zia

this is wrong.

the words pulsed through every slippered footstep you took towards the kiramman estate. through every whispered hush of stocking on stay as you walked. through every swish of a ringlet and the passing brush of a lady's maid's skirt.

caitlyn kiramman. your lover, the unrelentingly sweet poison in every breath you took. she was every part piltover's darling, blue eyes like melting glaciers, navy hair as sleek as an untouched stretch of ocean beneath the stars. she was controlled, perfect, drip feeding praise and chastisement alike to the ladies of the ton until they knelt at her dainty feet.

where caitlyn was decorum, you were disaster. your family was new money, in comparison with the eons of rich old aristocrats she was descended from. and this was why you were under much more scrutiny than she, scrutiny that more often than not emphasised your… failings. the time you showed up to lady alexander's summer solstice ball and spilt an entire serving of trifle down her husband's doublet, for example, or the instance when your run-away horse trampled lord hastings' perfect english roses. you were not perhaps built for the ton, for its world of layers and gossip and secrecy. and maybe… just maybe, that was why caitlyn was drawn to you.

her entire family's initial reaction to yours was disdain, as to be expected, their legacy was practically written into the foundation of piltover itself. you and Caitlyn of course, had to be civil, there was no need to show petty weakness in polite society. what began as her despising you, willing to trip you up at every turn, slowly melted into something sweeter, something forbidden. your very own apple in your nineteenth century garden of eden.

under the guise of keeping up appearances, you and caitlyn would often step out together, traversing piltover's gardens and markets. she… wasn't what you expected. there were days when she had her tempers, sudden stillness and harsh words that cut past whalebone and silk alike. but then there were the days where she'd slip your arm in hers like it meant everything and nothing, where she'd make you laugh until you cried in a most undignified manner. this afternoon was different, though. you could tell from the movement you approached the gates of the kiramman estate.

there was something unreadable in Caitlyn's gaze as she met you there, resplendent in silk the colour of pearls and sea spray, smelling faintly of lavender and gunpowder. 'tell me, my dear.' she murmured in that lilting way of hers as she steered you towards the gardens, 'have you quite missed me?'

you laughed softly, gloved hand resting atop her own as you ducked beneath the grove of willow trees, wildflowers swaying beneath the setting afternoon sun. 'lady kiramman..' you began, tucking an escaped ringlet behind your ear as you glanced sideways at her. 'that is a rather presumptuous question.' you were teasing, and she knew it, but her gloved fingers found your wrist anyway, tugging just enough to still you beneath the bow of an oak. 'darling..' she murmured, soft, breathless, indulgent. she brought a hand up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking slowly over your cheekbone. 'i demand an answer.' she purred, accent thick against your lips as she leant in, sharp blue eyes finding yours, sure as a crosshair. 'caitlyn, i-' your breath hitched in your throat, but she held you still, unflinching, until the words spilled free.

'yes.' you murmured, low and quiet as your hand came up to rest over hers. 'i have missed you, darling, every second my name is not on your lips, every second i have not been screaming yours.' she smiled at that, at this moment between you. hushed and secret in the darkening gardens. you pressed closer, the movement clumsy as her arms slid around your waist, warm even through the tortuous layers between you. 'you are divine, a rose in a garden of rotten english sensibility.' she breathed, nose nudging against yours as she gently backed you towards the fountain, her hands steady where yours shook. your eyes fluttered shut as she finally pressed her lips to yours, bracing you against the stone lip of the fountain with a breathless laugh against your mouth. she kissed you like she had all the hours in the world to do so, soft lips moving slow and languid, tongue teasing against yours. 'darling, wait-' you pulled back, panting as you rested a hand against her chest. 'we are not exactly… in private. what if someone-' she swallowed your next words with another kiss, clearing your mind of doubts as her hands slid beneath your thighs, helping you perch on the edge of the fountain.

'i wish our time together was not so fragile.' she murmured, almost feverish as she kissed her way down your throat, hands molding to your hips as you gasped, perfect ringlets slipping free beneath her fingers. adrenaline crackled sharp through the moment as she slid to her knees in front of you, uncaring of the grass stains seeping into her skirt.

'darling… may i?'

at your desperate nod, she smiled, warm and just for you as she hitched the brocade of your skirt up your thighs, stays pushed aside and undergarments quickly discarded. 'you are heaven on earth, my love. i do not care if the lord smites me for saying as such.' caitlyn groaned, gloves torn free with her teeth as she pressed your thighs apart. 'if this is my altar, i am worshipping the only god i ever wish to.' and with that, she dipped her head, devouring you like she would never get enough. her tongue worked slow slides from your dripping entrance to your clit in expert motions as her nails dug into your thighs, moaning at the taste of you. you gasped sharply, one hand fisting in her hair and the other curling tight around the stone lip of the fountain, twilight beginning to sink around the two of you. 'cait, god-' you cried out, back arching as your hips jerked against her mouth, your aching clit sucked between her teeth as she watched you fall apart.

'careful, darling.' she pulled away, slick marring her perfect pale skin as she caught her breath, 'you must not be so loud, as much as i wish for you to be. we are still in public, after all.' you just nodded weakly, thighs wrapping around her head as she pressed back in, tongue fucking you in ruthless strokes that punched soft whines from your throat.

that familiar heat curled in your gut as your fingers tightened in her navy locks, stone digging into your thighs as you writhed above her, the pressure on both your clit from her nose and your sweet spot from her tongue almost dizzying. as if she could sense you were getting close, those icy blue eyes flicked up to yours, warm and encouraging. 'there you go, darling.' she exhaled, one hand sliding up to thumb at your clit. 'break for me.' she murmured, just as she slid two slender fingers inside you, tongue back on your clit.

you slammed a hand over your mouth as you shattered, thighs clamping around her head as you arched, riding the waves of aftershocks out on her tongue, dress sweaty and ruined as your corset dug into your ribs. caitlyn pulled back, laughing breathlessly as she wiped her glistening mouth on your thigh, that perfect blue hair finally mussed. 'my, darling. you are just heaven-sent.' she sighed, rolling her shoulders as she stood. she offered you a hand, still smiling as you took it. 'come, let us get you home. before your mother begins to worry one of the gentlemen of the ton has corrupted her little darling.'

caitlyn's laugh mingled with yours as you slid your arm through hers. 'of course, if she saw the bruises on your-' 'caitlyn!' your scandalised gasp only earned you more laughter as you let her walk you home to your estate, stays and heart thoroughly ruined.

a/n: comment to be added to my perma taglist 💗

“Caitlyn, I’m not Vi…” you muttered, voice soft, meek— like you were scared of bringing her back to reality.

Caitlyn paused, fingers stilling. “Oh.” She didn’t apologise, she didn’t even comfort you. Just oh. She moved back— slightly. “Right. Hey— I’m sorry— would it be okay if we just ended it here?”

You stared at her for a bit, not really knowing what to say but then you just nodded.

Caitlyn wiped her fingers clean before she glanced at you again. “You sure you okay?”

You nodded again, forcing a smile.

Caitlyn shrugged it off.

She didn’t press. She didn’t ask you any further.

“You should sleep, really. It’s late.”

Caitlyn mumbled before she reached up and clicked the lamp off. Pitch darkness swallowed the both of you and you remained there, laying beside quietly.

No aftercare. No praise. Nothing.

She even called you the wrong name. And you stayed because…? Well, you cared. You cared for Caitlyn in ways you were sure Vi didn’t. If she did, she would be in her life right now. You looked to your right. Caitlyn was already curled on the other side of the bed.

Deep asleep.

You sighed softly and turned to the other side. Your body was aching from intercourse. All you wished for desperately was Caitlyn’s love. Her care.

Your eyes fluttered shut— warm tears burning the corners of your eyes.

Maybe you could sleep it off.

×××

You woke up late, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your hand as you pushed yourself to sit up.

Caitlyn was sitting on the bed by the edge, next to you. “Oh, you’re awake.”

You blinked at her. “What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“You never come here and wait till I wake up.” You said, voice still rasped from sleep.

“Oh, right.” Caitlyn looked away as if she couldn’t look you in the eye while she said her next words, “look, I’ve had a great time while I was with you and I really respect that. And I respect you… but, I just—”

“Cait.” You placed a hand on hers. “You can talk to me.”

Caitlyn slowly slipped her hand out of yours as if your touch had burnt her. You could swear you felt your heart break. You swallowed.

“I’m breaking up with you.”

“Oh.” That’s all that you managed. “That’s… that’s definitely unexpected.” You sat up straighter. “Did I… did I do something?”

“No.” Caitlyn stood up. “Look, I’m sorry. Don’t make this harder. I want you packing and gone. Soon. I’ll— uh— leave you to it.”

“Cait, don’t just— Cait!”

You called after her but she marched out of the door like she had a train to catch. You looked down at your blanket-covered lap, tears stinging your eyes again.

Why did things have to go this way?

Maybe she was still out there.

Maybe you could talk her out of it.

You got up, and quickly pulled on a robe, stumbling to the door. You heard voices on the other side.

“So did you tell her?”

Then Caitlyn’s panicked voice came, “yeah, I did. She didn’t seem too happy. What if she creates— like— this big drama?!”

“She won’t.”

“But—”

“Caitlyn.” That was Vi’s voice. “She won’t do shit. If she does, she’ll have me to answer to.”

You placed a hand on the door, the tears finally breaking free and rolling down your cheeks. Slowly, you pushed the door open.

Vi’s head snapped to the side, eyes wide when she saw you there as was Caitlyn’s.

“Shit.”

You smiled a little. “Don’t worry, I won’t— I won’t bother you both. I’m— I’m really glad you both— y’know— patched things up.”

Caitlyn looked away, lips pursed. “Mhm, thanks.”

“Mhm…” you offered a last smile before turning and disappearing into the bedroom.

Tears blurred your vision, but you pushed yourself to pack— fast.

Because you knew— you didn’t have a place here. You were just a replacement to Caitlyn.

“Ms. Kiramman, we shouldn’t be doing this here.” You whispered.

“Yeah? Are you scared?” She asked, tilting your face up with her thumb under your chin, “scared of getting caught? Ruining your pristine reputation?”

She smelled so good. Your brain was mushy. You could barely think.

“No, I’m not scared…”

“Then do what I tell you to do. You’re my assistant. Your sole responsibility is to listen and to serve.”

You nodded. “Yes, it is…”

“Good girl,” Caitlyn smirked, “you make me proud when you listen. You want to keep doing that, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yes… I want you to be proud.”

“Good.” Caitlyn pressed her thigh between both of yours. “You wanna hump that for me now?”

“I’ll do what you want me to do.”

“Then grind. Rub. Cum.”

Your cheeks flushed a bright shade of red. You didn’t know if you could do it. You were pretty inexperienced when it came to sex anyway… and the idea of cumming from that alone sounded surreal and something that only had reality in porn.

“But I don’t think I can just cum from that.”

“It’s alright.” Caitlyn’s leg raised higher, rubbing your pussy through your clothes. “Y’know you want to. You’re just shy.”

“I’m unsure.”

“You’re shy.”

“I’m shy.”

“Yes, that’s right, precious,” Caitlyn chuckled.

You were being so good for her. Caitlyn’s fingers pushed inside you— working diligently and curling exactly where you wanted her to curl them. Your g-spot— oh, it only took her about half a minute to find it. That soft spongy spot inside you that she rubbed and stroked until you were struggling to contain yourself and the filthy moans of pleasure that threatened to leak from your kiss-swollen lips.

“You’re doing good, darling, don’t disappoint me.” Caitlyn said, her voice was soft but it wasn’t gentle. It was practiced…

Your eyes rolled back, body responding to her touch before your brain could keep up. You were pushing back as if your life depended on it, clit throbbing with need as her fingers reached deeper— places you yourself couldn’t ever stimulate yourself when you pleasured yourself. Caitlyn was too good at this.

Too good to have made you suspect anything.

Way too good.

Your lips parted again— “oh, Ms. Kiramman,” you were slumped against the wall of the cramped supply closet, your body trembling due to how Caitlyn made you feel.

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m right here. You’re doing fine,” she whispered, “just stay quiet for me a little longer.”

You nodded, tossing your head back as your pussy squeezed around her fingers, wet and needy— you were so close. The knot in your tummy tightened impossibly before snapping and you came in a violent gush of liquids.

“That’s my good girl…”

Caitlyn pulled her fingers out, and slowly inserted them in your mouth. You let her, and sucked her fingers clean as she moved them back and forth to make sure you cleaned them off properly.

“Now get back to work.”

“Ms. Kir—”

“Shhh, sweetheart, what happened here doesn’t go around, okay?”

“Okay...”

After that one time, Caitlyn had gotten colder with you. It was as if she hadn’t just fingered you in a supply closet, hadn’t just called you her sweetheart and hadn’t just left you wanting more.

“Get these done by 12 pm, and mark my meetings on the calendar.”

“Ms. Kiramman?”

“What? Don’t waste my time.”

“Um— I was… I was wondering about, y’know, what happened back at the—”

“Don’t bring that up.” Caitlyn looked up, eyes narrowed, cold beyond reason, “if you cannot put your personal life and work apart, you’re not worthy of holding the assistant position in this department.”

Your breath hitched, heart breaking at the strength of her words alone. “Right— sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Clearly you were not.”

“Mhm, right.” You picked up the documents she’d put at the edge of the desk for you to sort out, “sorry, I’ll— I’ll get the work done.”

“Make it flawless.”

“Yes, miss.”

-------

“What the hell is this?” Caitlyn looked up, her voice was so cold you swore you got the goosebumps.

“Yes…?”

“This is all wrong.” She tossed the documents to the floor. “Redo it. I expect perfection. Nothing less.”

You swallowed, shoulders dropping as humiliation painted your cheeks a bright shade of red. You couldn’t fathom the way she treated you. The intimate moments you both had shared in the closet flashed in your head as you knelt and picked up the papers carefully, smoothing them out and stacking them.

“I’m sorry,” the words escaped your lips before you could stop them.

“I don’t care.” Caitlyn sat in her seat, leaning back and taking a deep breath, “show me how sorry you are by working overtime, maybe I’ll consider keeping you when we make cuts then.”

Her words stung.

How many hours you worked seemed to be what your worth was based on.

You stood up, the papers in both hands, “understood.”

“You’re dismissed.”

You left.

You still couldn’t stop thinking about her words though— when she said you were a good girl for her, when she called you sweetheart. You felt stupid for trusting her, for letting her take advantage of you and your stupid fucking feelings. Tears burned your eyes.

“Fuck it.” You whispered under your breath as you sat behind your desk.

She wasn’t like this. She wasn’t like this before you hooked up with her. It was as if… having sex with her ruined your value in her eyes and reduced you to work hours and submission. Your teeth ground together— bitter feelings piling on top of each other.

How could you let her just use you like that?

-------

“I’m done.”

Caitlyn looked up, not speaking.

“I’m tired of getting walked all over by you.” You said firmly, “I’m quitting.”

“You don’t have another job lined up.” Caitlyn stated, it was the truth. But it stung nevertheless, “do you really think someone else is going to ever hire you if I call every significant company out there and tell them not to?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you walked up to her desk, inches away from her, “you’re weak for relying this heavily on your status for any and every power you possess over others.”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched at the corner, “if I were you, I’d shut up.”

“Well, you’ll never be me, you’ll never know what it’s like to be taken advantage of, because you’re the one who does that. You make me sick,” your last sentence held so much malice, that if you ever wanted to you still wouldn’t be able to take it back. Well, you’d never take it back, not after she hurt you like this.

Caitlyn’s lips pursed, “collect your last paycheck tomorrow. Now get out of my sight.”

“I was starting to think you’d never say that,” you tossed the resignation letter on her desk, “hope you don’t find another vulnerable assistant. Only a prayer can save you at this point.”

And with that, you left with plans of never ever looking back ever again.

------

You smiled back, weak but there, “I know, because I’m with you.”

The way you said that with such dependence on her— no one could have thought that Caitlyn could get addicted to that. She sucked in a sharp breath before kissing you. You kissed her back— sloppy, your fingers threading through her silky hair as she trailed the kisses down to your jaw.

“I’m gonna go set the bedroom up,” she whispered.

You nodded, “okay…”

She fluffed the pillows, made sure the blankets were neat and set up everything that you could need while at bed rest on the bedside table. Once she was sure that everything was perfect, Caitlyn walked back to where you were, picking you up bridal style again.

“I’m gonna take care of you so well from now,” Caitlyn kissed your forehead and walked back to the bedroom with you.

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” you leaned your head against her collarbone, not knowing this was the point in your life where you’d start losing all control.

Despite the days and days of medication and care you received, you didn’t seem to be getting well. You still couldn’t quite move your legs properly. Most of the time they felt too heavy to even lift up let alone walk. Caitlyn never judged you throughout it, she never acted as if she was grossed out by your condition. She was understanding…

“Well, baby, I need you to turn on your side. You need to take your medication.”

“What is that?” You asked, too loopy to have proper circumstantial sense.

“Don’t worry about it. You trust me, don’t you, doll?”

You nodded, turning to your side. Caitlyn was careful and methodical as she sunk the needle of the syringe in your flesh. Your eyes closed slowly as you felt your body getting injected with something. It made your legs feel heavier.

“Cait… What’s that?” You asked, your speech slightly slurred.

“Don’t worry about it, honey. Just trust me with this,” Caitlyn stroked your hair back, “you’re probably feeling so tired, aren’t you, baby? Why don’t you take some rest?”

You wanted to argue, but your eyes were already closing before you could fight your case.

“Cait… don’t… you’re… giving me weird… drugs.” You slurred before the world tilted and everything blacked out.

-------

When you woke up, Caitlyn was laid beside you. She was gently running one hand down your side, massaging the flesh as she did so.

“Cait… this isn’t right…”

“Why are you wet then?” Caitlyn asked, voice soft and gentle despite the gravity of the situation.

“I’m not wet.”

Caitlyn’s hand went past your panties waistband before you could even register it properly. Her fingers rubbed down your pussy lips, smearing your arousal all over your vulva as she teased you.

“What’s this mess for then, darling?” Caitlyn asked, “you’re not lying to me, are you?”

“I’m not— I— Cait, I’m scared,” you choked out.

“Aww, my sweet girl, come here,” Caitlyn cooed, bringing you in for a warm embrace.

Your tears soaked her shirt as you sobbed quietly in her arms. You couldn’t feel your legs. Your head felt heavy. You were no longer under the effect of the medication but it still had an effect on your lower body. You couldn’t move your legs if your life depended on it.

“Don’t you like it when I take over, babygirl?”

“W-what?” You looked up at her with your tear-soaked face.

“Don’t you like it when you don’t have to move even the slightest and all you need to worry about is looking pretty and sounding pretty for me?” Caitlyn stuck her hand down again, and slowly rubbed your clit in teasing circles, “think about it, princess, all you’d need to worry about is being my good little toy.”

“I— what if I can’t ever move again?”

“That’s alright, baby, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here, and I’ll take care of you. You like it when I do that, don’t you, baby? Don’t you want to relax and just let me do all the hard work, hmm?”

You swallowed hard. “Please… I want it inside.”

“That’s my girl.”

Caitlyn got up, and rummaged through the bedside table drawer for a packet of something familiar— a condom. She rolled the rubber over her already hardened and stiff cock before she positioned herself between your numb legs.

“Fuck me hard…” you whispered, your cheeks red with shame.

Why were you turned on by something so disturbing? Her bulbous cock head pressed against your tight opening as she pushed against it. You let out a shaky breath as you felt it slowly enter you. Caitlyn thrusted inside entirely, and bottomed out— her hands pinned yours down so you couldn’t squirm away.

“Cait… you’re big, oh… oh God…”

“Yeah, that’s okay, baby— fuck, you’re tight,” she drew in a sharp breath, and then exhaled slowly as she pulled out, “there, you’re loosening up…”

Caitlyn started slow and then she pounded in you with such speed that the bed beneath you both creaked loudly and obnoxiously. You tossed your head to the side, moaning loudly, eyebrows drawn tight together as your eyes snapped shut. Your pussy was clenching around Caitlyn so much that it was almost hard for her to thrust properly.

“That’s it— that’s my good girl. My good dependent girl,” Caitlyn slammed into your hole over and over again, enjoying the way your legs didn’t try to clamp shut.

She let go of your hands and grabbed your legs instead. They were heavy when you couldn’t voluntarily control them. Caitlyn slowly tugged both your legs over her shoulders, back of your knees resting on her shoulders as she pounded deeper in you. You gasped, clutching the sheets now.

“Cait! You’re deep! You’re so deep!”

You were sniffling, clit throbbing, drooling for more.

“Shh, quiet down, baby, let me take care of this needy hole,” Caitlyn said, her voice dangerously calm and steady for someone fucking at that velocity.

“Cait— Cait, please! I can’t, I’m— oh!”

Your head pressed into the pillows, hands fumbling with the blankets desperately before your pussy convulsed— an almost violent gush of squirt spraying out. Caitlyn herself was a little shocked at that, but then smirked. She held you down and pumped herself deeper for a bit longer until she finished herself in the condom.

Caitlyn pulled out slowly, licking her lips at the sight of your puffy pussy, “aww, did I mess my princess up too badly?”

“You’re mean,” you wiped at your face with your hands, “really mean…”

“Oh, my sweet girl…” Caitlyn kissed your forehead, “I’m sorry, baby, I got a little carried away.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” you murmured.

“Oh?”

“Shut up…”

Caitlyn chuckled and pulled back. She laid your legs down carefully and moved away from your body. You closed your eyes for a second, catching your breath. When you opened them again, Caitlyn was standing near your legs as she folded a sheet of wet wipe— she carefully wiped down your thighs and the residue of your cum, making sure that the uncomfortably sticky liquid was nowhere on you anymore.

Once she was done with that, she covered you in a fresh blanket and carried you (with the blanket) to set you on the single seater sofa across the bedroom, “stay right here for a bit, baby.”

You nodded, blanket covering the top of your head.

It didn’t take too long for Caitlyn to replace the sheets and tuck you back in bed, “don’t fall asleep just yet, love. I’ve gotta get you hydrated.”

You watched her pour you a glass of water, “thanks,” you mumbled as you took it.

“Of course.” Caitlyn smiled— and she smiled because she knew that the rest of the years of your life would go exactly like this.

Trapped in her control.

-------

Your brain just wouldn’t stop. You sat up, sweat drying on your forehead. You could barely focus. You sighed before swinging your legs down the edge of the bed. You needed to get away. You grabbed your bag, jacket and keys before storming down the steps, almost missing the last but you managed to catch yourself before you fell.

The door opened and the cold night air greeted you.

You flinched slightly, slipping the jacket on as you walked across the road. Thank god she didn’t live too far away. You weren’t mentally strong enough to drive.

The door opened before you could rap your knuckles against her wood or ring the bell— you paused. Everything froze.

“Why’re you back?”

Her voice was so cold she broke your heart in two without even trying, once again— just like she’d done several times before when you both were dating. You swallowed, hands twisting in your jacket pockets.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go—”

Caitlyn pulled the door, already shutting it on your face.

You panicked, and threw out a foot at the doorframe to block her from closing the door, “I had a fight with my parents.”

Caitlyn sighed. “Fine.”

She pushed the door open. She had a robe pulled over her night shirt and pajamas. She didn’t look too happy to see you but what could you expect from your ex? Things hadn’t really ended on the best note when it came to you both. Caitlyn was toxic, and you knew that— so you’d ended things but to be frank, you were a loner and she was the only person you didn’t cut off.

You’d expected her to cut you off, but then— she didn’t.

Maybe because she knew when push came to shove, she would be the first person you’d run to.

You were still in love.

Deep, deep love.

“Didn’t expect you to turn up at the doorstep of your toxic ex,” Caitlyn said, her voice cold as she poured herself a glass of water.

“I didn’t plan on coming here either,” you mumbled, “look, I’m sorry. I had nowhere else to go.”

“It’s fine.”

“Then stop holding it to me.” Your tone was laced with frustration.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No, you don’t—”

“But you owe me now.” Caitlyn’s words were final, she finished the water in her mug.

The silence was suffocating. Your eyes didn’t search for hers. You looked away at the floor.

Then, finally Caitlyn spoke again, “go. Get changed for bed.”

“My clothes are still here?”

“Mhm. Check the closet. Y’know where my room’s at.”

“No— not that— I just didn’t expect you to keep my stuff after everyth—”

“You’re the one that dumped me.” Caitlyn said as if that was enough reason for everything. “Just go. Get changed. I have work tomorrow.”

You opened the closet. The familiar scent of your perfume clashing with her but you. You ran a hand between the fabrics slowly, smiling to yourself. “Oh, my… she really did keep them…”

You found a thin night shirt— it was silk. Damn, you’d missed this too particularly.

You pulled it out and didn’t even bother leaving the bedroom to change. You changed right there— now wearing just a thin silk night shirt with red thongs underneath.

“Fuck.” Caitlyn cursed under her breath when she saw you standing there with those clothes on. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

She stopped where she was, not walking in the room like you’d hoped.

“Y’know you want me, Cait. You wouldn’t have even let me inside otherwise.” You stepped closer, “please… let me make it up to you for letting me inside. I don’t like owing anything to anyone.”

Caitlyn’s jaw twitched, teeth grinding together as she thought her decisions over multiple times— every one of them that led to this… “fine. But you don’t get to have even an ounce of control.”

Your eyes widened slightly, “oh— yeah, of course— sure.”

“Go lay.”

You laid down slowly, Caitlyn shifted behind you. Your back rested against her front as she pulled your thong away so fast it ripped half-way.

“Careful!”

“Shush.” Caitlyn said coldly, her hand landing with a slap on your cunt.

You gasped, tears springing to your eyes when it stung. “O-ow…”

“You’re gonna listen to what I say, take what I give you and do as I say.” Caitlyn rubbed your vulva, almost soothingly, as if she was telling you ‘this is what happens when you don’t listen so you better behave’.

You nodded, “I understand.”

“You better.”

Caitlyn’s hand came down with another hard smack— smack, smack, smack!

“What a bad girl. You come in here dressed in your stupid little red lingerie thinking you can seduce me into taking your slutty ass back?”

Your tears ran free down your flushed cheeks, “that’s… that’s—”

“Uh-uh.”

Smack!

“What did I just teach you? You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Smack, smack, smack!

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you sobbed out— eyebrows furrowed, tears blurring your vision.

“Mhmm…” Caitlyn rubbed you again— slowly, emphasizing the fact that she could slap your cunt red again if she wanted to. “You wanna stay over at mine and you dress like a fucking slut who’s begging for attention, dressing up in nothing but just a nightshirt, and no pants because you know deep fucking down that you wanna be slapped raw and red, and you want my fucking dick.”

You sniffed, head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor as Caitlyn continued degrading you with her smooth palm rubbing your wet pussy. Then, she sighed and moved away from behind you. You looked at her expectedly.

Caitlyn was taking her clothes off.

Pale boobs came into view, the lamp’s warm glow casting soft shadows on her body as she undid her bra and let it fall. Her boobs were perked, her inner thighs wet with need. She pulled her hair down, letting the dark waves cascade down her upper back, framing her face.

“Of all the things you’ve made me do,” she groaned, settling between your legs.

“Cait— what are—?”

She rolled her hips forward— your eyes went wide, a moan breaking out before you could restrain it.

She moved with grace— her throbbing cunt easily rubbing on your twitchy one. You were flushed, sniffly— trying to crawl away because everything Cait did felt too good. Way too good.

She was addictive in a way that you could never pinpoint and she knew it.

She knew that she could make you sway with just a few orgasms.

Enough to dumb down your stupid little brain.

“I want— I need you…” you blabbered, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer amount of pleasure that was only building and building.

A knot was developing in your lower stomach, your pussy clenching around nothing— clearly close to a blissful release.

“Just cum.” Caitlyn panted, “oh, oh my god!”

She threw her head back, grinding down harder before you both came in unison.

Caitlyn wasn’t done. Oh hell no.

If there was something that you knew about Caitlyn for sure was that, she was hard to sate in sex. So she required at least two rounds. She was already rummaging in her drawer for what you could assume was the strap. Once she found her biggest one, she hooked it around her hips and positioned herself between your legs again.

“You just need to take me like a good girl, okay?” Caitlyn slowly pushed the head against your entrance.

You nodded, “I’m… I’m your good girl…”

Slowly, she pushed the entire length inside before starting to thrust at a steady pace. Your mouth opened.

Caitlyn spat inside, “you’re such a fucking whore for me. Thinking I’m gonna take you back after everything we’ve been through, after you fucking dumped me.”

Your eyes rolled back, her spit still in your mouth as you didn’t dare swallow without permission.

“Look at you— filthy little fucktoy. That’s all you’ll ever be anymore to me.” Caitlyn said, teeth gritted.

Your legs slowly wrapped around her, tugging her closer.

“Look at you, still trying to bring me closer after getting fucking degraded. Exactly how much of a freak can you even be?” Caitlyn laughed, cruel. “Now, swallow my fucking spit.”

You obliged, “Cait— I— oh…” your arms wrapped around her, eyes slowly closing as you buried your face in her shoulder.

When you hugged her, Caitlyn’s brain buffered.

No way in fucking hell you had the audacity to do that in the middle of the rough fucking she was giving you. But you did anyway.

And that made Caitlyn feel a bunch of mixed emotions that she didn’t want to feel.

Emotions like fucking love.

Caitlyn slammed the shaft inside. You moaned loud against her sweat-dampened skin, muffled.

Before she could stop herself, Caitlyn’s hand rubbed down your back, “there… you’re okay.”

You only held on tighter.

Although Caitlyn hated how she was softening for you, she didn’t want to put on a harsh front against you… not for now.

what no one knows is that every night, without fail, she reads the same civilian registry entry.

your name. you don’t know she exists, well not really.

you’ve seen her on banners,posters. the sharp blue of her eyes rendered in propaganda tones, softened just enough to be palatable. protector of piltover. architect of peace. she’s just another figure in a city full of uniforms now. that ignorance eats at her because caitlyn knows you.

she knows the cadence of your laugh from a single overheard conversation months ago. knows the way you tilt your head when confused. knows you live three streets away from a checkpoint she pretends not to notice running overtime, just so she can justify walking past your block during inspections.

after she left vi, caitlyn learned the discipline of wanting without reaching. she tells herself this is the same, which it isn’t.

wanting vi was visceral, loud, reckless. wanting you is quieter and worse. it feels like faith.

she engineers the meeting carefully.a charity hearing, civilian outreach, your name floated onto the guest list with surgical inevitability. she rehearses what she won’t say. convinces herself this is just curiosity, just closure for a woman who has already lost enough. when she sees you in person, it is catastrophic.

she speaks your name like a secret she’s been holding in her mouth too long. you blink,“sorry, do i know you?”

something in her fractures. not visibly, never that. but the realisation lands clean and brutal, she has been living in a one sided mythology.

she introduces herself anyway. offers a smile that has ended negotiations and started wars. you offer one back.

the conversation is brief and administrative. you thank her for her time, you do not linger, you do not ask questions, you do not look at her like she is anything more than a function.

when she, carefully, deliberately, steps past protocol and asks if you would like to continue this discussion privately ,coffee perhaps, you hesitate.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” you say, gently. “with everything going on… and you being you.”

you being you. she nods. accepts it with grace so pristine it hurts. she does not argue.

you leave. the city does not explode. no orders are given. but something shifts.

caitlyn does not pursue you openly after that. that would be crude. your neighborhood becomes safer and quieter. patrols rerouted away from your door. your workplace receives funding it never applied for. a permit you were sure would be denied is approved overnight.

you feel it before you understand it, that strange sensation of being protected by something you never consented to.

You wake to the sound of Agatha’s heartbeat.

It’s slow and steady beneath your ear, her arm a heavy weight across your waist, her thighs tangled with yours under the thick duvet. The bedroom is freezing, the cold morning air creeping in through the drafty old windows. But Agatha’s body is a furnace, and you’re clinging to her in your little sleep set like she’s the only source of heat in the world.

You smile against her chest and nuzzle closer.

“Baby,” you whisper.

No answer.

“Agatha?” You kiss her collarbone.

Still nothing. Just a groggy grunt and the rise and fall of her chest. She’s out cold, hair a mess, mouth a little open, face soft in the pale light.

You beam. Then start peppering kisses across her skin like a woman on a mission.

“Wake up, my love,” you sing quietly, lips trailing along her shoulder. “It’s December first.”

That gets a groan.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she mutters, voice low and rough. “You’re not serious.”

You laugh. She’s not mad, not really. Just sleepy. Grumpy.

Grinchy.

But that’s okay. You’re fully prepared to love the Christmas spirit into her. One sleepy kiss at a time.

“You promised we’d celebrate together,” you say sweetly, sitting up a little so you can kiss the corner of her mouth. “December first means it’s officially the holidays. You said I could decorate.”

“I said maybe,” she corrects, squinting one eye open. “And I was probably half asleep.”

You gasp. “Are you telling me you were dishonest with your fiancée?”

“Dishonest? No,” she grumbles, grabbing you and pulling you back down against her chest with a grunt. “Delirious? Maybe.”

You giggle, climbing on top of her fully now, laying fully on top of her beneath the blankets, arms around her neck.

“You’re such a grump,” you murmur, brushing her hair back from her face.

“And you’re warm,” she mumbles into your neck, not letting you move. “You better not make me get out of this bed, baby girl. I’m serious.”

“But it’s December, Agatha.”

“Mmm.”

“I want twinkle lights and stockings and cinnamon buns and mulled wine and-”

She kisses you, smothering your mouth with hers, groaning into it like fine, she’ll shut you up that way if she has to.

You sigh happily and melt all over her.

“Is this what I’m in for all month?” she mutters when she pulls back.

You nod, nuzzling into her neck.

She sighs again. Then, quietly, she concedes.

“…Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

Agatha groans like she’s already regretting it. “You can decorate.”

You squeal and throw your arms around her.

“But I’m not helping. I’m watching from the couch. With coffee. And I’m not wearing reindeer ears or any of that corporate bullshit-”

“But you would look so cute in a Santa hat!”

“And if you even think about putting a baby pink tree in my living room-”

“You’d let me because you love me,” you sing, kissing her nose.

She sighs again. Then wraps her arms around you tighter and mutters “yeah, I fuckin’ do.”

It’s still early when you both pad downstairs, wrapped in thick socks and flannel jammies, the air in the house sharp with winter chill and the smell of fresh coffee already drifting from the pot you set on a timer.

Agatha grunts behind you as she yawns, rubbing her eyes with one hand and tugging her tank top down with the other, hair a messy halo around her head. She’s barely awake.

You, on the other hand, are buzzing.

You bounce up to the counter and turn, hiding something behind your back.

“Okay,” you grin. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” She squints at you.

“Because it’s a surprise!”

“I’m not awake enough for this.”

“Too bad! Close ’em.”

She groans but complies, mostly because it’s you. Arms crossed, sock clad feet planted, eyes shut and mouth twitching.

You beam. Then pull the thing from behind your back and hold it out.

“Okay… open!”

Agatha blinks down at the object in your hands.

“…The hell is that?”

“It’s your advent calendar!” you chirp, placing it gently in her palms. “I got it for you.”

It’s sturdy and made of wood, shaped like a little winter cabin with tiny numbered drawers all over the front, each one hiding a small gift or chocolate inside. You even hand painted the number 25 in a shiny purple to match her engagement ring.

Agatha turns it over like she’s trying to find a weapon inside.

“Is it a puzzle?”

“No!”

“Is it… is it treats? Drugs? What are you giving me here?”

You laugh and nudge her toward the kitchen table. “It’s for Christmas. You open one drawer a day, starting today, all the way to the 25th. It’s like a countdown but with little surprises.”

Agatha stares at it in confusion. “You’re telling me this is a thing?”

You blink at her. “You’ve never had an advent calendar?”

She shrugs. “No?”

You soften immediately. “Oh, baby…”

You wrap your arms around her waist, chin tilting up to look at her properly.

“Didn’t your family do this kind of stuff?” you ask gently. “Little traditions?”

Agatha huffs a bitter laugh, quiet and empty. “Christmas was a time to endure, not celebrate.”

Your heart breaks a little. You lean up and kiss her jaw, slow and soft.

“Well,” you whisper, “I’m gonna make this one different.”

She looks down at you, brow twitching like she wants to believe that but doesn’t quite know how. Like she wants to let herself have it but doesn’t know what that would look like if she did.

You reach up and guide her hand to the first drawer.

“Go on,” you say, voice warm. “Open it.”

Agatha slides the little square open. Inside is a foil wrapped chocolate shaped like a bunny, and a folded piece of paper. She opens it and reads:

Day One: I love waking up next to you. You’re my favourite part of every morning.

Agatha goes very still.

You smile up at her, pressing kisses to her shoulder as she folds the note and tucks it back into the drawer.

“Yeah,” she mutters after a beat. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

It’s been ten minutes and Agatha is still at the table, poking at drawer number one of the advent calendar like it might come to life, when you bring over breakfast.

You beam, placing a plate in front of her.

“Bacon, eggs, sourdough toast, coffee with oat milk, extra hot. Just how you like it.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “You tryna butter me up for something?”

You hum innocently and slide into her lap, snuggling into her chest like a sleepy little cat. She instinctively loops one arm around you, hand splayed across your hip.

“You deserve a special December first breakfast,” you murmur against her collarbone. “It’s a special day.”

“It’s a Wednesday.”

“It’s holiday season! Even Wednesdays can be special.”

She chuckles into your hair and nuzzles you close, warm and amused.

You wait a beat, then go in for the kill. “So… can we get a tree today?”

Agatha groans. “There it is.”

You laugh and press kisses to her neck. “Pleeease?”

She pretends to think about it.

“I told you that you can decorate the house. You. I didn’t say anything about hauling a tree through the front door.”

You pout dramatically. “But we need one! I want to put the lights on it and hang ornaments and see Señor Scratchy knock things off the bottom branches.”

Agatha huffs. “That little menace is gonna destroy the whole thing.”

“He’s getting into the festive spirit!”

“He’s a rabbit, baby. He doesn’t understand Christmas.”

“Come on,” you whisper, looking up at her with big eyes. “I wanna do it all with you! It’s our first Christmas living together, it’s my first Christmas in this house, it’s our first Christmas engaged.”

That gets her.

Her whole body softens under you, arms tightening.

“God, you’re dangerous,” she mutters, pressing her face into your shoulder. “You know that?”

You smile and stroke her hair, sweet and slow. “Only to grumpy butches who need more sparkle in their lives.”

She sighs deeply, kisses your shoulder, then leans back just enough to look you in the eye.

“Alright,” she says. “We’ll get the tree.”

You beam.

“But it’s gotta be real.” Agatha specifies. “And no pink lights.”

“Deal.”

“And I’m not hanging glittery candy canes.”

“Of course not, baby.”

“And no singing in the car.”

“…okay you’re pushing it now.”

She laughs then kisses you deeply, her hand on the back of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw, and when she pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I’m in love with you.” She murmurs, kissing your forehead once again for good measure.

“I know,” you grin. “Now finish your eggs so we can go tree shopping.”

~

Agatha’s truck is warm now, heater humming as you cruise through sleepy December streets. Frost trims the edges of the windshield, and the sky’s a soft winter grey, not quite snowing, not quite raining, just that still, frozen air that makes everything feel a little magical.

You’ve got one hand in her lap, fingers laced. Her big work jacket is zipped halfway up, and her thumb rubs slow circles against your knuckles as she drives.

You glance over at her. “Do you have any decorations already?”

She grunts. “What, for Christmas?”

You nod.

“No.”

You blink. “Not even, like… one box of tinsel?”

She shakes her head.

“Never bought any,” she says. “Wasn’t really a thing.”

You’re quiet for a moment. The wipers squeak across the windshield.

“Well… I brought a few things from my place. Nothing big, just a couple of baubles and my stocking. But I was thinking… maybe we could get some new stuff. Together.”

Agatha glances at you. “Yeah?”

You smile, gentle and warm.

“Yeah. I was thinking… we could get one new ornament every year. Something special. Like, a little tradition.” You tell her tentatively.

Agatha doesn’t speak right away. But you feel her grip on your hand tighten slightly. Her throat bobs. And then, in a voice a little hoarser than usual, “yeah, baby. I’d like that.”

You beam and lean over to kiss her shoulder. “Good. I saw this little place near the tree lot that might have cute stuff.”

She hums, lips twitching into something like a smile. It’s quiet for a moment. And then, almost to herself, she murmurs “…first year, first ornament.”

You grin.

And Agatha, tough, grown, grinchy Agatha, looks out at the frost glazed street and lets herself believe, maybe for the first time in her life, that Christmas might actually be hers too.

The tree lot smells like pine and snow and sap, a deep, woody green scent that clings to the air. Strings of warm yellow bulbs hang overhead, casting soft light on rows of evergreens lined up like soldiers, all varying heights and shapes, dusted with frost.

You step out of the truck with a big smile and a puff of breath in the cold, instantly bouncing on your heels.

Agatha follows, boots crunching on gravel, and she’s already frowning at the way your coat rides up when you reach for your bag in the back seat.

“Jesus, baby,” she mutters, coming up behind you. “Where’s your damn scarf?”

You giggle as her arms slide around your waist from behind, tugging you in close. “I didn’t think I needed one, it’s not that-”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

You laugh, nuzzling back against her. Her big coat is warm against your back, her hands fussing at the hem of your jacket like she might will it longer with sheer irritation.

“I told you it’d be freezing,” she grumbles. “You’re gonna get sick and then I’ll have to call out and nurse your spoiled little ass.”

You lean your head back onto her shoulder with a dreamy smile. “Nurse Agatha? Sounds kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

She huffs but doesn’t let you go. Instead, she presses a kiss to the crown of your head, breath warm in your hair.

“Come on, then,” she murmurs. “Let’s find your damn tree before your fingers fall off.”

You spin in her hold to face her, your gloved hands resting on her chest.

“Our tree,” you correct sweetly.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the softest smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Right,” she says. “Our tree.”

You kiss her nose, she pretends to hate it, and then you drag her off into the lot, squealing over every snow dusted pine like it’s the most magical thing you’ve ever seen.

She follows close behind, gloved hands in her pockets, cheeks a little pink from the cold, or maybe from the way you look at her, lit up under strings of golden bulbs.

You thought she’d just hang back.

You honestly did, figured she’d lurk behind you with her hands in her coat pockets, watching you flit from tree to tree while grumbling about sap and frostbite and how she should’ve made you wear thermal socks.

But she doesn’t.

She squints at a mid-sized Douglas fir like its lack of density offends her. Then crouches down, gloved fingers brushing the snow dusted trunk, frowning in concentration.

You blink.

“…Agatha?”

She doesn’t look up. Just mutters, “Too dry. You can tell from the way the needles snap. It won’t last two weeks.”

You stare.

She stands, wipes her hand on her jeans, and moves on to the next one. She runs a hand along the lower branches and frowns again. “Uneven. We’ll have a bald patch by Christmas Eve.”

You trail behind her, stunned. “What… are you doing?”

She glances over her shoulder like it’s obvious. “You said we were picking our tree out together.”

You just smile, stunned, your heart full. Because she doesn’t do Christmas. She doesn’t decorate. She didn’t even know what an advent calendar was. She has never had a stocking or a tree or a warm holiday memory to her name.

But here she is. Measuring tree girth like it’s a suspect’s neck circumference. Mutters things like “shitty balance” and “not enough space for ornaments at the top.” Touches the base of one and grumbles “this’ll never stand up straight.”

Eventually, she stops in front of a tall noble fir, not too big, not too short. She praises its strong branches and even build. The needles are plump and deep green, with just the right amount of frost glinting on the tips.

Agatha crosses her arms and nods approvingly.

“This is the one.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

She gestures to it with a little shrug. “Good shape. Good structure. It’ll hold weight. You wanted to hang ornaments, right?”

You melt right there in your boots, just melt. You step close, slip your arm around her waist, and beam up at her.

“I love it,” you say softly.

She huffs like it’s no big deal. But you see the way her ears turn red.

And when the guy comes over to help net it and carry it to the truck, she waves him off.

“I got it,” she says, voice low and proud, hefting the tree up over her shoulder like a damn Christmas lumberjack.

You grin. You don’t say it out loud, but you don’t need to, she’s getting into the festive spirit.

Agatha slams the tailgate shut and double checks the bungee cord across the bundled tree. You’re already back in the passenger seat, cheeks pink from the cold, hands warming on the vents as you grin at her through the window.

She rounds the front, climbs in, and shuts the door with a groan.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, tugging her gloves off. “That thing weighs a damn ton.”

You beam. “But it’s perfect.”

She glances sideways at you, your flushed cheeks, your sparkly eyes, your bouncing legs.

“…Yeah,” she says quietly, pulling her seatbelt on. “It is.”

You sigh dreamily as she starts the engine. “Okay so next stop… there’s that little holiday shop near Main and Clover. I wanna get ornaments, and tinsel, and lights!”

“God help me,” she mutters, shifting into drive.

You giggle. “You love it.”

“I love you,” she says flatly, “and unfortunately that means I’ve now agreed to spend my day off driving through town to buy tiny Santa’s covered in glitter.”

You grin wider. “So much glitter.”

Agatha groans.

You reach over and squeeze her thigh. “It’ll be fun. We’ll get one special ornament for this year, remember?”

She grumbles something unintelligible but her hand comes down over yours, warm and firm.

“You sure we need all this stuff?” she asks as you turn out onto the road. “Lights and garlands and whatever?”

You nod enthusiastically. “We don’t need much! Just the basics. But it’s our first Christmas in our first home together, Agatha. It deserves some sparkle.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, just taps the wheel. Then, she turns to you with a wry smile.

“…Alright, baby. Let’s sparkle it up.”

You squeal and kiss her cheek and she pretends to roll her eyes, but you can see the smile tugging at her mouth as she pulls onto Main Street.

~

The moment you walk into the Christmas store, you gasp.

It’s like walking into a snow globe: warm lighting, floor to ceiling wreaths, rows of twinkling lights, and an overwhelming scent of cinnamon pinecones and sugar cookies. There’s fake snow drifting from the ceiling vents and instrumental Christmas music playing softly over the speakers.

Agatha freezes just inside the door.

“…Jesus Christ.”

You bounce on your toes. “Isn’t it magical?”

“It’s a fire hazard,” she mutters, eyeing the lights with a cop’s frown.

You ignore her, already tugging her by the hand toward the ornament section.

There’s so many. Decorations in every shape and colour and glitter configuration imaginable. Ceramic Santas. Hand painted animals. Felted novelty sledding penguins. Little glass houses. Mini snowglobes with actual liquid in them. You’re starry eyed.

Agatha sighs, resigned, and follows you down the first aisle.

“What’s the goal here?” she asks, deadpan. “What’s the mission.”

You giggle. “Well. Lights, for one. Tinsel. A couple cute baubles. A tree topper. And a special ornament just for this year.”

She frowns. “One ornament.”

“Yep.”

“…So why are there already like seventy two in this basket already?”

“These are the base layer baubles” You grin.

She groans.

But even as she grumbles, you catch her lingering by a shelf of novelty ornaments: little animals in Santa hats, some hand stitched ones in felt, and a blown glass possum in a glittery scarf that looks weirdly like Señor Scratchy.

She picks it up. Tilts her head.

“…He’s kinda cute.”

You beam. “Oh my God, yes, let’s get him!”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want a possum on your tree?”

“I want you to pick an ornament that speaks to you for our tree,” you correct softly.

Agatha goes still.

Then, after a beat, she clears her throat, puts the possum in the basket and turns back to the shelf, picking up a second one. It’s a little black cat. Sharp eyed and sitting in a cauldron full of candy canes.

You squeal.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “That’s you.”

Agatha scowls. “I’m not a cat.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around her from the side. “You’re such a cat. Grumpy. Gorgeous. Doesn’t like being told what to do.”

She rolls her eyes, but you can see her softening.

“Alright,” she mutters, placing the ornament gently in the basket. “But I’m not getting the glitter tinsel. I draw the line there.”

You smirk. “Sure you do, baby.”

You’re absolutely getting the glitter tinsel.

~

By the time you get home, the sky’s already turned that steely winter blue, the kind that makes the windows glow gold from inside.

You carry in the bags of decorations while Agatha unloads the tree from the car, muttering to herself the whole time. Something about sap and spinal damage. She’s definitely being dramatic.

You’re already inside when she comes through the door, arms full of frost dusted pine, having already lit three candles, made two mugs of cocoa, and pressed play on the Christmas Classics playlist.

The second the crooning voice of Bing Crosby floats through the air, she groans. “Oh, come on.”

You peek your head out from the kitchen, all innocent. “What?”

“Christmas music already?” she grumbles, shedding her coat. “We just got home.”

“It’s Christmas,” you sing back. “And we’re decorating! You’re just mad you’ve got no rhythm.”

“I’ve got plenty of rhythm,” she mutters under her breath.

You smirk but say nothing further. Instead you just hand her the cocoa and kiss her cheek.

Ten minutes later, she’s on her knees next to the tree stand, swearing under her breath while trying to tighten the bolts around the trunk.

“Why are these things made for tiny men with no history of back pain?” she snaps.

You giggle from the sofa. “Do you want me to try, baby?”

“Don’t you dare, this has become personal.”

You blow her a kiss.

Eventually, she gets it upright, only a little crooked, and wipes her hands on her jeans, huffing as she looks it over.

“Alright. It’s in.”

You beam. “It’s perfect.”

And it is. The lights are on. The cocoa’s still warm. And there’s that sleepy December quiet blanketing the world outside. You start handing her the ornaments you’d brought from your apartment in the move one by one, unwrapping each one like it’s treasure, explaining why you chose it and where you want it to go.

Agatha tries to act like she doesn’t care. But halfway through, you catch her humming along under her breath to Last Christmas while gently hanging a tiny felt reindeer on a low branch.

She doesn’t even realise she’s doing it. You grin and say nothing, just lean over and kiss her shoulder. When the tree’s nearly full, you rummage around in one of the bags and pull out the star.

“Okay,” you say brightly. “Moment of truth.”

Agatha eyes the tree, then you. “You can’t reach that.”

“Not without help,” you agree sweetly.

She sighs. “You’re gonna make me do the whole lift me like a toddler thing, aren’t you.”

You give her your biggest doe eyes. “Please, Agatha.”

She groans, but her ears turn pink.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, stepping closer. “Come here.”

You squeal as she grabs your waist and lifts you, strong hands under your thighs as you clutch the star and giggle up at the tree.

“A little higher!” you cry.

“This is as high as you go,” she grits out. “I’m not a stepladder, baby… there. Is it in?”

You wiggle the star into place, then beam down at her. “Got it!”

She lowers you gently, but doesn’t let you go right away. Just holds you against her chest, your legs still wrapped around her.

You look up at her, flushed and breathless. “Having fun yet?”

She sighs like she wants to pretend she isn’t, but then she kisses your forehead.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I guess I am.”

The tree looks perfect.

The lights are twinkling, your ornaments catching the soft amber glow. Agatha’s little glass cat in its cauldron near the front. And your special first Christmas bauble, the possum that Agatha had been so drawn to, is tucked safely near the top of the tree. The star is tilted slightly, not quite straight, but somehow exactly right.

You and Agatha are now curled up on the sofa, legs tangled, wrapped in the big fluffy throw you keep folded at the end. Your cocoa’s half drunk and forgotten on the coffee table. The rest of the house is dark, with only the tree glowing.

Agatha’s got one arm slung around your back, the other curled behind her head, tank top riding up to reveal a strip of bare stomach, her long legs warm beneath yours.

You hum, resting your cheek to her shoulder. “This is nice.”

She nods slowly. “It is.”

You tilt your head back to look at her. “You didn’t think it would be.”

A smile tugs at her mouth, reluctant and crooked. “No,” she admits.

You shift a little to press your body closer, warm and soft against her side. “But it is?”

She exhales as her hand slides up under the hem of your shirt to rest against your bare skin.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It is.”

You nuzzle her. “You’re not a grinch after all.”

“Oh I’m still a grinch,” she mutters. “This is just a one time exception.”

You giggle. “We’ll see about that.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Her mouth brushes your temple.

For a long moment, you just sit there curled against her in the quiet glow of the tree, the only sound the distant hum of music and the faint creak of the house settling into the cold.

Then she shifts slightly, drawing you tighter into her side.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she says quietly. “Not really.”

You look up at her.

She’s not meeting your eyes, just watching the lights, voice low and rough around the edges. “Christmas was just… something to get through. Keep your head down, don’t get in the way, try not to set her off.”

Your chest aches. You reach for her hand under the blanket and squeeze.

Agatha finally looks down at you. Her eyes are shining in the tree light. “You make it feel special.”

You press your lips to hers, your kiss soft and loving. When you pull back, you whisper, “I’ll make all of them special for you. Every year. Forever.”

She lets out a breath like she’s never heard something so good.

“…You’re such a sap,” she murmurs.

You smile. “Takes one to know one.”

Agatha kisses you again.

This time she lingers.

A/N This chapter starts with some explicit smut, im talking like 5k words so if you're in public just...be aware?

--

The door down the hallway welcomes you in, floorboards creaking as you shuffle down the corridor as fast as you can without seeming too eager. As you approach the doorway, you're surprised to find another doorway inside. Or more like another apartment inside the apartment. Like a maze of more corridors. More sitting rooms. More bathrooms. How many rooms does this place have?

Agatha, however, is still a little while behind. Still downstairs. Waiting for you to get ready for her. There's no sign of her as you approach the door, ignoring the extra rooms and the place you slept in last time you were here and turning the doorknob to her bedroom.

Her private sanctuary outside of the office, outside of the cold floors and glass walls of the penthouse.

The room just as private as she is.

The door opens with a soft creak, and the gentle glow of a salt lamp welcomes you as you step into her space. The city dark outside the gigantic windows. Lights glittering softly in the night sky. The cold floor quickly becomes a deep red Persian rug that leads softly to a dark leather armchair. Mahogany shelving next to an identical dresser. Eyes scan quickly, trying to settle in. A room similar to her office just next door. A room so different from the downstairs area. Old furniture in such a modern building. A mix of old and new.

You try and take it all in, wishing you had more time before she'd follow. Searching for personal items, for photographs. You can't see any, but instead notice stunning large artwork hung on the dark-colored walls. Oil paintings. Thick acrylics. Globes and books and candles. Woolen blankets laid on a gigantic four poster bed. The same dark wood. Deep purple sheets of a ridiculous thread count. Too big for one person, she must have to get custom sheets for this.

It smells like cherry. And warmth. A little smokey.

Very her.

You climb onto the bed as your eyes continue to inspect the place. Light curtains rest either side of the large windows, the same color as the bedsheets. Jars of herbs and strange things you can't quite place on a coffee table. A record player with a record already on it. A half consumed glass of whiskey and a protein bar on her dresser.

Actual signs of life.

A place Agatha Harkness genuinely enjoys to be. Not an office space. Not a jet or a luxury penthouse kitchen. A cozy and inviting space, with her favorite things inside of it.

And you. In her dress. In her space. Just as you said you wouldn't be. When you said you wouldn't let yourself feel pity for her. When you said you needed some time apart to breathe.

But breathing never feels as good without her, so you straighten your back as you hear her footsteps approach the room within the room.

She apologized. She begged.

And although it's the bare minimum, for now. You wanted to be here more than anything. Maybe she will make it up to you after all.

Breathing deep as she enters the room and wanders over to the record player. Your heart beating out of your chest as she shuts the door behind her.

She sets a heavy box down on the armchair. Not bothering to look at you. Not really. Composing herself maybe. Her clothes ruffled from the activities downstairs, but still on and still so precise. Your dress bunched up around your hips as you watch her move. Eyes following her perfect form as she lays the needle down on the vinyl. The enormous space filling with classical music. Knees on the crisp sheets. Heartbeat filling your ears she comes to stand in front of you. Her hands clasped together innocently.

Polite. Just inches away. Your wetness fresh on her lips as you kneel before her. Exactly where she wants you to be.

"You never got to finish your whiskey, little girl." She taunts. Happy to put you back in your place.

"I know." And you're happy to be back.

You almost want to push for more. Taunt her more. Make her melt and beg at your feet further. Just to see that feral look in her eyes. But, from the way she looks at you...from the goosebumps on her neck, you know there'll be more than enough time in the future for that. More than enough time to challenge each other. To push each other.

Until she gets bored, perhaps.

She must be sweating through that turtleneck but she doesn't dare budge to take it off, determined to stay in control after she just begged, called you baby on her knees like the sweetest prayer you've ever heard.

She's not put off in any way. Not outwardly shy or mad from making her apologize. Not meek because of the begging. Still tall. Still confident.

Still in charge.

"Was it good for you? Tasting that glass. Pretending it was me?"

"I wasn't doing that." You lie.

She chuckles. Low and slow as she decides what to do with you. You wonder if she's debating taking you to the bedroom downstairs. The one with...accessories.

Your whole body throbs and you aren't sure if it's the drink you hardly consumed or the real deal standing in front of you.

Just for you.

"Just like you weren't wearing this adorable Gucci dress. In my local bar. One you certainly can't afford on your salary."

You close your eyes, you're really that easy to read? The sound of her rummaging brings you back to reality as she fishes in her bedside drawer for a steel pair of scissors.

You bite back. A little attitude. "How would you even know my salary? I thought you were above that."

"I am,"

"Then—"

"Well, I checked last night. Obviously. You do know i'm the boss, right?"

She stands before you, fully clothed. Glasses still on. Your hairs standing on edge as the classical music surrounds you. She's going to make you pay, you realize now. For the begging. For the isolation. Even if you were in the right.

And she always gets what she wants.

"You checked?"

Is this why she paid your rent?

"Mhm. And do you want to know what I did next?"

She leans in too close, lips close as she refuses to touch you yet. Cherry from her neck. From her room.

"Yes." You admit. Of course you do.

And what is she rustling for?

"I thought about how owning you costs as little as my country club membership. Isn't that funny?"

You scowl. Sometimes you have to decide between fixing your shoes and getting the subway. Or you did....before her.

She revels in the fact. It's obvious. The power she has over you isn't just sexual. It's romantic. It's financial. It's possessive. It's everything. Work and pleasure and tracking your phone.

"I said...isn't that funny?"

Oh.

She wants you to lean into this. To get her off from the sheer power. Just like you did on the jet. Your body responds to the words before you do. Maybe you like this. Maybe you're doing it for you. You can't quite tell yet.

So you go along with it.

"Yes...it's funny."

She smirks. Wide and satisfied. Back in your place where she loves to put you. Created only to be on your knees for her, or in her bed if that's what she prefers.

"For that price I could do anything I wanted with you. God, wouldn't that be something?"

It would. Your mind can't even comprehend her true desires. Her bedroom. Your boss. The NDA. The trip. The work. Everything. Leading to here.

Softly, she reaches to grab your waist. Holding you firmly in place as you notice what she was looking for. A sharp pair of steel scissors. You swallow, but you trust her. Maybe you aren't sure why. Maybe you don't care. The blade slips through the silk of your dress with ease as she cuts it in two like your body is an erotic Christmas present she's unwrapping.

The fabric drops, settling around you in a three thousand dollar pool of fabric. Exposing you completely for her. The change in temperature hits your torso and Agatha releases you to admire her work.

Eyes sharp and voice soft. "So fucking pathetic." She states as she places the scissors back in the drawer, closing it with one quick slam. "Fighting to prove your worth to me, and then kneeling back here like nothing happened."

"You apologized." You say, almost accidentally. Trying not to defend yourself.

"And mommy is so sorry." She pouts but its too sweet. "And now you're in her big wide bed, all desperate and needy."

You look away.

She's right.

"And I'll do whatever I like with you, would you like that, my pretty pet?" She cups your chin gently, looking in your eyes for your true feelings.

She only finds desire.

"Yes." You nearly choke. "But...my...my dress."

"You don't need that anymore." Her fingertips graze your cheeks softly. "Not when you wore it for some random fucking woman in a bar."

She tries to catch your eyes with her own.

"Little slut couldn't even go a couple of days without being put in her place, huh?"

You swallow, shaking your head as she pulls her hand away from you.

The slap comes quick and shocking as the back of her hand meets your face, jolting your whole body in contrast of the softness she'd just guided you into. You whimper, leaning away from her.

"Words. You know that."

"S—sorry." You stutter, trying to ground yourself in the classical music.

"Missed me so bad you had to go find someone to replace me already?"

"Yes." You swallow, having a hard time looking at her as embarrassment begins to heat your face.

"Aw. Poor baby." Her words are soft and sincere, surprising you a little when you're finally able to look at her and only seeing a smile back at you. "Mommy's got you now, honey. You'll never find anybody like me."

She tosses her glasses on her bedside table, before pulling her sweater off in an almost fluid motion. An involuntary noise escaping from the back of your throat in pure desperation for her. She only laughs in response, putting a hand behind her back and letting her bra fall to the floor.

"You sound like a desperate fucking animal, you missed me that bad?" But your brain is too empty for a proper response as she stands half naked in front of you, in the safety and warmth of her bedroom against the New York skyline.

All you've ever wanted.

"Here." She whispers sweetly as she guides your head to her nipple. "Poor thing, thought you could replace me so quickly." Your tongue flicks over her, trying not to use your hands as she holds you in place, desperate to finally taste, her head tilting back with gentle moans as your lips close around her.

She pulls you off before you can lose yourself, grabbing your hair tightly in her fist. Her other arm pulls back. You know the slap is coming, but she hovers for a second too long. Waiting to see the fear in your eyes before it lands.

Agatha coos when you whine at the sting, her aggression turning into the gentle touch of your cheek. Her fist in your hair becoming a gentle pet.

"Poor baby. Mommy has to teach you a lesson, doesn't she?"

"Didn't mean to." You respond, the words melting out of your mouth before you can register them as her touch soothes you softly.

"You belong to me. You always will. That bar is full of influencers and posers. You'd only have been disappointed, but you didn't know any better did you?"

"No." Your eyelids are heavier as her hands move to cradle your face. The blues of her eyes dark, pupils wide as you lean into her, shuffling on the expensive fabric beneath you.

"Dumb little assistant thinking she can wander into an expensive bar without me finding out. You're only smart when it's about organizing my calendar. Aren't you?

"Yes."

"Because you exist for me." She smiles sweetly. "Now lay down."

You do as you're told, leaving the fabric where it was removed. Destroyed because you dare wear it somewhere without her. The bed dips beneath you, comfortable and soft. Her perfume staining the pillow cases. Like being wrapped up in her arms, you imagine.

Head turned, you try not to be so obvious about staring when the sound of her belt buckle drops to the floor. The sound of fabric rustling and her reaching into that mysterious box.

"I've wanted to see you like this since you first stepped into my office." She admits as she strolls back over to you, her clothes entirely removed as you try not to stare. Remembering when she wouldn't let you touch her. Wouldn't let you take off her clothes. Look at her naked.

Maybe she knows you feel proud right now. Maybe she knows you feel something else, deeper and stronger and all-consuming. Maybe she feels it too.

Confidence oozes out of her as she reaches you, a finger trailing down your stomach, making the tiny hairs stand straight up.

"Look at you in my bed, pretty girl. You're a dream." She bites her lip. "Now put your arms up. Let's start simple."

You do as you're told, reaching them up towards the posts of the bed, and Agatha gracefully lays down a deep purple rope. Humming softly to herself as she unwinds it in her hands. Relaxed like she's about to start gardening or meditating.

Agatha's on you in seconds, straddling your hips. Her skin maddening against your own. Warm and soft as she presses into you, making sure she has the right angle to begin her craft.

She grasps your wrists softly, wrapping expertly around your wrist, and up onto your hand, before securing each arm to the elegant wood of the headboard. The posts of the bed frame just a little too wide for you to reach.

"Pull?" She offers, letting you wriggle a little, the ropes don't budge as you do, digging into you a little. Not uncomfortable. Just there. Just aware of the fact that you're trapped beneath her. Tied to her bed just where she wants you. Something you'd been dreaming about since she'd mentioned it. Something you never expected to be happening in here. The bedroom of your boss, as she sits on your hips.

She leans back to admire her work. You struggle again against the ropes. Her face pleased as she pushes her hair back out of her face and over her shoulders, letting it cascade down her back.

"That feel good?" She asks, voice low as she reaches upwards, palming you through your bra. "Right where I want you. All helpless for me."

"Mhm" A little overwhelmed, you buck up into her. The friction of your underwear rubbing against her as she pushes back down onto you.

"Aw. You need me that bad?" But you can tell she's almost breaking composure as she grinds down onto the fabric covering you. "You want mommy to use your pretty body?"

You nod before croaking out a 'yes', watching her leave the bed agonizingly slowly and head back over to her magical mystery box to find the harness she'd been thinking about all night. You try not to think about how many of these things Agatha has, or whether she's used them with anyone else as she steps into it.

A dramatic sigh leaves her lips as she presumably decides which item in her collection she'd like to fuck you with, pondering over her options you're unable to see, pulling at the ropes to express your distress as she leaves you laying there.

"Patience, pet." She warns as she makes her selection. Focusing on your breath as you close your eyes. The classical music not helping at all to calm you down. Opening back up when you feel her presence back on the bed, her cock heavy between her thighs as the scratch of her nails softly dig into the flesh of your thighs. Opening you up gently before her.

"God, I was going to warm you up but it seems—" she runs a controlled finger down your wetness, slipping inside almost too easily "—I already did that."

One of those noises she loves so much slipping from your lips as your hips move down to meet her, as much as you can restrained like this. Her breathing heavy over the music as she admires her efforts, pulling out too fast for you to really benefit from it.

"You need more?" She taunts, nails. back into your skin as she pushes your thighs further apart.

"Yes please." Your words focusing on sounding sweet, on asking her nicely. On being perfect for her.

"You can ask me politely, can't you?"

Your heart beats almost too hard as she runs the tip of her length against you. "Please." You beg, watching her lips part with desperation and desire above you. Her body rising above yours, face close so she can watch your eyes with intention as she finally slips inside of you. Groaning immediately as she does. At the contact.

You pull against the restraints to try and reach for her. To grab her back. Her hair. To pull her closer. No use. Too secure. Only able to lay back and let her take what she needs from you. Let her claim you again. Let her show you that you're hers.

The sounds obscene as she fucks into you wilder than before, than last time. Fueled with a new possessive energy. Her eyes intense as she leans down and grabs your wrists. Enjoying your body as you bite your lip, trying not to make too much noise.

Agatha notices immediately, of course she does, watching you too closely to miss anything, her grip moving from your wrist to your neck, holding you steady. "Don't you ever try to be quiet." She warns, and you obey without question. Only able to nod as she increases the force of her thrusts into you.

"Good girl." She coos, pushing her hair to one side, her face half- illuminated by the dim lamp of the room. "God you feel fucking incredible. Just for me. Just for me."

"Just for you."

"All mine. Always mine."

"Yours."

"You belong to me, don't you?"

"Yes...fuck...yes I belong to you."

"You exist for me to fuck, don't you?"

"Yes...yeah."

"So fucking tight just for me...this pussy is mine isn't it?"

"All yours."

Her grip tightens on your neck, shallowing your breathing with two hands as she takes and takes and takes.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist me." She laughs as she pounds into you, moving her hands off of you when she sees you've had enough. Letting you try for air. "Mommy's perfect little toy. Paid off your fucking apartment so you'd come back to me. Missed you so much." Your body on edge and helpless beneath her as she stretches you, fingers palming at your skin and letting her ruin you.

You don't think about the apology. About the begging. About the punishment of the real world you're about to put her through. About how your time apart was so short you clearly have a problem. Only the feeling of her deep inside of you, her skin against you, her hair trailing and tickling your skin just a little with each movement.

Her lips find your neck as they always do, leaving possessive marks on your throat, down your chest, she'd probably go lower if she could reach. Alternating her thrusts as she loses herself. Desperate and feral noises as she rolls her hips, pulling your legs around her with her hands.

"I should buy your whole damn building so you have to stay with me." She whispers, eyes closed and hands gripping tighter into your thighs. "Keep you tied up here all the time...fuck. You'd have no choice but to do whatever I say."

You nod without question, without thinking. "Stupid pathetic girl, wearing that pretty dress for someone else. You work for me. I own you."

"Shouldn't have..."

"Well you can't anymore, can you?"

The fabric bunches beneath you, the dress shuffling against her movements. Her eyebrows furrow as her breathing gets heavier, her grip on you tightening. Fuck. She's close. It hasn't even been that long. She must be desperate. Her whimpers kill you as you clench around her, focusing on making her come. A perfect goddess of a woman using you in the way only she can.

"That feel good?" You ask, trying to form words with your mouth dry.

"Fuck...you feel fucking incredible."

"Please...."

"Baby...fuck baby mommy's gonna come inside you. Fuck...fuck..."

Your next words cut off as she reaches for your throat again, holding tightly as she falls over the edge, her thrusts becoming shallower as she finishes using you, your hips trying to press against her, to chase your own release.

Agatha only smirks, stopping entirely to catch her breath as you whine and pull against the restraints.

"Oh not for you. I just needed to use this pretty body. You get nothing." Is all she says, before pulling entirely out of you, your body throbbing as she refuses to lay another finger on you.

"Agatha!" You try as she steps off of the bed, your skin cold, a thin layer of sweat where she just lay above you. "Where are you going?" Panic rising in your voice as she takes several steps across the gigantic room.

You pull tightly against the rope. Fuck. She wasn't joking about keeping you here this time. She slowly, agonizingly opens her wardrobe. A dark selection of various fabrics, before pulling out a long robe, and pulling it over her body.

"Come back!" You pull again, no use. She throws her hair back over her shoulders as she approaches you. An evil grin on her face as you twitch against nothing.

"Dinner time, hon, you'll still be here when I get back, won't you?"

"Fuck you."

"I mean, where else are you gonna go?" She chuckles, walking into one of her confusing bedroom corridors.

As she steps out into the hallway, the record reaches it's end. The sound of only silence and heavy breathing as you try to grind against the bed, against anything.

Luckily, less than a minute later and she's already back in the room, you sigh with relief, turning your head to look at her. To apologize again. To beg.

Anything.

Then, you notice, she's on the phone.

This fucking woman.

"Yes, and the tofu. You know how I like it. Fast as you can, yes? I'd send my assistant down to fetch it but she's a little...tied up at the moment." She greets you with a dramatic wink. "And tell them not to delay again. You know how I feel about tardiness."

She hangs up with her middle finger, always without a goodbye. Throwing the phone onto the chair.

"You can wait until after dinner, can't you?" You scowl at her as she reaches underneath you to retrieve the destroyed dress. "Hmm." She inspects the fabric. "I should have this framed so you never forget who you belong to. You could hang it in your tiny room."

"Agatha—"

"Oh wait..." She smiles "...it wouldn't fit on the wall." She throws it somewhere on the floor, wandering over to flip the record.

The classical music fills the space again, and the sound of more cupboards opening frustrates you further as you try to shuffle to see what she's doing. Is that cold air? What does she have over there?

"One must always have a champagne fridge in their room, I simply don't know what i'd do without one." She gloats, you brace for the champagne to coat you again. To prove a point just like she did on the jet.

It doesn't come, her feet are soft on the floor as she steps back over you. Her initials embroidered on her robe as she stands above your body, admiring you helpless.

"You seem all worked up after that..." She states innocently, opening your thighs with one hand. "Hmm. I think you could use some help, would you like that?"

Nods turn to pleas as she tilts her head to admire your desperation.

"Mommy's going to cool you down so it feels better." Before you can ask what that means, the ice cube makes contact with your stomach as she gently, slowly pushes it down your body and over your folds, flinching away from her with shock. "Aw, poor thing. It's okay. I'm helping you." You wince, trying not to look at the shit-eating grin on her face as she pushes it around, collecting your wetness. Cooling your skin down. It's too much. Not enough. You flail against the mattress until she finally pulls the ice away from you, letting your breathing return to normal as she pops the cube in her mouth and leaves the room.

Shutting the door behind her this time.

--

It's hard to tell how long it's been since she left the room. Four classical songs, but how long is a classical song? The doorbell came and went. She must have already eaten her dinner. Waiting to ride this out for as long as she can.

The song changes, and the night gets somehow blacker outside the window as you try to think of something, of anything to take your mind off of this. Agatha is serious about punishments, it seems. Serious about her possessiveness. About owning you.

Finally the door creaks open, and she arrives with a small bag.

"There you are." Her tone flat like she's on a business call. "Do you want dinner?"

"Agatha." You retaliate.

"Oh you don't?"

"I want you...need you please."

She smiles.

"Oh what's that, you need me?"

"Need you to touch...please."

"Have you learned your lesson?" She asks, her eyes serious.

"Yes. Yes I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please put it...put it back in."

She climbs back on top of you without hesitation, her cock pressing against the robe as she opens it.

"Beg for it." She runs the tip against you again, softly. Gently as you desperately ache for her after waiting so long. "Beg for it, go on. Still so fucking wet. My poor baby."

"Please...please...please fuck me...please let me come...please."

She forcefully thrusts inside without holding back, causing you to cry out once she's fully inside. The fabric on her body shielding you from the room.

"Do you deserve it...should I keep you here all night? Just use you when I need you? Mommy's perfect little fuck toy. Waiting so patiently. You think I even care if you get to come?"

"No...please...please let me come."

"You need to come on mommy's cock, is that it? What if I just want to keep coming in you? Huh? What if I don't care what you want?"

You beg again, squirming against her as she smiles. Finding a rhythm quickly, your body sensitive beneath her. Her lips on your neck as her fingers find your clit, desperate and aching for her as she finally gives you what you need. Her breaths heavy against your skin as you...

"Hold it."

"No please!"

"Hold it or you get nothing."

You clench your eyes, trying to think of anything else, of the food in the bag, of the price of the bed, anything...anything...

"Good girl, so you can listen."

"Please...."

She throws her head back, getting a good look at your face.

"Now come. Come for me. Now"

You shudder against her as she pins you beneath her body, pornographic noises erupting from your throat as she finally pushes you over the edge, your body turning to liquid instantly.

Agatha lays on you a little longer, keeping herself warm inside of you as she traces the shape of your lips with her finger, whispering praises to you as you try to catch your breath. You whine as she pulls out slowly, tossing the harness onto the ground and gently beginning to untie you.

You roll your wrists one after the other as she finally releases you, the indents of the material in your skin a reminder of your encounter, though you know they'll soon fade.

You can't help it, you reach for her instinctively. Knowing she'll pull away from your affection, but needing her after she left you alone.

It takes everything in you not to point out when she doesn't.

When she lets you melt into her arms.

When her hands wrap around you.

When she rubs your back to comfort you.

When she tells you how well you did for her.

It takes even more not to cry out for her when she leaves you in the bed again, even when it's just to reach for the food.

You don't bring it to attention when she lets you eat in her bed.

When she hands you the dinner she'd ordered. When you see she'd gotten you a dessert.

You don't even say anything when she pulls you into her side when you eat. When her arm wraps around your middle as she watches you enjoy your food.

When she holds you close.

When she stays like that until you're finished.

"I haven't let anyone in this room since—" She finally begins as you close up the takeout box.

"Since Zara?" You almost answer for her. She cuts you off quickly.

"Let's not talk about her right now." You nod, even though she brought it up. Unsure as to whether or not her thinking about Zara is regretting having you in this room. Whether she thinks this is dangerous or not. Whether she knows you care about her for real.

You rest your head on her for a second as you place the box onto the bed. Wondering whether she'll kick you out or not.

She grabs the takeout box, taking it over to the cooler in her room and tossing it in a small trash can. The cool air hits again as she opens her champagne fridge, a refrigerator freezer combo that seemingly also contains bottled water, which she brings to you quickly.

"Now. Will you be staying here tonight? Should I let you?"

You nod furiously, the thought of going home to Jake +1 deplorable.

"Maybe I should make you sleep on the floor." She remarks, turning off her record player.

"Bed please." You pout.

She pouts back. You aren't sure if she's serious or not, but she's already pushing a button next to her bed, the curtains closing on their own.

"Only because you're so pretty when you're all soft for me." She takes the water from you gently. "There are two bathrooms in this suite, one through there, and another through there." Her hands point in different directions. "You can use either."

The air feels different when you stand up, your legs wobbling beneath you as you make your way to her bathroom. Marble and tiled with an enormous bathtub overlooking the park, but different from the one you used last time. For one delightful reason.

She's in here.

Agatha's toothbrush. Electric and purple. The head smushed down from where she presses much too hard. The shampoo she uses, the bottle broken in from her squeezing it impatiently. Her hairs on the floor of the shower. Her comb. Her perfume. The bottle sleek and black, you bring it to your nose without question. Inhaling her. The cherry and the deeper notes you can't smell on her neck. Like a sickly sweet poison. You breathe it in.

Your boss. The one you feared. The one everyone fears. Intimidating and unreliable. Cruel and callous. Unpredictable and eccentric.

She's waiting for you in her bed. In her bed. As you wash your hands with her soap.

And life has never been this good.

---

The room startles you when you wake. You have no idea where you are for a solid two minutes. Your phone not in the room. No watch. No idea what time it is. Shit. Don't you have work today? The thought is overcrowded with internal laughter when you remember exactly where you are. Exactly who you're with.

She's nowhere to be found.

Leaning over, you press that button she hit for the curtains last night. Body tender as you reach for it, neck feeling like a goddamn vampire had you for breakfast.

The curtains open slowly, revealing the sun and the city. Holy shit. You haven't really properly looked at how high up you are. Your head all busy when you've been here before. Or night time. Or terrified. Usually a combination of everything.

The city looks tiny from up here, there's a reason this giant building has a bad reputation. It's really fucking high up. Your stomach almost turning as you look onto the park. it looks like a birds-eye view almost.

The image of her downstairs cooking eggs and bacon springs to mind, though you know that's very not Agatha. You're not even fully sure she knows how to cook. Always eating junk or takeout or very fancy tiny foods you can't pronounce.

A normal relationship this is not. But maybe that's okay. For now.

Your body aches a little as you rise from the bed, remembering you're still naked. And worse, you have nothing to wear. At least as unpredictable as Agatha is, her wealth always seems to solve the problems she creates. Throwing money at her issues until they melt away.

Your torn dress is nowhere to be seen, though it doesn't take long for you to spot that soft robe you wore last time you were here in it's place on the end of the bed.

---

For as unpredictable as Agatha is, she also isn't. Perhaps it's being her assistant. Knowing how she operates at some scale. You follow the yelling to find her.

Some things never change.

Sat on an armchair in her lounge. Knees crossed. Fingers drumming on the leather.

"Jesus christ Tom i've told you a thousand times. I don't give a fuck what the report looks like, I need it now. I'm winning this deal whether you like it or not." But she's speaking in a hushed tone.

Not to wake you up?

She's surprisingly already dressed in a crisp shirt and dress pants, despite you not waking. Unless she has more clothes in another room somewhere. You scold yourself for being so silly. Of course she does. She's probably got everything you could ever dream of. Her eyes pull to you instantly as soon as you step down the stairs, continuing to fight the man on the phone. The same anger, but still hushed.

She beckons you over with her finger.

She almost points to the ground, then, decides against it. Pretending she didn't. Playing it off like she was doing something else. Fixing something on her leg.

You can't help but wonder if she's tarnished her own command, ruined it for both of you.

But she apologized. And today you're going to make her take the bus.

So you obey her anyway, even without the command. Kneeling softly in front of her, just next to the chair as she explains her plan to the man on the phone. "Well, if he doesn't take fifty million quite frankly he's a moron, I don't know what else you want me to say." Her nails pet your scalp gently as she looks down onto you, the hint of a smile on her face.

You lean into her affection, putting her hand over the microphone of her iphone. "Mommy's busy, be good and sit still, yes?"

You nod, letting her scratch you softly as she tries to finalize this plan. "God, what is wrong with you? Tell him that's my final offer, does he know who I am? No— no you listen to me...okay...well...you know how I feel about that?"

She hangs up abruptly, tossing the phone on the coffee table, matchbooks scattering.

"Hi honey." She greets you softly.

"Hi. You're working already?"

"Clearly."

"Are you ready for our date?"

She closes her eyes, pulling back from you.

"Ah. I was hoping you'd forget about that."

"You agreed."

"I know. It's just—"

"You agreed!" You say firmer, rising to your feet. "You said you would. As an apology."

"This is punishment and you know it."

"Maybe it is. Maybe you deserve it."

"I already said I was sorry."

"I want to see you sorry on public transport."

She gasps as she pulls her hands over her eyes.

"Honey, don't. Please no. You know that'll kill me."

"You already said you would. You can't take it back. You know i'll walk."

The gasp becomes a very long, long drawn out sigh until she's looking back at you with heavy eyelids. "What's the plan then, what's my schedule. Can it wait until after work?"

You stutter. In the heat of the moment you'd forgotten you both have a job to do.

"Can work wait until tomorrow?" You know it's audacious. But if you don't ask, you don't get.

"Cheeky thing. Asking to miss a day of work so I have to endure your horrors?"

"They're not horrors, they're the real world. I won't forget what you said on Wanda's island. I want you to know normal people aren't that bad."

"But why?"

"I just do, okay? It's important to me...I was going to suggest you wear something more normal...cheap even...but—"

"I don't own anything cheap, I mean I suppose this shirt is on the cheaper side of the shirts I own, if that helps?"

"How much was it?"

"Not sure, maybe one, two..."

You roll your eyes, feeling her gaze harden. "Agatha are you going to say hundred, because if so—"

"...thousand. Why, is that a big deal?"

You can't stop the sigh leaving the smile on your lips. “It doesn’t really go with the vibe of the day. It’s supposed to be a normal day.”

"A normal day where we're supposed to be in work." She bites back. Her lips are pursed, but there's a twinkle of playfulness in her eyes.

She doesn't want to go to work either. And god, your work is wherever she is.

"Well, you're the boss." You suggest. "I mean, you can decide if we take the day off or not."

"Very true."

"And there's nothing important on your calendar today, just the notes about the Venn acquisition but we can push that until tomorrow?" You bite your lip. Waiting for your response like you've just asked your mom to skip school.

Agatha ponders for a long moment, so long you suspect she's extending it just to watch you squirm.

"Fine. I'll suffer if it'll put a smile on your face, I have a couple of things to do and then i'll do whatever you require. But... here are the rules...." It takes everything to keep your excitement inside. "...for one I won't be wearing anything I don't already own. I don't wear cheap fabric and I won't stoop so low for your little game. I'll wear this, and we'll find you something before we leave since your pretty dress is all torn apart."

Your face gets hot.

"Two. On the very off chance someone recognizes me, i'm leaving immediately."

"That seems fair."

"If a child touches my pants with it's sticky fingers, i'm also leaving immediately. Same goes if a dog jumps up onto me, or somebody mugs me."

"Agatha those things won't happen."

"Ah." She raises her hand in the air. "I know what it's like out there. I've seen it."

"Seen it on TV or seen the people without homes on posters at your galas?"

Her eyes leave yours. Uninterested in having a debate with you this early in the morning. You quiet yourself, not wanting to scare her off so quickly.

"And three, if I get too stressed out there—" her hand gestures outside of the large window, the city down below "—then you know where I expect to find you when we return."

A nod as she finishes her sentence. Her terms mostly reasonable, and entirely what you expected.

---

You scroll on your phone for her emails as you wait for her next move. Agatha returning to her office and completing more work for the day, letting too much wasted time pass you buy.

She promised her concierge service would be able to fetch you clothes, and while you strongly doubted her at first, he does exactly as instructed and fills the elevator with several bags. Various options for you to choose from. She gave vague instructions over the phone, and you're still unsure whether he's supposed to do store visits as part of his job description, or whether she tips him so handsomely he can't refuse.

Playing along with your game, you find various types of t-shirts and pants in the bag. Nothing too visibly fancy. No jeans. Tiny underwear. Typical.

You decide not to tell her the average person doesn't spend three hundred dollars on a t-shirt, and instead select one from the cotton bag.

She's staring out of her gigantic window when you return to her, her back to you as she watches over the city. Her city. Must it be overwhelming knowing you can do anything? Be anything? So much money, influence and power. Does she ever get tired of it?

You try not to laugh at your own thought remembering your plans for today. If she ever does get tired of it, perhaps tonight she'll count her blessings.

"Okay!" You announce yourself, her head turns slowly before her body does, phone in hand as she replies to her emails. Refusing to switch off. "I have the rest of the day planned out, do you wanna hear it or do you trust me to lead?"

"Well, you've never let me down so far. As my assistant, I mean besides when you booked the wrong hotel room and had to sleep on the couch."

"You mean when you kissed me?"

"Don't tell me it was part of your grand plan?"

"Do you want to hear about the day or not?"

"....No. I don't want to know. I'll only dread it."

Her drama never fails to make you laugh, and you know she'll only get worse as the day progresses. But first, you have to brace yourself as you tell her the bad news.

She recoils a little bit as you approach her, pulling her hands back when you reach for them like she's scared you're trying to hand her something disgusting.

Eventually, she lets you take both of them in yours. Holding them firmly like you're about to tell a child their goldfish has died.

"Okay. Well there's a few things you need to know."

"God, what now?" Her eyes close firmly trying to shut you out.

Taking a deep breath, you brace for impact. "Well, we're going to catch the bus over to the movie theater." Her teeth grind together. "And i'm going to give you a budget, okay?"

Your words are extra soft but seem to land like a ton of bricks anyway.

"A what?"

"A spending limit, I did some Googling this morning, i'm thinking we set the date limit to a hundred dollars."

"For what? For the whole day!?"

"Yeah the whole day, but for both of us. I mean for what I have planned I really don't—"

"A hundred dollars? Honey that's like one good meal. Maybe an entrée. A glass of wine."

"Not at Taco bell."

"You weren't serious?!"

Your nod in return is slow as her hands get clammy in yours, like she's about to start having a panic attack right in front of your eyes.

Or kill you. She wriggles free, raising both of her hands in the air and grasping at nothing.

"Take your pants off now I can't do this."

"I— no."

The muscles in your face are firm and contorted as you disobey her, but you want this. You need this date. For her to prove herself to you.

"What?"

"Agatha I want you to do this date, if you're still stressed after then, you know..."

"Why are you being so shy? Did i break you already?"

She doesn't laugh when you do. More hesitant and serious about the whole situation.

She doesn't crack a smile when you make her leave her handbag behind either, or when you make her rush to the bus stop.

--

Her leg jitters as she stands at the stop. An overly expensive coat and designer frames for the day you're about to have. For the journey you're about to have with her.

"It costs about three dollars." Breaking the tension as you turn to take a good look at her.

Agatha chooses to say nothing, maybe for the first time ever when it comes to waiting around for someone else. Perhaps she's sitting in her misery. Perhaps she's daydreaming about when she was finally in charge again last night. Her foot taps in the shoes you'd made her pull out the back of her closet. Shes shorter without the heels, but still every bit as sexy and intimidating.

The bus driver seems to think so to, pulling his sunglasses down to get a good look at the both of you when he pulls up.

Agatha hesitates, watching your move as you guide her into paying and sitting down. She doesn't stutter. Doesn't seem as uncomfortable as she is to other people.

But you see the way she grabs the handrail, hesitating before she sits in the second row.

"It's okay." You whisper, noticing her knuckles are bright white as she grabs onto the empty seat in front. The bus thankfully quieter on a weekday than it usually is when you ride it.

A couple of teenagers playing music into the open air at the back, a man yelling into his phone. It's bumpy and chilly and a little uncomfortable.

Agatha looks like you've shot her as you crawl your hand over the seat and onto her lap, her head snaps up instantly like she's entirely on edge.

"Hey, you alright?" Squeezing a little to bring her back to earth.

"It's very loud, isn't it. And you fit what, thirty people on here?"

"I'm not sure. Something like that. Maybe more. When it gets too full to sit you usually stand and hold onto the railings."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Her voice is quiet as she's out of her depth just as you've been for the entirety of this relationship.

Or whatever this is.

"I don't know. I think it's probably okay. You do it on the subway too, but I thought that might be a bit too intense for your first time."

"You're talking to me like i'm a baby. I don't like that."

You pull your hand back. "Sorry. I'm just trying to make you comfortable."

"Don't." Choosing instead to stare out of the window like she does in her cars, you join her in it. Watching the way she stares at the people outside, at the roads. Of the streets she probably has never walked on despite living in the city for however long.

A busker dances for change, a man dressed like a cow outside of a burger joint, and a police chase pass you by on the journey to your destination. Agatha watches like it's television until the bus stops to let others on.

"Doesn't this take forever?" She asks, continuing to watch the pedestrians outside.

"You mean because it stops all the time?"

"Yes."

"Well yeah I guess, it's pretty slow....that's why I usually get the train but I think it depends where you're going."

"When you're in a car you go straight to your destination and nobody bothers you." She pulls her coat in tighter. "And it's not fucking freezing."

You smile.

"I know. Does it make you appreciate it more?"

"No. If anything I think we'd all be better in separate cabs. At least if there's traffic you aren't stuck with a bunch of weird strangers."

As charming as ever.

"Not everyone can afford to get cars everywhere, Agatha."

"That's not my fault." Agatha Harkness. Third richest woman. Nothing is ever her fault at all. "It's gross on here. There's gum on the floor."

"I'm just saying...I'm trying to make you see how lucky you are, maybe you'll appreciate your workforce more. Maybe you'll—"

"You're not fucking ghost-of-Christmas-past-ing me. I thought this was a date." Her voice is louder, a few people turning their heads. "I'm not interested in changing, in finding some kind of newfound love for the people beneath me. If you don't like me as I am, you can just leave."

You won't let her avoidance scare you away anymore.

The air thicker between you, another sigh from her as the bus stops to let an old lady onto it. She sits right in front of you, to Agatha's dismay. The silence isn't as uncomfortable as it should be. Not when you have somewhat of an upper hand here. She pulls the coat tighter, crossing her arms and continuing to look outside, her head turned to the side for so long it's got to have started hurting by now.

"You didn't let me leave." You finally reply. "I don't think you know what you want."

"I'm trying to be good for you." Her eyes meet yours when she finally turns to see you again, you'd almost forgotten how close you were sat to each other. "I'm trying. I don't want some lecture. Okay?"

"Okay."

The bus hisses to a stop to let on another old lady, and thank god it did or you certainly would have missed the stop.

"Shit, come on!" You grab her hand instinctively, pulling her off of the bus and onto the sidewalk. She pulls away from you like you're poisonous as soon as you've both stopped moving, dusting off her outfit to get rid of any bus residue still on it.

"Remind me to have my clothes washed when we get home."

You nod, your heart thumping.

When we get home.

"Hungry?" Is all you offer, your eyes focused on the big bell across the street, she turns a little to see where you're looking before groaning loudly.

"Please don't make me do this."

"You said that about the bus, and then it was fine wasn't it?"

She clenches her fists like a child who isn't getting their own way. "No. I hated every second of it."

"You'll like this. It's cheesy."

She crosses the street before you have the chance to stop her, nearly getting hit by three separate cars as she simply raises a hand to stop them from driving into her, trying to shield her like you're her personal bodyguard. They honk and halt trying not to cause an accident as you scurry after her.

Her security cannot hear about this.

"What do they sell here, I assume tacos. I like tacos. You think i'm unreasonable but I'm not." Her eyes are in her phone when she reaches the other side, not caring whether she's in anybody's way.

"When was the last time you had a taco?" You question as you jog a little to stay at her pace, this woman walks fast when she wants something to be over. It's the same walk she's done to meetings with irritating men she doesn't want to speak to.

Her phone slides inside of her breast pocket.

"Last time I went skiing." Her words matter of fact like she isn't about to walk into a Taco Bell. "I had the chef at my chalet make me some with heritage corn tortillas."

Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.

"I'm sure these will be exactly the same." You offer instead as you approach the front of the restaurant.

Agatha stands there, doing nothing. The doors aren't automatic. Is she...

"Well, aren't you going to open it for me?"

You do without even thinking about it, pulling on the big heavy handle until she's fully inside, and following after her. Her head spinning around once inside.

"What is all this?" Her hands point to the ordering screens around the entrance. It's hard to imagine there's a person living in America who hasn't eaten in a fast food restaurant, but you don't judge. Instead leading her over to one of the screens and pressing the order button.

"So, you order through the screen and you get a number, and when they call it you go pick up the food."

"You take it before sitting?"

"Yeah. Like a McDonalds or a KFC." Her eyes are blank. "Look it's fine i'll help you, what do you want to eat?"

"Well, what's good? You're the expert." You flick through to the menu for her, not thinking too hard about you calling to the Taco Bell expert.

"I would get crunch wrap supreme. You can get it with black beans. And fries too of course....." You tap the buttons, she watches with a serious expression, placing her glasses on her head, and then placing them back down again. "What do you want to drink?"

"Water."

"Water it is. Let's just get two of the same thing. Oh and..." You add a cheese sauce to the cart before checking out. "You're gonna go crazy for this I just know it."

"Whatever you say." She takes the paper delicately as it prints the number and you both shuffle over to the collection area as she tries not to touch anything or anyone. You spot her eyeing the tables of the restaurant, her hand on her neck as she tries to keep her thoughts inside.

"We don't have to eat here, we can walk around. If you want." You offer. This really isn't fun if she's having an awful time.

"Absolutely not. I want to sit in that disgusting little booth over there." Her hand points with two fingers to the corner of the room. It's recently been cleaned and looks entirely normal.

"It's not disgusting just because it—"

"Meh meh meh." She mocks your words back to you as she heads towards the booth, leaving you to wait for the food on your own. Thankfully it's pretty empty and the order is ready as quickly as you'd hoped.

Slipping into the booth opposite her with the tray. A stark comparison to the first time you dined together. She takes the items gently as you hand them to her, smelling them as she puts them on the table in front of her. Weary of what she's about to eat.

"It's good. Promise. I wouldn't bring you somewhere you didn't like."

Her eyes are fixated on the Christmas lights in the street as she eats a fry, instantly making eye contact with you once she's started chewing like a feral animal.

"Holy fuck." She eats another, and another too quickly you're worried she's about to choke and die. "Oh my god what do they put in here?"

A giggle escapes you as you crack open the nacho cheese sauce. "Wait, try some of this on it." She does without question, pointing to it aggressively when she swallows the bite.

"Okay. Okay I get it now. I get why you like it here."

"Yeah I mean, it's not fancy but—"

"Hon I eat fancy food all the goddamn time. Every time i'm at an event they make me eat a cube. It's the one part of being wealthy I can't get behind." Another fry. Another. She doesn't even swallow as she keeps talking. "This is fantastic"

She's out of fries before you know it, stealing two of yours when she thinks you're not looking.

You don't say anything, instead eating the crunchwrap. It's fine. As fine as it usually is, but you wait for Agatha's review like you're watching a mukbang.

"This is good. I like it. Not as good as the fries." She states like she knew you were waiting for a review. Still, she eats it quickly and wastes nothing. Dropping crumbs on the table and opening the water bottle right after.

"So, what's next?" She wipes her chin with a napkin. "Any other big plans?"

"Well. I was thinking we go see a movie, and then we go grocery shopping."

"Grocery shopping? That sounds like a lame date."

"It does. But then I can use those ingredients to cook you an actual home made meal tonight."

Agatha looks out the window at your words. Like she can't quite process them.

Or doesn't want to.

"You...want to cook for me?"

"Yeah. You're always eating microwave food and takeout. I want to cook you something."

"I could have a private chef every night if I wanted to."

"But you don't. Besides it's different when it's made with love."

She freezes instantly.

You freeze.

Shit.

You didn't mean it like that.

Please don't think you've just confessed the L word to her. Please don'—

"Fine. But you leave the cleaning for the housekeeper."

---

The walk to the movies isn't far, and Agatha seems to enjoy looking at the lights despite seeming a little grinch-like. It seems like she hasn't been outside in the city just to enjoy it. Like she's always just working, or jet setting to other places.

Her coat wrapped around her tightly with her hands in the pockets. If you were crazy you'd ask to hold one. But you aren't. And you aren't really sure whether you're actually allowed to be on a date with your boss right now.

But she hasn't exactly said anything either.

She gestures to the door when you reach the theater, allowing you to open it for her before she steps through.

"What are you making me watch?" She asks, getting distracted by the posters on the walls. Obvious she hasn't been here in a long time.

"I honestly hadn't looked. It's just such a first date activity."

"This is our first date?"

"I guess so. I mean, I was working every other time we were—"

"You weren't on my yacht."

"I thought we were just friends on your yacht."

Her eyes roll so hard you're sure she's going to lose one of them.

"You're a peevish little girl. Pick a movie." She spits, eyes the wall, a list of the current titles.

"Hm. We could go see Love Twice?"

"Bleh."

"Okay. No solid first date movies."

"That's what you show to your other dates? No wonder you're single."

You playfully punch her arm but step back immediately in case she returns the favor.

"Okay, what movies do you usually enjoy?"

"I don't know. Ones with deep meanings. Beautiful writing." She shrugs. "Or on occasion I do love a hilarious horror film."

"What about The Bone Man? That's supposed to be super gross and scary...I can do scary.." You aren't sure whether you're lying as you purchase the tickets, forgetting about the budget and remembering again when you ponder whether to get popcorn or not.

You hate budgets. You just realized.

The theater has a few people in it when you arrive and sit at the very back. Feeling like two teenagers hiding away from everybody. You're a little late, and the trailers are already over.

"I can't see anything." She whispers way too loudly as she tries to find the arm of the chair.

"Shhh" Comes a little further down the room.

"YOU SHUSH!" She yells back as you shove yourself far down into the chair so people can't see you're with her.

Luckily the opening credits are long and nobody seems to have missed anything. She sits quietly. Her legs crossed at the knee and face serious like she's reviewing this indie film at Cannes.

You shuffle in the seat trying to get closer to her without her noticing. Unsure whether you've failed or not as she continues looking at the screen. Eyes glued to it. When was the last time she had escapism like this outside of sex?

The film opens on a wide shot of a forest, bones all over the place. Scary music as the Bone Man comes into frame with his weapon, chasing a woman through the trees.

Trying your best not to draw her away from the film, you creep your hand over, trying to reach hers in the chair next to you.

She flinches violently when you time it accidentally with a jump scare, before clutching you tightly and awkwardly.

Still getting used to the notion of a hand-hold, but trying anyway.

And god, why do you feel so nervous?

Butterflies in your stomach making you feel sick as she grasps your fingers firmly between her own, sat close to you in the darkness of the movies.

Like a normal couple on a normal date. And maybe that's why. Stripped back without the glitz and the money and the workplace dynamic.

You're just two people watching a shitty movie together.

Snapped out of it when a man gets cut in half in the film and Agatha bursts out laughing, releasing your hand as she does one loud clap in enjoyment. You should be absolutely mortified when people start turning their heads but she's hilarious and adorable and could buy this whole franchise so you can't help but laugh along with her.

Laughter increasing as the killer goes on a rampage, slicing people up and fake blood spurts everywhere. A couple of people leaving down by the front.

Maybe to complain. Maybe to go home and talk about the crazy annoying woman sat at the back. The room almost entirely empty when the film ends.

And this still might be the best date you've been on.

--

Agatha ties her coat tightly around her as you're met with the crisp air again.

"So..." You begin. She tucks her hair behind her ears. "...are you ready to go to the store?"

She swallows too hard, but honestly going to a grocery store is objectively a sucky part of any day, and it's kind of relatable.

"Well. No. But if that's what we're doing."

"We are." She's unusually docile. Maybe the movie wore her out. "It's okay though, we can leave after."

"Back to my penthouse?"

"Back to your penthouse."

Agatha mimics the sign of the cross at your words as she follows you out of the lobby. The noise of the city louder than earlier, if she's had a hard day so far you're not sure she'd be able to handle it when it's busy. Or if she had to actually do anything that wasn't dinner and a movie.

Would she even survive in a normal world? In a normal job? Her bathroom is bigger than the Taco Bell and she gets whatever she wants when she snaps her fingers. She seems put off just walking on the street despite not having gone far from the Upper East Side.

The truth is this isn't even a truly 'normal' date or day out. If it was, you wouldn't even be in this part of town.

"I'm not sure what's around here." You offer, pulling out maps on your phone and typing in 'groceries'. That seemed to do the trick at the bar last night. I mean, you ended up here of all places. "I can have a little look, maybe there's somewhere cheap—"

"There's a Whole Foods nearby. Let's just go there." She points.

"There's probably somewhere cheaper, remember the budget." You scroll.

"We don't need cheaper." She puts her entire hand over the screen of your phone, your grip tightening on instinct like she might take it back from you. "Lets—hon let's just get the food and go home."

"But you agreed to the budget, we already spent a bunch. I think we still have a lot left but I'm worried we'll—"

"I know but I don't care anymore, I don't care. I have work to do and I want to watch the city from where I'm supposed to be." Her hand points to the sky. "Up there."

"Agatha."

Why does she have to make it difficult right at the very end?

"And then I'm calling a car. A proper car."

You bite your lip, unsure of where to go from here. "It wasn't really the plan."

"I have no idea why this means so much to you."

Truthfully, you aren't really sure. Maybe the grasp on realty you're trying to hold onto tightly. The dream life she lives not something you need to get too attached to. Not something you need to be reliant on. You can't be like her.

And also, she makes you laugh.

"Fine, alright let's go to Whole Foods. We're just getting essentials anyway."

"Atta girl, lead the way then."

She seems uncomfortable talking while walking to the store. Her head looking around at the people walking by as the city fills out. She's not anxious. Just observant with something deeper bothering her. Something you don't want to bring up just yet.

Fifteen minutes later, you're grabbing a basket when she refuses to pick one up on her own. The lights are bright and irritating, but you only need a few ingredients.

Pasta, tomatoes, garlic, chilli flakes, onions, oil and of course a garlic bread. Preferably as greasy as possible though you doubt you'll find that in here.

Agatha keeps her hands pressed against her neck and chest the duration of the first aisle. Looking quizzically at everything.

"Is this the store you usually shop at?"

"No."

You nod. No matter how much you wear her down, the walls come back up when you least expect them.

"Where do you go?"

"I don't go grocery shopping."

"What, ever?" You pick up a head of garlic to examine it.

"No. Never."

Maybe soon you'll be able to sit across from her and pull out a list of very long questions.

"So how do you—"

"—I have people bring me essentials. I order food. You organize my lunch at work and when I'm at home I send the concierge out for groceries if I desperately need them. Usually I just eat the ready made restaurant stuff I have in the freezer."

"What do you shop for?"

"Sometimes I go wine shopping, but again I usually have it delivered. I go out for clothes on occasion, but I generally have them close the store so it's more private."

"You have them close the whole store?"

She shrugs. "Depends what i'm buying and whether I've eaten yet."

You laugh as you add the garlic to your basket and head over to feel the firmness of tomatoes. Agatha watches you carefully like she's studying how all of this works.

"Where do you usually shop? Here?"

"Usually I just go to...there's this little store down the street I live on. They sell microwave food and soda and stuff so I just pick up stuff from there."

"But you'd rather cook."

"You made that kind of difficult with your work hours...and my roommate is a slob like I said, or you saw when you came over. It's just easier that way."

She feels the tomatoes you place in the basket, learning how to test if they're ripe.

"So this is new for both of us."

"I suppose it is."

Odd as it is, you're the same right now. Just two women in a grocery store neither of them have been to. No labels. No power. Just browsing for chilli flakes.

Agatha selects one from the two options you show her, and checks for chips of her nail polish after.

"Did your mother cook for you?" You ask after a very nervous few moments, willing the courage for the sentence to come out of your mouth. She keeps her eyes on her fingernails for too long, but the tension in her jaw indicates perhaps you shouldn't have asked that. You should have asked about her grandmother instead.

"We had a cook. We have a cook, I mean."

"Like, still?"

"Mhm. Well, we've had a couple generations of help in the Harkness chateau. Well i say we, I mean me...now."

You add the chillis to the basket and head on to find the pasta. There's an overwhelming amount of healthy choices you bypass trying to find a regular kind.

"Wait so, they still live there?"

"Yes well they're live-in staff. It takes a lot of people to run the place."

They live there year round? Does anyone else live there? Somehow every time you open a box you find another inside of it, like an old-money Russian doll. Not entirely sure how all of this works.

The pasta weighs heavier in the basket and you adjust for it's new weight, moving to find garlic bread in the bakery. Not caring if you both smell later.

"Anyone else live there?"

"Just the staff. And myself when I visit of course. I keep it running for when I'm in France. The same way I have staff in all of my properties when I'm not there. Wouldn't want to return to somewhere run-down."

Run-down for her probably means one spec of dust on the bed frame.

"But..." You eye the loaves, not trying to seem too eager at her voluntarily continuing to give you personal information. "...It's different there, with it being the family home and all. They're, like I said, generational. It tends to be different teams everywhere else. Especially here."

"You have people look after your penthouse when you leave?"

"If it's more than a week or two, of course. I have several teams on stand-by for that sort of thing. Any other time I'm generally against live-in staff. I don't like people in my home."

Her eyes try not to look at you but they feel heavy when she does.

"You know, usually I mean."

It takes everything in you not to poke fun or get emotional. To just let the sentence land as she intended it to. Not to embarrass her or draw attention to her affections.

"Why have you never asked me to organize that for you?" It seems easier to talk like this, without the pressure of having to look at each other. While she can look at the prices of baguettes and feel their firmness and not have to stare into your eyes. Like it's easier to open up a little bit.

"I haven't been anywhere long enough to need it since—" She clears her throat. "—well, you know."

The bread is added to your basket as you prepare to make your way to the checkout, abruptly halting when a small boy launches towards you and immediately latches onto Agatha's coat. Grimacing as you brace for impact. For her coldness towards the boy.

His eyes are blue and wet as he looks up at the two of you. Mostly her as you hold the basket in his way, unintentionally blocking him from touching you.

She recoils, analyzing the way his soft sticky hands grip her expensive fabric. "Augh, goddamn kid! What are you doing?"

Okay. Not maternal.

You'd imagined as much though you'd never seen Agatha actually interact with a child. All these galas and charity events to seem good in the eye of the public, but you doubt she actually believes in any of them.

He pouts at her reply, trying to hold back his tears as he lets go of her and she takes an uncomfortable step back. "I want my mama."

His voice is soft as he looks between the two of you, clearly lost in the supermarket. "Well she ain't me." She pouts back at him.

Okay time to take charge of the situation she's so poorly handling is the only thought on your mind when her words make him burst into tears.

His wails are loud and piercing, you can hardly hear her signature dramatic sigh over the noise.

"I—" you try to help, but she surprises you before you can.

"Okay, okay hey. Hey look at me." You watch as she grabs his small hand, encouraging him to look up at her. "Hey, it's alright kid. You're okay." Her words softer. Gentler. Soothing him. "You're okay, see? We can find her. It's gonna be alright, yeah?" She smiles, her lips tightly pressed together, clearly not extremely uncomfortable but not wanting to scare him anymore than she already has.

This is giving you whiplash as she walks him towards the counter, looking for the store signs and checking every few seconds to make sure he's calmed down. It's a thirty second walk. Ten hours in kid world. You follow behind like you're supervising the whole interaction. Not entirely sure you understand how it's making you feel.

They say nothing as they reach the checkout, where his very stressed out mother is waiting extremely impatiently, her arms wide and face lit up when Agatha delivers him to her, or rather lets go of his hand so he can run into her arms, whispering his name over and over as she cradles him.

"Thank you! God it's only been five minutes but I was so worried, you know how it is, so glad you aren't a crazy person or anything!" The mother rambles.

She doesn't know anything about your boss, only sees a kind lady who returned her son to her in the grocery store.

The two leave quickly, the woman not even buying anything and hanging around only for her son. At least there's no line to wait in when you greet the cashier.

"Well that was uncharacteristically nice of you."

She pulls out a hand sanitizer from her coat pocket and wipes the child off of her hands.

There it is.

"What? You think i'm some child-hating monster?"

"Kind of."

The cashier beeps your items through, putting them into a bag.

"Well."

She seems a little unsure of what to say next. Which direction to take the conversation. Whether she wants to be sarcastic or genuine.

So, she does what she does best. She avoids. She heads outside, and she calls the car to come and collect her.

---

The drive back is smooth. The driver doesn't talk to you besides a polite hello. Her body settles comfortably into the heated seat. The temperature at the perfect precise degree for her. Bottled water of her favorite kind in the cup holder next to her.

Where she's supposed to be. Away from grocery stores and sticky children and cheese sauce.

"Good to be back on top again?" You ask after a while, watching as she spills a little water on her chin when the car turns.

"Yes."

You nod, despite the day being extremely normal and not nearly as punishing as you had intended it to be.

"Although..." She places the water down in the cup holder, turning to look out of the window. "I did have a nice time."

"You did!?"

"I did. It was....fun."

"What was the best part?"

"Movie and fries. It's been forever since I did something like that, I can't even remember."

"I'm so glad." You sip your own water. "I knew you'd like it. But i'm not going to allow you to have fries at your desk every day, you know that right?"

"Oh?" Her voice drops a little despite the driver not being able to hear through the partition. "I don't think you allow me to do anything, little girl."

Your stomach drops at her words and how she can spin the conversation any way she likes, especially when she feels in control again. Still not looking at you. Eyes fixated out the tinted windows. Perhaps it calms her. Relaxes her as you drive back to her penthouse.

"Will I be—" you sweat a little unsure how to word your question without coming off as presumptuous "—will I be staying at your place again tonight?"

Her hair tosses over her shoulder as she turns to look at you over her oversized glasses.

"Well, you can if you like."

Tension fizzes between the seats of the car, this time you're looking out the window so she can't see your skin heat up.

"I mean...I always like...i'd just...i'd need to pick up some clothes or my toothbrush or..."

"Why don't we wait and see how good this dinner of yours will be first before I decide if you're worthy of staying?"

Her choice of words sounds like she's joking, but her tone indicates otherwise. You aren't sure, so you just nod in response.

"And you need to stop being so silly, I can buy you all of that whenever you need it."

"You're half the reason there are so many giant landfills."

"Probably.'

---

The driver hands you your grocery haul as you step out of the car and into Agatha's building. This time with a clear head. Who knew when you'd wound up here last night, not thinking clearly with your brain between your legs, that you'd be back today making pasta.

The elevator dings, and you step back out into the penthouse you're getting far too comfortable staying in, despite not even knowing what's behind all these doors and through these corridors. You're pretty sure there's an entire other floor to explore.

So much to learn.

The thought is almost too exciting.

Agatha kicks her shoes off aggressively as she steps into the house, throwing them near the front door and missing the shoe rack entirely, but carefully hanging the coat. Her brain confuses you, but it's kind of endearing.

Maybe if you lived with her, it'd drive you crazy. You push that thought out. That silly desperate thought. You don't even know if you'll be staying tonight.

The grocery bag makes a soft thud as you place it on the marble counter, excited to actually cook in a large clean kitchen.

You pull the items out of the bag and line them up on the marble in front of you, dim lights coming on when you step behind the kitchen island and discard of the packaging.

You're glad you aren't holding a knife yet as Agatha comes into the kitchen with you, unbuttoning her shirt a little to get comfortable. It's too many buttons. Too much chest to make dinner.

She rolls up her sleeves.

She knows what she's doing.

You hold your breath as she approaches you, hips swaying gently and a devious grin on her face. She wraps her arms around you slowly, agonizingly and...

Boots up the coffee machine you're standing directly in front of. It buzzes to life.

You exhale.

She knows what she's doing.

"Coffee?" She offers, taking the milk out of the refrigerator and giving it a shake. You step out of the way, looking for her knives.

"Yes please. With the—"

"With the cherry syrup. I know."

You damn near melt right there, hot under the collar as you pull a chopping board and a knife rack from the sides of the kitchen, the blade is obscenely sharp and cuts through the onion. No tears in your eyes. Just a perfectly diced vegetable. In a trance as you chop the food, actually and genuinely enjoying cooking a meal in silence. In cleanliness.

And most of all, taking care of Agatha. The woman who never needs anything, who never wants for anything. But who never gets cared for, properly cared for. Not tonight. Tonight you make her a home cooked meal.

Made with onions, tomatoes and lots of other feelings you aren't ready to think about yet.

It doesn't help when she places an elegant looking mug in front of you filled with cherry latte. That rolled up sleeve grazes you ever so gently, the smell of cherry from her neck and from the mug. In her house. With her knives and shampoo and you might die here.

It's too domestic. Too idealistic.

"Take off your clothes." She orders.

Well. Now it isn't.

You turn to see her sat at the kitchen island, sipping the much too hot black coffee she's made for herself. You don't know why she keeps doing this. You know she's a fiend for sugary coffee.

She raises an eyebrow when you don't instantly start undressing. Feeling very on display already stood in the kitchen like this.

Her gaze doesn't break. Sipping the drink. Blue eyes in ambient lighting and five buttons of her shirt opened. Her neck entirely on display.

The blade cuts through the remaining of the onion easily, and after discarding the peel you do as you're told, peeling off your clothes.

"Good girl. Not the underwear, leave that on."

She says nothing else, watching you move on to chopping garlic. Watching the way your naked skin moves as you cook under the warm glow of her kitchen. Too much time passing as you move onto the tomatoes.

"Um. Where are your pans?" You finally ask, holding the knife firmly as you look at her. Her arms draped over the back of the barstool as she watches you.

"Don't know."

"You don't know? This is your kitchen."

"I don't cook. I told you this. I just hire people for parties and things of that nature..." She takes a sip of her coffee. "...Why don't you check that bottom drawer..."

You don't realize what she's doing until you're already bent over looking in a drawer she had to know was empty. Until you realize she's stood directly behind you. Her hands warm on your ass as she holds you in place.

"You're easy, you know that?"

God. Maybe you are.

"I could get used to this." You grip onto the counter as she squeezes your ass, pressing herself flush to your skin. "Keeping you locked up in my tower, high above the city. Serving me dinner, wearing nothing but this pretty thong and a little apron."

She keeps her hands on your waist as you stand up, spotting the pans immediately as you do. Hung just next to where you were stood. You hadn't noticed.

She definitely knew they were there.

Reaching for one, you put some oil in the pan, grabbing another for pasta. Cooking for her as she stands far too close to you for just innocent dinner. "You'd do everything for me, serve me, wear whatever I say, and i'd just take you whenever i wanted you."

Your stomach tightens as your skin heats up. "Does it turn you on when I cook for you?" You whisper to her as her arms wrap around your waist from behind. Your voice flirtatious, but genuinely curious.

This didn't feel very sexy when you started.

"You have no idea. I could bend you over this counter right now while you make this sauce."

"The onions will burn. I want this to taste good for you."

"So sweet to me aren't you? Sweet little thing. Stood all helpless in my big kitchen. Taking care of me." You hum as she places her lips to your neck, just once as she places a kiss on your pulse. You know she can feel how fast your heart is beating. "I don't know why I ever let you do anything else."

You stir the onions as you add the rest of the ingredients. "You haven't tasted it yet, it might not be very good. You don't even know if you want me to stay."

She bites down on your neck, making you yelp as you let go of the pan. Her breath smells like cherry. She added the syrup to her coffee too.

"If you don't stay, how am I supposed to show you a real date tomorrow?"

---

A/N How are we doing folks? This story has blown up again recently thanks to the twitter community so welcome! It's been fun talking to you and seeing your posts and asks. Also I see your asks I will be posting this to ao3 but it'll likely be in the new year. I've also seen some asks asking if I had a pinterest board? I do! But i haven't shared it. I'll probably copy the stuff from it onto a new account as it's tied to a bunch of personal art projects and stuff and I don't want them to get all mixed up! I'll drop a post when that's out. Thank you for reading as always and hope you enjoy the holidays <3

Update: I just copied everything over it was super easy haha. Extremely minor spoilers ( ideas ) but moodboard if you're interested! This is a link.

The silence between you is loud. Familiar. Full of everything that hasn’t been said in weeks.

She hasn’t looked at you yet, not really. She’s scanning the mission brief like it contains a hidden threat, flipping each page with surgical precision. You don’t know how she can be so still. You wonder, not for the first time, if she trained herself to stop fidgeting. Or if she ever did it at all.

Your knee bounces again.

“You’re twitchy,” she mutters.

You don’t flinch. “I call it ready.”

That earns you a look. Her eyes finally lift, and when they meet yours, you feel it in your stomach. Natasha doesn’t just look at people--she studies them. Dismantles them. You’re not exempt. Never have been.

“You call everything ready,” she says, voice flat, low. “Even when you’re not.”

That one stings. You smirk anyway. “And yet I’m still alive.”

She hums softly, no smile. “For now.”

You shift your weight, lean back on your hands, let your head tilt just slightly -- defiant. “You nervous, Romanoff?”

She turns another page. “Not for me.”

That shuts you up.

There’s something in her tone. Not sarcasm. Not clipped or cold. Something quieter. Heavier.

You sit with it for a second.

You’re not sure who breaks the silence next. Maybe it’s both of you. Her hand closes the file at the same time your boot squeaks against the floor. She stands, tucking the folder under one arm, other hand dropping to her thigh holster with ease. Always armed. Always precise.

You stay sitting, watching her check gear like it’s instinct.

“Mission’s tight,” she says without looking up. “Compound’s low grade, underground. Hydra splinter. Intel says they’re close to releasing the nerve agent. Target has the formula and the samples.”

You nod slowly. “We intercept, extract, and torch the rest. Silent entry. No kill unless provoked.”

She nods. “One vent point. Two entrances. No backup. You and me.”

Just you and her. Like it always is when it matters.

You feel your throat go dry.

She continues. “Preliminary scans show traces of an unidentified neurotoxin. Weaponized, possibly air-based. Could be absorbed on contact. Most likely internal dispersal through blade, syringe, or microdose powder. Symptoms could be delayed.”

“Symptoms?” you echo, heartbeat slowing.

She finally looks at you again. That same unreadable calm. But her eyes-- her eyes are molten steel.

“Paralysis. Hallucinations. Nervous system breakdown. Slow death, not quick.”

You stare. “Sounds like a party.”

“Not a party I’m letting you die at,” she says sharply, too fast, too raw.

You blink.

It’s the first time she’s slipped.

Her jaw tightens. She adjusts her gloves like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.

You step off the table, slow. Move to the bench where your gear waits. You buckle your vest, still feeling her gaze crawl across your shoulders. It burns more than the lights.

“So what’s the play if one of us gets tagged?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“Immediate evac,” she answers without hesitation. “There’s a bunker inside the north wing. Medical station. Supposed to be cleared. If we get hit, we get out. Fast.”

You hesitate. “And if only one of us gets hit?”

She doesn’t answer.

You turn. She’s standing too still now, eyes unreadable.

“Natasha.”

Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark and low.

Then.... “Then I carry you.”

The words drop like a blade.

You don’t move. She doesn’t flinch. There’s something between you now--buzzing, electric, unbearable. Not new. Just exposed.

You try to speak, but she’s already reaching for her sidearm, strapping it tight. Her movements are clean, practiced, but her hands shake just once--barely a tremor.

“Don’t get cocky,” she says again, voice soft. “And don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll try if you do,” you fire back.

She steps close.

Too close.

You feel her breath, smell the faint metallic oil of her gear. Her hand brushes past your shoulder as she picks up your earpiece. She holds it out to you between two fingers, like a dare.

You take it slowly, keeping your eyes on her face.

Her voice is a whisper now. “You ready, detka?”

The word sinks into your chest.

You want to say yes. You want to say always. But the way she’s looking at you, the weight in her gaze like she already knows something’s going to go wrong, it steals your voice.

So you nod.

She turns without another word.

You stare at the empty space where she stood.

And your heart doesn’t slow until you’re in the quinjet, five thousand feet in the air, staring down at the lights of a compound you’re going to walk into side by side.

And maybe not both walk out of.

The quinjet lands like a whisper against the backdrop of midnight fog.

Your boots hit the earth with a muted crunch-- mud, wet leaves, something darker. Fog curls around your calves in heavy tendrils. The compound looms ahead like a bunker out of time: slabs of decaying concrete, overgrown with ivy and moss, hunched in silence. You can't even see the stars. No moon. Just that dull gray pressure in the sky, like the whole world is waiting to hold its breath.

You breathe through your mask. Natasha lands beside you, silent as a shadow, her silhouette barely more than a shift in the mist. You catch a glimpse of her profile, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the treeline, already calculating exits and ambush zones. She's wired. More than usual.

You follow her to the compound’s eastern breach, a rusting utility panel half-covered in vines. You crouch beside her. The air smells like mold, metal, and ozone. She slips a fiber optic camera into the crack and studies the interior. Her breath barely stirs the fog.

She taps her comm. "Two guards, perimeter. Cameras looped for six minutes."

You nod. No words. The rhythm between you doesn’t need them.

You breach low. Silent takedown. The first man doesn’t even grunt before you’ve got his weight cradled to the ground, Natasha already dragging the second into the brush with a nerve pinch that leaves him twitching.

Inside, the compound is colder. The hallway smells like ammonia and rot. Overhead fluorescents flicker, half powered, some buzzing. The sound of your boots, soft-soled and careful, blends with the steady hum of unseen generators. You track together like wolves.

You take point. Natasha follows close. Close enough that you can hear her breathing through the comm.

You turn a corner and pause. Hold up one hand. Two guards. Talking in hushed Czech at the far end of the corridor. Natasha slides past you, calm, slow, predatory. You admire how easily she moves--like she’s dancing with ghosts. Within seconds, the guards slump silently to the floor.

You keep going. Left. Then another left. Then a flight of stairs that smell of oil and chemical burn.

The lower levels are worse. Damper. Darker. A faint blue light pulses under the lab door. You know it before you open it: this is where the poison lives.

"Scan for tripwires," she murmurs.

You sweep the frame with a small UV torch. Nothing. It’s almost disappointing.

"Too easy," you murmur.

She doesn’t reply.

You slip inside first. The lab is bigger than expected--long tables covered in sterile cloths and scattered notes, beakers, syringes, unmarked vials. The overhead light casts everything in a washed out, antiseptic blue. Shelves of equipment line the walls. An exhaust system hums in the ceiling.

Natasha peels off toward a terminal, hands flying over the interface. You start moving through drawers, lockers, storage bins. You find a canister sealed with four steel clamps--filled with clear vials, each bearing only a biohazard symbol.

You hold one up. "Found your death juice."

She glances back. "Don’t open it."

"Wasn’t planning to."

"Then don’t joke."

Her tone makes you pause.

You meet her eyes. There’s something in them. Something sharp. But she turns away too fast.

You secure the canister in your pack.

A noise. Behind you.

You pivot--weapon up. It’s a lab tech. Unarmed. Late 40s. Balding. Panic in his eyes. He lurches forward like a man with nothing to lose.

You intercept easily. Grab his wrist. Twist. Drive him into the wall.

He flails, and for a second, you think it’s over, until you feel the sting.

A flick of steel. A knife. Small. Coated with something faintly oily.

You slam your elbow into his face. He collapses.

You look down.

A slash along your ribcage. Not deep. Not even painful yet.

You exhale. Roll your eyes. “Asshole got a lucky scratch.”

But Natasha is already beside you.

“What happened?”

“Knife. Didn’t even feel it.”

She peels your suit open before you can stop her. The cut is dark already, edges rimmed in angry red, skin swelling fast.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “You’re dosed.”

“What? No, it’s--”

Then your hand starts to tremble.

You try to grip your weapon. Miss.

The ground tilts.

“Y/n.”

You hear her voice like it’s underwater.

Your knees buckle.

She catches you.

Your vision tunnels.

Cold tile under your spine. Lights bloom too bright above.

“Y/n. Hey. Stay with me.”

She’s kneeling beside you. Her gloved hands move fast--checking your pulse, your pupils. You see panic blooming in her face, cracking through that iron surface.

“I’m fine,” you slur.

“You’re not.”

You try to sit up. Your muscles ignore the command.

Natasha curses under her breath. She rips off her glove and touches your face. Her hand is warm. Grounding.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”

You reach for her wrist. Miss again.

“It was just a scratch…”

“Not with this compound. They laced it. Probably aerosolized it, too.”

You blink slowly. The room spins.

“I don’t want to die in a place that smells like feet,” you mumble.

That gets the smallest sound out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Shut up,” she says gently. “You’re not dying.”

She hoists you up into her arms.

You sag against her chest, your cheek against the stiff fabric of her vest. Her heart is pounding like a war drum.

“Hold on,” she whispers. “Just hold on for me, detka.”

You think you nod.

But then the world goes dark.

Everything is dim, and then everything is too bright.

You drift in and out, each blink a flicker of a memory you can’t hold onto. One moment you're in her arms. The next, your body is weightless. The cold metal beneath your back shocks you, makes your spine jerk, but it’s like your brain is buffering behind it.

Then comes sound.

Not an alarm. Not shouting.

Just her.

Natasha’s voice is high, sharp. “No, no, no, stay with me.”

You open your eyes. Barely.

The room above you spins. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, too harsh, too fast. You see the outline of her, her shoulders broad, hunched over drawers, flinging them open one by one.

The metal clatter is deafening.

Each slam, each rip of a cabinet door is edged with panic. She’s never like this. Not even in the field. Not even when bullets are flying.

But now she is.

She mutters to herself in Russian, breathless.

"Gde ty… gde ty, blyad', poka…"

She opens a drawer, slams it shut, moves to the next. Plastic vials scatter across the ground. You try to lift your hand to stop her.

You can’t.

She doesn’t hear you, but she hears something, the small choking noise that escapes your throat.

She drops everything.

Races back to your side.

You see her face now. Closer than ever. Bare. Vulnerable. Her braid is half-undone. Sweat beads along her brow. Her eyes look glassy. Haunted.

“Y/n?” she says softly, kneeling. “I’m here. Hey. Look at me.”

You do. Just barely. Her face swims, double vision, haloed in fluorescent light.

“I’m gonna fix this. You hear me?”

Your lips move. Nothing comes out.

She grabs your hand. Holds it to her chest. You can feel her heartbeat slamming beneath her suit.

She swallows thickly. Then leans down. You feel her forehead press to yours for a split second.

Then she bolts again.

You hear the hiss of a cold storage unit being cracked open. A lock disengaged.

She exhales like she’s been punched.

"Please, please…"

A beat.

Then: “Yes.”

She’s back at your side within seconds, sliding to her knees.

She holds the auto-injector up like it’s holy. Sleek metal. Faint blue glow in the vial. She checks it three times, her hand trembling, then steadies it against your neck.

You flinch.

She freezes.

“Hey,” she whispers, moving closer, her voice dipping low, quiet, coaxing. “It’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but I need you to trust me.”

You blink, sluggishly. Your breath rattles.

She cups your face with one gloved hand, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. Her other hand holds the injector firm.

“Y/n,” she says your name like it’s breaking her. “Detka… please. Let me do this.”

She waits. Just for your eyes. Just to see that flicker of understanding.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t.

But she can’t wait any longer.

She drives the needle into your neck.

The world shatters.

Your body jerks.

You scream.

White fire floods your veins like acid. Every nerve sears. Your back arches so hard your shoulders leave the table. Your mouth opens, but the sound is pure agony.

Her hand is over your mouth in an instant.

“Shhh, detka--I know, I know, I know--I’m here.”

You claw at her with your free hand. You can’t stop. You need it to stop. It’s worse than the poison. It’s like you’re being burned alive from the inside.

She holds you through it.

She leans over you, her hand firm over your mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her other hand clutches your shoulder. She’s shaking as hard as you are.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on, baby, please. Stay with me.”

Your legs thrash. Your hands slap at the gurney.

Then it crests.

The fire fades. You collapse. Chest heaving. Gasping for air.

Natasha pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go of your face. She strokes your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.”

Tears slip down your face now.

Not from the pain.

But from the look in her eyes.

Raw. Terrified. In love.

Your voice is wrecked. “Thought I was gonna die.”

She leans close. Her lips brush your temple.

“You’re not allowed to,” she whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You half-laugh, a broken sound. “You’re bleeding.”

She looks down. There’s blood smeared across her forearm. Yours. From your fingernails.

She doesn’t care.

She brushes sweat from your brow and kisses your knuckles.

“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Anything. Keep talking.”

You blink. “Hurts.”

“I know.”

“Still burning.”

“I know, detka. I’m here.”

Silence hangs for a second.

Then, softly, almost broken:

“I can’t do this without you.”

You stare at her.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper.

She leans forward, forehead pressed to yours again. Her lips brush your ear.

“I thought I lost you. And I never even told you--”

You feel her swallow the words. Bury them. But they’re there.

You whisper, “Say it.”

She doesn’t move.

Then “I love you.”

Simple. Unadorned. Like a gunshot in the silence.

“I love you and I didn’t say it because I thought it would make this harder. Because it would mean I couldn’t do the job.”

Her hand slides down your chest, rests over your heart.

“But watching you go down… nothing could have prepared me for that.”

You can’t smile, but you want to.

“You still owe me that date,” you rasp.

She laughs, watery. “You still want to be seen with me in public after this?”

You give her the faintest smirk. “Only if you carry me there.”

She exhales. Holds your hand tighter.

Then she checks the injector again. One dose gone. Timer running.

“Next dose in eleven minutes.”

You swallow. “And if I need a third?”

“We find it. We fight for it. Or I carry you through the compound kicking and screaming until I get you on that evac jet.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Her hand brushes your cheek.

“Don’t go to sleep,” she says gently. “You stay with me, Y/n.”

Your heart rate steadies.

But her panic doesn’t fade.

Not even a little. You don’t know how much time has passed.

Minutes? A heartbeat? Years?

You’re not on the table anymore. You’re moving again--limbs flopping uselessly, your weight dead in her arms. The air is colder now. You feel it against the sweat clinging to your neck, the pulse of it in the hallway, the echo of your foot dragging on tile every time Natasha pulls you forward.

Her arms are around you, tight--one across your back, the other under your thighs. You know she shouldn’t be able to carry you this far, this fast, while still moving silent and deadly.

But she does.

Because you’re her mission now.

No comms. No backup. Just her rage and fear holding you together while your body threatens to come apart.

“Stay awake,” she whispers, voice tight. “Detka, you hear me? No checking out. No napping. You do not sleep until I get you out of this hellhole.”

You try to answer. Nothing comes out.

But your eyes flutter. Barely.

She keeps going.

She rounds a corner and nearly runs into two guards--armed. Alert.

You’re barely conscious, but you feel the shift in her muscles. The sudden drop to one knee, placing you behind her. Her hand finds her Glock like it’s always been there. Two shots. Muffled. Precision. One in the throat. One between the eyes.

You hear the thud of bodies falling.

You hear the silence that follows.

Then her hand is on your face again.

“Still with me?”

Your head lolls.

She adjusts her grip on you. Kisses your temple.

“Two more minutes,” she breathes, not sure if it’s a promise or a plea.

The symptoms are returning.

It starts in your fingertips this time--an itching, almost tingling burn that crawls upward. You can feel your blood slowing down, thickening. Your teeth chatter even though you’re sweating.

Natasha feels it too.

You’re seizing.

She drops to the ground with you in the shadow of a steel stairwell and props you against her chest. Her gloves come off fast. She grips your face with bare hands. They’re warm. Yours aren’t.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers.

She pulls out the injector with shaking fingers.

“Too soon,” she mutters. “Not long enough since the last--fuck.”

Your body convulses.

“I can’t wait,” she decides aloud.

She plunges the second dose into your neck.

This time, you black out entirely.

No screaming. No flailing. Just silence.

Too much of it.

For a second, she thinks she’s killed you.

She presses her forehead to your chest, listening--desperate.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Faint. But there.

When your eyes snap open and you gasp like you’ve been pulled from underwater, her hand immediately slams over your mouth.

You don’t know why she’s crying until you realize you’re crying too.

The burn rips through you like napalm. The second dose hits faster, harder, crueler. Your body contorts, and she holds you like you’re both drowning.

“Shh. Shh. Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking you in her lap, curled around you like a shield. “Just breathe. Just breathe. I know it hurts.”

You claw at the front of her vest. She lets you.

Your teeth grit. You scream through her palm.

And then you collapse again, twitching. Weak. But breathing.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

She can’t carry you anymore.

Your weight, your heat, your body-it’s too much now. Not physically. Emotionally.

She can’t feel her arms.

She kneels beside you and presses her hand to your neck. Still alive.

Barely.

Then she grabs your vest collar, hauls you to your feet, and throws your arm over her shoulders.

You groan weakly.

“I know,” she says. “I know, detka. We’re almost there.”

Every step is pain. Your legs don’t work. You’re mostly dead weight, and she’s using every ounce of muscle and momentum she has to keep you both upright.

You round a corner.

You see it.

Light.

The corridor opens up into the hangar, your evac point. The chopper is already waiting, blades thudding.

“We made it,” she breathes, more to herself than to you.

But then, shouting. Footsteps.

Natasha grits her teeth. One more goddamn obstacle.

Five Hydra agents swarm the corridor behind you.

She throws you to cover, gently as she can. Her gun is up before your body hits the floor. Four rounds. Three bodies.

The fourth comes at her fast, knife out.

She parries, twists, drives her elbow into his throat. He drops like a stone.

She’s panting. Bleeding now, cut across the arm. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

She lifts you again.

Two more steps. Then your heart stops.

Literally.

You slump in her arms like a puppet with cut strings.

She doesn’t even scream.

Not at first.

She lowers you to the ground. Strips off her vest and places it under your head. Straddles your waist and starts compressions.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Come on, Y/n. Come on, baby. Breathe.”

Nothing.

She switches to mouth-to-mouth.

Breathes into you. Pushes her soul into your lungs.

“You’re not dying here.”

Another round of compressions.

She’s crying now. Shaking. Her voice climbs.

“Come on. Come on. Don’t do this. I didn’t say it just so you could leave me--!”

Still nothing.

She leans in again. Breathes again.

Then...finally.... You cough. Blood. Bile. But air.

She catches you before you turn your head.

You gasp again, mouth open, lungs on fire.

You look at her. She’s soaked. Bloody. Wild eyed.

You try to smile.

“Made it… to the date.”

She collapses into your chest.

“Shut up,” she says, sobbing, laughing. “Just--shut up.”

You feel her lips against your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your mouth. Salt tears and blood between you. She kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she needs it to live.

You let her.

Because you do too.

Natasha dragging you the final stretch, body broken, her mind fracturing -- while the evac chopper blades are screaming overhead and help is just out of reach.

This is the last burst of desperation before you’re ripped from the mouth of death.

She kisses you once.

Quick. Messy. Salt and blood on your lips. Her hand cups your face like it’s all she has left in the world.

Then she’s moving again.

“Stay awake, detka,” she breathes, slinging your arm around her neck once more. “You got this far. Don’t quit now.”

You try to stand. You try to help.

You can’t.

Your body is a dead thing she has to drag. Your legs twitch but won’t lift. Your knees knock against the floor as she pulls you through the corridor, step by brutal step.

Outside, the wind shifts. The chop of helicopter blades roars louder. Almost there.

“I’ve got you,” she says again, though her voice is hoarse now. She’s repeating it more for herself than you.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

She stumbles. The weight of you pulling her sideways. She slams a hand into the wall for balance, nearly collapses.

Her arms are screaming. Her spine feels like it’s going to snap.

But she keeps going.

One hand on her pistol, the other dragging your body into the light of the hangar bay.

She sees them then.

SHIELD medics.

Two of them. Just past the open ramp of the chopper.

One lifts a radio.

“Agent Romanoff--status--do you need--?”

“Help!” she yells, staggering forward. “She’s dying!”

They sprint toward you.

“Poisoned--nerve agent--two doses of the antidote--cardiac arrest sixty seconds ago--she’s back, but she’s slipping--!”

They reach you just as your body spasms again.

Natasha doesn’t let go.

She’s still holding you even as they lower a stretcher. Still has one knee under your head as they start cutting away the armor, checking your vitals, calling for adrenaline.

“You need to let us--” one medic says.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps, and her voice is ice. Shaking. Shredded.

They work. She watches. Every time your chest rises, her grip tightens on your arm. Every pause makes her stop breathing.

When they finally lift you into the chopper, she’s beside you. No one tries to stop her.

Her hand never leaves yours.

Inside, it’s noise and heat and spinning pain.

You blink weakly. The overhead lights are harsh. Your ears are full of static. You're shaking violently now--reaction from the second dose--and your body won't calm.

You can’t stop whispering her name. Like you’re checking if she’s still real.

She is.

She leans over you, both hands cupping your face.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at her, really look.

There’s blood on her cheek. A split at her lip. A gash along her bicep still bleeding freely. But her eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing worth watching in the world.

“I love you,” you murmur, dazed.

She kisses your forehead, hard.

“You’d better,” she says.

Then your eyes roll back. The medics shout something.

And she starts to pray again.

You wake to the sound of beeping.

Soft. Steady. Mechanical.

It echoes in your skull like sonar, each pulse drawing you back toward consciousness. At first, it doesn’t feel like waking -- it feels like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching, gravity heavier than it should be.

Everything is white.

Too bright. Too still.

The sheets under you are stiff. The light above your head doesn’t flicker like the compound’s. It’s soft. Clean. Sterile. A filtered hum of recycled air replaces the chaos of gunfire and shouted orders.

You inhale -- and feel the weight of your own body for the first time in hours. Days? You don’t know. Every inch of you aches. Your chest is wrapped tight. There’s a catheter in your arm. Tubes in your nose.

But you’re alive.

You blink again, slowly.

And that’s when you feel it.

Her hand.

Wrapped around yours.

Warm. Steady. Holding like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

You turn your head with effort.

There she is.

Slumped in a chair beside your hospital bed, head tilted to rest on the mattress, asleep. Or trying to be. Her other hand is buried in her hair, half-pulled loose from its braid. She hasn’t changed clothes. There’s a bloodstain on her tactical pants and bruises down her forearm that weren’t there before.

She looks wrecked.

You want to speak, but your throat is raw -- so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed dust.

Still, something rasps out.

“…Tasha.”

She jolts awake so fast it’s like you’ve been shot again.

Her head lifts. Her eyes are wild, scanning you from head to toe, like she expects you to vanish right in front of her.

And then they fill with tears.

“Oh my god--” Her voice breaks. “Y/n”

You try to smile. It hurts. “Still… breathing.”

She’s already leaning forward, both hands on your face now, her thumbs brushing gently at your temples, your jaw, your lips like she needs to re-learn every part of you to believe it.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Only returned the favor,” you croak.

She lets out a soft, broken laugh, then presses her forehead to yours.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.

You close your eyes, letting her words settle into your skin.

“You didn’t,” you say. “You never do.”

She sits back, wipes her eyes roughly, like she’s mad at herself for showing any of this. But her hands won’t stop shaking.

“How long?” you ask, voice hoarse.

She hesitates. “Thirty-two hours in a medically induced coma. Another eight unconscious. You coded twice. They had to re-administer part of the antidote. Your kidneys tried to fail.”

“Hot,” you whisper.

She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

You squeeze her hand, or try to. Your fingers barely move.

But she feels it.

Her expression softens.

“I thought about what I’d say when you woke up,” she murmurs. “Rehearsed it in my head. Over and over.”

You look up at her. “And?”

She leans close again. Her voice is barely audible.

“I love you,” she says. “I loved you before this. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

You blink slowly. “Guess I had to almost die to get you to say it.”

She closes her eyes.

“You’re never doing that again,” she whispers. “I mean it. No more near-death confessions. Next time I want to say it, we’re going to be safe. Somewhere soft. Warm. You’ll be wearing pajamas. I’ll be making you pancakes. Badly.”

You smile, finally. Weak. But real.

“I want that.”

She kisses your knuckles.

“You’ll have it,” she whispers. “You’ll have all of it.”

Silence falls again. Not awkward. Just full of things that don’t need to be said out loud.

Her hand stays in yours.

And in the lull between beeping monitors and IV drips, you let yourself drift.

Not from pain. Not from poison.

But into rest.

Safe. Held. Loved.