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claramelooo · 7 days ago

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Checkmate (21/21)

I really can't believe we are here, at the end... There are so many emotions that we authors go through. The stage of having an idea and writing a chapter is exciting, but putting it on paper is so complicated—like a math problem, which I've always been terrible at, by the way, but it's been different with writing.

And when we release the chapter and see your reactions it's so rewarding... really! thank you for that! thank you for everything! love you guys!

I'm really emotional now, sorry 🥹

Enjoooooyyy!!!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha's mind.

Epilogue

They were at the same restaurant where they always celebrated their wedding anniversaries—Tony Stark’s restaurant, coincidentally.

The clinking of cutlery all around was maddening. How could they chew so loudly? How could they smile, their mouths still greasy with truffled butter, while her throat was closing in?

Agatha kept the polite, gentle smile he loved so much. She swirled the wine in her glass with elegance—Cabernet, from the 90s, his favorite decade.

“Did you enjoy the surprise?” She asked, crossing her legs beneath the perfectly tailored navy-blue dress.

“I loved it,” Thanos smiled. “You always get it right, dear.”

Of course she did. She knew him like the back of her hand.

The waiter walked by and laid the plate down. Seafood, just the way he liked. She didn’t touch hers—her stomach was spinning.

Thanos raised his fork with boyish excitement. He began slicing the carefully seasoned shrimp. Agatha watched him while the seconds stretched like elastic.

His first bite came with a moan of pleasure, making Agatha roll her eyes. She glanced at her wristwatch, feigning boredom.

Stark had promised.

Cyanide.

Lethal, but not loud. It could be a silent killer, depending on the dose.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed when she saw his trembling hands. The fork slipped from his grip. Thanos made a strange, gagging sound, and his eyes went wide.

“Thanos?” She asked, her voice measured with just the right touch of panic and tenderness. “Honey?”

He tried to stand. His face began to twist. His arms shook, reaching for something—anything.

But there was nothing.

The first scream came from another table. A woman dropped her glass, and a waiter came running. Agatha stood swiftly, catching her husband’s convulsing body in her arms.

The perfect scene. The portrait of a desperate wife.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” She shouted. Loud enough to be real, low enough to not sound theatrical.

But there wasn’t time. Within five minutes, he was dead. Right there. On the floor of the restaurant where they used to celebrate the early years of their marriage.

His hand clutched her arm with the strength of a final panic. His eyes wide, confused, trying to understand.

She smiled, only on the inside.

At the funeral, everyone praised the widow’s strength. Her composure and grace.

“He was a great man,” she said into the microphone before the crowd. Dressed in black, her hair tied back in a rigid bun. “But even greater was the love I felt for him.”

Tears in her eyes. So perfect, like rehearsed—because they had been.

Dozens of cameras captured her emotion. The subtle tremble of her hands; the way she held her son firmly.

America loved Agatha Harkness that day.

And no one ever knew that beneath the widow’s black veil, there was still the faint perfume of poison.

No one, except Tony Stark.

That night, back home, Agatha sat alone in her room for hours. Staring at the darkness where the fireplace used to burn. Feeling the silence weigh like lead.

She didn’t cry. She knew she couldn’t. After all, she wasn’t an ordinary woman.

She was what remained of a woman who spent a lifetime being contained. And now, finally—finally—was free.

Until that Friday.

Her relationship with Anthony was never difficult. They always preferred to negotiate. Like a strange little game.

But that Friday, something was different.

Those photos hit her like a wound. One after the other, in vivid colors, captured with unnerving precision.

Tony stood in front of her, smiling like a cobra, as if he had already won.

The taste of wine turned bitter in her mouth.

“Didn’t know our favorite had a thing for little girls.” He said, with that arrogant smile of someone who believes they’re holding all the strings.

Losing allies was never part of the plan, but right now, Agatha couldn’t care less.

Leaving the restaurant with mind and body still trembling, she gripped the steering wheel tight.

Stark will has to die.

She didn’t hesitate. Picked up her phone and dialed the number of the only person who could understand.

Rio Vidal.

They shared a closeness no one knew. The kind of friendship you don’t guess at, don’t even imagine.

Both too controlling to get along in any other version of life. But this was business. And business, Agatha Harkness understood better than anyone.

“Rio. I need you to activate the Banner-Rogers plan.”

It was hell to think of you when all she should be doing was securing her future as governor.

Ethics were a myth. A bedtime story told to soft minds like yours.

Billionaires don’t have ethics.

But she… she was still human. Flawed and imperfect, and her greatest flaw was getting attached to you.

A nothing.

A no one.

And yet, somehow, you had become something else… something she didn’t yet have a name for.

The blonde girl. Carol. Tall, with posture. Slim, athletic. You clearly had a type.

Seeing you two close in that office made her insides boil. She paused in the doorway of the meeting room, watching, unseen.

You smiled at something Carol said, tilting your head that soft way you had, eyes glowing like you didn’t even know your own power.

A harmless gesture to anyone else, but to Agatha, it screamed.

Did that girl work there? Had Agatha never noticed her before?

No… She would’ve remembered someone looking at you like that. That hot, direct stare. The same one Agatha herself used when she wanted to undress you with her eyes.

Her jaw tightened.

Had you forgotten your promise? You were hers. To be controlled and possessed.

Hers.

The word echoed in her mind with such possessive weight,

it almost embarrassed her. Agatha knew you were too young for your own good. Knew better than to take the promises of a foolish girl seriously.

You were free. Free to go, to laugh, to touch. And still… still, she wanted an invisible leash around your throat. Wanted to be the only one who made you smile like that. Wanted your scent on her sheets and nowhere else.

You looked surprised to see her. Guilty, even. But the girl—blonde, tall, athletic—stood there like she belonged in your space.

Ocean eyes locked onto Agatha like a scalpel. Slicing, dissecting every inch of that polite smile and the body casually leaning your way.

“I didn’t know we had guests.” She said, voice low, polished, but sharp enough to cut glass.

The girl didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. On the contrary, she crossed her arms, as if daring Agatha to strike, right there in the hallway.

“I’m Carol. Just dropping off lunch for Bear here.”

Bear.

The word stuck between Agatha’s teeth.

Bear.

The bile rose in her throat. An intimate nickname. Too intimate for someone who hadn’t even existed yesterday and now stood there, claiming territory.

You tried to smooth things over, of course. Saying she’d only brought lunch, and she was already leaving.

As if that would be enough.

But it wasn’t. None of it was.

Because Agatha saw the way she looked at you. And what was worse—far worse—was that you didn’t even notice.

That day, Agatha Harkness learned other people had good eyes too. Eyes that could see you the same way she did.

“I want you to be only mine.”

She had said it without thinking, and the moment the words escaped, it was too late to pretend. Too late to keep the armor intact.

It was the purest, most violent truth.

She wanted. She wanted all of you, without interference, without other eyes, without distractions. She wanted exclusivity, not just of your body, but of your thoughts. She wanted to be the first and last thing that crossed your mind when you woke, when you slept, when you came; She wanted the kind of belonging she herself had never known how to give.

And that’s where it hurt.

Because the question came next, simple, raw, inevitable:

“But what about you? Will you be mine, too?”

Agatha held her breath, as if the air had suddenly turned acidic.

She didn’t know how to answer. Not like that. Not there, not with you still in her lap, body trembling post-orgasm, eyes wide and doe-like, pleading for more.

Because being yours would mean stripping away every layer of protection she had built so carefully over the years.

It would mean being seen—not as the governor, not as the woman who controls everything, but as the one who trembles under the right touch. As the one who comes completely undone when you whisper that you're hers, and that little word she adores so much.

Being yours meant surrendering in a way she still didn’t know how to survive.

And yet…

She wanted it.

God, how she wanted it.

She wanted to see you in clothes she had picked herself. Wanted you to answer the phone on the first ring. Wanted to find you at the end of each day, to mark you in ways no one else would dare desire you. Wanted to know that wherever you were, it was for her—and only for her—that your body ached.

But exclusivity, for Agatha, had always come with control, with ownership, and with fear.

The fear that, if she gave in, if she returned the feeling, you might one day leave, carrying away too many pieces of her. Pieces no man, no voter, no political enemy had ever reached, yet you had touched them without asking permission.

So she hesitated, and she hated herself for it.

It was a week before the big day that America woke to the headline that would shake the Washington state race:

"Bruce Banner and Steve Rogers arrested on suspicion in the murder of Thanos Harkness."

The footage went global.

Bruce in handcuffs, head bowed, glasses slightly crooked. Steve with his chin lifted, trying to keep his composure, without the shield to protect him this time.

They were taken into federal custody, accused of money laundering, blackmail, and—most shockingly—conspiracy to poison the billionaire banker and ex-husband of Governor Agatha Harkness.

She watched it all from her home screen.

The evidence, of course, was solid. Documents, transfers, a supposedly intercepted email between Banner and an executive tied to Stark Industries.

Everything pointed to a conspiracy to eliminate Thanos—under the guise of cutting off his dark influence over the rival campaign’s finances.

It was too perfect.

Because it was a lie.

She had hired the best to plant every thread of that story months in advance. From the bank records to the encrypted exchanges. She’d learned from the best—Thanos himself, now dead. And the two men who dared try to destroy her had been swallowed by the very same poison:

Underestimate Agatha Harkness.

That night, she appeared on Northwest Current. Pale, mourning etched into her features. She wore black and dark glasses. A brooch bearing the Harkness crest over her heart, and a tone of voice so calm it nearly broke you.

“...I trust the Department of Justice and in the institutions of this state. I trust the truth will come out. I… I only learned about the investigation recently, I lost someone I once shared a life with…and that will always haunt me.”

That was the widow’s job. Crying and lamenting the loss of a husband who had tried to erase her at all costs.

Look, See, the truth is Lucifer tried to be greater than God and that's why he fell. But Thanos is not God, and Agatha... Agatha is definitely not an angel.

It was when she saw the messages on your phone that she knew. She knew the time had come. That the most irrelevant pawn on the board had started moving like a plague.

You knew.

There was no other explanation for the sudden desperation. The panicked messages you sent, clumsy with barely-concealed guilt, were pathetic and therefore… beautiful.

She already knew.

She had seen it herself, that afternoon when you rushed out for lunch and forgot to close the tabs on your laptop.

At first, she thought it was paranoia. But the more she read… the more she saw his name, dissected by your hands…

Her blood boiled. Not because of the secret, but because of the betrayal.

You knew about the investigation and said nothing.

Were you testing her? Spying on her? Trying to bring her down?

Agatha clenched her fist, remembering the way your head tilted back when you laughed; the heat of your mouths in that club; the way you curled into her arms and called her mommy like everything was okay.

And worst of all: maybe she had underestimated you.

Maybe you were just like them.

And then… the name came.

Natasha.

She heard it slip out—casually—amid your broken excuses. But it landed like a knife. Not because of the intel, but because of the image.

A woman. Another woman.

From the FBI. “A family friend.” Pretty, probably. And, God help her, maybe more stable. Maybe more trustworthy. Maybe… she touched you.

The jealousy didn’t come like fire.

It came like ice. A dark ice that slid down her spine, freezing her limbs before she could scream. So she just smiled.

Of course you came to her. Of course you came to beg.

And there you were.

Fragile and unsure, in her house. A house decorated by the country’s top designers. Everything in that space was fake: the cushions, the hardback books, the scotch in her glass.

But the fury was real.

Agatha turned slowly,Letting the dress flow like a shadow around her body. She took pleasure in watching you shrink.

You seemed smaller than she remembered, and Agatha wanted to break you more than ever. Just to see just how far her little porcelain doll would go for her.

You were crying.

Yes, she noticed. But tears didn’t mean what they used to, not after all you’d hidden. Agatha hardened her heart.

You knelt, clutching the hem of her dress, begging for forgiveness.

Talking about… protection.

How dare you?

And she… she wanted to hate you.

But she couldn’t.

Because despite everything—the lie, the omission, the Natasha—you were still hers. Still aching for her. Still the mistake she’d make a thousand times.

She brought her hand to your hair, fingering the strands like a secret, then gripped tight.

She was angry at you, however, the rage in her chest wasn’t just for you. It was for herself, too.

Agatha was weak. Weak when it came to you.

That night, she took you upstairs and fucked you without mercy, her heart caught in a cruel contradiction. Watching you cry for her was bliss, and yet… a small part of her wanted to wrap you up and say it would all be okay.

Agatha was nothing but a poor sadist with a deep affection for you, her fucktoy.

Damn you!

“Stark knows about us.”

The words escaped before she could filter them, dress them up in armor. They were naked. As naked as she was, lying on that bed, you still panting beside her, sheets sticking to your sweaty skin, the scent of the two of you thick in the air like forbidden incense.

You lifted your face from where it rested against her chest, confused.

“What?”

Your surprise was real, she knew it instantly. There was no performance, no act. Just you. Just your heart caught in your throat.

Just your soul, bare as hers.

Agatha straightened slowly, feeling the sheets slide off, exposing the mature body now marked with scratches from a few more rounds.

“He invited me to dinner on Friday,” she said. “Said he wanted to talk... and then he showed me…” she hesitated, fingers trembling on her own knee. “Some photos. Of us. That day, in front of the dorm. When you got into my car.”

The silence between the words hurt more than the confession.

“He blackmailed me.”

Her voice cracked. Not exactly out of weakness, but from an old, buried pain resurfacing with the bitter taste of not having seen it coming.

She looked up and met your eyes, now brimming. You were angry for her. You were… hurt for her.

And that… That undid her in a way no one ever had.

She thought you’d back away. That fear would take hold for your safety, for your career just beginning to blossom. But instead, you reached for her face. Touched it with absurd gentleness. With tenderness and truth.

It made the great Harkness tear up, falter. She was so, so tired of all of it.

“You won’t have to do anything.”

Just like that.

As if your word alone could dismantle an empire of blackmail. As if she didn’t have to hide or kill again. As if, for the first time in her life... she could rest.

Agatha furrowed her brow, confused by the strange feeling blooming in her chest. You pulled her into your arms—strong, warm, and full of something she didn’t know how to name.

Instinct? Madness? …Love?

“I’ll handle it.” You whispered.

And Agatha felt the world tilt just slightly.

You… protecting her.

Agatha Harkness had always had to protect herself. A woman who trusted no one, not even herself. A woman who, until that moment, believed love was just another form of weakness.

And now you were holding her like someone protecting their own heart. Without asking for anything, or demanding anything in return.

She looked at you as if trying to decipher an ancient, forgotten language.

Maybe it was a lie. Maybe you were playing a deeper game than she could see.

Or maybe… maybe you were telling the truth. Simply and sincerely.

Something Agatha had never truly known.

And so, she smiled. Not like someone who’d won, but someone surprised. Like someone feeling something beautiful growing where there was only ash.

She leaned in and kissed you. A calm and simple kiss, but full of an unspoken promise: She would watch. She would test. And if you passed… you’d be hers.

Completely.

When the big day finally arrived, Agatha was more than certain of her victory, not that she’d ever doubted it.

City by city, Washington state lit up in purple, and a pearly, radiant smile blossomed on her face.

It was hard for a woman to rise in politics with completely clean hands. They were underestimated far too often, too easily dismissed. Agatha had simply accepted it early. The system had existed for decades, it wouldn’t change now. That’s why she admired Jennifer so much, an excellent player.

And finally, Agatha Harkness was officially the Governor of the state of Washington.

Now, no one could stop her.

Not even God.

She gave the speech with pride and passion, two things she had in abundance when it came to politics.

But then the voice that echoed through the room turned her stomach.

Anthony Stark.

Wearing a tailored suit, that smile trained in front of a mirror for hours, and that performative confidence leaking from every pore.

Agatha kept the smile on her face. She was a professional, after all. The newly elected Governor. But her shoulders tensed and her eyes didn’t smile with the rest.

He approached like he had never been cast out of her life. Took her champagne glass—without asking—and she let him, only because the cameras were still watching.

He said half-sweet nothings and let his oversized hands glide across her body.

His audacity was something Agatha almost envied. But her social position, as a woman, would prevent her for much, much less

They eventually slipped away into the meeting room, and she didn’t even try to look at you. She could already picture the hurt in your girlish face.

Agatha truly didn’t understand why you couldn’t understand that everything—everything—was business.

The room reeked of polished wood, expensive alcohol, and intrusive men’s cologne.

Agatha hated that cologne.

She hated how it lingered in the air like a reminder that men always seemed to take up more space. More voice. More freedom to err, to touch, to invade.

Tony talked, of course. He always talked. About promises, alliances, benefits. About how she should know her place. And he said it all with that same trained smile.

Oh no.

Agatha wasn’t going back into the dark pit she’d fought so hard to climb out of.

She stepped closer. Just one step. Enough for him to feel it, to see it, to know it.

“You’re a dead man.”

It wasn’t a threat, tt was a sentence.

This was no longer just about politics. It was about influence, about the past, about power.

She was speaking for all the men who’d tried to silence her before.

First Thanos. Now Tony?

Not while she was still breathing.

When they left the room, the energy in the air had shifted. People were stirring, moving. However, you were tucked away in a corner, speaking with Barkley.

Agatha squinted in your direction.

Wasn’t Barkley supposed to be in some lousy meeting with the Newports? What was she doing back in Washington? With you?

She caught sight of Stark reapproaching from the corner of her eye, but didn’t look. Still, the bastard spoke. He really opened his fucking disgusting mouth

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice smooth and charming in that way cameras loved.

Agatha turned just enough to see his back. And part of her already knew, already felt it in her bones. Because Tony Stark did not know how to lose.

Not women or votes.

She tried to step back, but she was trapped. Front and center. Cameras. Press. Audience.

And then, he knelt.

Oh God. Of course Stark couldn’t bear not being the center of attention.

The room held its breath. The velvet box gleamed under the stage lights.

“Agatha Harkness,” he said, like he was still hers, like he had the right. “Governor, genius and woman of my life. Will you make me the most honored man in America?”

She didn’t hear her own breathing. Just the gasps from the crowd, the subtle creak of heels, the soft click of cameras turning her way.

But she saw when you closed your eyes, like it hurt. She saw the way you walked away. Steady and wounded, like you had just lost something.

You left before she could react, but not before she felt it.

A part of you leaving with you.

And she was still there, frozen. With Stark on one knee and the whole world waiting for her answer.

“Get up,” she commanded, looking down. No mercy. No pain. “Today is my day. You won’t steal it. Understood?”

Agatha would not submit again.

Barkley stepped closer, smiling. “What a hot scene. I knew you two still had chemistry, after everything.”

Agatha turned to face the woman, staring her down with pure disdain.

That bitch...

Jennifer wanted her to end up with Stark so the path would be clear for her to have you?

Not a fucking chance.

“Don’t let this leak,” she said loud and clear. “And for all intents and purposes, you still work for me. Understood?”

It was a dangerous feeling.

Women have this strong urge to keep certain things to themselves. And, in the laws of the jungle, Agatha saw you first.

You were her prey.

And she didn’t believe it when Rio walked into her office wearing that victorious smile.

“Congratulations to the new governor.” The woman said, holding out a bouquet of flowers.

“What are you doing here?” Agatha asked, setting the flowers aside, still surprised to see the brunette standing there.

Vidal pouted playfully.

“Awn, don’t reject me. I just came to congratulate you.”

“Mmm, thanks.” Agatha remained suspicious, she knew Rio wasn’t the type.

She watched the woman glance around the office, evaluating the space. “You know, you should talk to your girl,” she said bluntly. “She sent me some pretty suspicious files.”

Agatha didn’t understand at first.

Rio dropped a flash drive on her desk.

“She brought this and asked me to file a federal complaint against Tony Stark.”

Silence.

Agatha felt the air thin for a moment. She took the drive, plugged it into the USB port, read through it, and what she found made her eyes narrow like blades.

Crossed transfers. Fake names. Offshore payments. All of them fake—perfectly fake. A web of allegations so well constructed even she might have signed off on it.

You had forged everything.

And with that… you had protected her.

Not just from Stark, but from the truth itself.

Rio chuckled softly.

“I think you chose well, Agatha. She’s a good girl.”

It should’ve felt like a blessing, but it landed like poison.

Good girl?

Agatha’s stomach turned. The champagne rose, burning her throat.

Because she knew that tone in the Speaker’s voice. She could recognize desire disguised as admiration. She knew exactly what it meant to call someone a “good girl” with narrowed eyes and a smirk pinned at the corner of the mouth.

Rio saw.

And Agatha saw that Rio saw.

Of course she did.

You were beautiful, and smart. And far too good for the world. It was only natural that other women would want to touch what wasn’t theirs.

But this… this was unacceptable.

Because now, Agatha knew with absolute clarity:

You were hers.

Not just out of loyalty, but by choice.

And still, a part of her burned. You should’ve come to her directly. Should’ve shown it only to her, should’ve let her handle it.

Not Rio.

Not any other woman.

She slammed the drawer shut with the drive inside.

“Thanks, Rio,” she said flatly. “I’ll take it from here.”

But inside… inside, she was already forming a new plan. Not to protect you—you had already done that. But to make damn sure no one else ever tried to steal what belonged to her again.

Not Jennifer.

Not Rio.

Not anyone.

She had to smile for the cameras. Talk to the press. Answer questions about the political future of the state as if she had everything under control. As if her stomach wasn’t in knots. As if the world hadn’t collapsed at her feet the moment you turned your back.

You.

The newly elected governor of the state of Washington.

What irony.

She drove without thinking. Heels tossed into the back seat, fingers gripping the wheel so tightly the skin nearly split.

She didn’t know where she was going, until she got there.

Your door.

You opened it, and at first, said nothing. Just stood there, your face stained with dried tears and your eyes hollow in a way Agatha recognized. It mirrored exactly what lived inside her.

And still, the question came.

“What are you doing here?”

Cold.

Cutting.

Agatha wanted to back down.

But she didn’t.

“Can I come in?”

Her voice came out softer than she meant. Not like on the campaign trail, in meetings, in debates. It was too human, too fragile.

Your reply was laced with venom, masked as sarcasm:

“Don’t you have an engagement to celebrate tonight?”

Something broke inside her.

A muscle in her jaw tensed—not with anger, but with the effort to hold herself together.

You were so beautiful. What a shame to mix business with this…

She stepped inside and the silence was hell.

She looked around and saw remnants of your life—a damp towel thrown over the couch, empty Snickers wrappers on the kitchen counter, books still in unpacked boxes.

So human.

So... real.

You spoke again. Asked if she’d come to lie, to deny, like always. You’d always been so bold, hadn’t you?

And Agatha, with all the pride that kept her alive for decades, simply said:

“I came because you left without a word,”

“You let him touch you,” your voice shook with anger and bitterness, each word heavy with a fresh wound. “You let him kneel in front of you, and you said nothing.”

Agatha froze. Her breath hitched like she’d been punched in the gut. She turned slowly on her heels—her cold eyes hiding the inferno in her chest.

“I also didn’t say yes,” she spun around to face you. “I didn’t say yes. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t take the ring, I didn’t kiss that bastard. But you… you're the one who ran.”

A hard silence fell between you. Not empty, but full. Dense. Charged like electricity between two plates about to collide.

Agatha stood there, hands at her sides, trembling slightly. The pounding in her jugular betrayed the loss of control she was trying to contain. Inside, something ancient and proud was breaking. She never needed to explain her actions. She never begged to be seen.

But now…

She looked at you like she was waiting for something. A sign, even an apology for walking away. But you were too hurt to offer peace.

Her heart was breaking with every word you threw at her.

She saw the tears shimmer in your eyes, and her mouth went dry. Agatha felt like she was looking at something she no longer knew how to hold—something raw, burning, yours. And still slipping away.

You spat your pain like someone tearing something out from their chest:

“Fuck you, Agatha! I’m not gonna sit back and watch him touch you, want you!”

The impact of those words hit her like a slap, a punch, a betrayal wrapped in pain. Her chest rose and fell, erratic. This wasn’t just jealousy—and Agatha knew that.

It was rejection.

It was reality punching her in the face: you wanted her entirely, just for yourself, in that same desperate, messy, dangerous way she wanted you.

But she was the older one. A woman who’d learned, over decades, to swallow desire in the name of strategy, reputation, survival.

So why the hell was she shaking like a girl?

She stood still for a moment. Your outburst sliced through her like a sharp arrow, wedging itself between her ribs. Something inside broke, and with it, something awoke.

Agatha stepped forward. Each step was firm, deliberate, fueled by a rage much deeper than the scene with Tony Stark. This was the fury of abandonment, of someone bold enough to walk away after once kneeling before her.

“You said you were mine,” her voice came low and rough, trembling with barely restrained control. “You knelt before me. You begged for this. You asked me to take control.”

Agatha's gaze burned. There was pain there, yes, but also fury. A wild, uncontrollable hunger for obedience, for your complete surrender, for not being left halfway.

After all, how dare you promise and not deliver? She expected it: your full devotion, no questions asked.

"And now you're acting like you can just choose when to obey your owner?"

She stopped when your faces were too close. The kind of closeness that flirts with sin; that screams what can’t be said aloud, that calls for what can no longer be held back.

Her heart was spiraling. The words had come out before she could filter them.

But they were true.

She wanted you defiant, furious, and still on your knees; wanted you straddling the edge of love and hate, because she no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

She watched you hurl insults at her, calling her a “stupid bitch.” You really had no instinct for survival, did you?

But you exploded. Exploded like someone who’s been holding the whole world inside their chest.

"You made me love you!" The words came out drenched in exhaustion, but solid. Full of something Agatha had spent her whole life avoiding: truth. "And now, I'm sorry, but I can’t unlove you."

Agatha didn’t breathe. Literally, she forgot to pull in air.

For a moment, her body short-circuited. Time in the room folded over itself, and silence became a deafening whisper.

The governor’s heart skipped a beat. Not from some beautiful emotion, but from dread. A deep, primal dread. The kind buried beneath layers of survival. The kind she thought she’d killed.

“Stop,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended and trembling. Like trying to hold back a hurricane with bare hands. “You’re being... dramatic. This isn’t… this is just another emotional lapse.”

But the lie didn’t stick, not even in her own mouth.

Because her eyes had already betrayed her. They burned. Burned so badly she could barely see your face. Tears streamed like waterfalls, and Agatha hated it, hated this.

Hated feeling.

It was as if everything she had locked away in the dungeons of her soul had been dragged out, kicking and screaming.

How did she let it get to this point? When did she allow herself to actually be touched?

“You’re calling me weak for loving you?” Your wounded eyes pierced through her like blades.

Agatha turned her back, ran a hand through her hair, desperate to regain control.

“No,” she ran her hands through her hair, pacing like a caged animal. “Because you don’t love me. You just don’t.”

She said it like a spell, like repeating it would make it real. But it didn’t, because reality was screaming right back.

“This was supposed to be just another distraction.” She clung to that thought like a castaway to driftwood.

But it wasn’t.

It never was.

And panic, the real panic—not the cold, calculated kind of political campaigns—but the messy, human kind, pulsed through her. A wild beast snarling in her chest.

“You said I was yours.” You spat, and Agatha closed her eyes. The words echoing in her memory, raw, bare, intimate. Echoes of sweaty skin, wrinkled sheets, and nights where Agatha allowed herself to forget the world.

And that... that was unacceptable.

“Because you started wanting me!” She yelled, like confessing a crime she’d spent years denying.

It was true, yes. But she started wanting you too. Not just physically, but quietly. At that terrible Fairmount hotel; the times she thought about texting you and didn’t, the times she almost gave in.

“You wanted me! You teased! You got on your knees and begged for this, and now you're here blaming me for giving you exactly what you asked for?!”

She wanted to drag you back to reality. You couldn’t let that pathetic little idea take root in your mind… No, no, no. You couldn’t.

You shouldn’t.

Because everything she’d always known how to manipulate—men, allies, enemies, her own body, the narrative—everything that kept her undefeated and standing it all crumbled in front of a heartbroken girl.

In front of you.

“I am yours,” you said. “But you’re not mine. And that’s what’s breaking me.”

Those words, those words shattered Agatha. They echoed inside her like a scream in a sealed chamber. And she didn’t know how to answer. For the first time, there was no script, no armor.

“I don’t let myself belong to anyone,” was all she could say. Her voice was dry, like dead leaves in autumn. “Because when you give yourself away, you become vulnerable. And I won't…” she hesitated. Swallowed the pain like venom. “I refuse to be vulnerable until I turn to dust.”

That was the rule. The shield. The motto that kept her alive in a world that chews up women like her. Vulnerability wasn’t poetic, it was a sentence.

That was the plan: kill, win, win again, and if necessary, kill once more. Agatha was a serpent. And you—your snake-charming ways—were not part of the plan.

“Then turn to dust with me.”

Oh God.

That sentence. It was like you had touched something buried, ancient, something she’d tried to entomb a long time ago. And for a moment, Agatha wanted, she just wanted; Wanted to break every rule, rip every mask, risk being foolish.

And you were so beautiful while begging. Jesus, Agatha was salivating.

But her mind… her mind screamed. Reminded her of everything she lost by showing too much. Everything she had to bury to become who she was.

She remembered Thanos; a love killed before it ever bloomed. Her own son, raised in silence’s shadow. Evanora, who taught her to survive by keeping her soul under lock and key. The world that took everything the moment she dared show weakness. The name she built with blood and withdrawal.

She closed her eyes and, for one second, her soul dropped to its knees. But when she raised her face again… it was the mask that returned.

The posture. The cold. The fortress.

“I choose to stay whole. I have fought too hard to get where I am.”

And in that moment, Agatha chose what she always chose: survival. Even if it meant abandoning what, deep down, she knew might be the only real thing she'd ever had.

And when she heard your "get out, Agatha," she didn’t scream.

Because she would never beg. Never cry. But she still didn’t understand, if the world was at her feet, why didn’t you obey?

So she simply turned and walked out the door.

But as she walked away, something inside her stayed behind—something she might never get back.

Agatha Harkness had never felt whole. She'd always felt empty—since childhood. But now… she felt all of it, and it terrified her.

She got in the car, heart shredded. Tears burning behind her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

Agatha Harkness doesn’t cry. Agatha Harkness bleeds.

And survives.

That night, Agatha thought of you. Truth be told, she always had—ever since that day by the emergency exit. But back then, you were just a cockroach in her path. Now, you were so much more.

She threw herself onto the bed like the mattress might be strong enough to hold the weight of who she had become.

The room was dark, except for a slice of blue light slipping through the curtains and drawing trembling lines on the ceiling.

Now, with victory, she’d have to move into the Governor’s Mansion in Olympia, but she couldn’t think about that. Not about Nick leaving for Juilliard either. Agatha stared at nothing, and still, she saw you. On your knees and breathless. Mouth parted, eyes red from crying, voice cracked from shame and desire.

“I'm sorry, mommy…”

Her stomach clenched.

A cruel heat spread beneath her skin, as if her own body were turning against her. Because you were supposed to be just another distraction. A plaything. A nuisance she could cast aside at any moment.

But you weren’t.

You occupied a space no one had ever touched before. Not Thanos, not Nick, not even the entire government.

A space that was vulnerable, and real.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish your image, but it only sharpened—your hair falling in front of your face, your heavy breathing and the way you whispered her name like a plea.

She gripped the sheets tightly, as if she could bury herself in them.

Yes, she was angry. But more than that, she was scared. Scared of what that moment between you two had revealed.

Since when did she need something like this? Since when did she want it?

Agatha Harkness had never felt whole. Since she was a child, she’d learned to live with absence—of affection, of peace, of rest. She was a woman forged in survival. And survival was what she did best. But here, in the silence of that bed, for the first time… she didn’t want to survive.

She wanted to feel.

She wanted you.

Your name formed silently on her lips. Her piercingly blue eyes still burned, even though not a single tear had fallen.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and for a moment, she ignored it. She wanted one more second with the memory of your face, your knees on the floor, your surrender. But then Río’s name lit up the screen, and she reached for it.

“What is it?” Her voice was hoarse, she had no patience for the woman’s usual jokes.

“Agatha… are you sitting down?”

“Río, spare me your dramatics at this hour. Just say what you have to say.”

“They’re arresting him right now. Stark. Cops just showed up at the restaurant. Operation was fast, they’ve got a warrant, digital evidence, the whole thing.”

Río spoke quickly, but the excitement behind her words was impossible to miss.

Agatha sat up with a muted thump.

“You’re telling me that…?”

“That it worked. The plan worked. The girl’s a genius!”

Her breath caught for two full seconds, like her brain needed time to process it. Her stomach flipped.

You had done this.

You.

Her girl.

Her nothing.

A dry, incredulous, almost emotional laugh slipped out before she could stop it. She ran a hand down her face and shook her head, caught between pride and despair.

She stepped off the bed, legs trembling, as if something irreversible had shifted in the world. And it had. Because in that exact moment, Agatha Harkness knew she had become something vast and untouchable.

She was nervous. She stayed up all night, unable to believe it. And with trembling hands, she sent the message.

It was time for you to know.

Her little girl…

So young and so pure—no longer. Now you were a full woman, marked. By trauma and choices, by desire and fire. Strong. Bold. Sharp-tongued and fearless, fearless enough to bring Agatha to her knees on the inside. You no longer belonged to anyone.

Except her, your owner.

When you arrived, she saw the exhaustion in your eyes. Poor thing… Agatha wanted to take care of you, and she did. She knew you probably hadn’t been eating well lately, hadn’t been sleeping either.

Agatha knows exactly how to care for what’s hers.

And so she left the room, changed her clothes, let down her hair, dabbed on her perfume, and stepped into her heels.

Today would be different. Because Agatha smelled victory before you even opened your mouth. It hung in the air, thick, salty, almost sweet. She could identify the scent of someone else’s downfall like a trained sommelier. And today… oh, today was the finest of wines.

You had that smug little smile when you said:

“You should be worried, Governor. They’re going to come for you. Try to tear down everything you’ve built.”

Agatha set her teacup back onto its saucer, her chin tilted ever so slightly, like she was watching a school play. Did you really think she didn’t know? That she wasn’t ten steps ahead?

Poor, poor thing.

She hid a smile, tried to pretend, but you saw. You always saw her.

“They arrested Stark.”

Those words echoed through the room like a seal breaking. And Agatha felt—not fear, not surprise—but the delicious, damned taste of regained control.

She raised an eyebrow.

And you, foolishly, thought you had the right to go on.

“For fraud and money laundering. And for the murder of Thanos.”

Agatha smiled. Really smiled. Not that polished press-conference smile. This one came from the gut, from the beast. It was dangerous and lethal.

She stood up, walked through the house like it was her private garden. You froze—petrified—as if only now realizing you’d stepped somewhere you shouldn’t.

She settled into the brown armchair by the fireplace like a queen returning to her throne after winning the war.

“Stark killed Thanos?” she said, feigning innocence. “Can’t say I remember that.”

But she remembered perfectly. The way Stark’s eyes had devoured her; his pathetic attempts to win her over while Thanos still lived; the wicked little smile that crept across his lips when she made the suggestion.

But Agatha knew exactly what she was doing. And at that moment, she saw—oh, how she saw—your expression begin to crack.

The question mark forming between your brows. The fear. The truth bleeding through like a crack in the wall.

“What?”

“He was important. A strategic ally in the beginning, nothing more. But the problem with powerful men, honey… is they forget smart women are always watching.”

You were unraveling. She could see it. As if a whole stage set was collapsing in your mind. You were connecting the dots, just like the brilliant little girl she had molded.

And she popped the champagne as you finally whispered:

“You… you killed Thanos.”

Offering you a crystal glass, to toast the ruins of your innocence.

“Checkmate, honey. You did it. We did it.”

She was so, so proud of you. She had never dared to touch someone so pure and cause this level of chaos. But now… Agatha was in heaven.

Corrupting you was one of the best things she'd ever done.

“You used me.”

Ugh. That. That made her uncomfortable. Because that’s not how you were supposed to see it. You were supposed to thank her for opening your eyes.

“At first, yes,” Agatha admitted, shifting slightly in her seat. “You were a good distraction. So young and idealistic, a blank page for me to write on.”

It was as scary as she liked it. Your sweetness, your hunger to learn, the way you looked at her like she was a temple waiting to be unraveled.

You were easy at first. Beautiful, obedient, starving for approval and desperate for someone to cradle your heart. She often wondered if what you felt was love or just the thrill of submission. But now, seeing you there, eyes glassy, shaking like a brittle leaf, everything in her trembled.

Excitement? Fear? She couldn’t tell, but it was complex, twisted, and real.

You shut your eyes, probably feeling the panic swallow you whole. Agatha felt the exact moment you realized you'd lost yourself.

“But then… you started seeing me. Not the politician, but the woman. You crawled into my head like a little mouse, under my skin.”

She said it with disgust, as if the very thought of stepping outside the plan was an insult to her nature.

“Why… why did you do this to me?” Your sobs made your body fragile, almost collapsing to the floor.

And her heart… broke.

Agatha tried to tense her jaw, but it wasn’t enough. You looked small again. And she, just a cruel witch who had destroyed her most beautiful creation, the purest thing she had ever touched. She wanted to be brave enough. To say she cared, to hold you, to stroke your hair, call you babygirl; to kneel and apologize.

But she couldn’t.

Because Agatha was far too proud, and that would still be her downfall.

“Fuck,” she hissed, feeling slightly unsteady. “I really tried to keep you out of this. Fuck. I tried. But by the time I realized it, you were already in too deep. So I decided it was time to watch you bloom.”

You choked on your own saliva.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! You fucked with my head!” Your voice cracked, a mix of tears and disgust.

And that’s when Agatha laughed.

Not because it was funny, but because there was nowhere else to go, because the mask had fallen, the theater had become real, and the control she so adored, no longer existed.

It was the laugh of someone about to win the game, and lose you.

But the game only ends when it ends.

Then she rose, heels echoing on the floor. She knew how to wear them, for power. Knew exactly how to make you shrink even when you tried to stand tall. Agatha looked down at you, her shadow stretching across your fragile body.

“I made you smarter,” she lifted her chin. “Stronger,” another step, forcing you back. “I pushed you to rise to my level.” Then, the final blow: “I created you.”

She said it with relish, as if each word were a spell. A prayer.

You reacted, not with words, but with your body. And she saw it; your shaky breath, dilated pupils, the blush blooming across your cheeks.

You were hating her. Not like a lover, but like an enemy.

And for the first time in a long while, she was afraid. Afraid of what she had done to you. Afraid of what she had done to herself. And above all, afraid she might never be able to let you go. She knew that look in your eyes; the look of someone hungry for something they didn’t yet understand.

But something she would give you.

Because Agatha wasn’t going to lose you.

She tried to get inside your pathetic, moral little mind. You were like her. Of course you were! Agatha was never wrong, she had spent too long studying her opponents’ strategies.

So she repeated, “I made you.”

And you moaned so beautifully, like a little creature in heat. Delicious. The governor would savor it.

“I’m not like you.”

“Oh, of course you are,” she whispered, brushing her finger over your lips. “You’re just scared to admit it, but you love this. I know you do.”

It was better if you admitted it now, because the woman was ravenous for your body. But you didn’t give in, not as easily as Agatha expected.

And that… that triggered every hunting instinct inside her. The elegant woman who nibbled on caviar before dinner and sipped champagne before 10am was reduced to a wild beast now—a predator—tasting her prey with her tongue before devouring it.

You finally gave in. And Agatha took you in a way no one else ever had. Not even Carol.It inflated the governor’s ego, yes, but it also warmed her heart.

After a few confessions, hot and reckless—while her cock was buried inside that tight little ass of yours—she felt exhausted… and free.

She lay on her back, letting her mature, bare body sink into the mattress. Despite her vitality, age weighed on her. Thinking of you now, like the ripe fruit you had become, Agatha feared she might not keep up.

But she feared being alone even more, it’s true. She would give things up, just to have you. Maybe in a few years, she’d even come clean to Nick. To the public, once your career was more solid and your age less… dangerous.

The smell of sex hung in the air, lulling her into a relaxed daze. She took a deep breath, letting your scent, embedded in the sheets, wrap around her while her mind calculated routes, justifications, defenses. Because Agatha needed to justify everything. Even love, or the absence of it.

She was going to Olympia in a few days, and being away from you already felt irritatingly wrong. So she said:

“You should come with me to Olympia.”

The words sliced through the silence like a clean blade.

Almost like she was offering a job. A favor. Not an intimate plea, soaked in fear and longing.

But that’s what it was.

You froze.

“What?” Your voice came out hoarse, cracked and disbelieving.

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She shifted beside you, as if trying to settle into her own discomfort, into her skin, into the world. And when she spoke again, her tone was neutral, almost clinical.

“Nick’s leaving soon. He’s going to Juilliard for theater,” she said, eyes fixed on the wall in front of her. “I’ll be alone all the time.”

You blinked, and she could feel the silence growing between you. Maybe she even felt the exact moment your mind broke. When the spell turned into nausea; when the truth burned.

Agatha knew you well enough to say you were considering it, like a good girl. But fear gripped the heart, no matter how sure you were of your love.

And when she saw you dressing, each piece like a silent scream for help. She still watched you with trembling hands, as if your own nakedness scorched now that the spell was cracking.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked, harsher than intended.

“Leaving.” Your answer hit like a bullet.

“Leaving won’t erase the fact that you loved every second of this.”

It was cruel, but it was true. And she needed at least one truth to hold on to. Because a Harkness never begs—but what were her eyes doing, her breath, her body—if not begging?

You left.

And you took your smile with you. Your glowing, heartbreaking, deer-like eyes.

Time passed. Not as much as she’d hoped, but enough to hurt.

Agatha kept living—or at least tried to. Interviews, medal ceremonies, charity galas… none of it tasted right. The camera flashes no longer blinded her. They just annoyed her. Autopilot became a necessity, at least until next year.

But the worst were the eyes.

Her eyes burned, throbbed, felt like they’d fall from their sockets. Her head ached, but not in a way that was physical. Or maybe it was?

Should she call you? Text? Or just take an aspirin?

Maybe the medicine wouldn’t cure the ache of missing you, but with luck, it might dull the pain of searching for you and not finding you.

Jennifer was disappointed. Of course she was. The backstage absences were getting hard to hide. So was the way Agatha checked out during meetings, her speeches sounded over-rehearsed, too cold—like she had gone back in time and forgotten how to feel.

“If she keeps this up, I’ll have to rethink her place.” Jennifer had said one day, bluntly.

Agatha just stared at her, from above, and answered with an icy smile:

“Then rethink it.”

Because if there’s one thing Agatha Harkness would never allow, it was someone trying to replace you.

The most curious—and infuriating—thing was when Billy Maximoff waited for everyone to leave the meeting room, only to whisper harsh words in her ear like he had the right.

“Haven’t you done enough?”

She could have burned him alive. Or worse: humiliated him. But instead, she sighed. Her head hurt, and the exhaustion had seeped into her bones. Last night’s aspirin hadn’t even scratched the surface.

“How is she?”

Billy hesitated. And that was what irritated her most. The hesitation, the caution, the veiled judgment.

“What do you think? You destroyed her,” he said finally. “And I’m afraid it’s beyond repair.

“Nonsense,” she countered scornfully, hiding from the pain. “She’s too young. She’ll get over it.”

Billy shrugged, like someone shoveling the last of the dirt onto a coffin.

“Of course. She’s resilient, strong. As long as she’s away from you.”

That hurt. It really does. The kind of pain that can’t be cured with Advil.

That was when Agatha knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had fallen into a dark pit—bottomless, with no rope, with a silk-covered floor and mirrored walls.

She still wasn’t ready to beg.

But maybe… she should start considering it as a possibility.

That same day, Agatha arrived home. Taking off her heels, she let her tired feet free of any pressure. She lay down on the bed, taking a deep breath, feeling her ribs open to receive fresh air.

She glanced at the dresser beside her. The photo Stark had taken was there. Agatha never got rid of the photos, she couldn't. Not when your eyes were so bright, gazing at her with adoration.

And it was inevitable when she let herself be carried away by sweet memories of you.

She hated the way her skin prickled with awareness, the way her thighs clenched at nothing, the way her fingers twitched with the memory of your warmth. But most of all, she hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Her pride was a fortress, but her body? Her body was a traitor.

With a snarl, she grabbed the photo—that damn photo—the one where you were looking at her like she’d hung the moon, like she was something worth worshiping.

Pathetic.

She should burn it—she wouldn’t. Instead, her fingers traced the glass, over your smile, your stupid, hopeful eyes.

And then…

Her hand slid down. It was just pressure at first, just the heel of her palm grinding against the throbbing heat between her legs. A frustrated release, nothing more.

But then she remembered the way you’d whimpered for her. The way your back arched when she bit your inner thigh. The way your nails dug into her shoulders when she…

"Fuck."

Her hips jerked, and she hated herself because of this. Because how much she needed it.

Her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear, and the second skin met slick heat, her breath hitched.

This wasn’t begging, was just… maintenance. She was lying to herself. Her touch was clinical at first, just quick, efficient circles, the way she might handle any other bodily function. But then her traitorous mind supplied your voice, your gasps, the way you’d once whispered "Please, Mommy" like it was the only word you knew…

Her fingers curled inside herself with a sharp gasp. This wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. Not when what she really wanted was you—your sweet body under her, your pleasing and watery eyes; the raspy voice of yours calling her mommy frenetically.

Her free hand fisted in the sheets.

She wouldn’t call.

She wouldn’t text you.

But her hips rocked faster… It was anger that tipped her over the edge, anger at herself, at you, at this need that clawed at her ribs like a starving thing.

When she came, it was with your name bitten into her lip, her body bowing off the bed in silent fury.

And then…

Silence.

Empty, hollow silence. She lay there, chest heaving, fingers still wet, the photo of you clutched in her other hand.

Pathetic.

She was Agatha Harkness.

And yet here she was…

Undone.

Alone.

And oh God, she missed you.

Her arms covered her face, hiding the bruised pride and fragile ego. The headache, ever since you left, had returned, throbbing at her temples.

Agatha risked another glance at the photo and felt her heart clench.

Would it always be like this without you?

[…]

"Are you sure you're not forgetting anything?" Her voice came out loud, tinged with concern. "Your winter coats? Your antihistamines? You know how unpredictable the weather is in California, sweetheart."

Of course.

It was obvious who this mama bear tirade was directed at Nicholas. Despite the sociopath reputation you’d given her, Agatha was still a doting mother.

“Mom, please!” The boy begged. “I’m bringing everything, seriously. You’ve reminded me like four hundred times.” He rolled his eyes.

“That’s still not enough.”

“Mom!”

“Okay, okay! Blame me for caring too much, but we’re going to be apart for four years. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” She sighed, frustrated by her own weakness. She hated feelings like this, this kind of vulnerability. But with Nicholas… she couldn’t hide anything.

He was her most beautiful success.

Nicholas walked slowly toward the boarding gate, adjusting the large backpack on his shoulders with an ease that cut into her chest. When had he grown up so much?

“Don’t be dramatic. I’ll still visit on holidays.”

Agatha opened her mouth in a dramatic O, pretending to be offended. “Oh, thank you for your mercy!” She watched the corners of his lips curve into a smile, and smiled too. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the jet? It’d be more comfortable…” she bargained, in one last attempt to retain some control. To still be a part of it, even in the wrong way.

“Mom,” Nicky sighed. “I want to do this on my own. I want to experience it. I don’t want anyone to know I have a billionaire mom.”

Agatha lowered her eyes, hurt but understanding. He wanted to find himself, without her shadow. And she understood—even if it hurt.

“You know I just wanted to protect you, right?”

Always. Since always, Agatha had protected Nicholas. Especially when she took care of the man who would’ve tried to control his life like a puppet on strings.

She would never allow that.

“I know. But you don’t have to anymore.”

Those three words hit like a cold, soft rain. Agatha took a deep breath, wanting to respond, but the boarding announcement interrupted her.

Nicky took a hesitant step forward. Then he turned around and hugged his mother.

Agatha closed her eyes. Tight. Long. Silent. As if neither of them wanted to let go.

“I love you, Mom. Thanks for letting me find my own way.”

“I love you too,” she said, swallowing hard. “You’re everything to me. Be happy, my baby.”

And then he was gone.

When Nicholas’s tall, slender frame disappeared into the terminal, Agatha stood there, unmoving. Alone in a crowded airport lobby, her arms crossed, as if still clinging to the warmth of his hug.

She had been many things in life—powerful, feared and desired. But nothing left her more exposed than being just Nicky’s mom.

And in that silence, Agatha realized: maybe it was time to face the ghosts she’d been sweeping under the rug. The ones with soft skin and confused eyes brimming with desire, the scent of restrained want.

But that was a matter for later, or maybe never. Because you had made your choice.

The new house was too big.

Even if she avoided the word "mansion" in public—to spare the disgust of voters who elected her in the name of change, ethics, and the end of extravagance—that’s exactly what it was: a mansion. Nestled at the edge of a dense forest in Olympia, with perfectly symmetrical white-trimmed windows. The upstairs balcony offered a panoramic view of a garden trimmed with military precision; something Agatha secretly admired. There was beauty in order, in the quiet of mornings there.

A quiet that never lasted long.

Moving boxes were still stacked in the hallway. Nicky was no longer there to haul luggage up the stairs, and Agatha found herself staring at the mess as if willing it to organize itself. The rooms were far too big, making her question the necessity of it all.

The newly elected governor of Washington now woke up every day at 6:30, just like back at Yale. She ate toast, drank coffee far too bitter, and opened her campaign laptop like someone saying: Here we go. Pretend everything’s fine.

Her staff? New. Inexperienced. Too loud. All of them were desperate to impress her with bad slogans, generic ideas, and promises of high engagement.

“We should totally launch a TikTok account!” One of the assistants said, brimming with enthusiasm, as if she’d just cured inflation.

Agatha rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. The icy stare she gave the girl could’ve shattered glass.

“Amanda, right?” She asked, and got a hesitant nod in return. “If you were truly prepared for this job, you’d know I already have a TikTok. It was a massive success with young voters. I was the first governor to light up this generation. And you, as someone on my marketing team, should’ve done your homework before saying something so useless.”

She pointed at her with her square glasses. The room fell utterly silent and rigid. No one dared speak, let alone meet her eyes.

Utterly tedious.

“D-d-don’t worry, Governor, I—”

“Spare me. Stop by HR and collect your things. Now.”

She said it simply, slipping her glasses back on and returning her gaze to the screen. The young woman fled in tears, like someone who’d been chewed up and spat out by a hurricane.

Agatha looked at the rest of them over the rim of her lenses. “Well? Anyone else got something actually useful to say? If not, don’t waste my time. Get out.”

The group exchanged panicked glances.

Oh, Hurricane Harkness was real.

Fuck, she was surrounded by anxious kids eager to please her, but none of them were you.

That night, Agatha couldn’t sleep. Her heart was tight and her neck ached from tossing and turning. Her feet were frozen from the winter chill, craving a very specific warmth.

She let out a frustrated sigh.

“Fuck this.”

She got up abruptly, furious. Throwing on a thick robe and slippers, Agatha grabbed her phone.

“Hello. Ready the jet. What? I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night. I want it ready by six, otherwise you’re fired.”

Agatha looked at the clock and packed a small suitcase. Screw it. She couldn’t take it anymore.

As she descended the grand staircase of the Olympia mansion, the slippers were replaced by her trusty heels that echoed harshly against the freshly polished marble. Her rage blended with fear. It was ridiculous. It was absolutely ridiculous what you had done to her. How you stirred her up without even touching her. How your silence hurt her more than any political scandal she’d ever faced.

And yet…

She was on her way to you.

The driver waited by the front steps, yawning, bundled in his coat. When he saw her, he stood straight like he'd been struck by lightning. No one expected to see Governor Harkness out this early. It was painful to look at her against the sharp winter light.

“Ma’am… where exactly are you going?”

Agatha didn’t respond immediately. She slipped on her sunglasses to shield her photophobic eyes from the pale dawn. Lifting her chin in quiet contempt, still not quite believing what she was about to do, she said:

“To the airport.”

The private jet sliced through the sky. Outside, the clouds looked like soft cotton. Inside, Agatha sat alone, head resting against the back of the leather seat, eyes fixed on nothing. But inside her mind, it was the Trojan War.

You were nothing that suddenly became everything

And that embarrassed her.

It was a physical pain. The longing. The pride. The mental image of your face when she offered you money, as if something so priceless could ever be bought something you had given her freely.

“Stupid,” she whispered to herself, biting her lip hard, gripping the armrest. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Agatha was going to die of the absence she once thought she wanted so badly.

By the time the plane landed hours later, Agatha was no longer the meticulous woman who had left Olympia. She was wrecked, shaky, hollow. Ready to beg, if that’s what it took.

She just needed you.

When you opened the door, your face went pale. The shock in your expression should have been funny, but it wasn’t. Agatha felt her chest tighten.

“You…” you swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

Shit.

There was no script for this.

“I tried not to come. I really did.”

The words came out bitter. Worn. Like everything else inside her. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She knew that. And yet, the real power now seemed to rest in your eyes, the ones that looked at her like she was a mistake made more than once.

“Go away.”

That hurt more than she let show. Of course she waited for that. Of course she deserved that. But she couldn’t run from this anymore. It was too late.

“I can’t.”

The words hung in the silence like a confession.

You asked why—the fairest, cruelest question. And she felt that if she lied, something inside her would break for good.

So the truth came out, the kind she never dared say even to herself.

“I’m a wreck in Olympia.”

And it was true. She had become everything she once fought against: a public statue, smiling for the cameras and collapsing inside walls that weren’t hers. Sleeping alone in cold sheets, answering idiotic questions, dealing with an incompetent team and journalists who wanted blood.

But none of it, none of it, hurt more than waking up and not finding you there. The absence was an addiction forced on her, and Agatha hated every second of sobriety.

She looked at you. Wanted to touch you, but didn’t dare. She took off her gloves like peeling off a layer of herself. Tried to keep her dignity, even as she imploded from the inside.

“You got me addicted to this unbearable, uncontrollable thing we have.”

She was fine with being hated by you. It was easier.

Easier than admitting she was broken. At least then, you’d still look at her.

Then the anger came, just as she had expected. Strong and young and righteous.

“You just miss having something to control.”

The accusation was fair. So fair it burned. But it was wrong.

Agatha didn’t miss control.

She missed sinning. Being seen by someone who looked past the fortress and still said, “I’m staying.”

“I miss someone who challenges me. Who sees me. Who breaks me down.”

That was it.

You were the exception.

The damn exception she never knew how to handle but could never let go of. You were the mirror she avoided her whole life—and now, needed like oxygen.

Agatha took a breath, fighting to keep control, even though she’d already lost it.

And then you looked at her.

Still there. Hurt, yes. But not indifferent.

And that… was something, wasn’t it?

“I don’t know what we are anymore.”

Neither did she.

She’d never had a name for this. Never dared to give it one. But she knew what it was when you touched her, when you provoked her without fear, when you cried without shame and made her crave the one thing she never thought possible: peace.

“Sweetheart, please.”

It came out as a choked whisper. Tears already stung at the corners of her eyes and her fortress was crumbling.

She watched you breathe, hesitating. Seconds stretched too long. Long enough for her to want to die.

“Would you like a coffee?”

A simple gesture. A silent offer of truce and care. She almost broke down right there. But only nodded, swallowing the sob.

Because maybe, just maybe, there was still room for her.

Even after she broke you. For anyone else, and apparently for herself too. But even after everything, Agatha couldn't bring herself to regret what she had done.

You were wrecked, but the fire of revenge still burned in your eyes and it was beautiful… it was like watching a flower bloom.

Agatha would do anything to stay.

You handed her the coffee like someone offering peace, and it disarmed her completely. She looked up through her lashes, long fingers trembling as she reached for the cup.

No one did that for her. Ever.

In that room, with that gesture, Agatha felt seen, and that was dangerous. Because when you’re seen, you can be hurt.

You sat at a distance.

And yet, she still felt you inside her. It was like breathing in an old perfume: the scent lived in memory but never truly faded.

She took the first sip.

“I don’t know how to… do this right anymore.”

She hadn’t planned to say it. But it came out and she couldn’t pull it back.

It was the truth.

The truth came before the sarcasm, before the defense, before the mask. She didn’t know how to be without you anymore. Didn’t know who she was without your voice in her head, your laugh at the end of the day, your touch that stopped time.

You answered with that short, tired smile, and it killed her a little more.

She did that to you. That hurt in your eyes.

“I fake it well.”

It’s all she’d ever done. Her whole life. But with you, pretending was always harder.

“I’m not good at this. At needing. At wanting something so much… it knocks the ground out from under me.”

The confession landed like lead in the air. Her throat tightened.

So many years in silence being like a stone, before you, it was transformed into fine glass.

“Are you talking about me?”

Your voice was a whisper. She could hear the insecurity behind it, and the anger on your face.

Agatha nodded.

Yes.

She was talking about you. About all of it; The curse and the miracle that you were.

“I never wanted this.”

God, how she wished it had been different. Wished she’d met you back when she still believed in good things. When she still thought love was possible.

But you came in like sunlight through a cracked window in an abandoned house. It shouldn't have, but it was simply inevitable.

“You just… got into my bones.”

You settled into her like a beautiful plague she couldn’t tear out. You invaded her with your smile and your stubbornness. With your reckless bravery and irritating kindness.

And Agatha let you. She let you in. Now she didn’t know how to close the door again.

“Every day we spent together… you unraveled me.”

Each word cut her open, but it also set her free. After years of locking everything behind steel doors, saying it aloud felt like summer sun on pale skin. It could be unpleasant, even deadly. But she needed it: the vitamins and the tan.

“Worst part is… you liked what you saw. Even the ugliest parts, mostly the ugliest ones.”

The parts corroded by war, by grief, by mistakes.

You saw.

And you stayed.

Until you didn’t.

“Now I’m lost. Completely lost in you.”

She never thought it could happen.But here she was. A woman at the top, on her knees for someone who made her feel.

“Honey, I… I adore you.”

She hated it. All this feeling. That wasn't practical at all. But with you it was the only thing that made sense.

“I adore the way you challenge me. The way you look at me like I still matter.”

That was the final blow. Because deep down, Agatha didn’t really want power.

At least, not just that.

But no one could blame her for being contradictory and confused. After all, even the greatest villains want to be loved without having to hide who they are.

“As if I could still be… just a woman.”

It was a powerful line.

Agatha no longer saw herself as a woman. She saw a political machine, a killer, a monster.

But you saw something else, and that hurts her—not because it's a lie, but because you're seeing something she tried so hard to bury.

Agatha was exposed, afraid. But the fear wasn’t about you. It was about not knowing how to exist without you.

The dependency felt suffocating and mortal.

“I know I don’t deserve you. But… giving this up is killing me.”

She looked at you with eyes wet but steady.

She could barely face the reflection in the dark coffee, where her tired eyes stared back at her, lips dry, silence impatient. But somehow, in that moment, the words came. Raw and unbearable in their honesty.

“I don’t regret what I did. Killing that man set me free. I know in the end, it was him or me.”

The cup felt too heavy in her thin fingers, and she sipped just to keep her voice from shaking. The coffee tasted burnt—just the way she liked it, charred. Almost as scorched as whatever was left of her soul.

“But I regret dragging you into it. You’re just a girl… My little girl.”

And there it was.

The word slipped out like an involuntary whisper, an old habit. You were the only thing she ever truly wanted, dared to want, always wanted. Even when it hurt. Even when she pushed you away. Even when she pretended not to care.

She shouldn’t have said it. But the pronoun escaped her like a leak from the unconscious—or worse, a confession.

“I was blind. With anger and resentment.”

The voice broke. The armor cracked. And then a single tear, like a slow fracture, ran down her cheek. Not out of guilt—guilt she had long since learned to carry with poise. But for the loneliness. For the deep, unbearable certainty that even if she survived, Agatha was already broken.

Irreparably broken.

“I thought everyone was the same and only I could save myself.”

And it was true. She saw herself as the only reliable constant. She trusted no one. Had never trusted anyone. Except… you.

The memory hit like a punch to the stomach.

“And when you did what you did, I knew. I wasn’t alone anymore.”

But it was already too late.

Too late to say sorry. Too late not to destroy. Too late not to turn love into gunpowder, care into control, desire into punishment.

Agatha set the cup on the table with the precision of someone afraid to lose control even over the smallest gesture. Then—almost desperately, almost pleading—she knelt. Her joints protested, but she didn’t care.

It was humiliating, but it had to be done.

“Say anything that would give me your forgiveness.”

Her voice sounded younger than it should’ve. Maybe it was fear, or it was hope. Her eyes were wide open, sky-blue, transparent in a way she never allowed.

Except with you.

She saw your young face soften, and when she felt your warm hand on her wet cheek, something inside her trembled. It was tenderness, it was affection.

When was the last time Agatha had received kindness after destroying something?

The hand that calmed her was the same that could condemn her—and she’d accept either fate, as long as it came from you.

“Take off your clothes.”

The shock was immediate. Her eyes widened, something inside her cracking and awakening. There was an abyss in that command, something that mixed punishment and redemption.

But she had no time to hesitate. Because then, you kissed her.

It was fierce. Full of rage and vengeance. All the things you’d buried and let rot inside you for the past month.

But your vengeance wasn’t like Stark’s or hers. No. Yours was sweet and tasted like chocolate chip cookies.

It was youthful, honest, and unmistakably yours.

Your mouth was a wildfire and Agatha moaned—needy, as if she was being torn out of herself. Your tongues moved like they remembered each other.

And when breath became necessary, when the cold returned with the space between you, Agatha pulled back, lips trembling.

She didn’t say anything.

She just obeyed.

She undressed with trembling hands, letting the fabric fall like an offering at the feet of something she never quite understood, but recognized. Her mature skin shivered with the chill.

It was strange.

She wasn’t afraid.

As if, stripped of everything—clothes, secrets, guilt—she was finally seen.

As if she were finally alive.

Maybe that’s what love is, after all. Or maybe it’s something else. Something dirtier. Maybe love was a thing more Agatha.

And deep down, she knew that moment would condemn her far more than any murder.

You touched her with intention, with certainty, right there on the cold floor. You bit her to punish, but kissed her like she was holy.

“I missed you so much!”

That’s what you said while grinding your hips into hers. And God… Agatha Harkness could’ve died right then, because you still loved her! You still cared! You were still hers.

She didn’t know the exact moment she lost control—maybe it had been months ago, when you barged into the emergency exit of her heart. Or maybe it was now, lying on the cold wooden floor, body still hot from sex and surrender, heart racing in a way she hadn’t felt in decades.

Agatha took a deep breath, trying to hold back the chaos bubbling inside. The silence between you was heavy. Almost unbearable.

Only your heartbeats could be heard.

And then, without thinking, as if the words slipped past her throat before her mind could censor them, she said:

“I think I love you.”

Just like that. Fragile and hoarse. Almost like a cry for help.

She felt your body stiffen beside her, and it made something tremble deep inside her. Agatha turned her head, searching your face for any sign of anger or mockery. But no. Of course not. Because you were still looking at her.

Those damned eyes, always so alive, locked on her with a burning intensity.

“I… I’m not sure I know what that means,” she murmured, looking away, unable to carry the weight of the truth. “I don’t know if I can love someone. I can’t promise you that. I—”

Fear pierced her like a spear. The fear of saying too much. Of stripping her soul after already stripping her body; the fear of being seen.

But you—always you—didn’t run.

“Agatha.”

Your tone was gentle, but there was something solid beneath it, something Agatha never knew how to handle. How could someone so young sound like they carried the whole world in their chest?

She turned her face slowly, eyes still wet, embarrassed, like a child caught being vulnerable. Being there, naked, crumpled beside you, wasn’t just literal. It was symbolic. It was terrifying. It was freeing.

“You don’t need to promise anything,” you said quietly. “I don’t want a promise. I just want a choice.”

A choice.

Agatha held her breath. The words crawled across her skin like heat, burning slowly. So simple. And yet so dangerous, so completely disarming.

“Choose me. Every day. Even on the days when it’s not easy. Even when you feel like running. Because I know who you are, Agatha. I know all the ugly, broken, dangerous parts. And I’m still here. I still choose you.”

Agatha closed her eyes. Tears she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding slipped down her face effortlessly, as if they already knew where they were going. It was too much. It was everything.

She smiled.

“You terrify me,” she said, her voice thick. “Because I thought control would protect me, then you crashed in. Messy and reckless. And I let you. Worse… I wanted you to.”

And it was true.

She did. She wanted your chaos. She wanted life again. Agatha wanted to see herself through your idealistic eyes. If only for a moment, she wanted to feel proud of who she was.

“Stay until morning.” You said, with a soft, tired smile.

Agatha turned her head slowly. Returned the smile.

“I wouldn’t go anywhere else, honey.”

And, in a rare instant, Agatha allowed herself to stay. But this time, as the woman who had, finally, chosen and been chosen.

[...]

The prison smelled sour. The kind of place where even the concrete felt worn out, tired of carrying so many sins on its back.

Agatha sat in the visitation room like a judge presiding over court. She wore a flawless black trench coat, and the sunglasses dangled from her fingers like a weapon waiting for its cue.

She didn’t shake. Didn’t sweat. Didn’t feel fear.

She never felt fear.

When Tony Stark walked in, handcuffed, looking a little older and a bit less arrogant, Agatha didn’t smile. Her eyes followed him like a blade sizing up meat.

“Charming place.” He said as he sat across the cold metal table. The tone was still flippant, but his eyes... weren’t. His eyes searched her for cracks like a man watching his ship go down and still hoping his enemy is drowning too.

She crossed her legs and let her body settle into the uncomfortable chair with studied elegance.

“Must be missing your Cipriani dinners, Tony.”

He laughed, bitterly.

“You’re a cold-blooded bitch.”

“And you thought you could win. Thought you could blackmail me with those pictures, bend me with such... stupid threats.” Her long fingers tapped the table gently. “You really thought I would beg.”

“Everyone begs in the end. Even you.” He leaned forward, trying to regain control.

Agatha didn’t react. Just blinked, slowly. Then tilted her head slightly, like someone watching a wounded animal pretend it still had teeth.

“What hurts the most...” she said, softly, “is realizing even your vanity is predictable.”

Stark laughed again, but it sounded hollow. “You think you’ve won?”

“No, Tony. I know I have. Look at me,” she said, her voice sharpening. “Take a good look at the face of someone who won.”

The silence that followed was thick with ruins. The woman before him was forged of steel polished by tragedy, and that disturbed him more than the cell he now rotted in.

“This won’t last. You’ll fall, just like I did!”

Agatha stood. Slowly. Proudly. The room suddenly felt too small for her presence.

“Well, when that happens, if it happens, you won’t be around to see it. Because I always keep my promises, darling.”

She put on her sunglasses. The black frames sat perfectly on her aristocratic features, hiding the icy gleam in her eyes as she turned toward the door.

She left without looking back, met her driver, and departed. At the airport, her heels echoed through the terminal, lending her height and command.

That’s what the world saw: the invincible woman. No one would ever see the invisible cell she built for herself—one that, ironically, weighed less than the stares she had to endure her whole life.

She passed through the automatic doors with near-theatrical grace, but was quickly surrounded by a small swarm of reporters. Flashes, microphones, hurried voices.

“Mrs. Harkness! Any comments about your first week as Washington’s newly elected governor?”

“What are your first plans once you take office?”

Agatha stopped. Turned, with a half-smile, her sunglasses still in place. Her expression was that of someone who knew she had won—and who intended to savor every bitter crumb left in her enemies’ mouths.

“Well,” she said, bright and surprisingly lighthearted, “I plan to go back to the work I started during the campaign. Change. Progress. Washington needs a new story. And I’d like to help write it. But for now, after months of living off coffee and pre-debate nerves… I think I’ve earned a short vacation.”

Laughter filled the space. A collective exhale. She was charming. A woman who deserved to win, that no one would doubt her merits

With a short, elegant wave, Agatha turned again, led to the waiting private jet.

The luxury inside muffled all traces of the outside world. And there, just ahead—lying on her stomach on a long, narrow couch, legs swinging—you were waiting, reading a magazine.

For a split second, Agatha hesitated. Just because you were her entire weakness.

The young face looking up at her now was the mirror of everything she’d sworn never to need. And yet… there she was. Climbing the jet stairs, removing her sunglasses with measured grace.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” She said, that low, velvety voice wrapping around the cabin.

Your face lit up as you smiled.

“Actually, you’re just in time.”

She raised an eyebrow, settling into a seat.

“May I ask why?”

You bit your lip thoughtfully and crawled toward her like a spoiled cat until you were nestled in her lap. You laid your chin on Agatha’s shoulder and looked up with shining eyes, almost dangerously adorable.

“I was thinking about something...” you began, far too innocent to be trusted.

Agatha sighed, already bracing for chaos.

“Hm?”

“What if we got a bunny? You know how lonely I get when you’re not here.” You blinked slowly, knowing exactly how easily she gave in.

She let out a short, slightly nervous laugh. “A bunny?”

“Mhm.” You reached out, taking a ring from her finger and spinning it absentmindedly. “The mansion in Olympia is huge. Don’t blame me for wanting company.”

Agatha leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, as if asking the universe for patience. Then she looked at you again, with that mock-stern look she only used when trying—and failing—to hide how utterly charmed she was by you.

“I already gave you a car, expanded the closet, gave you an office at the governmental office, knowing very well it would complicate everything…” She paused for dramatic effect. “And now you want a ball of fur to replace me? What a greedy little baby…”

You pouted, burying your face in her neck like a pillow, and mumbled with a bratty, sweet voice:

“Please, mommy…”

Agatha rolled her eyes. But the smile came anyway—uncontrollable, inevitable, impossible to suppress when it came to you.

“You’re going to kill me, little girl.”

“But will you buy it?”

She sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a ‘don’t ask me for anything else for at least twenty-four hours’.”

You grinned, satisfied, as she resumed stroking your bare legs, like all of this was just the beginning of a delicious game that still didn’t have a name.

The phone buzzed on the armrest, and Agatha barely noticed it at first. Her gaze was still fixed on you, curled up in her lap like a spoiled, insolent little shadow.

But the insistent vibration pulled her back to the present. She slid her hand down discreetly, pulling out her phone and turning her body just enough so you wouldn’t see the screen.

It was Rio.

‘You did it.’

Below the message, a link from BBC News. The headline, stamped in bold red letters, jumped off the screen:

“Explosion in high-security wing kills Tony Stark and four other inmates.”

Ten injured. Massive fire. Cause still under investigation.

Agatha stared at the screen for a long second, and then she smiled. A wide smile, with teeth, with her cheekbones, with her eyes. A smile that seemed to rise from her spine.

Finally.

She was finally free.

From the arrogant gaze. From the veiled threats. From the blackmail. From the fear.

She would not fall.

Because Agatha Harkness keeps her promises.

The arm wrapped around her neck loosened as you shifted slightly away, unaware of the news that had just set the world’s headlines on fire.

“Speaking off…” you began, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a hint of nervousness, “where exactly are we going?”

Agatha tossed the phone onto a nearby table, still tasting the sweet flavor of victory on her tongue.

“I thought it might be nice to leave this winter weather behind,” she said, glancing out the jet window, where the runway was already beginning to blur with the smooth lift-off.

“The Caribbean. What do you think?”

You blinked, surprised, a slow smile forming on your lips.

“Really?”

She turned her face toward you, her blue eyes still sparkling, lighter than they had been in months.

“Happy 21st, my love.”

In chess, when the piece you choose is a pawn, something fundamental can happen—especially if it reaches the other side of the board. Because in this game, the pawn is the only piece that can transform.

It changes the entire game.

The humblest. The most expendable. The one everyone underestimates.

But with patience, strategy, and the courage to cross the entire battlefield.

You become the center of the board.

You become a threat.

You become the power.

~*~

The purpose of the story is to explore what happens when wounded, powerful, and morally ambiguous characters collide. I didn't write to justify or redeem anyone. I wrote to understand the limits of desire, guilt, power, and vulnerability. It's about the discomfort of feeling something for someone who is clearly not good, and what that says about us.

Thank you so much for reading!! See you someday! 😘❤️

Tag List <3

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#agatha all along #wlw post #agatha harkness x reader #checkmate #mommy k!nk #rio vidal #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lesbian smut #agatha harkness fanfic #dark fanfiction #angst #domme mommy

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claramelooo · 8 days ago

Note

Okay about the recent update. Why do i feel like Agatha is soooo fake. I mean the reader mentioned one other part of the story that when Agatha brokedown on national tv? (I think) when her husband died is soo real that no one suspected that she’s the one who really killed him.. is she manipulating again the reader? 😂

-Haru

Hey, Haru!! Hope you are doing great!!

Agatha is really a good actress lol 😂 she has to do what she has to do, but I know why you have this thoughts... It's hard to believe it's hard to believe someone you know is manipulative.

However, this time Agatha's not manipulating reader, don't worry! In the epilogue, the chapter will be narrated by Agatha's narrator, so you will see and feel everything from Agatha's perspective.

Hope I can see you tomorrow, baby Haru! Xoxo 😘

#checkmate #ask me anything #agatha all along #agatha harkness x reader #anon ask

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claramelooo · 9 days ago

Text

Checkmate (20/21)

Hey, little moths! Hope you're doing great! I have to say, I'm happy with the last chapter. I was fear, but how could I forget my babies are a bunch of filthy??

Anyway, hope you can enjoy this chapter! I tried to write the most real and credible ending for them. Let's go!

Enjoy it!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: angst, corruption and sex

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Longing makes you accept your dark side

Checkmate II

noun

1. is a game-ending situation where a player's king is under attack (in "check") and there is no possible legal move to remove the king from that attack.

One month had passed.

You hadn't gone to college, let alone your internship. You didn’t answer calls, didn’t reply to Sonya’s emails. You ignored even the most persistent messages from Darcy, Billy, and Sharon.

You just... couldn’t.

It felt like you were in a coma. Lying silently in a dark room, blanket pulled over your head to guard against the winter cold, the world outside knocking on your window, and you refusing to acknowledge it.

You didn’t cry anymore. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because it felt like you’d already cried everything out of you. It was like Agatha had stolen even that. The tears and the ability to feel without shattering inside.

You sat with your thoughts and they were cruel. They paraded through your mind like ghosts, demanding accountability—for everything you’d let happen, and everything you’d become.

God…

Was Carol okay?

You hated to admit it, but you wondered every day. Carol had been cruel. Carol manipulated you, used you—maybe even played a part in it all, but she was there at the beginning. She introduced you to the city; held your hand when things were new, even if she let go too soon.

Was it wrong to care?

Maybe.

But that was the real you.

Not Agatha’s damn project.

You’d spent the past few weeks trying to erase Agatha’s voice from your mind, but she was everywhere. In the news, in the subtext of every headline you couldn’t bear to read, in the speeches you wrote months ago.

You barely ate, or ate poorly. You slept only when your body collapsed from exhaustion. It felt like punishment and maybe it was.

After all…

You forged evidence, you ruined lives. But you saved a woman who told you, with some twisted sense of pride, that she killed her own husband.

You felt filthy inside with every cell of your body contaminated by her touch.

And still… You missed her.

Not Agatha, the Governor. Her. Your owner. Your Mommy. You missed the way she smirked when she challenged you; The muffled laugh when you said something stupid, the way she moaned “honey” against your lips after tearing you apart.

Anger became desire; desire turned into guilt, and guilt circled back to anger.

It was a cycle.

A closed loop that repeated endlessly.

You were alone. Worse than that… you were lonely. And somewhere deep inside, you started to wonder if you'd ever be who you once were again.

Or if, in some twisted way, Agatha had been right.

Maybe she really had shaped you. Maybe you were never as strong as you thought. Maybe this was the first time you were truly seeing yourself—no illusions, no lies, no escape.

"I know you're in there!" The relentless knocking snapped you out of your depressive monologue.

Billy’s muffled voice came through the door, laced with practiced patience.

"You’ve been skipping classes, blowing off your internship. You didn’t even go to Agatha’s conferences. Jennifer’s pissed! I can’t believe you’re throwing away the opportunity of your life."

You stood frozen in the kitchen, paralyzed. You’d finally mustered the energy to get out of bed and make something to eat.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice gentler now. “I’m not here to fight or judge. I just want to know if you're alive.”

Ugh. You hated how good he was at this.

“Billy, go away,” you whispered, clutching a wooden spoon. “Seriously.”

“No.”

“Billy…”

“Not leaving.”

You shut your eyes, exhausted, and turned off the stove. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Too bad, 'cause I brought cookies.”

You wanted to laugh, but you were too far gone. You just sighed and walked to the door.

“You don’t understand, Billy. I did something terrible. There’s no... no coming back.”

“I honestly don’t care.” He said, slipping inside before you could change your mind.

He stood in front of you, searching your face for something you couldn’t quite name.

“You don’t need to go back,” he said. “You just need to keep going.” He took a step closer, but you backed away before he could see the tears collecting in your eyes.

“W-where are the cookies?” You asked, trying to sound casual.

Billy chuckled a little. He knew that trick—it was the same one you'd used after your first heartbreak with Carol.

He held out the plate, wrapped in cling film. “Mom made them this morning. She’s worried.”

You took the plate like you didn’t care, but your mouth watered. As soon as you bit into one, you groaned. Still warm, and the chocolate chips melted on your tongue.

“She broke you, didn’t she?” Billy looked at you now, and what hurt most was what you saw in his eyes: pity.

You looked away, uncomfortable. “W-who did?”

Billy scoffed.

“I’m not an idiot. Harkness. What did she do?”

You swallowed hard and set the cookie plate down on the table, fighting the urge to throw up.

You nodded.

“Yeah, I saw it. The way you looked at her... like she was the sun. But you know, the sun burns, too.”

You let out a weak laugh.

“You’re poetic today.”

“That’s not poetry, that’s worry,” he paused. “You look like Mom did when Dad left. I couldn’t do anything back then, but I can now.”

He stepped forward and took your hands.

“Billy, there’s nothing you can do to help me.”

“Yes, there is,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can show up every day with cookies, talk nonsense until you smile, but most importantly… I can remind you who you are.”

That broke you, so much it made your heart ache. Billy was your friend, truly. He cared about you, and once again, the guilt clawed at your insides.

You loved him, but you weren’t ready.

“I’m sorry, Billy.”

And he answered like the best kind of brother life could give you: “For nothing. I’ll still be here when you're ready.”

He let go of your hands and gave you a small smile, then walked to the door and left.

You leaned your forehead against the door, exhausted. This depressive wave had lasted longer than you’d expected.

All you wanted was a bit of relief, something only a shower could offer.

So that’s what you did. You bathed in warm water, letting the sadness run down the drain and when you stepped out, wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping. For the first time in weeks, you felt a little lighter.

You threw on your Radiohead t-shirt, pulled on some shorts, and just as you were about to collapse back into bed, there was another knock at the door.

You smiled, faintly.

“I already told you, you’re not the Messiah, Billy,” you said, opening the door with your practiced grin. “But if you brought Paprikash this time, maybe I’ll—”

The world stopped.

She was there.

Agatha Harkness. Wearing a long, dark overcoat, hair impeccably tied up. But something was off—her eyes. Her eyes gave it all away. Exhausted and full, like she'd cried before coming here.

Your smile vanished instantly.

“You…” you swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

“I tried not to come,” Agatha replied. “I really did.”

Your hand gripped the doorknob like it was the only thing holding you up.

“Go away.”

“I can’t.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. You felt the weight of her presence pressing into you—like she had never truly left. Like she still lived under your skin.

“Why, Agatha?” Your voice came out low, tired. “Haven’t we had enough?”

She took a deep breath and wet her lips. There was something desperately fragile in that gesture.

“I’ve been a wreck in Olympia,” she finally admitted, stepping through the doorway. “I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t eat. Nick is gone, the team is new, the press is hounding me nonstop…”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t push her away either.

“But none of that destroys me as much as waking up every day and realizing you’re not there.”

Your throat tightened, and your heart did that stupid, familiar leap, as if you were still under the same spell.

She carefully removed her violet gloves and tucked them into her coat pocket, her eyes never leaving yours.

“You got me addicted to this unbearable, uncontrollable thing between us, and now… I don’t know how to live without it. Without you.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, as if shielding yourself from her words. As if they were acid.

“You just miss having something to control.”

“No,” she answered too quickly. “I miss someone who challenges me. Who sees me. Who takes me apart.”

She took another step, now close enough that you could smell her familiar perfume—your kryptonite.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” she whispered. “You showed me there are things even I can’t control. And God, it’s… terrifying, but so intoxicating.”

Your eyes finally met hers, and something clicked inside you, like a missing piece sliding into place.

She was here with no power plays, no manipulations. Just her. And you knew, she was telling the truth.

“I don’t know what we are,” you murmured, voice thick. “But I know what I feel when I look at you.”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening.

“Honey, please.”

The great Agatha Harkness was begging—with ocean eyes and lips that still tasted like hot chocolate like that time in Oregon.

The truth was, your pride was bruised. You had promised yourself this wouldn’t happen, that you’d shut yourself off from God and the world.

But here was your answer.

“Would you like some coffee?” You asked, unable to look at her.

The woman smiled, tears spilling freely.

“Yes, please.”

You turned away quickly, before she could follow. As you made the coffee, your heart hammered in your chest.

My God.

Agatha Harkness.

In your living room.

You carried the two mugs carefully, hands trembling slightly.

She was there. Curled under her own heavy coat, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched, as if she weren’t made of the steel she always projected. The newly undone bun made her hair fall loose around her tired face, and those hands—the ones that had set you on fire so many times—shivered quietly in her lap.

“Here.” You handed her the mug gently.

Agatha looked up with a vulnerability that wrecked you a little more inside, as if no one had ever offered her something so simple without expecting anything in return.

“Thank you.” She murmured, voice breaking.

You sat on the opposite end of the couch, turned slightly away, keeping a safe distance that, of course, meant nothing.

Because even apart, you were a magnetic field locked in collision.

You both took the first sip in silence. Only the sound of hot coffee being drunk, shared breaths, the hum of the waking city outside.

“I don’t know how to… do this right anymore,” Agatha began, voice low. “With you. With myself.”

You glanced down at your mug and gave a weak smile. “Funny. You always seemed to know exactly what you were doing.”

“I’m good at pretending.” She laughed, humorless, and you watched the mirth die in her eyes. “ But I’m not good at this. At needing. At wanting something so much it… knocks the ground out from under me.”

Your heart pounded.

“Are you talking about me?” You asked, voice softer than you’d have liked.

Agatha didn’t answer, just nodded. As if it hurt to admit, as if she was only here because she needed you more than she’d ever imagined.

More than she’d ever wanted to.

“I… I never meant for this,” Agatha began, her voice heavy with grief. “I never meant to lose myself. But that’s what happened. You… seeped into my bones. Into the cracks of what was left of me and I let you. I let you.”

You bit your lip, fighting tears.

“Every day we spent together,” she continued. “You… unraveled me. Peeled me back, layer by layer. And the worst part… the worst part was that you liked what you saw. Even the ugliest parts, mostly the ugliest ones.”

She took a shaky breath.

“And now I’m lost. Completely lost in you. Darling, I… I adore you. With every miserable piece of who I am.”

Your eyes betrayed you. The first tear fell, hot and solitary.

“I adore the way you challenge me, the way you look at me like I’m still someone. Like I haven’t become a political monster, or a murderer. Like I could still be… just a woman.”

Your chest tightened, and more tears escaped before you could stop them.

It was almost unbelievable.

This woman was undressing her soul in front of you.

“And I hate how much it terrifies me,” Agatha went on. “Because I know I don’t deserve you. But… letting go is killing me, piece by piece. I don’t want to let you go.”

Your eyes burned, but you swallowed the sob. This wasn’t the time to cry, not when she was tearing herself open like this.

“I don’t regret what I did. Killing that man freed me. In the end, it would’ve been him or me,” she took a sip of coffee, steadying herself. “But I regret dragging you into it. You’re just a girl… My little girl.”

And there it was.

That possessive pronoun she’d always used, the one you’d missed more than you’d ever admit.

“I was blind. With rage and resentment,” a tear rolled down her weathered face. “I thought everyone was the same, and that only I could save myself.”

Now you saw.

She was broken in a different way.

A desperate way.

A way that meant survival.

Literally.

“And when you did what you did, I knew. I wasn’t alone anymore. But it was too late…”

Agatha set her cup on the coffee table and knelt before you.

Your heart jumped, but you didn’t move.

“Tell me what to do to earn your forgiveness.” Her eyes were as blue as a winter morning sky.

Agatha was a beautiful woman. Beautiful, and fragile now.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You brushed your thumb over her tear-streaked cheek, watching as she leaned into your touch, craving it.

“Take off your clothes.”

You saw her eyes widen in shock. But you didn’t give her time to think—you grabbed her by the neck and kissed her fiercely.

Agatha let out a whimper, soft enough to make your skin prickle. Your tongues tangled like a slow, familiar dance.

When you finally broke for air, she pulled back, breathless.

Agatha obeyed, undressing with trembling hands, her mature skin pebbling under the chill of the room. And you watched like a starving hawk as her nipples hardened, pink and sensitive, inviting you.

She shuddered when your fingers traced her body, arching into your touch. You pulled her close, your bodies pressed together, heat clashing with the cold air around you.

“Mommy…” your voice came out rough, dripping with possession. “My poor, sweet Mommy…” your cold hands slid over her body, gripping the soft roundness of her ass.

Agatha shuddered at the beloved word, her winter-sky eyes glazed with submission and want.

You pushed her back gently, guiding her down to the floor again.

“My turn to take care of you.”

She watched you undress with hungry eyes and a dry mouth.

“Can I… touch you?” She asked.

You smirked, tongue between your teeth.

“You can do more than that, Mommy.” You knelt before her, bringing your faces level. Taking her hand, you pressed it to your breast, coaxing. And you nearly moaned at the contact.

Fuck, how you’d missed this.

Her fingers trailed down your stomach, finding the freshly grown curls at your mound, and you grinned. Agatha was right. Hair on a woman is delicious.

Now you couldn’t wait to nuzzle your nose there, breathing her in.

When your ring finger found her wet, pulsing entrance, Agatha gasped as you pressed against her—not entering, just teasing the sensitive flesh.

“Lie down.”

She obeyed, sinking onto the cold hardwood, cheeks flushed, those always-demanding eyes now dark with surrender.

You settled over her, hips slotting together. The hot, slick friction made Agatha moan, her hips rolling instinctively, seeking more. You pinned her wrists above her head, taking control for the first time.

Your bodies moved in sync, the slide intense and filthy, every motion designed to wring choked sighs and whimpers from her. The frigid air turned your ragged breaths to mist, but your skin burned, marked by passion.

Agatha arched off the floor, hard nipples dragging against yours. You bit her neck, and she cried your name, thighs trembling around you.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” her fingers clawed at your back, nails scraping lightly.

You grinned, wicked, speeding your rhythm, feeling her body coil tight, ready to snap.

“Oh, I think you can, Mommy.” Your cunts were so wet the sound was obscene. “Fuck, I’m dripping. Missed this so much. Missed you…”

Agatha broke. A muffled scream tore from her as she shuddered, legs locking around you while pleasure wrecked her.

“Say it again… please.” The older woman begged, body still shaking.

You ground down harder, swollen clits sliding together just like your mouths had earlier.

“I fucking love you!” You spat it out, just as lost as she was, your own climax building. “Fuck! Fuck! I missed you so fucking much!”

Agatha’s hips stuttered beneath you, tipping you both over the edge. She was losing control, muscles fluttering, thighs squeezing yours like a vise. You held her through it, drawing out every spasm, every gasp, until she went boneless in your arms—panting and utterly yours.

You kissed her then, devouring her whimpers, tasting her surrender.

Breathless, you collapsed beside her on the hardwood. Silence settled, broken only by your racing hearts.

Then, softly, Agatha spoke:

“I think I love you.”

Your heart stopped.

You searched her face for deceit but found none, just her raw and unwavering gaze. The intensity of it stole your breath.

“I… I’m not sure,” she admitted, suddenly shy. “I don’t know if I can love someone. I can’t promise. I—

You considered it.

It might be true. Agatha was ice and calculation, after all. The sociopath who’d killed her husband.

Yet an image flashed in your mind: a woman with a pregnant soft belly and bare feet, hands cradling her bump, smile crinkling her blue eyes when she mentioned Nicky. And was that who made you wonder if she wasn’t capable of love.

And right then, you decided to gamble.

“Agatha.”

You cut her off gently but firmly, voice still rough from exhaustion but clear enough to be felt.

She turned slowly, eyes still ashamed, still wet—caught between fear and the desperate need to be understood. The great Harkness, lying bare beside you, fragile, more woman than legend now.

“You don’t have to promise me anything,” you murmured. “I don’t want a vow, just a choice.”

She blinked, slow, trying to parse it.

“Choose me. Every day,” you traced her cheek. “Even the hard days. Even the days you want to run. Because I know you, Agatha. Every ugly, broken, dangerous part and I’m still here. I still choose you.”

She shut her eyes, as if your words were too much to hold, and two tears slipped free. Yet… she smiled.

“You terrify me,” she whispered. “Because I thought control would protect me, then you crashed in. Messy and reckless. And I let you. Worse… I wanted you to.”

You smiled back, trembling, full to bursting.

“Stay till morning.”

She huffed a laugh, tangling her fingers with yours.

“I wasn’t planning to leave, honey.”

~*~

Wasn't cute?? 🥹🤏🏻 See you in the Epilogue

Tag List <3

#agatha all along #wlw post #agatha harkness x reader #checkmate #mommy k!nk #rio vidal #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lesbian smut #agatha harkness fanfic #dark fanfiction #angst #domme mommy

108 notes · View notes

claramelooo · 14 days ago

Text

CHECKMATE (19/21)

Hey, loves! About this chapter... come here for a second, let’s have a talk.

Firstly, read the warnings carefully. I know you’re excited, but read them. Because later on, I don’t want to see comments or anonymous messages saying you’re disappointed.

This is a dark story. Fiction. In AAA, Agatha is not a good person. She killed people, and that’s not justifiable. This story dives into the dense, uncomfortable, and complex sides of these characters.

If you aren't feeling ready for this, it's okay! Mommy got you. You can close the tab now and go find something that hugs you in different ways.

But if you choose to stay, stay with your eyes open and your heart prepared. I wrote this story with purpose—and with respect. I expect the same from those who read it.

Are we clear? Good. Let’s go!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, manipulation, power dynamic, darkness, murder mention, sex, strap on, anal sex and angst.

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: the revelations are dark, but you didn't expect to feel what you felt.

Checkmate I

noun

1. is a game-ending situation where a player's king is under attack (in "check") and there is no possible legal move to remove the king from that attack.

You were standing across the street from the police station. Waiting. The sun rose as if it didn’t need permission, the birds were singing despite everything, and you felt jealous.

Life moved on. No matter what.

You were still angry at her, at the way she tossed your love aside. Angry at Carol, for how she always took advantage of you. Angry at yourself, for never seeing it sooner and for letting Agatha slip under your skin.

A black SUV pulled up in front of you, and from inside stepped a man far too well-dressed for 6 a.m.

“Miss. Mrs. Harkness is expecting you.” He said, opening the back door of the car.

A tired sigh escaped your lips, but you didn’t question it. You got in, and were driven back to Harkness Manor and being here again made something twist deep in your gut.

At the entrance hall, you were greeted by a maid, not the same one as last time. Boxes were scattered across the house.

Of course.

Agatha must be moving to Olympia, right?

Governor life awaits.

Good for her...

You walked the halls, passing framed pictures of Nick, an exact copy of the woman, except for the brown eyes. There were some photos of a younger Agatha, but none with Thanos.

One picture in particular made you smile.

Agatha, heavily pregnant, beaming. Wearing denim overalls, barefoot on the green backyard grass.

She looked genuinely happy, fulfilled.

You reached out to touch it and then…

“You came.” The voice of the woman who had become your nightmare cut through the air, and looking at her hurt so fucking much.

Hair pulled back in a low ponytail, casual clothes, tired expression, but it was her bare feet that made you smile.

“You called.” You shrugged, feigning indifference.

“I did,” she agreed. “Go to the kitchen and eat something. I’ll join you soon.” She commanded, as always. But you were too drained to argue. The last few hours had been hell.

In the kitchen, a long, well-stocked table met your eyes. Your stomach growled, suddenly aware of how empty it was.

When was the last time you ate?

Oh, right.

Two full days ago.

You sat down and started eating. Fruits, breads… and strawberry cake.

A smile tugged at your lips.

Of course.

Agatha was cold. Harsh. But she had an elephant’s memory! She remembered everything about you—the small things, especially.

When she returned, her aura had shifted. Hair down, framing her mature face, clothes too formal to be homewear. You glanced down—uh-huh. Heels. Okay, this wasn’t going to be friendly.

“I see you liked breakfast.” Agatha said, walking to the coffeemaker, pouring herself a cup like there wasn’t a wall of resentment between you.

“And I see you still like pretending everything’s fine.” You shot back, dropping your fork to the plate.

She smiled, tired. That weary kind of smile of someone who’s fought too many battles already. But her ocean eyes locked onto yours like they could cut, like they could tame.

The Harkness hurricane was back.

“I don’t pretend. I sustain,” she said, sipping her coffee. “The difference is subtle, but vital.”

You scoffed, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed.

“Of course. Because everything with you is about control, huh? Even the fucking way you love.”

“Tsk. Watch your tone. You’re in my house.”

You rolled your eyes, but let out a smug little smile. Unbelievable, how controlling she could be.

But would she stay that composed once you told her everything she still didn’t know?

“You should be worried, Governor,” you said, rising from your seat, straightening your posture. “They're going to come for you. They're going to try and burn everything you built.”

You played your hand with too much confidence, but you just forgot you were facing Agatha Harkness.

Her brow arched. “Oh? Do you know something I don’t?”

You swallowed hard, trying not to flinch. “Stark’s been arrested.”

“Ah,” she chuckled softly, without mirth. “I wonder why…”

“For fraud and money laundering...” you said carefully. “And for the murder of Thanos.”

And that’s when something inside you started to unravel, because Agatha Harkness, the widow of Washington… Smiled. She smiled. And walked out of the kitchen into the living room like nothing mattered, leaving you standing there, frozen.

You watched as she sank into a leather armchair by the fireplace, legs crossed with a queen’s grace—because that’s what she was.

“Stark killed Thanos?” She hummed, loking away to stare at a bucket with a strategically placed bottle of champagne. “Can’t say I remember that.”

You stopped halfway toward her. “What?”

“He was important. A strategic ally in the beginning, nothing more. But the problem with powerful men, honey,” she whispered, like sharing a secret, while popping open the champagne bottle to pour two flutes. “Is that they forget how much intelligent women notice in silence.”

And then it all came back.

The way she’d mention Thanos with pride in public, but never grieve him in private. How sudden Banner and Rogers’ arrests were, as if planned.

You remembered Natasha saying the Thanos case had been reopened, which meant it was once under investigation but closed before anything was ever solved.

You looked at her, tears welling in your eyes. Agatha, sitting like a queen on a throne.

Oh my God.

It’s been Agatha all along.

She tilted her head, studying your expression like she was admiring a painting in a gallery.

“Oh my God… Oh my God…” you repeated it like a sacred chant, wishing it were a lie.

But she went on.

“Stark was useful,” she said plainly. “But he was always just a boy too eager to play king, and Thanos… Thanos could never stand that I had a brain.”

You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t even process it.

“You… you killed Thanos.” You said at last, voice tight in your throat.

She raised her flute, toasting you.

“Checkmate, honey. You did it,” a proud smile. The gentle clink of glass against pearl-white teeth. “We did it.”

You stepped back with the air feeling thicker. Sounds more distant, like the world had collapsed beneath your feet.

“You killed Thanos.”

Agatha let out a low, lazy laugh.

“Oh, Jesus. Don’t look at me like I committed a sin.”

“But… he was your husband.”

“He was a stone in my path,” she replied, unfazed. “Thanos never wanted me to be greater than him. Ever. From the beginning, he wanted power, the spotlight… But he couldn’t stand the idea of a brilliant woman standing beside him.”

She leaned forward, eyes flickering with a dangerous, magnetic flame you’d never seen before.

Over the months by her side, you’d felt it all.

Obsession.

Fascination.

Rage.

Passion.

But never fear. And now you were so scared you could’ve pissed yourself. You were frozen, like a rabbit playing dead to avoid being eaten alive.

“And when he decided he’d run for governor, and I’d just be his First Lady…” she let out a bitter laugh. “That was the last straw.”

“But I saw,” your voice cracked. “I saw you crying on TV. Suffering. You looked… shattered.”

She leaned back again, sipping champagne as if savoring a fond memory.

“You need to craft an image that makes people truly mourn your loss. Perfect and brilliant.” She spoke as if it were advice you ought to follow.

Your heart was shattered into pieces, your head throbbing.

“Agatha, what did you do?” You asked her, asked yourself. Your tears already falling uncontrollably.

“Did you think I’d let him destroy me and walk away happier than ever? I would’ve done it all alone, but you showed up at the perfect moment, despite everything.”

Your chest ached.

“You used me.”

“At first, yes,” Agatha agreed, shifting uncomfortably on the upholstery. “You were a good distraction. So young and idealistic, a blank page for me to write on.”

You closed your eyes, fighting for control.

“But then… you started seeing me. Not the politician, but the woman. You crawled into my head like a little mouse, under my skin.”

She said it with disdain, as if the mere thought of straying from the plan was unforgivable.

“Why… why did you do this to me?” The sobs left your body weak, knees nearly buckling.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her façade slipping. “I really tried to keep you out of it. Fuck. How I tried! But by the time I realized, you were already in too deep. So I decided it was time to watch you bloom.”

You choked on your own spit.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! You fucked with my head!” Your voice came out ragged, a mix of sobs, screams, and self-loathing.

And she laughed.

Not a light laugh.

A devil’s laugh.

The kind that didn’t need justification because the world was already beneath her feet. Agatha stood then, and the heels made her naturally taller than you.

Intimidating you.

“I made you smarter. Stronger. I pushed you to rise to my level.” She tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet hers. “I created you.”

Your body reacted.

In the worst possible way.

Your pupils dilated at her filthy, twisted words. A shameful heat pooled between your thighs.

“You learned fast. Forged documents, deceived authorities, lied with tears in your eyes.” She stepped closer, gaze locked on yours. “You wanted to protect me, but deep down, you wanted to be me. You wanted control. Power. That coldness.”

Her hand pressed against your chest, over your frantic heartbeat.

“You’re not innocent, honey. You’re my masterpiece.”

Agatha closed the distance, whispering in a low, dangerous tone. You were so close you could feel her breath against your lips.

“No.” You whispered, but it came out a moan.

She dragged her tongue over your lips, teasing you to accept this dark, twisted thing between you.

“I made you.”

You whimpered, eyes rolling back at the soft, slick heat of her tongue. You remembered yourself months ago—vulnerable, naive, trying to fit into worlds that didn’t want you.

And now, here you were.

Filthy with power and desire.

“You broke me.” That was all you could manage against her mouth.

Agatha smiled, almost gentle now.

“And rebuilt you. Into a woman the world now fears. One who can topple empires with a whisper. Don’t you see?”

Her hands were on you, sliding over every curve, squeezing, claiming.

No fear.

A flicker of self-control surged and you shoved her away, turning your face before she could kiss you.

“I’m not like you!"

“Of course you are,” she murmured, tracing your lips with her thumb. “You’re just afraid to admit it, but you love this. I know you do.”

Your heart hammered, breath shallow.

You hated how well she knew you, hated even more how much you still wanted her.

“I bet you’re so wet down here…” the hot whisper against your ear melted you back into her arms.

Agatha’s hands explored without permission, finding your swollen clit, aching for her. “Oh, I knew Mommy’s little girl would be so ready for me.”

You arched into her, desperate to grind, to ride her.

Her blood-red nails scraped lightly down your waist as she dragged her lips over your neck, leaving a trail of hot saliva.

“Still resisting?” She laughed low, like a warning. “After everything I’ve put inside you… after all the times you’ve moaned my name?”

Her fingers slid down possessively, finding the wetness that betrayed you. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the moan, but failed miserably when she rubbed slow, torturous circles.

“Look at you… so obedient. So… mine.”

You tried to turn away, but she gripped your chin, forcing you to meet her dark, promise filled eyes.

“You think you can run from what we are? I taught you to crave this, honey. Taught you to need it.”

She worked you over your panties, your body writhing. You cried out, but she covered your mouth, muffling the sounds as her fingers moved cruelly.

“Shhh… no need to pretend. I can feel you pulsing around me. Are you still ashamed? After all those nights you begged for more?”

Your body betrayed you, clenching around nothing as Agatha’s voice dripped poison in your ear.

“You’re mine. Made by me. Broken by me. And now… you’re going to come like the good girl you are.”

And you hated how your body obeyed.

The orgasm hit like a black tide, dragging you into the abyss Agatha had carved into your soul. When your legs gave out, she held you with a victorious smile, kissing you like a brand of ownership.

“Good girl. Now let’s go upstairs, we have celebrating to do.”

Your legs moved before you could stop them. The bedroom was empty, just a king-sized bed with pristine white sheets.

“The change will happens tomorrow. Sorry for the mess, darling,” she whispered, hugging you from behind, apologizing out of politeness, not remorse. “But I didn’t really call you here for that.”

She turned you to face her. Her heterochromatic eyes burned brighter than you’d ever seen, like she was naked for the first time in months.

Hypnotic.

Agatha hypnotized you.

“Agatha, I—”

“Say you want this,” she cut in, voice trembling. “Please.”

And you couldn’t stop the words: “Please… I want this.”

She stepped closer, breath uneven, a smirk playing on her lips.

“You want it? Want Mommy to take care of you?” Her fingers teased the hairs at your nape.

You looked down, ashamed. “Yes, please.”

The mattress dipped under your weight as she pushed you onto it.

Agatha slid down your body, lips blazing a trail from your collarbone to your navel. She paused there, breath hot against your throbbing cunt.

“You did so well, my masterpiece…” she murmured, voice rough with perverse pride. “Did everything to protect Mommy.”

Her tongue dragged a slow, torturous path to your clit, making you whimper and arch.

“Rio was impressed,” she whispered, lips brushing your folds as she spoke. “So impressed… I got jealous.”

She plunged her tongue inside you—deep and possessive—sucking with precision that made you see stars. You clawed the sheets, lost in the rhythm.

“Easy, darling. We’re just getting started.” She watched your legs tremble before her.

“M-Mommy… p-please!”

God… Fuck, you were so wrecked.

You should’ve been furious, raging at her. Feeling betrayed, used. But here you were, surrendering to the woman who’d forged you in an iron furnace of her own making.

You should’ve been livid. Instead, you were honored. Honored by her—a woman too busy for her own son, yet who’d now woven you into a design where the two of you could never be torn apart.

Her tongue picked up its pace, and your own hung slack with want.

“Come for me,” she ordered, fingers digging into your thighs. “Show Mommy how her good girl says thank you.”

And your climax hit like a freight train.

Agatha rose, licking her lips—your taste still glistening on them. Her thumb slid back, pressing against your virgin asshole with an intimacy that made you shudder.

“I saw Rio yesterday. She said something… curious,” her thumb circled slowly. “‘You chose well,’ she told me. Now, what do you suppose she meant by that, hmm?”

Your blood turned to ice.

What the fuck?

“She… she was in on it?” You stammered, eyes wide.

Agatha laughed—low and sweet—as her thumb pressed harder.

“Honey, Rio was the one who encouraged me. And oh! It was delicious watching you try to use her as a shield.”

Her hands flipped you onto your stomach, fingers lacing with yours. “But let’s be clear, Mommy doesn’t share.”

She yanked your hair back by the roots, forcing a gasp from your throat before shoving you face-first into the mattress.

You heard her moving around the room, rummaging through drawers.

“Regardless, I’ll give you something to remember this by.”

Your cheek pressed into the crisp white sheets, it was the exact opposite of what you were about to become.

Silence hung thick, but the air screamed. Your mind split between two voices: one begging for escape, the other aching for her to take you from behind while whispering just how alike you were.

Fuck.

You were so screwed.

“Thanos died in the restaurant where he took me for our last anniversary.”

Her voice was melodic, remorseless.

One of the things that had always fascinated you about Agatha was her ability to sound regal, dignified, even when discussing the unspeakable. And now was no exception, even after committing murder, she spoke as if she’d bestowed upon humanity some grand mercy—or at least, upon herself.

“Stark procured the poison,” her icy fingers traced your spine, raising goosebumps. “Something discreet. Undetectable in standard tox screens and I… just smiled and nodded like a proper little wife should.” The irony dripped from her words. She was enjoying this feeling you tremble beneath her.

Your fists clenched the sheets with tears pricking your eyes.

This woman was dangerous. All you could think of was how you’d threatened her at the start. Christ, she could’ve erased you in a heartbeat.

But she hadn’t.

Instead, Agatha had welcomed your fingers right well inside her. She’d plunged into this twisted dance knowing it would ruin you and though she’d fought tooth and nail to resist, she’d only proven one thing.

Some sins are too sweet not to commit.

And how did it feel to be a murderer’s favorite sin?

Well… you refused to answer with words. Instead, you let the tears fall—and maybe that was answer enough.

“You…” your voice cracked, raw. “You watched him die?” It came out broken, hoarse.

You couldn’t be turned on by this, could you?

Agatha chuckled, draping herself over you, letting you feel something hard and slick against your ass.

The strap.

“Convulsing. Face turning purple. Spit frothing from his lips and I… watched.”

Your body shook.

Everything inside you was chaos—guilt, fear, lust. You didn’t understand why, but your mouth watered.

Agatha Harkness had turned you into a monster.

“Agatha, this is…”

You swallowed hard as the strap pressed against your lubed hole. The cherry-scented lube mixed with her woody perfume—sweet and sharp, like everything between you.

“Breathe,” she murmured, voice soft but unyielding. “And accept what you are. Mommy’s little fucktoy.”

She pushed in slowly, relentlessly. You screamed, but Agatha muffled it with her palm.

“Shhh… It hurts at first, baby. Let’s go slower.”

Her tone was gentle. Like she hadn’t just admitted to killing her husband.

Your cunt dripped.

“Oh? Look who’s eager…” she stopped thrusting to tease your soaked folds with her fingers.

“M-Mommy…”

God, you were a mess.

“I’ll only move again when you beg for it. Otherwise, I’ll edge this pretty little pussy until you pass out.”

She spread you open with two fingers, rubbing your clit with a third.

You felt so fucking full.

“Mommy, more! Please!”

Agatha hummed—darkly pleased—and obeyed.

Your body adjusted, pain melting into perverse pleasure. She curved over you, breasts pressed to your back and lips at your ear.

“You were saying… 'This is'… what?”

You arched, trying to form words as the strap nudged deeper.“It’s… Oh! So good!” Overstimulated, overheated—your mind was hazy with need.

Agatha thrust, only halfway in.

“That’s what I thought.” She spat into her hand, slicking the strap further.

Her breath scorched your neck, words a blade of possession and twisted adoration:

“Perfect… So perfect for me.” Her fingers played with your spread cunt, rubbing your clit with her palm. “The way you shake… the way you moan… the way you take every inch of what I give you…”

She sheathed the strap to the hilt and you choked on pleasure.

“Even the pain… you make it beautiful for me. Something that’s mine. Not Rio’s. Not Jennifer’s. Mine, god…dammit!”

Your eyes rolled back at her brutality.

“Say it,” she pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. “Tell me who this belongs to.” Her fingers pinched your clit, a delicious threat.

“O-only… M-M-Mommy!”

Agatha’s teeth sank into your shoulder, making you shriek.

“Yes. This heat… this need… You think it’s just lust? Just submission?”

She laughed—dark and dangerous—as she set a punishing rhythm, the strap pounding your ass, her fingers hammering your G-spot. You were just meat now, trembling between ecstasy and something bottomless.

“It’s more, so much more,” she hissed, voice rough with something that terrified you. This wasn’t just a killer who’d murdered her husband.

It was a killer who’d murdered her husband and cherished you.

Fuck!

So fucked up.

So good.

"You fill… a void not even his blood could fill," the admission came like a slash—totally raw and sudden. "You make me feel… things… things that don’t make any sense. Things that—"

She faltered.

The movement inside you stopped abruptly. Her thumb froze against your throbbing clit. Her breath, once controlled, turned uneven.

You felt her chest press against your back, her heart hammering against your shoulder blades. A heavy, charged silence fell over you both.

And when she spoke again, her voice was strangely fragile—almost a tremor disguised as anger.

"...Things I shouldn’t feel for a toy."

The near confession hung in the air, more electric than any touch. The words implied in that phrase burned hotter than the strap.

Agatha recovered with a snarl, driving into you with sudden fury, as if punishing you for hearing, for almost understanding.

"But toys don’t need love, do they?" Her fingers attacked your cunt with renewed roughness, almost painful. "They need an owner. A mommy. Someone to use them until there’s nothing left."

She bit your neck—an animalistic snap of possession—as she quickened her pace, trying to drown that dangerous admission in the brutal flood of sensation wrecking your body.

You screamed, no longer sure if it was from pleasure, pain, or the desperate realization that in the abyss Agatha was dragging you into, there was something far more terrifying than the strap or her fingers: a real feeling, from the woman who’d killed for less.

"You love it, don’t you?" Agatha observed, not as a question but as fact. And as she moved inside you, every thrust was confirmation. "Love being the only one who knows what I am. The only one I’ve let see the mess… the chaos…"

You gripped the pillow, muffling a moan too loud—a sound that betrayed pleasure, not regret. She laughed, low and rough, and you felt more bites along your skin.

"This is what we are now," she panted, speeding up. "Two monsters. Two sinners. And you… you fucking love it."

And you did.

Every inch of it, every twisted, nameless feeling. You loved being the only one who could read her with just a glance.

"That’s why you did it, isn’t it? Because you love this."

You were full of her.

The strap plunging into your ass, her fingers massaging your G-spot with cruel precision, the way Agatha whispered in your ear, as if every word was a thread pulling you deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

"M-Mommy!"

Your body trembled, your cunt clenching around her fingers, every movement making filthy, wet sounds.

You felt something building inside you—a hot, uncontrollable pressure, as if you were about to…

"Oh?" Agatha arched a brow, watching your spasms intensify. "Looks like someone’s right on the edge, huh?"

With a wicked smile, she curled her fingers deeper, hitting that spongy spot that drove you wild.

"Mommy—!" You cried, legs shaking, begging without words.

"Shhh… Almost there, princess," she murmured, pistoning her fingers brutally, her palm slapping your clit with every thrust. "Come for me, babygirl. Make a mess for Mommy."

And then—fuck, God—she pressed down on your clit.

It was like a trigger.

Your body arched, stomach muscles clenching violently…

"A—AGATHA!"

A hot gush burst from you, drenching her fingers, the sheets, your own thighs—an uncontrollable flood of pure pleasure, as if your body was melting from sheer sensation.

Agatha laughed, low and triumphant, as she kept rubbing your clit, drawing out every wave of ecstasy until you were gasping, breathless, ashamed—yet still begging for more.

But she didn’t let you rest. You didn’t know what time it was, but you were sure the sun had long set by the time Agatha finally gave you a reprieve.

You were exhausted, eyelids fluttering, vision still blurred with pleasure. Thoughts swirled in your head from her obscene confession to the twisted things it had awakened in you.

You couldn’t have been turned by the fact that Agatha was a killer.

Could you?

You’d always hated that man and everything he stood for, but this was different. She had done it. Agatha had pulled the strings of that dark theater. She’d killed someone—her own son’s father—with cold precision, with planning, with surgical calm.

And you? You’d come in her arms.

Your body ached. Every part of you throbbed with filthy pleasure, soaked in guilt and a strange, new fascination.

Nothing felt solid anymore.

Not the world.

Not you.

I’m not like this, your mind echoed between blinks. But… what if you are? What if you’re as corrupted as she is? Or worse: what if you were in love with her because of it?

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Agatha’s smug, filthy grin, that dirty mouth that called you "my little slut," that tongue that confessed murder like it was a bouquet of roses.

You groaned, frustrated.

This shouldn't have turned you on.

But it was.

Maybe because, out of everyone, you were the only one who saw her—not as the governor, the widow, or the prodigy’s mother.

You knew the woman behind the makeup, behind the expensive whiskey and the coldly calculated words. You knew how her eyes trembled when she was afraid, how their color shifted when she was angry or aroused. You knew the taste of her guilt, the scent of her desperation.

And you knew, too, just how lonely she was.

In a way, it made Agatha complete you; two lonely souls fusing into one.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe what turned you on wasn’t Agatha the killer. It was the fact that, for the first time, she had needed you.

Not to forge, not to obey. But to stay, and you had.

Even knowing what she’d done. Even knowing there was no going back. Even tasting the poison between her thighs and loving every drop of it.

You buried your face in the pillow, stifling a sudden, desperate sob.

What the hell were you becoming?

"You should come to Olympia with me."

The governor’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. As if she were offering you a job.

Your body froze.

"What?" Your voice came out hoarse, broken in a disbelieving whisper.

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She shifted beside you, as if adjusting to discomfort—in the mattress, in her skin, in the world. When she spoke again, her tone was neutral, almost clinical.

"Nick is leaving soon. He’s going to Juilliard for theater," she stared at the wall. "I’ll be alone all the time."

You blinked.

No. Fuck no.

You’d let her drag you under, crossed every line for her. You’d forged documents, covered up a murder—even if unknowingly.

You’d betrayed yourself.

And now she wanted you by her side. As what? As her shadow? As her accomplice? As her lover—a brilliant murderer?

Was Agatha implying what you thought she was implying?

“No. I…” you were still trembling from the rounds of sex, from all the revelations. “Even though I did what I did… it was out of love, Agatha. I’m not happy about it... I’m certainly not proud of it.”

You pulled away from her as if shocked, as if your own nakedness burned. You reached for your clothes, scattered on the cold marble floor, and began dressing with shaky, clumsy hands. The damp panties, the shirt still steeped in her perfume. Everything made you want to vomit and cry at the same time.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was steady.

“Leaving.” You answered, barely able to look at her.

“Leaving won’t erase the fact that you loved every second of it.”

She stood there, naked, unashamed. Her body was toned, sculpted despite her age. Her wild, loose hair was hypnotic.

The woman who had killed her own husband—the woman who had made you her accomplice—now seemed genuinely baffled that you wanted to walk away.

For the first time, she was the one trying to convince you to stay.

To accept this.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not disgusted with myself, Agatha,” your voice wavered. “I’m not like you. I don’t want to be like you.”

You grabbed your bag with unsteady fingers, every step toward her door cutting you open from the inside.

“Then go!” She spat. “Go, and don’t come back!”

And so you left.

Without looking back. Without letting her see how your body still ached for her, how your heart still wanted her, or how, now, your soul would never be pure again.

~*~

Do you wanna a hug, right now? Or you want to confess something to mommy, huh?

Tag List <3

#agatha all along #wlw post #agatha harkness x reader #checkmate #mommy k!nk #rio vidal #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lesbian smut #agatha harkness fanfic #dark fanfiction #angst #domme mommy

141 notes · View notes

claramelooo · 17 days ago

Text

CHECKMATE (18/21)

Look, things are going to get really difficult now. Rotten as politics...

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warning: angst!

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Victory came, but R still has to choose.

Epiphany

noun

1. a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

“I’m here to file a report.”

You said, steady.

That got her attention.

The speaker’s eyes narrowed, suddenly alert. She leaned her hip against the edge of the desk, arms crossed.

“Oh, really? About what?”

You stepped closer, just one step, but it was enough.

“About Tony Stark.”

Rio let out a quiet laugh.

“You’re serious? Look, sweetheart…” she moved toward you, her smile edged with condescension. “I get it. I really get it. You’re young, probably hate capitalists and billionaires. Trust me, I do too,” she added, feigning camaraderie. “But don’t you think this is going a bit too far?”

Your eyes rolled so hard it hurt.

You were so done being reduced to someone’s idea of identity politics.

You held her gaze.

“He’s involved in money laundering, and… he’s connected to Thanos’s murder.”

Rio stilled.

The smirk vanished. For the first time, her eyes sharpened with genuine interest.

“That’s a serious accusation, Miss. Do you have any evidence?”

No, you didn’t.

Truthfully, you barely had access to any real information, but you needed her attention and now you had it.

“Yes.” You lied, flatly.

A bold-faced lie, but you didn’t flinch.

She looked at you differently now. No longer as an idealist, but a potential threat.

“What kind of evidence?”

You took a breath, straightened your spine, eyes fixed on hers. Lying was risky, but backing down wasn’t an option.

“Oh, come on. Stark’s been in power for years. Weird stuff was bound to pop up. Suspicious wire transfers to a company… what was the name again?” You tapped your chin theatrically. “LuxTech. A company that filed bankruptcy in under two years. Names linked to Mr. Harkness, and a series of unusually large transactions around the week of his death.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest.

“What surprises me is that you don’t already know about it.”

The provocation landed.

Something in Rio shifted. Her ego stung, she visibly bristled.

“Watch your language, girl.”

Silence.

You looked away deliberately, brushing off the warning.

“I’m compiling the files with a colleague who specializes in cybersecurity. I can have everything ready by the end of the week.”

You said it with calculated calm, as if it were already in motion.

Rio slowly moved away from the edge of the desk, circling you now, watching like you were a lit fuse.

“And why are you bringing this to me?”

“Because you have actual power,” you said. “And from what I can tell, you’re the only one Stark hasn’t bought,” you hesitated, then softened slightly. “You’re right. I have strong convictions, but this has to stop. People trust him with their lives while he deceives them. Am I really so wrong to speak up?”

Rio gave a small, crooked smile. Almost… impressed.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll admit that,” she said, walking back behind her desk. “But what do you expect me to do with all this?”

A faint smile curled your lips. You were getting through.

“I want you to start a formal investigation. Bring it to the Attorney General if you have to. Leak it to the press, if necessary.”

Rio leaned on the back of her chair, tongue brushing the corner of her mouth.

“You’re asking me to go after one of the richest men in the state based on data that could get you killed.”

“I’m giving you everything I’ve got,” you said. “Because he’s a threat. Not just to me, but to everyone,” you exhaled thinking in Agatha. “And I won’t let him get away with it.”

Rio stared for a long time, sizing you up.

Then she smiled again, differently this time. It was respect.

“Maybe Harkness chose well after all.”

You said nothing, just looked down at your phone, heart thundering.

Because there were things you’d do for Agatha Harkness.

[...]

The following days blurred into one chaotic stretch of time. Mornings at campaign HQ, only days remained until the election, and you were drowning in polls and progress reports; afternoons at the university, chasing your degree; nights on the phone with Darcy.

You both had grown closer since that day and now, Darcy was all in, digging through hidden state databases, searching for anything. A trail, a spark. Something.

But nothing surfaced.

Stark was clean when it came to Thanos’s death, and that terrified you more than if they’d found a smoking gun.

“Have you considered… maybe he didn’t do it?” Darcy had asked, hesitant.

But you couldn’t entertain the thought, not when you remembered the hollow look in Agatha’s eyes. The humiliation in her voice when she said he had blackmailed her.

That he was winning.

You couldn’t accept that.

You couldn’t let him hurt her and walk free. To threaten her with private photos. To touch her power with his greed. You couldn’t let him soil her victory, or destroy what the two of you had.

So maybe… the truth needed a little help.

“Maybe we make it so he did.” You said, voice rough, barely looking at the webcam.

Darcy made a sharp noise.

“What the hell are you saying? You want to forge evidence?”

You swallowed hard, nerves crawling under your skin.

“What? No! Come on, Darcy! That’s insane! I would never…”

She stared at you through the screen, reading you like a book.

You sucked at lying, always had.

“You know what? It’s late. We should get some sleep.” She said.

You agreed quickly, too quickly.

The call ended.

But you didn’t sleep.

Your pulse thudded in your ears, your palms were damping, just like your heart, racing with pure adrenaline.

You still couldn’t believe what you were about to do.

With trembling fingers, you opened a fiscal report detailing corporate donations linked to the Stark Foundation and several smaller, seemingly legitimate companies.

You copied the file, renamed it. Then you opened it in Adobe Acrobat and began to edit.

Your hands shook.

You replaced the tax ID of one ghost company with another—one you found on a list of defunct businesses. Authentic enough to pass, but obscure enough not to be flagged.

You altered the digital authentication stamp from the Federal Revenue Office, overlaying a distorted version to mimic scanning errors.

Then came the final touch: you inserted a large transfer, dated two days before Thanos’s death. A suspiciously high amount sent to an international security consultancy based in Geneva.

And in the fine print, a reference to Stark as an unofficial shareholder, hidden under a vague “strategic consultancy” clause, signed by a lawyer who, conveniently, had died two years ago.

Perfect.

Plausible.

And completely unethical.

Irrefutable enough to start a process, yet dubious enough that no one would dare dig too deep.

You exported the file under a new name, printed three copies, saved an encrypted version to a flash drive, and sent two copies to Ms. Vidal’s email.

Then… you went to the bathroom and threw up.

[…]

The week flew by after that, and thank God for that. Still, the silence from Rio’s inbox gnawed at you. You kept checking, rereading your email, waiting for anything, but nothing came.

And now, here you were.

Sitting on a campaign office chair with Billy and Sharon beside you, all three holding your breath as the vote count rolled in.

It was funny that any of you were still worried Agatha might not win. With both Banner and Rogers under suspicion, who in their right mind would vote for alleged murderers?

Exactly.

It was almost as if it had all been designed. Like Agatha was the protagonist of every story in that room.

The hours passed in a blur. With every confirmed city, every claimed district, the electoral map turned a deeper, bolder purple.

Harkness purple.

And then, at 5 p.m., a notification flashed across every screen:

AGATHA HARKNESS ELECTED GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF WASHINGTON.

The office erupted. Screams, claps, champagne, hugs, like everyone had known each other their whole lives.

And Agatha?

She walked moving like slow motion toward the center of the room. Calm, dangerously calm. Dressed in a purple gown that hugged her waist just right.

Everyone watched her like she was magic incarnate. The room fell silent the second she cleared her throat.

“I know you expected something inspiring right now. Tears, gratitude, a thank you to God, to my family, to tradition. But I’m not that kind of woman.” She smiled, a sharp smile. One you knew too well.

“You know me. You know I don’t believe in chance. I don’t think I won this election because the others were arrested. I won it because it was mine.”

Your throat dried.

She said it with such conviction, you realized: Agatha had never doubted the outcome, even for a second.

And that was terrifying.

Terrifyingly arousing.

“But I’m not an idiot,” she continued. “I know power alone doesn’t define me. I know that standing here is also… the result of alliances. Of trust. Of people who stood by me when everything seemed to collapse.”

You held your breath.

“This victory has many names,” she said, looking directly at you, raising her glass. “Thank you, all of you.”

The room burst into applause again, but the sound barely registered over the storm inside your chest. Because then, over the clapping, a new sound sliced through the room like a razor.

“Beautiful. Truly moving, Agatha.”

His voice filled the room. Elegant, smug, and unmistakable.

Tony Stark.

That cologne-ad smile, the flawless dark suit. That suffocating confidence that devoured every room he walked into.

You turned slowly, like you were seeing a ghost. Agatha kept her public smile—still standing tall—but her shoulders stiffened.

He walked up to her and took her champagne glass from her hand like it was his.

“Congratulations, my dear,” he said smoothly. “A well-deserved win.”

You were frozen.

“And the speech? Impeccable as always, but can we speak privately?”

He leaned in too close, his hand sliding across her waist like it had no right to.

Agatha hesitated. Then gave the team a small nod and followed him through a side door.

She didn’t look at you.

And you didn’t think, just followed.

You weaved between startled staff, slipping down a narrow hallway until you found a door left ajar.

Behind it... voices.

You held your breath.

“I warned you from the beginning,” Stark’s voice was low and deliberate. “You should’ve stepped down. Stayed by my side. This isn’t who you are. We had a plan, remember?”

A stifled breath.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Anthony.” Her voice was like steel.

She was holding herself back from slapping him across the face, you could feel it.

“Oh, I disagree.” His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. “The photos I have make me believe I hold quite a bit of power over what you do.”

Your body tensed.

He said it. He fucking said it.

The photos.

Nausea punched through your stomach.

Inside, silence fell. But it wasn’t peace, actually, it was that kind of silence that comes right before the explosion.

“You’re blackmailing me on the day of my victory.” Agatha didn’t ask, she declared. Her voice now a glacial whisper, sharp as broken glass.

“I’m saving you from yourself.”

Their voices were tight and restrained. You could practically feel how close they stood, how thick the air was with old history and jealousy started to gnaw at you like acid.

“Don’t you dare talk like you know me.”

“Why not?” His voice dipped, drunk with intimacy. “You used to let me.”

You swallowed hard, bile rising in your throat.

“That was a long time ago, and it meant nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Agatha. Or to yourself. We both know what we could’ve been, if you’d accepted the right role in this story.”

Silence again.

And for one terrible second, you thought she might hesitate.

But then came her answer:

“You’re a dead man.”

She said it low, lethal.

You had to physically stop yourself from bursting through the door. You loved her, and you were here, listening to this.

The man who blackmailed her, provoked her, spoke of a past you didn’t know and maybe didn’t want to.

Retroactive jealousy was ridiculous.

But here you were.

Ridiculous and helplessly in love.

You turned back, walking away, back to the crowded room. People whispered, buzzed with excitement—until finally, Barkley showed up.

“Hey there, sweetheart!” She approached with a dazzling smile. Blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair that somehow just worked on her.

In all your madness and obsession with Agatha, you’d barely noticed her.

Maybe you should have.

“Hiya. You heard the news?” You asked, even though you already knew Jennifer had moved on to work for another candidate.

That was her thing. Build the winning strategy, then vanish before the victory party. Jennifer liked the climb, the impossible odds.

That’s what made her a monster.

She gave a mock-humble pout, grabbing one of the forgotten champagne flutes.

“Of course I did. But let’s be honest, darling, this was strawberry cake,” she took a long sip and raised a brow. “Soft, sweet and boring.”

You laughed dry, but honest.

Jennifer Barkley said everything with such cutting cynicism that it looped back around into being… oddly charming.

And you wondered if she knew everything. Worse: had she made it happen?

“And who’s your next candidate?” You asked, trying not to look over your shoulder, trying to focus on the woman right in front of you.

Not on Agatha.

“Bobby Newport.”

You wrinkled your nose before you could help it. Jennifer laughed again.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, darling. His father offered over two hundred and fifty grand for six weeks. That’s non-negotiable. Republican or not.”

“So you do have a price?” You smirked.

“Don’t be naive. Everyone does. The difference is I charge enough to sleep well at night,” she downed more champagne, eyeing you now with a spark of something new. “But you… you still have that little flame of morality. It’s quite annoying.”

Oh, you knew.

Agatha never let you forget.

Jennifer looked you over, less judgmental and more intrigued.

“But I kinda like that.”

“Do you?” You asked, trying to sound indifferent.

Exactly that, trying.

“Sweet girl,” she said, stepping closer until your noses nearly touched. “You could be just as successful as I am. I have a good eye for talent.”

The provocation hovered between you, thick and suspended in the air. You felt your cheeks flush, but you didn’t look away.

Then, the murmurs in the room started rising, forcing you and Jennifer to step back.

The two politicians returned as if nothing had happened. And then...

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Stark called out, grabbing the room’s attention. “If I may…”

Agatha tried to move away. Her posture had gone stiff—cold—like a statue built to withstand shame.

You turned slowly, your chest tightening.

And Tony Stark got down on one knee. He pulled a small velvet box from his inner jacket pocket.

“Agatha Harkness,” he said, voice perfectly projected. “Governor, genius, and woman of my life. Will you make me the most honored man in whole America?”

The room erupted in shocked gasps and breathy whispers. No one had suspected how close those two truly were. Even Jennifer squinted in confusion at the scene.

And you?

You turned your back.

You didn’t even wait for the answer. You walked out, your steps sharp, fists clenched, tears hot on your face.

You didn’t know if it was rage, heartbreak, or the kind of love that bruises, but you knew one thing:

You couldn’t bear to hear her answer.

Because deep down... why would she ever choose you?

[...]

You made it home.

The door slammed behind you, echoing through the tile of the small kitchen. You dropped your bag on the floor, heels clattering awkwardly as you kicked everything in your path.

The noise of the world outside still rang in your ears. Her victory, Stark’s hand at her waist, the goddamn proposal.

Fuck.

You actually thanked God—out loud—that Carol wasn’t home. Maybe she was off on a one-night thing, maybe she had class.

Didn’t matter.

Who cared?

You needed to be alone. Alone, and yet… This felt like a different kind of loneliness.

You undressed slowly, as if peeling off the day along with your clothes. You walked naked into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water punish you.

The steam rose, and with it, the tears.

You cried in silence.

No sobs, no sound. Just tears tracing hot lines down your face, merging with the water running down your hair.

Alone.

Not because there was no one around, but because the one person you wanted... wasn’t yours.

And maybe never would be.

When you got out of the shower, dressed in an old T-shirt that belonged to your dad and soft cotton shorts, the world felt smaller.

Too quiet.

You dimmed the lights and settled into the couch, surrounded by cushions.

Everything felt so… empty. Maybe you should get a dog.

That’s when you heard the knock. You froze. Your first thought: Carol's back.

But Carol never knocks.

You stood up slowly, bare feet cold against the floor.

You opened the door, and honestly, your face showed nothing when you saw her.

Agatha Harkness.

The newly elected governor of Washington State.

Standing right there.

On your doorstep.

Her hair loose in soft waves, makeup a little faded, her ocean eyes heavy with something you couldn’t quite name.

You froze.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice came out low, but sharp.

“Can I come in?” She asked, restrained.

You hesitated.

“Don’t you have a proposal to celebrate tonight?” The bitterness escaped before you could stop it.

You saw something shift in her face. A muscle in her jaw twitched, but she didn’t reply right away.

You almost slammed the door in her face—childish or not, you didn’t care. But you didn’t, you left it open.

And she stepped inside.

The silence between you was unbearable.

Agatha walked a few steps into the room, eyes scanning the chaos—books, empty Snickers wrappers, your damp towel draped over a chair.

You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together.

“You here to pretend nothing happened? Or to tell me that what happened between us can’t happen again?”

“I came because you left without a word,” she finally said. Her voice was... strangely human.

“You let him touch you,” your heart was pounding with bitterness. “You let him kneel in front of you, and you said nothing.”

“I also didn’t say yes,” she spun around to face you. “I didn’t say yes. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t take the ring, I didn’t kiss that bastard. But you… you're the one who ran.”

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Your eyes welled up and your mouth dried. You didn’t want explanations. You just fucking wanted to spill the rage you’d been swallowing by a pent-up passion.

“Fuck you, Agatha!” you spat. “I can’t stand there watching him touch you and look at you like that.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, a fire burning under your skin. It wasn’t just jealousy, it was pain—raw, pulsing and deep in your bones.

The governor stood frozen for a second, as if your outburst had physically hit her.

She stepped forward, brows furrowed.

“You said you were mine,” her voice was low, gravelly, laced with a quiet fury. “You knelt for me, begged me for this, asked me to take control. You said you were mine,” she came closer until your faces were inches apart. “And now you’re acting like you get to choose when to obey your owner?”

Shit.

You hated how naturally she took the reins. How easily she wore power like a second skin.

“I am yours, your stupid bitch!” you shouted, stepping back, fists clenched, your voice cracking. “That’s the fucking problem, Agatha. I am entirely yours. Every inch of me, every goddamn thought; every lie I told, every rash move I made… every single fucking step I took was just to be near you.”

Now, you stepped toward her, jabbing a finger into her chest.

“But you? You’re not mine. You never were. You disappear, you hide things., and I... I’ve been giving myself to you, over and over, since in the first moment.”

Agatha stepped back, face unreadable.

“Enough.”

The room felt packed with emotion. Too much for even her to handle.

“Oh, what’s wrong? The governor can’t handle the truth?” You laughed, bitter and sharp.

“I said that’s enough.” She tried again, but you didn’t care anymore.

“I don’t give a fuck,” bingo, girl! “You want to control me,” your voice cracked but stayed firm, “you want me to belong to you, but you refuse to belong to me. You want me submissive, obedient, devoted, but you never give yourself in return.”

Agatha opened her mouth, but no words came.

You were gone, driven by a storm of pain and passion, and she took a step back as if it physically hit her.

“You made me love you!” You cried, breath ragged, your chest full of courage and heartbreak. The confession crashed into her like thunder, and the great Agatha Harkness… actually teared up. “And now…I’m sorry, but I can’t unlove you, Agatha.”

“Stop it!” Her voice was sharp, but shaky. “You’re being... dramatic. This isn’t… This is just another emotional lapse.”

Her mouth said that. But her eyes… her eyes were waterfalls—not oceans or storms—just silent, steady waterfalls.

And God, you expected her to reject your feelings, but not like this. Your chest ached, and your throat was a knot of barbed wire.

You were the fool. Hopelessly blind and helplessly in love.

You stared at her, furious, heart about to burst. “Are you calling me weak for loving you?”

“No,” she ran her hands through her hair, pacing like a caged animal. “Because you don’t love me.... You just... don’t.”

It was painfully ironic how desperate she was to convince both of you of that. She pointed at the space between you, as if an invisible contract existed there.

“This should’ve been just another distraction, and now it’s… you’re demanding things I can’t—”

Her ocean eyes—so commanding—now looked back at you with a flicker of panic. Yet still… she stood tall.

“You said I was yours,” you spat, stepping forward. “You said it in my ear while you were inside me. Hard, with confidence. You took control of my life, Agatha. Made me utterly obsessed with you, and now… you’re shocked by the fallout?”

“Because you started wanting me!” She shot back, finally exasperated. “You desired me! You teased me! You knelt and begged me for this with everything you’ve got, and now you blame me for giving you exactly what you asked for?!”

Your chest collapsed with the impact.

“I am yours,” you said again. “But you’re not mine and that tears me apart.”

Agatha had no immediate reply. The silence between you stretched taut, like a wire about to snap. She inhaled deeply. Once. Twice. Eyes red, yet with tears held at bay.

She was too proud to cry.

“I don’t let myself belong to anyone,” she said finally. “Because once you belong, you become vulnerable, and I won’t—” she swallowed hard. “I refuse to be vulnerable until I turn to dust.”

You took another step forward, swallowing your own pride.

“Then turn to dust with me,” you whispered, tired eyes locked on hers. “Be brave with me. Just once.”

She closed her eyes, and in that moment, just a second, the most powerful woman you’d ever met… truly wavered.

The mask cracked.

But before you could reach her heart, she lifted her chin and spoke:

“I choose to stay whole. I have fought too hard to get where I am.”

And that was it.

You exhaled every drop of air, making room for something new.

“Leave.”

“What?”

Agatha’s posture stiffened.

“Get out, Agatha. I am not a project. I am not a distraction. I am a person.”

Her jaw tightened. She shifted her weight onto her right leg, maybe ready to fight, or maybe not.

Your reply came as she turned and walked out your door without another word.

So fast it should’ve been painless—like ripping off a bandage—but it wasn't.

[...]

It was 3:30 a.m. —a cursed hour to many, but you were never superstitious.

Maybe you should start.

Your eyes still burned and puffed from crying yourself raw over Harkness. Sleep felt like a luxury that still hadn’t come, and all that remained was the memory of her rigid face.

You wanted to die.

Your phone buzzed you back to reality. Carol’s name flashed, and you sat up, exhausted.

It was true, Carol still hadn’t come home.

You picked up.

“Bear…” her voice trembled. “I’m sorry. Please… help me…”

You were already out of bed, rifling through your closet for pants, the phone pressed to your left ear.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m at the precinct. I need help, or they’re going to arrest me.”

What the hell was happening?

Carol was being arrested?

Half an hour later, there you were. Rushing through the glass doors of the police station, heart pounding. A sleeping Seattle, unaware you were living your worst nightmare.

You briefly wondered when Freddy Krueger would show up.

After you identified yourself, an officer led you to a small waiting room. Minutes later, Natasha arrived, looking serious, coffee slimmed pupils and all.

“She’s being investigated for fraud and money laundering, and it’s directly connected to Anthony Stark.” She said.

Your blink was loud.

“What? But… she was just an intern. You must have the wrong person.”

Of course, it's always the interns’ fault.

“I wish that were so, but we found files on her laptop. Direct remote access to one of Stark’s companies.”

Your throat clenched. “I… I want to see her.”

[...]

Carol was curled up in one of the holding cell chairs—eyes red, with fear distorting her face.

You barely recognized her.

She lifted her head when she saw you. A sob escaped.

“Bear…”

“Carol. What the hell is going on? Is it true?” Your voice came out lower—and more frantic—than you intended.

She bit her lip as though to choke back more tears.

“No. It’s not like that. I swear… He… he just asked me to take some photos, just that.”

Your mind went into flashback: Agatha’s pained face, Stark’s blackmail, his touch…

“What… kind of photos, Carol?” Your voice rose an octave.

She sobbed harder, shaking.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t know how he would use them. He said it was to protect his campaign. That it would help if… if things got out of control.”

Oh my god.

You felt sick.

“So you… you took the photos,” your voice choked on the realization. “And you gave them to him.”

“I didn’t know!” She screamed, desperate. “He said if I helped, I’d get an internship at Fox… Bear, it was my dream, you have to understand—”

“Shut.the.fuck.up!” You demanded with your jaw tense. “You were my friend. How could you?”

“I am still!” She cried.

The epiphany ran through you like electricity—literally making you tremble.

“No. You always used me, always knew how I felt. Always rejected me with indifference. And I let you use me and discard me because maybe, just maybe, you’d come to love me.”

Waking up from the lie had never been so painful. And so liberating. You walked out of that station, leaving behind everything Carol had ever meant. You were free. And now? She would pay for the betrayal.

But as you exited the cell block, you came face to face with Natasha—frowning at a bald, well-dressed man arguing with her.

“Isn’t the first person police should suspect in these cases the wife? I just don’t understand why...” he said.

You frowned and it felt like slow motion when your eyes landed on Anthony Stark being led away by a cop.

Handcuffed.

His once-perfect coif now tousled. His designer suit was replaced with a rumpled white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar.

The bald man—Stark’s lawyer you guessed—voice booming like distant thunder. Natasha didn’t respond; not while your eyes stayed locked on them.

Your heart pounded.

Agatha didn’t do this.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t have.

You knew Agatha. Her rigid rules and the way she controlled everything; her methodical, unyielding and almost moralistic way, even behind that sharp arrogance.

But anyway... you've already lied for her.

Forged.

Manipulated.

And what if all of this was part of something bigger?

You leaned against the glass wall of a commercial building. Tears were already burning in your eyes, but they didn’t fall. It was as if even they were afraid to face what would come next, until the phone in your pocket vibrated.

Black screen.

No caller ID.

Just one message.

“I’m sending a car. Get in and come to me.”

~*~

Who would have thought that Carol was the one who took the photos huh? Stark finally arrested! Thanks for this R! About falsifying evidence… well, we've all done crazy things for women. We can't judge LMAO

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqlz @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @ahintofchaos @lowlyjelly @xblinkx2 @rmaximoff @loveshineslikethesky

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claramelooo · 20 days ago

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Mommy's resting

Nothing better than enjoying the Rio winter playing TS4, drinking red wine and trying to make my own Agatha. Jesus, maybe I should actually reproduce my fanfic in the game... Pls tell me the best DLC I should try 💕

The Sims' lovers, show your faces!

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #the sims 4 #the sims community #checkmate #wine #winter

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claramelooo · 22 days ago

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CHECKMATE (17/21)

I don't know what say about this chapter lmao 🤣 I'm sorry

Enjoy it <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warning: +18, punishment, slut treatment, sex and angst.

Pairing: Governador!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: you pay for your sins, but after a revelation, you can't wait to sin again.

Time

noun

1. relative duration of things that creates in human beings the idea of present, past and future; continuous period in which events follow one another.

2. a certain period considered in relation to the events that occurred in it; era.

You arrived at the Harkness estate with your heart caught in your throat. In all your encounters with the woman, you had never stepped foot here. Never in the place Agatha chose to hide from the eyes of the world.

And now, every step felt like a march to the gallows.

The neighborhood was small and luxurious. The houses were set far apart, walled, heavily guarded. The nearest one was at least five hundred meters away.

Far enough to hide anything.

The garden was pristine. Flowers bloomed stubbornly against the late autumn chill. It was proof—if you needed any—that Agatha Harkness was truly and deeply wealthy. Because for flowers to survive this long took time, expensive soil, skilled professionals.

That is, money.

Old and real money. The kind that made you wonder just how long Agatha and Stark had been entangled.

Both families have been keeping treasures for generations—true American aristocracy.

Your chest rose and fell erratically. Your palms were sweating, and there was a knot tightening deep in your stomach. You knew you had to be here—to comfort her, to take care of her. But some ancient instinct whispered otherwise.

Maybe it was just the shame. The weight of the lie, the fear of losing her. That was totally normal. Agatha would understand.

She had to.

Summoning every shred of courage you didn’t know you had, you pressed the doorbell and a melodic chime rang out.

It was time to face her.

The door opened, and your heart skipped a beat. There had been a growing tightness in your chest since you pulled up the driveway.

Something felt off.

A housekeeper answered.

You straightened your posture, cleared your throat. “Hi, I—”

She cut you off.

“You must be the one Mrs. Harkness was waiting for, yes?” She offered a polite smile and you nodded. “Come in, chica.”

You followed her into the living room.

Everything here was different from her Oregon home—brighter, cleaner... not a style Agatha would choose freely. No, this place was curated and shaped by expectation, not preference.

And then, you saw her.

Standing by the unlit fireplace, her silhouette outlined by the warm glow of the corner lamps. A glass of whiskey swirled slowly between her fingers. She wore a black dress, tailored to perfection—haute couture. Her hair, once pinned up in structured elegance, now fell loose and full around her shoulders.

It was almost as if she had prepared for your arrival.

The housekeeper touched your shoulders, startling you, but then smiled and reached for your coat.

“Your guest has arrived, señora.” She announced softly, folding the coat with care.

Agatha turned to look at you, scanning you from head to toe, then shifted her weight to the other leg.

“You may go, Linda.” She said calmly.

The woman obeyed without question.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

You tried to remember the woman you’d seen in tears earlier. The agony in her voice, the trembling lips.

But that version of Agatha? Didn’t exist now.

This Agatha wasn’t devastated.

She was dangerously... composed.

“Agatha?” Your voice cracked. Nervous and desperate.

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she turned back to the fireplace. Then slowly, she looked over her shoulder.

Her expression was ice.

“How long have you known?”

You froze.

“K-Known what?” Your wide eyes and clenched jaw gave you away instantly.

She let out a bitter laugh and spun to face you completely.

“Don’t lie to me. Not you.”

Her presence was suffocating, commanding. And, if you dared say it, almost murderous.

“How long have you known about Thanos?”

Oh god.

Shit.

It hit like a blade to the chest.

How did she know?

“I… I—” you tried, but the fear choked you.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” she stepped forward, “Time’s running out, honey. You’d better speak. You won’t like what I do to little liars like you.”

“I…” your voice broke. Tears streamed uncontrollably down your face. “I’m sorry.”

She moved closer. Close enough to touch you, but she didn’t.

She just… smiled.

“You had time to come to me. Time to tell me, but you didn’t.”

“I—I wasn’t sure. I was scared. It was just a theory, Agatha, it came from Natasha—I didn’t want to hurt you with something that might not even be true—”

You stumbled through the words, your voice raw, your mind spinning in chaos.

Agatha let out a low, amused hum, then took another slow sip of her drink, never taking her eyes off you.

“Natasha?”

She stepped closer with her fingers reaching out and touching your hair—slow and disturbingly gentle.

“Who…” she murmured, lifting a lock as if examining it under a lens. “…is Natasha?”

You shivered.

This wasn’t the Agatha who took you to secret forest cabins, nor the woman who bought you tuna balls when she got jealous.

This Agatha was something else.

“She… she works in law enforcement, I think the FBI. She’s close to Billy’s family. She told me accidentally. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t know what to do, Agatha.”

“You didn’t know what to do,” she repeated softly, as if savoring the words. “But you knew how to hide it. You knew how to look me in the eye. You knew how to sleep next to me while I was being played from every angle… even by you.”

“I never meant to manipulate you!” You finally snapped, pain shattering the fear. “I just wanted to protect you…”

Your voice softened, barely audible now.

Her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t name.

“Protect me?” She let out a bitter, incredulous laugh.“And how, exactly, were you doing that? Trusting strangers? Keeping truths from my life?” Now she was shaking too, you could see it in her tight shoulders, in the red flush spreading across her chest.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Nothing guaranteed me that you wouldn’t have turned me in… if you thought it was me.”

Christ. That hurt!

Especially after how hard you’d fought to earn her trust, to tear down the fortress she’d built around herself.

But now, it was all gone.

Your knees gave out, collapsing to the floor.

“No,” you sobbed. “No, no, no…”

Your hands clutched the fabric of her dress, begging.

“Please! Forgive me. I just wanted to protect you…I didn’t want him to hurt you. I didn’t want anyone to hurt you ever again.”

The tears were endless. You couldn’t even breathe.

She stared at your broken, kneeling and vulnerable body at the floor. Agatha took a deep breath, like she was restraining herself.

Her hand moved to your hair and stroked it, gentle… almost kind. The fingers tightened—suddenly and furiously—twisting the strands in her fist.

“Look at me.”

You obeyed.

“You don’t protect me. Do you understand?”

Your scalp screamed in protest, but she didn’t release you.

“Get up.” Her voice was steel.

You barely made it to your feet before Agatha dragged you down the hallway.

To her bedroom.

The door slammed behind you with a force that made you flinch.

She didn’t let go of your hair, pulling you to the center of the room.

“Take off your clothes and lie down. Face down.” Her tone was glacial, as cold as the wind drifting in from the open window.

You obeyed, hands trembling. Each piece that fell to the floor felt like another part of you being stripped away.

When you were completely naked, you lay on the large, soft bed where the sheets seemed to embrace her. You felt Agatha circling like a predator, her eyes burning over every inch of your exposed body.

"Arch." She commanded.

You swallowed hard and offered up more of your ass, the chill of the room raising goosebumps on your skin. Agatha disappeared for a moment, and when she returned, you heard the sound of metal and leather being adjusted.

Your heart raced.

She took her time—too much time.

Your anxiety was through the roof, your body already trembling from fear or anticipation, you couldn’t really tell.

Then you felt long, firm hands caress your skin.

"You lied to me," she said, tracing her fingertips over you. "You betrayed me."

"I didn’t—"

The slap came fast, her palm cracking against one of your cheeks hard enough to make you arch.

"Quiet," she snarled. "You don’t speak. You listen."

She slid between your folds, and you shuddered, burying your face in the pillows.

"Shhh," she kissed your spine. A simple kiss, but warm. "Are you scared, sweetheart?"

You nodded.

"Scared Mommy will hurt you?" She asked, and it sounded genuine.

But you shook your head.

"Then tell me. What are you afraid of?" Her touch returned, firmer now, almost concerned.

She wanted to hear you.

You turned your face just enough for her to see the tears of despair streaking your cheeks.

"Afraid Mommy will never forgive me." You sobbed like a child, desperate and needy for love.

You didn’t see it, but something inside her broke.

"Just obey, understand? Mommy’s too angry to deal with her little brat right now, huh?"

You nodded, desperately nodded.

You’d do anything if it meant restoring the trust you’d lost.

"You can stop this whenever you want, sweetheart. Just say red."

Agatha kissed behind your ear, encouraging you.

"How long did you hide this from me?"

You tried to swallow your sobs long enough to think. "T-two weeks." You admitted, voice thick with shame.

"Christ," she exhaled sharply. "And how many days is that in total?"

"F-fourteen." You squeezed your eyes shut, already dreading what was coming.

"Good," she murmured, sounding marginally satisfied. "You’d better count, darling. Or we’ll start over from zero. Undertood?"

You gave a faint nod, still trembling.

"Understood?" Agatha repeated louder, gripping your ass hard enough to make you whimper.

"Yes, Mommy."

"Good."

The first strike of the belt landed with a sharp crack that echoed through the room. You cried out, fingers clawing into the sheets, but Agatha only tightened her grip on your waist, holding you in place.

"One." You choked out, voice already shaking with tears.

The second came harder, leaving a fiery stripe across your skin. You moaned, tears streaming, but didn’t try to escape.

"Two."

Agatha paused, her fingers tracing the reddening marks.

"Why are you being punished?" She asked, as if she already knew the answer.

You forced down the lump in your throat.

"Because I… I lied to Mommy."

"Good," she whispered, leaning down to lick the burning skin. "Good girl." She exhaled, pleased with your obedience.

Her hand soothed the sore flesh one last time, then readied it again.

"Keep going."

The third strike was searing, forcing your back to bow.

"Three."

The next blows came quick but no less painful. Yet, a small part of you was relieved because Agatha cared enough not to let you suffer beyond what you could bear.

"E-eleven! Mommy, please!"

Another.

"T-twelve! Please! Have mercy!"

Genuine tears spilled down your face. You were exhausted, unsure if your body could take much more and maybe you should safeword.

Another strike, harder.

"Mercy?" She laughed, sharp and mocking. "Did you show me any mercy?!"

"Mommy…" you whimpered. "Please."

"Why aren’t I hearing the count?" Her fingers stroked your hot, reddened skin, making you arch into the touch despite yourself. "Want to start over, darling?" Her voice was condescending, sadistic.

Her long, skilled fingers slid lower, finding you—unsurprisingly—wet and slick.

"Mmm… this was supposed to be a punishment," she mused, gripping your inner thigh. "But my little kitten’s enjoying it more than I expected, isn’t she?" Her whisper in your ear sent a shiver down your spine.

You moaned, face buried in the pillows.

"Thirteen, Mommy."

She laughed, dark and disbelieving.

One more.

The last.

"F-fourteen." You collapsed onto the bed, spent.

The belt hit the floor with a thud. Her hands trembled as she turned you onto your back, her dark eyes devouring your tear-streaked face.

"Fourteen days," she repeated, pinning your wrists above your head. "Fourteen days lying to me. Fourteen days hiding."

Her hips slammed into yours with a force that stole your breath.

Then you saw it.

The strap, snug against her flawless skin, leaving you speechless. You swallowed hard, unsure if you could take it.

"W-what… what is that?" You whispered, heart in your throat.

"Oh, this?" She flexed the rubber against you, suggestive. "This is where your real punishment begins."

Agatha’s smile was cruel. Almost enough to make you miss the steel-hearted woman who never showed emotion.

You’d created a monster.

"But…" you sobbed, trying. "It won’t fit."

She dragged the head of the toy over your clit, making you whimper.

"Oh, but you’ll take every inch, won’t you?" She slid it through your slickness, coating the shaft. "You’ll let Mommy stretch you open."

You were so wet that she slid in easily, the length spreading you wide, letting a ragged moan tore from your throat.

"You knew," she accused, teeth sinking into your shoulder as she began to move. "Knew I’d find out. Knew I’d punish you."

Every word was punctuated by a harsh thrust, every syllable timed with the wet slap of skin.

Agatha showed no mercy.

The toy stretched you in ways that made your nails dig into the sheets. You screamed—a raw, animal sound—but she swallowed it with a kiss that felt more like a bite.

You couldn’t tell which was wetter: your cunt or your joined mouths.

"Mmm, look at you," she purred against your lips, hips pulling back only to slam home again. "Look how you open for me… how this greedy little pussy takes every inch..."

Her grip on your wrists tightened, leaving bruises as she fucked you at a merciless pace. Pain twisted with pleasure, your lips caught between your teeth. Each thrust went deeper, crueler, until you felt your very core burning.

"Gonna lie to me again?" She growled, watching your face twist in torment and ecstasy.

When she curved the toy inside you, hitting that spot, your body convulsed.

"N-no—" you begged, legs shaking violently. "I’ll be… I’ll be good for you, Mommy. Fuck, I’ll be sooo good!"

"Yes," she ordered, pace turning brutal, the strap smacking against you with every thrust. "Good for me. Only for me."

Only hers.

Only Agatha’s.

The thought looped in your mind, white-hot, until your vision blurred.

A hurricane of spasms gripped the toy as if trying to keep it inside you forever.

Agatha laughed—triumphant and wild—as she kept moving, dragging out every wave of pleasure until you sobbed.

"Gonna come, little girl?" She rumbled in your ear. "Do it. Come on Mommy’s cock."

She quickened her movements. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the mingling scents… all of it clouded her most primal senses, leaving her dazed.

Then she stopped, leaving the swollen strap inside you as she leaned down to lick away your tears.

"Beautiful," she murmured, fingers tracing your ruined face. "You’re so beautiful."

When she finally pulled out, it was too wet, too much, and it made you shudder. Agatha watched, mesmerized, as your body tried—and failed—to close around the absence.

She decided to push two fingers inside instead, just to feel the damage.

"If you lie to me again, we’ll do this with something bigger. Understood?"

And by the possessive gleam in her eyes, you knew: this wasn’t punishment. It was a brand, and she would never let you forget.

"But don’t worry… Mommy will always make it hurt less…" she kissed your forehead tenderly, watching your trembling, oversensitive body beneath hers.

Yet Agatha still looked… hungry.

"Mommy’s still very worked up, sweetheart…" she said, unbuckling the strap, and you saw the glistening wetness between her thighs.

Your insides clenched again.

Fuck.

"Would you mind—"

"Use me."

You answered too quickly.

But in that moment, by the way her ocean eyes burned with something between devastation and hunger, you could’ve said anything.

You were everything to her.

Agatha let out something between a laugh and a moan at your eagerness.

The mattress dipped under her weight as she crawled toward you, predatory and slow. She dragged the slick strap to your mouth.

"Suck. Taste how good you are."

You obeyed, the salt and musk of yourself flooding your tongue.

"Slowly… Save some for me."

And then Agatha joined you.

Your tongues tangled, and you couldn’t look away from her.

Agatha didn’t care about titles, about expectations, about the world outside this room.

She just wanted to feel good.

And you had to admit: nothing was sexier than that.

"Enough," she ordered, pulling the toy away, her lips still wet with you. "I want your finish on me."

She pushed you back, forcing you onto the mattress. As she strapped you in, you still couldn’t believe it.

You were about to fuck Agatha Harkness.

Watching her finger herself in front of you stole your breath. The weight of the strap between your legs felt like an extension of your own desire.

"You’ll make me come if you want forgiveness. Understood?" She demanded, pressing her breasts against your chest, her lips grazing your ear. "Understood?"

A shameful moan escaped you at the command. "Yes, Mommy. Anything you want."

"Mmm, yes… That’s a good girl."

The head of the strap pressed against her swollen, needy entrance, already pulsing with pent-up lust. The first push was slow, agonizing, making her arch and gasp.

You still couldn’t believe it.

She was beautiful like this. Wild, sadistic and completely unhinged.

The harness gripped your hips like armor, and you felt the silicone throb against you like a second heartbeat, like it belonged there.

Agatha rode your thighs, her shadow swallowing you whole as she aligned the thick tip with her entrance.

"Wait—" she whispered, fingers trembling as she guided you. "Let Mommy feel… every… inch."

The silicone stretched her open with sweet, aching pressure. You watched her eyes roll back, her lips parting in a perfect O.

She sank down millimeter by millimeter, tendons in her neck straining as she took you. "F-Fuck… so thick…"

God, you were so hopelessly in love with this woman.

When your hips finally met, a primal moan tore through the room. Agatha gasped, hands clawing at her own breasts. "Shit… Mommy’s so… so full of you…"

You whined, gripping her ass hard. "Mommy—"

Your hips snapped up, driving into her with a rhythm that felt feral.

"Slower," she commanded, nails digging into your thighs. "You must make Mommy feel good."

You obeyed, every thrust a promise.

"Mmm… Delicious!" She sobbed, head thrown back.

She looked down at you, grinning wickedly.

"You’re gonna come from this, aren’t you?" She laughed. "You’re so filthy, huh?." A sharp slap stung your cheek, making your vision blur.

Your eyes rolled back, tongue lolling from pleasure.

"More. More, Mommy, please."

You begged.

And Agatha gave. Hard, merciless slaps, each one sending you higher.

"My perfect slut," she rode you harder. "Darling, I… I love—"

God, this couldn’t be real.

You sat up to hear her better, angling the strap deeper—right against her G-spot—and the governor shattered.

"FUCK! FUCK, RIGHT—THERE!" Her body convulsed, wetness gushing around the base of the strap. "Baby, I—FUCK!"

You fucked her through it, wild, possessive, until your own climax ripped the air from your lungs.

Agatha collapsed onto your chest, breathless, her flushed skin still glowing. Every exhale was heavy, satisfied. Her muscles, once taut, now lay pliant and trembling.

"Fuck," she laughed, voice wrecked. "That was… so fucking good."

You smiled against her forehead. Gently, you rolled her onto her back and pulled her close, arms wrapping around her. Carefully, you unbuckled the strap, tossing it aside before nipping at her ear.

"Am I forgiven?" You whispered, voice small, needy.

Agatha gave a tired, sweaty and almost grateful smile.

"Definitly, babygirl," she murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "You were more than good."

You carded your fingers through her hair, slow and tender.

There was something fragile about her now. Something you’d only seen a handful of times—in the nights when she didn’t know how to handle you, when desire bled through the cracks of her control.

Her ocean eyes were different. Full. Aching. Almost… ashamed?

"You okay?" You asked, lips brushing her hairline.

Agatha took too long to answer.

"Stark knows about us."

You pulled back, heart seizing.

"What?" The word came out like a gasp.

What the fuck??

She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping to her waist, revealing the marks your mouth had left, proving you’d claimed her. But now, naked, she looked stripped of everything but pain.

"He invited me to dinner on Friday. Said he wanted to talk… and showed me—" she hesitated, fingers trembling on her knee. "Pictures. Pictures of us. That day outside the dorm, when you got into my car."

The punch to your gut was real.

"He blackmailed me." She finished, voice breaking as her eyes finally met yours.

Your stomach twisted, tears burning. Not just from rage, but from the way it shattered your heart. Because there was something broken in her now, something she never let anyone see. The woman who threatened you with ice in her voice and undressed you with ocean eyes now looked painfully, devastatingly human.

"I just wanted you to know. If I have to do anything... it’s because of that."

You reached for her face, brushing your fingers softly across her cheek. It felt almost like a vow.

"You won’t have to do anything." Your voice was calm but firm.

Because something inside you had already begun to shift. Something fierce, lethal and protective.

Now that you knew something was wrong with Stark, you might actually be able to do something about it. Because you weren’t going to let that bastard lay a hand on her.

You pulled Agatha into your arms, wrapping your body around hers like a shield.

Like a promise.

"I’ll handle it." You whispered, your voice barely audible.

Agatha looked at you strangely, as if she could see through your words into something deeper. Her brow furrowed, like she was trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite make sense.

And then… she smiled. Agatha smiled. With her lips, yes, but also with her eyes. She shone and your heart roared in your chest.

She kissed you, softly and honestly, making you sighed.

The next morning, golden light filtered lazily through the thick curtains. You’d been awake for hours but hadn’t moved. You just lay there, motionless, watching the woman beside you.

Agatha.

She slept soundly, her body wrapped only in linen sheets. Her brown hair was loose, tangled across the pillow. Her face—so stern and unyielding in public—now held a peace almost childlike. Lines softened by sleep. Lips slightly parted, long lashes resting against pale skin.

And you couldn’t stop looking at her.

She was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen, and you were in love with her.

Yes.

Utterly in love.

It wasn’t just sex or some warped emotional dependency.

It was visceral, burning, absurd love. The kind that made you want to protect every broken piece of her, even if it meant breaking yourself in the process.

She was powerful, terrifying and so brilliant.

But here… asleep, with the weight of the world still clinging to her shoulders… Agatha was just human.

And she was only yours.

Your chest tightened.

You wanted to act, you needed to.

Because love wasn’t just feeling, it was action, and you were tired of feeling without doing.

Carefully, you slipped out of bed, dressed in silence, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before leaving the room like a silent oath.

Agatha wouldn’t know it yet, but you were about to do something for her that would change everything.

[...]

At the state government headquarters, the halls were cold and concrete. A brutal contrast to the warmth of the morning you’d left behind, but you walked with purpose and no one dared stop you.

You asked to see the Speaker of the Chamber. No appointment. No explanation. Just two magic words: Agatha Harkness.

That was all it took.

Within minutes, you were being escorted to an office at the top of the building.

Rio Vidal sat in a wide burgundy leather chair, legs crossed, reading from an Ipad. Her glasses slid slightly down her nose. She didn’t look up when the door opened, just raised a brow, like she already knew who it was.

"Good morning," she said, voice deep and slow. "You’re more punctual than most of my staff."

You said nothing, just stepped inside and closed the door behind you.

Rio finally looked up.

"What are you here for, little girl?"

The tone was playful, but there was steel behind it. Rio didn’t seem like the type to underestimate anyone.

You lifted your chin, puffed your chest, courage surged through your veins.

It was now or never.

"I’m here to make a report."

~*~

Well... I told you so. Not unharmed at all. And what do you think R will say to Rio? Lol

Tag List <3

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