Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Money was supposed to make life dazzling. Every wish could be granted, every possibility always at your fingertip. Every door open. Every desire satisfied.

The Vidal name was old money, the sort of wealth that had carved its way into a city with glass towers and steel promises. Rio Vidal had been born at the top, her world built on mahogany boardrooms and gilt-edged portfolios before she was old enough to understand what any of that meant. She'd been raised in penthouses where the windows stretched higher than the ceilings of most houses, where the hush of marble floors carried the footsteps of nannies and tutors instead of those of family. Amidst all, power had always been the air she breathed; wealth, the water she swam in.

But wealth and power, like anything in excess, dulled to gray eventually. They were things she had inherited, refined, doubled, weaponized, used to get whatever she wanted or needed, but they carried no heat anymore. She lived inside of them the way a snake lives inside its own skin. Restless, shedding, always waiting for the next molt to bring something sharper, something new. Something exciting. Just for once.

Truth be told, Rio Vidal was bored. Bored of parties where everyone bowed and scraped, of the hollow laughter of men who wanted her investments, of women who wanted her name on their tongues like it was currency. Bored of being envied, feared, desired, but never once, surprised. Most things bored her these days. The days just endless loops of deals, acquisitions, galas, and champagne that tasted like dust rather than luxury after the fifth glass of the night. And at the end of every evening, she went home to her empty mansion, former residence of her parents and their parents and so on, and its 52 rooms she knew every corner of. Many unused for years, stood waiting like mausoleums, collecting dust no one dared disturb, or cared to sweep.

The day a simple piece of paper was going to turn it all upside down, Rio sat in her penthouse office high above the city, legs stretched out along the leather chaise by the windowed wall. Below her, the New York skyline glittered with neon, streetlamps bleeding into the fog of early autumn, the streets busy with people on their way home, cars rushing like veins pumping red through the night. Rio sighed as she pushed herself upright, setting the glass she’d been holding, ice cubes melted, watering down the rest of some amber whiskey, on the table next to her with a quiet sigh. The city always looked more interesting from this distance than it ever felt up close.

The door opened with a polite knock that was ignored until it closed again and Rio’s gaze followed the deliberate movements of the woman that had just stepped inside. “Miss Vidal” her assistant, Alice, spoke up in her careful, clipped tone. She had been with her long enough to know better than to ask about her wellbeing or how business had gone today. Nothing was less interesting to Rio than useless small talk. Instead, she approached with a folder in hand, impeccably dressed in a suit that she’d bought with her first paycheck. Rio had made sure she didn’t have to pay for a thing herself ever again shortly after.

“You look serious” Rio drawled, pausing mid-movement. “Is the world ending? Finally?” her head cocked as she studied Alice, gaze catching at the folder in the woman’s hand. More business, surely. How utterly disappointing.

“Make it good” Rio murmured, immediately disinterested. “Or make it brief.”

“Not quite the world’s end. But I may have found, let’s say, a solution to your recent complaints.” Alice ignored the familiar sarcasm as she stepped closer.

Rio raised an eyebrow at that, curiosity flashing her features just for the fracture of a second. “Complaints? I don’t recall filing any.”

“You said, two nights ago at the Calverton dinner, and I quote, ‘If I have to hear one more trust fund bore tell me about their polo horse, I will throw myself into the nearest harbor.’”

Rio tilted her head, considering, a sly grin creeping upon her lips. “See, now that does sound like me.” she reached and sipped the last watered-down sip of her whiskey, Alice now having her full attention. “And your solution to that is...?”

Wordlessly, Alice slipped the folder onto the table next to Rio. From within, she slowly drew out a glossy, creased flyer, straightening it as she pushed it closer. Cheap print, neon fonts. The kind of thing one found taped to lampposts downtown. The bold letters read:

The Velvet Room – Where Nights Never End. Magic on Stage with Star Dancer Agatha Harkness.

The image beneath the text was unmistakably low-budget and poor quality. Stage lights caught a woman mid-turn, her hair a tumble of wild dark brown waves, her body coiled like a spring. Not a flawless shot by any means, but there was something in the intensity of her gaze, the unapologetic sharpness of her smirk and the way the photographer had caught her mid-movement and yet her body seemed to sway deliberately even in the stillness of an image, that leapt off the page. A presence that bled right through the cheap print.

“A stripper?” Rio laughed, low and sharp, the surprised sound slicing through the quiet that had built while she’d been studying the piece of paper closely. “Alice, darling...” her fingers drummed against the glass table, eyes lowered as she looked back up at her assistant. “What do you think this is?”

“I anticipated that reaction.” Alice voice did not waver. “But I’ve done my research. She’ll be perfect for you and your... cause, Miss Vidal.”

Rio leaned forward and plucked the flyer between two fingers as though it might smudge her latest manicure if she touched it any more than that. She studied it more closely. The woman’s smile was razor-edged, almost daring. Eyes piercing – were they blue or green, it was hard to tell by the grainy solution. So very different from the usual soft, polished devotion Rio was surrounded by.

“What makes you say that? Doesn’t look that perfect,” Rio murmured, though there was an edge to her voice she couldn’t place hearing her own words spoken out loud.

“Oh, but she doesn’t have to, does she? She’ll be interesting. And isn’t that what you wanted?”

Rio set the flyer down with deliberate care, meeting Alice’s gaze again. “Interesting,” she repeated slowly, tasting every syllable on her tongue like good wine. She felt something flicker deep in her chest at the single word, and her smile spread slowly, sharp and promising. Agatha Harkness, magic on stage...

“Let me be the judge of that.”

A satisfied smile on Alice’s face at the response. “Shall I make arrangements?”

“No” Rio said, rising with a lazy grace that belied the sudden hunger in her movement. She slid the flyer, now folded into a neat little square, into the pocket of her silk blazer. “This one, I want to see for myself.”

Chapter Text

The Velvet Room wasn’t designed for people like Rio Vidal.

It sat tucked between a tattoo parlor and an old kiosk selling cigarettes, booze and bruised fruit. The walls were graffitied with names and tags layered so thick they looked like scars, trash littered across the pavement, nobody bothering to rid it off.

The sign above the entrance buzzed faintly in pink and purple, one letter permanently dark, so it read VELV T ROOM

Nothing about the establishment and its surroundings suggested glamour.

Rio stepped out of a sleek black car, nodded toward her driver who’d wait outside to bring her back home later, and made her way over to the entrance with measured certainty in her stride. She wore a deep emerald blouse tucked with precision, tailored slacks and black leather heels that whispered against the cracked pavement. None of it belonged here. She didn’t. That was half the thrill.

She didn’t look at the bouncer when he moved the rope aside at a single glance of hers. She didn’t look at the other customers walking in in their rumpled jackets and tight dresses, shuffling around with the restless energy of some who’d already spent too much on the wrong things. Inside, the air shifted instantly, thick with perfume, sweat, and the syrupy sweetness of spilled liquor. A low fog of cigarette smoke clung to the lights, which painted everything in reds and violets. The bass of some sultry song rolled through the room like a heartbeat, but Rio didn’t look around to catch much of that. She only looked at the sign right next to the small center stage, knowing what it would say before she read it. Of course, Alice had done her homework well.

Tonight’s performer: Agatha Harkness.

The faintest hint of a smirk at the corners of her mouth as she allowed her eyes to wander just then, taking in the space with a cool, assessing sweep. The small stage, ringed with tables shining with the wet remnants of spilled drinks, a scattering of velvet booths lining the walls, fabric worn but velvety plush. A mirrored bar stretched along the right-hand side of the club, crowded with men already half drunk. It was where she was headed toward now, ignoring the businessmen hiding their faces, couples trying to spark something back to life, groups of coworkers looking for cheap thrills after long shifts and lonely souls who stared too hard at the women on stage just like girls trying to figure something out they weren't sure of yet. None of them mattered.

Rio ordered a whiskey with a flick of her hand and dropped a bill that made the bartender’s eyes widen. She didn’t touch the glass once it was set down, simply let the amber catch the light, one hand resting lightly on the rim, as she took her seat at the far end of the bar. One leg crossed over the other, eyes fixed on the stage, she began waiting for the reason she’d come here tonight.

And then, at last, the music began to shift, its tone darker than before, lights flickering toward the middle of the room, illuminating the stage and the pole in its center. The spotlight slowly softened, red turning into a softer shade between pink and purple, narrowing to the figure that strode onto the stage.

Agatha Harkness.

Rio recognized her immediately, though the flyer had done her no justice. Her body wasn’t the airbrushed version the advertisement had promised. It was real, lived-in, soft in places where softness wasn’t supposed to sell. Yet the moment she moved, every possible flaw became fuel. Onstage, Agatha was fire wrapped up in silk. Long dark wavy hair tumbling down her back, catching light as she tossed her head, the sultry smirk from the picture never straying from her lips. Knowingly. She moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who didn’t need to beg for attention – it came to her, pulled in like a tide, every pair of eyes in the club drawn to the stage and its performer now, whether they meant to watch or not. And she knew. Oh, Rio could tell right away the woman up there knew the room was hers to command.

Agatha worked the pole with deliberate grace, every turn a calculated tease, every sway of her hips choreographed chaos. She wasn’t the youngest dancer in the room – mid-thirties if Rio had to take a guess –, nor her outfit – black and purple lace and silk – the flashiest, but she commanded the room as though she’d built it herself. She bent low at the edge of the stage, letting a man slip bills into her garter, his hands so shaky he dropped a couple before eventually managing. Agatha chuckled, husky and amused, before turning away with a flick of her hair, hands reaching fully for the pole now. The crowd leaned forward, pulled taut by invisible thread.

Rio felt it too, that first real spark of excitement.

However, even through the haze, there was another detail that caught Rio’s razor-sharp eye. It wasn’t obvious, not yet. The dark lights masked it well, but Rio had worked with too many sleazy men trying to cut themselves a better deal with cheap tricks during meetings to miss any detail, be it ever so subtle. The way Agatha’s hand kept brushing the front of the glittering fabric of her costume, just barely so, the way her movements adjusted when a customer got closer, slightly protective, instinctive. A softness just beginning to show in her belly, where her hand rested more often than not in between moves. Faint, barely visible, but undeniable if you knew where to look. If you knew how to read the signs.

Pregnant.

The crowd didn’t notice or didn’t care. To them, she was just another body on stage, another body to desire. But Rio’s gaze sharpened at the revelation.

And then, just for a fraction of a second, the woman’s eyes locked with hers.

That flyer-perfect smirk deepened.

Rio felt something click into place, replacing boredom in its wake.

The song climbed to its end, a final swirl of hips, a last languid turn against the pole before the final drop that sent the crowd into whistles and shouts. Money floated down like lazy confetti, illuminated by the stage lights. Agatha collected it swiftly, gracefully, before blowing a single kiss to the crowd.

And Rio could’ve sworn, just then, that she’d turned once more to look right at her. But who was she to assume the glance had been hers to claim, with dozens of people scattered across the room, at least seven sitting right in front of her?

Yet still, the image lingered.

Then, at last, Agatha vanished behind the velvet curtain, swallowed by heavy fabric and shadows.

Rio leaned back, crossing her legs, whiskey untouched as her lips slowly curved upward.

Yeah. Maybe Alice had been right.

For the very first time in many years, Rio Vidal found herself curious.

Interested.

She exhaled, finally lifting her glass to her lips. Whiskey burned down her throat, warm and satisfying before she sat it aside, her decision already sealed as she rose from her seat.

She was going to find out just how interesting Agatha Harkness truly was.

***********************************

The Velvet Room was alive tonight. A Saturday evening. Of course it was. The bass rattled the walls, the lights swung in dizzy arcs, and the patrons watched with the same hungry eyes Agatha had seen a thousand times before.

She had stopped being nervous years ago. Long ago, the nerves had given way to something colder, something useful. On stage, she wasn’t the same Agatha - the woman with rent overdue despite picking up extra shifts almost every other day, the one whose nausea had left her crouched over a toilet for the better part of the last couple of weeks, the one who had woken up one morning not too long ago to the sharp realization that she wasn’t alone in the chaos of her life anymore. On stage, she could shed that version of a woman who didn’t know what she was doing, where she was headed. On stage, Agatha was a siren. Untouchable. A woman who knew how to make desire look effortless. Who knew how to make someone want to pay for a single look of hers.

The music shifted. Her signal. Time to go.

She stepped into the light, delicate lace clinging to her skin, her hair tumbling down her back in deliberate disarray. Just tousled enough to seem careless, despite the half an hour she spent taming the wild strands prior to getting on stage every day. Smoke curled around her heels as she caught the pole in one hand, spun into the rhythm of the music and let the crowd lean closer, closer, closer still. The patrons during her evening dances were easy to read. They always were. The starched businessmen who came here after losing money they didn’t want to tell their wives about. The girls with feathered eyeliner, wide-eyed with fascination as they watched her every breath. The lonely. The desperate. The eager. The smug. All the same. She gave them what they wanted, but never everything. Her smirks were calculated, her glances lingering on those she knew would throw bills like confessions, hoping money could buy more than a show, a glance, a touch. She knew better. They never did, no matter how many times they returned.

It went on like that, smiles, glances, her body swaying to the music on its own, every movement a practiced routine that had become second nature after years of dancing. It was always the same in different variations, an added swirl for a man drooling over her nearby, a wink for a woman holding out a ten-dollar bill, her hand brushing hers just for a second to watch her blush, a different pose at the brief pause in the song, only lasting long enough to create the faintest illusion of access before she continued her dance and became untouchable all over again.

The same procedure. The same kinds of people. The same reactions.

Right until Agatha’s gaze landed on a woman further in the back by the bar, her clothes too polished for this place, posture too precise, as if the seat itself bent to her spine. The woman didn’t clap. She didn’t shout or reach for her wallet, didn’t twitch, eager to touch, didn’t nervously nurse a drink. She simply watched, eyes cutting through the dimmed lights like she was calmly evaluating a piece of art. Or a piece of prey.

Oh?

Agatha’s gaze lingered a moment longer than usual, curiosity piqued. She let her eyes lock with the woman’s heavy gaze, intense even from a distance, and dragged her body upward against the pole in one long, slow climb, every inch calculated to test that unblinking attention. Nothing. Just the same steady set of eyes piercing through her. A brief interruption of the same old shtick. Agatha’s lips curled into a sharper smirk. This one just for her.

The song went on, her focus shifted back to the men shoving bills at her, and soon she milked the last beats of it. She leaned against the pole once more, body melting to the cold chrome before she dropped to her knees at the edge of the stage. The men roared, bills fluttered, and Agatha’s smile was sweet as honey as she moved to collect them all. A blown kiss and then, almost subconsciously, one last look toward the bar, toward the woman who hadn’t moved, hadn’t cheered, had just kept watching, calmly, attentively as if to analyze every twirl of Agatha’s dance, every step of her routine.

Still. Not the faintest reaction even now. And somehow that was what crawled underneath Agatha’s skin further than the greedy eyes of all those men.

The cheers faded behind her as she eventually strode off stage and disappeared through the curtain into the back corridors of the club.

Backstage, the glamour quickly collapsed. The air was hotter here, thick with sweat and the smell of a dozen of different sickly-sweet perfumes. Dancers laughed, shrieked and stripped out of tiny glitter costumes and into others, their voices carrying over one another as they did. The dressing room was a kaleidoscope of cheap sequins and mirrors rimmed with failing lightbulbs. Agatha sat down heavily in front of the mirror, grace at once giving way to tiredness after a day spent entirely on her feet without as much as the shortest break. And still not over, she reminded herself, two private dances booked for later that night already, time she'd spend with sleazy men who never knew which lines not to cross.

Her reflection staring back at her looked harsher than she wanted it to, dark circles beneath her eyes where makeup was slowly beginning to smudge, cheekbones a little too sharp from food she couldn’t keep down lately, lips painted red but cracking beneath the color.

She pressed one hand absently against her stomach, still flat for now but less forgiving with each week. Twelve, pushing thirteen tomorrow.

“Nice job out there” one of the younger dancers said in passing, popping her gum as she dusted glitter over her collarbones. “You’ve still got it, girl.”

Agatha forced a smile into the mirror. “Still?” she replied with a mocking scoff. “Darling, just getting started.”

The girl giggled and scurried away.

Alone again, Agatha sighed, rolling her shoulders. Her neck was sore. Her feet burned in their heels. She was tired. A pile of crumpled bills sat on her vanity, already bookmarked in her head for groceries, rent and prenatal vitamins that weren’t covered by anything she could afford. Money that was gone the second it touched her hands. Her own words tasted bitter on her tongue.

Was she truly? Just getting started? Or were these, the days of her highest demand which left the most money in her hands, the beginning of an inevitable end, soon to come. How much longer would she be able to keep this up? Her job demanded perfection, allure, control; soon, her body would betray all three.

It followed her to work every day, the creeping dread that had been trailing her ever since she’d seen those two lines appear in her apartment’s bathroom weeks ago. A reckless, regrettable mistake. A single slip-up in the routine that was her life. How much longer until she wouldn’t be able to keep it her dirty little secret anymore? Would the patrons notice in a week? Two? How much longer until Agatha Harkness was no longer magic on stage but just a woman to be pitied?  

The thought curdled her chest, sat there like lead.

Followed her home.

Just like the imprint of that steady pair of eyes on her mind.

“You’ve been quiet.” Alice commented, setting the stack of documents she’d brought in for Rio to sign down with a practiced ease. “And you have neither yelled at me for wasting your time nor fired me right on the spot once you left the place. I take it the Velvet Room was... tolerable? Miss Harkness to your liking?” she cocked her head as she spoke.

Rio did neither confirm nor deny it. She sipped her espresso, the bitterness heavy on her tongue. “The crowd adored her. I’m not sure she adored them back.”

“And I assume that caught your attention?”

“It did.” Rio set the cup down with a delicate clink, gaze meeting Alice’s for the first time since she’d come in and it was piercing as it finally did.

“Make arrangements for Friday.”

„Arrangements such as…?”

Rio simply kept looking at Alice, an eyebrow raised, waited for her to ask another stupid question, to make her spell it out loud. But Alice knew how to read her boss well enough by now, how to not push when she wasn’t meant to and keep herself out of the trouble hurt pride would cause. "Consider it taken care of.” she inclined her head before she stepped away, leaving Rio Vidal to silence and her own thoughts, though there was the smallest hint of a satisfied smile on her face as she left the room and pulled out her phone.

Oh, she was definitely keeping that job.

Half an hour later the private dance was booked and Rio’s calendar blocked for Friday night, entry simply reading VR.

The days dragged after that. Meetings blurred into one another, numbers and contracts spilling across Rio’s desk without meaning. She signed what she had to, dismissed what she didn’t, all while the image of bright eyes and a smug smirk haunted the corners of her mind.

By Friday, the stirred curiosity had sharpened into anticipation. The car ride felt interminable. The city lights remained dull until the Velvet Room’s flickering neon came back into view. This time Rio didn’t enter as an invisible stranger. This time she was expected.

A young woman led her to a back hallway, dim and narrow, which carried her deeper into the building than last time. The sounds of the crowd dulled behind velvet curtains, color faded from years of use. Here, the walls were painted darker still, the lights softer, more intimate. At the end of the hall, a door waited, its brass handle polished by countless hands, a silent invitation. Rio took it.

Inside, the private lounge was dim, almost intimate. Plush seating in deep crimson lined the walls, mirrors all over, low tables at the center, and a stage no larger than a family’s dining table at the far end. Candles flickered in glass holders, the scent of wax and faint vanilla failing to mask the heavier odors of perfume and alcohol from previous patrons.

This time, Rio chose the seat closest to the stage, sinking into it with languid precision. Legs crossed, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. She didn’t fidget, didn’t move once she’d sat down, simply looked at the door. Waited.

It opened about ten minutes later.

Agatha stepped in like smoke curling under a doorframe. Unhurried and unbothered, her presence slowly filling up the space before she spoke a single word. She wore a new set tonight, dark purple silk that clung to her curves, slit high enough to flash toned thighs with every step. Her gaze landed on Rio, stayed there.

Rio met it, never broke eye contact, not as the dancer walked into the room, not as she got up on stage, not as she began her dance without them exchanging a single word. She wanted Agatha to feel the weight of it.

And it was working.

********************

It was the woman she’d noticed on Saturday. Agatha had had seen dozens of customers since, more so prior and yet she knew right away, the moment she stepped into the room and their eyes locked, that this was her.

Just like the last time, she sat utterly motionless, a sculpture carved from the black silk of her suit. No smile, no frown, not even a flicker of amusement. Her face gave nothing away. Just this steady pair of eyes, right on her, gaze so intense Agatha was almost certain she was able to see right through her, the fabric of her costume, her act, her bravado.

It unnerved her. It thrilled her.

Agatha had always liked a challenge.

And the easiest way of winning had always proven itself to be letting her body answer it. So she trailed her fingers along the pole, slow, deliberate, as though coaxing it into being an extension of her own skin, her eyes never straying from the woman in that suit. Every shift of her hips was measured, her hair falling forward, then back again, hands dragging along her own body, dipping, shying just stray of places patrons wanted to see them at. A tease, yes, but sharpened at the edges.

Let’s see if she could break through that armor of calmness.

She dropped low, sliding down the pole, her knees spreading as she caught herself at the floor’s edge. She let a hand trail up her own thigh, up to her stomach, hesitating, just a beat, before sliding higher. The crowd would never notice the pause, merely a second long. The woman did, Agatha could tell right away, those sharp eyes following every single movement instead of lingering where they wanted to. And for a moment Agatha believed, by how they got caught on her midsection just a moment longer now, even as her hand trailed further, that she saw. But it couldn’t be.

There was no flicker of repulsion, no remark, nothing to prove Agatha’s brief concerned suspicion of having been caught.

Instead, the woman leaned forward by a fraction, resting her chin on her hand, giving Agatha the faintest curl of a smile. Go on, her eyes said. Continue.

The silk slipped off one shoulder, baring skin that gleamed under the soft lights as Agatha bend, back arched as she leaned onto her hands looking right back into that steady pair of brown eyes. She crawled forward now, slow, catlike, until she was close enough to smell the other woman’s perfume. Heavy. Rich. Something grounding underneath.

She stopped there, just inches away from her now. Her heartbeat quickened, not from nerves but from the edge of curiosity cutting through her as the other just kept looking. Men in suits always wanted control. Wanted to take. This woman simply watched, waiting to see what Agatha was willing to give.

She leaned forward some more, reached for the woman’s tie, not to tug, just to let her fingers graze it lightly, teasing at the silk knot, a slender finger slowly stroking down the length of it to where it rested between her breasts. And there it was. A heavy exhale. Just so audible because Agatha was close enough to catch it.

A faint crack in the marble. Perfect. 

*************

The brush of Agatha’s fingertips against her tie was almost nothing – light, teasing, harmless. But Rio saw the tease for what it was. A test. A deliberate probing for weakness, a silent question. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Rio deemed herself untouchable, her composure unshakable, and yet all it took was a single touch, the mere brush of slender fingers along her tie, for the tiniest shiver of heat to unfurl low in her chest.

Her body betrayed her before she could stop it, a heavier exhale caught between measured breaths. The faintest stutter of control. Agatha noticed it right away. Of course she did.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?”

For the first time in weeks, Rio felt her pulse trip into something reckless.

Her smile curved, sharp as glass. “Immensely.”

********

Her knees ached faintly from the little Floorwork – she really wasn’t getting any younger, was she? – as Agatha moved to finally sit down, subconsciously drawn to the seat the woman had taken prior.

Alright, maybe the bundle of bills on the side table played part in convincing her to sit down right there too, chair still warm and smelling faintly of her perfume.

When Agatha left the club wrapped up in a cheap plush coat half an hour later, the bills sat folded inside her garter, heavy in a way no money had ever felt before. It wasn’t the amount, though God knew it was more than she’d ever gotten for one routine that hadn’t even involved any touching – or watching one touch themselves… – it was what it meant.

Security yes, but also interest. Appreciation.

A five-hundred-dollar tip for a single innocent dance.

She sure hoped she’d been good enough at her job to have made her want more.

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.