Archive of Our Own

HQ isn’t just a strip club. It’s a jungle in neon, a cathedral of sweat, sin, and survival.

The walls pulse like a living thing—basslines thumping through the floorboards, hearts beating in sync with the music. The air’s thick with perfume and desperation. Men come here to forget their lives. Women come here to remind them who’s in charge.

And me? I run the bar like it’s a throne.

No crown needed. Just a bottle of Tequila and a smirk sharp enough to draw blood. Leather hugs my hips, my white polo half-buttoned and rolled at the sleeves, tattoos peeking out like secrets I never learned to whisper. My hair’s twisted up in a messy bun, a few strands falling just right along my jaw. I don’t plan it. I just am. Steel-toed boots and black eyeliner—don’t waste my time unless you bleed expensive.

I don’t play cute, and I definitely don’t blink when some trust-fund asshole tries to tip me with a wink and two wet singles.

But Agatha Harkness?

She’s the exception I never asked for.
When she’s on stage, the whole room disappears.
 Just her. She stepped into the spotlight like it was owed to her—smoke curling around her legs, midnight lavender lace clinging to curves sculpted by lust and grace. Her hair was pinned up in messy, deliberate chaos, black strands slipping down her neck like secrets.

Her and that goddamn collar.

Her black velvet collar glints under the lights—delicate, dangerous. There’s a tag at the back, just under her hairline. Engraved: R.V.

Mine.

No one notices it but me.

None of the men staring had the nerve to ask who that belonged to. They were too busy watching her move.

The beat started slow, thick with heat.

Agatha didn’t just dance. She devoured. Every step was a threat wrapped in satin, every hip roll a promise of ruin. She walked to the pole, hand trailing up the cool chrome, eyes half-lidded. The way her fingers moved—slow, delicate—made one of the bachelors in front visibly shift in his seat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” one of them muttered, voice husky.

His friend didn’t respond. He was too busy watching her bend forward, arching her back with predatory grace, her ass lifted high, teasing the room.

She smiled. A slow, wicked thing. Then the real show began.

Agatha gripped the pole and spun—legs hooked, body weightless, the lace of her robe fluttering open to reveal more thigh, more curve, more flesh. She hung upside down for a beat, arching with a dancer’s strength, before landing gracefully in pleaser heels that were seven inches of power. Her hands slid over her own body like she couldn’t wait to unwrap herself.

The first to go was the robe.

She let it fall to the floor in a slow peel—shoulders first, then down her arms—until it puddled at her heels like worship. The lighting shifted to violet, catching the shimmer of her glitter oiled skin. The bachelors leaned forward. One bit his lip. Another adjusted his belt under the table. Agatha ran one finger down her chest, between her breasts, over her stomach… then slipped it between the waistband of her panties.

She didn’t pull them off. Not yet.

She just gave the illusion of it—rubbing slow, deliberate circles as she moaned. Head thrown back, hips rolling. She knew the sound carried. She knew they could hear the way she panted. She dropped to her knees with the grace of a queen, spreading them wide—panties stretched tight over her core, wet and dark with arousal. She dragged her hands up her thighs, palms grazing her breasts, then licked her own fingers before looking directly at the man in the front row.

“You like watching?” she mouthed.

The man nodded dumbly, swallowing hard. Agatha smirked and finally peeled off her bra. Her nipples were tight, pierced, perfect. Gasps echoed. A few groans. No one could look away. She cupped her breasts, rolled her thumbs across the metal. Her back arched as she played with herself right there in front of them, hips grinding against invisible friction, thighs trembling.

And still—she didn’t let them have everything not until the final beat.

As the music slowed, her fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties and this time pulled them down—slowly, achingly, wet fabric peeling from her slick cunt, shiny in the low violet light. She stepped out of them like they were silk chains. One bachelor reached for his drink and missed the glass entirely. Agatha stood there, bare, radiant, legs parted slightly, collar gleaming.

“Tip me,” she whispered—low, breathy, lethal.

Bills flew. Hundreds. Fifties. It rained paper as men scrambled over each other just to get close enough to toss their wallets at her feet. She picked up one hundred-dollar bill and used it to slowly trail between her breasts, down her stomach, over her mound.

She winked and left the stage.

The lights dimmed. The room stayed still for a beat, like no one could move after witnessing the kind of worship that ruins gods.

After her set, she doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Just walks past the bar like she didn’t leave me wet behind the register twenty minutes ago.

“Drink?” I ask, already pouring, knowing she won’t answer.

She doesn’t. Instead, she leans over the bar, grips the neck of my whiskey bottle, and takes a slow, deliberate pull. Lipstick on the rim, eyes locked on mine like a dare. "Missed me?”

I don’t blink, trying not to give her the satisfaction. "You were gone?”

She smirks. That smug, dangerous smirk that says she already knows the answer.

“Liar.”

Then she leans in—just enough for me to catch it. That scent. Vanilla and venom. A perfume that says fuck you and fuck me in the same breath.

And then, just like that, she’s gone.

HQ's emptied out. My shift’s done, the last creep long gone. I should be counting bottles, locking up. Instead, I’m leaning on the back bar with a cigarette between my lips, waiting for the ghost that always comes.

She doesn’t bother knocking

Agatha slides in barefoot, heels dangling from her fingers, robe barely tied, her thighs shimmering with leftover glitter. Her collar’s still on—tucked sweet and smug at the nape of her neck, just under that wild mess of dark hair. Fuck, does that do something to me.

She moves like a secret, hips rolling even now, like she’s dancing for me without the music.

“Still here?” she purrs, voice husky from her last set, eyes raking me up and down. “Thought you’d be gone.”

“Thought you were done teasing me on stage,” I reply, flicking ash into a tray. “Guess we’re both liars.”

She smiles with teeth, steps in close. One hand slides up my chest, fingers slipping under the open buttons of my polo. She grabs my dog tag, tugs gently.

“You gonna punish me, bartender?”

She grabs me by the belt loop, yanks me forward, and kisses me like she’s starving. It’s not sweet., not gentle. 
It’s fucking war. Her tongue bruises against mine, teeth scraping, breath hot as sin. Her hands roam like she’s claiming territory she already owns.

“I missed this lips,” she whispers, lips brushing my ear. Her voice is molten.

I let out a low chuckle, smoke curling from my lips, as I grab her by the waist and spinning her against the bar. Her breath catches—just a second—before she grins like she’s won. “You’re not wearing anything under this, are you?”

“Nope.”

I drag the robe open. No lingerie, just bare skin and her collar. Fucking perfect.

I drop to my knees.

Her breath stutters. “Thought I was supposed to be the one—”

“Shut up,” I mutter, gripping her thighs, spreading them open. “Let me eat my girl the way she deserves.”

Her head drops back, a moan slipping from her lips as I hook one leg over my shoulder and kiss her inner thigh, slow and biting. She tastes like salt, perfume, and sin. I bite again, harder, right where her thigh meets her hip.

“You're dripping for me already, baby?”

She nods, eyes half-lidded. “Always. Fuck—please, Rio.”

I don’t make her beg long. I press my mouth to her pussy, tongue parting her folds, slow and deliberate, savoring every shiver. Her fingers grip the bar behind her, knuckles white. I tease first—light strokes, kisses that make her curse under her breath. Then I go in. Tongue flat and firm against her clit, sliding two fingers into her tight heat. She gasps, thighs twitching around my head, already grinding against my mouth. I curl my fingers, hit that spot that makes her legs shake.

“Right there—fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

I moan into her, loving how messy she gets. How loud, how fucking mine.

She grabs my hair, tugging, desperate now. I suck her clit hard, fingers pumping faster, and she loses it. Body jerking, eyes rolling back, thighs clamping around my head like she wants to trap me there. She comes with a cry—my name falling from her lips like a prayer she’d never say sober.

"Rio—fuck, baby!"

I don’t stop. Not right away. I keep licking, softer now, as she whimpers and trembles, hands still tangled in my hair. When I finally pull back, I kiss the inside of her thigh, tasting her on my tongue, and stand. She’s wrecked. Hair a mess, robe open, lipstick gone and both legs trembling.

“Still think you’re in control, baby?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

She smirks, lazy and satisfied. “You’re the one on your knees, Vidal.”

I grab her chin, lean in, and kiss her deep—slow, dirty. Let her taste herself on my tongue. I whisper against her mouth, “Next time, you’re the one begging.”

We don’t do soft. We don’t do morning-after texts or couple selfies. We do bruises on inner thighs. We do fingernails in backs and grip marks on hips. We do “don’t tell anyone” and “say my name again.”

She’s not my girlfriend—not really.

But when she looks up at me with that wicked smile like she’s found God in the shape of my thigh—I know exactly what she is.

Mine.

A loud bass hums through my bones as I rinse out another glass. It's a Friday night. Same faces. Same games. I know how to tune it out. HQ breathes a little different the night when the new girl arrives.

Hela.

The second she walks in, the air shifts. I’ve seen every kind of woman walk into this club—drunk debutantes, bitter housewives, baby-faced heartbreakers who think a wig and a push-up bra make them dangerous.

I don’t even see her at first. I feel her, like pressure on the back of my neck, like the prickle of being watched by something not entirely safe. Then I look up—and there she is. Black hair falls down her shoulders in unruly waves, like the wind couldn't touch it without bleeding. Her skin’s pale, almost glassy under the red lights, and it makes the ink-black lines of her outfit pop even harder—tight, gleaming, with silver threading that clings to her curves like armor. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like winter—blue, cold, endless. That eyeliner’s smudged just enough to make her look like she’s been in a fight... and won. And her lips, smirking, like she knows every dirty thing I’ve ever thought. I hate that I notice that.

I heard rumors: Manila headliner, made a senator cry, refused to audition—just showed up and was hired.

Everyone’s talking. Everyone’s looking. But she walks past all of them. Past the stage. Past the dressing room. Straight to me. She stops right in front of the bar and says it like she already owns the moment.

“You’re Rio," not a question, but a line drawn in the sand.

I keep my expression flat. “You want a drink or a biography?”

Her eyes drag across my face. Calm and unshaken. She unbuttons her gloves and places them on the counter with quiet precision. “Do you always deflect when someone’s interested?”

That lands wrong in my chest. I blink. Once. She’s interested? I swallow it. Keep working.

“Depends who’s asking,” I mutter, turning to grab a bottle. My hands are steady, but my mouth is dry.

“Everyone’s been watching me since I walked in,” she says, voice soft but sharp. “But you didn’t.”

I feel her lean in slightly, her perfume curling around me—jasmine and rain and the kind of cold that leaves a mark.

“That’s rare.” Hela stares at me like I’m the show.

And fuck, I don’t know what to do with that. I’m not used to this—being looked at like a mystery someone wants to solve. I don’t flinch, but I want to.

“I’ve got a job to do,” I say, grabbing the bar towel, scrubbing nothing just to have something to do.

She smiles—just barely. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “And I like things that don’t beg to be looked at.”

Fuck.

She leans a fraction closer. Close enough that her voice drops, threading under my skin. "That includes you.”

And then I falter. Just for a second. My hand slips on the rim of the glass. I catch it. But she sees. Her eyes flick to my fingers and back up to my mouth like she’s counting the ways she could undo me.

And that’s when I feel it—that other gaze.
From across the room, in the velvet VIP booth, framed by shadows and silence—Agatha. She’s still in her robe, legs crossed, one heel hanging loose, mouth painted the same red that always ends up on my neck. Her drink is untouched, her stare is so unrelenting.

No one else notices. No one else can—because no one knows. Not about us, not about the nights, the fights, the stockroom kisses that bruise, but I know and she knows. Right now, she’s watching. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t even move, but her stare feels like pressure. Like a knife just waiting to be twisted. I turn back to Hela—because looking at Agatha is a weight I can’t carry right now.

“You don’t flirt like the others,” Hela murmurs, tracing the rim of her glass. “It makes me wonder what you do like.”

She says it without heat. No dramatics, no seduction. Just pure curiosity, like she’s already halfway inside my head. I should shut it down. I should say something cutting or cool or firm. But I say nothing. Because suddenly, I don’t know how to breathe. Hela takes her drink and slides off the stool with the grace of a blade leaving its sheath.

“Don’t worry,” she says, tilting her head at me. “I won’t bite.”

Then, after a pause, “Not yet.”

She walks away. I stand there, heart beating faster than I’ll admit, staring down at the glass I never finished drying. Across the room, Agatha drains her martini in one long pull and disappears into the hallway—silent, dangerous, and burning. I press a hand against the bar, breathing deep.

This is bad.
This is very bad.
Because I don’t chase.
But now?
Now I’m being hunted.

That night, Agatha doesn’t dance—she hunts.

She steps on stage like she owns the fucking world, hips swaying to a rhythm that feels designed to pull men apart at the seams. The spotlight hits her and the room goes feral. Whistles, moans, drunk declarations of love. And every move she makes on that stage is a fucking weapon. She wraps a leg around the pole like it’s her favorite toy. Grinds down it like she wants to make it come. Her robe falls open just enough to show a flash of the lace underneath—black, sheer, the same set I tore off her body two nights ago.

My throat tightens.

She spins, slow, with control that’s almost arrogant, the kind that dares you to look too long. And then she slides down into a split, chest out, hair fanning across the floor. Her hands trail up her own thighs—slow, sensual, fingers parting just enough to imply and promise and threaten.

The crowd goes wild. Her eyes never leave me, while mine are glued to her cunt. Now she’s baring it to the whole damn club—dripping confidence and sin and something else. Something meaner, hungrier. The bachelor she teases with her cleavage gets a kiss close enough to lose sleep over. But her eyes cut to me the entire time. Watching, testing, daring me. She wants to see if I’ll break. I fucking do.

And that’s when I feel it—another stare. Cold and calculated.

Hela.

She’s at the end of the bar again, sipping something dark, her gaze not on the stage but on me. Like she’s watching how I watch Agatha. Like she sees every cracked edge of control I’m trying to hold together. She doesn’t smirk this time, she just raises her glass and nods, like she’s found something worth burning for.

Fuck.

Agatha dances like she’s starting a war.

And now I’m caught between two goddamn queens—one trying to claim me in secret, the other bold enough to want me out loud; I don’t even know which one is more dangerous.

When the set ends, the applause crashes over the stage like thunder. I just stand there behind the bar, watching her. She disappears behind the curtain, slow and deliberate, hips swaying like she knows. Like she knows I’m watching, like she wants me to. Her body glows under the lights, skin slick with sweat, glitter clinging to her like stardust on a blade. Lethal and beautiful. She doesn’t glance back—doesn’t have to, because just that already had me aroused.

Later, as the club empties and the music fades into silence, I tell a lie so casually it sounds like truth.

“Gotta check the stockroom,” I say, waving off the other bartender on closing shift.

I slip past the dancers, the bouncers, the neon haze and the smell of smoke and sex. My heart’s already racing when I push the door open. I don’t get far. The door swings shut behind me—and locks with a sharp click before I can even blink. Then she’s on me.

Agatha slams me against the wall, one forearm across my chest, the other hand already curling around my throat like she owns it.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” she growls, her breath hot against my skin. She presses closer, her thigh sliding between mine like it’s meant to be there. Like I’m meant to be caught like this. “The way she looked at you—like she wanted to drop to her knees and suck you off right in front of everyone to see."

I gasp, my head tipping back on instinct as her grip tightens just enough. My hands twitch at my sides, caught somewhere between surrender and reaction. But I don’t fight it. God, I never fight her.

“She’s not you,” Rio breathes, voice hoarse. Agatha laughs—a dark, delicious sound.

She doesn’t kiss me right away. Her mouth is right there—brushing the edge of my jaw, warm breath teasing my skin—but she holds back. She makes me ache for it, makes me beg. I feel it—the sharp tug of my belt, yanked open in one practiced motion. The metal clinks against itself like a threat.

“You don’t get to look at her like that,” Agatha murmurs. Her voice is low and dangerous, almost calm—and that’s worse. That calm means I’m about to be wrecked.

She drags my zipper down slowly, like she’s unwrapping a gift she already owns. “Not when your cock’s mine.”

My knees nearly give. A low, ragged moan escapes me before I can stop it—and then her hand slips inside my boxers, knuckles grazing the heat between my legs, teasing. So close. Too goddamn close.

“So fucking wet for me already,” she whispers, her fingers barely moving, just resting there like a warning. “I'm the only one who's supposed to touch you."

She starts to stroke—slow, deliberate, maddening. Her palm flattens. Her fingers curl with that unbearable precision that makes my thighs tremble. I can feel myself unraveling already, piece by piece, right there in her hands. She hasn’t even kissed me yet. As my knees buckle, she holds me up—her body pressed into mine, her thigh between mine, her mouth brushing my ear.

“Are you gonna be a good little slut for me now?” she breathes.

“Yes,” I gasp, my voice cracking. “Yes, fuck, Agatha, please—”

Her chuckle is dark and smug and absolutely filthy. Then she bites down—right on the edge of my jaw, hard enough to make me whimper.

“That’s better.”

Her fingers speed up—circling, rubbing, stroking in tight, controlled movements. Not frantic, not kind—just precise. Her other hand slips under my shirt, her nails scraping across my stomach like claws. I arch into her without meaning to—chasing her, needing more—but she pulls back just as I grind down.

“Uh-uh,” she hums, lips against my neck. “I say when you come.”

My head knocks against the wall. I don’t care. My whole body is straining toward her hand. “Agatha, please—”

And then she kisses me. Finally, but it’s not relief. Her mouth is heat and teeth and punishment. She kisses me like she wants to leave bruises behind, like she’s trying to stamp herself into my skin, so no one else ever forgets who I belong to.

“Mine,” she growls between kisses, and her hand sinks deeper into my boxers. “Say it.”

She doesn’t need to say it anymore—I’ve already surrendered.

“I’m yours,” I pant, barely able to speak through the haze of arousal clouding my brain.

She growls, satisfied, and pushes two fingers inside me—deep and slow. I nearly break right then. My hands claw at the air, desperate to grab something—but she grabs both my wrists and shoves them behind my back.

“Keep them there,” she warns.

And I do, because I can’t do anything else. She slides her free hand up my breast, grabs the edge of my bra, and pulls it down roughly. Her palm cups me, her thumb brushing over my nipple with maddening slowness, and between my legs, she never stops. The rhythm of her fingers changes—more pressure, more purpose. My legs are shaking, thighs soaked.

Then—nothing. She pulls back. My whole body screams at the loss, and I let out a pitiful, wrecked sound. “No—please—Agatha—”

“Shhh,” she murmurs. “I said not yet.”

I’m panting, trembling, straining against the need clawing up my spine. I’d do anything. Say anything. Just to get her back where I need her. She drops to her knees. The sound of her palms dragging up my thighs—the slow scrape of her nails, the whisper of breath against soaked skin—it’s enough to make my head spin. She doesn’t even need to touch me to make me shake.

“Still want to flirt with other dancers?” she asks, voice low and lazy. Her mouth hovers just inches from me. Close enough to feel, but not enough to satisfy.

“No,” I moan. “Never.”

“Good girl.”

Then her mouth finally touches me—and I forget my own name. It’s a claim. Teeth, tongue, total control—she devours me.

Her mouth is on mine like she’s starving and I’m the last breath of air she’ll ever take. And I give it to her. Every moan, every gasp, every broken sound—she swallows it down like it belongs to her. Her hand slides back between my legs without warning, and this time there’s no teasing. No slow build. Just friction—fast, filthy, merciless. Her palm grinds against my clit, fingers slick with me, moving with brutal precision that makes my spine arch off the wall.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

“You think she could fuck you like this?” Agatha growls between kisses, voice dripping heat and venom. “You think she’d know how to break you open—make you beg?”

“N-no,” I pant, hips twitching, thighs trembling as I try to ride her hand. “Only you—only you do this to me—”

“That’s right.”

Her snarl is raw, guttural—and then her fingers slam into me in one hard, deep thrust that knocks the breath clean out of my lungs. I cry out, louder than I mean to, hands scrambling blindly—grabbing at her shoulders, her biceps, clawing at her dress, anything to hold onto as my knees nearly buckle.

My whole body rocks into her touch, greedy for it. For her.

“Take it,” Agatha hisses, her mouth hot against mine. “Take all of me.”

And I do.

Her fingers curl perfectly inside me, dragging against the spot that makes my toes curl and my stomach clench. Every movement is deliberate—measured, controlled. She knows exactly how to make me fall apart, and she’s enjoying every second of it. Her palm never leaves my clit, rubbing it in cruel, relentless circles while she fucks me deep and steady.

My head tips forward, forehead resting against hers, and I’m panting into her mouth. My hands are in her hair now, fisting dark strands, trying to ground myself, her other hand tangles in mine and yanks. She pulls my head back, hard, forcing me to meet her eyes.

“I want to see your face,” she growls, breath hot on my lips. “When you come for me.”

The command hits me like lightning. My body stiffens, my mouth falls open and then I shatter. It rips through me like a storm—violent and all-consuming. My muscles clamp down around her fingers, my thighs quake, my hips jerk against her hand, chasing every wave of it, helpless to do anything but feel.

I came harder than I ever meant to, but Agatha still hasn't stopped. She holds me there—keeps her fingers inside, keeps working my clit, dragging it out until my vision goes white and I sob into her neck, overwhelmed.

My body can’t take anymore. I’m trembling, soaked, gasping.

“Shhh,” she whispers against my cheek, finally easing her hand back, her touch gone suddenly gentle. She withdraws her fingers—slick and glistening with me—and brings them to her lips. She looks me dead in the eye and sucks them clean, one by one.

“You taste so good, baby.”

I can’t speak, can’t move. My back’s still pressed to the wall, legs shaking, breath ragged. My heart is beating in my throat. There’s no dignity left in me—just the echo of her name in my head and the feel of her hand still ghosting over my skin. I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled in the wreckage of me.

Agatha doesn’t kiss me after. She just pulls back—fingers still glistening with me, lips wet from my mouth—and lets go. No tenderness. No parting look. Just silence and detachment like she hadn’t just taken me apart and licked the pieces clean. She smooths her skirt, adjusts her bra, fixes her collar like nothing happened, without a glance, she opens the stockroom door and walks out.

My knees buckle once she’s gone. I slide down the wall, breath catching in my throat. Everything aches—my thighs are trembling, my pulse still stutters with every aftershock. I press my back to the cold cinderblock wall, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to gather what’s left of myself, one shaky breath at a time.

I look down. My shirt’s still open—half my buttons torn loose, belt is hanging off one loop, bra is askew, and a deep red mark blooming at the base of my throat where she bit me. My legs are slick and my fingers are shaking.

I start moving on instinct. Tucking and buttoning what I can. Finger-combing my hair. Swiping at my smeared lipstick, but it’s no use. By the time I push open the back door and step out into the thick, smoky night, my heart is still pounding.

She’s there. Hela.

Leaning against the brick wall like she’s been waiting. One stiletto boot kicked up, cigarette burning between two gloved fingers—smoke coils around her like silk. Her head turns slowly when I step out. Her eyes drag over me—then she smirks. It’s the kind that sees everything—bruises, sweat. The tremble in my step, faint outline of bite marks on my neck. The way I can’t meet her eyes, the kind of smirk that says I know.

“Rough night?” Hela murmurs, voice like velvet over a blade.

I freeze.

She takes another slow drag of her cigarette and exhales smoke toward the moon. Her eyes never leave me. She's looking like she’s seen enough to make her guess, like she’s already picturing how I got the way I look now—messy, marked and breathless, like she’s picturing who did it.

“You smell horrible,” Hela adds, voice low. “And not your own.”

I swallow hard, forcing a weak laugh. “Long shift.”

“Mm.” Her eyes flick to the bite at my jaw. “Looks like someone enjoyed theirs.”

My hands shoot up like they might cover it, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Hela grins wider, slow and sharp. She flicks her cigarette to the ground, crushes it beneath her heel, and steps closer—just one slow step that closes too much space between us.

“I like secrets,” she purrs. “They make things… interesting.”

Then she turns, hips swaying, and walks off into the night like she never meant to stop at all. And now—I’m not just ruined. I’m seen.

Rumors spread like smoke. Slow at first—thin wisps curling through the cracks of conversation, then thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore. Someone saw something, or thought they did—it doesn’t matter.

They say I touched her, that I leaned in too close behind the bar, that my hand slid down the small of her back, that I followed her into the hallway behind the dressing rooms—the one with the broken light and no cameras.
That we didn’t come back for ten minutes, that my lipstick was smudged when I did, that hers wasn’t.

"She was with her. That bartender. The older one. The dancer who doesn’t fuck anyone."

"Guess she fucks her."

I try to ignore it. Pretend I don’t feel the stares clinging to me like sweat, pretend I don’t hear the low mutters when I walk past tables or the way the bouncers glance at each other when I show up early for my shift.

It's only a matter of time before I get called upstairs. The manager’s new, or maybe just a temporary one, brought in to handle messes. He’s got that look—slick suit, fake smile, no scent of liquor or glitter clinging to him. Too clean for this place. He doesn’t even say hello.

“You need to be discreet,” he says.

The office is cold and too bright. It makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. I arch a brow, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “About?”

He doesn’t answer that part, he doesn’t need to.

“You’re good at your job,” he continues, flipping through a clipboard like it’s going to make this feel official. “Reliable. Professional. But this…” He gestures vaguely, like I’m a stain. “This isn’t a place for scandal.”

I almost laugh, my mouth just curves, slow and bitter. I walk over, drop into the chair like I own it. Spread my legs a little, light a cigarette without asking. I drag in deep, let it sit in my lungs until it burns, then I look him in the eye.

Silence.

His jaw ticks. "If this becomes a problem—”

“I’m not the problem,” I cut in, voice quiet but sharp. “The problem is you sell fantasy and get pissy when someone chooses their own.”

I take another drag. My hands don’t shake.

“The problem is, your best dancer walks off stage dripping sin, and you want her to look untouchable so the men in suits keep paying. But someone touched her, and it wasn’t you.”

That shuts him up. He stares, I stare back. When I stand, my shirt shifts. The collar tugs low and I know it shows—a faint bruise at the base of my throat. The edge of a bite. I press it down with one hand, like that’ll hide it.

“I’ll be more careful,” I lie. “Next time I fuck her, I’ll make sure no one’s watching.”

Then I walk out, smoke trailing behind me, teeth grinding so hard my jaw aches. The manager didn’t say anything as I left his office, but I could feel the shift in the air by the next night.

Saturday. Peak hours, packed house. The kind of night where tips rain like glitter and the lights never stop moving. Suddenly, Hela’s name is all over the rotation list. Twice. Back-to-back. She doesn’t even blink when she sees it, she just smirks like it’s what she expected all along.

Agatha sees it, though. And it hits like a slap.

I catch her staring at the paper backstage, lips pressed into a razor-thin line. Her fingers twitch like she wants to rip the schedule off the cork board, but instead, she just turns on her heel and storms toward makeup. Not a word to me, and honestly, that’s a mercy.

Because the moment Hela steps onto the stage—drenched in green and black silk and shadows, with Lana Del Rey pulsing low and sultry through the speakers—I know exactly what this is. Every sway of her hips, every turn, every glance under her lashes—it’s a message.

I see the front row melt under her gaze. See the way she rides the pole like it’s worship, the stack of bills that appears on the edge of the stage before the chorus even hits. And worst of all? She earns it.

Agatha… Agatha is seething.

By her second number, Agatha’s pacing in her pleaser heels, still wrapped in her robe, jaw clenched so tight I can hear it creak. She doesn’t speak, she just stares through the curtain like she could set Hela on fire with sheer willpower.

When Hela struts off stage, drenched in sweat and glowing with victory, the crowd still howling after her, Agatha brushes past her hard—shoulder to shoulder—but Hela just laughs. Soft and dangerous, like she already won.

Agatha goes onstage right after, she wears a lavish fur coat, voluminous and draped loosely over her shoulders. The coat is plush, with natural brown and cream tones. Underneath, she’s in a sparkling silver or crystal-embellished lingerie set. The fabric catches the light, shimmering with every subtle movement. Her legs are bare and long, with her signature glittering pleaser heels, strappy and high, which match the sparkle of her outfit.

The moment the music drops—sharp, filthy electronic with a bass that vibrates through the floor—she becomes someone else—or maybe she becomes more herself.

Her smile isn’t sweet. It’s all teeth. She doesn’t bother with subtle. Agatha performs like she’s got something to prove, like she’s trying to fuck the whole room with her stare alone. And judging by the breathless silence, she’s succeeding.

She starts at the pole but doesn’t linger. Just a spin, fast and low, her thighs tight around the metal as she drops into a split that makes two women in the front row gasp. She drags herself up slow—hips rolling, back arching—before prowling down the edge of the stage like a woman possessed. There’s no seduction anymore; no teasing. She gives them everything.

She rides laps in the front row, grinding into a man’s lap until his tie is crooked and his mouth hangs open. She straddles a businessman in a pinstripe suit, her fingers tugging his jacket open, her lips ghosting over his ear before she pulls away and leaves him panting. The crowd loses it as she shifts.

Turns to a rich woman in a silk dress, perched with a cocktail and a smirk. Agatha drops to her knees between her legs, hands on the woman’s thighs, eyes locked on hers as she runs her fingers—slow and shameless—through her sleek, perfect hair. The woman moans, audible even over the music.

Her movements are hungry. Predatory.

The dollar bills rain like confetti. Agatha owns the room—consumes it. Her body gleams under the lights, sweat clinging to her skin, glitter streaking her collarbones like bruises. She finishes in a backbend, legs spread wide, middle finger in her mouth, eyes on me through the dark. She walks off, hips swaying with that same wicked confidence.

By midnight, I catch her whispering to a group of VIPs near the back—suits, watches, thick wallets. The kind that tip big and want more. I can’t hear what she says, but I can see it in the way they lean in, eyes dark, greedy smiles stretching their faces. She slides a hand down one of their arms. Laughs at something that definitely wasn’t funny. I see her lips move.

“Want something more private?”

And they nod. So, so fast.

I watch her take them by the hand—three of them—and disappear into the velvet-draped hallway that leads to the private rooms.

She doesn't look back.
Not even at me.
But she knows I’m watching.
Of course she does.

Because when she passes me by, her fingers drag along my wrist. A scrape of red-tipped nails. A ghost of touch, just enough to make my breath catch. Just enough to say, watch me, remember who owns you. Then she vanishes behind the door. I just stand there.

I know what she’s doing. She’s not just satisfying them, she’s punishing me.

I’m still standing there, frozen in the scent of her perfume and the ghost of her nails, when someone taps the side of my hip. I turn, teeth already on edge, and find Hela standing far too close. Leaning against the bar like it belongs to her. She’s changed out of her stage costume—now in low-rise jeans, a cropped band tee, and those heeled boots that make her legs look endless. Still sweating, glowing—A little smug.

“Was it you?” I ask flatly. “Did you start the rumors?”

She smiles. Not surprised, not guilty. Just… amused.

“I’m not the only one with eyes and a mouth, Rio,” she says, tilting her head. Her earrings catch the neon light. “The whole HQ can also feel it."

Her fingers dance lazily over the bar, tapping out a rhythm like a heartbeat, doesn’t stop smiling.

“You two think you’re subtle, but you’re not. Everyone saw the way she looked at you before her set, she wanted to skin you alive and fuck the bones.”

My jaw tightens.

“And the way you flinched when she touched that guy just now?” Hela’s smile widens. “Very professional.”

I scoff. “Jealous much?”

She shrugs, pushing off the bar. Takes a step closer. Her perfume is sharp—jasmine and danger.

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” she murmurs. “Just curious.” I don’t ask. I don’t need to.

She’s testing me, teasing and poking at something raw and aching inside me just to see what leaks out.

“You want to piss her off? Sleep with me next,” she whispers, voice like daggers. “Let’s see who really owns you.”

That’s it. I slam my bar rag down and turn away, heart pounding so hard it echoes in my ears. I’ve got two hours left on my shift. But I don’t care. I don’t say a word to Hela. I find Alice—one of the newer bartenders—and mutter, “Cover for me. I’ll owe you.”

She glances toward the back, then nods. “Yeah, sure.”

I grab my bag and bolt—no note, no clock out. Nothing. Just gone. The cold crisp night air bites at my skin when I leave, but it’s nothing compared to what I’m carrying inside—shame, anger, desire, regret—all coiled together, hot and tight in my stomach like a fuse waiting for flame.

I get home fast. Didn't even kick off my boots before I stripped down in the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes behind me like I’m shedding skin. The scorching hot water in the shower hits me hard, I scrub until I’m raw. I towel off, throw on a hoodie, and sink into my desk chair, slapping on headphones.

Video games. Right, shoot something. Forget.

I boot up something mindless and violent—flashing lights, fast kills. My fingers move; my brain doesn’t. It’s better that way.

Suddenly my screen dims. A pop-up.

1 new message.

It’s from Agatha.

Where are you?

That’s all it says. No punctuation, no nickname, no apology; not even a demand, just that fucking question. I stare at it for a long time. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but I don’t have the strength to type anything. I don’t owe her that, not tonight.

I close the screen, pull the blanket up over my knees. Let the flicker of the game light my face, I crawl into bed and sleep in my hoodie, still damp from the shower, muscles tight and jaw locked.

I wake up to a sudden knocking. I peel one eye open. The light through the curtains is pale, cold. My mouth tastes like last night, phone’s still on the floor where I dropped it.

I don’t need to check it, I know who it is. Still, I drag myself out of bed. Hoodie clinging to sweat, hair matted from sleep. I don’t bother looking in the mirror. Who cares what she sees?

I crack the door open, and there she is, wearing sunglasses so big that it covers almost her face, coffee in one hand, unbothered and infuriating as ever.

“You forgot this,” Agatha says coolly, lifting the second coffee cup. She pushes past me without waiting. Walks straight into my apartment like she owns the walls, her scent isn’t already haunting every corner of it. She sets the coffee on the kitchen counter and peels off her coat.

Underneath, she’s wearing one of my shirts. It’s unbuttoned low, sleeves rolled up, collar crooked like it was torn off a hanger, her thighs are bare. It’s a message.

“Got tired of waiting for you to answer,” she says, finally pulling off her sunglasses and setting them down. Her eyes are dark, glossy and dangerous.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Didn’t know disappearing into a VIP room meant ‘wait for me, baby.’”

Her head tilts slightly.

“Are you jealous?” she asks, and the way she says it—it’s a test. I don’t answer.

She sighs and takes a sip of her coffee. “I didn’t fuck them, Rio.”

“Don’t care.”

She smirks. “Liar.”

I look away, jaw tight.

“You left without a word,” she says, quieter now. “I texted you.”

“I didn’t want to fight,” I say flatly.

“Bullshit.” She sets her cup down. “You love to fight. You just hate when I winning.”

My eyes flash. “This isn’t a game, Agatha.”

“Then stop keeping score.”

Silence crackles between us like static. She moves first. Steps closer. Just one. I don’t back away.

“Last night,” she says, voice lower, slower, “was about keeping control.”

“Yours or mine?” Her lips curl, but there’s no smile in it, just something feral. Familiar.

“You’ve been giving Hela too much of your attention,” she murmurs, stepping closer still. “She thinks she can play with what’s mine.”

“You think I’m a toy?”

“No,” she whispers.

She reaches for me—slow, like I’m a stray dog that might bite—and presses her hand against my chest. Right over the hoodie. Right where my heart is pounding.

I let her. God help me, I let her.

The sun’s gone—room is dim, blue-tinged from the streetlights leaking through the blinds, the air is still and heavy.

I woke up to cold sheets. Agatha’s side of the bed is empty. No note, no scent, no trace—except the faint imprint of her body still on the pillow next to mine. I don’t know why I expected anything else. It’s just way past six when I check my phone. A few missed texts. Nothing from her.

I sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of my neck. My whole body aches—not from the sex, but from what it meant, or what I thought it meant.

HQ smells like glitter and regret when I get there. My boots stick to the floor as I walk past the main stage—some new girl twirling half-heartedly to a remixed Rihanna track, the usual crowd of bored men pretending they’re gods just because they tip in cash.

Agatha’s still not here.

I try not to look like I’m searching for her. I head behind the bar, start wiping down the counter, organizing the bottles just to keep my hands busy. The whiskey shelf’s a mess again. I fix it, just to feel like something in my life is in order.

That’s when I hear them.

A group of dancers clustered near the dressing room, giggling and whispering in low tones that aren't quite subtle.

“Did you hear? The VVIP client asked for Agatha again.”

My spine stiffens.

“He’s that guy—the investor. You know, the one who tipped ten grand last month for a private night?”

“They say management promised her a cut if she played along. Big money.”

“God, I wish it was me.”

“Same. I’d fake an orgasm for that kind of check."

Then one of them lowers her voice and says, "She left this afternoon. Like—got picked up. Car waiting and everything. No one’s seen her since.”

My hand tightens around the rag I’m holding. She didn’t just leave my bed, she left for him. For the money, the illusion.

Maybe that was all this morning ever was—a warm-up act.

I swallow the lump building in my throat and set the cloth down. My fingers are shaking—not from jealousy, not exactly. It's something colder, something heavier, realizing I’m not even worth a goodbye. I glance at the mirror behind the bar. My reflection looks tired. Hollow-eyed and soft-mouthed. I still clock in, still pour drinks, fake smiles, because that’s the job.

HQ emptied slow, the laughter faded, music dulled. I kept pouring drinks until the last customer stumbled out and the lights dimmed to their graveyard hum.

I didn’t speak to anyone, just cleaned up, clocked out, and walked straight past the dressing rooms. I slipped into the stockroom like a ghost. No one followed, no one noticed. The air back here has always smelled like stale whiskey and floor polish. Boxes of liquor stacked like graves around me. I didn’t bother checking the label when I grabbed the cheap bourbon—some low-shelf garbage we use for men who don’t care what it burns like.

Good.

I poured a glass with shaking hands and stared at it. I raised it halfway to my lips, stopped, then I hurled it across the room. Glass exploded against the metal shelves, loud and sharp and final. The sound echoed through my ribs like a warning I’d already ignored.

“Fuck!" I screamed, voice cracking.

It almost came out of me—everything. The tears, guilt, rage. But I clenched my jaw and took the bottle to my mouth instead. No glass, no pause—straight from the source. The bourbon hit hard—burning down my throat like punishment I deserved. I leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, the bottle heavy in my hand.

I hated her. I hated how she left me in bed like I was nothing. I hated that she said I was hers while someone else picked her up in a car with tinted windows and a wallet lined in blood money. I hated that I still wanted her.

And that’s when I heard her voice. Only it wasn’t hers.

“You break it, you buy it,” Hela said softly, stepping out of the shadows.

I didn’t even flinch. Just stared at her. She looked unreal, bathed in low yellow light. Hair slicked back. Eyes like frostbite. She crouched in front of me.

“What do you want?” I rasped.

She tilted her head, smiling like she already knew. "You looked like you needed a little help breathing.”

I should’ve told her to fuck off. I should’ve stood up and walked away. Instead—I grabbed her. Hands in her hair, lips on her mouth, no warning. I kissed her hard—hungry and reckless and messy, all teeth and breath and bitterness, she gasped but didn’t pull away–she welcomed it. I kissed her harder, bit her lip, pressed her back against the cold metal, drank her in like poison. Her hands clutched my shirt, nails digging into my waist, but she didn’t stop me.

It was wrong, it was too much. I choked on a breath, and whispered the name like a wound reopening.

“…Agatha.”

Hela stilled and then smiled slow. "Darling,” she purred, “it’s me.”

And that shattered it. I froze, pulled back and stared at her. I saw it—everything. The way her mouth curled. The glint in her eye. The game. She was bait, beautiful bait, and I walked right into the trap.

“Fuck,” I muttered, voice hoarse, and shoved off the wall.

I didn’t say sorry, didn't explain. I just left out the back door, into the night air, bourbon still burning in my gut like regret I’d never be sober enough to forget.

It was Monday night and I still felt like I hadn’t slept in years.

My body moved on autopilot—hair tied up, uniform thrown on, boots heavy on the pavement. I wanted to call in sick. Hell, I almost did. But Alice was on leave and no one else could cover the bar. I lit a cigarette halfway to HQ. Didn't even finish it before tossing it into the gutter.

The second I stepped backstage, I felt her. Agatha.

She was standing near her vanity, back turned, slipping into a cream silk dress that clung to her like a glove. The moment she spotted me in the mirror, she turned, eyes softening slightly like nothing had ever happened.

“Zip me up?” she asked, voice casual, like we hadn’t gone up in flames and silence.

I hesitated, still I stepped closer. The zipper was cool under my fingers, sliding up her spine. My hands grazed bare skin and muscle. I hated how easy it still was—how my pulse still jumped at the scent of her perfume. She turned around to face me, unbothered. No apology, no explanation for the night before like I hadn’t woken up alone to cold sheets and a darker sky.

“You okay?” she asked, brushing a piece of hair from my face.

I nodded once. “Okay.”

Not good. Not fine. Just... okay.

She cupped my cheek and kissed me. Soft this time. Just lips on mine like she still had a right to them. Maybe I was weak, but I kissed her back because it still felt like home.

“Well, good evening,” Hela's voice coiled around us. We both turned. She stood in the doorway, dressed in blood-red lace and confidence, biting her bottom lip with a smirk that spelled trouble.

“Thank you for last night, Rio” she said sweetly, eyes locked on me.

Agatha stiffened instantly. Her hand dropped from my cheek, her jaw clenched. “What the hell does that mean?” she snapped.

Hela just smiled wider and walked past us like a cat who just knocked a vase off the table. No answer, just slow strides and hips that didn’t apologize. I didn’t move—I couldn’t. My breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat, and all I could feel was the sharp sting of guilt, panic, and something ugly blooming deep in my stomach.

Agatha turned to look at me, eyes searching as if she already knew what Hela meant.

The rest of the night passed under a thin veil of awkwardness.

No one said a word about Hela’s comment earlier, but the air backstage was different. Heavier, like a storm cloud hovering just out of reach. I stayed quiet behind the bar, hands busy pouring drinks, eyes stealing glances, eventually, everything felt… normal. Dangerously normal.

The music cued up like it always did. The stage lights warmed. Agatha was announced.

She stepped into the spotlight like she belonged to it—like it bowed to her instead of the other way around. Her outfit was all cream silk and shimmer, her hair pinned straight with strands falling just right. She moved gentle, like clouds in slow motion. Her dance wasn’t bold tonight. It was soft. Lush and fragile, like a lullaby sung—every movement had weight. Her fingers touched the air like it was holy. She spun slow, ground down to the beat like she had all the time in the world.

When the song ended—when the lights dimmed and the bass dropped into silence—she looked straight at me. Smiled and then winked.

Then she turned and walked offstage. I blinked, my heart kicked. That look—it was too knowing, too calm, much like checkmate.

Then Hela’s name was called.

She strutted out confidently, wearing glitter and gold and all her usual heat. At first, she was magnetic. Fluid. She hit every count, tossed her hair like it was part of the music. The customers were eating it up.

Until—

Snap.

Her heel gave out.

There was a sharp gasp from the crowd before her ankle rolled—hard—and she collapsed mid-spin. Her body hit the stage with a crack that made my stomach clench. The music screeched to a stop. Lights flashed. Dancers rushed forward. Someone yelled for the manager. A few customers tried to get close, concerned and murmuring. The lights on the stage cut off completely. Darkness swallowed the room for a moment—pure chaos. Shuffling and whispers.

Hela was helped offstage, her body limp, one arm thrown around a bouncer’s shoulders. Her lip was bleeding.

I didn’t move from the bar, just stared at the stage where she’d fallen. Suddenly, Agatha’s dance made sense. The sweetness. The smile, the wink.

I thought it was for me, it wasn’t a flirt—It was a warning. I knew right then and there who was behind it all. Who made the call, who probably handed Hela the faulty heel herself or whispered to someone who would.

Agatha. Of course it was her.

For a second, the taste in my mouth was bitter. But underneath it—dark and hot and dangerous—I think I finally understood what it meant to be hers, and what she'd do to anyone who forgot it.

The lights came back on like nothing had happened. The music returned—different song, different tempo—trying to plaster over the crack in the night. The manager stepped up to the front of the room, all polished charm and damage control, microphone in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice smooth as ever, “what a night, huh?” Some half-hearted chuckles.

“Accidents happen, but we’re making sure everything’s okay backstage. In the meantime…” He smiled, all teeth. “Drinks are on the house ‘til midnight! Bartenders, you know the drill.”

And just like that, the shallow forgot. The greedy came back to life like vultures with gold cards, laughter has resumed. The strippers took their marks, slipping back into roles and routines like nothing had happened at all. HQ's magic trick—vanish the ugly, keep the pretty.

I wiped down the bar with a rag that smelled like bleach and liquor. My hands moved on instinct, my mind didn’t. It stayed with her. Agatha stood near the edge of the floor, barely moving, arms crossed over her stomach like she was holding herself together. Her hair was still perfect, but her eyes… her eyes looked like loaded guns.

Then I saw the manager gesture toward her—sharply. His face was thundercloud dark as she followed him.

I should’ve looked away, but my feet moved before I could stop them. I slipped out from behind the bar and followed at a distance, past the curtain, through the hallway, stopping just around the corner when I heard the office door click shut.

And then—

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the manager snapped.

Silence.

“I am so disappointed in you, Agatha. After all the special treatment I’ve given you…”

A pause. Then her voice—cool, sharp.

“You call that special treatment?” she scoffed.

“Never bite the hand that feeds you,” he growled.

“Fuck you!"

The silence after that said everything... then footsteps. The office door flung open, I barely had time to straighten before she was there. Her eyes hit mine. Blank—no anger, no sadness—just a terrifying, hollow calm. Her face didn’t even twitch, she walked past me like I wasn’t even there. No words, no apology.

The tension got the best of me as I impulsively followed her tracks towards her dressing room. When I stepped inside, the stale perfume clung to the air. The overhead bulb flickered softly, casting shadows across the walls, and I shut the door behind me.

Agatha was already leaning against the vanity, her arms crossed, one brow arched like she was ready to cut me in half with nothing but a look.

Her voice sliced through the silence.
“Did you fuck her?”

I let out a sharp breath, rolling my eyes. “Did you fuck him?”

Her jaw tightened. The silence between us buzzed like a frayed wire.

“That’s not an answer,” she said coolly, though her voice cracked ever so slightly.

“Neither was yours,” I shot back.

For a second, we just stared at each other. Her eyes searched mine—looking for a lie, maybe, or something gentler beneath the anger, but she wouldn’t find it. Not right now.

She stepped closer, closing the space between us. Close enough to feel her breath hitch.
“She thanked you for last night,” Agatha muttered. “In front of me.”

“Yeah, she did,” I replied, my voice low. “And you didn’t even deny what they’re saying about you and that VVIP."

“Would it matter if I did?” she asked, her gaze locked to mine, unblinking. “You already decided what you want to believe.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” I let out a short, humorless laugh and looked away, her knuckles white against the vanity.

“I didn’t mean for her to get hurt,” she said quietly, almost like she needed me to believe it.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t trust myself to. I looked at her—really looked. The sheen of sweat on her brow from dancing, the smear of lipstick just above her lip, the sharp set of her shoulders, like she was bracing for a punch.

“I don’t know what we’re doing anymore,” I admitted, finally. That stung more than I expected.

The music outside shifted, a familiar beat pulsing through the walls. Time was moving, and we were stuck in this moment, this room, this war we kept pretending was love.

I turned to leave, but she caught my wrist.

“Rio,” she said softly, and it stopped me cold.

Her touch was warm, familiar. Her voice—almost a whisper—wasn’t a challenge anymore, it was a plea. When I turned back around, our eyes met. There was something in hers I hadn’t seen in a long time—regret? Maybe even fear.

“Am I still yours, as you are mine?,” she asked.

I pulled my hand away. “Try to figure out how to keep something without breaking it, first."

And then I walked out—into the lights, the music, the noise—hoping I wouldn’t turn around.

The apartment was dark when I walked in, keys clinking against the counter as I dropped them. My shift at HQ had run late—too many drinks, too many eyes, and one too many glances from Hela I wasn’t in the mood to unpack. I just wanted to collapse, maybe take a scalding shower and scrub the scent of the club off me. I was not expecting anyone, but my bedroom door was cracked open, and there was light. Faint and warm like a candlelight—but I didn’t remember lighting anything before I left. I stepped in slow, tension curling low in my stomach, a quiet warning that something wasn’t right.

I saw Agatha.

Sitting at the edge of my bed like she owned the place. Like she belonged in the middle of my space, in the middle of my life. Her robe—if you could call it that—was sheer, barely clinging to her shoulders. Her skin caught the candlelight like ivory silk. There was nothing underneath—nothing at all. Her legs were crossed, just enough to tease, not enough to cover.

And on the bed behind her…

My breath caught.

Toys.

Laid out like a damn altar. Some I’d forgotten I even had. Leather, glass, silicone. All of it out in the open like she’d gone shopping through my private drawer and decided to throw a little show-and-tell.

“What…” My voice came out hoarse, rough with exhaustion and want. “What is this?”

Agatha didn’t answer, she just tilted her head. That maddening smirk curling the corner of her lips—dark lipstick, immaculate as always. Her eyes gleamed, feral, knowing. Then she let the robe slide off her shoulders. It fell like water, pooling at her feet with a whisper.

There she was. Bare and beautiful. Daring me to move, daring me to speak. Instead, she spoke low, smooth, wicked.

“I’ve been a very bad girl.”

Fuck.

My hands curled into fists at my sides. Every nerve in my body lit up like fire under my skin. She knew exactly what she was doing—exactly how to unravel me. I was already halfway undone.

I didn’t move, not yet. I just watched her, my eyes dragging down the line of her throat, over the rise and fall of her chest. Her nipples were already hard, framed perfectly by the dim glow of candlelight. She sat there, perfectly still, like a painting brought to life—wanting, waiting.

“Bad girls,” I murmured, finally stepping closer, “don’t usually make themselves so comfortable in my bed.”

Agatha tilted her chin up, bold, defiant. “Maybe I was hoping you’d punish me for it.”

My gaze dropped to the spread behind her—the toys she’d laid out like an offering. My strap, a glass dildo, a pair of velvet cuffs, a plug I’d only used once and a black lace blindfold I thought I’d thrown away. She’d gone through everything.

“Jesus, Agatha…” My voice was lower now, rough. My belt was suddenly too tight. “Did you even wait five minutes after I left?”

She licked her bottom lip slowly. “I was already wet before you even closed the door.”

Fuck.

I stepped in, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, close enough to smell her—sweet and sharp, perfume mixing with arousal.

“You think this little performance’s gonna get you out of trouble?” I asked, my voice almost a growl. 

“I’m counting on it,” she purred as her thighs shifted slightly, just enough to give me a glimpse. Wet, shining and open.

My mouth went dry as I reached down and let my fingers brush her jaw, forcing her eyes up to mine. “You went through my stuff. You touched what doesn’t belong to you.”

“I wanted to feel close to you,” she whispered, faux-innocent, lashes fluttering. “Wanted to know what it’s like when you’re not pretending to behave.”

I pushed her back, slow and firm, until she was lying across my sheets—head tilted back, hair spread like ink, legs parted in quiet invitation.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I said, undoing my belt with one hand, the metal clinking through the loops. “I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”

Her smile turned downright wicked. “I didn't want you to be.”

I tied her wrists first—not with cuffs, but with the robe she’d dropped. Silk, soft, but binding. Her breath hitched. I trailed a finger down her stomach, teasing, circling her navel before sliding lower. I didn’t touch her where she wanted. Not yet.

“You’re gonna count,” I said, reaching behind me for the first toy—her favorite. Slim, deep red, cold glass. “And if you lose track, I start again.”

Agatha’s breath caught, her body arching instinctively.

“Yes, daddy."

The title slipped from her lips like a prayer. I knelt between her legs, watching her squirm, every inch of her ready and begging. And then I pressed the toy against her entrance—slow, slow, until her body took it in inch by inch.

“One,” she gasped.

And we began.

Her voice was breathy, already wavering. I smirked, easing the toy out just enough to make her whimper, then pushed it back in—slow, unrelenting.

“Two.”

“Good girl,” I murmured, the praise curling out of me like smoke. “See how easy that is when you behave?”

Agatha moaned, her wrists tugging against the makeshift ties. Her hips were already twitching, needy, desperate. I hadn’t even turned on the vibrator yet. I leaned over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other dragging the toy in and out of her with torturous rhythm.

“I want you to remember this next time you decide to crawl into my bed like a fucking brat,” I growled against her ear. “You don’t touch my things. You don’t touch me—unless I tell you.”

She arched up, panting. “Then tell me,” she pleaded. “Tell me I’m yours.”

I froze.

Fuck. That voice, that tone—that need.

She wasn’t just playing, not completely. There was something real bleeding through now. The part she never showed at the club, not behind her smirks or teasing sways on stage. Here, under me, tied and trembling—she was wide open in more ways than one.

“You’ve always been mine,” I said, voice lower, rougher. “Even when you act like you aren’t.”

“Then take me like I am,” she whispered. “Make me pay for it.”

My grip tightened. I pulled the toy free, slick and glistening, tossed it aside. Her whine of protest barely escaped before I reached for my purple strap, buckling it around my hips with practiced ease. I didn’t rush, I made her watch.

“You’re going to take every inch of this,” I said, climbing back between her thighs, nudging the tip against her dripping entrance. “And you’re not gonna come until I say.”

She nodded fast, frantic. “Yes, yes, please, Rio—”

I slammed into her in one stroke. Her scream echoed against the walls, pure, raw, shaking. She tried to close her legs, but I gripped her thighs and shoved them wide open.

“No,” I growled. “You don’t get to hide from me.”

Every thrust was punishing, slow and deep, grinding against that spot that made her eyes roll back. Her tits bounced with every movement, flushed and perfect, her body arching into mine like it couldn’t help itself.

“You think showing up naked in my bed makes up for how you treated me these past few days?” I spat.

I slide into her with one brutal thrust. No teasing, no gentleness. She screams as her back arches, ass flush to my hips. My fingers dig into her waist, holding her there while I fuck into her so deep she can barely breathe. The sound of our bodies—slap, slap, slap—fills the room, echoing off cheap tile and metal.

“I should fuck you in front of the whole club,” I growl into her ear. “Let them see what this cunt looks like stretched around me.”

She moans louder, completely gone, hair flying wild around her face.

“Is this what you wanted?” I hiss. “To drive me crazy? To see me lose control?”

“Yes, yes, please—don’t stop, Rio—fuck!"

I didn't. She tried to speak—tried to form words—but all that came out was a wrecked moan. I looked down at her, flushed and sweating, her wrists still bound, her pupils blown wide. That edge of vulnerability flickered across her face—just enough for me to feel it. Beneath the teasing, beneath the games. There she lays.

Mine.

I rocked into her again, slower this time, grinding deep until she gasped.

“Then say it,” I whispered. “Say who you belong to.”

Her back arched, her body already trembling with the effort not to fall over the edge.

“You,” she cried. “I belong to you, Rio. Fuck—I always have.”

I let out a groan, burying myself in her again, teeth clenched.

“Good fucking girl.”

Her wrists were still bound, but she’d stopped fighting them, realizing she wasn’t going anywhere. Her body was trembling beneath me, soaked and spent, but I wasn’t done. Not even close. She’d given herself to me—and I wasn’t the kind of woman to take that lightly. I pulled out, slow and cruel, her slickness dripping down my strap.

“No—” she whimpered, hips chasing me, desperate to be filled again.

“No?” I echoed, eyebrows raised. “You don’t get to tell me what happens next.”

I gripped her jaw, hard enough that she stilled beneath me, breath catching in her throat.

“You come in here, touch my things, play your little games like you’re in charge—but you forget something, baby.”

I dragged my thumb across her spit-slick lips.

“You don’t get to come unless you beg for it.”

She whimpered, nodding. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, mascara smudged from the heat and pressure. My perfect little mess. I grabbed the vibrator from the bed—the one I’d saved for when she started begging. I didn’t even warn her. I flipped it on and pressed it right against her clit.

She screamed. Her hips bucked, back arching off the mattress, the vibration already too much on her raw, overfucked nerves.

“Count again,” I ordered.

“W-What?”

“Every time I pull you back from the edge, you count. If you lose track, I start again.”

She let out a ragged sob. “Rio, baby—please—I’m so close—”

I slapped the inside of her thigh, hard enough to sting.

“Count.”

“One,” she gasped.

I watched her fall apart under the weight of it. Her whole body tensed, clenching, shaking. Just when she hit the brink—when I saw the telltale twitch in her thighs—I pulled the vibrator away. She screamed again. This time in frustration.

“Fu—T-Two!”

“Good girl.” I leaned down, biting her neck, not hard enough to break skin but enough to leave my mark. “Such a pretty little thing when you’re begging.”

She was sobbing now—messy, feral, completely undone.

“Do you even know how wet you are right now?” I murmured into her ear. “You’re dripping all over my sheets like a filthy little slut.”

“I am,” she cried. “I’m your slut, I’ll be whatever you want, just—please—let me come—”

“Not yet.”

I moved down, dragging my tongue between her thighs, tasting her. She screamed again, nearly bucked off the bed.

“Three!” she sobbed. “Please—Rio—baby, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You will.”

I kept edging her like that. Again, and again. The toy against her clit, my fingers inside her, then pulling away just as she tipped over the edge. Each time she got closer, I whispered filth into her ear.

“Your body belongs to me.”

“You don’t get to come until I say.”

“You’re just a hole for me to use tonight, aren’t you?”

And her replies… god, her replies.

“Yes, daddy.”

“I’m yours.”

“Use me, please, I need it.”

I rail into her until she’s begging. Until her knees give out and her voice is just a broken string of moans and sobs, until she comes around me, hard, soaking my thighs and the vanity, convulsing with everything she’s never said. By the time I finally let her come, she was screaming so loud I thought the neighbors would call the cops. Her whole body went rigid. Her thighs trembled, her mouth hung open, eyes rolling back. I held her through it, hand still firm on her throat, keeping her grounded.

She didn’t even realize she was crying until I kissed the tears off her cheeks. After all that, I undid the robe binding her wrists and pulled her into my lap, letting her curl up against me, trembling and silent. I stroked her hair back.

“You did good, baby” I whispered. “You took everything I gave you. Every damn bit.”

And when it’s over—when she’s limp, gasping, held up only by my grip—I turn her around and lift her into my arms. She doesn’t speak, her head drops onto my shoulder, her arms wrap around my neck.

I carry her to the guest room, where the lights are low and the bed is soft, and I lower her down like she’s something fragile. I grab a clean towel from the back closet, water from the fridge. I clean between her legs, murmuring softly, even as she twitches from the overstimulation.

“You okay, baby?”

She nods. “Never been better.”