You were surrounded by notebooks, loose notes, post-its stuck to the carpet, the tablet, and even your own arm. 

The living room floor looked like an open mind. A chaotic map of ideas, arrows, keywords, and small nighttime obsessions scribbled in black ink.

The sky outside was starting to lighten. The cold dawn light filtered through the blinds, bathing your skin in that pale tone that only exists between the end of the night and the beginning of the day.

You were still in your sweatshirt and the dark circles under your eyes gave away what the clock no longer needed to prove: you hadn’t slept.

The sound of the door creaking pulled you out of your immersion. Carol appeared with slow steps, hair flattened on one side like she had fought with her pillow.

She stopped at the entrance to the room, blinking her sleep-swollen eyes, and she sighed.

 “I can’t believe you didn’t sleep.”

You looked up, a pen still held between your teeth. 

“Neither can I.” You murmured, pulling the pen out and stretching your neck until it cracked.

Carol went straight to the kitchen, withholding further judgment. The sound of the coffee machine filled the silence, along with the quiet thrum of your own heart, which sped up every time your eyes landed again on the top of the page.

But deep down, you knew. 

This wasn’t just about young voters.

It was about her, about proving that you deserved to be there—at her side.

That you were good.

Good for her.

Carol came back with two mugs, handed you one without a word and sat on the couch with the other, observing the organized chaos in front of her.

“This looks like NASA’s bunker.” She took a sip. “You need to chill. How about going out on Saturday?”

You sipped a bit of the liquid, thinking. Going out with Carol wasn’t exactly relaxing but maybe she had a point.

“As long as you’re paying. Fine.” You shrugged.

“Excuse me?! You should be paying! Spend your first paycheck!”

“A deal’s a deal!”

“Ugh, whatever…”

You knew Carol hated spending money, and you hoped she would forget about you.

[…]

You arrived earlier again, with the plan printed on paper and digitized on the tablet. You had put on lipstick. Nothing excessive, just a red touch, and chosen a button-down shirt that made you look smart, and a short skirt that made you seem younger and more effortless. Like someone who thinks fast and well, but doesn’t care about taking credit.

You opened the office door with a racing heart and froze.

She was already there.

Agatha Harkness. 

Sitting behind the desk, brown hair parted to the side, a gray blazer draped over her shoulders, those square glasses that were so her and a lot of papers everywhere.

Two advisors were speaking at once, and she was ignoring them masterfully. One hand held a pen; the other, a black coffee cup—the third one, judging by the stack of empty mugs on the counter.

You lit up, just like a needy puppy seeing its owner come home. And then you cursed yourself for it.

Pathetic, you thought. Pathetic and needy, she hasn’t even noticed you.

But she had—by the way her eyes found yours and the way she looked you over, head to toe, assessing your outfit, she liked what she saw.

Agatha didn’t smile, didn’t say good morning. Just… looked at you. But the look was enough. It was recognition, validation.

You walked up to the desk trying to appear professional, even though your legs were still a bit shaky. 

“I… I created a plan for the youth voters.” You said, your voice almost steady.

She extended her hand without looking, and you placed the tablet into it carefully. Agatha skimmed the first few lines, then quickly scrolled to the middle and you watched every microexpression of hers like you were reading vital signs.

 A jaw muscle, a slight wrinkle in the brow, eyes lingering just a second longer on a suggestion you had written at three in the morning.

“An Instagram profile called… ‘MotherHark?’” She looked at you over her glasses.

Laughter broke out into the room, and you shrank a little. You hadn’t realized how stupid it might sound out loud.

“Well…” you began, swallowing your insecurity, “based on the comments on social media… Young people like your strong, assertive demeanor. The body language, the firmness. I… ran a test last night, just to see the reception…”

You swiped on the tablet and played a short video.

Fifteen seconds of a clip of her putting the host in his place during last night’s interview.

In the background, the cheeky, punchy beat of Breakin’ Dishes by Rihanna. And right when Agatha said: “In that case… let me know and I’ll change the channel,” the beat dropped. The wink, the lethal little smirk—timed perfectly to the rhythm. 

An edit worthy of going viral.

She watched in silence, but you saw it. 

The almost smile at the corner of her lips. As light as a secret. As warm as a sunbeam on a cold day.

Goddamn.

She was hot.

“I posted this anonymously on TikTok. It’s been less than 24 hours. It’s already hit a hundred thousand views, twenty thousand likes… ten thousand comments.” You said, swiping to the next screen and mirroring it to the TV.

The comments popped like silent applause:

“Who is she?”

“She’s SERVING.”

“Slayyy”

“Mother is MOTHERING.”

Now everyone in the room was reacting, surprised. Finally understanding what this could mean.

Agatha read silently, slowly repeating. 

“Mother is… mothering?”

Each syllable came out as a mix of mockery and wonder. Like she was discovering a new language and maybe liking it a little too much.

Shit.

She was so cute!!!

“Yes.” You chuckled softly, now that you had proven your point. “Young people want someone who commands respect… and at the same time, makes them feel like things are under control. Someone who’ll protect them, but without mercy. They want to be taken care of by someone strong.”

You looked at her, steady.

 “And that’s who you are. A great mother. The powerful kind, it seems.”

Silence.

Her gaze met yours. Intense, indecipherable. And she smiled. A sly smile, no teeth—just for you.

You knew she liked it.

“And how do we make this work?” She asked, voice low but firm. A challenge disguised as curiosity.

You almost sighed, but you straightened your shoulders and lifted your chin. 

“We can start by building the visual universe. Layout, fashion forward color palettes, narratives. Then connect it with behind-the-scenes content, well edited, of course. TikToks from backstage, her reactions during debates, spontaneous interactions with the team. Show the Agatha no one sees. The human one. The ‘Mother.’”

She crossed her arms, intrigued.

You continued, increasingly excited.

“After that… impactful Instagram reels, iconic quotes. Strategic merch. Like mugs that say ‘change the channel’. And the cherry on top: the hashtag. We already have organic engagement with #MotherHark. We can capitalize on it without losing elegance or sounding forced.”

“And how does this help us against the opposition?” One of the advisors asked.

Her eyes never left you, of course.

“Right. No videos tearing down other candidates. I believe this works better if we convince people that candidate Harkness is the best. Show the reason she’s leading the campaign.”

The man jotted down notes, nodding.

She watched you like she was watching a storm take shape.

“And the TikTok?” She asked, still testing the edges of the idea.

“It’s already in beta. We’ll launch an official profile with a special video: your first direct address to the camera. Natural and intimate. Like you’re speaking to… well, your digital babies.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“My… digital babies?”

You laughed.

“It’s just a metaphor. I promise I won’t make you dance.”

“Better not,” she replied, dry. But the smile was still there. “And this first video… who writes the script?”

You hesitated for a second. 

“I can write. I can draft something and you tweak it. Or… if you’d rather, we can write it together.”

God, yes… you really did want to be alone with her a little longer.

A comfortable silence lingered in the air for a moment. She looked over at her assistants again, whispered something to them. Then, back at you.

“I like that.” She said simply.

It was like a bell rang inside your chest.

She likes it.

You nodded slowly, trying not to blush. Trying not to look so happy. So needy. So obvious.

But inside, you were bursting.

You were good.

Even if she never said it out loud.

[...]

You were alone.

 In your improvised office, as Billy liked to call it, “the idea closet” wrapped in a delicious quiet, filled only with the sound of laptop notifications, scribbles on post-its, and the soft hum of the AC.

The glass wall reflected your silhouette sitting on the floor, surrounded by graphic materials, slogan prototypes, and open folders. A sea of chaotic creativity.

You were so focused on reorganizing an engagement spreadsheet that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Are you working or plotting my murder?” Said a deep voice, laced with elegant irony.

The air thinned. Again.

You turned your head slowly.

She was there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, the blazer draped over her shoulders, and that gaze that seemed to cut right through you. As if she could read your thoughts or worse.

“The first one,” you said, swallowing hard. “I need the algorithm to love you as much as the public does.”

She stepped into the room slowly, eyes scanning the scattered papers. The faint rustle of her tailored pants as she moved.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About image and setting trends.”

She stopped beside you, crouching down with feline control.

“How would that work, exactly?”

It took you a second to remember how to breathe.

“Well… sometimes what sticks isn’t what’s said, but what’s seen,” you spun your laptop toward her, opening a slide deck. “It can be something as simple as a color. An accessory, a recurring detail. Something that sticks in the public’s mind. Like Ocasio-Cortez’s lipstick. Merkel’s blazer. Or Michelle’s bun.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, her face was too close to yours now.

“And what did you imagine for me?”

You tried to look calm, professional. But your knee brushed hers and you had to pretend you didn’t feel it.

“Purple,” you said. “Powerful, noble. Feminine, but not romantic or tacky like pink. If we included a purple piece every time you appeared publicly, it would create a visual pattern. Something people recognize without realizing. A symbol. An emotional visual identity.”

She didn’t respond right away. She picked up a random post-it from your pile, read something you’d scribbled at 3 a.m.

 Strong enough to lead. Real enough to feel.

And then, she placed it back down without a word. Her eyes returned to yours.

“And who decides what’s emotional?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question.

She was looking into you now. The kind of look that doesn’t just ask about colors and hashtags. The kind that wants to know who you are and why, exactly, you’re breathless.

“Whoever feels it.” You answered quietly.

She nodded once, slowly.

“You really had to be good, huh?” She said, looking at you with a mysterious smile.

Your cheeks flushed red, and it was funny how after just one night, you didn’t hate her with such intensity anymore and had stayed up all night just for her recognition.

 “What? You saying that just because you can’t get rid of me?” You joked, nervously. But luckily, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Exactly,” she said, eyes drifting to a fixed point above your shoulder, lost in thought. Then, coming back to herself. “Stick with the purple,” she stood up. “And send me some wardrobe ideas. Nothing obvious or theatrical. Just… inevitable.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the door. Without looking back, she said:

“And wear a lighter perfume when you work with me. Yours… is too much.”

The door closed.

And you were alone again.

Except for the sound of your heart hammering too loudly in your chest.

Too much?

What the fuck??

Right. You couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. You had to finish your work and head back to class. 

Your academic life wasn’t going to wait.

So you closed the laptop, took a deep breath, and got up like someone tucking a secret into their pocket.

Two hours later, you were sitting on the steps of Building H, with a coffee in hand and a Indigenous rights article open on your tablet. Trying to concentrate. Trying to pretend the world hadn’t shifted in the past few days.

But of course, someone had to notice.

“Well, look who’s back from Olympus,” Billy said, dropping his bag next to you with his usual flair. “The goddess of chaos’s favorite.”

You let out a dry laugh.

“She’s not a goddess.”

“But definitely chaos,” he grinned, sitting down. “Come on, spill it. What’s it like working with the chosen one?”

You pretended not to get it.

“Chosen?”

“Hurricane Harkness, duh,” he said, like it was obvious. “She’s everywhere, every timeline, every interview clip, every meme. ‘Mother is mothering’ is trending on my TikTok, by the way. Congrats, personal image assistant.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile.

“I just gave her an idea. She’s the one who put on the show.”

“Oh, and what a show.” Sharon joined in, lounging on the step above you. “That video of her with the Rihanna song? Iconic. I didn’t know she was that… hot.”

You sat up straighter, a little uncomfortable with the comment. Something bubbling in your stomach.

You pretended to keep reading, but it was pointless. They were looking at you like you were… different, like you’d crossed some kind of portal.

Billy nudged your arm.

“Tell me something. Is she really that cold in person?”

You hesitated.

Your mind flashed back to the emergency exit. Her intense stare. The ever present tension. The precise words. The heated kisses. Her hot, pulsing pussy.

Fuck.

Definitely not cold.

“She’s… focused,” you answered carefully. “And very demanding.”

They both looked at you with a sly grin.

“You know, Sharon and I have a bet going about how long it’ll take for you to develop some kind of twisted crush on your boss.”

Oh.

If only they knew.

“Are you guys insane?” You looked up from your tablet at last. “She’s my boss. Older. Way older.” You tried to sound firm.

Billy’s face was serious now, like he was listening intently.

“Okay. Now say it like you hate that.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Billy… come on.”

Then it was Sharon’s turn. 

“Seriously, wipe here.” She pointed to the corner of your mouth and you did it automatically. “You’re drooling, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes again as the two of them high-fived in front of you.

“What is this? A setup?”

“I just want my twenty bucks.” Sharon said, backing off.

“And I want mine,” added Billy.

“Wait, I didn’t bet anything…” you protested.

“You heard it!” Billy shot back.

Shit.

You owed them forty dollars.

Definitely owed them.

By the end of your classes, you were already at the café across from campus. After the chaos of the past few days, you deserved a break. 

The café was the kind that had a small library in the back. Quiet. Perfect for chilly days. You loved it there because… you were invisible.

You read your book carefully. The hot chocolate was like a kiss on your tongue.

Until…

“Well, well, well… what a coincidence.”

That voice…

Agatha.

She wore a wine-colored trench coat, dark sunglasses and a casual tone that felt rehearsed when she approached your table.

Coincidence, my ass.

She sat down without asking. You slowly closed your book, pulse quickening.

“Do you frequent this place?” You asked, disbelief laced with irony.

“You don’t have to say everything that pops into your head. You know that, don’t you, sweetheart?” She smirked, watching your cheeks flush.

“Sorry,” you looked away, even though her eyes were hidden. You knew she was watching, and that alone was enough. “I just wouldn’t have pictured you here. Especially right now… Shouldn’t you be with your aides in some boring meeting?”

She laughed. Really laughed, and the sound warmed your chest.

“I should… but…” she shrugged, like it couldn’t be helped. “I felt like reading.”

Reading… sure.

That usual firm, no-nonsense tone was still there, leaving no room for questions, but you always, always pushed past it.

“And what are you reading?” You asked, like someone with no survival instinct.

Agatha studied you for a moment, and you immediately regretted wearing your Care Bears sweatshirt as your emergency coat.

“Haven’t decided yet,” good old Harkness, always quick with a comeback. “Any suggestions?”

“Have you tried a classic, Governor? What about Pride and Prejudice?” You squinted playfully, earning a laugh—half amused, half incredulous.

She drew a breath before starting:

“‘I have many flaws, but not in understanding, I hope. As for my temper, I can’t guarantee it’s very good. I believe it’s a little too harsh for the world’s conveniences. I can’t forget the madness and vices of others as quickly as I should. Nor the offenses they make against me. My feelings don’t flare up with the slightest effort or attempt. My temperament could be called resentful. Once the good opinion I have of a person is lost, it’s lost forever.’”

You were impressed. She recited Mr. Darcy without blinking. So fucking charming! She must’ve read it dozens of times.

“I was studying Jane Austen before you were even a thought, girl.” She said, challengingly.

And you liked that… How she never shied away from emphasizing her age, her experience.

“‘This is truly a flaw,’” you began theatrically, setting your own book aside. “‘Relentless resentment is a trait that marks a character. You’ve chosen your flaw well. In fact, I can’t laugh at it. There’s no need to be afraid of me.’”

She looked at you and her eyes are smiling. You've never seen her like this and Agatha seemed to glow.

“‘Oh. I believe that in every temperament, there’s a tendency toward a particular form of evil, a natural vice that even the best education can’t extinguish.’” Agatha raised her eyebrows, amused by your scowling expression.

“And I’m supposed to believe your flaw is revealing your questionable character during emergency exits?” You muttered, sarcastic.

“You love playing that card, don’t you, sweetheart? It’s getting boring.” She sighed dramatically.

You clicked your tongue, leaning in a little.

“You know… Mr. Darcy was a bit insufferable at first. But you’re more like Katherine from The Taming of the Shrew.” Your tone was teasing, but your voice had dropped, almost intimate.

Funny how naturally your verbal sparring morphed into shared literary references. Classics always hit during the worst moments and by the look she shot you, Agatha definitely knew who Katherine was.

She let out a short, nervous laugh, removing her sunglasses with defiance. “And who would you be? The stubborn brute Petruchio?”

You smirked, wickedly.

“Well, I don’t usually cast myself in the male role, but since you brought it up… Katherine ends up tamed and married to Petruchio.”

Your implication made Agatha lick her lips, an obvious attempt to restrain her growing irritation.

“Are you implying I can be tamed? Like I’m some wild animal?” Agatha growled, low and bitter. She looked like she regretted coming.

You watched her closely, every feature. Her furrowed brow, her clenched jaw. She was stunning, furious and magnetic. Your gaze dropped to her mouth. Your heart raced, the desire to kiss her almost unbearable.

“Not a wild animal, but you can definitely be tamed.”

The provocation was clear, but your eyes betrayed something deeper.

“You’re so fucking insufferable.”

She closed her eyes, searching for something. Patience, maybe Self-control?

“Did I win?” You whispered, referring to your battle of wits.

“Oh, give me a break!” She rolled her eyes, exasperated and you laughed softly.

A silence settled between you. Not as heated now, but no less intense. Your eyes kept meeting.

“And what are you reading?” She asked suddenly. You turned the cover toward her, and she squinted before picking it up. “Fingersmith?” She asked, flipping through the pages. “What is this, lesbian self-help?”

You let out a breathy laugh, incredulous, and snatched the book from her hands.

“Something like that.”

She smiled.

“By the way, your idea got approved by Barkley’s board.” She said casually.

You blinked.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “They’re positively enchanted by the idea of having such a progressive young woman on their side.”

She made a grand gesture with her hands.

She seemed…

Uncomfortable.

She placed something on the table. A small, perfectly wrapped box.

“What’s this?” you blinked.

She stood up, putting on her sunglasses and tying the belt of her coat.

“It’s appropriate.”

And walked away.

“Wait, but the book…”

She was already gone.

Only then did you really notice it was perfume.

Cuir Béluga by Guerlain.

You smiled.

Unbelievable.

It didn’t take long before you searched up the price of that tiny bottle and your jaw dropped when you saw it cost $500.

God.

She spent her money on that, her time.

Inside the box, there was a card. Elegant handwriting on fine paper.

“If you’re going to be by my side, don’t smell like cheap chocolate.”

Ouch.

You liked your perfume…

But there was something about smelling like whatever Agatha Harkness had chosen for you that made you feel special.

Not a nothing.

[...]

The next day, the atmosphere in the office was… strange. As if someone had sprayed optimism into the air vents. People were smiling more. Even the interns seemed less tense. 

You frowned when a coworker, whose name you didn’t even know, showed up with a cup of hot coffee with your name scribbled on the lid.

“Well, well, look who’s the star of the hour!” He grinned, holding up his hand for a high five, way too excited for a Tuesday morning.

You hesitated, but gave his hand a light tap, already scanning the room behind him, looking for Billy.

Billy was staring back at you from across the floor, arms crossed. His expression mirrored yours. 

What the hell is going on?

“Oh, and Barkley wants to see you.” The guy added before bouncing off with his headphones on.

You glanced at Billy again and he just shrugged.

With a sigh, you headed to Barkley’s office.

The door opened to reveal a room buzzing with cheerful voices, clinking glasses, and an absurd bouquet of flowers on the center of the conference table.

Everyone was there. Directors, coordinators, people too important for you to remember their names. But your gaze froze the second she came into view.

Agatha.

She wore a deep purple dress, tailored to perfection. Her hair fell like perfect waves, makeup subtle, and a brooch pinned to her dress.

Your heart stuttered, like something inside your chest had clenched. She looked like a walking spell.

And unlike the others, she didn’t smile when she saw you.

“There she is!” Barkley exclaimed with that typical energy of someone who loves to pour gasoline on fires. She gestured grandly like she was unveiling a relic. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the mind behind the candidate’s new communication strategy. A true rising star. A fresh perspective. And only… how old are you, darling?”

You gave a small, awkward smile, feeling the heat climb your neck.

Agatha crossed her arms.

“Twenty,” you answered stiffly.

“Twenty!” Barkley repeated, clapping like she’d just discovered the cure for cancer and was saying hallelujah. “And already redefining political discourse for a new generation. We’re in good hands, people.”

Applause followed. And you saw Agatha looking away, tense, her jaw tight.

After several minutes of speeches, toasts, and clapping you weren’t sure you deserved, the meeting ended with more promises than decisions. People began filing out, laughing and chatting. You turned to leave as well, until…

“You.” Agatha’s voice. Low and sharp like a blade.

You turned.

She walked toward you slowly, her eyes cold.

Right.

Agatha.

Your boss.

Not the woman who was with you last afternoon in the library.

Should you thank her? For the perfume? For the note?

“I’d like to know why you’re wasting time at social meetings instead of reviewing the speech for Friday night’s event.”

It hit like a slap.

You blinked, confused.

“But… I… Barkley invited me. She said…”

“Oh, of course! Show your face. Smile for the investors. Win allies with that charming college student act…” her voice was low, controlled, but the venom was unmistakable.

Something in it unsettled you.

You frowned.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Agatha sighed, like your question was childish. She ran a hand across her forehead. Elegant, but impatient.

“Don’t you see you’re being used as bait? Barkley loves doing that. Picks someone young, attractive, well-spoken… sells them as a symbol of politically engaged youth. But deep down, she doesn’t care what you think. She only wants what you represent.”

You knew that. You’d read all about Jennifer before stepping into this mess.

Was she… defending you?

Or attacking you?

“So you think I’m not good enough? That I’m just a pretty face for the boardroom?” Your voice came out louder than intended.

Agatha stepped back, straightened her posture, chin lifting.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, girl,” her tone was glacial. “But if you want to stay on my team, stop playing the backstage star. You have a job, a very specific one. Stay focused.”

She sounded logical, rational. But she wasn’t. You knew she wasn’t. Her team? Of course you were on her team. She was paying you. Everyone here was on Agatha’s team.

“You’re mad because of this?” Your voice softened, now genuinely confused. “Because I got attention? Because people liked my proposal? Because…”

You paused.

Her eyes sparked.

Silence.

You continued, barely breathing.

“Because I was smiling at other people?”

She took a moment.

One beat, two.

“I don’t have the time or age for this,” that was all she said before turning away. “And I expect all speeches I’m delivering this month, plus the merchandising plan for the marketing team, on my desk by Thursday.”

“But that’s impossible…” It was impossible, it was unethical. It was so many things…

She turned to you, studying your desperate expression.

Then smiled.

“I thought nothing was impossible for Barkley’s golden girl.” She said, the title dripped like poison.

And just like that, she left.

You stood frozen in the middle of the room, trying to make sense of it all.

How could one woman be so complicated and so hot at the same time? You were definitely going to lose your mind.

[...]

Time passed, and you got home with your head spinning, already pulling out your notebook and trusty tablet to keep working. Hours went by, and you didn’t even notice when Carol walked in.

“Hey, Bear!” She shouted, waving her hand in front of you.

“Carol! Hi!”

“What world were you in? Working from home?”

“Sorry, too much on my mind!”

“Look, I brought Chinese food.” She said, pointing to the takeout bags on the counter. You sighed in relief.

“You’re an angel. I’m starving…”

And as you both ate in silence, she dropped it.

“You’ve been really distracted lately. Like… your head’s somewhere else,” she said, using her chopsticks to poke at her noodles. “Is something going on?”

You chewed slowly, processing the question.

“It’s nothing serious. Just the internship, college…”

“Bear, you’ve always been a terrible liar,” she chuckled, her eyes finally locking with yours. “Seriously, what’s going on? You can tell me.”

“I’m fine, Carol. Just tired.”

“Is this about America’s favorite candidate, isn't?” She asked, tone laced with quiet sarcasm, like the name left a bad taste.

“Candidate Harkness?” You replied, almost in panic. God, were you really that obvious? Or did Carol just know you too well?

“No, of course not.”

“Bear, come on,” she set the chopsticks down and leaned across the table. “You’ve been different ever since you started that internship. Like… you don’t laugh the same. You seem obsessed with this job. That's not healthy, you know, right?”

“Carol, I—”

But she was already too close, leaning over the table. Your breaths mingling.

“You know I hate being ignored, right, Bear?” Her voice was soft, teasing. And her eyes—so different from Agatha’s—held that old familiar spark of desire.

“Carol…” You whispered, feeling her come closer, her face inches from yours.

You didn’t want to kiss her again. No matter how safe it felt, no matter how comfortable.

Because it wasn’t her kiss you wanted.

And that’s when someone knocked at the door.

Short, sharp and impatient.

You jerked back as if burned.

“Who the hell knocks at this hour?” Carol muttered, annoyed.

You peeked through the peephole and your heart stopped for a full second.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Agatha Harkness.

Wearing informal clothes. No makeup, with that unreadable look as always in her eyes.

You opened the door.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked at you for a moment that lasted too long, as if the question didn’t matter.

Or as if the answer would set you on fire.

~*~

MotherHark huh? I bet you would fall in this marketing smiling lmao (me too)

It's not cool to have sex with your boss for that reason, you know Lol instead of a hate office sex you'll receive more and more demands

Can this be considered a cliffhanger?? If yes, I'm sorry loll

Tag List <3

You had barely taken two steps toward your desk when Jennifer Barkley’s voice echoed down the hallway—sharp as a scalpel.

“You. My office. Now.”

No good morning. No smile. Just that dry, commanding tone that made even the most seasoned stomachs twist.

You felt the adrenaline start to crawl up your spine. Something inside you screamed that this wasn’t good. Nothing that started with “now” coming from Jennifer ever was.

You walked in.

She had her back to you, fiddling with the coffee machine filters like she was operating someone’s heart. Every movement precise, controlled. She didn’t even look up.

“Close the door and sit.”

You obeyed. The click of the door behind you sounded like a seal being shut. You sat down across from her desk, trying to appear steady, but your heart was already hammering in your chest.

Jennifer turned slowly, finally looking you in the eye. She held her coffee cup like it was a verdict. No warmth in her eyes. No anger either—which, honestly, was worse. Because that meant you had no idea what was coming.

“Harkness wants you on the campaign,” she said, straight to the point, as always. “Starting today, you’re officially assigned as Agatha Harkness’s personal image assistant.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

What the fuck????

Your brain was still catching up when the avalanche hit:

You and Agatha.

Same room. Same plane. Same rhythm.

You could barely share elevator air with her without wanting to throw something, and now this?

You opened your mouth, protest already loaded but Jennifer raised a hand, silencing you with a gesture sharp as a blade.

“Don’t even try, this isn’t a request.” Her voice carried the weight of an unchangeable order. “She demanded someone. I picked you. And you… will smile and accept it, like the smart girl you seem to be.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart wasn’t pounding now—it was roaring.

Demanded?

Why would Agatha want you? After everything? The bathroom? That conversation in the elevator? The almost... touch? The almost... everything?

Jennifer calmly stirred her coffee with a spoon, and when she looked at you over the rim of her glasses, it felt like she was already reading your thoughts.

“You’ll accompany her to interviews, events, media briefings. You’ll revise speeches, tweak language, manage tone. Stop her from strangling reporters on live TV,” she paused. “And most importantly, you’ll make sure her image stays polished, powerful, and consistent. Understood?”

All you could do was nod, barely aware of your body. 

The office felt way too small now.

“Good,” Jennifer leaned back, satisfied. “First assignment’s today. Live interview at Northwest Current. Two hours. I want you back with enough material for three solid posts, two edit-ready videos, and a press release that doesn’t make me want to fire someone.”

She took a sip of her coffee and finally smiled. It was small, sharp.

“Welcome to the front lines, darling.”

You sat there for a second longer, stunned, trying to understand what had just happened. When you finally stood with your legs a little shaky.

A whole month. Stuck to her. Breathing the same air. Watching every move. Every silence. Every look.

This was all you could think about.

May God help you.

You rushed to the office kitchen, caffeine your only salvation, stumbling over your own thoughts and nearly forgetting how to push the door open.

You were burning inside.

Personal image assistant to Agatha Harkness. A sentence disguised as a promotion, a trap tied with a satin ribbon.

Billy’s voice hit first, dripping with irony and rehearsed charm.

“…so I told him, no one handles a media agenda like you, senator-boy.”

You froze.

He was leaning against the counter, mug in hand, that crooked smile on his lips.

And across from him?

Daniel, from the comms team. Crisp shirt. Eyes down. A faint blush on his face. Laughing nervously, stirring his coffee like it was more interesting than the tension floating between them.

You stepped in quietly, like someone intruding on a moment they weren’t supposed to see. The air seemed to tighten. Billy saw you and his smile faltered with not guilty, just... caught being too familiar.

“Hey, meeting beast,” he said, trying to play it cool. “Did Jennifer scream at you yet?”

“Nope. She just signed my death warrant with a cup of coffee," you walked to the machine and poured the hot liquid into your mug, already salivating for the hit. “I’ve been assigned to Harkness’s campaign.”

Billy’s eyes went wide. He completely forgot about Daniel—who took the opportunity to quietly vanish. You barely noticed. You were too busy emotionally combusting.

“What?” He stepped closer, nearly spilling his mug. “Like... actual campaign? Travel? Official car? Champagne flavored trauma?”

You turned to face him. “Personal image assistant. Full-time. Speech edits. Dancing with wolves… and probably some retirees.”

Billy took a step back and clutched his chest, as if he’d been metaphorically shot.

“Girl. This is serious. This is... working with the Miranda Priestly of politics.”

“Worse.” You took a sip. It burned your tongue and you couldn’t care less.

“And why the hell did you say yes?”

You looked at him. Wanted to say because I didn’t have a choice. Wanted to say because she asked for me.

But what came out was: 

“Because apparently, I’m a smart girl who wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

He stared at you for a moment. The intensity faded into a small, sad smile.

“So... you’re already dead inside. All that’s left is the burial.”

You laughed. For real. Brief, a little shaky, but yours.

“Promise me something?” you said.

“Anything.”

“When I lose it… like really snap and need to be committed, lie to me. Tell me it was quick. Painless.”

Billy placed a hand on your shoulder like a priest blessing the damned.

“I’ll tell them you died as you lived. Stubborn and surrounded by questionable decisions.”

You smiled. Almost forgot the bitter taste of your “promotion.” 

Northwest Current. 

Two hours.

You took a deep breath. 

Okay. You can do it, you can be professional.

Right?

[...]

You were alone in the car. The same official car that would later take Agatha Harkness to the studio but for now, it was yours—just for a little while.

The driver was outside, smoking, and you had the whole back seat to yourself. Your papers, your tablet, and the growing weight of stepping into a war that wasn’t yours.

The screen glowed with a browser tab open. Agatha Harkness. Gubernatorial candidate. Sky-high approval ratings in recent months; former senator and committee leader. A respected and feared political strategist; founder of social, environmental, and educational initiatives. Every line of her resume felt like a medal burned into her chest.

You could almost hear the metallic clang of honors being pinned on a woman who didn’t need applause to be undeniable.

But it was the video that stopped you.

An old campaign recording, from her first run for Senate. Poor quality, choppy lighting. But her gaze… her gaze was intact. Steady, direct and always so severe..

She started talking about climate justice. About single mothers with no access to housing. About Black children treated like statistics before they even learn how to write. And in that moment, something ignited behind her eyes.

A raw, genuine passion.

You realized you were holding your breath, that your fingers were gripping the edges of the tablet too tightly.

She wasn’t there for vanity or for empty ambition. Agatha was there because she believed, because some part of her still wanted change. Still wanted the world to bleed a little less.

And that was what threw you off.

She wasn’t just powerful.

She was real.

In a barely noticeable moment, her husband's name slipped from her mouth. Thanos Harkness. Her voice faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough to make you pause the video. Rewind and watch it again.

You frowned and read the description.

Banker, international investor and oil tycoon.

You scoffed, alone, muttering with a crooked smile.

“Seriously? An oil tycoon? That’s the best you could do, Harkness?”

It was like watching a nun marry the devil and say he “had kind eyes.” The contradiction was glaring. And yet, intriguing. Because if there was one woman on this planet you thought was immune to contradiction… it was her.

Or maybe not. Not after that night at the bar. Not after the two of you touched each other with so much intensity and intimacy—without even knowing each other's names.

You almost expected Agatha to appear in the passenger seat right then, sunglasses on and that glacial look in her eyes, ready to kill you with a single sentence.

But no.

It was just you and the silence, the growing discomfort of realizing you were starting to understand her. 

Truly.

You scrolled down the page. Stopped on an old photo. Agatha with him and a little boy between them.

Nicholas Harkness.

The contrast was almost absurd.

Agatha was in jeans. A simple T-shirt. No makeup. Hair pulled back in a messy braid and she was smiling. Not the political smile, or the cynical one. An open smile, almost silly. That kind that makes your eyes close and dimples appear on your cheeks.

You stared in silence.

There was tenderness in the way she held her son. Steady hands, but also… so gentle. A kind of protection you don’t pose for. 

It was instinctive.

Genuine.

A knot formed in your stomach.

You inhaled. Exhaled. But the weight stayed.

Because in that photo, she wasn’t a candidate. Or an opponent. Or a challenge. She was just a woman who had lived. Who had lost. Who was raising a child on her own and, despite everything, still smiled in that way.

And the only reaction you’d managed to draw from her so far… was anger.

You shut your eyes, almost ashamed of yourself. It wasn’t envy, or guilt. It was just… frustration.

Maybe for hitting a nerve. Maybe for not knowing how to handle the wound you glimpsed in that elevator. Maybe… for wanting… more.

More than disdain. More than fights. More than this.

You tossed the device beside you, leaned your head against the seat. The leather still carried her scent. Subtle, woody, slightly citrusy. A precise fragrance. 

Exact, just like her.

Shit. 

You exhaled slowly, as if trying to empty your chest of that mess of unnamed emotions.

And then, the car door opened.

You flinched like you’d been caught snooping, heart pounding from the surprise. The papers slipped from your lap, and you scrambled to gather them, as if you could hide both the external and internal chaos just like that.

She entered with her usual military grace, sunglasses still on, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“What were you doing?” Her voice came warm, yet sharp. Her eyes flicked from the mess in your lap to the half open tablet beside you. She didn’t seem to be asking just about the papers.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to pull yourself together.

“Studying.”

Before you could stop her, she picked up the tablet. Skimmed quickly through what was on the screen. The biography. The interviews. The personal photos.

“Studying my personal life?” She asked, one eyebrow now fully visible above the rim of her sunglasses.

You rolled your eyes. Felt your face heat up. Yes, there was anger. But also the shame of being caught looking too hard.

You snatched the device from her hands—the gesture sharp, but your eyes… no. Your eyes said something else.

You didn’t know how to protect yourself from her.

“I’m getting to know you. How am I supposed to work for someone I don’t even know?”

That seemed to catch her off guard and for a moment... a brief, but weighty silence, like a misstep in an over rehearsed speech.

She leaned back into the seat beside you. Let the sunglasses slip down into her lap, her eyes meting yours with an expression you couldn’t immediately decipher.

“Getting to know me, huh?” she repeated, voice tired. “You don’t need to do all this for that. You can just ask me anything.”

You blinked.

Oh.

You weren’t expecting that. Not from her mouth. Not from that face. Not from that woman carved in marble and steel who had spoken such cruel words to you.

“That easy?” You asked, as if challenging her was the only way to avoid crumbling under her gaze.

“That easy.” She confirmed, with a lightness that felt… sincere.

You looked at each other for a moment. Long. Tense, but warm.

There was no provocation, no judgment, no irony. Just two women in the backseat of an official car, holding the frayed threads of a conversation neither of you knew how to start.

You cleared your throat, triying to remember where you’d left off before being swallowed by eyes and words and unspoken promises.

“Right,” you cleared your throat again. “I took some notes... on things you might want to try.”

You held out the tablet, but didn’t look at it. You looked at her and she looked back. As if, finally, she’d stopped seeing you as just a pawn on the board… and started to see the girl.

Agatha read your notes silently. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the idle engine and your two breaths, occasionally overlapping by accident.

“‘Avoid overly absolute statements,’” she read aloud softly, quoting one of your suggestions. “‘Like: ‘I’m the only realistic choice’ or ‘my opponents have no idea what they’re talking about.’”

She looked up at you with an expression… almost amused.

“Are you saying I sound arrogant?”

Yes.

You shrugged, pretending to be neutral.

“I’m saying people like to feel included. Especially when they’re about to vote for you.”

She made a low sound in her throat, something between a quiet chuckle and a silent acknowledgment. Turned back to the screen.

“And this one? ‘Soften tone when discussing public safety’?”

“Yes… well… the tone you usually use is a bit…” You searched for the right word, but she said it first.

“Authoritarian?” She offered, one brow raised.

“You said it, not me.”

She smiled—not the political one, not the ironic one. A small, honest smile, like someone caught in the act who doesn’t even try to defend herself.

For a few minutes, you stayed like that: reading, suggesting tweaks, cutting a word here, rethinking a line there.

You noticed she was listening. Even when she didn’t seem to be. That she was mentally taking note of what you said, even without replying.

She listened.

And that, coming from Agatha Harkness, was already more than half the battle.

“I didn’t think you’d take the job.”

She wasn’t looking at you, still staring at the screen. But you could feel the warmth of her skin, the scent of her expensive lotion hanging subtly in the air.

“I like a good challenge and the salary’s not bad, you know… a girl’s gotta live.” You shrugged.

“A girl… Right.”

She went quiet for a moment—long enough for the sound of cars outside to feel overwhelmingly loud.

You couldn’t quite tell what had bothered her more.The term, the tone, or the little bit of ease you’d allowed to slip through.

Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe… something else.

But she just took a deep breath and, with a gesture too practiced to be spontaneous, changed the subject.

“Alright,” she said, flipping to another tab on the tablet, back to the game. “What about the interview questions? Which ones do you think they’ll use to try and take me down?”

You slid a little closer on the bench, showing her your own screen, where you’d highlighted a few predictions. Agatha leaned in just enough to get a better look, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

Almost.

You ignored the shiver.

“They’ll probably push on the education fund and your lack of ties with the major unions.”

“Typical. They’ll think they’re being clever.”

“And you’ll look smarter if you don’t take the bait.” You said, tossing the words like a coin into the dark, hoping they didn’t hit any walls.

But she only nodded, as if you’d said exactly what she was thinking.

And for a few moments… the world went still. Time paused, suspended between scribbled notes, shared tablets, and a cramped back seat that had never felt so full of meaning.

Right there, between strategy forecasts and tonal adjustments, something new was born.

Complicity.

Not the easy kind. Not the comfortable kind. And that—just that—felt, for the first time, like the beginning of something.

[...]

The backstage hallway was lit with cold, impersonal lights You watched from a distance as Agatha adjusted the mic clipped discreetly to the lapel of her dress, exchanging brief nods with the tech crew like she’d been doing this for decades.

She looked ready. Impeccable, untouchable. But you knew what a moment like that took.

You knew because you’d studied every one of her speeches. Because you’d stayed up all night refining her word; because you recognized the way she pressed her fingers together when she was trying to keep her anxiety at bay.

And that’s why you approached.

In silence with no jokes.

Just you, the solemn and peaceful memory of the two of you in the car, and the slightly absurd thought that maybe she needed something that wasn’t in the script.

She turned her head toward you, surprised by your silent approach.

You didn’t smile, neither did she.

“Good luck.”

Just two words. But you said them with a steadiness that didn’t match the nerves in your stomach.

For a second, Agatha said nothing. She looked down, like she was weighing the gesture. Not with arrogance—with care.

Then she looked back up.

“I don’t believe in luck.” She said. Her voice was the same—steady, restrained. But there was something… gentle in how she said it.

You nodded, accepting. But you didn’t step back.

“Then pretend you do,” you replied. “Just for today.”

Her eyes held yours a moment too long to be professional, long enough for you to feel the air shift.

Then she let out a soft breath through her nose, something between a laugh and surrender. She straightened her shoulders with that posture you already recognized from a mile away.

Agatha Harkness, campaign mode.

“Thank you, then.” She said and walked away.

You stayed where you were, the director’s countdown starting in the background.

The show’s intro ended with a sharp saxophone note, and the main camera opened on a wide shot of the studio. Bright lights, restrained audience, and the host already wearing that plastic smile of someone who knows exactly what game they’re playing.

You stood backstage, next to the sound producer, arms crossed, heart beating too fast. 

Agatha sat at the round table, posture perfect, eyes alert. Too elegant for the set around her.

Everything started smoothly. 

Questions about public safety, sustainability, education and the woman was responding like a word surgeon You could see the audience turning their heads toward her, attentive. She was magnetic. You even forgot to breathe for a few minutes.

Until he started.

The host paused dramatically, leaning slightly over the table, his face stretching into a smile that didn’t match anything that had come before.

“Now, former Senator Harkness...” he said, like he was about to whisper a secret into a mic, “you’re known for your progressive views. Sustainability, taxing the ultra-rich, climate justice… all these bold stuffs. But… weren’t you married to an oil tycoon? International banker? I mean, Thanos Harkness doesn’t exactly match with your "pro-Amazonia" outfit, does he?”

Muted laughter from the audience.

You froze, your eyes locked on her.

Your stomach flipped. 

This wasn’t about politics.

It was personal.

It was low.

And it was about her.

But Agatha didn’t move, not even a single muscle. She looked at the host with the kind of calm that doesn’t need volume to destroy someone.

“Really funny,” she said. And it was like the air in the studio thickened. “But every time my husband and I discussed the future of this planet, the only thing I ever found truly hard to digest… were comments like yours.”

Silence.

She folded her hands on the table, her voice still soft. But her words weighed like lead.

“Thanos believed in transition energy investments. He was one of the first in his sector to fund sustainable initiatives. We disagreed on a lot, of course. But we also had something sorely missing from most debates today: respect.”

The host tried to smile, and it was forced.

But Agatha didn’t care.

“I’m not Thanos. And he never tried to be my politics. Now… if your goal is to undermine what I’ve built because I married someone with different views, maybe you’re more into gossip than governance. In which case… let me know, and I’ll switch channels.”

She winked at the camera.

You laughed. Brief, incredulous, and utterly charmed.

It wasn’t about policy, indeed.

It was about her.

And God… you were proud.

So proud that, for a second, you thought maybe you were screwed. Because this was the kind of woman who made you want to… be part of something bigger.

Even if it was just her team.

The host gave a dry chuckle. “Well… on that note, let’s take a quick commercial break, shall we?”

He tried to seem in control, but the truth was in the nervous grip on his pen and the way he couldn’t quite meet the camera’s eye as he called for the break.

The studio lights dimmed slightly, the red recording light turned off, techs appeared out of nowhere with water bottles and mic adjustments, moving with professional silence.

And Agatha just leaned back, as if she hadn’t just turned a potential public humiliation into pure political gold.

You, backstage, didn’t move for a moment. Like someone watching a magic trick and needing a few seconds to accept it wasn’t an illusion—it was talent.

Her body was still leaning forward, like she was ready to run in and protect you. But she didn’t need to protect you. She was the protection. A thin, sharp shield, wrapped in a flawless suit and a voice steadier than any attack.

You crossed your arms, let out a slow breath, disguised as a whisper. “This wretch is fucking good.”

Billy would’ve laughed in your face if he were there. He would’ve said you were spiraling straight into emotional doom and maybe you were.

Because this wasn’t regular admiration. It wasn’t political pride, it was something more intimate.

More dangerous.

You weren’t just rooting for her, you were starting to… care.

Agatha turned her head slightly in your direction. She didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. That quick glance was enough, a silent kind of acknowledgment.

You stared back, wearing the same neutral expression you’d mastered since childhood.

But inside? You were losing it. She had surprised you and she knew it. You were exactly where you needed to be and Agatha Harkness... was the only woman who could completely wreck you, if she wanted to.

And maybe—just fucking maybe—you wouldn’t mind that so much.

When the show ended, Agatha walked into the dressing room with the heaviest aura in the world.

She yanked off her mic with a harsh motion, fingers too tight on the wires, like ripping it off might erase what had just happened.

The door clicked shut behind you both, loud and final.

You didn’t say a word. Not yet.

She brushed past you without looking, went straight to the lit vanity, and tossed her notes on it. Her reflection in the mirror was the image of control cracked at the edges.

“Vultures,” she muttered, pulling off her earrings with a kind of cruel precision. “They turned everything into a footnote about what Thanos were. Like I’m just his reflection. My fucking dead husband.”

You bit your lip. You knew this wasn’t the time, but you felt the same disgust rising in your throat.

This wasn’t just politics. 

It was personal. 

It was filthy.

And even knowing she was on the edge, you didn’t expect the first jab to be aimed at you. She turned, her gaze sharp like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“And you?” Her voice sliced. “What was that little smile in the middle of the interview? Was it funny to you, seeing a man try to humiliate me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then narrowed your eyes.

“Oh my God. Are you serious?” You crossed your arms. “I thought it was brilliant, Agatha. You shut him down without even raising your voice. But if it makes you feel better, I can stop rooting for you. Makes it easier, right?”

She took a step closer. The tension between you was thick like smoke.

“I don’t need someone like you rooting for me,” she said, coldly.

You let out a sarcastic laugh and stepped back twice.

“Someone like me?” you echoed, your smile tilting. “Guess we’re back to that game, then. Great! I thought I’d seen the real you for a second, but of course I was wrong!”

Agatha’s head snapped toward you like you’d just spat poison. But she didn’t yell. Her voice came out low, tense, ragged from the inside.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be me.” She stepped closer. “You think you get it with your bright eyes and your idealism. But you don’t know a shit about spending decades having to be perfect. Tireless. Unquestionable.”

The air in the room felt thinner.

“You think that was just a joke? Just a moment? That is every fucking day, girl.” Her voice was sharp, like glass. “Every single day someone tries to reduce me to a last name, a dress, a tone of voice. If I’m firm, I’m bossy. If I’m kind, I’m weak. If I get emotional, I’m unstable. If I don’t, I’m cold. And all of it… while smiling. While acting like it doesn’t hurt. Because the second I show that it hurts? Then I’m hysterical, unfit, fragile.”

She tapped her chest lightly with her fingers like touching a shield that had taken too many hits.

“You don’t know what it’s like to live in this, and if you do… and you don’t agree… get out while you still can. You’re not built for politics, girl.”

You opened your mouth, but the intensity in her eyes stopped you. This wasn’t about you, it was the weight of years. Decades.Centuries, carried in every woman who ever dared to take up too much space.

But you expired, your shoulders falling apart, as well as your armor.

“I… I’m sorry.” Your voice came out soft, but sure. “I really don’t understand, but I’m sorry.”

You stepped closer, careful, like approaching something sacred. She dropped onto the couch with a long sigh, as if her body was begging for mercy.

“You’re not alone, you know.”

Agatha scoffed, eyes looking away.

“Oh, sure. Jennifer’s with me because she’s very well paid,” she slowly turned to face you. “And you… you don’t want to lose your big shot. I really understand you.”

You gave her a small smile.

“I’m not talking about Jennifer. I mean people, Agatha. You have something no one else has. You convince with a look, you win with silence. People… see themselves in you, even when they hate you.” You chuckled. “And honestly? We both know I could ruin your campaign with six words.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That was your attempt at reassuring me?”

You looked at each other for a beat frozen and you got lost in those cold blue-green orbits.

“No," you shrugged, laughing. “It’s just the truth. But I don’t want to. Mostly because I’m not that kind of person and because I believe in you. I really do. Even when you’re being unbearable.”

Her laugh came fast, almost unwilling, genuine. And you saw her shoulders drop just a little.

Your eyes met. And this time, it wasn’t a battle. It was… recognition. Like something between you had finally been named, even without needing a word.

And then, with a teasing half-smile, Agatha asked:

“So… what were you doing at Lux that night? With a fake ID?”

You threw your head back, exasperated but amused.

“Oh. It was my roommate’s idea. She wanted to be ‘grown up for a night,’” you air quoted, laughing. “Apparently pretending we’re older and more powerful would help us cope with academic trauma.”

“What nonsense,” Agatha scoffed, one of those short, fake disdainful laughs. “You young people love playing with consequences like it’s a board game.”

The way she said it felt… maternal, concerned and suddenly, you froze.

“Oh. My. God.” You sat up on the couch, eyes wide. “I just had a brilliant idea!”

“Of course you did.” Agatha rested her chin on her hand, sarcastic.

You were already up, grabbing your notebook, your tablet, sparks flying.

“You’re going to tell me now, or…”

“Create an Instagram account targeting young people, make edits of you, post on TikTok. Subversive. Smart. With real digital reach. I have to sketch this out right now!”

But before you could sit again, three knocks on the door interrupted.

“Excuse me, Ms. Harkness. The car is waiting in the garage.”

You walked side by side through the hallways. You typed furiously on the tablet, caught in the idea. Agatha, on the other hand, watched you with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity.

“So… you’re not going to tell me this big and brilliant idea?”

“Hmm… tomorrow,” you smiled still looking at screen. “After I test everything and build a solid plan. No loose bets, remember?”

She let out a breath of a laugh, but didn’t say a word. You just walked side by side, creating an invisible bond and at that moment things seemed to be heading in the right direction.

~*~

Ohhh, I'm so proud of her!!!

Tag List <3

It's 9am when you arrive at HQ, though your shift doesn't start until 10. Your plan is to prepare some notes, check some emails, and, most of all, see her.

Your formidable boss. 

It had been almost exactly a year since you started working for Agatha Harkness at her NYC office. You were overqualified to be her personal assistant, the job ad only listed a couple of requirements. Good time management, organisation, and a general overview of the company. The job had been posted several times before, with the pay increasing every time. Eventually, the stress of your previous place of work had gotten too much, and there were only so many times you could see the salary increase before you knew you had to interview here. 

You were offered the job immediatley, but didn't actually meet Agatha until you started your first shift. 

Her reputation was mixed. She was well respected, yes. But she was also known for being extremely difficult to work with. Intimidating, stern, brash. Many people overlooked this simply because of her status and the quality of her work. 

It was easy to agree, she was all of those things. There was a certain something about her, however, that made it seem like she respected you, respected everyone in the office, even if they were nervous about being called into a meeting with her. 

She controlled the space - she controlled a good part of the city, but she knew what she wanted, and as long as you understood your place, you would be secure. 

You had always behaved exactly as she had asked; at first it was to make sure your place in the company would be secure. Now, it seems your mind has wandered. You like how she makes you feel. A safe mixture of small,  but somehow still important. 

In the morning you think about what coffee to bring her, and it's hard to get her off your mind as you drift off to sleep. The thoughts of how you can help her further never leaving your mind.  Today, you arrived with a black Americano for her. Her orders change depending on her moods, but you take a guess, as she hasn't texted you at all today. Unusual. 

When you began your job here, it took some time to figure her out. She says exactly what she means. You thought her booming voice saying "You should just go home!" meant "You did something wrong today!", but it didn't. She literally meant, 'you're done, rest.'  

A year ago, you would have assumed the lack of text meant you'd annoyed her in some way, but today you know it means she's already busy with work. 

Your footsteps click on the tiled floor of the lobby, and you step into the elevator, pressing the button with your free hand. Agatha is usually in the office at 6am, doing something you've never quite understood; she's never told you to arrive early before. You're hoping not to disturb her. 

The doors open on the 38th floor; it's quiet. The odd person says good morning as you make your way through the giant space. You stop when you see her through the glass wall of her office. 

Her phone to her ear, she sat back on the leather chair, heels crossed on the large mahogany desk, large-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose. 

She spots you as you head towards the door, though she doesn't react.

"No, you listen to me, Chris. If you want this completed by the deadline, then there will be absolutely no changes to the original blueprints, do you understand? I will not have this damage the reputation of my company." 

She's strong but maintains a level head as she continues her conversation with you. You stand just a few feet away from her, unsure whether or not to give her the drink or wait until she wraps this up. 

She clicks her fingers at you, pointing down at the desk. You put the coffee in front of her. She looks good like this. It'll be hard to shake this thought later. 

As your feet take you back to the door of her office, you hear her hang up the phone. No dismissal, no goodbye, just the beep of the call ending. It's silent for a beat. 

"Black Americano today?" Her voice is slow, direct. You turn on your heel.

"No morning text, no list of jobs yet. I guessed you were focusing." 

"Focusing...yes, I suppose I was focusing."

You got it right. You won today. 

"Watson is trying to pull out of our penthouse deal. Can't have that."

You stand there for a few seconds as she sips the coffee; if she wanted you gone, she would dismiss you. 

Her eyes scan you. Is she savoring the flavor of the drink? Does she want you to do something? 

"It's 9am." She finally says coldly, though the silence was so long you've almost forgotten what you were even waiting for. 

"It is."  

It's hard not to stare. The white blazer sits so perfectly on her shoulders, the matching trousers tailored just for her breaking at the ankle as her white stilettos rest on the desk, her…

"You don't start for an hour."

Focus.

"I wanted to bring you a coffee." You say, nerves nearly getting the better of you. Is it normal to show up early with coffee? You're not sure. You used to work in graphic design. The world of luxury real estate continues to be a mystery. 

"And-" You continue after what feels to be much too long "I have a lot of emails to catch up on."

It's mostly a lie, though you do have some extra work to do. You don't want your attentiveness to seem naive. 

"Very well." 

That's it? You were really hoping for more. She's not busy now; she could easily ask more from you. 

The air is silent again. You head to your desk just outside of her office and reluctantly open up your email tab. 

It's hard not to notice her behind the monitor. There are only 5 emails that need replying to, and none are particularly urgent. A dinner reservation reply, dry cleaning confirmation, 2 work-related inquiries and something for a magazine. 

Hands type rhythmically as you begin the replies. The job is complete after a grand total of 7 minutes, which brings the time to exactly 9:19. 

This was a bad idea. Time to look busy. 

Staring at the screen, your eyes drift back to her through the glass panels of her office. The way the light from the floor-length window behind her touches the side of her face as she sips the drink. The gentle screen reflection from her monitor into her glasses. The rings on her fingers as she grips the cup. 

Do you want to be her, or do you want to be the cup?

Heartbeats inside your chest flutter as she locks eyes with you once again. You force your eyes downward onto your monitor. Focus on your breathing; being here early wasn't smart, it would seem. 

Your finger on the mouse flickers between different tabs, typing nonsense into the search bar just to look like you're actually working. It's hard not to take another peek, and just when you finally give in and look upwards-

She's looking right at you. Had she been this whole time? 

Then, a crooked finger, beckoning you back into her office. You can only hope she didn't catch you staring. 

________________________________

When you left your previous job, you knew you were taking a risk. Design had always been something you were interested in, but it was draining you dry. You couldn't afford to move out from your dad's house, and you were scruitinized for every minute you'd show up late, despite your employers knowing the details of your lengthy commute. 

Since working for Agatha, you've been able to secure an apartment not too far away. A few stops on the subway. Sure, you share it with a young man you'd rather not think about, and sure it's cramped, dingy even, but it's yours, and you feel like you're moving up in the world. You could get used to feeling like a real adult. 

What you can't get used to, is the feeling of walking into this office when she looks at you like that. Like your heart is going to jump out your chest. You're unsure whether or not Agatha has ever noticed your lingering glances towards her, and you generally hope not, but sometimes you can't help but wonder...

"Where is yours?" 

Pulled back to reality once again. 

"Sorry?" Genuinely confused words escape your mouth. Your what? Your work?

She laughs a quiet laugh, just the once, as if it's obvious. 

"Your coffee. You brought me a coffee early. You clearly had time to pick one up with enough time to get yourself one. So where is it?" 

It's almost laughable how nervous her questioning makes you. At no point did you even consider getting yourself a coffee. Your brain works on an Agatha-first basis. It has done for a year now. 

"I didn't think about it." You admit. 

"You're a sweet girl, a silly girl, but a sweet one nonetheless." 

Is she...complimenting you right now? You had never heard her compliment anyone. 

Her phone rings, and with an eye roll she quickly picks it up. Maintaining eye contact with you. 

"What is it now?" A yell this time, and you awkwardly wait a second before taking a step back towards the door. 

Her head shakes. She wants you to stay. You can't tell whether you love or hate being here while this phone call occurs. 

"Listen, I'm going to pull the fuck out of this deal if you call me directly again, do you understand? I said, do you fucking understand?" 

You look down at your feet. This guy is totally going to call you later. 

"Trust me, you do not want to be on my blacklist. Do you know what will happen when people find out you're on my blacklist?" Her voice is more mocking, more infuriated; her position shifts, sitting directly upright in the chair now. Feet firmly planted on the floor.

She cuts him off. "That's right! They never work in this city again, so are you going to be good and help me out, or not? I'm in charge, remember?"

She stands. You swallow.

"I'm the most important person this side of the country to have on your side Chris." Her tone is stern but cooler now; you try not to look at her. 

"That's right, baby, a billion fucking dollars-" 

You have no idea what she's talking about and can only assume this is a private deal that has yet to need your attention, but the way she uses pet names so casually makes your skin feel hot. 

The air gets thinner when you realize she's directly next to you, and you can almost make out what the man on the phone is saying. "Mhmm...that's what I thought.-"

Something cold slips into your hand, and you finally take a second to look up. She's so close to you you could practically melt, and the heat is close to becoming something more when you notice the cold metal in your hand is her credit card. 

Confused eyes meet hers. Her hand over the microphone as she whispers, "Go get yourself a coffee, something good."

Before you have time to protest, she saunters back over to her chair, heels clicking on the hardwood, phone back up to her ear.

Black card in your hand, you reluctantly leave the room.

____

“I want to try something new with you tonight,” Agatha murmurs, lips against your temple. You’re both on the couch, you lying between her legs, your back pressed against her front and you can feel her nipples through both your shirts. 

The television has been on while your girlfriend has been absentmindedly playing with the waistband of your pajama shorts. 

“Oh?” you hum. 

Agatha nods and pats your stomach. “I want you to fuck me with the strap.” 

Instantly, your mind goes blank and a thrill runs through you. You’ve never done that before; it’s always been you taking the toy. You’re not sure how good you’ll actually be at it. 

But you want to try. 

The thought of her cunt wrapped around the purple silicon is enough to make your clit pulse. 

“Okay,” you agree, voice suddenly raspy. 

She lets out a throaty chuckle and pushes on your shoulders so you sit up, and then moves off the couch to walk down the hall into the bedroom. You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, mouth watering. 

It’s only a moment before she comes back, holding the long purple dildo and the black harness, already attached. You stand up, as if in a trance, and Agatha gives you a wicked smile.

You take off your shirt, underwear, and shorts and she stays fully dressed while you step into the harness. She helps you adjust it so it’s comfortable and then tugs you to the bedroom, the purple length jutting from below your waist. It’s an interesting feeling, but a good one. 

“I’m a little nervous, mommy,” you admit as she begins unbuttoning her navy blue shirt, revealing more and more of the pale skin on her chest. You start to feel a little dizzy. 

Agatha pauses, her blue eyes sweeping over your naked body and flashing when they get to the toy, but then she steps closer and kisses you softly. Her hands rest on your bare shoulders and the warmth seeps right to your stomach. “You’ll be perfect, hon.” 

It reassures you a little and you nod and she resumes undressing. When she kicks off her light gray underwear, you see the darker fabric in the gusset—she’s already wet. 

She really wants this. 

You take in the supple swell of her breasts and her pebbled, rosy nipples and the small pouch of her stomach and the freckles on her arms and your breath catches in your throat. She is the most confident person you know, and yet she blushes under your heated gaze. 

“Are you ready?” she asks. Usually, when you’re about to take the toy, she has to warm you up first and get you stretched out. 

But Agatha is already wet, already turned on enough, that it’s apparently not necessary. 

“Yes,” you gasp and she smirks with a wink before walking backwards until her legs hit the bed. 

She doesn’t break eye contact as she sits and scooches back and you’re pulled to the bed by a magnet, the same one that always pulls you to her, and she lays down. You climb on your knees between her legs and your hands push her knees wider so she’s spread open. 

Her swollen pussy lips glisten in the light streaming in through the window and her folds are almost matted together. She’s been thinking about this for awhile, it would seem. You feel your own cunt clench and your hips jerk forward of their own accord. 

“Be a good girl and fuck mommy,” she grits out and it’s exhilarating to have this kind of power, even if she’s still holding most of it. 

Your fingers wrap around the toy and lean forward so the tip is pressed against her cunt. She lets out a gasp and your heart skips a beat. You part her folds with the toy and drag it up and down, slick sounds filling the room. 

She lets out a noise when you circle her clit with it and then you lightly tap it against her clit a few times just to see what’ll happen. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip and she nods breathlessly at you. 

Her fingers scramble for purchase and dig into the duvet on the bed as you position the tip at her entrance. Your stomach is twisting in a good way and you push in just an inch. 

Agatha’s eyes widen and her breath catches. You pause for a moment to give her time to adjust, watching her face carefully. 

“Can I keep going?” you ask. 

“Yes, please,” she chokes out. “Mommy needs you so bad.” 

Fog is setting over your brain and you bite your tongue to concentrate. You move slowly and her hips are bucking up, clearly impatient, but you don’t want to accidentally go too fast. 

“Come on, baby, mommy needs more,” she urges and you nod. “Fuck me like you mean it.” 

Hearing her beg like this—as much as that is begging—is making your core burn and you can feel the wetness on your thighs already. You look down to watch her lips envelope more of the toy and you momentarily lose all focus. 

Agatha growls and your eyes shoot up to lock with hers. She softens when she sees the light sheen of sweat on your face and her legs relax from where they were tensing against your hips. 

“I’m trying, mommy,” you pant out, sharply thrusting your hips into her once you bottom out inside her. She inhales roughly and grinds against you. 

“I know, honey,” she says, trying to be gentle. “You’re doing a good job. You can move faster though.”

You pull the toy out and you groan when you see how shiny the purple is now. All because of her. 

It’s hard to give her what she wants because you keep getting sidetracked with the way her tits bounce each time you thrust into her and the squelching sounds from her pussy and the pretty sounds falling from her mouth. There’s also the bumping of the toy against your own clit and fucking her like this is getting you to places you’ve never been before. 

“Fuck, baby,” she moans once you’ve finally found a pace and her hair is strewn on the bed beneath her. Her eyes are dark and her cheeks are a light pink and you stop moving again, thoroughly distracted. 

“Mommy,” you whine, “I can’t—you’re too—I don’t—” 

She knows what you mean and shushes you, her legs wrapping around you to still your body. “It’s okay, hon. I know what you need.” 

Before you can ask what she means, she pushes you off her so the toy slips out of her pussy with a pop and then sits up to push you onto the bed on your back. 

A strangled noise comes out of your mouth and the next thing you know, she climbs on top of you, positions the strap at her entrance again, and sinks down fast. The air leaves your lungs as her head drops back and she stays there for just a moment. 

“Mommy, can I—” You lift your hand to touch her but she slaps it away gently and she snaps back up to look at you while rising up until just the tip is inside her. 

“You’re just a poor little thing, aren’t you?” she coos, sickly sweet, and the degradation goes to your core just as much as the praise. “Let mommy take what she needs, okay? Just lay there and be mommy’s good little toy.”

Agatha sits back down again and grinds forward, a pornographic moan tearing from her mouth and you’re completely frozen beneath her as she starts to ride you. The toy is soaked and dripping onto your pelvis and her lips are even more swollen and you don’t think you’ll ever forget the image of her cunt stretched out around it. 

You babble something nonsensically and try to buck your hips up to help her and she screws her eyes shut. Her left hand traces up her stomach to pinch her nipple while the nails of her right hand sink into the skin on your ribs. You whimper. 

“Such a good fucking toy for mommy,” she grunts, riding you even faster now and her hair is a mess and her eyes have an unhinged look in them and you think this is the hottest she’s ever been. “Can’t do anything by yourself, can you? It’s okay, baby, I can do it for you.”

She reaches down to rub her clit and her chest heaves with the effort of breathing. 

All you can do is watch as she takes her pleasure from you, as she uses you, and you think you might be able to come just from this. 

And then…and then she leans forward to wrap a hand around your throat, just loosely, but the pressure makes your mind go absolutely empty. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, keeping your eyes on her while she switches to grinding against you because she’s getting close too. 

“Your cock feels so good,” she moans. Your hips jerk up and her lips part from the pressure. “You’re going to make mommy come.” 

“Want you to,” you gasp out desperately, trying your best to thrust into her. Her hair falls around her shoulders, framing her face, and the vein in her forehead is angrily throbbing. The flush in her cheeks has spread down to her upper chest and you reach up to tweak her nipples. 

Her rhythm falters and her head drops forward so you can’t see her eyes anymore and you’re both watching the toy being swallowed by her cunt. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chants and you swear you can feel her clenching around you. You wish more than anything that you could. 

“Are you going to come for me, mommy?” you ask and it comes out almost incoherent from her hand around your throat, but she understands. 

She huffs and looks back up at you. “Yeah, baby, mommy’s going to come all over your cock.” 

Her hand works harder between her legs, furiously rubbing your clit, and then she stiffens on top of you and then falls apart. 

Watching her come and feeling the toy bump against your own clit triggers your own orgasm and her hand around your throat tightens to make your pleasure even more intense. 

It’s a few moments before you both come down from the high and she rides you gently through the aftershocks until she stops and gets off of the toy. It shimmers in the light and you wrap your hand around it, stroking it a few times to collect her wetness, and then you lick your palm, moaning at the taste of her. 

Agatha watches with dark eyes and then leans over to kiss you hard. “Your turn,” she says. 

It started with a look.

Not a word. Not a smirk. Just that look..the one Natasha gave her when she knew everything Y/n was feeling without her saying a damn thing.

Y/n had been fidgeting all evening. Short replies. Shaky hands. And her eyes? Glued to Natasha’s arms every time she reached for something. Or worse, her abs, slick with sweat from a post-mission workout, visible beneath the cropped tank she hadn’t even bothered to change out of.

So Natasha waited.

Waited until the silence grew thick. Until Y/n was squirming in the armchair, thighs pressed tight together. Until the tension was begging to snap. Then Natasha stood slowly, walked over like she had all the time in the world, and said, voice low:

“Strip. Bedroom. Now.”

Y/n blinked up at her. “What?” she breathed.

“You heard me.” Natasha said, calm and dangerous. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

Y/n obeyed instantly. In the bedroom, Natasha was lying back on the bed, shirtless, abs bared and glistening faintly. Her arms rested behind her head, completely relaxed, but her eyes were locked on Y/n like a predator waiting for the first flinch.

Y/n stood at the edge of the bed, completely naked, flushed and trembling.

“Up.” Natasha ordered, voice a purr with an edge. “Straddle my stomach.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. “W-What?”

Natasha just arched an eyebrow. “You want to come, don’t you?”

So Y/n climbed up, nervous and aching, and positioned herself carefully over Natasha’s bare stomach. The moment her soaked heat met Nat’s firm abs, Natasha let out a deep, guttural sound from her chest.

“Fuck. You’re dripping already?”

Y/n whimpered, the contact almost too much. Every ridge of Natasha’s abs slid between her folds like friction made flesh. She was soaked, humiliatingly, pathetically wet. And Natasha could feel all of it.

The heat of Natasha’s body against her soaked folds made her gasp. But she didn’t move..She couldn’t. Her breath was caught in her throat, and all she could do was sit there..completely still, soaked and trembling, her cunt pressed tight against those hard, perfect abs.

Natasha noticed immediately. “You’re not gonna move?” she asked, tone low, calm..dangerous.

“I…I don’t know how to start.” Y/n whispered, embarrassed. That earned her a dark, amused smile.

“Oh, baby..” Natasha purred, “then let me help you.”

Before Y/n could process the words, Natasha’s hands clamped down on her ass, strong, commanding, unforgiving, and pulled her forward. Y/n moaned at the sudden friction, her clit dragging across the tense grooves of muscle.

Natasha didn’t stop. She set a pace for her, pulling Y/n’s hips in slow, grinding circles. The drag of slick heat on flexed abs was obscene.

Y/n’s breath hitched. “N-Natasha..!” she gasped, already shaking.

“Feel that?” Natasha growled, voice rough. “That’s my body under you. You’re soaked. You’re weak. And you’re mine.”

Another tug of the hips, another desperate sound from Y/n’s throat. Then Natasha paused. And Y/n kept moving. Her hips rolled forward on their own, slow, needy, involuntary. Riding. Grinding. Whining.

Realization hit her like a wave, and her face flushed deep red. “I-” she tried.

Natasha grinned, her hands staying firm on her ass. “There she is. ” she whispered. “Knew you’d figure it out. Now keep going.”

She flexed her abs deliberately, and Y/n moaned, her hips jerking forward instinctively as her clit caught against the hard muscle. And Natasha? She was drinking in every second of it.

Her hands moved, sliding from Y/n’s hips up her thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, then higher. One hand moved to palm her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple with deliberate pressure, until Y/n choked on a moan. She brought one hand up to her neck, wrapping around her throat, firm, dominant, perfectly in control.

“Keep going..” she ordered. “Rub that soaked cunt on my stomach. Use me.”

Y/n whimpered, grinding harder now, riding her abs like her life depended on it. Her body was slick, flushed, dripping.

“F-Fuck..” she whined. “Please, please- it’s-”

“You’re fine.” Natasha said, voice like cut stone. Her hand slid up Y/n’s thigh, slow and possessive, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at this mess. You’re soaking me so much, it’s running down my sides.”

She flexed again and Y/n let out a full, shaking moan, loud and shameless. “Good girl.” Natasha murmured. “You love it. Say it.”

“I-I l-love it..” Y/n gasped, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“What do you love?” Natasha pressed, her tone dark and dangerous.

“Y-Your abs..!” Y/n choked. “Fucking love riding your abs, Natasha- feels so..so good I can’t, fuck!!”

Natasha watched every single second, eyes fixed on where her girl’s arousal was sliding down her body, trailing between muscle grooves, wetting the very center of her strength.

Y/n cried out more, overwhelmed, grinding harder, faster. One of her hands came up, grabbing Natasha’s wrist, holding the choke in place. Her other hand was planted right on Natasha’s breast, fingers digging in for leverage as she rode her, shaking and gasping, hips slamming down like she couldn’t get close enough.

Tears pricked her eyes from the pressure, the intensity, the lack of air..and she didn’t care.

“Don’t stop.” Natasha growled. “You stay right there.”

Y/n’s eyes fluttered shut, tears spilling over as her clit dragged again and again across the hardness of Nat’s flexing stomach. Her thighs quivered, her moans grew higher, tighter.

“Look at me.” Natasha barked. “Fucking look at me when you come.”

“I-I can’t..!” Y/n sobbed.

Y/n collapsed forward, arms shaking as she planted her hands on either side of Natasha’s chest. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face as she ground herself down on Natasha, wild and out of control now.

Her thighs were shaking, eyes squeezed shut as tears slid freely down her cheeks, soft cries falling from her lips with every grind of her clit against the tensed muscle.

“Look at you.” Natasha moaned, eyes locked on her. “Crying on my fucking abs.”

She flexed again, hard, and Y/n screamed. Her body locked up, a violent wave tearing through her as she came, violently, messily, slick gushing over Natasha’s stomach in thick streams. She choked on a sob, thighs convulsing, pussy grinding desperately through the overstimulation.

“F-Fuck, fuck-” she whimpered, collapsing fully now, her cheek against Natasha’s chest, still twitching.

And Natasha? Her abs still flexed. Her hand still on Y/n’s throat, holding her there.

“You’re not done” she whispered, a dark, satisfied smile spreading across her face. “You’ll keep riding until I come from watching you. Got it?”

Her makeup was flawless. Not because she wanted to look pretty—that was quite trivial—but because image was everything on national television, and Agatha Harkness knew how to manipulate image like a general commanding troops.

The TVW logo flashed in blue and white on the screen, followed by a deep musical cue that announced: "Washington Governor Debate: The Future at Stake."

Cameras cut to the austere stage set at Kane Hall, University of Washington, with tiny American flags hanging like sentinels behind the three lit podiums.

Steve Rogers, a decorated veteran and fervent advocate for national security, adjusted his red tie. His jaw clenched between each pause.

Bruce Banner, an award-winning scientist and environmentally focused candidate, stood composed. His gaze was calm, though his fingers drummed nervously on the podium.

And at the center, between the two men, stood former senator Agatha Harkness. She wore a custom navy blue suit. Shoulders squared, chin raised, eyes cold and calculating like the tip of a queen.

Moderator Lisa Monroe addressed the camera:

“Good evening, America. We’re live at the University of Washington with the top three candidates for governor of the state of Washington.”

Turning toward the candidates, she asked:

“Candidates, homicide rates in Washington have risen 33% compared to last year. What is your solution… Candidate Rogers?”

Steve leaned into the mic. His voice was deep, confident, rehearsed.

“The answer’s simple, Lisa. We need to reinforce police presence. Authority. Order. When a hardworking citizen leaves for their job, they should know they won’t be mugged or killed, and that criminals will think twice before acting. I support increased police funding across the board. Peace must be kept by strength, and that’s a fact.”

Applause followed and Agatha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. God. Steve sounded like he lived in a comic book.

She tilted her head slightly, watching him like a strategist observing a move.

“Candidate Banner?”

Bruce took a breath, adjusting his glasses.

“I believe the problem is systemic. Violence stems from inequality, from abandonment. The solution lies in education, mental health, social reintegration programs. We don’t need more bullets. We need more teachers. More psychologists. Fewer overcrowded prisons and more real opportunities.”

Applause came from another side of the auditorium. Lisa then turned to Agatha, who had yet to speak.

“Candidate Harkness?”

She leaned slightly toward the microphone. Her voice was calm, low, yet it filled every corner of the hall.

“What my opponents offer are outdated formulas. On one hand, the heavy hand of repression. On the other, an educational utopia that overlooks the urgency of this crisis. I don’t believe in one-size-fits-all answers. The truth is… the problem is multifactorial and so must be the solution.”

She turned slightly to face the audience, her gaze locked on the main camera.

“I support the use of technology to map out high crime zones, increased presence of trained police with demilitarization protocols, and at the same time, grassroots public policy implementation. No investment in security should come without investment in prevention.”

Bruce tried to interrupt, but she raised her hand ever so slightly—not even touching the mic, just a gesture. And magically, he fell into a silence chocked with saliva.

“And before anyone accuses me of ‘administrative coldness,’ as they have before…” she said, turning now to Lisa, “Let me say this: coldness is ignoring hard data. Coldness is watching mothers bury their children while we debate academic theories or empty speeches about force. I am rational. I am pragmatic. And that’s what this country needs.”

A heavy silence lingered for a moment.

“And just to be clear, Candidate Rogers…” she turned to Steve, her eyes now nearly glacial, “Putting more officers on the street without questioning the culture of force and racism is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Your answer is disturbingly convenient for those who don’t want change anything.”

She gave a rehearsed, toothy smile.

“And to Dr. Banner…” she addressed Bruce, her tone a touch softer. “Your heart’s in the right place. But good intentions aren’t enough when there’s blood on the sidewalks of our cities.”

She finished with a slight nod. Applause erupted from every section of the auditorium.

Harkness was known for her pragmatic, urgent speeches. She understood that change was needed and she was willing to make it happen.

Lisa swallowed hard, visibly rattled.

“Well… let’s move on to the next topic.”

Agatha Harkness adjusted her blazer and leaned back slightly against the podium. She didn’t need physical strength, nor passionate outrage.

Her weapon was intellect.

Control.

Strategy.

In the game of power, she already knew she was winning. 

The debate continued, growing more heated. Behind the cameras, Barkley celebrated in silence, watching Agatha maneuver exactly as rehearsed.

When Lisa finally closed the debate, Jennifer made her way toward Agatha with the satisfied smile of someone already tasting victory.

Agatha removed the mic from her lapel and turned with surgical precision toward Jennifer Barkley, who approached like a Hollywood star crossing a red carpet.

“How is my champion?” Jennifer beamed, red lipstick matching her over-the-top confidence. “You annihilated them. Steve looked like a lost boy scout, and Bruce? A tired environmentalist. Honestly, a very elegant bloodbath.”

Agatha raised one brow, her expression as composed as ever.

“If that was a bloodbath, I hope someone cleaned the splatter. I hate mess.”

Jen laughed and threw an arm around the candidate’s shoulders, gently steering her toward the backstage exit.

“You need to relax. We’re celebrating at the new downtown bar. Stark will be there.”

Agatha paused, rolling her eyes like someone who’d just been told she had to share a flight with a talking pig.

“Tony Stark?” She sighed like she'd just heard a bad joke. “The mayor-entrepreneur-privatization messiah? The man who thinks good Wi-Fi solves structural inequality?”

Jennifer burst out laughing. “The one and only. But he’s got good connections. And let’s be honest, he is fun when he is drunk.”

“A radioactive orange can be fun too, Jennifer. And it doesn’t mean I want one floating in my drink.”

“You’re impossible, darling,” Jen said in a tone that suggested she was used to the acid. “But it’ll be good for you. Take a moment to enjoy your win. You’ll be with me—it will be amazing.”

Agatha didn’t reply. She merely tilted her head slightly, as if already accepting the inevitable.

Minutes later, alone in the dressing room, she pulled out her phone and called Nicky. It rang twice before his young, hoarse voice picked up.

“Hey, Mom. The debate’s over?”

“Yes." She said, her voice gentler now. “And now I’m going to a bar with Jennifer. It’ll probably be a long night. Don’t wait up.”

She heard him yawn on the other end.

“Okay. Good luck with your billionaire suit friends.”

She smiled, and for a moment, her eyes lost the steel they held in public.

“You know me too well.”

“I’m your son,” he replied. “Someone has to.”

A quiet pause followed— very heavy with unspoken affection.

She broke it first.

“I… I love you, honey.”

She loved Nicholas more than anything in the world, but saying it out loud still felt foreign.

Luckly, Nicky knew the mother he had.

“Love you too, Mom.”

As the call ended, Agatha stared at her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was unreadable, almost impenetrable — but beneath it there were always scars.

Thanos used to say she was a fortress. That he loved how firm, how decisive she was. And he truly did. He was a good man, generous—a businessman who read poetry and cried at weddings.

But Agatha never loved him.

And that was the silent tragedy of her life: marrying a good man and still feeling locked inside herself. The frustration of knowing her love was never meant to shape itself around softness.

Maybe that’s why she learned to love power, the only relationship that never disappointed her.

The bar was a showcase of carefully calculated excess— amber lighting, polished black marble, waiters who looked like magazine models. It was still empty at that hour, and the soundtrack played softly in the background. 

Agatha Harkness settled into a dark brown leather armchair, crossing her legs with the elegance of someone who knew everyone was watching and more importantly, knew how to use it.

As if it were the most ordinary thing: a gubernatorial candidate walking out of a debate into a bar.

She made a simple two-finger gesture to the waiter, her voice landing like a signature on fine stationery: “A martini. Dry ice.”

Jennifer laughed beside her, already sipping from a glass of sparkling wine that matched the gleam in her eyes. “Martini? Oh, dear. You really know how to have fun.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, as if debating whether a response was worth it. She took the glass with a grace so sharp it almost hurt, and brought it to her lips without hurry.

“Fun is a subjective concept, Jen. I just drink something that doesn’t offend me.”

Jennifer let out a laugh a bit too loud for the still-empty room, tossing her hair back. The kind of woman who knew how to be loved and hated in equal measure and enjoyed both.

“You don’t relax even when you’re about to win, do you?”

Agatha turned her face toward the window, eyes sharp as she watched the first cars pulling up outside.

“Because I haven’t won yet.”

“But you will.” Jennifer smiled like someone already cashing in lottery winnings. “Washington is just the beginning. With Stark in your damn pocket and this campaign in your hands, babe… we’re shaping the fucking country.”

At the mention of the name, Agatha drew a slow breath, her eyes drifting into her glass as if searching for patience inside it.

“Tony Stark is a billionaire buffoon with an ego the size of the national deficit. If he could privatize air, he already would’ve.”

Jennifer laughed harder, tapping Agatha’s arm playfully. “But he has influence. And you need that. This bar, by the way, is his. It’s all networking, baby.”

Agatha looked around like a woman trapped in a play written by idiots. Even the sophistication of the place seemed to scream: new money, old power.

But she was there.

Because in the game of power, even lions must dance with clowns.

Speak of in the devil—Tony Stark walked in. Hair slicked back, beard trimmed to perfection. A long coat and an expensive suit.

Old money. Real money.

The room seemed to tilt slightly toward him—waiters straightened up, conversations dropped in volume, and even the lighting seemed to land better on him.

Agatha didn’t turn immediately. She could recognize Tony’s footsteps anywhere: Italian leather shoes, sharp, arrogant.

He was the kind of man who made sure to leave behind a trail of expensive cologne and unspoken promises wherever he went.

“Oh, the peacock’s arrived,” she murmured to Jennifer, without moving a single muscle on her face.

“Be nice,” Jen replied with a crooked smile. “He wants to see you in the Oval Office, Agatha. Not at the altar.”

Agatha let out a quiet snort. “Which would be worse, I wonder.”

Tony was already approaching, arms wide, wearing that half-smile he believed was charming but was pure performance.

“Well, if it isn’t the most feared woman of the evening,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Agatha tilted her chin slightly, accepting the gesture with the same indifference one gives to an inevitable, useless meeting.

“Tony,” she replied, voice low and sharp like polished glass. “Here to celebrate a victory I haven’t declared yet?”

“I’m a man of vision. I like betting on winners.” He sat beside her, ignoring Jennifer entirely. “And you, my dear Agatha, are a racehorse in a field of donkeys.”

Jennifer laughed, but Agatha only sipped her martini. “The problem with visionaries, Stark,” she said, “is that they mistake projection for reality.”

“Maybe. But reality, as we both know, is bendable.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Imagine the two of us. My capital. Your mind. We’d be unstoppable.”

She finally turned to him, smiling a smile that was all blade. “Tony, you talk like this is a marriage proposal.”

“And why couldn’t it be?”

“Because I don’t marry billionaires who use drones to deliver flowers.”

“It was meant to be romantic.”

“Oh. The NSA must be jealous, I’m sure.”

Tony burst out laughing. He loved this about her—the disdain, the coldness, the fact that she’d never kiss him—which only made him want it more.

Agatha knew that. 

She knew that to him, she was a trophy that refused to be displayed and she knew how to perform. She knew how to smile with just the right teeth, tilt her body at the right angle, laugh at the things that needed laughing—like a trained actress.

She pretended well.

Until she felt it.

Eyes.

Not the dull eyes of sycophants. Not the ones looking for power, or seeing her only as a candidate to be manipulated—a valuable piece in their dirty games.

No.

This gaze was something else.

Like the flame of a candle in a dark room—small, silent, but impossible to ignore. Its presence burned gently, yet more intensely than anything around.

Agatha turned her head with the calculated slowness of a woman who knows every move she makes could shift the gravity of a room.

And then she saw you.

Sitting on the other side of the bar, alone.

Your small frame looked fragile, hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on the edge of the counter. Your cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. The heavy makeup and short dress trying to make you look older.

The glass forgotten between your fingers. And your eyes—your eyes were watching her with a rare kind of intensity. Not political interest or fame.

Something more human, something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

Desire.

Defiance.

When your eyes met, you smiled. A short smile—not arrogant at all, but with a hint of shy provocation. And then, you looked away. Like someone casting bait... and waiting.

Agatha remained still, the martini glass still near her lips. One brow arched. The exchange was brief, but it left a hum.

Were you flirting?

She didn’t know what was more intriguing: the boldness of the gesture or the fact that, for a second, it worked. For a second, Agatha Harkness found herself... curious.

But before she could give it more thought, you stood up. Without haste. Without looking back. You walked through the golden bodies of the lounge like you belonged nowhere, and disappeared into the sea of people swelling as the night grew older.

Agatha followed the motion with her eyes, like watching something come unhinged. Jennifer said something beside her. Tony too. The bar pulsed now with louder music.

But Agatha wasn’t fully there anymore.

Who were you? she wondered.

She didn’t know your name. Didn’t know why your gaze had burned more than any compliment or political alliance proposed that night.

“Are you okay?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it. Cold. Direct. And almost robotic.

But the truth was, she didn’t know why she had followed you. She only knew she saw your body disappear through the back door, and something inside her—maybe some ancient impulse, maybe a stupid desire to feel something —had made her follow.

She hated when that happened.

The silence that followed her question was almost worse than any answer. She saw the faint nod, the way your expression tried to mask a pain she knew far too well.

A kind of sadness that lives in the corners of the mouth, in eyes that don’t want to be seen.

“I just needed some air.”

Your voice was fragile, and even so, Agatha felt the blow. She could recognize that sound — someone trying not to fall apart. And what infuriated her was how much it affected her.

She sat down. Not too close, but close enough to feel it.

It was always like this. Agatha approached danger carefully, with the stupid illusion that control was enough to stop the abyss from swallowing her whole.

But it wasn’t.

Your presence made her uneasy. Eyes too big, too sincere, too alive. As if they stripped away everything she’d spent her life trying to bury.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

And Agatha almost laughed at your boldness.

Why, indeed?

She didn’t know.

The answer she gave was the only honest thing to leave her mouth in weeks: “I saw you leave. And… I came.”

She didn’t know how to explain what that was. A heat that threatened to melt her logic. An absurd attraction born from absolutely nothing, like being pulled by something stronger than herself—and she hated feeling weak.

“I don’t usually do this.”

And that was true, too. She didn’t. Actually, Agatha never did. But there, with you in front of her, the never seemed to dissolve far too quickly.

“You’re… different,”

The word scorched her tongue like alcohol on open skin. She practically spat it out, hating every syllable. Every damn syllable and what they meant. Because it wasn’t just any difference, it wasn’t about style or looks. It was something she couldn’t name—and Agatha hated not knowing.

Her whole body was on alert, like you were a glitch in her control matrix.

And worst of all: a fascinating one.

And you asked. Oh, God. Of course you asked.

“What do you mean?”

Agatha felt a flicker of irritation, like you’d touched a part of her even she didn’t dare approach. A pout formed on her lips—an involuntary expression of frustration she hated revealing.

She didn’t know how to answer.

Worse: she didn’t want to answer.

But her eyes, always so disciplined, faltered. They dropped to your mouth.

Damn her body. She hated that. Hated you.

“I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice laced with something deeper. An unwanted recognition.

But the truth, raw and unbearable, was right in front of her: You destabilized her.

And Agatha hated being destabilized.

“But I despise it,” she confessed. The venom in her voice wasn’t for you, it was for herself. For this fucking weakness you had unearthed in her.

You were too young, too reckless, and you had no right.

“Why?” you asked, with that voice that felt like an invitation to disaster.

Agatha felt the blood throb harder, her jaw tightening.

She turned to you like someone bracing against an invisible threat — but on your face, there was only the war inside her.

A volcano of colliding urges.

Because everything in her was control.

Everything.

Even you.

Especially you.

“Because I hate losing control,” she said.

It was a warning, but it was obvious you’d choose to stay.

The wind blew hard, covering part of her face with her hair. She let it, because hiding was easier than letting you see what was burning inside.

But you saw it, and that terrified her.

“Maybe… maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”

Oh. Sweet illusion.

She let out a harsh, dry laugh. The laugh of someone who’d seen the end of the world and survived only to laugh at the ashes.

“You have no idea what you’re saying.”

And it was true.

Come on! you had no idea how bad this was, how dangerous. And still, ignoring everything you didn’t know, you stepped closer.

Then again.

And now, there was no more space left between you.

Agatha could feel the heat of your body like electricity against her skin. You burned her, and still… she didn’t move back.

Why didn’t she move?

Because of your fucking needy eyes that met hers, and something in her cracked. Because you saw. You saw what no one should ever see, and she hated you for that too.

“Then tell me,” you whispered. “Make me understand.”

The request was a blade—sly, needy—that cuts and makes you thank it for the blood.

“I can’t do that.”

Her voice faltered. God, her voice cracked.

She turned away. She needed to leave, she wanted to run and never see you again.

But she didn’t run. 

Fuck. Why didn’t she run?

Agatha stood there, hand on the doorknob, waiting for something she couldn’t even name.

You approached.

Slow and intentional.

As if you knew she had nowhere else to go.

When your fingers touched her hair, Agatha shivered. The sound that escaped her mouth—God. She wanted to hate you. Hate you so fucking much, but no. Agatha wanted this. She wanted you.

“Please…”

You whispered it against her skin, and it felt like an ancient spell.

She turned. Her back pressed to the door, eyes heavy with everything she tried to hide.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” she growled, voice torn. She stared into your eyes, pupils blown wide, begging for something—anything.

God, you were so aroused.

And without asking, you kissed her. Not her lips, but her neck. Slow, feverish kisses, damn near perfect.

“Please, please, please.”

The words echoed in her mind, burned onto the neck you just kissed. Branded like whispered promises on a dangerous night.

You rose, almost a real kiss.

Almost…

And when she leaned in, you pulled away, the absence hurting more than any touch, and in her eyes now, there was fire.

Primal, wild.

“Fuck.”

She kissed you.

Like someone surrendering, like someone sinning with full knowledge they’d burn in hell.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It couldn’t be.

Because you were different.

And she despises that.

Agatha knew, from the second you pinned her against the iron door, that she had crossed a line she should never have even approached.

You moaned softly into her mouth, your lips fitting with an old urgency—she felt everything.

Everything.

As if your taste was the secret key to a prison she’d locked herself in for decades. And for a moment, she wanted to be free.

The campaign, Jennifer and Stark. The politics, the numbers and cold calculations could go fuck themselves. 

None of it mattered.

Not there, with your fingers slipping lower and lower.

Agatha only wanted to feel worshiped. And you… You were young, and you did it with a devotion that bordered on blasphemy. The way your tongue surrendered and defied at the same time… Hell.

She hated herself for loving it. For finding pleasure in being kissed by someone who shouldn’t even belong in the same world as her.

Her hands grabbed you like iron, and you—so insolent, brave, stupid— let yourself be marked, as if belonging to Agatha was the most natural thing in the world, as if you knew you were made for it.

Why? Why was it so easy for you to give in??

That’s what threw her off.

Agatha had always been cold, frigid. That’s how Thanos used to put it, even when trying to sound kind. That’s what the men in parties called her behind her back. That’s how she saw herself for years: a woman who knew how to use her body, but never actually felt anything.

But now? Now, with you… She was burning like fire. Because the heat was coming from you. From a young, unruly, disobedient body.

And fuck... that was dangerous.

Because feeling was dangerous. Feeling meant stripping down and stripping down meant dying in her world.

The heat in her thighs. The pulsing in her wrist. The sweat at her nape.

Everything was too alive. Too real. You made her feel, and that was a fucking problem.

She tried to control it. Tried to take back control. Pulled away from the kiss. Said “no” with her forehead still pressed to yours.

But you leaned in again.

You licked your lips and promised you’d take care of her. Your scent was everywhere driving her insane.

That sentence…

“I can do this for you.” 

Would be the death of her.

And the worst part?

 You did.

Agatha moaned, yes. Loud and shamefully. Her body trembled. Heat rose through her legs, gathered at her center, pounded in her chest.

With your fingers. With that pretty mouth of yours. With your doe eyes. With the fucking way you begged her to feel it.

You whispered promises and sweet words like poison while you explored her—mouth, fingers, eyes.

She lost her breath, lost her grip.

“Fuck! It’s been so long!” she cried, bouncing shamelessly on your fingers.

It had been ages since she let anyone give her pleasure. But it happened... in a dirty, cramped emergency exit. With a stranger young enough to be Nicky’s friend.

And you knew exactly what to do. How did you know? How could someone so young touch her with that much reverence and filth at the same time?

Fuck… she was lost.

And when you whispered: “I’m a good girl.”

That phrase. That fucking phrase pushed her to the edge of her own madness. It shook her. 

She wanted to laugh because you were so pathetic and cry because she tightened around your fingers. Agatha came, clinging to you like you were the only thing anchoring her to reality.

And that’s when she understood the real danger.

She needed to pull herself together. Fast. Return to herself. To the real world.

“This never happened.”

The words were cold. Sharp and ruthless. But even as she said them, your taste was still on her lips. Her breath still came in gasps, her panties still damp.

She told you that you meant nothing, because that’s what you should be. However her still-shaking body betrayed her.

“Go fuck yourself,” you said.

The way you said it, the way your eyes pierced through her… 

Agatha felt the floor vanish beneath her. She didn’t answer, she couldn’t. She just swallowed hard, jaw clenched, fighting the rising panic beneath her polished surface.

And then, you moved.

Not back, you didn’t leave in that scenario. In this time you moved forward, with your doe eyes transformed into blood.

Something glinted under the harsh corridor light. 

Too fast.

Too sharp.

A silent snap, the sound of metal breaking skin. And for a second, Agatha didn’t understand what was happening.

She just felt the stabbing pain.

The heat blooming in her abdomen.

The blood.

Warm.

Sticky.

Red.

The knife was in your hand and it was inside her.

Agatha dropped to her knees with a choked, raspy groan. Looked down and saw blood slipping between trembling fingers.

Her blood.

But you were already turning away.

“What… what did you do?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Her face pale, frozen in panic.

And you left. So calm and innocent like a child, as if nothing had happened.

The sound of distant alarms exploded in her head. 

A distorted noise, like sirens tearing at her ears.

A buzzing. A scream. A torn memory.

The floor spun, and Agatha woke up with a gasp caught in her throat, chest heaving like she was drowning.

She was in bed.

Her bed.

Sweat ran down her temple. Her hands were shaking. The sheets were soaked. Her heartbeat erratic. She clutched her stomach in terror, but there was no wound.

No blood. No knife.

Just the ghost of everything.

But the taste of your mouth, the echo of your bitter laugh—still felt real. She stayed there for long minutes, trying to convince herself it had only been a dream.

Just a dream.

Morning light stabbed through the curtains, and for a moment she felt like she hadn’t truly woken up. Like she was still in that cold hallway, blood running down her belly, watching you walk away like you'd stolen a part of her.

But the sound of the news on TV, the smell of coffee, the crackle of cereal broke the spell.

She was home.

Safe.

Alive.

She stood up with effort. The floral robe slipped over her shoulders. Agatha tried to look composed before walking into the kitchen, even if she was shattered inside.

“Good morning.” Her voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by a nightmare that hadn’t fully left her.

Nicky looked up from his phone, spoon frozen mid-air. He studied her for a second, brow slightly furrowed. 

 “Damn… you slept in.”

She forced a smile—the kind that hurt the muscles in her face. Ran a hand through her tangled, wild hair, as if the distracted gesture could erase the chaos of the night before.

“Had a long night.” Her voice was low, tired.

She sat at the table. Picked up the mug of lukewarm coffee like it could anchor her back to reality—a caffeine and routine anchor against an ocean of delirium, sex, and blood.

She tried to seem like a mother. Just for a moment. Tried to pretend she still remembered how to be one.

“Did you check the news?” she asked, feigning casual. “Anything about last night’s debate?”

Nicky shrugged, chewing slowly. “Just the usual… old dudes freaking out ‘cause you humiliated Rogers and Banner live on air. You’re trending, by the way. A bunch of people calling you a milf.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Milf?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Mom.”

She let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Oh god, why are you young people like this?” She rolled her eyes. “Does everything have to be sexual?”

“You’re kinda scary sometimes, you know that?” he said suddenly, with a crooked smile. “I think that’s what attracts the porn-addicted young guys or whatever.”

She pressed her lips together, almost laughing for real. Almost.

“Why are we talking about this so early?”

“It’s almost nine, Mom.”

Agatha raised a brow.

“Exactly. Early.” she muttered playfully, making Nicky stifle a chuckle.

For a second, she wanted to just be there.

With him. With her Nicky. The only real tether she still had to the world.

But her mind was a feral bitch and it always came back.

The nightmare.

The taste of your mouth.

The blood.

Your shy gaze that clashed with the brutal confidence of the way you fucked her.

You.

Again, you.

She ran a hand over her forehead, trying to push the image away.

Fuck.

"Someone from the security department called," Nicky said casually, scrolling through his phone.

The world stopped.

Agatha tried to keep her expression neutral, but her heart was pounding.

"Oh, really?" she asked, her tone deliberately flat.

"Yeah," he replied, already standing and throwing his backpack over one shoulder. "I told them you weren’t in, but that you’d call back as soon as possible."

Agatha nodded slowly, as if she needed to sync her thoughts before they spilled out through her eyes. “You’re so clever, sweetheart.” She stood and walked over to him. “So… how’s the studying for Harvard going? It was medicine, right?”

Nicky swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable. “Studying’s fine. I ranked fourth on the class mock test.”

“Hmm, not bad.” She adjusted the collar of his shirt, even though it was already perfectly aligned. “But we can always do better, can’t we?”

“Of course, Mom,” he muttered under his breath.

Agatha leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Study hard, sweetheart.”

He gave a small nod, not too enthusiastic, and walked out. The door clicked shut softly—but to Agatha, it sounded like a gunshot.

As soon as she was alone, her posture collapsed. Her shoulders sagged. The composed look in her eyes dissolved into something close to panic.

Now that she was alone, she could finally breathe. She picked up the phone and called Peggy.

“Harkness. To what do I owe the pleasure?” the woman answered, casual as always.

“Any updates on what I asked?”

“Straight to the point, huh?” Peggy teased, her voice playful. Then silence. “Alright. The name you sent me… Melinda Nox, right?”

Agatha kept her chin up, eyes fixed on the untouched coffee mug on the counter. The white porcelain stood in stark contrast to the dark polish on her nails.

“And?” she pressed, her voice colder than she intended.

“She doesn’t exist,” Peggy said bluntly. “I mean, the ID exists... but it’s not official. No entry in the database. It’s like it was made on the side. A fake identity. And a sloppy one, at that.”

Agatha went silent and Peggy went on.

“I’m digging into whoever’s been distributing these. Something’s off, Agatha. And if I’m right, you’re tangled up with someone way more dangerous than they seem.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes.

She could still see her face —or rather, the face of the woman calling herself Melinda. The way her lips curled when she smiled—it was real, seductive.

Agatha had spent days trying to rationalize what happened, convincing herself it was just a lapse. Just desire.

But now...

Now Melinda had vanished. No trail. No trace. Like a ghost.

You were a lie.

You fucked her—and lied.

You were a fucking lie.

You could ruin her entire career with a single click.

And it was ruining her.

“Any idea who might’ve issued this kind of identity?” Agatha asked, arms crossing tightly.

“Maybe,” Peggy replied, evasive. “But I’ll need to dig deeper. This could involve big names. And you know how big names hate being dug into.”

“Dig anyway.” Agatha hung up before she could respond.

She stood still for a moment, staring at her blurry reflection in the kitchen window. The sky outside was gray — just like her mood.

Melinda Nox.

That name spun like a knife in her mind, and no matter how hard she tried to pretend she didn’t feel it, it was already seared into her.

Agatha didn’t know who you were. But the fact you dropped that identity… it felt deliberate. Like deep down, you wanted to be found or like you knew exactly what you were doing to her.

And now that you weren't you?

It made her furious.

Because Agatha Harkness hates not knowing.

[...]

Running her hands down the navy blazer with the precision of someone adjusting armor before a war, Agatha took a deep breath. The elevator dinged open with a metallic chime, and she stepped into the office hallway like she owned the floor — which, in many ways, she did.

The chaos was almost comical. Staff yelling into phones, rushing around with clipboards, dropping papers, tripping over their own feet. The tension in the air was thick. The previous night’s debate still echoed through the corridors like a post-impact earthquake. And Agatha, of course, was the epicenter.

“Ms. Harkness. Hi!” A young assistant greeted her with a rehearsed smile. “Jennifer’s already waiting for you in the conference room.”

Agatha followed the young woman —far too green to be working for a shark like Barkley.

Jennifer didn’t even look up when Agatha entered. In a way, it was the greatest show of respect Agatha could receive. Her image director was pacing, deep in an intense phone call. She signaled for Agatha to wait.

“I know,” Jennifer was saying, pacing like a caged lioness. “I know. But something came up, and we won’t be able to receive the interns today.”

Agatha crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, a faint smile dancing on her lips. 

Jennifer was good.

A monster, but a brilliant one.

“I know it’s in the contract!” Her voice rose slightly, before softening with a plastic smile. “Watson, you know I’m in the middle of a major campaign and—”

A muffled voice on the other end, followed by tense silence. Then Jennifer stared at the phone and sighed. “Shit.”

She finally turned to Agatha, forcing a smile.

“Sorry, darling.” She smoothed her blonde hair, clearly exhausted. “The office committed to hosting and training interns from the UW. You know… all that performative nonsense about inclusion, youthful spirit, building bridges with the next generation… It's so exhausting.” She rubbed her temples.

Agatha crossed her arms, blazer pristine.

“Good,” she said dryly. “Maybe one of them will actually be worth it.”

“Let’s hope so.” Jennifer sighed, dialing the internal line on her desk. “Ready for the meeting, darling? We’ve compiled some key points after Friday’s debate.”

As she spoke, the rest of the team entered, adjusting slides, firing up the projector, arranging charts.

Once everything was in place, it began:

“Ms. Harkness, good morning.” Said one of the assistants formally, Agatha responded with a simple nod. “Let’s get straight to it. Here’s the updated overview of voter intent for the state governor’s race.”

The screen flashed, displaying a detailed map of Washington State, shaded in blue, red, and gray.

“As we can see,” he began, “you’re leading in 43% of the metropolitan districts, especially Seattle, Bellevue, and Tacoma. Your progressive stances on gun control, environmental policy, and educational investment have struck a chord.”

He clicked again, and a bar graph appeared.

“Your strongest demographic is the 35 to 65 age group. Liberal professionals, small business owners, middle-aged moms, teachers. They see you as a firm, modern leader. Authoritative, but forward-thinking. A direct contrast to Rogers’ outdated conservatism and Banner’s emotional intability.”

Jennifer leaned in to whisper, clearly pleased. “You’re the woman they respect, maybe even fear. And they like that.”

But before they could continue, there were three knocks on the door.

“Excuse me…”

“Sonya, what is it? This better be urgent.”

Jennifer closed her eyes for a brief moment before replying, as if begging for one last second of peace.

“It’s… the interns. They’ve arrived.”

Jennifer took a deep breath, sinking into her chair, summoning patience.

“Fucking Watson.” She cursed the man—the phone call man. “Sorry, darling.” She turned to Agatha. “But I believe the sooner we get this over with, the better, right?” Jennifer shrugged and adjusted her skirt.

The sound of Agatha’s heels echoed sharply against the marble floor of the hallway. She stepped out of the conference room, her mind still buzzing with charts, numbers, and meticulously crafted strategies.

But none of that prepared her for what she saw as she turned the corner.

The interns were lined up in the main hall, waiting to be greeted. Some whispered nervously to one another, others tried to look effortlessly cool.

And there, among them, was that same body shape, the same height. The hair that, just two weeks ago, had been tangled between her fingers—now perfectly in place, but still the same shade she remembered. The same face with full cheeks. The same eyes with lashes far too long for their own good, and that wide smile, looking genuinely happy to be there.

Agatha couldn’t believe it.

It was you.

Her stomach twisted, like a punch to the gut.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Her gaze locked on you—on every detail of your face, on your tense shoulders, on the posture trying to appear confident. But she knew better. That same young confidence that, just weeks ago, had left her panties soaked against the emergency exit door.

She felt completely obsessed and unhinged.

Agatha blinked, heart pounding in her chest.

“Ms. Harkness?” one of the assistants asked. “Is everything alright?”

She didn’t answer, just kept staring.

Anger rising. Hot, sudden, raw.

You lied.

You fucking lied to her.

How dare you?

Who even were you?

“Who is that girl?” Agatha asked, eyes never leaving your face.

The assistant hesitated. “Oh, right. One second.” She turned toward the reception desk and pulled out an ID folder. “Here. One of the top students at UW. Really impressive. Very mature for her age and—”

But Agatha wasn’t listening anymore.

She snatched the folder from the assistant’s hands with a sharp, almost feral motion. The papers inside trembled as her eyes scanned the first page.

And then, she saw it.

Your real fucking name.

Your real fucking age.

20 years old.

“Twenty...?” she whispered, choking on the word, as if each syllable scraped its way up her throat.

Fuck.

Agatha’s mind exploded into a dizzying storm of rage, guilt, disbelief, and repressed desire.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You hadn’t just lied.

You were underage.

Too young to be in that bar.

Too young to be drinking.

Too young to touch her the way you did.

And yet… you had done it all.

Agatha ran a trembling hand through her hair. The folder shook in her hands like a bomb about to go off. She turned slowly. Wished you’d disappeared. That it was a delusion.

But you were right there.

And when your eyes met hers—wide, yes, but not exactly surprised—something inside her collapsed.

Shame.

Desire.

Guilt.

Hatred.

A kind of regret she didn’t dare name.

She had to get out of there.

Or make you leave.

For the first time in a long time, Agatha felt completely out of control. Like the game had finally slipped from her grasp.

Because in the end, it wasn’t power that was in check.

It was her.

The woman who had always known how to move every piece flawlessly. Who had sacrificed everything to remain untouchable on the board.

The queen was exposed.

Lost.

And, for the first time, unsure of her next move.

~*~

I think we all need this after last chapter, huh? How about we druve the governor all little crazy?

Tag List <3

Well, kind of your co-worker. You’re just helping out on the side. It’s the swimming unit for the Physical Education classes at the high school you went to and you’re lifeguarding after graduating college just to make some extra cash. 

Which means getting to hang out on the pool deck with Agatha Harkness for two weeks. 

The crush sort of came out of nowhere. You’d never really thought of her in that way, and you’re not sure when things changed. 

Maybe it was when she asked you deep questions when it was just the two of you sitting there and she actually listened. Maybe it was when she teased you about trying an energy drink for the first time and getting hooked immediately and still encouraging you. Maybe it was when she told you that you were funny a few days ago. 

But you can’t stop thinking about her now and the way she tilts her sunglasses down to look at you with those bright blue eyes and the way she tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and the way she nudges you when you say something cheeky but then smirks wickedly to dish it right back at you. 

It’s becoming a slight problem, how you always want to be with her. How the class periods that she has free just drag by and you count down the minutes until you might be able to see Agatha again. How you would do anything just to have her attention on you, even though you know logically that she’ll never like you back like that. 

But Agatha brings you an energy drink on Monday, tsking when your eyes light up and you immediately reach for it when she gives it to you in the office. 

“You are so addicted,” she sighs with a chuckle when you hand it back to her because you can’t open the can. Agatha easily pops it open, nails painted a deep red that contrasts nicely with her pale skin, and she holds eye contact as she takes a sip right from the opening of it. She’s wearing shorts that show off her long legs and a light blue shirt and you can’t stop your gaze from wandering down her body.

She gives it back to you and you try to ignore the fact that your lips are touching the spot that hers just did. 

“And yet, you’re just giving me more,” you say, grinning. “You like it.” 

Agatha snorts. “And you’re crazy.” 

You take a long swig and swish the liquid around your mouth. She watches, pupils dilating just slightly. When she looks at you like that, you think she must feel something for you. 

It looks like she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t—she just smirks knowingly and picks up her clipboard before walking out and to the pool deck. 

This is her easiest class: not a lot of kids and they’re all strong swimmers. Which means you get to just hang out with her. 

You walk with her up and down the deck, mindlessly chatting about your weekends and how the kids are doing while swimming. Agatha’s lips quirk up each time you lift the can to your mouth and you pretend not to notice, but you can’t help laughing. 

She makes you feel so free. 

When the kids are done swimming and they have free time to play around in the pool, you and Agatha sit next to each other in chairs by the diving well. You take off your shirt, revealing your sensible one-piece just to get some sun, and you think you hear her breath hitch. 

It’s hard to ignore the warm feeling spreading through you as you feel her eyes raking over you. 

—

She walks with you up to the cafeteria during lunch and you’re hoping you can snag something to eat. 

You have a second energy drink in your hands and Agatha keeps making fun of you for it. 

“One day, your heart is going to explode,” she says while shaking her head fondly. 

Lifting the can to your lips, you smile into it before taking a short sip. “What can I say? I get addicted to things way too easily. I just can’t stop thinking about them.” 

There’s a look in Agatha’s eyes, like she knows that what you really can’t stop thinking about is her. 

The cafeteria is crowded when you get there. You open the door and hold it open for Agatha, who breezes past you with a quick “Thank you.”

It’s easier to hang back, so you do. But Agatha pushes through the crowd to get food and she comes back a few minutes later to raise an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you getting something?” 

You gesture at the line of kids standing there. 

Agatha huffs. “Go up there and get something. Do you need me to hold your hand?” 

Turning out your bottom lip mockingly into an exaggerated pout, you nod, wondering what she’ll do. 

She grabs your hand from where it was limply resting on your waist and squeezes it. “Be brave and go get some food.” 

But then Agatha drops your hand and you’re almost disappointed. You nod and she claps you on the shoulder before you push through the kids to pick up a paper plate with pasta on it.  

When you come back, she’s still waiting for you and she buys your food for you. You don’t really know why she’s being so nice but you mumble a “thank you” and she smirks before waving you along. 

A few girls from her class catch you both as you’re walking back to the office and you finish your pasta while they talk to her. After you throw your plate away, she hands you the rest of her food without saying a word to you. 

Once again, you have to pretend not to care that your mouth is eating from the same fork that hers was. 

—

You’re back on the deck with Agatha. It’s only her class in the pool—just how you like it. It means it’s just the two of you, no other coaches around. 

One of her students, a girl with light brown hair and black suit, is talking to you about boy drama she’s having, trying to stall having to get in the pool. 

Agatha laughs when you say something snarky and you try to ignore the way your clit pulses. Your hands are slightly trembling, a remnant of all the caffeine you’ve drank today, and you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you again. 

“All right, Jess, you need to go swim,” Agatha says and Jess looks at you pleadingly but you tilt your head toward her coach in agreement. 

She sighs but finally goes to jump in the pool and catches up with her friends. The air is thick with something now that she’s gone and it’s just you and Agatha. 

“How is your love life?” Agatha asks and you stiffen before trying to seem casual. You pick at your nails while she leans over the side of her chair. “Any guys?” 

That makes you snort and you turn to look at her. “I’m not really into guys,” you rasp, voice suddenly deeper. 

She picks up her sunglasses and rests them on top of her head, surveying you. Her blue eyes seem to pierce right through you, and although it’s really hot outside, you shiver. 

What is she going to say? 

All Agatha does is hum and drop her glasses back down onto her nose and you bite your lip at the silence. 

Should you continue that conversation? Tell her about your failed relationships? Ask her about her love life?

“That’s good to know,” she says finally and you stare straight ahead at the pool and hope that she thinks your flush is just from the temperature. 

—

Agatha brings you another energy drink the next morning and you think you get more of a high from her than you do from the caffeine. She’s wearing a green tank top and khaki shorts and you want to get on your knees for her. 

She opens your drink for you again and takes a sip before you can. 

It’s like she wants you to think about kissing her. Like she wants you to imagine it. 

“I hate this type of schedule,” you say. The kids have only their even class periods today, whereas yesterday, they had their odd. 

She smirks and steals the can from you again to take another sip before handing it back. Her fingers brush against yours and there’s droplets on her lip that you want to lick off. “Is it because you don’t get to see me as much?” 

It is. She only has one class out in the pool on days like this. You like the other coaches well enough, but none of them give you the rush that Agatha does. 

“Totally,” you answer sarcastically so she thinks you’re joking. 

Agatha taps your chin with a knowing look and you think she must know a lot more than she lets on. “Don’t get too bored without me.” 

“I could say the same thing to you,” you quip and are delighted when she winks at you. 

She takes a step closer to you and the air gets tighter around you. All you can think about is her leaning in and kissing you slowly. 

But she doesn’t. 

Agatha just gives you a crooked smile and walks out to get her class and you trudge to the pool deck for over an hour of boredom. 

—

“How was it?” Agatha asks when you collapse into a chair in her office after the first period of the day. You’re sweating already, even though it’s still early in the morning, and the sleeves on your shirt are rolled up, baring your shoulders. 

You groan and wipe your forehead. “Those boys are the worst. And you weren't there.” 

She laughs and it’s music to your ears. “I’ll be there next period, don’t worry.” 

It pulls a smile onto your face and she holds your stare for a second. There’s something different about the way she’s looking at you and talking to you. Like there’s a closeness now that wasn’t there before. 

Agatha doesn’t act like this with anyone else, at least not that you’ve noticed. She doesn’t share drinks casually with anyone else like she does with you. 

It has to mean something, right? 

Your hand is trembling again against the desk. No surprise after downing the drink and you can slowly feel yourself start to come down from the high. 

She abruptly slides back in her chair and stands up. You look up in surprise and she puts her hand on top of your shaky one. 

“I need something from the equipment room. Come with me?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. 

And you’d never say no anyway. 

Her office is connected to the gym and she leads you into the storage room on the other side. It’s big and filled with carts of footballs and basketballs and volleyballs and hula hoops hang on the walls and big physio balls are stacked on top of shelves. It smells musty but it doesn’t take long to adjust to it. 

Agatha walks back and forth like she’s looking for something and you don’t get in the way; you stand to the side and run your hands through the line of jump ropes hanging. 

You accidentally catch one of them with your fingertips and end up pulling about six onto the floor. 

Before even thinking about it, you sink to your knees to pick them up. 

Agatha stops in front of you and you just look up at her, dropping the ropes in your hands back onto the floor. It feels like everything goes even quieter than it was before. Can she hear you breathing? You can hear yourself and you don’t know if it’s really as ragged as you think it is. 

Her eyes are dark as she peers down at you and something just feels right about this. 

She must want you too.

She has to like you too. 

Agatha swallows, strangely and uncharacteristically affected, and reaches out to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. It’s gentle and you almost shiver. Your mouth is watering. 

You could make her feel so good right now. Your clit pulses at the thought. 

Neither of you have moved. 

Will you just stay like this until the bell rings and then pretend that nothing happened?

But then she clears her throat and your eyes dart up to watch her lips move. “You look good like this,” she says, thick and hot and you let out a strangled gasp. 

Your hands are shaking again but it’s not because of the caffeine, it’s because of your desire. Your need. 

She sees it too and smirks. “You are addicted, aren’t you?” 

Addicted to her. 

Is that what she’s asking? 

“Yes,” you admit breathlessly and she grins wolfishly and starts to walk away. You watch her, dumbfounded, until she backs into the wall only a few feet away from where you’re still kneeling and stares expectantly at you. 

And then she hikes up her shirt and unbuttons her shorts and your eyes widen. 

“But—I—you—” you stammer, not sure why you can’t just shut up. This can't be real, this is just some hallucination or something. 

“Are you going to make me feel good?” Agatha asks nonchalantly, like she isn’t about to let you fuck her, and your world tilts on its axis. 

You whimper and nod pathetically and you don’t even care that you’re crawling across a dirty floor on your knees for her because you’d do anything for her at this point. 

How did it get to this point? 

Her thighs are soft under your quivering fingertips and you don’t care if this is a dream or if she calls this a moment of weakness or if you never get to touch her again. 

She tenses as you drag your hands up further to tease the edge of her shorts and you flick your eyes up to watch her through your eyelashes as you pull her zipper down with your teeth. Her chest flares and she reaches up to ruffle her hair with her left hand. 

When her zipper is all the way down, you find a hint of gray cotton underwear peeking through and you quietly groan to yourself. You tug on the waistband and slowly drag them down her pale legs. You can’t resist the urge and you lean in to nip at her thigh and she hisses. 

“We don’t have much time,” Agatha rasps but you move in slow motion anyway, tilting your head back up, eyes travelling up from her shorts pooled at her ankles to the damp fabric between her thighs. She says your name, a testament, maybe, to how much she wants this too. 

You could tease her; it would be payback for all the teasing she’s given you the past few days. 

But you need this as much as she does. 

Agatha lets out a small noise when you lay your hands on her thighs to spread them and you scooch closer to her. You give her one last look, just to make sure, and you only find desire on her face. 

You drag your tongue over her wet gusset and everything is changed between you forever. 

Agatha slumps against the wall and you moan unconsciously at the tangy flavor before sucking on her folds through her underwear. Her hips buck and you’re surprised by how turned on she is already. 

But you can’t talk—you can feel how much of a mess you are. 

You lick at her clit through her underwear which is now a charcoal gray color with your saliva and her wetness staining it. A thrilling high roots itself in your brain at the thought of her walking around in these the rest of the day. You hope she feels how soaked she is with every step she takes.

She gasps and her hand finds your hair. Her fingers tighten and her nails scratch against your scalp, pulling a moan from you. “Hurry up,” she grits out. There’s a longer break on days like these, but you don’t know how much time is left. 

And you’d hate to leave her unsatisfied. 

You pull back and scrape your teeth over her thigh before reaching up to pull her underwear to the side. Her wetness gets on your hand and you suck your fingers into your mouth to clean them. Her top teeth sink into her bottom lip as she stares down at you. 

And then you slowly move back to her cunt, like you’re being pulled magnetically. You breathe heavily, already craving her, and you think you die and go to heaven when you drag your flattened tongue through her folds, able to feel her this time. 

She fills your mouth and your taste buds are flooded with the best thing you’ve ever had and you close your eyes to savor her. Agatha inhales again and slides further down the wall so you’re able to get more between her legs. Your fingers are digging into her thighs and they’re not trembling anymore—you’re getting your fix right now.

Agatha gasps when you lap around her clit, teasing but not giving in just yet. She makes a muffled noise and her fingers warningly tug on your hair and you smirk against her hot center before enclosing your lips around the nub and sucking. Her eyes shoot wide and she clamps her other hand over her mouth. 

Your knees ache from the floor but it hardly even registers because you can feel her clit throbbing in your mouth and her head drops back against the wall and you know you’re doing something right. 

She keens when your tongue slides down to her entrance and then curls up inside her and her hips rock again. Your nose moves over her clit and she does her best to ride your face, as much as her position allows her to. 

Her walls clench around your tongue and more wetness leaks down the side of your face but you can’t get enough. You devour her, frantically mouthing at her pussy, and you still can’t believe this is actually happening. 

“Fuck, your mouth is so good,” she groans and you moan into her. She stiffens over you and you curl your tongue inside her again. She pulses around you. 

You say something into her cunt; it’s muffled and unintelligible and even you don’t know what you’re meaning to say. 

Agatha whimpers and pulls at your hair again when you move back to sucking at her clit. “Right there, fuck, that’s perfect,” she sighs and your tongue lashes against her. 

Her pupils have swallowed up almost all the blue in her eyes and her cheeks are a rosy pink color. The vein in her forehead that you watch throb sometimes is throbbing right now as she looks down at you. 

You’ve never felt like you belonged somewhere as much as you do right now. You could live under her desk with her cunt in your mouth and you don’t think you’d be more content anywhere else. 

Agatha’s fingers are gripping your hair so hard it’s almost painful and you relish in the fact that you’ll feel her phantom touch even after it’s gone. You’ll be sitting on the pool deck next to her, the taste of her still in your mouth, and no one will know. 

It’ll be your little secret. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to come,” she groans urgently and it’s as close to begging as you’re going to get from her. 

Your teeth scrape against her clit and you dip your tongue back inside her one last time before sucking open-mouthed on her and flicking your tongue over her clit as fast as you can. Agatha throbs and her cunt is getting hotter and your nails dig deeper into her legs. 

“Oh—fuck,” she breathes and you feel her come. Her thighs tighten around your head and shake like your hands were earlier and she yanks on your hair. Her lip has to be stinging from how hard it looks like she’s biting it. 

And you just keep sucking and lapping up her wetness, drunk on her taste and feel and everything. Her noises are delicious and go straight to your own cunt and you want to make her make them over and over again. 

Her clit is still pulsing; you can feel it, and you think she might come again. She has a dazed out look in her eyes as she stares down at you and her breathing is labored. 

But she shakes her head and tugs you away from her and you reluctantly let her. You sit back on your heels, gasping, the entire bottom half of your face and nose slicked with her. 

She chuckles while she takes in the disheveled mess that she’s made you into and wipes her thumb against your chin, collecting her wetness. She holds it out to you and you eagerly suck on her, bobbing up and down to make sure you get all of it. Even after the taste is gone, you don’t stop. 

“Already addicted?” she asks, soft and teasing and this won’t be the last time this happens because you think she might be addicted too. She bends down to pull her pants and underwear back up.

You nod and there’s a smug, triumphant smirk on her face. She’s so proud and there’s a burning sensation that sears through your stomach. 

The bell rings and you’re reminded that you’re on your knees in a storage room in a high school gym and you have to go out and work. 

With Agatha. 

After she just came all over your face. 

You can still taste her and smell her and feel her. 

“Go clean up,” she orders and holds out her hand for you to take. She helps you up and your knees hurt when you bend them and she laughs when you wobble on your feet. 

She looks over your body one last time before nodding assuringly and then walks toward the door. She glances over her shoulder to make sure you’re okay and you follow her out with a foggy mind. 

You already can’t wait for the next time.