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claramelooo · 1 day ago

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CHECKMATE (15/20)

Hey, my boos!

We are getting at the final chapter....I know I know! Actually, I'm trying to write the perfect ending but my routine is so crazy! I'm thinking to stop for few days to organize it, and then, back.

Anyway! I'll let you know, okay?

Enjoy it!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: angst.

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha finds your behavior strange.

Skewer

noun

a tactic where a more valuable piece (like a king, queen, or rook) is attacked, and when it moves to defend itself, a less valuable piece behind it is exposed and can be captured. It's essentially the opposite of a pin, where the less valuable piece is in front.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee was the same. Strong, bitter, and persistent. Thanos loved making coffee. It was one of his small daily gestures, a ritual that seemed like affection.

“Do you have a meeting today?” He’d ask, still in expensive cotton pajamas, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.

“I do, at the Chamber.”

Silence would follow, broken only by the soft clinking of a spoon against a mug.

“Don’t you think you’re getting too involved in all this? Politics is… dirty.”

She pretended not to hear, took a sip. “That’s exactly why.”

Thanos gave her a small, measured smile. The kind that always came before a perfectly crafted phrase.

“I just think it’s too much exposure. It changes people, Agatha.”

She smiled back. Because smiling was easier than arguing. Because he never yelled, never laid a hand on her. And yet, every word felt like an invisible clamp pinning down her wings.

Their house in the Hamptons was beautiful. Classic, quiet, and immaculate. She used to run her fingers along the golden frames in the hallway, where his diplomas were displayed.

Economics at Oxford. MBA at Yale—where he’d been her mentor during undergrad, and how they met—and a smaller frame with her name on it, from a speech she gave at Harvard.

A speech Thanos had read and rewritten three times before letting her take the stage.

“It’s not about censorship, love. It’s just a matter of tone. You tend to sound… aggressive when you talk about the system, and no one likes aggressive women.”

That night, Agatha didn’t sleep.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember when exactly she started being tamed. When she had been boxed up and commanded.

On their wedding anniversary, Thanos took her to a French restaurant, all candlelight and background piano.

A toast to love!

He gave her a gift: a pearl necklace.

And she gave a speech. Polished and empty.

On the way home, in the car, Thanos placed his hand on her leg.

“See? When you want to, you know how to behave. Everyone loved you tonight.”

She never wore the necklace.

Years later, she could still remember the taste of that wine. The scent of his skin. The impenetrable silence that filled the house.

And how, on the outside, everything looked perfect.

The businessman and his wife. The philanthropy. The meetings. The smiling photos at gala dinners with his investors.

And a woman slowly disappearing inside herself.

[...]

The bathroom mirror was fogged up, steam curling up the tiled walls. Agatha braced her hands on the cold marble sink. Her reflection looked younger today or maybe just more real.

Her body still pulsed with what had happened a few hours earlier.

The tight stall.The bass thumping through the walls. The taste of your kiss. The muffled moans against your neck.

She closed her eyes.

God, that had been wrong.

So wrong.

Inappropriate, reckless, impossible.

And yet...

She thought of you.

So young.

But it wasn’t just your age. You were movement, impulse. Raw, generous desire.

You gave yourself like someone who had never learned to hold back, like someone who hadn’t been broken into small enough pieces to fear pleasure yet.

And that… that destroyed her, because she wanted to break you.

Wasn’t it wrong?

Yes.

Of course it was.

But... maybe not that wrong.

What happened in that bed, in that stall, it wasn’t casual. You touched her with hunger, with reverence, with a kind of freedom Agatha thought she had buried under layers of power, fear, and duty.

Freedom.

The word echoed with a summer taste.

Being with you was like an unexpected breeze on a stifling afternoon. A light, cool, rebellious wind. The kind that enters without asking, slams windows, sends papers flying, and makes curtains flutter like freed ghosts.

You were that.

An impossible wind.

And Agatha…

She’d spent her whole life closing windows.

She sighed, bracing herself on the sink, and remembered the word:

Mommy.

You always called her that, like it meant nothing. Or maybe it did?

It didn’t matter.

Because the effect was immediate and consuming.

It wasn’t just erotic, no—although it was, searing and incandescent to her. It was what it said about how you saw her.

With surrender, with trust, and need.

Agatha shuddered.

She felt exposed, yes. But also… adored. As if, for one night, she’d stepped out of her armor, as if someone had seen something in her beyond strategy and control.

You saw her. Whole. And still… you wanted her.

You were so sweet you might have been naive. There was a wild insolence in you, a thirst that never apologized.

You wanted the world and you wanted her. Even with her contradictions, her sharpness, her fears and mistakes.

And for some reason... that didn’t scare her.

Not like it should.

You were intense, generous, unfiltered, and maybe— just maybe—The best thing that had happened to her in seventeen years.

She straightened slowly, running her fingers through the wet dark strands falling over her shoulders. The robe touched her skin with silent tenderness.

She took a deep breath.

Maybe she wasn’t the kind of woman who deserved love, maybe she wasn’t the kind who knew how to love, but for now… maybe she could allow herself.

After all, even the most powerful king was once just a pawn trying to cross the board.

When Agatha stepped out of the shower with her hair still damp, skin warm under the cotton robe, she didn’t expect to find the bed so quiet.

You were there, lying on your side, one knee bent, sleeping deeply on the messy sheets.

She stopped, just watched you.

You breathed slowly, long strands falling across your cheek. Moonlight slipped through the cracks in the curtain, sketching soft shapes across your face.

So young.

So confident.

and yet… so, so reckless.

She sat down beside you but didn’t dare touch. She just stayed there, watching over you like someone guarding something precious and fleeting.

That night, she slept beside you without armor.

And dreamed of freedom.

In the morning, the shift was obvious.

You woke up first. Spoke little, almost distant. Irritation shimmered in your eyes, even though you tried to hide it.

Agatha furrowed her brow, confused. But she slipped the armor back on and didn’t ask.

Like every dream, your days of peace had ended.

The car drove in silence back toward Seattle.

She gripped the wheel with one hand, the other resting on her thigh in anxious stillness.

You stared out the window. Silent, closed off and inaccessible.

“Is everything okay?” She asked in the gentlest tone she knew, though it still came out stiff, almost automatic.

You just nodded.

“You can drop me three blocks before campus.”

Just like this. Dry and unaffectionate.

“Alright.”

And when the car stopped, you murmured a thank-you far too soft to reach her fully.

She didn’t reply with words. Just nodded, feeling her heart crack with a silence so heavy it ached in her bones.

She shouldn’t be this shaken. It was just sex. Just youth —in the purest sense of the word. Just a detour in the middle of a war.

But why…

Why did it feel so wrong to leave you there?

Hours later, back at her house, the longing ached in the most unexpected corners of her body.

Where was her good girl? That one who smiled with her eyes and obeyed with her body?

Where had she gone?

“Mom?”

Nicky’s voice snapped her out of it.

She smiled, drained.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He walked in slowly, his eyes too perceptive for someone so young. He noticed the small suitcase and the fatigue on her face.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied too quickly. “I went to Oregon. Some company matters to sort out...”

Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded hollow.

She loved her son, with every cell in her body. But holding a real conversation with him—one that didn’t involve numbers, deadlines, or expectations—felt like trying to grasp something that always slipped through her fingers.

Still, she tried. As she always did, even if it was already too late.

She stepped closer and took his hands gently, as if trying to touch something that no longer belonged to her.

“Tell me, sweetheart… how are things? The SATs are coming up and—”

“Mom, please.”

He sighed, eyes shifting away—impatient, yes, but there was something else.

A deeper fatigue.

An old disappointment.

“Can we, just this once, not talk about that?”

Agatha froze.

“About what…?”

“This. School. College. Career. How I always have to be perfect. How you only—”

He stopped himself, swallowing hard, like choosing between speaking and not hurting her.

“What is it, Nicky?” Her voice came out smaller, frightened. “Talk to me.”

“It’s just… sometimes it feels like you know me as a resume, not as a son.”

The words landed like a punch to the stomach.

He went on, calmer now, but cruel in his honesty.

“When I was little, we used to go to the park. You made picnics, you’d run with me. You laughed, mom!”

His eyes were shimmering with tears.

“Now I don’t even know what you like to do in your free time. I don’t even know if you have free time.”

Agatha felt her chest collapse inward.

“Sweetheart, I…”

What could she say?

That she was trying? That she’d spent years walking invisible tightropes just to keep everything running? That loving the right way always seemed to slip from her grasp?

He shook his head, disappointed.

“You keep asking what I want to be, but have you ever stopped to ask what you’ve become?”

Silence.

A brutal pause in time.

He let go of her hands with care. It wasn’t violent or cruel. It was just… final and that hurt more.

Agatha stood there, fingers still curled in empty air, as if she were still holding the five-year-old who used to run through fields with scraped knees and an easy smile.

But he was gone.

“I’m sorry…” she said, but he was already walking out the door.

And just like that, everything was loneliness again.

[...]

Dinner had been set for 7 PM sharp, but Agatha arrived at 7:10. Evanora had taught her well: Men should wait.

Tony Stark was already at the table of an upscale restaurant in downtown Seattle, a nearly untouched glass of white wine in front of him.

When he saw her, he smiled like an ad campaign — standing with the practiced charm of a seasoned flirt.

“Agatha Harkness,” he said, taking her hand as if she were rare porcelain. “You look stunning.”

She looked him dead in the eye, then withdrew her hand and casually wiped it on her dress.

“Spare me the bullshit, Tony. Let’s get to the point. Tell me what you want.”

She sat down without ceremony, crossing her legs with surgical precision.

He gave a low chuckle, settling into his seat with the smugness of a man who thought he was in control.

“What I want?” He twisted the ring on his finger, pretending to think. “I want you… submissive.”

Agatha laughed. It was loud, unexpected and a little terrifying.

“Submissive?” She repeated, leaning over the table, eyes gleaming. “Oh, Stark… how many years have you been dreaming about that?”

“Since you wore that blue pantsuit in the Senate. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

She smiled, but now it was pure ice.

“Shame it didn’t finish the job.”

Tony laughed, but there was a sharpness under the surface.

“No need to pretend you’re still some saint in heels. We’ve all sold something to get where we are. I’m just offering a better price.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying him like one would examine a dissected animal.

“You’re pathetic.”

He opened the black folder beside his plate with a theatrical snap.

“And you’re predictable.”

She saw them.

Photos.

Full color.

Too sharp. Too clear.

Her, at your dorm room door—that night when she couldn’t think of anything but you. You, stepping into her car wearing that purple sweater, still smelling like Cuir de Beluga—Agatha could still smell it. Your faces much too close to be professional.

She froze.

Tony turned the first image toward her and smiled like a snake.

“Didn’t know our golden woman had a thing for little girls.”

Agatha’s face remained impassive, but her hand gripped the glass so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“You’re bluffing.” She said quietly.

“Am I?”

He pushed more photos her way.

“You think the public will understand? A powerful fifty-year-old woman with a college girl in her lap? It all sounds very… nineties. And look…” he pointed at one photo. “this one’s right in front of her dorm. Underage or not, the headlines write themselves.”

Agatha didn’t respond immediately.

She took a deep breath and picked up one of the photos, examining it closely.

Tony seemed to savor the silence.

“You could end all this with a nod, Agatha. Be reasonable. Back my campaign. Step down with dignity, and maybe… I’ll offer you a role. Something symbolic. Decorative. Pretty. Like you.”

God, he was so repulsive.

Her stomach turned. The wine threatened to rise.

Agatha looked at him.

For a second, something in her face faltered. A muscle in her jaw, a tremble in her lower lip.

But she didn’t break.

Not there.

Agatha would never break in front of a man.

She gathered the photos one by one, each motion calculated and precise.

“Are you finished?” She asked, emotionless.

“For now.” He replied, smug.

She stood.

Her dress skirt was immaculate. Her posture, flawless. But there was a shadow in her eyes, a crack only the very observant would see.

Tony thought he’d won.

And maybe… for the first time in a long while, Agatha wasn’t sure he was wrong.

~*~

Can I kill Tony?

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