality will come with it. 

But for now... 

For now, you let her hold you. 

For now, you let yourself believe it. 

Agatha keeps stroking your hair, whispering something you can't quite catch—maybe a spell, maybe just your name, over and over again like a prayer. 

You fall asleep that way—drunk, messy, hopelessly in love. 

And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel alone. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura @upsidedowndanvers @iiiheartwomen

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 22)

Synopsis: Two days in, and your body aches—but not as much as everything else you’ve been holding in.

Word count: 5.3K

Warnings: Angst, Mild language, Unresolved emotions, Lingering tension

You woke up to the sound of your phone buzzing on the nightstand, the glow of early sunlight barely slipping through the curtains of your small inn room. Groggy, you reached over with one arm and blinked at the screen. 

Wanda calling. 

You rubbed your eyes and answered with a tired, scratchy voice, “Hey…” 

“Where are you?” Wanda’s voice was clear, almost teasing, but you could tell there was something underneath it. “I’m at your apartment. And you’re not. I even brought your favorite coffee and a slice of that banana loaf from that café on 56th.” 

You sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’m in Washington.” 

There was a pause. “What?” Her voice now confused. “Why are you in Washington? Wait—how long have you been there?” 

You exhaled through your nose, quiet for a second. “A month.” 

“A month?” she repeated, surprised. 

“I needed to be here,” you said, your voice soft now, like you were explaining something to yourself as much as to her. “I needed to fix things with her. With Agatha.” 

You heard the way Wanda inhaled, that slow, silent kind of breath that only people who love you make when they’re trying to say I'm here without saying too much. 

“She finally saw me last week,” you added after a beat, barely above a whisper. “She said... okay.” 

Wanda didn’t speak for a second, then softly replied, “That’s something.” 

“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but coming from her, that meant everything,” you said, your fingers twisting the hem of the shirt you slept in. “I’ve been going to her office every day. I waited. I didn’t know if she’d even look at me again, Wand.” 

“And now?” Wanda asked gently. 

You smiled, small and tired. “Now I’m volunteering for a campaign she’s leading. In Lynden. I'm here... for three days.” 

There was a soft little laugh on the other end. “You... the CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in the world, doing field work for a farm fundraiser?” 

“You’d be surprised how humbling a ladder and a banner can be,” you muttered. 

Wanda laughed again, but quieter this time. “I’m proud of you, you know.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Thanks.” 

“And I hope she sees what she’s losing if she doesn’t fix things too,” she added. “But no pressure or anything. You just... do what feels right, okay?” 

“Yeah.” You looked out the window, the sky already warming with light. “I should go. They’re serving breakfast soon, and I’m starving.” 

Wanda sighed, “Fine. I’ll save this banana loaf for you. Unless Pietro eats it.” 

“Actually, I’m not sure when I’m coming home.” 

“Then I’m definitely eating it.” 

You smiled, the first real one of the morning. “Thanks for calling, Wand.” 

“Always.” 

You hung up, sat in silence for a second longer, then got up to start the day. 

You freshened up quickly—washed your face, tied your hair back in a loose ponytail, pulled on a clean shirt and jeans. You packed your small backpack with a water bottle, your campaign badge, and towel, then grabbed your jacket from the back of the door. 

The inn was small, tucked between a row of trees and a little bakery that smelled like heaven every morning. You had breakfast at the inn—a simple plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, warm and familiar. After eating, you stepped outside, the chill of morning brushing your cheeks. You walked to the community center where the campaign was held, just a ten-minute stroll down the path. Birds chirped overhead. The air smelled like fresh soil and cold dew. 

You didn’t know what today would bring. 

As you walked, you pulled out your phone, unlocking it with a swipe. 

It was a quiet sort of determination, the way your fingers moved without hesitation to your delivery app. You scrolled past the chains and found the little coffee shop that offered organic blends and specialty pours. It wasn’t the exact café Agatha used to frequent back in Olympia, but it had the same comforting tone, the same one she liked. 

Then you opened your favorite local flower shop’s site—you had already bookmarked the bouquet. Azaleas. Purple and white. You didn’t even think about it anymore. It was muscle memory. 

You paid extra for early morning delivery. You named both of the paid orders to Agatha Harkness, just to be sure they’d go straight to her. 

With a soft sigh, you tucked your phone back into your jacket pocket and kept walking. 

The campaign site was already buzzing when you arrived. Tables were being set up under the rising sun, foldable chairs dragged across the grass, banners half-raised and still flapping gently in the morning breeze. Volunteers were scattered around like worker bees, some already hauling supplies, some sipping coffee while reading over the day’s schedule pinned up on the side of a tent. 

You spotted a familiar figure before you even fully stepped into the clearing. 

Kate. 

She turned just in time to catch your approach and smirked as she gave you a playful nudge with her elbow. “Well, look who’s finally up,” she teased. “Did you sleep through the rooster crow, city girl?” 

You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t hear any rooster.” 

“Exactly,” she grinned, walking in step with you. “That’s how you know you’re not really in the countryside yet.” 

You shook your head, amused, falling into the rhythm of casual banter like it was second nature. You didn’t miss the way Kate glanced sideways at you when you smiled. She did that often—like she was trying to memorize the way your expression shifted. You didn’t think much of it. 

The two of you made it over to the main tent just in time for one of the coordinators to finish scribbling something on their clipboard. They looked up at your badges and gave a brief nod. 

“Hey, you two—could use you over by the truck that just pulled in,” they said, pointing toward a flatbed parked at the edge of the field. “It’s the one with the sacks of fertilizer. There’ll be a group of seven assigned there, including you. You’re unloading and stacking those over by the eastern plot.” 

Kate groaned, but it was lighthearted. “Manual labor this early? No coffee first?” 

The coordinator offered a dry smile. “The fertilizer won’t move itself.” 

You both headed toward the truck, where a few other volunteers—some of whom you recognized from yesterday—were already forming a loose group. You offered quiet hellos, head nods, polite smiles.  

As you neared the truck, you noticed Agatha. 

She was across the field, clipboard in hand again, her checkered flannel loose over her frame, sleeves rolled to the elbows like she meant business. Her hair fell freely around her shoulders, catching in the breeze as she spoke to someone, maybe a local official. For the briefest moment, her eyes flicked over in your direction. 

Just one glance. 

And then she looked away. 

Still, it left something in your chest taut and thrumming. 

“Guess we’re lifting fifty-pound bags of country goodness together,” Kate said next to you, snapping you out of it as she pulled on a pair of gloves and offered you another one of those crooked little smiles. “Think you can handle it?” 

You gave her a lopsided grin. “I’ve carried heavier things.” 

Kate laughed, her gaze lingering a second too long. “I’ll bet you have.” 

You didn’t answer that—not because you were shy, but because you weren’t paying attention anymore. You were already thinking about the woman on the other side of the field. 

The first sack of fertilizer was dropped into your arms by one of the other volunteers. You held on. 

You were here to hold on. 

Even if it meant hauling weight you didn’t quite know how to set down yet. 

 

You sank onto the nearest patch of grass the moment the last sack of fertilizer hit the ground. Your shirt clung to your skin with sweat, your hands were dusty and raw, and your back… well, you’d definitely feel it tomorrow. Kate flopped down beside you with a dramatic sigh, tossing off her gloves like she’d just survived a war. 

“Remind me why we volunteered again?” she groaned, wiping her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt. 

You gave her a tired smile, pulling your hair up into a loose bun to cool off. “To build community, save the planet, enrich local soil…?” 

Kate snorted. “Yeah. All noble things. Next time I’m volunteering for, like, the hydration booth.” 

You leaned back on your elbows, letting your head tilt toward the sky, eyes fluttering shut. The sun was too bright, too high. You could still feel it radiating from your skin, and the air tasted like dust and earth and faint citrus from the grove nearby. 

“Here,” Kate said suddenly, nudging a cold bottle of water into your hand. 

You opened your eyes, accepting it with a soft murmur of thanks. 

She smiled. “You looked like you were about to evaporate.” 

You laughed, low and genuine. “Honestly, I wouldn’t complain.” 

Kate leaned in a bit, her voice soft. “So… be honest. You didn’t expect this much heavy lifting, did you?” 

You gave her a sideways glance. “Let’s just say I didn’t pack my steel-toe boots.” 

She grinned, then, after a beat of silence, added, “Still, you made it look good.” 

You blinked. 

Then blinked again. 

You smiled politely, not quite catching the weight of her words, brushing a bit of dust off your jeans. “I probably look like a mess.” 

Kate tilted her head slightly. “Nah. Kind of a hot mess, if I’m being real.” 

You didn’t say anything to that—because you weren’t sure if she was joking or not. And because your eyes, again, had found their way across the field. Agatha was there, speaking to someone near one of the shaded tables, her expression unreadable, her stance easy, professional. 

Still, you could feel the gravity of her presence. 

You always could. 

Kate reached out and brushed a piece of hay from your shoulder, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. “You good?” 

You blinked again, snapping your attention back. “Yeah. Just... tired.” 

Kate smiled, but there was a question in her eyes she didn’t ask. “We’ve got like—what? One more day of this?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“Well,” she said, standing and offering you a hand, “guess you’re stuck with me.” 

You took her hand and let her pull you to your feet. But your gaze drifted back—again. 

Still not looking. 

Lunch came like a much-needed pause. You didn’t even care what was being served—as long as it wasn’t another damn sack to lift. 

The sun had fully claimed the sky by now, golden and hot against your skin as you wiped the sweat from your neck and made your way toward the tables lined with wrapped burritos, paper plates, tubs of fruit, and a cooler stacked with cold bottled water. A small crowd had already formed around it, buzzing with laughter and grateful sighs. 

Then you heard the voice—microphone, slightly distorted. 

“Before you all dig in, let me just say how proud I am of the people standing here today,” said a smooth, overly confident voice. “I know it’s hot, I know it’s hard work—but this? This is what community looks like.” 

You looked up to see a man standing next to Agatha at the front. Clean white button-down tucked into fitted slacks. Designer sunglasses perched on his head. A wide grin stretched across a tanned, handsome face. And that goatee. You’d know that anchor-shaped beard anywhere. 

Mayor Tony Stark. 

“And of course,” he added, turning to Agatha with a smirk that made your stomach twist, “let’s give our thanks to Governor Harkness—for organizing this entire campaign. A woman with vision, conviction, and just enough sass to keep us all in line.” 

Polite chuckles rose from the crowd. You didn’t join in. 

He turned back to the volunteers. “I brought lunch. So eat up, hydrate, and keep doing what you’re doing. You’re making a difference.” 

Because you were too busy watching him lean just slightly closer to Agatha. 

Everyone clapped. 

You didn’t. 

And worse—she didn’t step back. She gave him that polite, diplomatic smile. The one she used when she wanted people to think she was charmed, even if she wasn't. 

You squinted. You could barely hear them over the noise, but there was something in the way Stark spoke—too casual, too smooth. And Agatha’s laugh—brief, tight-lipped—only made your jaw clench harder. 

You looked away, grabbed a burrito and a cold water bottle from the table, and turned… 

…right toward them. 

They were standing only a few feet away now, still locked in that polite, nauseating exchange of charm. Agatha's arms crossed, clipboard tucked at her side. Stark gesturing animatedly, probably making some half-witted joke. 

And “accidentally” bumped Stark’s shoulder just enough to tilt the water bottle in your hand. 

And then— 

You walked past. 

The icy water spilled in a clear splash across the front of his perfectly pressed blazer. 

“Oh shit,” you said, voice flat but loud enough. “I am so sorry.” 

He jumped a little, looking down at his now-wet chest. “Ah—whoa, that’s refreshing,” he said, trying to play it cool. But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

You leaned forward slightly with a napkin from your pocket, dabbing uselessly at the fabric. “I didn’t see you there,” you said sweetly. “Maybe next time try not to stand right where the drinks are, yeah?” 

His jaw tightened. “Of course,” he said through a polite smile. “Accidents happen.” 

You glanced sideways—Agatha was barely holding it together. Her lips were twitching with the effort of not laughing. Her eyes briefly met yours, glittering with something between mischief and you’re insufferable. 

And for one brief, traitorous second, it felt like it used to. That private joke kind of love. The kind where no one else would ever really get the punchline but her. 

You turned back to Stark, stepping back now, letting your expression drop into something a little more satisfied. “Hope it dries fast. Looks expensive.” 

“It is,” he said, finally letting a note of irritation slip into his voice. 

You smiled. “Well. Lunch is on you, after all.” 

And with that, you turned and walked away, burrito in hand, water bottle half-empty. 

Behind you, you swore you could still hear Agatha laughing quietly under her breath. Not loud enough for anyone to notice. 

But you did.  

“You always that clumsy?” Kate’s voice popped up at your side, tone light and teasing as you walked away from the scene of the spill with your burrito in hand. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?” 

She laughed, bumping your arm playfully. “Whole front row saw it. That poor man didn’t know what hit him.” 

You bit back a grin. “Just water.” 

“Just conveniently ice-cold water. On a very tailored blazer.” Kate tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “You sure that wasn’t… personal?” 

You shrugged. “If it was, you think I’d admit it?” 

Kate laughed again, the kind that came easy to her. “Fair enough.” 

The two of you stepped off to the side, leaning against a shady patch by one of the tents as volunteers continued to gather their lunch. The heat of the day was still stubborn, but the food helped, and the water—well, what was left of yours—offered a small reprieve. 

“So…” Kate squinted at you curiously. “How old are you, anyway? I’ve been trying to guess since yesterday, and it’s messing with me. You don’t look like most of the other volunteers, but also you look way too good to be—” She cut herself off. “Okay, I’ll stop.” 

You chuckled, taking a bite of your burrito. “I’m in my 40s.” 

Kate blinked. “No. Shut up.” 

You gave her a sideways glance. “Dead serious.” 

She looked genuinely scandalized. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Jesus,” she muttered, almost in awe. “I thought you were like, thirty. Thirty-two at most.” 

You chewed, swallowed, then smirked. “Good genes, I guess.” 

Kate gave you a look—half impressed, half intrigued. “Do you have… like, a husband? Family?” 

That made you laugh. Like, an actual laugh. “God, no. I’m a lesbian.” 

“Ohhh,” she said, as if that suddenly explained everything. “Okay. That makes sense.” 

You gave her a mock-offended look. “What the hell does that mean?” 

Kate raised both hands innocently. “Nothing bad! Just—you have that energy. Cool, untouchable, maybe emotionally unavailable—wait, I swear I meant that as a compliment.” 

You shook your head, chuckling again. “Still single. No family. Just me, my company, and now... this whole field of fertilizer and political baggage.” 

She let out a low whistle. “Damn. In your 40s, working hard, looking like that? No wife, no kids?” She leaned a little closer, her tone dipping suggestively. “Someone’s missing out.” 

You nodded absently, eyes locked across the space where Agatha still stood talking with Mayor Stark. “Mmm.” 

Kate kept talking—saying something about how she couldn’t believe you were volunteering here and not like, running for office or modeling or something—but none of it was really sinking in. Your gaze stayed fixed across the food tables, where Agatha was still smiling politely at Stark. 

Quick, almost imperceptible. Agatha’s head tilted ever so slightly. Her eyes, sharp and storm-colored, flicked your way. But not at you. 

And then— 

A glance. 

Agatha’s jaw didn’t clench, but her hand did move a little tighter over the folder she was holding. 

At Kate. 

Standing close. 

Leaning in. 

Smiling. 

And just as quickly as her eyes had landed, they slipped away again. She said something to the mayor, voice low, professional. Her smile was practiced. But you knew her. You knew the way her eyes narrowed when she was annoyed. The way she didn’t blink when she was suppressing something. The way her lips stayed parted just a fraction longer when she was pretending she didn’t care. 

Kate was still talking. Her voice somewhere beside you. Her fingers maybe brushing your sleeve. You nodded when it felt right, gave a small hum of agreement, but your mind was far—on that stolen glance, on Agatha’s gaze, on the way you suddenly didn’t feel so invisible anymore. 

Maybe she was pissed. 

Maybe she was jealous. 

Maybe… just maybe… the wall she built was showing a crack. 

After lunch, the mayor finally took his leave—thankfully without another spill. You watched as his obnoxiously shiny car rolled out of the makeshift lot, a puff of dust trailing behind like the arrogance he left in the air. 

Back to work. 

One of the coordinators called out your name just as you were about to sit back down. “Hey! Could you go grab some planting kits and gloves from the storage room out back? We need them by the workshop.” 

“Sure,” you replied, already turning. 

“I’ll go with—” Kate offered quickly, stepping beside you. 

But before she could finish, another coordinator interrupted, calling her name and waving her over. “Actually, Kate? I need you on seed sorting. Sorry!” 

You threw her a lopsided smile. “Guess I’m flying solo.” 

“Damn,” Kate said, giving you a wink. “Next time.” 

You walked the dirt path alone, winding behind the main tent area. The air was heavy, the sun still strong despite the passing clouds. Strangely, it was quiet here. No chattering volunteers. No hammering. Just the crunch of your boots on the dry ground. When you reached the storage room, the door was already slightly ajar. 

You pushed it open and stepped inside. 

And there she was. 

Agatha. 

Bent over a box, clipboard in one hand, the other moving a few items to the side. Her head turned when she heard the door creak. 

“Agatha?” 

She looked at you like she wasn’t expecting anyone. “What are you doing here?” 

“One of the coordinators sent me. I’m supposed to grab supplies for the planting workshop.” 

You took a few steps in, letting the door swing closed behind you with a gentle click. 

But— 

“Don’t!” Agatha said sharply, eyes snapping to the door. 

You froze. “What?” 

She sighed, already reaching for the bridge of her nose. “The doorknob. It’s broken. It only opens from the outside.” 

You blinked, turning slowly. “You’re joking.” 

“I wish I was.” 

You strode to the door, tried the knob. Yanked it harder. Nothing. You jiggled it, twisted, even pushed against the wood with your shoulder. 

“I told you,” Agatha muttered, setting the clipboard down on a crate. “It’s been like that since yesterday. We were supposed to get it fixed.” 

You looked back. “Do you have your phone?” 

She gave a pointed look. “Do you see me holding one?” 

“Shit,” you muttered. “Mine’s in my bag.” 

“Well. I guess we’re both stuck here.” 

The silence came quickly. Loud, tense, awful. The air inside the storage room felt tighter than the air outside. You looked around—old sacks of soil, bins of gloves, boxes labeled seedling trays. No windows. Just one damn door. 

You slid down the wall into the far corner. Agatha remained standing for a moment, then quietly sat down too, but at the opposite end of the room. Still, you could feel her there. Like a heat that never faded. 

A full minute passed. Maybe more. 

“What were you even doing in here?” you asked finally, your voice softer than you intended. 

She didn’t look at you when she replied. “Checking supplies. Wanted to make sure we had enough for tomorrow.” 

Another nod. Another long silence. 

You hated it. 

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. 

Agatha didn’t lift her head. “It’s fine. You didn’t know the door was—” 

“No,” you interrupted. “I’m not talking about that.” 

That’s when her gaze finally met yours. 

There was something in her eyes. Faint. Barely readable. But it wasn’t nothing. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you,” you said. “Back then. When you tried to reach out.” 

Agatha’s expression shifted, but she didn’t say anything. You continued, voice cracking despite your efforts to keep it steady. 

“I left without saying anything. I didn’t ask. I didn’t even try. I thought I knew what I heard—what I saw—but I didn’t. I just… I let it ruin everything.” 

You looked down at your hands, your voice smaller now. 

“I’ve been trying. Really trying, to fix it. To fix us. Because I still love you. I have for a long time. That never changed.” 

Your eyes stung, but you refused to let the tears fall. Not yet. Not here. 

Agatha was quiet. So quiet it made you ache. 

She turned her head away slightly, and for a second you thought that was it. Another silence. Another wall. 

But then she spoke. Low. Almost like she was trying to stop herself from saying anything at all. 

“They love it.” 

You blinked, confused. “What?” 

“The bunny,” she said. “The one you gave me. From that water race at the Pacific Park.” 

She smiled a little, but it was sad around the edges. 

“You kept losing, over and over. But you kept going like your life depended on it.” She glanced at you, softer now. “And when you finally won, you looked like you just hit the lottery.” 

You felt your chest tighten. 

“You gave it to me without blinking. Said something like—‘I’m not really into stuffed toys. I just liked the idea of winning. You can take it home with you. Maybe give it to your kids after the trip.’” 

You nodded slowly, the memory hitting like a wave. 

Agatha looked down at her hands. “They sleep with it. Every night.” 

Something in your throat twisted. “I didn’t know you… kept it.” 

“I kept everything,” she said quietly. “Even the ugly necklace you made me out of beads back in college.” 

You both let out the smallest, broken laughs. 

The silence that followed was different now. Heavier. But warmer too. Like you were both waiting for the same thing. Holding your breath in the same moment. 

That after everything—after silence, and jealousy, and grief, and years of pretending you didn’t care—you were finally sitting in the same space, on the same page. 

She didn’t move closer. And neither did you. 

But maybe that wasn’t the point. 

Maybe the point was just... this. 

And neither of you were running. 

The silence settled again, gentler this time. Like a third presence in the room, breathing with you both. 

You were sitting with your knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. Agatha was still on the opposite end, one leg bent, her elbow resting casually on it—but her body had turned, ever so slightly, in your direction. 

You didn’t speak. You didn’t want to break whatever was threading between you now. 

Then you heard her inhale. 

Soft. 

Intentional. 

“Y/N,” she said, your name curling from her lips like it meant something more than just your name. 

You looked at her immediately. “Yeah?” 

Agatha’s eyes flicked to yours. 

She hesitated. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Her hand shifted like she was about to reach for something—or maybe stop herself from doing exactly that. 

Your heart thudded in your chest, painful and full. 

She blinked slowly. “I—” 

Click. 

“Oh—there you are!” 

Billy stood at the threshold, blinking between the two of you with a clipboard tucked against his chest and a slightly breathless energy. “They said you might be in here. I’ve been looking everywhere.” 

Agatha blinked. The moment dissolved between her lashes. 

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat. She stood quickly, brushing the dust off her pants. “Thanks, Billy.” 

Billy stepped back instinctively to let her through, but he paused and looked at you too, giving a polite nod before turning back to Agatha. “We’re starting the press visit walk-through in fifteen.” 

“I’ll be there,” Agatha said, already halfway out the door. 

But before she disappeared completely, she glanced back at you once—quick, unreadable. 

And then she was gone. 

You exhaled. 

Hard. 

The door stood open now, letting in the air and the light, but somehow the room felt emptier than before. 

You sat there for another beat before finally standing, grabbing the supplies for the planting workshop you'd forgotten all about. 

The afternoon heat clung to your skin as you crouched by the garden beds, pressing your fingers into the soil. You were helping one of the local experts lead the planting workshop now—something about the community reclaiming unused land, sustainability, all that. You were listening. Kind of. Mostly. 

Your mind, stubborn and restless, kept circling back to that moment. 

Y/N. 

The way she said it. 

The way she looked at you right before the door opened. 

What was she about to say? 

Why did it feel like it could’ve changed everything? 

You tried to shake the thought, digging your fingers deeper into the dirt like it could ground you, anchor you back into the now. 

But it didn’t help. 

Because even with the warm breeze brushing past, even with the kids running around, even with the sound of laughter nearby—it was still her. 

It was still Agatha in your head. Still her eyes. Her voice. 

You cursed softly under your breath and wiped your brow, only to look up and find Kate plopping herself down beside you, smirking like she’d been watching you unravel the whole time. 

"You're looking real intense over here," she teased, nudging your knee with hers. "That tomato plant better be worth the drama." 

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts, and gave a half-laugh. “Sorry. Just tired.” 

“Yeah?” Kate leaned back on her palms, her shirt slightly dirty from the soil, her cheeks flushed from the sun. “You’ve been going hard since morning. I’m kinda in awe. Didn’t think the mysterious gorgeous woman from out of town would be the type to get down in the dirt.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Not that mysterious.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know.” She grinned. “Still kinda hot when you’re all serious like that.” 

You gave a little hum, polite but distant. Not cold, just… distracted. Always distracted these days. 

Kate wasn’t dumb. She noticed, but she didn’t push it. 

Instead, she plucked a small sprout from the tray beside you and planted it into the soil, her fingers brushing yours for half a second. "You ever think about staying here?" she asked casually. "Not forever, but like… a while?" 

You didn’t answer right away. 

You looked across the field instead—across the crowd, across the space. And there she was. 

Agatha. 

Standing near the sign-in tent again, talking to some of the organizers. Her hands moved as she spoke, her brows raised in something mildly amused. But then, her eyes flickered up at you for a second.  

Then gone again. 

That same look from earlier. 

That same something. 

You swallowed. “Not really,” you said eventually, softly. “I don’t know yet.” 

Kate didn’t say anything, but she nodded slowly, a hint of something like understanding flickering across her face. 

You both turned back to the soil. 

You kept planting. 

But your hands weren’t steady anymore. 

The sun had dipped lower now, casting a softer amber hue over the fields and tents. You had just finished wiping the last bit of dirt off your palms with a damp rag when Billy’s voice blared through the microphone. 

“Alright, everyone!” He stood on a foldable chair near the center tent, waving his arm above his head like a conductor. “Can I get your attention real quick?” 

The chatter died down. People turned. Even the kids paused, mid-run. 

Billy cleared his throat, flashing that ever-so-slightly over-caffeinated smile. “Just a few reminders before we call it a day.” 

You leaned against the nearby table, muscles sore from crouching and lifting all day, and tried your best to stay upright. Your body was tired, but your mind wasn’t. It was still replaying that look on Agatha’s face. Still stuck on the almost. 

Billy went on, “Tomorrow is the last day of the campaign, folks! And it’s gonna be our biggest yet. So I need everyone on their A-game.” 

A couple of tired groans followed, but mostly there was nodding. People were proud. And nervous. 

“We’ll be having visits from several local businesses, some political reps, and yes—Mayor Tony Stark will be joining us again,” he added, and you could literally feel your jaw clench at the name. “He’ll be staying the entire day.” 

Your eyes flicked toward the tent where Agatha had been moments ago. She wasn’t there now. 

Billy adjusted his posture. “Governor Harkness will be giving a speech at 10AM sharp—so please, please, no disappearing acts, okay? We want the crowd ready and loud by then. This is our big push, everyone.” 

You folded your arms, letting the information sink in. 

“She’ll be explaining why these donations matter,” Billy added, more serious now. “How much this project means for this town. For the families. The environment. And I don’t need to tell you guys how hard she’s worked for this.” 

You saw a few heads turn toward each other, nodding in respect. Whatever else could be said about her—Governor Harkness was a force. Tireless. Composed. Charismatic. 

And tomorrow, she’d be all of that in front of cameras and suits and crowds. 

You wondered how she was holding up under all that pressure. You wondered if she was still thinking about the storage room too. 

“And like I said,” Billy continued, “Mayor Stark will have a short speech too. Probably charming, probably unnecessary, but hey—he did bring burritos.” Some laughter followed. Not from you. 

“And most importantly…” Billy raised a fist, voice rising. “We’ve got one day left to reach our donation goal. One day to show everyone what we’ve built together. $100,000 before we close up tomorrow. Can we do it?” 

A few volunteers whooped. Others clapped. You gave a small, tired smile. 

You weren’t sure about anything right now. 

But one thing you knew? 

Tomorrow was going to be chaos. 

[harknessxo]

The psychology of love (Part 15)

The Reward II

Word count: 6.8k

Warnings: oral sex, fingering, mommy kink, praise kink, oral fixation

A/N: nothing like writing 70k words before they finally fuck 😅 hope it was worth the wait 😉

Agatha leads you out of the ocean with her jaw set in determination. You can’t stop the heat from pulsing inside you and you barely even register that the bottom half of your body and your dress are wet—all you can think about is getting back to her condo right now. 

Without stopping, she bends down to scoop up her heels that are resting in the sand that she kicked off as she followed you into the water. You look over your shoulder at her footsteps in the sand next to yours. 

A temporary tattoo on this beach that you both were here, together. They’ll be gone by the morning, ruined by the wind or whoever else happens to wander here. 

But you’ll know. 

Agatha’s grip tightens on your wrist and pauses for just enough time for you to slip your sandals on when you get back to the boardwalk. Her heavy breathing, mixed with yours, can be heard over the waves rolling onto shore and it sounds like pure desire. 

And then her hand moves down and takes yours—her fingers slot between your own and it’s a perfect fit. It’s still urgent but there’s something tender about it and you squeeze her hand. 

She glances at you and squeezes back. 

You have to jog a little to keep up with her because of how fast she’s moving and it makes the throbbing inside your core worse because you can see just how bad she wants this too. 

It’s only a few minutes later when you arrive in the parking lot of the condo and Agatha quickly puts her heels on before strutting across the road to the elevator. She presses the button, and then again, and then again, growing more frustrated each time, when the doors don’t open. 

She looks at you, takes in your messy hair, dark eyes, and swollen lips, and mutters, “Fuck it.” 

Agatha whirls around and pushes open the door to the stairs and beckons for you to follow her. 

You make it to the second-floor landing before she stops and pushes you against the wall, her lips on yours with a bruising force that makes you moan hotly. She makes a sound too, one of her hands sliding from your upper thigh to your hip, and you wouldn’t mind too much if she fucked you right here.

But her tongue only dances with yours for a second before she pulls away and straightens up. “Let’s go,” she orders, like you’re the one who got sidetracked. 

Once out of the stairwell, her heels click loudly on the walkway down to her condo and she slides the key into the lock with practiced ease. 

And then she pushes open the door and it hits you. 

You’re about to have sex with your professor. 

The condo is dark and Agatha flips on the light switch before kicking off her heels and making her way into the living room. You take your time coming in and closing the door behind you, flicking off your sandals, and then dragging your hand against the wall as you follow her path. 

She’s leaning against the island when you turn to the left, elbows perched on the counter, and she’s regarding you with a sort of curiosity. There’s puddles on the ground from Agatha’s wet pants and the water that’s dripping from you, and the room smells vaguely salty. 

Will you also now be conditioned to the ocean? 

That’s the thought that spurs you on—that your attraction, your connection, to Agatha is so powerful that just a little association between her and something is enough to condition you. 

You walk toward her slowly and she reaches out an arm to touch your shoulder before sliding it around your back and down to pull you to her. You go willingly and she kisses you again, this time softer and not rushed. Now that you’re back here, you can take all the time in the world. 

Her tongue stokes the fire in your stomach and you press harder against her, hold her against the island, until she switches places with you and then the hard edge is digging into your back, but you really don’t care. 

She nips at your lip and then trails her mouth down to your chin and then down your neck, lightly scraping her teeth against your skin and soothing the sting with her tongue. Another thrill spikes in you at the thought of being covered in her marks. 

“You better cover these up, honey,” Agatha says, her voice thick, apparently thinking the same thing. 

“Or what?” you retort, but it’s lacking your usual brattiness. “Going to spank me again?”

Agatha growls at the memory, intertwines her fingers in your hair, and yanks your head to the side so she can sink her teeth into the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You gasp, heat flaring inside you, and your right hand grabs onto her waist.

Her lips connect with yours again, hungry and possessive and messy, like she’s marking her territory—it’s unnecessary because you know that you belong to her. 

Maybe you always have. 

“Bedroom,” she gasps against your mouth and it’s exhilarating to have Agatha Harkness losing control like this. 

She walks backwards, pulling you with her, and never letting her mouth leave yours. Before you can stop her, she accidentally bumps into the wall and you both chuckle. 

Agatha breaks away to turn on the lights in her room and you feel the air come alive with an energy—this is it. 

And god, you need her. 

She turns back to you, her hands on your waist and yours on her biceps, while her fingers bunch up the fabric of your wet dress, bringing it higher up on your thighs. “Can I?” she whispers. 

“Yes,” you say. Yes to everything. 

You help her pull it over your head and then she gets her first look at you in the purple lingerie, the underwear slightly damp from the ocean, but mostly from you. She lets out a quiet groan and reaches out to touch you gingerly like you might disappear if she moves too quickly. 

Her fingers touch your bare stomach and you gasp and she just explores your skin for a bit, making you tremble with need. She sees it and slides her hands to your lower back to pull you to her again, her mouth finding yours in the middle. 

Your hands slip between your bodies and fumble with her belt but she quickly pulls back and tuts. “Not yet, honey,” she says and you give her a pleading look. Her tongue presses against the back of her top two teeth while she drinks you in. “Get on the bed.” 

A flash of heat tears through you and you step backwards until your ass perches on top of the mattress. Agatha nods her head and you scooch until you’re fully on the bed, back against the pillows, legs spread and bent up, just waiting. 

Her eyes glint as she stalks toward you. Both of her sleeves have fallen down her arm now and you eagerly take in the sight of her pale skin in the light of the room. She unbuckles her belt and slides it out, the movement making the same sound from yesterday, only this time, you get to watch. 

The belt is thrown on the floor and then she unzips her still damp pants and slowly glides them down her legs. Her bare skin is revealed to you and you’re finding it hard to catch your breath. She stands straight up, kicking her pants off her feet, revealing her lacy gray panties to you. 

But she doesn’t take them off just yet. 

She climbs onto the bed, moves closer to you on her knees, and her fingers splay on the inside of your left thigh. 

“Please,” you whisper, meeting her eyes, biting your lip. Maybe this time, after all the begging you’ve done, you’ll finally get what you’ve been asking for. 

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” Agatha husks, her dark eyes scanning your face. You nod frantically, biting your lip, and something comes over Agatha. She reaches up to tug your bottom lip free with the hand that was on your leg with a quiet noise and then leans in to whisper into your ear, “Are you going to be a good girl for mommy?” 

A moan slips out of your mouth without you meaning to, and something clicks in your brain—a missing puzzle piece finally snaps into place. 

This. 

This is what you’ve been needing your whole life. 

“Yes…mommy,” you rasp, your own voice unrecognizable to your ears with how far gone you sound.

She pulls back and there’s a dark heat on her face that you’ve never seen before. “God—you’re so fucking hot,” she murmurs and then kisses you like she’s starving, like she’s trying to devour you whole. 

You don’t even notice what she’s doing until you feel her leg over yours, she straddles your thigh, and then shifts again, so your legs are spread even wider with her in the middle of them. Her tongue glides against yours, hot and still tasting like wine and the beach. 

But all your focus is pulled away from her mouth when she cups your cunt over your underwear again. You break the kiss with a groan and your head drops back against the headboard.

“Fuck, hon,” she breathes in awe, moving her fingers up and down your clothed slit. “You’re soaked. You’re so fucking desperate for me.” 

It’s like she can’t ever say it enough, like she needs to keep repeating it to herself so she never forgets, rather than to tease you. 

“I am. Please…” you gasp in a ragged voice and she prompts you with a nod, “please, mommy.” 

Agatha smiles, pleased that you know exactly what to say now, and rewards you by sliding your underwear down your legs. You have to lift your ass and move a little to help her, but then you’re completely naked except for your bra. 

Her eyes greedily but slowly move up your bare legs, up your thighs, up until they reach your cunt. Agatha lets out a sharp exhale and you can only imagine how much of a mess you are. 

Her hands land on the skin just above both knees and then her fingertips skate up and she gets closer to you. It’s hard to breathe and it seems like Agatha’s eyes are getting darker and her fingers are moving up, up, up…

Until she cups your cunt with her left hand, for real this time. 

Your eyes flutter shut for a split second. The sensation of her cool fingers against your hot, swollen pussy is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You let out a ragged breath and Agatha huffs out a laugh, carefully watching your face. 

She slides her middle finger through your folds, parting them, and her eyes flash. “You’re so wet,” she coos and her chest stutters when you bite your lip innocently. “Is this all because of me?” 

Another gasp tears itself out of your throat, one that came from somewhere deep under your ribs. “Yes,” you choke out and then because she raises an eyebrow, you add, “It’s all for you, mommy.” She makes a sound too and ducks her head, her hair falling and framing her face. 

Her finger keeps moving up and down and you can hear the slick sound of your wetness. It makes your cheeks heat up, but the look on Agatha’s face tells you that she’s enjoying it all too much. 

You buck your hips, trying to get her to touch your clit, because she’s expertly avoiding it. When her finger slides up, she circles around your clit but never touches it before moving down and repeating. You know it won’t take you very long to come at all, with how worked up you’ve been for the last hour. 

Really, for the last three weeks. 

And then she sinks her middle finger into your cunt and smirks when your mouth drops open in a silent moan. Your breath catches and your head falls back again, your mind going blank. 

“Mommy,” you whimper, meeting her eyes pathetically. 

“I know, baby,” she hushes softly and begins to move slowly in and out of your cunt, the sounds filling the room. “Just be a good girl and let mommy take care of you, okay?” 

You nod, your teeth finding your bottom lip again, and she groans quietly before curling her finger roughly inside you and hitting that spot inside you. You let out a muffled moan and she chuckles. 

Her thumb finally rubs against your clit and sparks shoot throughout your entire body, your back arching off the bed, an obscene noise ripping from your throat. 

Agatha fits a second finger in and you gasp at the stretch; the pleasant burn and the feeling of being almost full has your core clenching around her. She watches you, enraptured with the way your face changes, as she begins to slowly fuck her fingers in and out of your cunt. 

She’s so deep inside you and each curl of her fingers forces a groan from your lips. The tension is already building up inside you, the sound of the waves outside her room a physical manifestation of the pleasure rolling and crashing inside you. 

“You’re such a good girl for me,” she croons, rubbing your clit faster. Your hips jerk up involuntarily, riding her hand, while your eyes roll back in your head. “You’re so fucking needy for mommy, aren’t you?” 

You groan affirmatively and she chuckles, but you can hear the strain in her voice. She’s getting off to this too. 

There’s too much stimulation—her two fingers inside you, her thumb circling your clit expertly, the ocean outside, Agatha’s perfume. It’s an overload of your senses and you’re getting to the peak; she’s pushing you to the peak, and you don’t know how much more you can take. 

“Mommy,” you croak out, opening your eyes to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, the muscles in her left shoulder are flexing and extending, her neck is taut. Her face is close to yours, her right arm straight out and holding her weight, while her left moves between your legs. “I’m so close—” 

Agatha shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “Not yet, honey.” 

And then she pauses her rhythm, feeling your walls convulsing around her, and squeezes a third finger into your cunt. This time, when she curls them, your eyes prick with tears because of how intense the pressure and pleasure is. 

She resumes at a fast pace, thrusting into you hard, and your entire body is reacting, a feverish sweat starting to bead on your skin, a cloud of haze settling over your brain. Your pussy is aching, so close to the edge, but you don’t have her permission. 

Yet. 

Agatha sees it on your face, your desperate and blatant pleading, but she just chuckles darkly and presses hard on your clit. “You can wait just a bit longer, can’t you, hon?” 

You shake your head frantically and she smirks before tossing her hair behind her shoulder with a flick of her head. 

“I know you can, baby. Be a good girl for mommy,” she purrs and you squeeze your eyes shut in order to stave off your rapidly building orgasm. Your walls are clenching furiously around her, liquid heat is coursing through your veins, and you wonder what will happen if you come before she says you can. 

Your ass tingles with the reminder of what one of her punishments looks like. 

She twists her fingers roughly and swipes at your clit and your fingers grip the bed sheets. There’s a heavy panting noise and you realize that it’s coming from you. 

“Open your eyes,” Agatha says gently and you do, right as she scissors her fingers, and you feel a gush of wetness seeping out of you. “Beg for it.” 

“Please, mommy, please,” you whine without a moment of hesitation. She has you entirely at her mercy right now and she knows. “I need to come—please, can I come?”

A slow smile spreads across her face and her next thrust into you steals the air from your lungs. “Since you asked so nicely,” she sighs and your heart beats in your cunt, “come for mommy, baby girl.” 

The waves crash outside and Agatha circles your clit fast while never slowing down her pace and the tension grows even more, tightening and twisting and spreading through your entire body and then—

It snaps. 

“Fuck,” you moan as your orgasm washes over you, relief flooding through your veins, and your walls spasm around her three fingers while more of your wetness soaks the duvet beneath you. 

She keeps fucking you through it and a tear slips out of your right eye and trails down your face because of the intensity of feeling inside you. 

“I know, honey,” Agatha soothes when you babble something incoherently. Her fingers gradually and eventually slow down to a full stop inside you, giving you a chance to breathe. 

Your body stops tingling after a moment and she finally pulls out of you, making you wince at the sudden emptiness in your cunt. 

She wipes her sticky fingers on your thigh and your stomach twists at the feeling of how wet you got her. 

And then, just like she did in her office yesterday, she holds her fingers up to your lips. But you’re not tasting her this time—you’re tasting yourself. 

You take her fingers into your mouth, tongue swirling around them while you bob your head up and down, never breaking eye contact. There’s a hint of salt but you mostly just taste hot. 

Agatha’s eyes grow even darker watching you suck on her fingers and you lose yourself in the moment, even letting out a small moan. 

“You have quite the oral fixation, don’t you, honey?” she teases and you freeze. She pulls her fingers out with a wet pop and then smears your saliva all over your cheeks. It’s humiliating, but it sends a thrill shooting through your veins. 

“I—I don’t—” you stutter, heat tinging your cheeks. 

Agatha smirks and leans in to kiss you with an open-mouth, sweeping her tongue against yours and moaning at the taste of you before pulling back. “Really? Biting on your nails and your lip and your pen cap? Sucking on my fingers like that?” 

You duck your head down while she chuckles. You’ve never thought about it before, but she might be onto something. 

The memory of the first time you met her flits across your mind. You had been chewing on your nail and she had asked if it was a nervous habit, but she had a knowing smile—had she known even back then? 

“Oh, don’t worry, honey. Mommy doesn’t mind. In fact,” she says, a dark glint on her face, “I can’t wait to put it to good use. But you know what Freud would say about that?” 

"You're the one who said it first," you snort and Agatha grins. “Is it weird that I find you talking about psychology after fucking me hot?” you ask and her smile becomes wolfish. 

She leans in to kiss you and then dips her head to nip at your pulse point. “Good,” she hums lowly. “Maybe I’ll condition you like that, too. So whenever I’m teaching in class, you’ll be sitting there, absolutely soaked for me.” She presses an open-mouthed kiss to the column of your throat and you shiver. 

“You don’t have to do anything for that to happen,” you whisper and your honesty is rewarded by her teeth pulling your bra strap away from your skin and then letting it go with a snap. The sting makes your breath catch and Agatha moves lower. 

She mouths at your nipple over your bra and you moan—and then her hands slide up your shoulders and glide your bra straps down. You move your arms out of them and then reach behind yourself without breaking eye contact to unclasp your bra. 

It falls forward and Agatha tosses it over her shoulder before letting out a low groan, drinking in the full sight of you. 

Her lips find your neck again as she shifts over you. You slide further down so you can prop herself on top of you and she scrapes her teeth against your collarbone before sucking bites into the upper part of your chest. 

Quiet, strangled noises fall from your mouth until she encloses her lips over your nipple and your back arches off the bed with a loud keen and she chuckles against your skin, the vibrations travelling deep inside you. 

She flicks her tongue against the bud and then tugs on it gently with her teeth and it connects straight to your cunt. Your clit starts to throb again. 

“Please, Agatha,” you moan softly and feel her smirk against your breast. She moves down your body, pressing kisses and nipping at the skin of your stomach, all the way down until she’s between your legs. 

Her hot breath on your core makes you shiver with anticipation. You pick your head up to watch her drag her tongue against the inside of your thigh, a trail of goosebumps following. 

She repeats it on the other side before biting and sucking on the skin and you clench around nothing because you know you’ll have marks from her everywhere. 

“Do you need mommy?” she asks innocently, blowing on your cunt. You tremble and she smiles sweetly, pushing her hands under your thighs and lifting up so your legs bend. 

“Yes,” you gasp. 

Agatha ghosts her tongue over your slit, and it’s only enough to barely feel her. You let out a whimper. 

And then she spits. 

A dollop of saliva drips from her mouth onto your clit, warm and wet, and then it slides down through your cunt lips. You feel every second of it, agonizing and slow but so hot in the best way. It leaves you gasping and your hips jerk up.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” Agatha orders, low and dangerous, and the new pet name makes you melt.

She rests her cheek against your inner thigh, watching you expectantly, and you swallow roughly. “Please, Agatha—mommy, I need your mouth, please let me come again,” you beg, putting as much desperation into the plea as you can.

It works.

Agatha drags her flattened tongue through your folds, smooth and hot and wet, and you loudly groan. She teases your clit with the tip of her tongue and your hips buck up. 

It’s slow at first, languid strokes up your cunt with a flick against your clit, but when you let out a breathy “Mommy, please,” she slides her hands under your ass and hauls you closer to her. 

And then she devours you. 

Her tongue is shoved inside you and curled up to touch the spongy spot while her nose bumps your clit. You feel her teeth in the mix and then she sucks on your clit roughly and you moan obscenely. 

Her nails dig into the backs of your thighs and one of your hands buries into her hair to hold her exactly where she is because you’ve never felt anything close to this. 

Agatha makes little noises into your cunt too as she eats you out and knowing that she’s enjoying this as much as you are has your head thrown back in pleasure. 

“Look at me, honey,” she says in a strained voice, breaking away from your pussy for a second. You meet her eyes and gasp at the dark heat in them and the slickness glistening on her cheeks. “Good girl.” 

She holds eye contact with you when she rubs her tongue over and over your clit and smirks when she sees you visibly fighting the urge to drop your head back again. Your hips buck up, riding her tongue with a frantic need, but she keeps her pace steady. 

One of her hands leaves your thigh to toss her hair over and then slides it beneath her body. 

You feel two fingers pressing at your entrance and your mouth drops open. Agatha’s eyes flash teasingly and she encloses her lips around your clit and sucks hard while she pushes her fingers into you. 

“Oh—fuck,” you cry out. Your walls clench down around her immediately and she drags her fingers in and out slowly. You feel her in every groove and ridge in your cunt and she continues mouthing at your clit. “Mommy, it feels so good.” 

Agatha hums and it echoes against your cunt, making you keen again. 

There is absolutely no chance you’ll ever be able to sit in class with her again without thinking about this. Without remembering how she looks when her mouth is on your cunt and how it feels when her fingers are inside you. 

How she brought you all the way here, a romantic getaway if you’ve ever seen one, just so she could be with you for a weekend without worrying that someone from the university might see you. 

And so she could fuck you. 

Her blue eyes bore into yours, staring straight into your soul, as she scrapes her teeth against your clit while twisting her fingers roughly. The taste of copper fills your mouth from how hard you’re biting your bottom lip. 

The tension is building up inside you again and the waves outside seem to be crashing to the shore even louder. Her perfume swirls around in the air, strong and clear, and you inhale deeply before you can think twice about it. 

Agatha sees it and knows instantly what you’re doing so she lashes her tongue against your clit as a reward. Electricity races under your skin, your cunt aches and throbs and pulses, and there’s a possessiveness with which Agatha fucks you. 

Like she’s claiming you. 

Like you haven’t been hers since the first day of class. 

She mumbles something but it’s muffled by your pussy in her mouth but you understand. 

She wants to hear you. 

“So good, mommy,” you groan and roll your hips faster, chasing the high that’s building in your lower stomach. “Please, just a bit more, I’m getting close—”

Agatha sucks on your clit again and it makes you spiral. Her thrusts somehow seem to be getting faster and more intense and it’s wiped your brain of the ability to think at all. 

All that’s in your head is Agatha. 

“Are you going to come for me?” she taunts, her breath fanning over your clit without stopping her fingers. “Going to come all over mommy’s fingers again?” 

You groan and it’s absolutely filthy and sparks are flying all throughout your body. Your orgasm is steadily building and you know it’s only a matter of time. 

But a bell goes off in your mind and the words tumble out of your mouth before you even realize them. “Can I come, mommy?” 

She pretends to think about it while you whimper pathetically and then she says, “Go ahead, baby,” and bends down to roughly lap at your clit while twisting and curling her fingers. 

You come for a second time with a long moan; this time, it’s somehow more intense and it knocks the wind out of you. The waves of pleasure roll through your body and crash and break in a culmination of shudders and convulsions and gasps. 

Agatha chuckles at you losing composure and the vibrations just prolong the sensation and your back arches off the bed again. Your one hand that’s buried in her hair tightens its grip and Agatha groans. 

She keeps licking and fucking and it becomes too much, you’re too sensitive, so you have to tug her away by the hair. 

There’s a wide smirk on her face when she sits back on her heels and slowly withdraws her fingers from you. The wetness on her face is shiny in the lamp light and you have the sudden urge to clean her off. 

But then she reaches down to grab the hem of her top and she pulls it over her head. She shakes her hair out once she throws the shirt on the floor and smiles smugly at you. Your mouth drops open—she isn’t wearing anything underneath. 

Her breasts are on full display, pale and supple and perfect, with rosy nipples pebbled and pointing at you. 

Your mouth waters and you surge up, taking both of you by surprise. You copy her position, on your knees, ass resting on your heels, and look at her. 

Agatha stares right back as if daring you to do something.

So you do. 

You lean down, your right hand splayed on the side of her stomach, pinkie resting just above her gray underwear, and your left arm is straight, hand on the bed next to her right hip. 

Her chest stutters more the closer you get and then you flick her left nipple with your tongue.

Agatha moans. 

Softly, but there’s no denying what it is. And you want to pull that sound from her over and over again. 

You enclose your lips over her nipple, eyes peeking up at her through hooded eyelashes, and suck. Her chest flares while you roll it with your tongue while suckling and your brain fogs up. You could spend all day doing this. 

You can’t get enough, tugging at her nipple and then moving down to nip at the underside of her boob. Agatha gasps and buries her hand in your hair, holding you against her while you get drunk off the feeling of her in your mouth. 

Maybe she wasn’t wrong about the oral fixation. 

Her skin is hot to the touch when your hands grab onto her hips to steady yourself. Her perfume is intoxicating and filling your nose and you let out small groans that you have no control of. 

Agatha is making noise too, just sharp breaths here and there, but it goes straight to your cunt. 

You switch to her other breast and drag your teeth against the swell of her tit before sucking on her nipple. Her back arches and her hips jerk forward to get stimulation and you groan involuntarily. The vibrations make her breath hitch. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” she gasps out. “You love this, don’t you? Sucking on mommy’s tits?” 

A high-pitched whine tears itself from your throat and Agatha lets out a muffled moan. You nod your head violently without unlatching. 

You would be perfectly content to keep doing this for the rest of the night, but Agatha is getting impatient. She keeps shifting her weight from leg to leg and the skin on her chest is becoming more flushed. 

She tugs at your hair and you reluctantly let go of her nipple. 

“I need you to make me feel good,” she says, urgency lacing her tone. You feel a thrill run through you. “Can you do that for mommy?” 

“Yes,” you groan, biting your bottom lip. She closes her eyes for a split second at the sight, a small sigh slipping out, before she moves back. 

It’s clear that she’s going to lay down so you can get between her legs, but you have a different idea. 

Without saying a word, you crawl backwards to the end of the bed, never breaking eye contact, and then you push yourself off. Your feet hit the floor so you’re standing up on the ground and Agatha’s forehead wrinkles. 

Her confusion is replaced by hot desire when you slowly drop to your knees, looking at her expectantly. 

“God, honey,” she murmurs while she slinks toward the end of the bed, “you look so good on your knees for me. Just where you belong.” 

Your cunt throbs but it’s not about you now. You need to taste her, more than you’ve needed anything in your life. 

Agatha moves so her legs are dangling over the edge, toes brushing against the carpet, and she spreads her legs around you. Her gray underwear blocks where you most want to see, but the dark patch of fabric makes you realize just how wet she is for you. 

If there were any thoughts in your head, you would tease her about it or make a quip about how desperate she is now. 

Instead, you slide your hands up her legs, starting at her ankles and up her shins and then over her knees and up her thighs until the tips of your fingers are resting against the hem of her underwear. You look up at her, see the darkness in her eyes, and rasp, “Can I?” 

She ruffles her hair, mussing up the dark locks, and nods. Your breath catches in your throat as you start to peel her panties off; she lifts her ass off the bed to help you. Your fingers trail against her smooth skin until her underwear is at her feet. 

You look up as she parts her legs even more and scoots down so she’s at the end of the bed and the air in your lungs is sucked out. 

Her cunt is right there. 

Pink, swollen, puffy, and so wet. You can smell her, too, faintly salty from the ocean but sweet, like her perfume. 

There’s a small chance that you’re drooling. 

Agatha leans back on her right arm that’s extended and grabs your hair with her left hand, forcing your head up. 

“Make mommy feel good,” she orders in a gruff voice and yanks you closer to her. You have the fleeting thought that you should tease her just a little, but that would also be torture for you at this point. 

So you flatten your tongue and drag it through her folds. Her hot taste sticks to you and you moan unconsciously into her cunt. 

Agatha whimpers and your walls clench around nothing. When you squeeze your legs together, you can feel the slickness between them. 

You lick around her clit, never directly, until her thighs slightly start to shake around your head. You look up through your eyelashes to find her head tossed back, hair tumbling over her shoulders, and a pink flush down her neck and chest. Her boobs are littered with red marks from your mouth and a thrill runs through you. 

More wetness seeps out of her cunt and onto your chin while you mouth around her clit. You can feel her throbbing and aching against you and you shove her legs open wider so you can get more access. 

And then you start back at her opening, going up slowly, until finally rubbing your tongue fully over her clit. Her hand tightens in your hair and pulls softly while a strangled noise falls from her throat. 

You open your mouth to take more of her in and begin lapping at her cunt. It makes your mind go blank and you close your eyes, losing yourself in the feeling of it. There’s something so soothing about the rhythm, something so easy about it, like you should’ve been doing this all along. 

Agatha chokes out a gasp when you shove your tongue up inside her and her walls clench around you. You curl up to try to reach that spot and a weak groan from her gives you that confirmation. 

Her hips buck against your face and your nails dig into her thighs. You hope that you leave marks, a way for her to remember this too. 

“Fuck, honey,” she says, voice constricted, “you’re doing so well. You’re making me feel so good.” 

It spurs you on more and you enthusiastically start mouthing at her clit, tongue moving up and down, and it’s getting harder for her to control her noises above you. She’s biting her lip and you get the sudden urge to make her lose composure.

You turn your head to the side and sink your teeth into her inner thigh. Her breath catches sharply and her head jerks down, a warning in her eyes, but you give her a sickly sweet smile before latching onto her clit again. 

She moans but keeps looking at you and you see the heat written clearly on her face: the blue vein in her forehead, the splotches on her cheeks, her pupils swallowing up the color in her eyes. You want to memorize this version of her. 

Her chest rises and falls rapidly and you suck roughly on her clit, making her hips roll again. Her right hand digs into the bed sheets, maybe for leverage, maybe because she can’t help it, and you push your tongue back inside her. 

Agatha keens, louder than she expects to by the look of shock that flits across her face, and her back arches, pushing her cunt more onto your face. Your nose stimulates her clit while you stroke your tongue inside her and you can’t breathe, your lungs start to burn, but you couldn’t care less. 

You want to drown in her.

All of her. 

“Your mouth is so fucking good, baby,” she pants and exhilaration lights up your veins. Your entire body is on fire, pleasure coursing through your bloodstream, and you might be able to come just from this, just from going down on your professor. 

Agatha is looking more disheveled too, and you eagerly switch back to lapping at her clit. Eye contact is getting harder to maintain but you try your best to hold it because you want to watch her fall apart. 

You need to see it. 

“Mommy’s getting close,” she babbles and you moan against her cunt. It reverberates and she thrusts against your face, pulling more noises from your mouth. The entire bottom half of your face is covered with her now and you never want to wash her off. 

She overwhelms all of your senses: her smell and taste fill your nose and mouth, your vision has become tunneled around her, the sound of her whimpers drowns out the crash of the ocean, and you can feel only her—her cunt, her legs, her hand in your hair. 

In your life, there are now two parts: before Agatha, and after Agatha. 

And now that you know what it’s like to touch her and taste her and make her come unraveled for you, you don’t think you’ll ever be the same. 

“So close,” Agatha gasps and you suck on her clit roughly. Her legs are tense underneath your hands and she yanks your head up by your hair to where she needs you. You stick out your flattened tongue and she grinds frantically against it, rubbing her clit down the middle. “Mommy’s going to come—oh, fuck—please.” 

The “please” wipes your mind of the ability to form a coherent thought and you lash your tongue against her clit while she continues riding you, chasing the high that must just be eluding her. 

“Come for me, mommy,” you say, and even though it’s muffled by her cunt and garbled to the point where it’s hard for even you to understand yourself, she must realize what you’re trying to say. 

She moans louder than she has this entire time and her body stiffens before you feel a gush of wetness flooding your mouth and face. Agatha keeps grinding, small noises falling from her lips, while her hand stays tightly winded in your hair, keeping you right there. Her eyes still hold their gaze with yours and she stares intently at you while she rides out her orgasm. Heat is blaring inside you but you don’t dare move because you want her to take exactly what she needs for however long she needs it. 

It’s about a minute later when she finally releases you and you fall back to your heels, the ache in your knees finally letting itself be recognized. You’re breathing just as heavily as she is and your cheeks and chin and part of your nose are sticky with her wetness. 

You bite your lip and look at Agatha innocently. She snorts and reaches down to fondly wipe at your face. 

“Don’t get too cocky,” she warns. 

A wide grin spreads across your face. “Me? Never.”

Agatha hums in disbelievement but sits up, bends over, and kisses your lips chastely, pulling away way too early. 

And then she stands up, fully naked, and walks to the bathroom. You use the bed to pull yourself up to your feet to follow in a daze. Your professor has turned on the bath and is testing the water. 

She gives you a teasing smirk when you walk in and sit on the ledge next to her and the promise of more hangs over you. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get enough.  

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[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 21)

Synopsis: You didn’t expect much, not today. But a glance, a word, the way her eyes linger… maybe there’s still something left to hold on to.

Word count: 4.9K

Warnings: Subtle angst, Mild language, Unresolved emotions, Lingering tension

The air felt lighter today. 

You didn’t know if it was the clear skies over Washington or just the way her “okay” still echoed quietly in your chest, soft and stubborn, like something that wanted to stay. Maybe it was both. Maybe you were just imagining things. But you walked into the Capitol building with more calm than you’ve had in weeks. 

In your hands, the usual: a paper cup of her favorite coffee and a bouquet of azaleas, her favorite.  

There was a note tucked inside, nestled between the stems where no one but her would see. You didn’t write much. You never did. 

“I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready.” 

The receptionist was in the middle of a conversation when you approached the desk. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but— 

“Three days? At Lynden?” her coworker was saying, mid-laugh. “Are you volunteering?” 

The receptionist scoffed, leaning her elbow against the counter. “Please. It’s unpaid. Why would I go stand in a field for a few days?” 

Her coworker shrugged. “Yeah, no thanks. Not when I could be home in bed.” 

They both laughed lightly. The kind of bored laughter that sounded like it belonged to people who weren’t waiting on a single word from someone just to breathe properly again. 

You took one quiet step forward, and the receptionist noticed you. Her expression shifted instantly—straightening up, smile polite and practiced. 

“Good morning,” she said. “You’re here to see Governor Harkness?” 

You nodded, returning her smile. “If she’s available.” 

“I’ll check,” she said, reaching for the phone. 

You stood there quietly, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup, the flowers brushing your wrist. A moment passed, then she hung up the phone and gave you a small nod. 

“Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” 

“Thanks,” you said gently. 

You sat down in one of the sleek chairs by the window, watching the sunlight play against the marble floor. You’d sat here so many times it didn’t feel like a waiting room anymore—it felt like purgatory with pretty lighting. 

A few minutes later, a familiar voice greeted you. 

“Morning.” 

You looked up. “Billy.” 

He grinned. 

His eyes dropping briefly to the bouquet and the coffee you handed him. “Same order?” 

“Always.” 

He accepted both gifts like usual, gentle and respectful. Not nosy. He never asked about the notes, though you were sure he knew they were there. There was a kind of quiet loyalty in him you appreciated. 

He turned to leave, but you stopped him with a light voice. “Hey, before you go…” 

He turned back. “Yeah?” 

“I overheard something… about a campaign next week? In Lynden?” 

His brows lifted. “Oh, yeah. It’s a three-day thing—supporting local farmers, educating about sustainable practices, raising funds for new equipment. Kinda a big deal for the area.” 

You tilted your head. “Will she be there?” 

Billy gave you a knowing look, but didn’t tease. “Yeah. She’s heading it.” 

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral. “And you need volunteers?” 

He smiled. “We always need volunteers. Why, you thinking of signing up?” 

“I am,” you said softly. “How do I…?” 

“Just let the front desk know. They’ll have the forms. I’ll keep an eye out for your name.” 

“Thanks, Billy.” 

He smiled again, a little wider this time. “You’re welcome.” 

And just like that, he was gone—disappearing through the double doors that always stayed shut to you. 

You stood, walked back to the desk. The receptionist blinked up at you, a little surprised. 

“Actually,” you said, voice calm but sure, “I’d like to sign up for the Lynden campaign.” 

There was a beat of silence. Then she nodded, reaching under the counter. “Oh. Okay. Uh—here you go.” 

You filled out the form in silence. Your handwriting was neat. Measured. You wondered if she would ever see it. 

But that didn’t matter. You’d already decided. 

You were going to Lynden. 

The drive from Olympia to Lynden was six hours long — seven, if you counted the stop you made at that 24-hour diner for gas and coffee and a moment to sit in your car, wondering what the hell you were really doing. You’d left the city just after midnight, the streets empty and blurred with fog, headlights slicing through darkness like you were cutting your way to clarity. 

But now… the morning light hits different in Lynden. 

Your car pulls into the open lot beside the community center, tires crunching over gravel. The sky’s soft with mist, pastel pinks bleeding into pale blue, and your muscles ache from being in the same position all night. A yawn slips from your lips before you can stifle it. 

You parked facing the modest sprawl of tents and signs beginning to bloom across the field, volunteers bustling around with clipboards, poles, crates of supplies. There’s a banner being slowly unfurled. 

You kill the engine and let yourself sit there a moment. Breathing. 

In the passenger seat is a small duffel bag — three days’ worth of clothes, your phone charger, a notebook, a pen, hand cream, and a travel-sized perfume you forgot you even liked. The bouquet and coffee cup are balanced carefully on the console between the seats. Same kind of flowers you always brought. Same quiet note nestled between the stems. 

“Hope everything goes well today.” 

You’re not even sure if she reads the notes anymore. But still — habit. 

You finally step out, stretch your back, and start toward the volunteer check-in tent. 

You adjust the strap of your bag, rub the back of your neck, and take a deep breath of the farm-country morning — dew on the grass, hints of soil, faint coffee from a thermos somewhere nearby. 

It’s early. The sun is still rising. 

You walk across the lot toward the main check-in tent, clutching the bouquet and coffee in one hand, your small overnight bag slung over your shoulder. There’s movement all around — volunteers setting up tables, teens in matching shirts arranging crates of supplies, someone testing the mic on a small makeshift platform. 

Behind the desk stands a young woman in a ponytail and purple North Face jacket, flipping through a clipboard and mumbling something under her breath. She notices you as you approach and immediately straightens up. 

“Hey! Morning,” she says with a smile, eyes bright despite the hour. “Here to volunteer?” 

You nod and return her smile, soft. “I am, yeah.” 

She lifts her brows and flips through the clipboard. “Name?” 

“Y/N Y/L/N.” 

She finds your name almost immediately. “Perfect. You’re on the general setup crew today,” she says, handing you a green campaign T-shirt, a volunteer badge, and a folded paper map of the site. Her eyes flicker to the bouquet and the cup of coffee in your hand. She doesn’t say anything, but there's a flicker of curiosity there. “Hope you brought gloves. Or, well, we have extra.” 

“I brought some,” you say. “Not my first rodeo.” 

That makes her grin. “Nice. I’m Kate. Kate Bishop. I'm one of the locals volunteering for this campaign” She says it casually, but her tone lingers just a little too long, like she’s trying to clock you. Not suspicious. Just curious. 

She eyes you again, almost subtly. You feel it. The way her gaze holds just a second too long at your eyes before flicking away, the slight flush of interest she tries to mask with efficiency. She’s young — early-to-mid twenties, you guess. But there’s something about her that’s sharp and lively, like she’s used to being underestimated and decided to make it everyone else’s problem. 

“Well,” Kate continues, handing you the schedule sheet, “orientation starts in about fifteen. You can drop your stuff off in the volunteer lounge inside, then come back here or hang around till the first tasks are called. Oh—” she points to the shirt and laughs a little. “You don’t have to wear it right away, but I think it adds five points to your charisma stat.” 

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s generous of you.” 

Before Kate can say anything else, a familiar voice chimes in from just behind you. 

“Miss Y/L/N” 

You turn, and there he is — Billy, Agatha’s assistant, warm smile in place like he’s genuinely glad to see you. 

“Hey,” you greet, surprised but not displeased. 

He steps closer, eyes dropping to the flowers and coffee in your hand. He smiles again, knowing. “Still keeping the streak alive, huh?” 

You shrug, casual. “I guess” 

He chuckles and gently accepts the items from you. “She’ll get them. Promise. I’ll make sure.” His voice lowers a bit, reassuring. Then he nods at the volunteer shirt in your arm. “Green suits you.” 

You shake your head with a smirk. “We’ll see.” 

“Go get changed. I’ll catch up with you later,” Billy says, already stepping aside to go wherever he’s needed. 

You give him a nod of thanks before heading toward the tent nearby — a simple community center repurposed for the event. You slip into one of the single-stall restrooms, close the door behind you, and stare at your reflection for a second. 

It’s weird. Being here. 

Part of you is still buzzing from last week. From that word. That single, quiet, “Okay.” 

It wasn’t much. But it wasn’t nothing. 

You slip the volunteer shirt over your tank top and clip the badge to your jeans. It’s all a little stiff. A little mismatched. You don’t exactly blend in. But you breathe through that. You didn’t come here to blend. 

You wash your hands, fixed your hair, and then press your palm against the cool tile wall for just a moment. 

And then you walk back out, shoulders rolled, expression even. 

Time to work. 

You follow a slow trickle of volunteers back toward the main tent, now restructured with folding chairs facing a simple stage platform. A podium sits at the front, a banner hung above it that reads: 

LYNDEN AGRICULTURAL CAMPAIGN — Nourish the Land, Nurture the Future 

You sit near the edge, not too far back, not too close. The shirt scratches faintly against your skin, the badge clipped to your belt catching the morning light. 

Kate walks past and offers you a brief smile before she’s pulled into some logistics conversation with a clipboard-wielding guy in flannel. She definitely noticed you again—subtle, glancing over her shoulder more than once—but you barely register it. Not really. 

Because your stomach drops the moment you see her. 

Agatha. 

She walks in from the side of the tent, her stride measured, her posture sharp as ever in a black coat over black slacks and boots. The clipboard in her hand looks like an extension of her fingers. She doesn’t see you at first. 

You watch the moment she’s handed the bouquet and the coffee. 

Billy whispers something to her. You can’t hear it. You don’t need to. 

Agatha’s eyes drop to the items. The familiar blooms. The lid of the coffee cup. 

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t frown. But there’s something in her face—something unreadable, tight, fleeting. 

She hands the bouquet to someone beside her without a word and walks toward the stage. 

The murmuring dies down. Everyone quiets when she approaches the podium, clearing her throat softly into the mic. 

“Good morning,” she starts, voice calm but carrying just enough strength to draw every eye. 

There’s a beat. Then applause—brief but polite. 

“My name is Agatha Harkness. I’m the current governor of Washington state. But more importantly, I’m someone who believes deeply in the value of community, and in the need to protect the people who feed us, clothe us, and keep this state alive. That’s why we’re here today.” 

She pauses. Eyes scanning the crowd. 

Then her gaze lands on you. 

Just for a second. 

It’s not dramatic. No sudden gasp. No stutter. 

But it’s there. The hitch in her breath. The brief falter in her eyes. 

And then she keeps going. 

“These next three days are about education. About service. We’re here to raise awareness, raise funds for new equipment, and provide real, on-the-ground support to the farming communities of Lynden—folks who’ve been hit hard in the last few years. Whether you’re teaching a workshop, rebuilding fences, or just handing out sandwiches—you matter.” 

Her voice is steady. Almost too steady. 

She doesn’t look at you again. But something in her tone has shifted. 

“We don’t expect perfection. We expect presence. Dedication. And maybe—” she allows herself the smallest, faintest smirk, “—a little mud on your boots by the end of it.” 

The crowd chuckles. 

You don’t. 

Because your hands are cold in your lap. And your heart’s somewhere between your ribs and your throat. 

Agatha thanks the coordinators, the volunteers, the local donors. She finishes the speech flawlessly. 

But when she steps down from the stage—brushing past where Billy is standing, whispering something back to him—you swear you feel her eyes on you again. 

Just a whisper of attention. 

Just enough to confirm she knows. 

That you’re here. 

That you came all this way. 

The first round of assignments is handed out midmorning. Billy reads through a list at the front of the tent, calling out tasks and pairing people off as he goes. You’re standing just behind the crowd, arms crossed loosely, when you hear your name. 

“Y/N, you’re with Kate—banner duty,” he says, pointing toward the front of the tent where the display tables and crop demos are set up. “We need it strung up between those poles. Ladder’s already there.” 

Kate grins as she turns toward you, adjusting her campaign cap slightly. “Guess we’re the decorative team.” 

You smile back politely, then follow her toward the poles flanking the main tent’s front entrance. A long rolled-up banner sits beside the ladder, still coiled from transport. It’s light enough, but you’ll need to string it across the top beams—six or seven feet up. You glance at the ladder and already feel the ache in your legs from the drive. 

“I can climb up first if you want,” Kate offers, hands on her hips. “You look like you’ve driven all night.” 

You chuckle, stretching your neck. “I did. But I’ve got it. You hold it steady, I’ll just get this done.” 

Kate raises an eyebrow. “Tough girl.” 

You don’t respond. Just move past her and set the ladder more securely into the grass. 

She holds the base steady, her fingers brushing the sides, and watches as you climb. It’s an old ladder—just a little wobbly—and you curse quietly under your breath when the top rung creaks. 

“You good up there?” she calls up. 

“Yup. Totally safe,” you lie. 

You get the first end of the banner hooked up with a bit of fiddling, using the ties from the supply bucket nearby. Kate’s handing them up to you, her fingers brushing yours with every pass. You’re focused, though. Hands steady. 

But you feel it. 

That itch on your skin. That feeling of being watched. 

And when you glance to the side—you see her. 

Agatha. 

She’s standing across the field, maybe thirty or forty feet away, clipboard in hand, deep in conversation with one of the logistics heads. 

But her eyes are not on them. 

They’re on you. 

No—on Kate. 

And then back to you. 

Just for a second. 

And in that second, you see something flicker. Her brows pull just the tiniest bit. Her grip on the clipboard shifts. Her lips part like she’s about to say something—but then she doesn’t. 

Instead, she turns slightly, nods to the man next to her, and points to the other side of the field like she’s refocusing herself. Her voice is low, unreadable from here. 

You look away. Back to the task. 

“You okay?” Kate asks again, noticing your pause. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “Just… trying not to fall.” 

You reach for the second beam and twist to tie the corner of the banner—but the ladder shifts under your feet. It’s just an inch. But it’s enough. 

Your balance tips. 

You feel it before it happens—the helpless momentum, the rush of air, the soft crack of impact when your back hits the grass. 

“Ow—shit.” 

“Y/N!” Kate kneels down beside you, hands hovering over your arms. “Are you okay? You hit the ground pretty hard.” 

You blink up at the sky for a second. Then wince. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just bruised.” 

A few other volunteers rush over, offering hands. You wave them off gently, sitting up. 

And that’s when you see her again. 

Agatha is closer now—about ten feet away. She hadn’t rushed over. She hadn’t made a scene. 

But she’s here. 

And she’s watching you with a look that’s too blank to be neutral. 

You look at her. Waiting. Wondering if she’ll say something. 

But she doesn’t. 

Instead, her eyes drop to the clipboard, and she starts writing something. The pen moves fast. Almost like she’s distracting herself. Almost like she’s angry. 

You swallow hard. “I’m fine,” you say again, mostly to the air. 

Kate helps you to your feet, brushing a bit of grass off your shoulder. “Next time, let me climb.” 

You don’t answer. Because Agatha is still there. 

Still pretending you’re just another volunteer. 

But her grip on the pen looks like she wants to snap it in half. 

The sun had climbed higher by noon, the light filtering through a thin cover of clouds. A breeze passed over the field, making the banner you helped hang sway gently above the entrance. At least it held. 

Billy called out from under the canopy tent, waving his clipboard overhead. “Alright, folks! We’ll break for lunch—food’s over there by the east tables. Take your time, but don’t disappear!” 

There’s a collective sigh of relief. Everyone begins drifting off toward the long folding tables at the far side of the lot, where the volunteers had been setting up trays of sandwiches and water bottles. 

You wipe the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of the campaign T-shirt, finally allowing yourself to sit on the edge of a planter box nearby. Your legs still throb faintly from the fall earlier. Nothing broken. Just sore. 

You take a deep breath, eyes closing for a second. 

“You should’ve let someone else take the ladder.” 

The voice cuts through your quiet. 

You know it instantly. 

When you open your eyes, she’s there—Agatha. Standing a few feet away again, arms crossed loosely in front of her chest, a slant of shadow across her face from the overhead banner. 

Her tone isn’t sharp. If anything, it’s too even. Measured. 

“I’m fine,” you reply softly, meeting her gaze. “Didn’t break anything.” 

“I noticed,” she says. “Still. That was reckless.” 

You let out a quiet huff, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s called me that.” 

Agatha’s expression doesn’t change much, but you can tell she hears the double meaning in that. Her eyes flinch—barely. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Then, carefully: “You drove here. From Olympia?” 

You nod. “Left around midnight. Got here just after seven.” 

She looks away, glancing at the field like it might offer her an excuse to walk off. “That’s a long drive. You didn’t have to come all the way out here, Y/N.” 

“I wanted to,” you say. Then softer, “It’s a good cause.” 

Her jaw tightens faintly. Her hands remain folded, but her fingers twitch once, like she’s considering reaching for something—maybe the distance between you. Maybe not. 

“You didn’t volunteer for the cause,” she says. Quiet. Sharp enough to cut. “You volunteered for me.” 

There it is. 

You swallow, hard. 

“I volunteered because you didn’t turn me away.” 

Agatha’s breath catches at that, so subtly you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t watching her this closely. 

“That ‘okay’ you gave me... it meant something,” you add, voice lower. “Didn’t it?” 

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes drift to the clipboard in her hand. She stares at it like it holds the words she’s not ready to say. 

Finally, almost inaudible: “Don’t read too much into it.” 

Ouch. 

You nod once, your lips pressing together tightly. “Right.” 

Agatha exhales slowly. The kind of breath that’s too deliberate to be casual. 

“I need to get back,” she says. “There’s still work to assign before afternoon starts.” 

“Of course,” you murmur. 

She turns, but not all the way. Just enough that you see her hesitate. Just enough to let you know it’s not that simple. 

But she walks away anyway. 

You watch Agatha walk away until she disappears behind the tent, clipboard tucked close to her chest like armor. The pit in your stomach stays, even as the world around you settles back into normal midday chatter. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Hey.” 

You blink and turn. 

Kate stands in front of you now, smiling, her short ponytail a little messy from the morning’s chaos. She holds out a sandwich wrapped in foil and a cold bottle of water. 

“Thought you might want these,” she says, her tone light but kind. “Figured you wouldn’t get in line. You looked... busy.” 

You offer her a tired smile, accepting the sandwich and water. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.” 

“Yeah, well... I wanted to.” She shrugs, then settles into the spot beside you on the planter box, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. “You okay though? That fall earlier—looked like it hurt.” 

“I’m fine,” you assure her. “Promise. Just a bruise or two.” 

Kate glances toward the tent where Agatha disappeared. “Saw you talking to Governor Harkness earlier. You two know each other?” 

You hesitate for a beat too long, then offer a practiced shrug, forcing a casual tone. “Yeah. We’re... old friends.” 

She arches a brow slightly, a smirk tugging at one side of her lips. “Friends?” 

You unwrap the sandwich and take a bite before answering, as if that will help sell the lie. “Yep. Just friends.” 

She hums like she doesn’t quite believe you, but doesn’t press. “She’s intense,” Kate comments, casually, like she’s testing the waters. “Like, you can feel her leadership energy from across the field.” 

You chuckle softly, licking a crumb from your thumb. “That’s one way to put it.” 

Kate leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, sandwich untouched in her lap. “And you? What do you do when you’re not climbing ladders and pretending not to be injured?” 

You blink. “Oh. Uh... I run a company.” 

Her eyes widen, impressed. “Really? Like what kind of company?” 

You shrug, sipping from the water bottle. “Tech work. The kind that deals with smart systems. I inherited it a while ago.” 

Kate lets out a low whistle. “Damn. So you’re the mysterious hot volunteer-slash-CEO with great balance and decent ladder skills. No big deal.” 

You snort, caught off guard by her boldness, but brush it off like you didn’t really hear it. “I wouldn’t say all that.” 

She leans a bit closer, her smile never quite leaving. “Well, I would.” 

You meet her eyes briefly and smile—grateful for the kindness, the distraction—but your mind is already elsewhere. Tracing Agatha’s expression. Replaying her voice. Wondering what she’s supposed to say. Why she hesitated. 

Because even with someone like Kate sitting inches away, calling you hot and clever in not-so-subtle ways... 

 

You still don’t care. 

Your heart’s somewhere else. Still back there, under that damn banner, with the only person who hasn’t asked you to stay — but who you’d stay for anyway. 

After lunch break, the sun hangs high and stubborn above Lynden, the kind of afternoon heat that makes the air feel a little heavier, like it’s holding its breath too. 

You wipe your hands on the hem of your campaign shirt, then followed the rest of the volunteers trickle back into the central field area. A clipboard gets passed around for afternoon assignments, and Kate ends up next to you again like the universe just keeps letting her orbit there. 

“Alright,” she announces, reading both of your names on the list. “We’re on... irrigation setup and soil prep.” She grins at you. “Fancy.” 

You manage a quiet laugh. “Nothing says fun like dirt and hoses.” 

“You sure you’re not regretting signing up for this yet?” she asks, walking alongside you as the two of you start heading toward the west end of the field. 

“I drove six hours to be here,” you say, glancing at her with a soft smile. “I think I’m in too deep to back out now.” 

Kate tucks her tongue in her cheek, smirking. “Six hours for soil and hoses. You’re either committed or mildly unhinged.” 

“Maybe both.” 

She laughs at that, and it’s an easy sound. Not loud or obnoxious. Just... pleasant. The kind of sound you’d normally enjoy if your mind weren’t busy rewinding and replaying Agatha’s face from earlier—how she looked at you. How quickly she looked away. 

You and Kate reach the designated area, greeted by a few other volunteers already laying out long rolls of hose and moving sacks of compost. You quietly slip into work, grateful for something to do with your hands, even if the sun makes your back sweat and the dirt clings to your shoes. 

Kate sticks close—not too close to be suffocating, but enough to let you feel her presence. 

She hums as she works, makes bad jokes, tosses a bottle of water your way once, and brushes invisible dirt off your shoulder at one point with a little smirk. You thank her with a short nod, but you don’t really look at her. 

Because you feel something else. 

That flicker. 

You glance across the field and see Agatha again—clipboard in hand, sunglasses now perched on top of her head. She’s talking to someone from the organizing committee. You try not to watch too long, but when you do, her eyes meet yours. 

Just for a second. 

It’s not a dramatic moment, not some burning stare. It’s just a second. Barely that. But it’s long enough to make your stomach twist. 

Long enough to make you look away first. 

“You okay?” Kate asks, a bit quieter now. 

You nod. “Yeah. Just the heat.” 

“You don’t talk much,” she says with a light tone, but not unkind. “But it’s nice. Kinda refreshing, actually.” 

“Thanks, I think.” 

She nudges you with her elbow. “Just don’t go passing out. I don’t know CPR.” 

You smile faintly, looking down at the soil. “I’m tougher than I look.” 

Kate grins. “Oh, I believe it.” 

The afternoon continues like that. Digging, uncoiling hoses, checking pressure lines. A little laughter here and there. The sounds of boots crunching on dry grass and the distant voices of other volunteers. You keep working, mostly quiet, heart somewhere else, ears half-tuned. 

Later, when you glance back toward the center of the field, Agatha’s gone. 

And you hate how your chest tightens because of it. 

The sun’s just beginning to dip when the work wraps for the day, bleeding orange and gold over the fields like spilled honey. Volunteers begin trickling toward the check-out station, dusty and sun-tired, murmuring their goodnights and promises to shower immediately. 

Kate stretches beside you, letting out a low groan. “God. If I have to lift one more bag of compost...” 

You laugh under your breath, slinging your bag over your shoulder again. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asks, her tone easy but lingering just a second longer than necessary. 

You nod. “Yeah. Bright and early.” 

“Don’t oversleep,” she teases, walking backward a few steps before turning to head off in the other direction. “Night, Ms. CEO.” 

You smirk faintly at the nickname but don’t say anything. You just watch her leave, then finally start the short walk toward the partnered inn assigned to volunteers from out of town. It’s about five blocks from the site—small, old, with white siding and creaky steps, but clean. Old-fashioned. Quiet. 

You check in with a woman at the front desk who gives you a kind smile and a key with a dangling flower keychain. “Room 4,” she says, “upstairs, end of the hall. Breakfast starts at 7.” 

You thank her softly and make your way up the narrow staircase, already feeling the weight in your legs from the day’s work. Inside the room, it’s cool and softly lit. One bed, a nightstand, a small desk, a window that faces the side yard. You set your things down, peel off your dusty clothes, and step into the shower with a long, slow breath. 

Hot water hits your skin like a blessing. 

You scrub away the dirt and sweat but not the ache. That stays with you. 

Later, dressed in an old shirt and shorts, you settle onto the bed with your hair damp and your limbs heavy. You try not to think about Agatha. 

You fail, obviously. 

You wonder if she read the note. If she drank the coffee. You think of her speech again. Her voice. That slight edge when she said your name, that delicate pause before she moved on like it didn’t cut her to see you there. 

But it did. You saw it. 

And you wonder—maybe she saw something in you, too. 

You lean your head back, close your eyes, and let the silence of the small town lull you into stillness. 

Tomorrow is another day. 

And you’ll be right there again. 

Trying. 

Always trying. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura @upsidedowndanvers @iiiheartwomen

[harknessxo]

"You Were Never Mine to Lose" Masterlist

Governor Agatha Harkness has built a steady life—but a wedding reunion brings her face-to-face with Y/N, the woman she’s never quite forgotten. For Y/N, seventeen years of silent love come crashing back during two weeks in Malibu that might finally change everything.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

[harknessxo]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 20)

Synopsis: You wait. You hope. And when nothing comes, you try again. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Word count: 4K

Warnings: Angst, Mild language

You land in Washington. It’s colder here. 

The sky is grey, the city moves quickly around you, but your mind is slow. Numb, but determined. You watch the blur of cars, of coats and briefcases and umbrellas, from the back of your car, forehead leaning lightly against the cold window. 

You don’t go to her. Not yet. 

Instead, you check into a quiet hotel—expensive, discreet, the kind of place where no one asks questions unless you want them to. The receptionist recognizes your name when you give it, eyes flickering with something like recognition, but she doesn’t say anything. You’re just another guest. Another important person passing through. 

The suite is spacious, sterile, elegant. You close the door behind you and it’s like entering a vacuum. Silence wraps around you. A kind of stillness that only makes your pulse feel louder. 

You unpack slowly. Deliberately. There’s not much—just the essentials. Clothes you didn’t think too hard about. A few files. Your tablet. Lip balm. The watch you haven’t worn in months. 

You fold your blazer over the back of the chair. Lay your phone face-down on the bedside table. It buzzes once—an email, maybe—but you don’t look. 

Then you stand by the window. For too long. 

The city stretches beneath you in lights and motion. From this height, people look like moving shadows. Distant. Unreachable. You rest your fingertips on the glass, tracing nothing. Your reflection stares back at you—tired eyes, tight jaw, a woman trying to look like she’s got it together. 

You rehearse what you might say. Over and over. 

You mouth it to the window: “I was wrong.” 

Or maybe: “I know you don’t owe me anything.” 

Or maybe just: “Agatha.” 

But none of it sounds right. It all falls flat against the glass. 

You drink tea instead of whiskey. For once. It’s chamomile. You don’t even like chamomile. But it’s supposed to calm your nerves, and you’re desperate for something to help. You sit on the edge of the bed, mug cupped in your hands, eyes fixed on nothing. 

The clock ticks. 

You go to bed early—but you don’t sleep. 

You lie there, eyes open in the dark, sheets cool and unfamiliar. You count the hours. You replay the last time you saw her, the last time you touched her, the look on her face when she said your name. It’s a loop you can’t break out of. 

At some point, you turn your phone over, just to check. Just to see. No messages. You wonder if she’d care you’re here. 

Eventually, you drift into something close to sleep—thin and restless, more like hovering on the edge of consciousness than resting. Every creak in the hallway outside startles you. Every dream that threatens to start drags you straight back to waking. 

You wake up early. 

It’s still dark when you open your eyes. You lie there for a moment, listening to the hum of the city outside the window. Your body is heavy, but your mind is already racing. You breathe in deeply—slow, deliberate—and then you push yourself up. 

You go through your usual morning routine, even though nothing about today feels ordinary. 

You shower longer than you need to. Brush your teeth with shaking hands. Your reflection in the mirror looks steadier than you feel. You pick out your clothes with intention. It’s something clean, composed, neutral. 

A dark coat. Simple heels. Your watch. 

You tie your hair back with care. Spritz your perfume lightly. You stare at yourself one last time before leaving the room. One deep breath. Then another. 

You call your driver to get the car ready, like always. But you already know—you won’t be needing him today. 

When you reach the main entrance of the hotel, your driver is there, waiting. He sees you coming and holds out your keys without a word. You take them with a small nod of thanks, curling your fingers around the familiar metal. 

The steering wheel feels foreign beneath your hands. You rarely drive yourself anymore. But this—this is something you need to do on your own. 

The streets blur past as you drive. You barely notice the traffic, the lights, the horns. All you can hear is your own heart, stammering hard in your chest like it’s trying to break free. You clench the wheel tighter. 

The closer you get, the more your breath shortens. 

When you finally reach the building—her building—it looms before you, glass and steel, cold and sharp. You sit in the car for a second, just breathing. Then you force yourself out and walk toward the entrance. 

Inside, it’s bright and sterile. You cross the lobby, head high despite the heaviness pressing into your chest. At the front desk, the receptionist looks up as you approach. 

“I’m here to see Governor Harkness,” you say. 

You don’t offer your name. You don’t have to. 

Her eyes flick to your face, and that’s all it takes. 

She straightens slightly. You see the moment it clicks—recognition settling into something cooler, something laced with unspoken awareness. Your name doesn’t need to pass your lips. She already knows who you are. Everyone here probably does. 

Still, she keeps her voice neutral. “Do you have an appointment?” 

You shake your head. “No.” 

There’s the briefest pause. Then she picks up the phone, her tone low, professional, careful. She says a few things you can’t quite catch, glancing at you just once more. 

She hangs up. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” 

You nod once, quietly, and take a seat in one of the sleek chairs nearby. 

The room moves around you—people coming and going, shoes tapping against the floor, elevators chiming open and closed. But your world narrows. 

Minutes pass. Then— 

“Miss Y/L/N?” 

You look up. 

Billy. 

You recognize him instantly, even though it’s been years. A little older now. A little more refined. Still carries himself with the same calm professionalism he always had. He’s been Agatha’s assistant for nearly a decade now. 

You stand as he approaches. 

“Hey,” you say, offering a small, tentative smile. “Billy, right? Is Agatha here? Is she at a m—” 

He cuts you off gently. “Yes, Miss Y/L/N. Governor Harkness is in a meeting right now.” 

Your smile falters. You nod, trying to hide the sting of it. “Right… of course.” 

You take a breath, then glance around. “I’ll just wait here. In the lobby. It’s fine.” 

He hesitates—just for a second. But he nods. “Alright. I’ll let her know.” 

“Thanks, Billy,” you say softly. 

“Do you need anything?” he asks, eyes kind. 

You shake your head. “No. I’m good.” 

He gives you a small smile—sympathetic, maybe. Then excuses himself, disappearing behind the doors you’re not allowed through. 

And just like that, you’re left alone again. 

Waiting. 

The lobby buzzes on around you, a constant rhythm of shoes and soft murmurs, elevator dings and keycard swipes. Hours pass like clouds drifting over a sealed sky. People come and go. Her name is never mentioned. 

You check the time. It’s past noon. 

Still nothing. 

Maybe she’s still in the meeting. You know how politics works—tight schedules, long discussions, unexpected delays. You tell yourself that. 

You stay. 

Eventually, you order food online—nothing fancy. A sandwich. A bottle of sparkling water. The delivery arrives, and you eat it quietly, still seated in the same spot. You watch the door. You keep glancing toward the elevator. 

It’s afternoon now. 

Still no Agatha. 

Your fingers drum softly on the armrest. You tell yourself it’s okay. She’s busy. She’s always been busy. This is nothing new. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean she’s avoiding you. 

Right? 

The sun lowers in the sky, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The light outside turns golden, then amber, then blue. 

You’re still here. 

Still waiting. 

A few staff members begin packing up. Some glance your way as they leave, their expressions flickering with recognition, with curiosity. But no one approaches. No one says anything. 

You don’t leave. 

You won’t. 

You’re not giving up on her. 

Not again. 

But exhaustion creeps in slowly—beneath your skin, behind your eyes, into your bones. Eventually, it wins. 

Your body slouches a little. Your chin dips to your chest. 

You fall asleep. 

A light shake wakes you. 

“Miss?” a voice says, firm but gentle. 

You blink, your neck stiff, your heartbeat slow and heavy as you open your eyes to a security guard standing beside you. 

“I’m sorry, miss. We’re closing up for the night.” 

You sit up straight quickly, rubbing your eyes. “Right… right, I—sorry.” 

You gather yourself, stand. 

Then you ask, almost without thinking, “Did… did Governor Harkness already leave?” 

The guard gives you a strange look. “Yeah, she left hours ago. This afternoon, I think.” 

You stare at him for a moment. Then nod. 

“Okay,” you say softly. 

You don’t ask for more. You don’t say another word. 

You just walk out. 

She probably didn’t know you were here. Maybe Billy didn’t tell her. Or maybe she got caught up in back-to-back meetings. Or… maybe she just didn’t want to see you. 

You swallow that thought like a pill that sticks to the back of your throat. 

You get in your car. 

The driver’s seat is cold. 

You drive back to the hotel in silence. No music. Just the hum of the engine, and your own breath, and the ache crawling up the back of your chest. 

Today is fine, you tell yourself. 

Maybe she was just busy. 

Maybe tomorrow… maybe tomorrow will be different. 

You'll try again. 

Ever since that day, you return to her office every morning. 

It becomes a rhythm, a routine you can’t break. The walk through the lobby, the familiar glance from the receptionist, the quiet nod you give her when she asks if you have an appointment. You don’t—never do. 

“I’m here to see Governor Harkness,” you tell her, the words sounding hollow and repetitive after so many days. 

She asks you to wait, as usual. And so you do. 

You wait. Patiently. Quietly. In the same spot. No demands, no protests. Just waiting. There’s a weight to it now—heavier than before. But somehow, it feels necessary. 

Each day, you bring something for Agatha. 

Azaleas. Her favorite flowers. A bouquet, fresh and vibrant, with a little handwritten note tucked inside. Coffee, always a perfect brew, just the way she liked it. Sometimes, lunch—something simple, but enough to show you’re thinking of her. 

The note is always short—just a few words, something sincere, but carefully crafted to leave her space, not overwhelm her. 

“Take care of yourself today.” 

“I hope you ate lunch.”

“Still thinking of you." 

“Still here.” 

And every time, you hand it off to Billy. 

You don’t need to say much—he doesn’t ask anymore. He just takes the flowers, the coffee, the lunch. He stops offering excuses. Doesn’t tell you she’s in a meeting. He just nods, quietly, like it’s a routine now. A ritual you both know too well. 

Billy’s pitying looks become harder to ignore. 

The staff at the building grows accustomed to your presence. It starts with the receptionist, who offers a small, polite smile each time. Then, the janitors—brief exchanges, little pleasantries as they go about their work. Sometimes you talk with the security guards on your way in or out, their voices casual, friendly, as if this is all normal. 

They don’t ask too many questions. You tell them that you and Agatha were once very close—good friends, and that you’d made a terrible mistake. You’re here now, trying to restore what you once had. They nod in understanding, of course. They buy it. 

They don't know the truth. 

But you suspect they’ve started whispering when you're not around. 

“Governor Harkness’s old friend is back,” you overhear, once, when you pass the break room. 

“She’s been waiting again today. Since 8 am,” another voice adds quietly. 

You don’t say anything. You just keep walking. 

They don’t know. Or maybe they do. 

But no one dares say it out loud. Not to you. Not to anyone. 

You return, day after day, hour after hour. 

You come in. Sit. Wait. Leave. 

She’s always “in a meeting,” “off-site,” “unavailable.” 

You’ve stopped asking why. 

You don’t even care how long this will take. You endured seventeen years loving her in silence—what’s a few more days? Weeks? Months? You’ve already survived the ache of wanting her without ever having her. This is just another shape of the same pain. One you’ve learned how to carry. 

But still—one morning, you try again. This time, official. 

You request a formal meeting through her secretary. 

She glances at her screen. “You’re penciled in,” she says, with a faint, polite smile. 

You know what that means. 

Still, you nod. 

A day passes. Then another. The meeting is “bumped,” then “rescheduled,” then dropped altogether. 

It’s humiliating—but you don’t stop. 

Eventually, you buy a small apartment near the Capitol—quiet, simple. Unassuming. A place to wait, and cook, and sleep poorly in. You walk the streets, even when it’s freezing. You eat alone. You read, but your mind wanders. 

And every night, before sleep, you sit at the desk in your apartment and write. 

 A new letter. A new page. A new version of everything you never got to say. 

You fold each one, date it, and slide it into a box you keep on your nightstand. 

You don’t know if you’ll ever give them to her. Maybe one day. Maybe never. 

But it helps, somehow. 

Because even if she never reads a word—you’re still trying. 

Even when it hurts. Even when hope feels like a slow poison. 

One day, you wake up and lie still in bed, staring at the ceiling, but not really seeing it. The weight of the morning presses on you, heavier than it should. Your limbs feel like lead, and you can’t remember the last time you woke up feeling rested. It’s like your body is refusing to move, refusing to let go of the exhaustion from everything—waiting, hoping, trying. 

Minutes stretch, long enough to feel like hours. Your mind buzzes, but it’s distant. Your heart, too, distant but still beating with the same persistent ache. 

You don’t move. You just lie there. 

Something inside you feels different. Maybe it’s just the tiredness catching up to you. Maybe it’s the hollow ache in your chest, the kind you can’t shake, the kind that makes everything else seem… irrelevant. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep hoping like this, like she’s going to turn around one day and say yes. 

So, you sit up. Slowly, unwillingly. Because hope has embedded itself so deep in your bones that even exhaustion can’t pry it out. 

You move through your morning routine like you’re underwater. 

You shower, standing still as the water hits your back. You don’t bother rushing. You just stay there, letting the warmth press into your skin, trying to soften the weight you’ve been carrying. 

You wash your hair. Moisturize. Brush your teeth. You still do everything—methodical, careful. You dress in clean clothes, something quiet and soft in color, like you're trying not to offend the world by being present. 

You make coffee, though you hardly taste it anymore. 

Egg and Toast. No appetite. But you eat. 

You brush your hair neatly, fix your collar, glance in the mirror—not to admire yourself, but to make sure you look okay. Like someone she might be able to stand looking at, if today is the day she finally does. 

And then you sit by the window again. Like always. 

Your fingers curl around the mug. Your eyes follow the people on the street below. 

There’s something strange in your chest. Not heavy. Not light either. 

Just… still. 

You think about how long it’s been. 

Weeks. 

Every day, you went to her office. Every day, you waited. 

And every day, you were turned away—politely, professionally. 

But always turned away. 

Still, you showed up. With flowers. Coffee. Notes you scribbled on thick paper, each one carefully worded and folded like something sacred. 

You were trying. Genuinely trying. 

And now? 

Now you know this isn't working. 

She’s not ready to see you. Or maybe she’s decided she never will be. 

You let that truth settle inside you like a stone. 

You stare into your mug. The coffee’s gone cold. 

You leave it on the table. 

You don’t grab the usual bouquet on your way out. 

No coffee run. No box of pastries. No notes tucked. 

You don’t bring anything with you this time. 

Just you. 

You drive without music. No GPS. You don’t need it. 

You’ve only been to her house once—years ago, for the baptism of her first child. A soft, chaotic day with too many guests and not enough chairs. You weren’t even close to her then. You were just part of the circle. 

But you remember. 

You remember how the gate looked in the golden afternoon light. How the front porch was framed with potted herbs. How the breeze carried lavender and rosemary through the air. 

You park a little ways down the street, near the old tree that still has those brittle wind chimes on it. 

You don’t rush toward the gate. You walk slowly, your coat drawn close to your body, your fingers trembling slightly inside your pockets. The sky is pale. Cold. And your breath fogs in front of you. 

You stand there, alone in front of her gate, and you stare at the small silver button on the intercom. 

Then—you press it. 

The chime rings out, soft and clear. And after a long moment, her voice comes through: 

“This is the Harkness residence. How may I—” 

“Agatha.” 

You cut her off before you even realize you’re doing it. 

Just her name, spoken like a prayer. Quiet. Shaky. Needing. 

Silence. 

No static. No reply. Just stillness on her end. 

You glance up toward the small camera nestled near the gate. Maybe she can see you. 

So you let her. 

You lift your chin and look into it, into her. 

“I’ll never stop,” you say, soft but steady. “I’ll do anything, just for you to forgive me.” 

Still, nothing from her. 

So you keep talking, like the words themselves might build a bridge through the silence. 

“I read them,” you say. “All those messages. All those things you tried to say to me when I shut down. When I ran.” 

You pause. Swallow the weight in your throat. 

“I should’ve answered. I should’ve listened. I didn’t. That’s on me.” 

Your voice shakes. You let it. You don’t hide from her anymore. 

“I love you, Agatha.” 

You say it clearly, simply. Not desperate. Not begging. Just… true. 

“I always have. I just—I didn’t know how to let you see it without ruining everything. And then I ruined it anyway.” 

A shaky breath. 

“I’m not even asking for now. I’m just asking… give me a chance. A real one. To make it right. To show you I’m not the person I was when I hurt you. I’m still learning. I’m trying. I never stopped trying.” 

You wait. 

The air is quiet. Heavy. 

A bird chirps somewhere far away. A dog barks down the street. 

But from Agatha—there’s still only silence. 

No click of the gate. No rustle of her voice. 

You don’t cry. Not this time. You’re past that now. This ache is deeper than tears. This ache has lived in you too long. 

So you just stay there. 

Still. Open. Waiting. 

Because if there’s one thing you know how to do—it’s wait for her. 

Even if she never opens the gate. 

Even if she never says a word. 

You’ll still be standing there. 

Because you meant it. 

You’re not done trying. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there. 

Your legs ache. The wind has turned colder. 

And just when you start to think she really won’t come out—not today, not ever— 

The front door opens. 

Your breath catches like a thread pulled tight. 

And there she is. 

Agatha. 

She steps out onto the porch like she’s unsure, like she didn’t plan to. Her hair’s pulled back, her coat wrapped tightly around her body. From this distance, you can’t see her expression. 

But you don’t need to. 

You feel it. 

Every step she takes toward you feels like the world shrinking down to this one, fragile moment. 

Your hands are trembling. Your heart slams hard against your ribs. 

Your eyes burn, but you don’t let the tears fall—not yet. 

Not when she’s this close. 

And then… she’s there. 

She opens the side gate slowly. It creaks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. 

And now she’s standing in front of you, closer than she’s been in weeks. 

Close enough to touch, but still a universe away. 

She doesn’t meet your eyes. 

God, that hurts more than anything. 

She clears her throat, like she’s trying to steady herself. And then— 

“Did you…” 

A pause. Her voice is brittle. Fragile. 

“Did you really mean all of that?” 

You nod once. Your voice is soft, but it doesn’t shake. 

“Yes.” 

She finally looks at you—just briefly—and then away again. Her arms are crossed, defensive. Still guarded. 

“What about Rio?” 

You exhale, the truth already aching in your chest. 

“I broke up with her,” you say. “I should’ve done it earlier. I was—” 

You pause, shaking your head. 

“She was good to me. She really was. Better than I deserved. And I was selfish. I was so fucking selfish. I kept thinking maybe I could… be better, for her. But the truth is—” 

You look at Agatha. You want her to hear this. 

“The one I’ve always loved… is standing in front of me right now.” 

That silence returns again. Thick. Dense. 

“I used Rio,” you continue, the words tasting bitter. “And that makes me a dick. A coward. I didn’t want to be alone, and she made things feel easier. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I did anyway. And I hate myself for it.” 

Agatha’s eyes finally lift to yours. Her mouth pulls into a tight line. 

“You are a dick,” she says. “For that. And for… all of this.” 

There’s no humor in her tone. No sharp sarcasm. 

Just truth. 

You nod. You deserve that. 

And then she looks away again. Her gaze goes distant, unreadable. 

“Are you really ready to prove yourself?” 

Her voice is low. Tired. Worn down by hope and hurt. 

You answer without hesitation. 

“Yes. Whatever it takes. I mean it.” 

There’s a shift in her expression. Barely noticeable—but it’s there. Her walls don’t drop, but… something flickers behind her eyes. 

And then she really looks at you. Not a glance. Not a scan. 

She sees you. Takes you in. 

Like she’s trying to decide if she can believe you. 

Like part of her already does. 

She just nods. 

“Okay.” 

Just that. One word. 

And then she turns and walks back through the gate. 

She doesn’t slam it. She doesn’t say anything else. 

She just closes it behind her. Locks it. 

And walks back inside. 

Leaving you there. 

Alone. 

But not the same kind of alone you were yesterday. 

You stare at the closed gate, the word echoing in your mind. 

Okay. 

It’s nothing. 

It’s everything. 

It’s a beginning. 

You turn and head back to your car. Your chest feels too full. 

Your fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel as you sit in the driver’s seat, frozen. 

And then it hits you. 

The tears spill out before you even realize they’ve formed. 

You cry—not just because you’re hurt, not just because you’ve missed her. 

You cry because after weeks of silence, she spoke to you. 

Because after everything, she didn’t turn you away. 

Because okay… 

God, okay means there’s still a chance. 

You wipe your face with your sleeve, breathing in sharp, shaky gasps. 

And somewhere inside you, buried beneath the guilt and grief and longing… 

Hope sparks again. 

You’re going to get her back. 

You have to. 

No matter what it takes. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura

[harknessxo]

The psychology of love (Part 12)

Your first test is getting closer and closer...

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: masturbation, phone sex, praise kink

Your professor is right. 

The moment your hand delves through your folds, you shiver and instinctively know that it’s not going to take you very long to finish. 

The kiss in the bathroom, the bite on your neck, the implication that she’s going to do the same thing you are right now when she gets home. It’s gotten you to a point where even a single touch to your clit has you gasping. 

You think of Agatha, laying on her lavender sheets again, jeans unzipped, head thrown back on the pillows, mouth agape in pleasure. 

What you would give to be there with her right now. 

An idea sparks in your lust-riddled brain and a smirk plays on your lips. It may be a bit bratty, but you just want to show her that you’re being her good girl. 

You grab your phone from where it’s resting on your bed next to you and swipe to open the camera. You hold it up and angle it so it cuts out your face but captures you still in her sweater and your hand between your bare legs. She can’t see your cunt, but little is left to the imagination. 

Tapping on the text thread with her, you chew on your lip as you attach the image and type out a caption. Heart pounding in time with your clit, you send it. 

Am I following directions now, Professor? 

She doesn’t read it immediately, still probably driving to her house, so you lazily rub your clit with two fingers, stopping your movements whenever you start feeling your orgasm building up. 

But then her read receipt appears and she begins typing and your heart rate spikes, along with your arousal. You feel tension knotting in your stomach, feel your breathing laboring. 

That’s my good girl. What are you thinking about? 

Agatha’s text kicks the air out of your lungs and you moan involuntarily. Touching your clit sends sparks racings through your veins and it’s hard to think straight. 

Responding with one hand while the other works between your legs is difficult, so you keep your response short, but accurate. 

You. 

Is she picturing you right now, too? Imagining what you’re doing while you touch yourself? You wonder what you look like in her mind. 

She replies quickly. 

You know I like it when you use your words, honey. 

Your walls clench around nothing and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep your whimper restrained. You’re starting to sweat a little in her sweater, but you don’t dare take it off. 

There’s something about fucking yourself in Agatha’s clothes that turns you on even more. Something about Agatha knowing that’s what you're doing. 

It’s taking you too long to formulate a response. You’re not sure how explicit to be and you’re typing with one hand, and she must be getting impatient. 

Because she calls you. 

Feeling like you’re in a dream, you accept it, put the call on speakerphone, and stare at her name like it’s actually her. “Hello?” you whisper, voice hoarse. 

“It seemed like you were having some trouble texting,” she purrs, smooth as silk, and it goes straight to your cunt. “Can you use your words now?”

So many thoughts swirl around in your brain, but you don’t know how to express them. 

“I—I’m thinking about you,” you gasp, feeling like the altitude has changed in your room. “If you’re touching yourself. What it would be like…” You trail off because even though you and her have already crossed many lines, this seems like a new one. 

Agatha hums. “Keep going.” 

Your breath stutters in your chest and you rub your aching clit faster. “What it would be like…to touch you. To feel you. To taste you.” A strangled, muffled groan tears itself from your throat and then you hear it. 

It’s barely audible. 

But there’s no mistaking the sound of Agatha’s sharp inhale, like she’s caught off guard again. Like you wanting to taste her this badly is getting to her in a way most things don’t. 

And it makes you desperate to get her to do it again.

“Better hope you do well on the exam then,” she drawls, but there’s heat in her voice that makes it sound teasing, rather than serious. 

“I will,” you say, eyes screwing shut in pleasure. You slip a finger inside yourself and breathe heavily. “I want to be good for you.” 

Something rustles on her side and you strain your ears to hear for any sign that she’s touching herself. If she is, she’s doing a good job of hiding it. 

Unlike you. 

When you do finally touch her, you want to make her moan for you. 

“You are good for me,” she says and your walls clench around the second finger you fit into yourself. Tingles are spreading all throughout your body and it sinks in that you’re going to come on the phone with your professor. “You’re my good girl.” 

The ownership, the claim, makes your back arch off the bed and your fingers hit the spot deep inside you that pulls a squeak out of you. Agatha chuckles. 

Before you can think about it, you duck your face down and inhale her scent from her sweater and sigh. Agatha’s signature scent makes your head spin and you can see her so clearly right now, between your legs, eyes locking with yours. Wetness squelches around your fingers

“What are you doing?” she rasps. 

You’re too far gone to even pretend that you’re not losing your mind for her. Over her.  

“Your perfume,” you choke out, thumb swiping against your clit. Your walls spasm. “It—I—” You stop, because you don’t know how to explain the reaction your body has to it and why you need to smell it so badly to get off. 

“Oh,” Agatha says, like she understands it perfectly. “You’ve conditioned yourself, honey.” 

Learning about psychology while you’re fucking yourself is something you never thought you’d experience, but for some reason, it’s only making you hotter. 

Fucking Morgan because she smelled like Agatha. Spraying Black Opium over yourself while you masturbated while thinking of Agatha. Smelling her sweater now while you have two fingers buried in yourself. 

The association may have been there from the beginning, but you’ve just been reinforcing and reinforcing. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, waves of pleasure washing through your body, almost to their peak. You’re just missing something. You thrust your fingers faster and rub your clit, feeling the tension about to snap. It’s just waiting for a final push.

But Agatha knows you, maybe even better than you know yourself right now. “You’re just so desperate to be mine, aren’t you?” You make a frantic, pathetic sound, nodding your head as though she can see you. You can almost hear her smirk through the phone and her voice drops an octave. “Then be a good girl and come for me.” 

There’s no use in trying to be quiet, not when your fingers slot just perfectly inside you and press against the spongy spot and your vision goes white and the dam of pleasure breaks inside you and rushes through every crook and crevice of your body. 

You can just faintly hear Agatha’s breath hitch over your heavy gasping slurring of words that are a mix between “Agatha” and “please” and “fuck,” and your mind flashes, showing you images of her having her own orgasm after hearing you moan for her. 

It does little to quench the searing heat and hunger inside of you but Agatha clears her throat and you slow down your thrusts inside of you. Your cunt still aches but you suspect that it might never stop with Agatha around. 

“You okay, hon?” she asks, back to normal. 

Meanwhile, you’re a ragged mess. “I’m okay,” you rasp. “Are you?” You’re asking for more than that though. You really want to know if she was touching herself. 

But Agatha just says, “I am.” 

You could be straightforward about it, but you think your professor is being deliberately evasive. 

There’s a moment of silence before she starts to speak again. “Think you’ll be able to focus on studying now?” 

“I’ll try my best,” you vow. Her sweater still on you makes it feel like she’s giving you a hug and you bury into it, wanting that sense of comfort because you know she’s about to hang up. 

“I know you will,” she coos. “Let me know if you have any more questions. I really want you to do well on this exam too.” 

The underlying implication is clear and makes you shiver even though fire roars in your stomach. 

She wants you as bad as you want her.

——

The next morning, you’re purposely late to Agatha’s class. 

You calculated it. If you got out of bed ten minutes later and sat down with Wanda and Nat in the dining hall until eight-fifty, then even if you jogged to the psychology building, you’d be cutting it real close. 

But when you stroll through campus, you get there five minutes late. Just as you intended. 

Agatha might be mad at you and you’re fully prepared to get called out by her for it, but you don’t care because you want to make sure that her attention is on you as you enter the room. 

Mainly so you can see her reaction to you. Her hickey on the side of your throat from the bathroom yesterday is red and visible and you didn’t put an ounce of concealer on it. You wear it like a badge of honor even though there’s no mistaking what it is. You have her sweater on too, which falls down your body to practically cover the shortest skirt you own so it looks like you’re wearing the sweater and nothing else. 

And when you open the door to her class after you look through the window to confirm that Agatha is lecturing, you get exactly the reaction you were hoping for. 

Your professor stops speaking and looks up at you and you see the moment she realizes. Her eyes glaze over just the slightest and her lips part—there’s a yearning hunger in her gaze. 

It’s hard not to smirk as you cross the room to slide into your chair. You meet her stare. “Sorry I’m late, Professor.” 

She falters for a moment, like she’s rendered speechless. You doubt anyone else in the class notices and you arch your eyebrow, like you’re waiting for her to say something. 

Agatha has a chestnut corduroy button-down vest on with a matching long skirt that falls to just above her ankles and black heels. Her wavy hair seems almost golden-brown as it tumbles down her shoulders and her silver hoop earrings catch the ceiling light. 

She leans on her elbows which are resting on the desk and your eyes are drawn to the lean muscle that flexes in her biceps while she figures out what to do with you. You wonder what it would be like to run your tongue up the crease. 

But then she finally straightens up. “See me in my office after class and we’ll discuss your tardiness.” 

A thrill runs through you and you nod meekly, putting on a show for the rest of your classmates. 

Agatha clicks to the next slide and you quickly get your notebook and pen out. “As I was saying before we were interrupted—” she shoots you a glance and you smile sweetly at her, “neurotransmitters are chemicals that help relay information between the neurons in the Central Nervous System. The nerve impulses travel from the axon of one neuron to the dendrite of the other over the synaptic cleft.” 

If she hadn’t briefly started going over this with you yesterday, you would be completely lost. Even now, you’re still confused. 

“The two main neurotransmitters are dopamine and serotonin. Dopamine is both a neurotransmitter and a hormone, but we’re only going to focus on it as the former. It gives you the feeling of movement, satisfaction, motivation—” she looks at you again, the corner of her mouth quirked up, “and pleasure.”

Your hand freezes and you feel your cheeks grow warm. 

“Too much dopamine has been associated with schizophrenia, while too little has been associated with Parkinson’s disease.” 

Agatha gives everyone a moment to finish writing it all down. You bite your lip and look at her innocently while tilting your neck slightly to the side so her mark on you is brandished proudly. She shakes her head almost indiscernibly—a warning to stop teasing. But you reach up and press on the bruise with your finger; the jolt it gives you causes more pleasure than pain.

She ruffles her hair, more flustered than she’s letting on, and moves on in a hurry. “Serotonin plays a role in regulating mood and emotions, sleep, appetite, and digestion. Low levels have been linked to anxiety and depression. Too much serotonin can cause weakness, fever, hallucinations, and irritability to name a few things. It’s important to have a chemical balance with neurotransmitters because if there isn’t, a lot of things can go wrong.”

Next slide.

“Meanwhile, hormones are chemicals that travel through the bloodstream that are produced by the endocrine system. The three main sources are the hypothalamus, the gonads, and the adrenal cortex. Examples of hormones are testosterone, estrogen, insulin, adrenaline, and cortisol. We won’t go much into these, though I’m more than happy to answer any questions you have about them during office hours.”

Extra studying on these things will definitely be warranted. 

“And of course, we have to talk about the nature versus nurture debate,” Agatha says. 

This is the only part of the biological approach you feel like you’re not struggling with. The nature side believes that personality is determined by genetics, while the nurture side believes it’s determined by the environment we grow up in. You’re pretty sure you’ve heard about it in every single psychology class you’ve taken in college.

“In an experiment to test which side is ‘more correct,’ the IQs of identical twins raised apart, step-siblings or adopted children raised together, and complete strangers were compared to see if there was any genetic or environmental correlation, or none at all. Identical twins raised apart share one-hundred percent of genes but zero percent of the environment and vice versa for step-siblings or adopted children, while strangers would have zero percent in both. There was zero correlation in the IQ of strangers, a mild positive correlation for the step-siblings or adopted children, and a strong positive correlation for identical twins raised apart.”

She pauses to let that sink in and even though you already typed most of this in on the study guide yesterday, you still hurry to copy it all down onto your paper. 

“So both genes and environment play a role in personality, but it would appear that genes have more influence.”

Agatha glances at you, as if asking for your opinion, and you shrug. Her lips curl into a thin smile. 

“And that’s the biological approach. On Wednesday, we’ll go over the study guide for the exam on Friday so bring any questions or things you want to go back over to class. Other than that, everyone have a good rest of your day.”

You stay seated while your classmates scurry out of the room. Agatha examines you curiously until they all leave.

“Want to tell me why you were late today?” she asks and you sit up before stuffing your notebook into your bag. 

You get out of your chair and she walks toward you. For a second, it seems that she might kiss you, but she steps right by you and moves toward the door. You follow in a haste, trying to think of something witty to say back. “Had to figure out what to wear,” is the best you come up with, but when Agatha tosses a look over her shoulder at you in the hallway, you smirk. 

She doesn’t respond until she opens the door to her office, lets you in, and then shuts the door behind her. “You know,” she sighs, strolling around her desk to plop into her chair, “sometimes you’re such a good girl, but then other times, you’re just a brat.” Her tone is meant to cut and discourage but it only excites you. 

“Maybe you should do something about that then,” you breathe, and when she meets your eyes again, you see how dilated her pupils are now. 

I think you like me like this.

It’s what you said to her at the mixer, when she scolded you for sending her teasing pictures while getting dressed. 

Maybe, she had answered. 

But the look on her face is saying a lot more than maybe. 

“I won’t reward you for bad behavior,” Agatha tells you matter-of-factly and you sink like silk into the chair across from her. “But…you might get punished.” 

There’s something about the tone with which she says that that makes you think it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be punished by her. Especially if it ends with a reward for corrected behavior. 

“Oh, yeah?” you prompt with a teasing smile. 

Agatha shoots you down with just one glance. “How are you feeling about the test?” 

“Not too bad,” you say with a shrug. “I have a lot of time this week to study. I really am trying.” You add this just in case you do poorly for any reason, because she has to know that you want more than anything to do well. 

Her face softens. “I know, honey. And it’s okay.” You take that to mean that whatever happens, it will be okay. Whatever is going on between you might not be broken. 

And that gives you a huge sense of relief. 

“So…did you bring me here just to reprimand me for being late?” The suggestion in your tone is clear and Agatha snorts. 

She shakes her head. “No, I actually have something for you.” Your heart skips a beat as she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a small box before setting it in front of you. 

Your breath catches in your throat. The box is black with gold lining the edges and a white strip across the lower-middle part of it. 

It’s perfume. 

Good Girl by Carolina Herrera. 

“Oh,” you rasp, gingerly reaching out to touch it like it might turn to dust. Agatha smirks triumphantly as you open it. 

Inside, sits the bottle in the shape of a high heel. The glass is sleek and smoky blue and the tall heel is a shimmery gold. You pick it up and hold the firm weight in your hands, your finger finding the button on the counter to spray it. 

“Go on,” Agatha husks. 

It feels strangely intimate when you spray and a puff of perfume spurts out, filling the air with the scent of almonds, jasmine and tuberose, cocoa, and coffee. It’s light and dark at the same time, bright and elegant, and you can’t help but wonder if Agatha will get conditioned to this the same way you have to Black Opium. 

“Thank you,” you say, looking up at her earnestly. 

She smiles genuinely. “Of course, honey. And if you do have any more questions, just let me know I’m always happy to help.” She winks and you smirk. Even though making out with your professor might not be a good way to spend valuable time instead of studying, it would certainly make you feel better. “However, I do have to run to a meeting, so I’m afraid I’ll have to see you later.” 

“Oh—yeah, no worries.” You carefully put the perfume back into the box and tuck it into your bag while Agatha grabs her laptop and a notepad and stands up. 

You walk out with her, and as she’s chatting with you about your plans for the weekend—which makes you think she’s planning for the reward—Rio walks in through the doors that you and Agatha are going straight for. 

Time seems to move slowly and it’s like your eyes are locked with Rio’s as she walks right by you and you can’t look away. Does Agatha even notice her? 

The corner of Rio’s mouth tugs up and she rolls her eyes, seemingly annoyed that you didn’t listen to her. 

But then Agatha stops right before the exit and points to the door to the stairwell. She smiles and reaches out to touch your arm, a friendly pat to anyone but you as it sends sparks racing down to your cunt. 

And Rio is completely forgotten.

——

The bar by campus is crowded, even on a Wednesday night. You know you shouldn’t be here but studying has been draining so when Wanda and Nat invited you to go out with them, you jumped at the chance for a break. 

You remember a teacher from your past saying that breaks were actually necessary to let your brain learn things unconsciously. 

Or it was something like that. 

Plus you figured there was no way Agatha would be here since this is the place usually only college kids frequent. It’s loud and dirty but the alcohol is cheap. 

You buy the first round of shots and it goes down with a grimace. 

“Oh, look!” Wanda says, pointing at a paper that’s pinned up on the wall. “It’s trivia night!” She sends Nat to go sign up while she buys a second round. 

Dinner at the dining hall wasn’t very good tonight, so you don’t have a lot in your stomach and you already feel a slight buzz running through you. 

This is what you need, you think. Get a little drunk, do some trivia, hang out with friends. You have tomorrow and Friday morning for last minute studying, and you’re feeling pretty good now. Review today in class was helpful as Agatha went through the study guide again and pointed out certain things you should pay extra attention to. 

Although you didn’t get any time to talk to her after in her office, you had been the last person in the room again. You had stood up as she walked over and she leaned in and dragged her nose along the column of your throat. Her own perfume filled your nostrils and your body had erupted in goosebumps. 

“You’re wearing it,” she whispered, pulling back. You nodded, seeing the darkness swallow up the blue in her eyes. “Good girl.” 

You lost a good thirty minutes time you could’ve spent studying after that because you were replaying her saying that over and over in your mind while you fingered yourself. 

“Here we go!” Nat whoops, coming back over and downing the shot that Wanda got her. She slams the answer sheet and pencil down between you and Wanda snatches it. “It starts in fifteen minutes. Want to dance?” 

Wanda enthusiastically agrees but you shake your head, so you become the keeper of the answer sheet. While Nat pulls her girlfriend to the floor, you turn the pencil over with your fingers and quiz yourself. 

Projection tests: Rorschach Inkblot and Thematic Apperception. 

Single trait approach: only studying one trait, like Milgram’s obedience study. 

Neurotransmitters: dopamine and serotonin. 

They run dendrite to axon. 

Your forehead wrinkles as you second-guess. Dendrite to axon? Or axon to dendrite? 

Fuck. 

You make a mental note to look that up later. It’s like there’s a block in your brain now and you can’t stop staring at the floor in front of you—you think you must be getting a little tipsy. 

Another glass gets handed to you and you look up to see Nat standing there. You’re not sure how long they’ve been dancing for, but you have another shot now and you take it quickly. 

It hits you almost immediately. The room blurs in and out of focus and you’re a little embarrassed that this is you after three shots. Nat and Wanda seem to be feeling it a little in the way they’re dancing though so at least you’re not the only one. 

You laugh out loud—the last time you were dancing with someone was on your date with Morgan last week, when you had been trying to rile Agatha up. 

It had worked. 

Agatha…

What is she doing right now? It’s not very late, is she eating dinner? Watching television? In bed? 

The thought makes your head spin and skin sear. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you pull your phone out of your too-short jeans and text her. 

Heyyy Professor. What are you up to?

Nat pulls a giggling Wanda back over and yells over the music that trivia is starting soon. Your phone buzzes right as you turn to order another shot. 

I’m just finishing inputting some grades for another class. What are you up to? 

You take your fourth shot and then let yourself be dragged to a table by your friends. They’re bickering about who’s going to write the answers down while a pleasant numbness settles into your body. 

Just thinking about you! I’m really excited for my reward ;)

“So,” Nat drawls, proppy her chin up in her palm and staring at you, “want to explain that hickey on your neck from the other day?” 

An alarm starts to flash through the haze in your brain and you struggle to think of something to say that isn’t the truth. You promised Agatha it would be your secret and even though you trust Wanda and Nat with your life, you know you can’t tell them. 

“I’m kind of talking to someone from a class,” you say, some of the words stuck together. Technically not a lie.  

Wanda gasps theatrically and your phone buzzes again. You fight to keep your attention on your roommate. “Spill! Why haven’t you said anything yet?” 

You shrug half-heartedly. “It’s just a…I’m not really sure what it is yet. But I really like her. Like really.” 

“When do we get to meet her?” Nat asks coyly and you freeze. Never. You can’t. She’s my professor. 

“Definitely not for a while,” you choke out.

Nat peers at you suspiciously, but drops it. With the interrogation being over, you’re free to look at your phone again.

You have to earn your reward first, honey. Are you drunk right now?

It takes you a few times to read it before you understand what she’s saying and asking and then your brows furrow. She’s trying to trick you—if you say yes, she might get mad, but if you say no, she might be able to tell that you’re lying. 

So you ignore the question entirely. 

I want to. I need to. I will. 

Agatha replies three minutes after she reads it, which seems like an eon to you. In the background, you hear the trivia host announcing the first question but you have complete tunnel vision on Agatha's response. 

I have no doubt.

She’s being cagey and you don’t like it. But before you can do something about it, Wanda elbows you gently. “Do you know who won the baseball World Series in 2016?” 

It seems absolutely absurd that anyone would know that. “Definitely not,” you say, shaking your head solemnly, and Nat sighs before writing down a random team. 

Back to your professor. You know she likes when you use your words so maybe that will help right now. You’re not sure what you’re expecting to happen, but it won’t hurt to find out.

I really fucking like you. 

I think about you all the time. 

God, you might be really embarrassed the next time you see her. Or just tomorrow when you wake up in general. It seems like she knows you're drunk so maybe she'll cut you some slack. That could also be why she isn't engaging in the conversation as much as she normally does.

“Quick, who’s the most decorated Olympian of all time?” Wanda hisses. 

Thoughts run together in your head but you know this one. “Michael Phelps,” you say confidently and Nat nods before writing it down. You peer at the paper and see that your friends have answered six questions already. 

You feel slightly bad that you’re being absolutely no help—other than that last question—but it doesn’t take much to forget about that. You tap on your phone and realize that Agatha still hasn’t texted you back. 

Which would be fine, because you know that she’s doing work, but you’re a bit impatient and illogical when you’re drunk.

So you text her again. 

I like the way you smell. 

There’s a dopey grin on your face when you send it and you imagine Agatha blushing when she reads it. That will get her attention. 

And just as you suspected, she finally reads your messages and the bubble pops up. 

So it seems, honey. 

You frown, desperate to make her understand just how much you like her perfume. It doesn’t even faze you that she didn’t respond to any of your other texts. Your thumbs fly and you mumble the message to yourself to make sure it makes sense before sending it. Thankfully the music is too loud and neither of your friends hear it.

After the mixer I rubbed it against myself before I made myself come. Felt so good cause it smells like you. 

Will she like that? Will it turn her on to know that?

You picture Agatha now, cheeks flushed and dark eyes, and it sends a blaring heat through you. 

But the alcohol has adequately done its job and you have to put your phone away because the screen is making you dizzy. You’re vaguely aware of Nat slamming down the pencil on the table because you didn’t win trivia and Wanda taking it before she can do it again. 

One of them grabs your wrist and leads you out of the bar. Nat calls an Uber and it seems like both one second and thirty minutes before it appears. Terms and definitions from Agatha’s class swirl around in your head nonsensically until you think that dopamine is the bigger reward in the delay of gratification study. 

Is that true? You’re not sure. Nothing is making sense. 

You just wish Agatha was here with you. 

Somehow, when you open your eyes, you’re back in your room. You don’t remember getting out of the uber or walking upstairs, but now you’re in your bed and Wanda and Nat are already passed out in the bed on the other side of the room. 

It’s an instinct to reach over into your nightstand, at this point. Your fingers close around the bottle you know so well by now. You struggle to sit up, holding very still for a second so you don’t throw up everywhere, and then spritz. 

Coffee, vanilla, and spice fills the air and the mist floats down onto your pillow. You drop back down and the vial isn’t in your hands anymore. You inhale deeply and while you feel the unmistakable pull in your cunt, you feel comforted too.

Like Agatha’s laying right next to you. 

The perfume is a warm blanket, almost as good as your professor’s embrace would be, and you fall asleep in no time.  

——

When you wake up Thursday morning, you’re blissfully unaware of what happened yesterday night, until the memories come flooding back to you with a dull throb in your head. 

One shot. 

And then another shot. 

Nat pushing yet another into your hand. 

Texting Agatha. 

Another shot. 

Texting Agatha again. 

Fuck. 

You groan and roll over in your bed to see Wanda and Nat still passed out, limbs intertwined with each other. Nat’s lips are parted and she’s lightly snoring. 

The sunlight streaming in through your blinds creates a mirage of slits on the dorm floor and you have to squint at your dresser. The bottle of Black Opium sits there, next to your phone that isn’t plugged in. The vial explains the lingering, familiar scent on your pillowcase. 

You rub your forehead as you reach over to grab your phone and it’s dead. Because of course. 

It takes you a few minutes of blindly fumbling between the edge of your bed and your nightstand to find the charger but you finally grab onto the cord. You settle back into bed while you wait for your phone to come back to life. You can still taste the alcohol on your breath but your head feels like it’s full of cotton at the moment, so you’re not very motivated to get out of bed to do anything. 

Skipping your classes today has never sounded so appealing. Plus you lost an entire evening of studying last night, a choice you don’t regret because you needed to blow off some steam, but all the more reason to stay in your bed all day. If you skip a class to study for another class, does it really count? 

You’re slowly becoming convinced that it doesn’t. 

It’s not like you haven’t skipped before. You just always try to pretend for as long as you can that this will be the semester you don’t. 

But there’s a part of you that’s worried your absence will somehow get back to Agatha and she’ll be disappointed in you. She’s mentioned the department being tight-knit and while you may just be a little paranoid to think that she would actively check in on how you’re doing, you’re still a bit worried. You’re not sure that she would see your excuse of studying for her exam as valid, even though she knows that there’s a lot on the line. 

Even though you’ve been studying every day, you’re still nervous. There’s been pressure on you before, but never with an incentive like this. You can’t help but wonder what will happen if you don’t do well. There’s still some things on the biology side that stump you, and no matter how many times you practice the flashcards, you can’t seem to get it right. What if she puts questions about those on the test?

Calm down. Agatha likes you. She wouldn’t base your entire relationship off of a grade.

It’s not super convincing though. 

There’s still time, you remind yourself. You don’t have class until later and you have time in-between before your next class, plus the whole evening. Agatha also has office hours today, even though you’re not sure if you’d be able to focus at all with her. 

Everything since the mixer last Saturday has been building to tomorrow. You’ve felt it, she’s felt it: the tension that just keeps growing, the electricity that seems to crackle when you stand too close, the tug in your gut that connects you to her. 

All it would take at this point is one whiff of her perfume and there would be no hope of actually retaining any of the information you need to, no matter how well she’s explaining it. 

So office hours might be off the table at this point, just because of how important this is. 

Unless she’s mad about last night—you can’t remember what you texted her—and decides to hold off on the reward, no matter how well you do on the test. 

Would Agatha do that? You really hope not. 

Your phone finally charges enough for the screen to turn on and you quickly open your texts with your professor and scroll back to the beginning of last night. Thankfully, it doesn’t take you too long—maybe the damage is minimal. 

But as you read through, your heart sinks lower and lower. You were quite forward with these and Agatha seemed very unimpressed. She could clearly tell that you were drunk and she was not amused. Her responses do feel familiar and you vaguely remember reading each word separately in your drunken haze at the bar to try to string them together. 

And when you reach the bottom, where you admitted that you rubbed your vial of Black Opium against your clit after she kissed you at the mixer (you don’t think you’re ever going to drink again because that has to be even worse than the hangover you have right now), you almost fall off your bed when you see that she sent you three messages after that. Three messages that you’re now seeing for the first time. 

One from right after you sent your last text.

I’ll make sure to keep that in mind. 

The next was sent about thirty minutes after that. 

I hope you’ve gotten back to your dorm safely. 

You didn't even tell her you were out. You're not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that she figured that out. At least it seems like she's not too mad—and her concern is sweet.

But then you get to the last one. 

From this morning, about an hour ago. You swallow roughly, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. This could be going either way for you. 

Come see me in my office today whenever you get a chance. 

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