Chapter Text
Next Friday, Agatha stepped into the private room in a two-piece of black lace with violet silky ribbons on each hip that caught the light with every movement. Her hair was wilder tonight, deliberately so, tumbling in a dark halo around her face and all the way down her back. That smirk was back, sharpened by recognition the moment she spotted the familiar face in the room, that familiar pair of eyes, intense as ever but less intimidating now. Intriguing rather. She’d tried to brace herself, had known there might not be a ‘next time’ and told herself there would be other customers who’d pay well, who’d be easier to read, less confusing to handle. But the truth sat heavy in her chest the moment their eyes met. She was glad to see her. Almost happy about it even. And she still had a mission to accomplish.
So Agatha didn’t waste time with the pole this time. Not tonight.
“Back again” she murmured, low and amused as she stepped closer instead, right past the stage without giving as much as a glance in passing, gaze fully locked onto the woman sitting in the same place she had last time she’d come here. Well, well, apparently she’d had left enough of an impression after all. Good, she thought to herself. And deep down she knew there was even more to the sudden flood of anticipation than the money left behind last time.
The woman’s eyes didn’t waver. “It seems I am.” voice cutting with a teasing edge.
That steady, unreadable calm, even as Agatha moved in closer still, slow, drawing every movement out – that was what pulled at her most.
Another sway of her hips, a curl of her finger, luring her in, tempting her to move, to get closer, to touch – that’s what people booked these dances for, the privilege of privacy as they explored what remained hidden, just out of reach, from them on the stage outside – but nothing. Just like last time, the other was simply watching.
Agatha tilted her head, lips curving with curiosity as she moved another step closer. “You always sit so still” she remarked, voice low yet sweet as honey. “Makes a girl wonder if you’re bored... or if you’re just waiting for me to try harder.”
The woman’s smirk deepened by the barest fraction, a flicker of something Agatha couldn’t quite name in her eyes. “That’s for you to find out, darling.”
It was all the permission Agatha needed.
One last step until their knees were touching, the tip of Agatha’s heel prying crossed legs open, before she swung a leg over the woman’s lap and settled down with deliberate slowness. Cool silk against her thighs, underneath her fingertips, as one of Agatha’s hands braced against the woman’s shoulder, nails of her other hand skimming along the line of buttons on her delicate blouse. Expensive, she could tell right away. No surprise after last evening’s tip.
And not for the first time Agatha found herself wondering: What was a woman like her doing in a place like this? What did she want? Agatha’s heart quickened its beat by a fraction as she tried to read her.
It seemed to be on her to find out.
Agatha watched closely, waited for the crack she knew had to appear in her composure, just like last time, as she slowly rolled her hips, once, twice. A gasp, a twitch, a hand that finally reached to take what it wanted. But the woman only sat there, eyes dark and steady, her stillness now a weapon. Control. Only her pulse betrayed her – heartbeat quickening just slightly underneath Agatha’s fingertips the moment she began to move.
“What’s your name, honey?” her voice was light and innocent, head cocked to the side, sweet smile on her lips as fingers stroked along the expensive fabric, fingers following the trail of buttons down low.
Only silence followed, but Agatha caught the brief glimmer in her eyes, the woman finally shifting, just barely so, held firmly in place by Agatha’s weight on top of her and yet she could feel it right away, the twitch of a leg underneath her, fingers curling tighter around the armrest of the chair. Agatha saw her chance then and there and took it.
Literally.
She reached, took the woman’s hand into her own and moved it to her thigh, thumb brushing the edge of her leather garter, edges digging into her skin where it had grown a bit snug over the years. The woman still didn’t claim the touch, didn’t turn the gesture into a grip, not quite, but it was contact nevertheless. Heat began to simmer beneath her skin.
“I was hoping it would be you again.” Agatha easily slipped into her sweetest voice, ready to pull every string she usually did and then some. It had yet to fail her. Another slow grind of her hips, her legs squeezing the woman’s hips as she moved.
“Wanted to look pretty for you.” she arched her back, leaned her upper body in closer, a soft sigh falling from her lips as she tipped her head back. Closer still. And there it was. Just the briefest, involuntary flicker of eyes to her cleavage. The first hint of a real reaction. “Do you think I look pretty?” her own hand strayed from the woman’s one on her garter to brush across the mesh of her bra, deliberately grazing the fabric, slipping beneath, lifting so the swell of her breasts was empathized mere inches from that impassive face. She pretended not to notice how the brief touch on her thigh finally turned into a grip, then tightened some more instead of faltering. But oh, she did. And it thrilled her. Finally, a real crack in the armor.
“Pretty and all yours...” her breath hitched as nails dug into her skin just above the leather strap and her slipped lower at the spark it sent straight to her core.
“You really believe you should talk to me the way you talk to all of them?” the woman spoke up so sudden it almost startled Agatha, her voice sharp, commanding, a warning wrapped in something velvety smooth as her thumb brushed over the leather on Agatha’s thigh at her words, intentional now. It hooked under the strap, curled, a mark of territory, a claim. “You can do better than that, don’t you think, Agatha?” her name rolled off the woman’s tongue like honey.
Agatha had thought she’d been in control this time.
How very wrong she’d been.
She lost it the moment the other opened her mouth. The air seemed to thicken, charged with something she couldn’t name. Her thighs clenched reflexively, a little harder than she meant, arousal coiling low and sharp in her belly, threading through the practiced rhythm of her movements.
Better? Oh, she would show her better.
Her hand tugged at the fabric of the silk blouse, grabbed, fingers moving back to the top button, fumbling to get it open, a sliver of tan skin now exposed, her fingers wandering beneath the fabric to –
The music died the moment Agatha touched warm skin, the woman’s hand fell away from Agatha’s leg all at once and the spell broke right along with it.
Agatha slid off her lap as smoothly as she could manage in her haste, forcing her breathing even as she straightened herself. She didn’t dare look back right away – her pulse still pounded too fast, threatening to burst from her throat, the echo of her own name ringing in her ears, the knowledge of having overstepped – but when she did, the other was already rising, smoothing her blouse with maddening calm, as if nothing had happened at all.
The woman pulled a wallet from the pocket of her pants, a bundle of bills leaving her hands, stacked neatly onto the table next to her seat by the time Agatha had rebuild her composure. She barely paid it any attention.
Those deep brown eyes met hers once more and it was all Agatha could focus on, that last look, transfixed by the faintest hint of a knowing smile at the corner of her lips, and she could feel it, the mockery, the amusement in it, at how easily Agatha had lost control.
She watched her leave without another word.
Agatha took the stack, threw it into her bag without another thought, didn’t count the money until later, back at home.
Dozens of crumpled bills from the day’s customers she’d danced all day for. Roughly 450 added up. One of the good days.
The stack last. Thirty crisp bills, held together by a simple rubber band.
Every bill a hundred dollar one.
3.000$
Oh.
It seemed like she was beginning to figure out just what the other woman wanted.
***********
Rio’s driver pulled away into the night, a half an hour drive from the club back to the Vidal mansion. The city blurred past the tinted glass, neon signs, rain-slick asphalt, the pulse of nightlife slowly fading into the distance as the streets thinned into quieter neighborhoods. Eventually those gave way to the open stretch of the Vidal estate’s private road as well. The headlights cut through the dark, the iron gates already visible in its beam in the distance, standing like a guard at the edge of her world. Rio wasn’t sure whether they usually tried to keep strangers outside or her within.
Soon the iron gates closed behind them, the house standing in front of her like a monument of excess, waiting. Her heels clicked across marble as she entered, the sound echoing back at her in the silence the entrance hall held. The air smelled faintly of lilies – the housekeeper must have replaced the flowers in her absence again. They always came while Rio was out, employees wandering the halls to do their jobs, the only visitors of the mansion, gone by the time Rio got back and took their spot at filling the emptiness.
She climbed the big staircase slowly, blazer draped over her arm, blouse crumpled where Agatha had held onto it, where slender fingers had grazed and tugged just moments ago. Her eyes strayed over oil painting across the walls, over scenes of landscapes, buildings, faces and the stories they told, looking at them without actually seeing until they met an all too familiar pair of eyes. Her own. For a moment she let herself get caught in the gaze. She’d been twelve when it was finished, her mother’s idea, her father’s money, the family painter’s skilled hand and Tada! – the portrait of a grownup in a child’s body. She remembered sitting in that chair for hours under the sharp scent of turpentine, told not to move, not to smile too much, not to look bored, to lift her chin just a little higher as if arrogance was heirloom to be captured at every cost too.
Rio hated the painting. Always had.
Not because she’d been captured wrong, but because the painter had captured the twelve-year-old Rio Vidal just right. The perfectly straight posture, that coldness to her gaze, that guarded emptiness staring back at her every time she walked up those stairs. The faintest hint of a proper but unhappy smile. It was the picture of the girl Rio had always been, for as early as she could remember. The girl her parents had raised.
The Vidal heir.
The girl who had learned to keep her voice soft, her gaze steady, her mind focused on future aspirations she’d had no idea of back then. There were nights when she almost expected the girl in the painting to speak. To ask her if had all been worth it. If had all played out the way it had been supposed to. The control. The power. The hours of studies, the days of missed birthday parties and connections. But the painted version of her remained silent. And Rio was thankful she did. Because she wasn’t sure she knew the answer to her question anyway.
Turning away, Rio climbed the last few steps.
Behind her, the painted eyes watched as she disappeared up the remaining stairs and down the hall to her bedroom.
The woman she’d become walking away from the girl she’d never managed to outgrow.
Her wooden bedroom door opened with its familiar sigh. The bed was made, curtains drawn, lamps lit on dimmer settings. Someone had already prepared everything for her. Someone always did.
Once inside, Rio undressed methodically. Shoes sat down in the shelf by the wall, jewelry put back in its box, blouse folded neatly over a chair, trousers hung with care, despite knowing the fabric smelled like smoke, sweat and the stripper’s perfume. Maybe therefor, she’d come to think later, smell still in her nose.
Bare feet padded across wooden floor into the ensuite bathroom, cool tiles a stark contrast to the heat of fleeting touches she still felt ghosting across her skin despite the fabric that had sat between them. She went through her night routine almost outside her own body, watched herself brush her hair, her teeth, wash, change into her pajamas while being in a state of haze she couldn’t quite grasp.
When she finally moved to the mirror, she caught her reflection and the haze faltered for a moment, gave way to surprising clarity at the sight looking back. Her hair had loosened from her updo and hang around her shoulders, her pupils were still wide with something she didn’t dare to name. In the dim light she watched her pulse flicker by her neck just by one of the loose strands of hair. A beat. Another. Just a little too fast.
Sliding into bed mere minutes later, Rio lay against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling, exhaustion slowly settling over her. Business meetings had been long, the evening at the club prolonging her day further still.
But sleep didn’t come.
Her thoughts looped back to the club, the private room tucked in its back, the stage, music, lights.
Agatha.
No matter how hard Rio tried to quiet her mind, to think of business, of names and numbers, her mind circled right back. Back to her. Conjured up images she quickly brushed off again and again – to no avail.
It was easy to keep up her practiced composure out there, with her close, her meticulous control she knew how to maintain if needed. Back home, alone, with nothing but her thoughts though – it was just as easy to slowly slip.
She moved onto her stomach, back onto her side, her back, but nothing helped.
Every shift of fabric against her skin was suddenly too much, ignited heat low in her stomach. The feel of leather brushing her fingertips, the memory of Agatha’s weight in her lap, toned thighs bracketing hers, clenching around her hips, tight and tighter still.
Rio’s hand almost subconsciously slipped lower, over her stomach, past the waistband of her pajama pants. Her lips parted, breathy exhale turning into a sigh as her index graced damp lace, her own body betraying her already.
The sensation of hips grinding slow circles, again and again, a voice sweet as honey, tipping huskier until Rio could’ve sworn she heard the faintest hint of real arousal in Agatha’s words, in the way her breath had grown heavier as she’d kept moving.
Rio’s fingers began to trace slow deliberate circles, mimicking the rhythm of Agatha grinding down onto her, mind replaying the slow bass of the song she had followed. Desire took over her rational thinking and her walls at last.
Her finger’s pushed past the drenched lace then, eyes closed, and she finally allowed the sensations and images to take over her mind. Agatha’s hair tumbling forward to tickle her jaw as she’d leaned in. The scrape of nails down her blouse. The faintest scent of her sweet flowery perfume still clinging to her own skin.
Rio bit her lip as a quiet gasp escaped her, the control she had mastered earlier in the evening unraveling with every stroke. She spread her thighs wider, breath catching as she quickened the pace.
The mesh, almost see-through, stretching across the swell of breasts, which Rio just knew would fit perfectly into her palms. She pictured the weight of them, the softness pressing against her fingers, imagined pushing the thin fabric aside just enough to run a finger over a nipple, watching the peak stiffen, hearing the sharp intake of breath it would draw.
Her own hand became Agatha’s, replaced hers between her legs, spreading her open, filling her. Coaxing a rhythm that matched the sultry sway of her body whenever she danced. One that had matched the way she’d moved in Rio’s lap
Rio’s fingers twitched against the sheets as if reaching for something that wasn’t there as heat kept building. “Fuck…” the curse fell from her lips in a strangled grunt, quiet and raw. Her head tipped back against the pillow, breath stuttering as her fingers moved faster now, thighs tensing, her other hand fisting the sheets.
When she came, it was with a moan that tore past her lips before she could swallow it back, her body arching against the mattress, fingers slowing, stroking herself through the aftershocks of her high, until she lay there shaky, completely undone.
Later, she stared at the ceiling, heart still racing, the smirk that touched her mouth bitter and self-mocking.
Agatha Harkness had managed something few ever did.
She had left Rio Vidal wanting.