#storyline: of blood and betrayal

[lizzyiii]

Rōva Mandia

pairing | aemond targaryen x sister!reader

word count | 7.1k words

summary | no one has ever loved aemond as fiercely as his beloved older sister. in return, aemond honors the vow he made to you in his youth.

tags | (18+MDNI!) SMUT. unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f), tiddy suckin', lactating kink, targaryen incest, reader is described to have auburn hair and lilac eyes (that's all), very very soft aemond, tooth rotting fluff at the end.

a/n | you know when you just randomly maladaptive dream entire storylines. this was one of them.

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

You were the firstborn child of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower, yet you drifted in the shadows of memory like a wisp of smoke. Your presence often eclipsed by the bold brilliance of your elder half-sister Rhaenyra, or merely the existence of your younger brother, Aegon. Yet, you never truly minded.

In the year 107 AC, on a night heavy with anticipation, the young Queen Alicent Hightower cradled the weight of her impending pregnancy. She had endured anxiety and dread throughout her pregnancy, her every waking moment tinged with the consuming fear that the fate of her marriage—and of House Hightower—hinged solely on her ability to provide King Viserys with a trueborn son. Yet, as fate would have it, the child that emerged from her womb was not the hoped-for heir but a daughter.

When you were born, the moment felt like a betrayal. Alicent, still young and with deep-seated insecurities, could barely bring herself to lay eyes upon the newborn. The girl, scarcely fifteen years of age, cringed at the sight of her own flesh and blood. What stung the deepest was your hair, a rich auburn hue that betrayed your Targaryen lineage. The only remnant of your noble bloodline was found in the child’s striking lilac eyes.

Each time the queen gazed at her daughter, a cascade of shame washed over her, intertwining with a deep self-loathing for how she could harbor such sentiments towards an innocent babe. Yet, Alicent felt a cruel twist of self-loathing rise within her, her heart heavy with despair as she struggled to accept the sight of you, a precious life she was unsure she could embrace.

Just a year later, however, Alicent finally brought forth Aegon, a true prince, heartily welcomed into the world as the firstborn son of King Viserys. With the birth of Aegon, a new dawn broke in the halls of the Red Keep, overshadowing your existence, casting you into the recesses of memory.

A joyful spirit, you moved through the world with ease. Sleep came effortlessly, as did your feeding time; you were a balm to your septas and caretakers, never troubling them with cries or demands. In the halls of the Keep, you were fondly known as the Realm’s Jewel, a title that shimmered like sunlight on water.

Yet, for a girl of merely five summers, there was an oddity to your existence—the way your father and your mother rarely sought your company or cast their eyes in your direction. Your youthful heart struggled to grasp the currents of neglect that flowed through the air, as the King seemed to have all but forgotten you and the Queen wore a mask of shame with every fleeting glance at you.

Still, when nestled amid your younger siblings, you found a sanctuary of joy. Aegon, though just four, was a whirlwind of energy and laughter, his playful spirit infusing warmth into your days. Helaena, your sweet baby sister, was quiet, perhaps too quiet for one so small, and yet her beauty was a radiant comfort to you.

Your mother, Queen Alicent, was on the cusp of bringing forth another child. To your youthful mind, this was the extent of your knowledge, as imparted by the ever-watchful Septa Emery who accompanied you. The thought of a new sibling filled your heart with a joyous anticipation that seemed to dance within your chest.

"Septa Emery," you interjected with a voice that was soft yet insistent, "has Mama had the babe yet?"

The Septa turned to you, her lips curving into a gentle smile, a reflection of her amusement at your eagerness. "I believe she has, my dear princess."

A gasp escaped your lips, bubbling forth in delight, and you leaped to your feet. "Can we see her? Please, may we?"

Septa Emery paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face as she regarded the earnestness shining in your eyes. Her voice, though laced with an air of formality, held a hint of affection. "I am uncertain, my princess. It may not be the proper time..."

But you pressed on, your pleas tumbling forth in a torrent of childlike sincerity. "Please, just for a moment! Then we shall return at once! I promise!"

After a drawn-out moment of contemplation, during which you could see the battle of duty and affection warring within her, Septa Emery sighed, her resolve crumbling. "Very well, let us go, Princess."

A smile erupted across your face, the kind that radiated pure joy, and in that instant, you were off—your feet barely kissing the ground as you raced from your solar. Septa Emery followed in your wake, her steps hurried yet careful, endeavoring to keep pace with your youthful exuberance as you dashed toward the birthing chambers.

You offered a quick, respectful curtsy to the guard stationed at the door, earning a small chuckle of amusement in return as he nodded and swung the heavy door open. You slipped into the room, your heart racing as your gaze landed on your mother, Alicent, who appeared weary and drenched in beads of sweat.

Following her weary eyes, you spotted your father standing at the center of the chamber, cradling a small bundle swathed in soft linen. A gasp escaped your lips, the sound a mixture of surprise and joy as you hurried to his side, eagerness bubbling within you.

“Father, may I see, please?” you asked, tugging excitedly at the hem of his tunic.

“My darling, be gentle with your father,” Alicent said with a scolding look, her voice tinged with exhaustion. At her words, you sheepishly withdrew your hand, though your excitement remained constant.

Viserys chuckled warmly, his eyes twinkling as he looked down at you. “Calm yourself, Alicent. She merely wishes to meet her new brother.”

A wide smile broke across your face upon learning that it was a boy. With a tender motion, Viserys lowered his arms, revealing the tiny face of your new brother. You leaned closer, your heart swelling with wonder.

"What is his name?" you asked, your voice a soft whisper filled with awe as you gazed at the small figure.

“Aemond,” the King replied quietly, an approving smile gracing his lips as he looked at the bundle with pride. “Aemond will do nicely.”

Aemond Targaryen struggled to recall the days of his infancy, memories shrouded in the mists of time. The solitary shard of clarity that pierced through his mind was the profound grief that accompanied the failure of his dragon egg to hatch, a sentiment that lingered like a shadow, filled with sorrow and disappointment. Pleasurable memories from his youth were rare as dragon's gold, yet the few he clung to were always linked to you.

His older sister, radiant as the sun, with a warm smile that graced her lips whenever she cast her gaze upon him. You never ridiculed him or taunted him for lacking a dragon of his own; rather, it was you who offered him solace. The first time he soared through the skies upon a dragon's back, it was your magnificent purple beast, Aegarax, that carried him aloft.

He recalled the fleeting moments when the weight of training and the useless lessons at the Dragonpit would lift from his shoulders. During those precious respites, he sought you out, drawn like a moth to a shimmering flame. Often, you would be found in the company of Helaena and your kind Septa, ever eager to absorb knowledge. Yet, there were those cherished times when you chose to spend your hours alongside him, wandering through the fragrant gardens or nestled in the library. There, you would ask him to read, his heart swelling with joy at the opportunity to please you.

Yet, a constant sense of unworthiness gnawed at him. If he ever hoped to be deemed worthy of your love, he felt he must embody the essence of a true Targaryen—a feat he believed could only be accomplished through claiming a dragon of his own. Thus, on one fateful day, he dared to enter the Dragonpit, almost succumbing to the searing flames of Dreamfyre. Shortly thereafter, a White Cloak hastily whisked him away to his mother, where he braced for her ire. Yet, to his astonishment, amidst a stern scolding, he found unexpected comfort in her embrace—an offering that was never given freely.

After cleaning his ashen skin, Aemond sought you out, yearning for your presence to soothe his troubled heart. It felt like an eternity as he navigated the many corners of the keep—the library, the gardens, and the courtyard—yet you remained elusive. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, he finally discovered you in your chambers.

Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed open the door and slipped inside, finding you gracefully at work on the chaise, your fingers deftly weaving threads into intricate patterns. You were a breathtaking vision, embodying grace and beauty. In Aemond’s eyes, no other woman could rival you; with your bouncy auburn locks framing your face and your wide lilac eyes sparkling with warmth, you were perfection itself in his young gaze.

Suddenly aware of his presence, your lilac eyes widened in surprise, quickly softening into a gentle smile. “I didn’t hear you come in, Lēkia,” you said, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled spirit.

Aemond maintained a stoic facade, yet you recognized the telltale signs of turmoil he tried to conceal. Setting your embroidery aside, you rose and approached him, concern etched on your soft features. “What’s wrong?”

He bit his lip, fighting against the tide of tears that threatened to spill from a heart burdened by inadequacy. With a sudden rush, he wrapped his arms around you, burying his head against your soft stomach, the familiar comfort of your embrace drawing away the weight of his struggles. You enveloped him in your warmth, holding him close.

“What ails you, my sweet?” you asked softly, your voice gentle as you cradled him within your warmth.

In a muffled tone, he whispered something into your midsection, prompting you to hum thoughtfully. You gently withdrew from your embrace, seeking to meet his gaze. "Please, speak to me," you urged, your eyes searching his.

"I... I attempted to claim a dragon within the Dragonpit," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper as he averted your lilac gaze.

“Aemond,” you breathed, a soft sigh escaping with your words. He continued to gaze elsewhere, so you delicately entwined your fingers with his, leading him toward the luxurious chaise. “Come, sit.”

For a moment, you gazed at him tenderly, while you settled beside him, you brushed aside the silvery strands that shrouded his face, your touch light and affectionate. “You will have a dragon, Aemond. It flows through your bloodline, just as it does with every Targaryen.”

“But when?” he replied, his voice tinged with desperation and despair as his sad gaze finally met yours, shimmering with unfulfilled longing.

"I cannot say when, but the day will come," you assured him, caressing his cheek with a resolve you wished to impart. "In the meantime, you are always welcome to ride Aegarax with me. He enjoys your company as much as I do."

A flicker of relief sparked within Aemond, a small smile breaking the solemnity of his features. “One day, I shall marry you, Mandia,” he declared, his tone earnest.

You let out a light laugh—a melodious sound akin to a sweet harp, which soothed his troubled spirit. "Oh, really?"

He pouted at your playful response, brow furrowing with the weight of his intentions. "You think I jest, but I assure you, I will."

Meeting his earnest gaze with a warm smile, you nodded in playful affirmation. "Very well, Valonqar. We shall see."

In the gentle silence that followed, the two of you simply enjoyed the comfort of each other's presence. Aemond cast his gaze toward the window, observing the encroaching darkness that swallowed the sky. With a soft glimmer of hope in his brilliant violet eyes, he turned back to you, asking quietly, “May I stay here tonight?”

Your response was a tender smile only reserved for him, a sweet beacon that quickened his heart. “Of course, Aemond.”

His sister’s words rang with an undeniable truth. In time, Aemond did indeed lay claim to a dragon—not just any dragon, but Vhagar herself, the Queen of Dragons, the largest creature to ever soar the skies of Westeros. Yet, claiming such a majestic beast came at a grievous cost; he sacrificed an eye in the process. At first, he boasted that the price was worth it, but upon returning to the gilded halls of King's Landing, the true weight of his loss bore down on him.

Aemond found himself faced with the daunting challenge of relearning the world around him. He had to master the art of reading anew, to walk with the steadiness that had once come naturally, and to wield a sword with the same grace as before. Each endeavor was a trial, a relentless drain on his youthful body and spirit. Yet, through the trials of his recovery, you, his beloved elder sister, remained steadfast by his side, offering unwavering support and encouragement as he navigated this painful journey of transformation.

Until, all too suddenly, you weren't.

He entered your solar, seeking the solace of your presence, only to be met with the voices of your grandsire and mother. Concealed from their gaze, he peeked through the door, his heart heavy, and caught a glimpse of you standing by the window. Your arms were wrapped around yourself, as if trying to shield your heart from the world beyond.

"What was his name again?" your voice, laced with a softness that belied your inner turmoil, floated through the air, causing Aemond's brow to furrow in concern at the sorrow woven into your words.

"Thaddeus Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove," his mother replied, and Aemond felt a flicker of confusion as he noticed her wide, imploring eyes fixed upon you, as though she were silently pleading with you.

You nodded gently, your gaze lost in the sprawling landscape beyond, "Would I be able to bring Aegarax with me?"

"I daresay Goldengrove would welcome your dragon's protection with open arms, granddaughter," Otto declared, his eyes sharp and calculating as they scrutinized every nuance of your demeanor, awaiting your reaction with a predator’s patience.

A tumult of emotions roiled within Aemond’s chest, though he could hardly fathom why. A longing to comfort you surged, even as your back remained turned. At last, you responded, your voice resolute yet laced with vulnerability, "Then I shall fulfill my duty as a princess of the realm."

A spark of satisfaction flared in Otto’s expression. "I am glad to hear it, granddaughter," he affirmed, a tone of finality settling into his words.

Yet Alicent lingered, her gaze still fixed upon you, her eyes a tapestry of sadness and shame. She reached out a hand, a gesture of motherly affection, but in a moment of hesitation, withdrew before she could bridge the distance between you. With a shared understanding, she and Otto exchanged a nod before departing your solar. Aemond pressed himself behind a grand pillar, concealed from their view as his heart raced.

He knew he couldn’t linger long in the facade of concealment. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped into his sister's solar. Your back was turned to him, and as he drew nearer, he announced his presence with a caution, “Mandia.”

Startled, you flinched at the sound of his voice, swiftly raising your hands to your face—a gesture of self-protection. Only then did Aemond catch a glimpse of the tears streaming down your cheeks, slivers of silver glimmering in the waning light. His brows knitted together in concern as he advanced, but your dismissed his worry with a bittersweet laugh, “Lēkia. I fear you have caught me in a most untimely moment.”

He longed to comfort you, to wipe away your grief, yet an insatiable curiosity compelled him to press on gently, “Why were mother and grandsire speaking of Goldengrove?”

You cast him a scolding glance, brow raised, your slight smile faltering as you continued to dab at your damp cheeks, “It is considered rude to eavesdrop.”

“I do not understand what is happening,” he continued, urgency creeping into his voice. Deep down, however, he felt the ominous truth threatening to crush him.

With a heavy heart, you met Aemond’s gaze directly, your big lilac eyes filled with sorrow and reluctant acceptance. “I am betrothed to Lord Thaddeus Rowan of Goldengrove.”

His world shattered around him; the pain radiating from his chest was more excruciating than the loss of his eye. “What? No. You cannot.”

“It is not my choice, Aemond,” you replied, shaking your head in defeat, the shimmer of hope fading from your countenance.

“You are a Targaryen!” Aemond nearly shouted, his voice a crescendo of desperation. “He is unworthy of you.”

“It matters not,” you whispered softly, the finality of your words echoing in the stillness of the chamber.

Deep down, Aemond clung desperately to the hope that this was but a nightmare from which he would awaken. The truth, however, was a crueler torment than any physical wound. Breath came to him in ragged gasps, as if all the air had been stolen from his lungs, leaving him to struggle against a tide of despair.

“I think Aegarax will take nicely to The Reach," lost in your own turmoil, you failed to notice the torment that mirrored your own within Aemond’s piercing gaze. Instead, you murmured to yourself, perhaps seeking solace amidst the tempest of your emotions, "Yes, he will like it very much.”

And soon, the fates would conspire against them both. Just after Aegon and Helaena exchanged their vows, you would be sent away to the Reach—a gilded cage from which Aemond would not see you for six long years. Yet even in that time apart, his heart remained tethered to yours, longing for the touch of his lost sun amidst the shadows of his world.

It was done.

Aemond savored the sweet taste of victory. Aegon, his pitiful brother, lay incapacitated, the remnants of his power reduced to whispers, his body marred by burns that etched a grim testament to Aemond's fury. Aemond had dismissed his mother, Queen Alicent, from the Small Council, casting aside any vestige of her influence. Now, he stood unchallenged as Prince Regent, the shadow of his ambition stretching across the realm.

With resolute determination, he summoned Ser Criston Cole and commanded the Lord of Casterly Rock to march forth from the west, their forces destined to converge upon the foreboding shadows of Harrenhal. Aemond would join them at the opportune moment, ready to solidify his claim and quench the fires of dissent.

Though Aegon was silenced and the realm lay at his feet, one yearning gnawed at Aemond’s heart—a singular desire that eclipsed all else. He had longed for a figure who transcended mere ambition, a presence that had haunted his dreams since early childhood. As the sun dipped below the horizon, surrendering the sky to twilight, a raven arrived with a missive to his council from The Reach.

The missive bore grim tidings: Lord Thaddeus Rowan had perished in battle, and his brother Thoren had ascended to the title of Lord of Goldengrove, swearing fealty to Rhaenyra Targaryen. Rage bubbled within him as he recalled the moment his mother had all but surrendered you—his beloved sister—into the arms of that faded, middle-aged lord.

Images of you flooded his mind—your laughter echoing off the stone walls of your ancestral home, your smile a beacon in the dreariness of courtly life. Aemond felt the fire of desire ignite within him. The time had come; he would reclaim what fate had stolen.

It struck him as odd that, despite news of your firstborn being a daughter, you had recently given birth to a second child. Goldengrove, a jewel in the Reach, should rightfully have been entrusted to you, yet it now rested, unjustly, in the grip of Thoren Rowan.

But the thought that consumed Aemond was not one of territorial politics. No, it throbbed with the pulse of a more personal victory: your husband lay dead. At last, he could claim you as his own, severing the chains that bound you to another.

As soon as the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, Aemond resolved to pay a visit to Thoren Rowan. He would make the traitor pay for his disloyalty to the crown, and yet it was the promise of rekindling the bond with you that stoked the flames of his ambition.

In truth, Aemond had not found a moment's respite, his restless mind weaving visions of your long-anticipated reunion. As dawn broke over the horizon, shimmering rays of light filtering through the castle, he adorned himself in his finest garb, meticulously chosen for this momentous occasion. With a determined heart, he mounted Vhagar, ready to embark on his journey to the Reach.

The journey to Goldengrove was one of anticipation and fury. Hours slipped by, and at long last, Aemond beheld the looming silhouette of the castle. Vhagar’s terrifying wings overshadowed the stone walls, casting a foreboding shadow over the realm. The sounds of alarm bells rang out like wails of despair, mingling with the frightened cries of its inhabitants, as his arrival heralded both dread and a reckoning.

As Vhagar touched down, Aemond swiftly rounded up the Rowan men, making them kneel before him. Thoren Rowan, trembling and desperate, pleaded for mercy in the face of certain doom. Although the moment summoned an eager anticipation within him, Aemond felt a flicker of disappointment—he had hoped to catch a glimpse of you upon his arrival, yet you remained elusive, lost within the sprawling estate of Goldengrove.

Just as he prepared to utter the command that would unleash Vhagar's fiery wrath upon the trembling men, his gaze was drawn to a figure advancing through the smoke and chaos. Time seemed to stall as he recognized you, and his breath hitched in his throat.

You appeared as though a radiant goddess had graced the earth, clad in a gown of shimmering white and gold that caught the fading light. Your auburn locks, intricately braided, framed your face perfectly. Aemond studied you intently, noting that six years had graced you with maturity; the gentle roundness of your cheeks had given way to a more defined beauty, and your figure had blossomed into becoming more full, heralding your entrance into womanhood.

"What is this commotion?" you inquired, a frown tugging at your lips as you regarded Aemond, dismissing the row of quaking men at your feet with a mere glance.

Thoran Rowan, breath escaping him in a heavy sigh of relief, turned to you with palpable gratitude. “Good sister, finally! You must put an end to this madness.”

You turned to Thoren, tilting your head thoughtfully, your expression inscrutable. After a moment, you replied, “I shall call my brother off, but only on one condition, Thoren.”

Aemond listened intently, the gleam in his eye revealing no discontent with your words, while Thoran’s expression shifted to one of desperate anticipation. “Anything,” he affirmed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“My daughter shall inherit Goldengrove when she comes of age and ascend as its Lady,” you declared, unwavering and resolute, maintaining your composure in the face of any opposition.

“Sister!” Thoren's face contorted in disbelief. “She is a girl; It goes against tradition.”

You studied Thoran with a cold gaze, your shoulders rising in a nonchalant shrug. “Then I cannot help you. Without a male of the Rowan line, my daughter stands as the only viable heir to Goldengrove.”

“No, sister, I beg of you!” Thoren and the other men around him begged, their voices rising in a cacophony of panic.

But your expression turned frostbitten, and you regarded the men with a chilling finality. "And do not presume I have forgotten the vile rumors you spread about my children's legitimacy."

Aemond observed you with admiration, respect swelling within him as you seized control of the situation. The moment your eyes locked with his, he understood the silent command, the signal to act. Clearing his throat, he commanded, “Dracarys.”

In response, Vhagar unleashed a torrent of fire, roaring with fury as the flames enveloped the Rowan men, their terrified shrieks echoing through the vast fields of The Reach, and erasing the male line of House Rowan from existence.

As the smoke began to dissipate and the flames waned, you remained, an ethereal figure standing amidst the ash and remnants of destruction. A sweet smile graced your lips—a memory from his childhood, vivid and cherished, resurfacing in his mind like a long-lost song.

With a magnetic pull, Aemond moved towards you as if drawn by the siren call of your presence, oblivious to the world crumbling around him. You stood resolute, a beacon of strength and beauty. Finally, as he reached you, your delicate hand brushed against his scarred cheek, an intimate gesture that forced him to close his eye and lean into your tender touch. “I was wondering when you’d come for me, Lēkia,” you said softly, your voice like a gentle breeze amidst the ashes.

His heart swelled, and he leaned forward, placing a delicate kiss upon your palm. “You were expecting me,” he replied, his tone laced with wonder.

“Of course,” you replied with a teasing smile, the light in your eyes igniting a warmth within him that he thought was long gone.

With a deliberate slowness, you entwined your fingers with his and led him toward the opulent halls of Goldengrove’s palace, each step drew him deeper into the heart of the estate, much like a sailor lured by the enchanting call of a siren echoing from the depths of the sea.

The servants of Goldengrove shrank back at the sight of the One-Eyed Prince Regent, their expressions shifting to disbelief and dread as they recognized his formidable presence. Oblivious to their fear, you led him toward the sanctuary of your solar, a space filled with the warmth of flickering sunlight.

“Now, the question lingers: what shall you do now that you’ve arrived?” you purred softly, leaning against an intricately carved table, your heart quickening as Aemond advanced toward you, his movement both predatory and possessive.

“I think you know, Mandia,” he murmured, lowering his face until his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and tantalizing against your lips. “How I have yearned for this moment.”

“What moment do you speak of?” you breathed, barely able to contain the electricity crackling in the air between you.

“To finally taste you,” he replied, his voice a husky whisper, before closing the distance between you and bringing his lips to yours in a fervent kiss that ignited a wildfire within his soul.

Your lips were as sweet as they appeared, and Aemond felt his hand tighten possessively around your figure, surrendering to the primal urges that consumed him. His fingers explored your soft curves, gripping you gently yet firmly, eliciting a soft moan from your lips—a sound he swiftly took as his masterful invitation.

Aemond plunged into the depths of your mouth with his tongue, that fierce pleasure driving him onward. He knew at once you had indulged in lemon cakes, the remnants of their sweetness lingering. His tongue danced about the cavern of your mouth, searching hungrily, like a ravenous beast giving in to instinct, as you, too, welcomed his explorations with eagerness and fervor, your tongues entwining in a passionate dance.

Your hands instinctively found their way around his neck, drawing him closer as his rough hands roamed your body, grasping and squeezing with an insatiable hunger. A soft gasp escaped your lips when Aemond lifted you effortlessly, placing you upon the polished surface of the nearby table. The kiss broke, leaving you breathless, your cheeks flushed with heat as your heart raced, “What do you intend to do to me, Lēkia?”

Aemond’s breath came in heavy bursts, fueled by the desire of his cock that throbbed against the confines of his tight leather trousers. As he lifted the hem of your gown, revealing the delicate curves of your thighs, he spoke with a husky intensity, “I have savored your lips, and now I yearn to taste your cunt.”

A wanton moan escaped your throat at his words, succumbing to the heady thrill of surrender. He wasted no time, bunched your gown at your hips, and with a swift motion, he tore away your smallclothes, leaving you exposed to his ravenous gaze. Aemond’s eye, a vivid violet, widened in awe as they beheld your glistening and wet form, a sight that drove his desire deeper, hardening his erection further as he prepared to claim what was rightfully his.

Mouthwatering at the sight, Aemond was unable to resist sticking his face closer and inhaling you and the sweetest ambrosia he’s ever smelt. He adjusted himself in between your legs, bending down in front of you as he placed his lips right on your gleaming pearl.

“Yes, Lēkia!” you screamed almost squealing in shock. Aemond moaned in return, rutting his hips against the table beneath you.. Not wasting any time, he began to lick you from bottom to top, never touching your pearl after that first lick. Your hands reached once more into his long silver hair and directed him where you needed him most. Following your instructions, he allowed you to guide him, as to know the best way to please you.

Giving in, he finally started nibbling at your pearl, causing you to jerk up into him, trying to get more pressure. Not needing your instructions anymore, Aemond started devouring your cunt, giving most of his attention to your pearl but licking at your hole too. You could feel your peak start to bubble up inside you, that rising feeling inside your stomach letting you know you weren’t going to last much longer.

“I’m so close,” you moaned out, and Aemond was quick to remove his face from your pearl and replace it with his fingers as he spoke. The cool touch of his fingers was a shock to your system, your body jerking involuntarily.

“You want to come, Mandia. Go on then, peak on your Valonqar's tongue.” He almost ordered, placing his mouth around your pearl once more and sucking hard. His words and the suction on your pearl had you releasing immediately. Bucking hard against his face, blindly reaching for his hands to hold onto as you gave into the pleasure and moaned out his name.

“Too much,” you muttered after you came down from your peak, attempting to push him away. Aemond gave one last kiss to your pearl before standing up, his face covered in your glistening wetness. Grabbing his face, you pulled him toward your lips to taste yourself. Both moaning out at the perversity of it all as Aemond took that opportunity to once again stick his tongue in your mouth. Bringing you in closer as he tried to devour you, seemingly content to stay like this forever.

Taking advantage of the distraction he had with your tongue, your hands caressed his leather-clad chest, drifting down to his trousers and finally finding his erect cock. Feeling his hard length straining through was enough to ignore everything and focus on the way your cunt once again tingled in excitement, as your legs came to wrap around him, pulling his cock closer to your cunt.

“Do you wish to fuck your Rõva Mandia?" Groaning he involuntarily bucked his hips, causing you to arch and moan into his neck. His head was resting against your neck as well, holding you close to him in a very intimate embrace as you rolled your hips.

“Please,” Aemond barely whispered. Reaching your hands down, you hastily untied his laces as you grabbed his covered cock, stroking him before guiding him to your wet slit. Aemond released a groan as he felt your throbbing, tight cunt around him. Neither of you moved getting used to the overwhelming sensations stirring inside.

The feelings were so intense he thought he was going to release from just feeling you wrapped around his cock like a vice. In an attempt to distract himself, he started peppering small kisses on your neck. When Aemond – at last – buried himself to the hilt, he pulled his lips from yours and stared down at your face.

"I never could have imagined it would feel this way,” Aemond said in a strained voice. You let out a sweet laugh and he groaned, your cunt fluttering around him. He reached his free hand down and circled your pearl, letting small bits of pleasure seep through you.

He pulled out, leaving only the tip in, before pushing his cock back inside you. His eye widened and his breath vanished. Admittedly, Aemond was doing everything in his power not to thrust into your tight cunt. You were squeezing the life out of him and he just wanted to ravish you. Yet, Aemond reminded himself, you were not some random whore, no, you were his beloved sister.

Aemond continued thrusting into you slowly, one thumb still dangling over your pearl, as he eyed you. He carefully gauged your reaction, measuring each sigh and whimper from your lips. He took great pride in seeing the pleasure trickling into your eyes as he rocked his cock into you.

“Aemond!” you moaned, your head falling back against the table. Your cunt tightened and wetness flooded around Aemond's cock. You moaned again, and Aemond knew you were ready. He grinned, manic and excited, and pushed inside of you a bit harder, a bit deeper, and you loved it.

“Yes, Lēkia, right there,” you moaned as he fucked into you a bit faster. You knew he was holding himself back and you were thankful for that. His thrusts were rough and hard, but he cradled you carefully. His nails bit into your thighs gently as he grabbed your legs, spreading you wider so he could get deeper.

Your brother brought you so much pleasure that you couldn’t think of any words other than his name. You babbled it, along with a few expletives, about how much you wanted his cock, how you needed him, and eventually, how badly you needed to release.

Aemond wasn’t far behind you. Your tight, wet cunt was Heaven to him. You were a gift that no others could compare to. He wanted to sink himself so deeply into your body that he could never find the way out.

Aemond's breath caught in his throat as he noticed a damp patch on the fabric that veiled your breasts, his desire igniting. You opened your lilac eyes to find his gaze locked onto your chest, fixated as he rhythmically thrust into you.

Summoning all your strength, you pulled away from Aemond, your hands trembling as you expertly undid the ties at the front of your bodice, lowering your dress and liberating your breasts for his eager gaze.

"Take what you need from your Rõva Mandia," you moaned softly. The moment those words left your lips, something shifted in Aemond. He immediately dipped down, descending upon one of your nipples, his lips enveloping the hardening peak, teeth grazing teasingly as if he yearned to savor you completely. When he began to suck, a low groan escaped him as the sweet essence of his sister filled his mouth. After a moment, he switched to the other nipple, lavishing equal attention as he continued to drink from you.

Aemond eventually pulled away from between her breasts, mouth glistening with saliva and a few escaped beads of milk; licking the remnants away. Aemond released one of your thighs and pinched your pearl. He rubbed it furiously, daring you to release. His eyes were wild as he stared down at you, beautiful, throaty groans escaping his body.

“Cum for me, Mandia. Cum all over my cock, Ñuha jorrāelagon,” Aemond grunted. He tapped your pearl quickly, and with a shout of his name, you came all over him. Your body writhed with pleasure as whiteness blinded you. His name fell from your lips like a seductive mantra, and as he heard you cry out for him, Aemond came inside of you. He filled you with his seed, pumping himself slowly inside of you, as if to fill you to the brim.

With a deep sigh of utter exhaustion, Aemond sank against your chest, cautious not to crush you beneath him as he sought comfort among the softness of your breasts, recovering from the passionate lovemaking you had just shared. You lovingly combed your fingers through his silken hair, each stroke a tender caress that echoed your affection.

After a lingering moment, Aemond raised his head, his violet gaze locking onto yours, as he captured your lips once more in a fervent kiss.

When he finally drew back, his breath warm against your mouth, he murmured, "You shall accompany me back to King's Landing and take your place as my Queen."

A small smile graced your lips as you cupped his face with your hand, your touch gentle yet deliberate. "As you wish, Lēkia," you replied, pausing thoughtfully before adding, "Now, do you wish to meet my daughters?”

Aemond could only respond with a broad grin at your words, paying no mind to his softening cock still inside you.

As the echoes of your shared passion lingered in the air, you both took a moment to compose yourselves, the warmth of your reunion still glowing between you. You reached for Aemond's hand, and he clasped it eagerly, allowing you to guide him through the labyrinthine corridors adorned with intricate white stone.

Aemond's thoughts began to wander, drifting to your daughters—would their features reflect your beauty or the visage of your late husband? Perhaps a delicate blend of both? A pang of jealousy gnawed at him, a reminder that you would forever carry ties to a man who had once been a significant part of your life.

Yet, he swiftly reassured himself. He would cherish your daughters just as he cherished you. They were woven from your essence, and in his eyes, that already made them flawless. A gentle smile graced your lips as you led him into a sunroom, a sanctuary bathed in sunlight, where stained glass cast colorful patterns across the floor, and vivid bouquets of blossoms filled the air with sweet fragrance.

“Mama!” came the high-pitched voice of a little girl, breaking through Aemond’s reverie.

He looked down, a smile spreading across his face. But as his gaze fell upon the small figure before him, that smile faltered, his eye widening in surprise as he beheld a small girl with a cascade of silver hair—the complete counterpart of her mother’s rich auburn locks.

With gentle grace, you lowered yourself to scoop up the little one. Your daughter’s delicate silver locks were intricately woven into a braided crown, and she wore a regal purple gown that beautifully complemented her enchanting lilac eyes.

“Aemond, meet Elaena,” you introduced softly, your voice warm as your daughter peered up at him, a hint of shyness flickering across her face. “Elaena, this is your kepūs, Aemond.”

With a gentle nudge, you encouraged the girl to greet him, and she shyly waved her small hand from the safety of your embrace. Aemond’s heart softened at the sight, and a genuine smile broke across his features as he took Elaena’s tiny hand in his, pressing a soft kiss upon it. “Hello Elaena.”

Elaena stifled a soft giggle at Aemond's antics, her mirth spilling into the cozy air like sunlight filtering through the leaves. Just as you were about to respond to his playful tease, a plaintive cry shattered the tranquility that enveloped you. Turning your head, you carefully set Elaena down, and Aemond watched with rapt attention as you glided toward a nearby cradle, your smile radiating warmth as you leaned over the tiny bundle nestled there.

In that moment, Aemond understood that your babe had awoken to the sound of your voice, her cries a sweet summons for her mother’s embrace. He felt a surge of pride wash over him as you lifted your second daughter into your arms, her Targaryen silver hair gleaming like strands of moonlight.

With tender affection, you nuzzled the baby’s soft cheek, laughter bubbling forth as you said, “Has my little love finally awoken?” The baby responded with delighted coos, her tiny hands reaching out in eager recognition of her beloved Mama.

Aemond, entranced by the sight before him, felt a moment of stillness, the world around him fading into the background. Yet this reverie was soon interrupted by a gentle tug, pulling him back to reality. Glancing down, he found Elaena grasping the hem of his tunic, her arms reaching up to him, a beacon of innocence. A smile blossomed across his face as he swiftly bent down, cradling her in his arms. In an instant, she eagerly reached for his eye patch, prompting a chuckle to escape his lips at her curiosity.

With Elaena nestled securely against him, he approached you and the babbling babe, your brilliant smile illuminating the sun filled chamber. You gestured toward the child cradled in your arms. “This is Aelora,” you announced, your voice filled with pride.

Aelora babbled softly, her cherub face aglow with happiness as she settled back against you, content in her mother’s loving embrace. As Aemond stole a glance at you, with Elaena in his arms and Aelora wrapped in your tender care, a profound realization washed over him. Your daughters, with their shimmering silver tresses and purple gaze, could have been a perfect reflection of him.

In the tangled depths of his thoughts, it seemed as though you had fashioned a perfect little family just for him to claim. His two precious daughters and his beloved Rõva Mandia.

a/n | in my head, her name is aelyri in tribute of alicent's mother, alerie florent.

headcannon: she named elaena after helaena.

another headcannon: after coming back to king's landing, she realised goldengrove was the upgrade.

mandia - sister

rõva mandia - big sister

valonqar - little brother

lēkia - brother

ñuha jorrāelagon - my love

kēpus - uncle

Goldengrove

Aegarax

[struberri]

hellbound || jjk

‘we got that love, the crazy kind.’

they weren’t meant to meet, just two strangers chasing the same prize. it should have ended there. but now they’re bound by blood and the kind of pull that feels more like fate than chance. because if the world wants to destroy them, it’ll have to do it while they’re holding on to each other.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

total word count: 27.1k+ words

genre: heist | romantic thriller | crime | angst | morally grey leads | fugitives | slow burn | mutual obsession | smut |

rating: 18+

warnings: mature themes | violence | blood | betrayal | weapons | kidnapping | forced drugging | torture | strong language | smut | sexual activity | unprotected sex | criminal | dark themes |

index:

⋆˙⟡ part 1. yours in every crime (18k+ words)

⋆˙⟡ part 2. ours, even if it kills us (9.1k+ words)

moodboard | cast | playlist |

taglist | guide to struberri-verse |

it’s here !! a oneshot / twoshot , whatever you wanna call it , but i’m calling it ‘shorts’ since it’s not a full series and only has two parts lol

i genuinely worked my ass off on this one because the original storyline was so different. it still had that ‘my ride or die’ vibe , but it ended up being way too corny and i had to scrap it out , even though i was halfway through writing it. no regrets though , because i’m way more satisfied with how this version turned out.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. all characters, events and scenarios are entirely fictional and is created for entertainment purposes only. this story is not meant to reflect the real personalities or lives of the idols mentioned. please read with an open mind and remember that everything here exists in a fictional universe. please do not copy or spread hate.

© struberri 2025

[writingforstraykids]

You have the right to remain mine

Pairing: Mob Boss!Minho x Chief of Police!Reader

Word Count: 6589

Summary: You're the youngest Chief of Police in the city’s history. Unfortunately, fate has a twisted sense of humor. Because the kingpin you’ve been chasing across rooftops and back alleys for years? You’re married to him. Lee Minho, your husband of five years, is the elusive, impeccably dressed, frustratingly clever Mob Boss at the top of your most-wanted list. You raid his warehouses. He sends you flowers the next day. He burns down a rival gang's casino, and you make sure the surveillance footage ‘malfunctions.’ It’s a dance - a dangerous, unspeakably stupid battle of law and love. But it's yours.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, betrayal, short mention of blood, guns, they're idiots, suggestive, bickering

A/N: You voted, here it is. The opposite pairing will be posted soon as it's been a close call (yes, it'll be a different storyline)🤭🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Seoul doesn't so much wake up as it murmurs itself into motion - slow, heavy-lidded, and restless beneath a pale, smog-soft sky. The glass buildings catch the low morning light like mirrors trying not to remember the night. Somewhere far below, a siren wails, more tired than urgent, swallowed by the hum of early traffic and the scatter of footsteps on wet pavement.

Your apartment sits high above all of it. Too high to hear the chaos. Too quiet to forget it.

The scent of freshly ground coffee drifts into the bedroom long before you do. You linger by the doorframe, still adjusting your badge and tugging at the too-stiff collar of your uniform, as if somehow you could pull yourself tighter into your role. One hand rests on your holstered sidearm - not out of habit, but because it’s grounding. Something that has never lied to you.

Which is more than you can say for the man in your kitchen.

Minho stands with his back to you, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the curve of his forearm flexing as he sets your coffee down beside the usual folded napkin.

He’s barefoot on the cool tile, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing the kind of perfectly worn-in hoodie that screams domestic bliss instead of what it should: most wanted criminal in Seoul. If you hadn’t seen him orchestrate a warehouse bombing with a whisper and a smirk, you’d believe he belonged here.

He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “You’re up early.”

You step fully into the room, the clink of your belt and gear cutting through the silence like warning bells. “Didn’t sleep,” you murmur, wrapping both hands around the ceramic mug he offers without ceremony.

“Nightmares?” he asks, but there’s a gentle note under it, like he's actually asking if you’re okay.

“Paperwork,” you reply, and sip too fast. The burn is welcome.

Minho makes a quiet, sympathetic sound. “Worse then.”

You should leave. You have thirty minutes to make it downtown, brief your team, and pretend convincingly that you’re not married to the man your department has spent the last years trying to hunt down. And failing.

You lean against the counter anyway. He watches you from the other side, arms crossed, mouth curved in something between amusement and exhaustion. You both look like people playing house. Like two civilians exchanging sleepy words in a kitchen touched by sunrise. And maybe, in another life, that’s all you would’ve been.

But in this one?

You’re Seoul’s Chief of Police. And he’s its most slippery, terrifyingly brilliant kingpin.

“What happened at the docks last night?” you ask, too casually, because dancing around it feels worse.

Minho’s expression doesn’t shift, but something behind his eyes sharpens. “You tell me.”

“Two bodies in a van. Bound. Shot clean. Dumped like trash. No prints. No traceable bullets,” you list the facts.

“Sounds like professionals,” he says, tone mild.

You raise an eyebrow. “Your professionals.”

He shrugs, slow and infuriating. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re making it harder and harder to protect you.”

He steps closer, barefoot pads silent on the tile, and reaches out to brush a non-existent wrinkle from your sleeve. His hand lingers. “You’ve been protecting me, hm?”

“Don’t be cute,” you warn him.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he grins. His voice lowers. “Do you want me to stop?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, the whole threadbare illusion you’ve managed to drape over your life might finally tear. Instead, you down the rest of your coffee, place the mug carefully on the counter, and turn away - half to grab your keys, half to remember how to breathe.

He follows you to the door, as he always does. Like he’s simply your husband walking you out for work and not the man you're supposed to have handcuffed in an interrogation room.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you say without looking at him.

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, watching you clip your ID to your uniform. “Working late, or pretending to work late?”

“There’s a task force in town. Federal.”

His gaze darkens just slightly, but his voice stays smooth. “They’re watching me now too?”

“They’re watching everyone.”

He hums softly, a sound that tells you nothing and everything. “Be careful, Chief.”

You pause at the door, fingers tightening around the handle. “You, too. Please.”

There’s a long, slow moment where neither of you moves. Then…

“By the way,” Minho says casually, “if you’re wondering why your office phone’s been making that weird clicking noise-” You turn, narrowing your eyes. He smiles, smug as hell. “I might’ve planted a bug. Just to make sure your new federal friends weren’t getting too nosy.”

“You planted a - Minho!”

He shrugs. “Occupational hazard. Love you.”

“You’re insane,” you hiss, pulling the door shut behind you.

“Text me when you miss me!” he calls after you, voice sing-song sweet.

You pretend you don’t hear it. Pretend that your heart doesn’t twist every time you walk away from him. Pretend you’re not still waiting for the day one of you stops pretending. Because the roles this world has pushed you in are screaming at you to do so.

You're the youngest Chief of Police in the city’s history - sharp, principled, and dead set on dismantling the criminal networks ruining your streets. Unfortunately, fate has a twisted sense of humor. Because the kingpin you’ve been chasing across rooftops and back alleys for years? You’re married to him.

Lee Minho, your husband of five years, is the elusive, impeccably dressed, frustratingly clever Mob Boss at the top of your most-wanted list.

You’ve both agreed (unofficially, of course) to ‘try’ catching each other without actually catching each other. You raid his warehouses. He sends you flowers the next day. He burns down a rival gang's casino, and you make sure the surveillance footage ‘malfunctions.’ It’s a dance - a dangerous, unspeakably stupid battle of law and love. But it's yours.

Five years ago

It was raining the night you married him.

Not the soft kind that politely patters against windowpanes, but the relentless, sideways kind that slams against rooftops and turns gutters into rivers. Thunder rolled across the coastline like it was laughing at you, shaking loose something deep in your chest. Somewhere beyond the glass walls of the hotel room, waves crashed angrily against the breakwater.

The storm was the least reckless thing happening that night.

You stood barefoot on a plush rug in a borrowed suite far from Seoul, hair damp with seawater and adrenaline. Your hand trembled slightly in his as you stared at a man who shouldn't have been touching you - shouldn’t have known you beyond coded messages and surveillance reports. But somehow, you’d spent the last year learning everything about him anyway.

Lee Minho.

The ghost at the edge of every case file. That last name your officers whispered like a curse. The man whose empire grew quietly in the dark, elegant and cruel, all silk gloves and bloody rings. And the man who, six months ago, had cornered you in a back alley after a botched sting and said, “You’ve been chasing me so long I’m starting to think you just like the view.”

And God help you, you stayed to hear what he’d say next.

You never planned for it to go this far. You never planned to see the way he looked at you when you called him by his real name instead of a title. You never planned to care what happened to him when an enemy gang planted a car bomb outside his nightclub, or when he disappeared for three weeks without a word.

You never planned to say yes.

Because when you got to know him, he was nothing but a shy, self-made CEO, wanting nothing but winning your heart. And oh, he had managed to do so so easily.

But then there you were - standing in a hotel room with no witnesses, no priest, no flowers - just the quiet, awful honesty of two people who knew this would ruin them and were still too stubborn to walk away.

“I know this is stupid,” Minho had said, that night, his voice hoarse with something raw and real. “I know what it makes you. What it makes me. But I’ve had people swear loyalty to me with guns in their hands and lies on their tongues. I want something different. Just once.”

You could’ve said no. You should’ve.

But the truth was - you didn’t trust anyone either. Not your deputy. Not the system. Not even yourself, on some nights.

But him? You trusted him to never lie about who he was. And somehow, that counted for more.

So you took the ring.

There wasn’t even a real ceremony that night. Just a whisper. A vow that didn’t make sense outside of the room.

“If they find out…”

“This doesn’t leave these walls.”

“It won’t,” he promised.

“They won’t.”

“We can’t be caught.”

“Then we won’t be.”

You remember the way he pressed his forehead against yours after, breathing like he’d run miles. You remember his hands on your waist, grounding you, reverent. You remember the silence between you - not empty, but thick with something unspeakably terrifying: love, in its rawest, ugliest form.

And you remember thinking, God, this is going to hurt later.

You were right.

Because five years later, you’re standing in your department’s war room staring at a board of photographs and red lines, all leading back to Minho, and pretending your heart doesn’t seize every time someone suggests killing him would be cleaner than an arrest.

Because five years later, every time you kiss him goodbye, it might actually be the last time.

The only hope you have is that no one knows who's the head of the Lee family. Even his enemies don't know his face. He's been careful and it made a legal wedding, one year later, with his public persona possible. It doesn't ease your fear, though.

And because five years later, you still haven’t figured out how to be both the hand that cuffs him and the one that reaches for him in the dark.

The precinct smells like burnt coffee and cheap floor polish. You walk in just after eight, weaving between buzzing desks and half-drained paper cups, your boots echoing off the scuffed tile. The murder board’s already lit up at the far end of the bullpen, center stage, like always. Red thread, handwritten notes, blurry surveillance photos. It’s a mess of dead leads and unsolved violence.

Present Day

Your team is already gathered: Detective Yoon flipping through files with one hand and a granola bar in the other; Jae, your resident tech, is half-asleep behind his tablet; and Songhwa, sharp as ever, is tapping her pen against the board like she’s trying to will the mystery into solving itself.

And at the heart of it all, as always, is one name in bold letters: LEE FAMILY SYNDICATE.

“Morning, Chief,” Yoon calls as you approach. “Coffee’s fresh, if by ‘fresh’ you mean still vaguely warm and legal to ingest.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, already reaching for the pot.

Jae grins at you over his screen. “We’ve been going through the most recent surveillance dumps. Still nothing. Whoever’s running point for the Lee family is either a ghost or some AI experiment gone rogue.”

Songhwa doesn’t look up. “No digital trail, no voice ID, no clean photos. Even the security footage from the port incident last week was jammed the moment they got close to the site. These people move like they know our next move before we do.” You take a long, steady sip of the coffee. Bitter and burnt. Perfect for mornings like this. “They’ve got a strategist,” Songhwa continues. “Someone clean. Disciplined. Not like the other mid-level idiots we’ve hauled in.”

Yoon gestures at the board. “We’ve got, what, forty-seven photos up there now? All suspected affiliates, and none of them confirmed as the one calling the shots.”

You arch a brow. “It’s Seoul. If we put up a picture of every person named Lee, we’d run out of wall and all retire with migraines.”

Jae barks a laugh. “Careful, Chief. You’re a Lee by marriage, right? We’d have to stick your photo up there too.”

Yoon whistles low. “Your husband’s a Lee, right. That’s suspicious enough. Handsome CEO. Vaguely mysterious. What do we know about him, anyway?”

You don’t miss a beat. You laugh, lightly, just the right note of self-deprecating humor, and shake your head. “All I know is he sleeps like the dead and always forgets to take the laundry out of the machine.”

“Classic criminal behavior,” Songhwa mutters dryly, clicking her pen and pinning another blurry face to the wall.

You sip your coffee again to keep your mouth from twitching. Because the last time Minho did the laundry, he used it to sneak a flash drive past your department’s scanner system.

The morning wears on. Names fly. Leads fizzle. You nod in the right places. Pretend like your skin doesn’t crawl every time someone says ‘the Lee syndicate.’ Pretend you don’t recognize the code name from the intercepted email, because it was Minho’s old alias, back before you even knew what he looked like in daylight.

You’re trained to lie. Undercover, interrogations, courtroom crossfire - you’ve lied a thousand times. But this is different. Because this lie wears a ring and keeps a toothbrush next to yours.

“Hey, Chief?” Jae calls, tapping a file. “We’ve got an anonymous tip that came in this morning. Says the next weapons shipment’s going through Jungbu Pier tomorrow night.”

Your pulse flinches. You walk over slowly, reaching for the paper. “Do we know who sent it?”

“Untraceable IP. But the language was… clinical. Precise. Too clean for a street rat. Might be someone on the inside.”

You study the printout. The phrasing is unmistakable - your husband’s kind of clean. If he sent this, it means something’s wrong. You’re not sure if he’s warning you away or pulling you in.

Yoon glances over your shoulder. “You think it’s real?”

You fold the paper and tuck it into the folder like it’s just another lead. “Only one way to find out.” You don’t say more. You don’t need to. You're the Chief. They trust you.

And you? You trust exactly one person.

The man this whole board is trying to catch.

The first time you saw him, you didn’t know his name.

Seven years ago

The nametag on his lapel said ‘Lee Minho’ printed in silver foil beneath a title that sounded important: CEO, Entertainment Group. Vague, polished, safe. The kind of label people wore at charity galas when they didn’t want to be asked real questions. The kind of label that made it easy to forget.

But you didn’t forget him.

You were only a few weeks into your new role then - a freshly promoted detective still getting used to wearing pressed collars and not kicking in doors. You hadn’t even planned to attend the fundraiser that night, but your captain insisted you start ‘rubbing elbows’ with the upper crust if you wanted to get promoted again someday.

So you went. You wore a dress you borrowed from a cousin. You showed up fifteen minutes late. You drank exactly one flute of champagne and scanned the room like you were casing it. Old habits died hard. And that’s when you saw him.

Leaning against the edge of a glass balcony, posture perfect but relaxed, fingers curled lightly around a tumbler of whiskey he hadn’t touched. He was dressed in black-on-black, tie knotted like he hadn’t meant to look that good but did anyway. He looked… effortless…but terribly lonely.

And when his gaze caught yours across the crowd you felt it like a hook beneath your ribs. You should’ve looked away. Instead, you stared back.

You didn’t speak that night. Not really. Just a polite nod when you passed near the bar. A shared glance as some investment banker droned into the microphone about “rebuilding communities” and “strategic giving.” But his presence clung to you like perfume long after you left.

-

You thought about him the next morning. And the next. And then you buried the thought beneath twelve-hour shifts and case files you weren’t supposed to bring home.

You saw him again nearly five months later.

-

Another charity event - this one for arts education, hosted in an upscale gallery in Gangnam. You arrived late again. Alone again. You’d almost convinced yourself that the man from the last gala had been a passing distraction, a moment your brain had romanticized out of loneliness.

Until you turned toward the exhibit hall and there he was - Lee Minho, nametag and all - standing in front of a minimalist painting, head tilted, eyes sharp with the kind of focus people pretend to have when they’re trying not to stare at something else.

Except this time, he didn’t just glance. He smiled. And then he walked toward you like it had always been part of the plan. “You came late again,” he said softly.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I was hoping you’d show up,” he clarified. “But… you’re late.”

You laughed before you meant to. “I didn’t realize I was expected.”

“I didn’t realize I was hoping,” he said, then paused, like he wasn’t sure if it was too much. It should have been. It wasn’t. His voice wrapped around you like sweet honey.

He offered you a drink. Nothing flashy. Just a glass of white wine, dry, good quality. He didn’t ask what you did for work. Didn’t try to impress you. Just asked if you liked the painting behind you. Then another one. Then asked if you wanted to dance.

You hadn’t danced in years. But you took his hand. The music wasn’t even slow, it was jazzy, uptempo, slightly chaotic, but he moved with you like you’d practiced. Like he could read your rhythm before you even found it. And when he laughed, when you stepped on his foot and muttered a curse under your breath, it was this quiet, surprised thing that made your stomach twist in the best way.

You fell before you knew it.

The next six months came like a dream made of soft lights and quiet corners.

-

He took you out to dinner: not places with dress codes, but places that served your favorite food the way you liked it. He made reservations under fake names, but you assumed it was a CEO thing. He never showed up with a bodyguard, never flaunted money. Just handed you jackets when it rained and always asked if he could kiss you first.

He cooked for you in his sleek apartment overlooking the river. Pastas, rice dishes, once even pancakes at midnight when you showed up shaking after a bad day on the job. You liked that he never asked questions you didn’t want to answer. You liked that he listened when you talked, really listened, the way no one else in your life did without scribbling it down in a report.

He took you to bookstores on quiet afternoons, letting you pull him down aisles like he belonged there, like he wasn’t a man made of shadows and carefully constructed silences.

And all the while, you told yourself he was just Minho.

Sweet. Smart. Unexpectedly shy. Mysterious, sure, but so are most men who get rich too young - that’s what you thought. That’s what you let yourself believe.

You didn’t look too closely. Not yet. Because you were happy. God help you, you were happy.

And when he pulled you in at the end of a bookstore date one night, cupping your cheek with reverence and whispering, “I’ve never been good at this, but… I really like you,” - you believed him.

The precinct hums even after dark. Most of your team has gone home, their empty coffee cups abandoned like casualties of war. But you’re still at your desk, hunched over the printout from this morning’s tip, the fluorescent light above you buzzing like it knows you’re lying to everyone around you.

Present Day

You read it again. The location. The time. The language - clinical, restrained, purposeful. It sounds just like him.

If Minho sent it… you don’t know whether it’s a warning or a test. Either way, it’s working. Because your hands haven’t stopped shaking since you folded that paper and told your team you’d look into it.

Your phone buzzes on the desk.

Minnie love🤍: You’re still at the office. Come home. What do you want for dinner?

You hesitate before typing a reply. Minho picks up his phone at home.

My Sweetest Crime🖤: We need to talk.

By the time you reach your apartment, it’s nearly midnight. The city has quieted into its low, breathing hush, traffic down to a whisper, neon lights bleeding softly into the slick asphalt. But inside your high-rise, everything feels too still. Like the air’s been holding its breath for hours.

-

You open the door. Minho’s waiting in the kitchen. Same as this morning. Same hoodie, same mug. But this time, he doesn’t smile when he sees you. He just watches.

You shut the door behind you with a soft click. The quiet stretches, brittle. “Was it you?” you ask, setting your keys down slowly. “The tip?”

His jaw flexes, just once. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Answer mine.”

He doesn't blink. “Would you rather I lie?”

You cross the room in slow steps, each one tightening the coil in your spine. “You can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice low. “Sending things through anonymous proxies, playing games with my team, with me. It’s reckless.”

He laughs once, hollow. “You think I’m the one being reckless?” You flinch. Minho moves closer, but doesn’t reach for you. His hands stay in his pockets, like he doesn’t trust himself either. “I watched your press conference,” he says quietly. “The one about the task force. You looked the Commissioner in the eye and promised you'd crack the Lee syndicate wide open.” His gaze narrows. “That includes me, doesn't it?”

Your breath catches. “Don’t.”

His voice drops. “Don’t what? Don’t say it? Or don’t make you say it out loud? Don't make it real? Because you just did.”

You don’t answer. You can't. Because it’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either, and the space in between is where you live now.

He exhales sharply, stepping back, running a hand through his hair. “I gave you the tip to keep your people alive. That shipment is real. And it’s not mine. I don’t touch weapons. But someone wants it to look like I do.”

“Then why not tell me directly?” you snap. “Why go through the back door?”

“Because you’re the Chief of Police,” he bites. “You have a unit listening to your every call, and a federal team crawling through your files. If I hand you anything, they’ll trace it back to me, and you’ll burn with me,” he snaps at you.

That stops you. You stare at him, and for the first time since getting that message, you don’t see the kingpin or the liar. You just see him. The man who once pressed a cup of tea into your hands when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The man who folded your laundry without asking and read every book you left face-down on the couch. The man you married in a storm with no witnesses. “You think I can’t handle it,” you say quietly.

“I think you’re already handling too much,” he whispers. “And I don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending this isn’t killing you.” You blink fast. Once. Twice. The burn behind your eyes threatens to spill over. Minho steps forward, slowly now, gaze softening. “Tell me to back off, and I will. I’ll disappear again. I’ll play the shadow you always said I should’ve stayed. But if you still want this, us, then let me help you. Let me protect you the way you keep trying to protect me.”

You don’t move. The silence between you stretches again—but this time it’s different. Not brittle. Just full. Your voice is barely there when it comes. “You said you don’t deal weapons?” He nods. “Then who does?”

Minho hesitates. “Someone who doesn’t care if you’re in the crossfire.”

The case wasn’t supposed to lead to him. You were deep in it by then - twelve months into a city-wide investigation that had quietly escalated behind closed doors. Someone was moving shipments through the underground, laundering money through mid-tier shell companies, consolidating control of the scattered remnants of old gangs and turning them into something terrifyingly efficient.

Six years ago

They called it The Lee Family, but no one knew who was at the head of the table. No clear face. No voice recordings. Just strategy, silence, and power. Until your team intercepted a burner call. Just this one.

It had been scrubbed, distorted, buried in white noise. But you stayed late anyway, alone in the evidence room with your laptop, eyes aching from hours of decrypting audio.

And in the final minute of the file, just for a breath, you heard it. That voice. Low, controlled, almost amused. You knew the moment that giggle you've gotten so used to hearing could be heard - awfully distorted, but unmistakably your boyfriend.

Your whole body locked, ice rolling down your spine like someone had just opened a door in the dead of winter. You hit replay, over and over, but there was no need. You didn’t need audio analysis. You didn’t need your team. You knew that voice.

Because it had said I love you just four nights ago, into the soft curve of your neck.

You don’t remember driving home. Not really. Everything outside the windshield blurred into a smear of neon and tail lights, your breath shallow and uneven, as if the truth had shoved itself into your lungs and refused to let go. You didn’t take the elevator when you got to his building. You took the stairs, fourteen flights, because you needed something to burn the panic out of you before you saw him again.

-

You let yourself in with your key. Of course he’d given you a key. The lights were dim. Jazz played softly through the speakers. He was in the kitchen, barefoot in his favorite black sweater, sleeves rolled up as he plated something warm and slow-cooked. The kind of meal that takes hours. Fuck.

He smiled when he saw you. “You’re early.” You didn’t answer. He stopped in his movements. The air shifted. He felt it - how still you were. How tightly you held your bag to your side. “What happened, my dearest?” he asked, careful now.

You pulled out the USB. Tossed it onto the counter like a knife between you. “You tell me.” He didn’t even look at it. His eyes stayed on you. You hated how calm he was. You hated that part of you still wanted to believe it wasn’t true. “I recognized your voice, Minho. Your stupid giggle,” you said, each word deliberate. “Do you want to lie to me now? Or later?”

Silence stretched thin between you, his shoulders sagging. “No,” he said softly. “No lies. Not anymore.”

Your heart cracked so sharply it felt audible. “So it’s true,” you whispered. “The syndicate. The ships. The shell companies. The things that have been robbing my sleep for months now. All of it - you.” He nodded, just once. Like this, he didn't look like he'd be capable of it. He looked like a wet cat, big sad eyes meeting yours, frustration and fear radiating off him. “And you knew who I was from the beginning,” you said, voice thick now, shaking. “You knew I was a detective. And you still…you still took me to bookstores and out for pancakes.”

His voice barely held together. “I did. I took you to bookstores. I held your hand when you were too tired to speak. I made you laugh when you forgot how.”

You stepped back. “Don’t you dare make this romantic.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“But it did. And you let it.”

He came around the counter, slow and unthreatening, like approaching a wild animal. His hands were loose at his sides. “I knew you were going to be promoted,” he said quietly. “I knew who you were before you even looked at me that night in Gangnam. I wasn’t supposed to get close.”

“Then why did you?” you asked, shoving his chest. And God, you hated how broken it sounded coming out.

Minho’s voice cracked for the first time. “Because I’d never met anyone like you. And because I wanted, for once, I wanted something that wasn’t made of blood and fear and silence. I wanted you. Even if I only got a few months.”

“You didn’t give me a choice. I should've been able to choose,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.” He held up his hands in front of you, swallowing softly. “Are you going to arrest me now?”

Silence crashed in like a wave. You could’ve screamed. You could’ve cuffed him. You could’ve walked out and never turned back.

But you didn’t.

Because love doesn’t care what job you have.

And betrayal always cuts deeper when it comes with wine and a quiet jazz track. “I need air,” you whispered, already reaching for the door.

He didn’t stop you. He just stood there in the kitchen, your favorite dish going cold on the counter behind him, and let you leave.

You didn’t plan to go. You told yourself the ache would pass - that if you just focused on work, on the cases piling up on your desk, the headlines, the weight of your badge - you could push him from your chest like a splinter. But Minho had always lodged too deep. Like breath. Like blood.

-

So you showed up at his apartment two weeks later. Just past midnight.

The hallway outside his door smelled like the city- wet concrete, exhaust, something electric in the air. Your hand hovered at the door longer than it should have, knuckles tense, heart rabbit-fast. When it opened, you didn’t say a word.

Minho’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but not shock. As if he’d known you’d come eventually, but hadn’t let himself believe it.

Neither of you said anything. Not when he stepped back to let you in. Not when he closed the door behind you. Not even when you looked at him like you hadn’t seen color in days.

-

Minho touched you like he remembered every time you’d flinched and softened beneath him. He moved slowly, with a softness that made your throat ache. His lips trailed down your shoulder like he was relearning the parts of you he’d memorized. You let him. You let yourself fall apart in his hands like he was safety, not risk.

It happened in fragments. A kiss that wasn’t a question. Hands that knew their way even after the silence. Your jacket hit the floor. His sweater followed. The sound of your name from his mouth like it was still sacred.

And for a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend that none of this was wrong.

That love wasn’t supposed to be weighed down by secrets and laws and the sharp edge of what-ifs.

Afterwards, the silence pressed in again. Minho’s arms were still around you, his breath soft against your temple, your skin damp with sweat and rain and guilt. The sheets tangled around your waist like a crime scene. You didn’t know when the tremble started, but it had.

-

Your fingers curled into the sheet. Your throat closed. And then the words broke loose in a whisper, as helpless as a confession in the dark. “I shouldn’t have come.” Minho didn’t move. “I’m a cop,” you said, voice splintering. “I’m a cop, and I just—” Your eyes burned. “I shouldn’t be here.”

You pulled away, just enough to sit up, the sheet falling from your shoulders. You wrapped it around you like armor, like it could make you clean again. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You turned away from him, as if that would help.

“I’m a cop,” you said again, weaker now, like maybe if you said it enough, it would undo what just happened.

Minho sat up behind you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he reached out and gently cupped your face in both hands, guiding you to look at him. “You’re still a cop,” he said, voice low but certain. “You didn’t stop being that just now.”

Your eyes welled again. You nodded, slowly, painfully. “Yeah,” you choked. “And I’m in love with a criminal.”

Minho’s brow knit. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. And then he shook his head, soft, firm, unflinching. “That’s not all I am,” he said gently. “You know that.” You tried to speak. Tried to argue. But nothing came. “If that’s all I was,” he whispered, “you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have come back.”

And you hated that he was right.

Because it would be easier if he was just a name in a case file. If he was just power and blood and silence. If he wasn’t the man who knew how you liked your coffee, who kissed the back of your hand when you couldn’t sleep, who read novels just to talk about them with you. But he was all of that. And you didn’t know how to love him and leave him in the same breath.

So you let him hold your face. And when you leaned into his palm, eyelids fluttering shut, you weren’t a cop. You were just someone in love with a man too complicated to explain.

The banquet hall is dressed in gold. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, glimmering like a thousand fragile truths. The room is full of sharp suits and softer lies, wine glasses clinking, silk dresses trailing over polished marble. On paper, it’s a fundraising gala for urban renewal. In reality, it’s a nest of money launderers, illegal dealers, and connections so deeply entangled in Seoul’s underbelly they can’t be separated without something bleeding.

Present

You walk in at five minutes past eight - fashionably late, as your husband would say. Your badge stays hidden in your jacket pocket. Your team is already in place - Yoon near the fire exit, Jae posing as waitstaff, Songhwa stationed by the stage. You make your way through the crowd like smoke, your earpiece buzzing softly every few minutes with updates. So far, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

You scan the room again. And then you see him. Minho, in a charcoal-gray suit that fits like it was tailored from shadows, a wine glass in hand and his expression unreadable. He’s alone. Standing just beside a business mogul your department has been tracking for months.

He doesn’t move when he sees you. But his eyes, warm, dark, familiar, catch yours across the sea of strangers. He knows. He knows something's about to happen. “Oh, you fucker, you weren't supposed to be here,” you curse beneath your breath.

“We’ve got movement,” Songhwa whispers in your ear. “Package is leaving the side room. Confirmed: two of the targets are armed.”

You touch your earpiece. “On my count. Three... two...” The music swells, and then fractures.

“Seoul Police! Hands in the air!”

Chaos erupts. A scream tears through the room. People scatter, chairs tip, dishes crash to the ground. Someone draws their gun, shots start falling.

You drop low, gun out, eyes scanning for the shooters. One by the bar. Another by the stage. Civilians run screaming in every direction. The chandeliers sway above like glass hearts about to shatter.

Then, someone draws their gun, much too close to Minho who looks like he's debating if pulling out his own gun is a better option. You raise your gun and seemingly aim at the guy behind him.

You hear it before you see it: the thud of his body hitting the floor, the sharp inhale, the muffled curse of someone trying not to cry out. Another shot follows and the man behind him drops down dead.

Songhwa’s voice cracks in your ear. “Back-up arrived.”

You reach Minho before you even register moving, dropping to your knees beside him as more officers flood the room. He’s on his back, breathing hard, a bloom of red spreading from his thigh. His jaw is clenched, his fingers digging into the fabric around the wound. “I’m fine,” he bites out through gritted teeth, already pale.

“Shut up,” you snap, pressing down on the wound, your hands shaking now. “You got shot.”

He gives you a strained smirk. “Oh, don’t you sound guilty.”

You glare at him, heart pounding. “I am guilty.”

“You gonna read me my rights?” he mutters, eyes fluttering as the adrenaline dips. “Or do I get a hospital ride first?”

You don’t answer. You just press harder and yell for medics.

The hospital corridor is quiet when you push the door open. Minho is propped up in bed, one leg immobilized, IV in his arm, skin pale but calm. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing the worst hospital-issued robe known to man. He looks both exhausted and smug. You hate how much you missed him in the four hours since they wheeled him away.

-

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So… how was your day at work?”

Minho doesn’t miss a beat. “You fucking shot me. That was my day at work.”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it, dragging a hand over your face. “It was your leg, and I was aiming for the guy with the Glock.”

“Guess my thigh looks more threatening than his face,” he huffs.

“Apparently.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, more gently, you say, “You’re not listed as a suspect. Just a guest who got caught in the crossfire.”

His gaze meets yours, something softer behind it. “That's your gift to me?”

You shrug. “What’s more believable than an innocent bystander who got shot at a mob event?”

“Ah yes,” he mutters, closing his eyes, “and to think I doubted your romantic streak.” You smile. Just a little. Then sit down beside him. “You owe me new dress pants,” he says without opening his eyes.

“And you owe me an explanation for why you were anywhere near a known arms broker.”

He cracks one eye open. “I was tracking them. Quietly. Until someone blew the doors open.” You shake your head, jaw tightening. “I told you I’d help,” he adds, more serious now. “Not hide.”

You reach for his hand beneath the sheets. He lets you take it, fingers curling around yours, warm and steady. “I’m sorry for hurting you. But you left me no choice, idiot.”

“Oh, I'll remember the sentiment,” he snorts.

For now, the hospital is still. The police haven’t asked the right questions yet. Your team still thinks you’re the hero who neutralized the threat. And Minho? He’s just another unlucky name on a list of civilians caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You both know it’s only a matter of time before the cracks start to show.

But for this moment, just this one, you let it be quiet. Let him be safe. Let yourself pretend that chaos isn’t waiting outside the door again.

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[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 9✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

Heated tensions turn raw...

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Fractures in the Multiverse‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 6k+ [Part 9] ☆ TW: angst/fluff ☆ Author's Note: I'm so confused... I write stories and read other. Seeing chapters being more popular than others enrages me; authors are always changing important things or storylines just to appeal to consumption?! Ugh, burh I'm stupid and sad, so angst chap coming up.

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The cave pulsed with an unnatural, emerald luminescence, the portal's sickly glow casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the damp, jagged walls like phantoms.

Moisture dripped from stalactites overhead, each droplet catching the eerie light before shattering against the stone floor, their rhythm a discordant counterpoint to the low hum of dimensional energy that vibrated through bone.

Sinister Mark's laughter—deep, guttural, and triumphant—echoed through the cavern, bouncing off wet stone surfaces until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

He stood with defiant arrogance, holding Y/N possessively against his chest, his powerful arms wrapped around her like living restraints.

The tattered remnants of his yellow and black suit hung from his muscular frame in strategic shreds, barely preserving modesty while flaunting evidence of what had transpired. Where fabric had been torn away, glimpses of Y/N's flushed skin beneath told a story more damning than words.

"Too late, boys~" he purred, each syllable dripping with venomous satisfaction. His black eyes gleamed predatory and victorious.

"As you can see, she's made her choice."

Y/N's heart hammered violently against her ribcage, the sound deafening in her own ears. Heat spread across her cheeks and down her neck in crimson waves, a visceral mixture of lingering passion and crushing humiliation.

She couldn't bear to meet the eyes of the variants who had searched for her—couldn't face their judgment, their hurt, their rage. Instead, she buried her face against Sinister's neck, inhaling his scent of leather, blood, and something uniquely him.

Mohawk Mark was the first to break the suffocating silence. His entire body convulsed with barely contained fury—veins bulging at his temples like blue ropes beneath his skin, the distinctive blue and black of his suit seeming to vibrate with his rage.

His mohawk bristled as though electrified, adding inches to his already imposing height. When he moved, it was with explosive violence, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" The words tore from his throat with such force that spittle flew from his lips, glistening in the emerald light.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath his gloves. "We agreed! We fucking agreed she wasn't going to be—" The words choked off, as if the magnitude of Sinister's betrayal had physically strangled him.

Behind him, the other variants formed a semicircle of frozen fury and shock, each face—so similar yet distinctly different—displaying its own shade of devastation and rage.

Omni Mark stepped forward, his movement smooth and controlled, a stark contrast to Mohawk's explosive anger. His red and gray suit absorbed the portal's light, making him appear like a shadow given form. Unlike the others, his face remained eerily composed, but a muscle twitched almost imperceptibly at his jaw—the only outward sign of the calculated violence brewing beneath his calm exterior. His eyes, partially hidden behind dark lenses, assessed the situation with precision.

"Put. Her. Down." Each word fell from his lips like a shard of ice, precise and deadly. Though his voice was quiet, it cut through the tension with razor-sharpness that made even Sinister's smile falter for a fraction of a second.

Viltrumite Mark stood slightly apart from the others, his pristine white suit gleaming unnaturally in the portal's glow. The imperial symbol on his chest seemed to pulse with its own light, casting strange patterns across his face.

Out of all the variants now, he appeared the most composed, but his eyes—cold and commanding—burned with a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.

"Y/N," he called, his voice gentler than the others, though no less intense. "Are you harmed? Did he force you?" The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's stomach twist into knots.

Sinister chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Y/N's body where they remained intimately joined. The subtle movement drew a small, involuntary gasp from her lips—a sound that seemed to echo through the cavern, condemning her more effectively than any confession.

"Force her?" Sinister's mouth curved into a predatory smile, teeth gleaming white against his shadowed face. "Why don't you ask her yourself? Tell them, dove. Tell them how you begged for it."

Y/N's head snapped up, mortification washing over her in a scalding wave. "I—I didn't—" she stammered, her voice small and fragile in the vast, echoing space. But the words died on her lips as she met the hurt and fury warring across the variants' faces.

Phantom Mark moved forward, his fully masked face hiding his expression, but his body language spoke volumes. His shoulders hunched as if bearing a physical weight, hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Y/N," he said, his voice raw with emotion even through the mask's filter. "We searched for you. We tortured Angstrom until he opened the portal. We thought you were in danger."

Each word struck Y/N like a physical blow. Behind Phantom, she could see Emperor Mark's regal bearing, his posture rigid with disdain as he assessed the scene. Beside him, No-Mask Mark's unmasked face displayed every emotion with painful clarity—hurt, betrayal, disappointment cycling across features so familiar yet uniquely his own.

From the back of the group, Prisoner Mark gave a harsh bark of laughter, the sound grating against the stone walls. The scarred tissue of his burned face caught the light in strange ways, making his sneer appear even more grotesque. "Should've known," he muttered, his voice like gravel. "Always the same, no matter the universe. Never faithful, never true."

Y/N flinched as if slapped. "That's not—I'm not—" she tried to defend herself, but what could she say? What explanation could possibly justify being caught in such an intimate embrace with Sinister while the others had fought and bled to find her?

"ENOUGH!" Mohawk Mark's voice cracked like thunder, cutting through her stammered defense. Blue energy crackled around his clenched fists, casting his rage-contorted face in eerie azure light. "Get your filthy hands off her, Sinister, or I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" Sinister's voice was silk over steel, deadly in its softness. He shifted Y/N slightly in his arms, causing her to gasp again as she felt him still inside her. Heat flooded her cheeks anew as she realized the others could see—could hear—the evidence of their coupling. "Attack me while I'm holding her? Risk harming the very woman you claim to care so much about?"

The cave fell silent again, the air thick with unspoken threats and barely contained violence. Y/N could feel Sinister's heart beating against her chest, steady and strong, while her own thrummed like a hummingbird's wings. Every sense seemed heightened by adrenaline and shame—the musky scent of their coupling hanging in the damp air, the heat of his skin against hers, the metallic taste of fear on her tongue.

Omni Mark hadn't moved, hadn't raised his voice, but something in his stillness was more terrifying than Mohawk's explosive rage. His gaze hadn't left Y/N's face, those familiar-yet-strange eyes boring into her as if trying to read her very soul. When he spoke again, her name was a gentle command on his lips.

"Y/N," he said softly. "Come here."

Sinister's arms tightened possessively around her, powerful muscles flexing beneath torn fabric. "She's not going anywhere," he growled, all traces of playfulness gone from his voice. His tone dropped to something darker, more primal. "She's mine now."

"She belongs to no one," Viltrumite Mark interjected, his authoritative tone echoing off the stone walls. He took another step forward, white suit gleaming like a beacon in the darkness. "Least of all you, Sinister."

Y/N found her voice at last, forcing herself to meet the gazes of the men who had, in their own ways, fought to find her. "Please," she whispered, the single word cracking with emotion. "Just... give me a moment."

To her surprise, she felt Sinister's grip loosen slightly. She placed her palms against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her fingertips. "Let me down," she requested quietly, her eyes meeting his. Something flickered across his face—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze.

"Don't do this, sweetheart," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. There was something in his voice she'd never heard before—a vulnerability that cut through his usual arrogance. "You know what's happening between us is real. You felt it too."

The unexpected softness in his tone sent a pang through her chest. She needed to stand on her own, to face this impossible situation with whatever dignity she could salvage.

"Please," she repeated, more firmly this time.

With a barely audible sigh, Sinister slowly, almost reluctantly, lifted her off his length, the wet muscle sliding against her entrance until finally he pulled free, his softened length thumping softly against his thigh. The wet sound of their bodies separating seemed deafening in the tense silence of the cave, drawing a visible wince from several of the variants.

He then lowered her to the ground. As their bodies separated, Y/N had to bite back a gasp at the sudden emptiness, the evidence of their passion trickling down her inner thighs. She quickly pulled the remnants of her suit together, trying to cover herself as best she could. Sinister kept his cape around her, tightening it around her shoulders to keep her covered.

The moment her feet touched the cold stone floor, Mohawk Mark lunged forward again, only to be restrained by Viltrumite Mark's iron grip on his shoulder.

"Not now," Viltrumite Mark hissed, his white-gloved hand a stark contrast against the blue and black of Mohawk's suit. "Not here."

Y/N stood on shaky legs, acutely aware of every pair of eyes fixed upon her. The weight of their collective gaze was almost crushing—some filled with hurt, others with rage, one with possessive triumph, all with a hunger that made her skin prickle with awareness. She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her tattered clothing—laid bare emotionally, every vulnerability on display.

"I..." she began, but what could she possibly say? How could she explain something she barely understood herself? The intensity, the connection she'd felt with Sinister in those desperate moments—was it real, or merely a product of adrenaline and fear and need?

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked face tilted slightly as if in concern. "Are you hurt?" The simple question held layers of meaning, and Y/N felt a rush of gratitude for his understated compassion.

"No," she answered truthfully, finding her voice at last. "I'm not hurt."

"Then it's true?" Mohawk Mark's voice was raw, scraped thin by emotion. "You wanted this? Wanted him?" He spat the last word like poison, his gaze darting to Sinister with naked hatred.

Sinister remained unnaturally still, his yellow and black suit torn but his posture defiant, almost regal in its arrogance. He watched the exchange with hooded eyes, his satisfaction at the discord he'd sown evident in the slight curl of his lips.

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. "What happened between us was... complicated." She chose her words carefully, acutely aware of the thin ice she was treading. "I was confused, scared... alone." 

"You weren't alone!" Mohawk Mark exploded, breaking free of Viltrumite Mark's restraining grip. "We were coming for you! We tore Angstrom apart to find you!"

"I didn't know that!" Y/N shot back, surprise at her own vehemence momentarily overriding her embarrassment. "I thought I was stranded here! I thought—" She broke off, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her anew.

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the lingering heat of passion still thrumming through her veins. She felt torn between worlds—between the variants who had searched for her, who had worried for her, and the one who had claimed her so thoroughly.

Omni Mark's voice broke the silence, calm and measured but with an underlying current of steel. "We're leaving. All of us." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering significantly on Sinister. "We have unfinished business with Angstrom."

Sinister's lip curled into a sneer. "By all means," he drawled, gesturing toward the portal with mock courtesy. "Don't let me keep you."

"You're coming too," Viltrumite Mark stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Unless you want to be trapped in this dimension forever."

A flicker of calculation passed over Sinister's face before his features settled back into smug confidence. "As entertaining as this little pocket dimension has been," he said, his gaze sliding meaningfully to Y/N, "I suppose all good things must come to an end."

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks again, but before she could respond, Omni Mark was beside her. With surprisingly gentle hands, he wrapped his cape around her shoulders, covering her torn suit. His touch was light, almost tender—a stark contrast to the cold fury still evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Let's go," he said softly, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he glanced back at the others. "The portal won't stay stable forever."

As if on cue, the edges of the swirling vortex flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cave walls. The emerald light pulsed once, twice, a warning of its impending collapse.

Y/N stepped toward it, but a hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to find Sinister Mark standing close—too close—his eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"This isn't over," he murmured, his voice for her ears alone. "What we shared? That was real, Y/N. More real than anything these pale imitations could offer you." His gaze flicked dismissively toward the other variants before returning to her face. "Remember that when they try to make you forget."

Before she could respond, Mohawk Mark was there, physically inserting himself between them. "Back off," he snarled, nose to nose with Sinister. "You've done enough damage."

Sinister's laugh was soft and knowing. "Have I?" he asked, eyes still locked on Y/N over Mohawk's shoulder. "Or have I merely shown her what she truly wants?"

Mohawk's fist shot out with blinding speed, but Sinister was faster, catching it mid-swing with casual ease. The impact created a small shockwave that stirred the dust around them. "Careful now," he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of her, would you?"

The tension between them was a living thing, coiling and snapping in the space between their bodies. Y/N could almost taste the violence brewing, metallic and sharp on her tongue.

"Stop it," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "Both of you. This isn't helping."

To her surprise, Mohawk immediately backed down, though his eyes still burned with barely contained rage. Sinister released his fist with a mocking little pat.

"After you," Sinister gestured toward the portal, his smile all teeth and challenge.

One by one, they stepped through the swirling vortex—Phantom Mark first, then Emperor and No-Mask Mark, followed by Prisoner Mark with his perpetual scowl. Viltrumite Mark hesitated, looking back at Y/N with an unreadable expression before disappearing into the emerald light.

Omni Mark guided Y/N forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. The contact was minimal yet somehow anchoring, his presence steady and reassuring amid the chaos. As they approached the portal, Y/N felt a strange reluctance, as if crossing this threshold would force her to face realities she wasn't ready to confront.

"It'll be alright," Omni Mark murmured, seeming to sense her hesitation. His red and gray suit gleamed in the pulsing light, his expression unexpectedly gentle. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Y/N nodded, gathering her courage. She stepped into the portal, feeling the strange, electric sensation wash over her skin. The last thing she saw before the alien world dissolved around her was Mohawk Mark and Sinister Mark locked in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to turn their back on the other.

Then the world twisted, stretched, compressed, and she was falling through emerald infinity, Omni Mark's solid presence beside her the only anchor in the void.

As the portal whisked them back to the Main Universe, Y/N couldn't help but wonder: What would happen now? What would she return to? And more importantly—how could she face eight variations of the same man, all of whom now looked at her differently—some with hurt, others with betrayal, one with possessive triumph, and all with a hunger that threatened to consume her whole?

The multiverse had fractured around her, and she was caught in the cracks—pulled in too many directions at once. And somewhere deep inside, past the confusion and shame and uncertainty, a tiny voice whispered a truth she wasn't ready to acknowledge: she had enjoyed every moment of her time with Sinister Mark, and part of her—a wild, reckless part she barely recognized—longed for more.(Greedy ahh🧟‍♀️)

As the emerald light engulfed her completely, she closed her eyes against that dangerous truth and surrendered to the portal's pull, letting it carry her back to face whatever waited on the other side.

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The portal spat them out into Angstrom's laboratory with a violent surge of emerald energy, scorching the air with the acrid scent of dimensional displacement. Y/N stumbled forward, her vision swimming with ghostly afterimages, the world tilting dangerously beneath her feet. Where the alien cave had been primal and raw, Angstrom's base assaulted her senses with clinical sterility—recycled air that tasted like metal shavings against her tongue, harsh lights that burned her retinas after the dim cavern.

Lensless Mark stood frozen at the control panel, his fingers suspended over bloodied keys. Crimson droplets fell with rhythmic precision onto the console below, each one leaving a perfect circle of accusation. The mask that framed his face without the characteristic goggles made his expression more visible—his eyes widened fractionally as the group materialized, pupils contracting to pinpoints when they locked onto Y/N's disheveled form.

"Fuck, you actually found her," he said, a smile tugging his lips despite the brutality evident in his surroundings.

Around him lay the aftermath of systematic destruction—security drones dismantled with surgical precision, their components arranged in almost artistic patterns across the floor. Circuitry still occasionally sparked with dying electricity, brief flashes that illuminated the darker corners of the chamber.

The reinforced interrogation chair at the center stood as testament to their methods—metal warped from superhuman force, restraints torn clean from their moorings, trailing like severed arteries. Dark splatter patterns decorated the walls and floor. Angstrom's recent suffering painted in biological abstracts that would make a forensic analyst weep.

Mohawk Mark shouldered his way through the group, a rolling wave of barely contained violence. His face transformed with each step—veins pulsing beneath his skin like living things seeking escape, jaw muscles bulging as if trying to crack through bone, eyes so bloodshot they appeared to be bleeding from within.

"You fucking piece of—" The words dissolved into something primal, something that predated language altogether, as he lunged toward Sinister Mark who just walked through.

Viltrumite Mark's arm shot out with precision, catching Mohawk across the chest before he could complete his charge. "Not here," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of imperial decree.

The pristine white of his suit remained untouched by the surrounding carnage, as if blood itself feared to stain such perfection. A single muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of the emotions raging beneath his composed exterior.

Y/N couldn't tear her gaze from Sinister as he materialized last, walking through peacefully despite Mohawk's comment, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality tearing.

His yellow and black suit hung from his powerful frame in calculated shreds, the fabric somehow enhancing rather than diminishing his presence. He'd recovered his signature black lenses from somewhere, the opaque darkness hiding his eyes while doing nothing to mask the triumphant curl of his lips. Most jarring was the deliberate display of his exposed manhood—a trophy of conquest, a calculated provocation that sent fresh heat rushing to Y/N's cheeks.

Her body's traitorous response was immediate—memory flooding her with sense impressions of his skin against hers, his weight, his scent, the way he had filled her so completely.

She clutched Omni Mark's cape tighter around herself, suddenly hyperaware of how the fabric caught against the tender places where Sinister's passion had marked her.

Omni Mark's arm remained steady around her waist, his calm presence a stark contrast to the chaos erupting around them. Unlike the others, his face remained a mask of perfect composure, only his eyes behind those dark lenses betraying the storm within—possessive rage tempered by genuine concern, calculating intelligence shadowed by something deeper, something almost tender when his gaze fell on her.

"You need to rest," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, steadying her when her legs threatened to give way.

Phantom Mark stepped toward Sinister, movements fluid and deliberate. He tore a piece of fabric from a fallen drone's banner and thrust it toward him. "Cover yourself," he ordered, voice distorted through his mask yet vibrating with barely contained violence. "Or I remove it permanently."

Sinister's laugh echoed off the metal walls, a sound like broken glass being ground underfoot. "Jealous?" he taunted, making no move to cover himself. "Or afraid she'll make comparisons none of you will survive?"

Mohawk Mark's control shattered like thin ice beneath a hammer blow. He broke free of Viltrumite's restraint with an explosive surge of strength, launching himself across the room with a bestial roar that seemed to vibrate the very molecules of the air. His body collided with Sinister's with force enough to dent the reinforced metal wall. The impact knocked Sinister's head back with a crack that should have been fatal to any normal being, blood spraying in a fine crimson mist from his split lip.

Yet even as rivulets of scarlet traveled down his chin, staining the yellow of his suit dark orange, Sinister's smile only widened, revealing teeth smeared red.

"There he is," Sinister purred, voice thick with blood yet somehow more alive because of it. "The animal hiding behind the hero. Show her what you really are, Mohawk. Show her the monster that got your Y/N killed."

The words struck with precision, finding Mohawk's deepest wound and twisting. His fist connected with Sinister's jaw—not in blind rage but with calculated force meant to shatter bone. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a gunshot. Sinister's head snapped sideways, but instead of breaking, he absorbed the blow with unnatural resilience, his equal strength matching Mohawk's fury.

"ENOUGH!" Viltrumite Mark's voice cracked like thunder, the air itself seeming to compress under the sound. He moved with impossible speed, one hand clamping around Mohawk's throat while the other seized Sinister's shoulder with force that would have pulverized normal bone. "One more word," he hissed at Sinister, his composed façade finally fracturing to reveal something ancient and terrible beneath, "and I tear out your tongue."

Sinister's only response was to spit a mouthful of blood directly at Viltrumite's immaculate white suit. The scarlet droplets bloomed like grotesque flowers against the pristine fabric, each one a declaration of war.

Y/N's legs finally surrendered beneath the weight of exhaustion and trauma. She swayed dangerously, the sterile room spinning around her in nauseating circles. Omni Mark's grip tightened instantly, his support unwavering.

Unlike the others whose emotions exploded outward in violence, Omni's rage burned cold and precise. His face remained eerily composed, but his eyes behind those black lenses contained universes of complex emotion—calculating intelligence overlaying a possessive fury that bordered on madness, genuine concern that seemed almost foreign on features so similar to Sinister's, and beneath it all, a depth of feeling that made her breath catch.

"You need to clean up and rest," he murmured again, his voice a velvet rumble against her ear. The gentleness of his touch contrasted so starkly with the violence saturating the air that it nearly broke her.

Y/N nodded weakly, suddenly desperate to escape the suffocating testosterone, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the lingering musk of sex still clinging to her skin. "I need to shower," she whispered, the simple request utterly inadequate against the magnitude of what had happened.

Lensless Mark jerked his blood-spattered chin toward a corridor branching from the main chamber. "Quarters down there. Showers too." His voice carried a strange duality—childlike enthusiasm wrapped around sadistic knowledge, his eyes never leaving her face as if memorizing her dishevelment. Unlike when they'd first met, when he'd tried to kill her seeing only a ghost of his lost love, now his gaze held something more complex—a reluctant recognition of her as someone distinct, someone real.

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked form interposing itself between Y/N and the others. "I'll show her," he said, the modulator in his mask unable to disguise the protective edge in his voice. His shoulders formed a living barrier, his stance a silent promise of violence should anyone object.

Emperor Mark, who had been observing the unfolding drama with regal detachment, finally spoke. His imperial sigil caught the harsh light as he moved, casting knife-edged shadows across his face. "And leave her alone with another variant?" His lip curled with aristocratic disdain. "Haven't we learned that lesson already?"

Phantom's hands curled into fists at his sides, tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. "Unlike some," he replied, cold fury evident even through the mask's filter, "I remember what honor means."

Before the situation could escalate further, Prisoner Mark spat on the floor with deliberate aim, the glob landing with perfect precision near Sinister's bare foot. The scarred tissue of his face pulled tight across his skull as he sneered, burn tissue twisting into a grotesque parody of expression. His eyes, set deep in pockets of scar tissue, gleamed with malevolent intelligence.

"Honor? With these animals?" He gestured at Sinister with contempt, flakes of dead skin drifting from his movement like macabre confetti. "We ripped Angstrom apart piece by fucking piece to find her, and he was busy ripping apart something else entirely."

The crude comment sent another wave of shame washing over Y/N. She pulled away from Omni Mark's supportive arm, drawing whatever shreds of dignity remained around her like armor. The cape felt suddenly heavy, burdened with too many implications.

"I don't need an escort," she stated, voice stronger than she felt. "Just tell me where to go."

No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his exposed face—so like Mark's yet hollowed from within by grief—meeting her gaze directly. Where the others wore variations of masks with lenses to hide themselves, his naked features revealed everything—the raw pain, the longing for something irretrievably lost, the flicker of hope her existence had rekindled.

"Third door on the left," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "The facilities are basic, but private."

Gratitude washed through her. "Thank you," she whispered, the simple courtesy a lifeline amid the chaos.

As she turned to leave, Sinister's voice slithered after her, wet with blood yet still dripping with smug satisfaction. "Running away so soon, dove? Don't you want to tell them how good it felt?" He finally reached for the scrap of fabric Phantom had offered, wrapping it around his exposed member with deliberate slowness, his movements a mockery of modesty.

"How you screamed my name when you came?"

The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the promise of violence. Y/N couldn't bear to turn around, couldn't face the expressions that would be carved into faces so similar yet so different. Instead, she moved forward on unsteady legs, clutching Omni Mark's cape around her like a shield.

Behind her, she heard a sickening crunch followed by a wet gurgle. She didn't look back to see which variant had landed the blow, didn't pause to witness the fresh spray of crimson. She simply kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until the corridor swallowed her and the sounds of conflict faded into muted echoes.

The hallway stretched before her, utilitarian and cold. Overhead lights buzzed with intermittent electricity, casting her shadow in broken fragments against the metal floor. Each step sent painful reminders through her body—muscles used in ways both violent and intimate, skin still bearing the ghost of Sinister's grip, the core of her aching with a confusion of shame and lingering pleasure.

The door marked 'Q-3' slid open at her approach with a pneumatic hiss that reminded her of a predator's exhalation. Inside, a spartan room greeted her—narrow bed with military corners, metal desk bolted to the floor, a single chair that would offer no comfort. A doorway to the side revealed glimpses of a compact bathroom. It wasn't luxury, but it was sanctuary—a momentary respite from the storm of masculine rage and desire swirling outside.

Y/N let Omni Mark's cape fall to the floor, the heavy fabric pooling around her feet like spilled blood. She stared down at herself—at the tattered remnants of her suit, at the purpling marks forming on her skin where Sinister's fingers had dug into her flesh, at the dried evidence of their coupling still visible on her inner thighs. The sight sent fresh waves of conflicting emotion crashing through her—shame and lingering arousal battling for dominance, confusion and a terrible clarity warring in her mind.

She moved to the bathroom on unsteady legs, unable to bear her own skin a moment longer. The light flickered on automatically, harsh and unforgiving, revealing her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. A stranger stared back—hair wild and tangled, eyes huge and haunted in her pale face, lips swollen from brutal kisses. Whisker burn reddened her neck and chest, mapping the trail of Sinister's mouth across her body like a crimson road map of their shared depravity.

Y/N turned away from her reflection, unable to face the evidence of what she'd become—or perhaps, more terrifyingly, what she'd always been beneath the surface. The shower sputtered to life with reluctant obedience, lukewarm water at best, but she stepped under the spray without complaint. She watched as the physical reminders of Sinister washed away, swirling down the drain in pale rivulets tinged with pink where his rough handling had broken skin.

As steam rose around her, Y/N finally surrendered to the storm inside her. A sob tore from her throat, the sound bouncing off the tile walls before being swallowed by the running water. It was followed by another, and another, until she was on her knees in the shower stall, arms wrapped around herself as if she might physically hold the broken pieces together.

Outside in the corridor, Phantom Mark had followed and stood silent sentinel, his masked face betraying nothing of the anguish within. He heard each sob through the thin walls, each one cutting deeper than any physical wound. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. He had failed her—they all had. But while the others fought over her like wolves over prey, he would stand guard, offering what little protection he could in a world gone mad.

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Chaos had erupted. Mohawk Mark had Sinister pinned against the wall, one hand at his throat while the other formed a fist streaming with his own blood—evidence of knuckles split open from repeated impact against Sinister's unyielding form. Despite the ferocity of the assault, Sinister remained largely intact, his enhanced durability matching Mohawk's rage. His face showed signs of the battle—split lip, darkening bruise along his jaw, a trickle of blood from his nostril—but his smile remained, a deliberate provocation.

"Is this..." Sinister taunted, voice thick with contempt despite Mohawk's crushing grip on his throat, "...the best...you can do?"

Mohawk screamed—a primal sound of pure rage—and slammed his fist into Sinister's face again. Though the blow would have collapsed the skull of a normal human, Sinister merely took it, his head snapping back before returning to position, that infuriating smile still in place.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Mohawk roared, spittle flying from his lips as he drew back for another blow. "I'LL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART!"

Viltrumite Mark moved with blinding speed, wrapping his arms around Mohawk from behind in a restraining bear hug. "Enough!" he commanded, muscles straining as he struggled to contain Mohawk's berserk strength. "This solves nothing!"

"LET ME GO!" Mohawk thrashed in Viltrumite's grip, head thrown back in animal fury. "HE TOUCHED HER! HE PUT HIS FUCKING HANDS ON HER!"

"And killing him will change that?" Emperor Mark asked coldly from where he stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes calculating. "Will it erase what happened? Will it make her choose you instead?"

Mohawk's struggles slowed, his breathing ragged as Emperor's words penetrated his rage. "She was mine," he whispered, voice breaking. "In my world, she was always mine."

"She's not your Y/N," No-Mask Mark said quietly, his unmasked features twisted with a pain that echoed Mohawk's own. "None of them were ever ours. Not really."

Prisoner Mark laughed bitterly, the sound scraping like metal on stone. He ran a hand over his burned scalp, flakes of dead skin drifting to the floor. "Keep telling yourself that," he muttered. "Keep pretending we're not all just trying to replace what we've lost."

Sinister, still pinned to the wall but no longer being actively beaten, managed to grin through blood-stained teeth. "At least I'm honest," he said, voice rich with satisfaction. "I wanted her. I took her. No pretending she's someone else."

Omni Mark, who had been eerily silent throughout the exchange, finally moved. With deliberate slowness, he approached Sinister, his steps measured, his face a mask of calm that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—they burned with something ancient and terrible, a controlled fury that made even Mohawk's berserker rage seem childish in comparison.

"Do you love her?" Omni asked, voice so quiet it forced everyone to still their breathing to hear him.

Sinister stared back, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his cracked lenses. Blood touched the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, then thought better of it, settling for a mocking half-shrug instead.

Omni nodded as if the non-answer confirmed something. "I thought not."

Without warning, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Sinister's throat where Mohawk's had been moments before. With surgical precision, he began to squeeze, watching dispassionately as Sinister's breathing became labored.

"You took something precious," Omni continued conversationally as if they were discussing the weather rather than committing murder. "Something irreplaceable. Not from us—from her." His fingers tightened incrementally, the tendons in his forearm standing out like cables beneath his skin. "Her trust. Her sense of safety. Her ability to choose freely."

For the first time, Sinister's smugness faltered. His hands gripped Omni's wrist, genuine effort showing as he fought against the only variant whose strength truly matched his own. Behind his cracked lenses, something flashed in his eyes—not fear, exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of respect.

"I should kill you for that alone," Omni mused, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "But death would be too merciful." With a soft grunt he released his grip, stepping back as Sinister sagged slightly, his breathing harsh but controlled.

"We need him," Lensless Mark pointed out. Blood spattered his face in an almost artistic pattern, his eyes wide and gleaming with dangerous curiosity. "At least until we figure out how to navigate the multiverse without Angstrom."

"Speaking of," Viltrumite Mark interjected, finally releasing his hold on Mohawk, who stood trembling with suppressed rage but no longer actively violent. "We have unfinished business with our portal-creating friend."

Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gazed down at Sinister's somewhat disheveled form. "Get him cleaned up," he ordered, as if commanding royal servants rather than dangerous interdimensional variants of himself. "And for god's sake, find him pants that stay closed."

No-Mask Mark moved reluctantly to help Sinister to his feet, his unmasked face a study in conflicted disgust. "Come on," he muttered, hauling Sinister's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get you patched up before we deal with Angstrom."

Sinister's laugh was dark and knowing as he allowed himself to be supported. "Such... gentlemen," he mocked, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "No wonder... she preferred... a real man."

Mohawk lunged forward again with a snarl, but Viltrumite was faster, stepping between them with arms outstretched. "Enough," he commanded, voice laced with deadly promise. "Save your strength for what matters."

"And what exactly matters?" Prisoner Mark asked bitterly, his scarred face contorted in a sneer. "Getting home to worlds we've already destroyed? Finding new dimensions to ruin? Fighting over a woman who isn't ours to claim?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications none of them wanted to face. They stood frozen in tableau—bloody and broken and lost, versions of the same man twisted by grief and rage and power, united only by their shared obsession with a woman who carried the face of their greatest loss.

Omni Mark broke the tension, his voice cutting through the weighted silence. "What matters is what comes next," he stated simply, his natural authority drawing all eyes to him. "And to determine that, we need information only Angstrom has."

Emperor Mark nodded in agreement, his regal bearing reasserting itself as he moved toward the corridor leading to Angstrom's holding cell. "To Angstrom, then," he declared.

"And afterward..." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering on each face. "Afterward, we decide what we truly want—and what we're willing to sacrifice to get it."

As they moved toward Angstrom's cell, the air between them vibrated with unspoken threats and fragile alliances.

They walked like warlords entering enemy territory—cautious, alert, bound by circumstance rather than trust. But the true battlefield wasn't against Angstrom or any external force. It was the emotional chasm between them, charged with jealousy, possession, grief, and desire. And at the center of that battlefield stood Y/N—catalyst, prize, and potential destroyer of their fragile equilibrium.

In her shower, as lukewarm water washed away the physical evidence of her encounter with Sinister, Y/N finally stopped crying. She rose to her feet, legs still trembling but stronger now, and turned off the water with a decisive twist. Her reflection in the small mirror was clearer now—still battered, still haunted, but somehow more her own.

She was no longer just a human experimented on by the GDA, no longer just manufactured Viltrumite muscle and bone. She was a woman with choices—terrible, difficult choices, perhaps, but hers to make nonetheless. And as she toweled her body dry, wincing at the tender spots where Sinister's passion had left its mark, Y/N made her first real choice since being thrust into this interdimensional nightmare.

She would not be their prize. She would not be their redemption. She would not be the ghost of women long dead, wearing her face and carrying her name.

She would be Y/N—survivor, fighter, and architect of her own fate.

With newfound resolve hardening inside her like crystal, she began to prepare herself to face the variants again. In Angstrom's holding cell, revelations awaited that would shatter everything she thought she knew about herself, about the variants, and about the precarious threads binding the multiverse together.

The game was changing. The players were wounded, dangerous, and desperate.

And Y/N was no longer just a piece on the board—she was a player with her own moves to make.

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Dang, I'm tired... (っ- ‸ - ς)

Hope yall are getting 8 hours of sleep, every night <3

The next chapter is going to be heavy fluff and lots of kissing.

Final: Part 10!!

[hephs-thighs]

Can we have a moment of sanity about Booker's betrayal of the team?

I keep seeing takes that what Booker did was really not that bad, or he didn't mean for it to be that bad, or that it was cruel to exile him. I'm not meaning to target or directly argue with anyone in particular, but some of the interpretations I'm reading seem detached from reality and from the canon of TOG1.

Claim: What Booker did was not that bad.

Let's look at what harms Booker's betrayal caused:

Everyone died (multiple times for at least Nicky and Nile, probably Joe too)

Andy, Joe, and Nicky had one of their homes destroyed

Andy, Joe, and Nicky were violently abducted

Andy, Joe, and Nicky were held captive, something they explicitly dread. Booker isn't naïve; there's no realistic way he expected Merrick to just let them go. He may have figured they'd eventually escape, but he had no plan to avoid their prolonged imprisonment, and the movie makes it clear that their ability to escape is not guaranteed (see: the entire TOG1 Quynh storyline).

Joe and Nicky were tortured. This seems to get very minimized by some people. Can we please be for real? Can we please not pretend that having pieces of your body cut out of you wouldn't be horrifically traumatizing? Look at the scene where Nicky is having his lung biopsied: he and Joe have blood on their chests and throats, and there are a bunch of chunks of their tissue sitting around in samples. Yes, they've been through a lot and probably have higher than average emotional resilience to trauma. That doesn't mean the trauma is negligible. From fanfiction, people seem to understand that sexual assault would be traumatic for them; why would that inherently feel more violating than being drugged, strapped down, stabbed with needles and scalpels, and having pieces of their bodies ripped out of them without their consent?

Joe and Nicky witnessed each other's torture. This clearly isn't insignificant to them. Look at how Nicky reacts to Joe being stabbed. Look at how Joe reacts to Nicky being unconscious in the van and then dead after Keane.

Claim: Booker didn't mean for it to be that bad.

This is a very popular claim with no real evidence. It wasn't his Plan A, but he consented to all of it, up until Andy wasn't healing.

Booker intended for the kill floor to happen.

Booker intended for the raid on the safehouse to happen.

Booker intended for Joe and Nicky to be captured.

Booker intended Joe and Nicky to be subjected to non-consensual medical testing.

Booker intended for Andy to be captured at Copley's house, even though the conditions of the capture (Andy's mortality) changed his mind after he already shot and zip-tied her.

He didn't do any of that accidentally or unintentionally. That is canon. Can we please stop pretending otherwise?

I understand Booker is an extremely sympathetic character. If Booker had been desperately depressed and foolishly decided to trust Merrick, and this accidentally led to the capture of the others outside of his control, we'd be having a very different conversation right now. People like Booker, so they want that to be the case so badly that they act like it's canon. It's just not, that's not what's in the movie, I'm sorry.

Claim: The team should have taken care of Booker instead of exiling him.

If your friend is beaten by their spouse, do you tell them that because they love their spouse and their spouse is suffering, they shouldn't divorce them?

No. Of course you wouldn't.

If your brother hired men to come into your bedroom at night, hold you down, and cut a piece of your liver out, should you be expected to be completely over it in six months?

No. Of course you shouldn't.

It's not cruel, vengeful, cold, callous, unempathetic, morally rigid, etc etc etc to end your friendship with someone who literally sold your body without your consent. If someone tries to condemn you to prolonged captivity and torture, it's sane, rational, and healthy to no longer be friends with that person. No matter how much they might need your friendship.

Because, again, Booker caused Joe and Nicky to be captured and tortured on purpose.

It's also significant that Booker doesn't apologize for his actions, he doesn't acknowledge the harm he caused, he doesn't show remorse, and he doesn't offer any assurance or even intention to not do it again. He helped them escape, but only when it was clearly happening anyway with or without him, and even then only after being cajoled by both Nile and Andy. He wanted to just lie there and let them see themselves out without his help.

With the severity of the violation of their trust, the team would be perfectly within the boundaries of moral goodness to never see Booker again. I do think the 100-year sentence is odd, especially because it's framed as punitive rather than protective.

It makes sense for the team to eventually forgive Booker (and sooner than 100 years later) because of their long history together, Booker's presumed moral goodness in other regards, the team's empathy, and the belief that they're destined to be together. I don't think that history or love means they owe it to Booker to prioritize taking care of him. He's a very full-grown man, he can get his own therapy. 200 years with the team made him desperately suicidal, so there's no evidence that not being exiled would even do him any good. He needs to take responsibility. We as a fandom should stop refusing to assign him responsibility over his own canonical actions.

[laylainalaska]

Murderbot 1x06 reactions

The episodes just keep getting better! (Also some spoilers here for "All Systems Red" and a scene from the trailer that hasn't happened yet.)

The show still has a wonderful pulp-action-serial feeling, and both this week's parallel storylines were really tense, cutting back and forth between Mensah and MB in the crashed shuttle, and everyone else dealing with an increasingly unhinged Leebeebee back at the habitat.

Gurathin's reactions to Leebeebee are honestly delightful (his FACE at some of the things she says! also his reaction to Bharadwaj inviting her to come back with them!) and I love how he very obviously twigs to Leebeebee being completely Not On Their Side and starts trying to put the brakes on giving her even more access to them and their stuff before she pulls the gun on them.

In general, this episode really showcased how differently he thinks than the native Preservationers and that was just fascinating, from his deadpan "Debt" about how Preservation as a society functions (I feel like Gurathin as an outsider is probably more aware that Preservation's independent existence is a bit precarious, as opposed to the native Preservationers for whom things are just how things are and don't really question it), to being far less willing to trust or open up to Leebeebee - justifiably, as it turned out in her case.

I also just need to point out that it wasn't Leebeebee shooting him in the leg that made him capitulate and agree to do what she's demanding; it was when she told him she'd start shooting his friends next.

Meanwhile over on the Murderbot and Mensah side of things, I am really delighted with how subtle yet clear the show has been with MB's slow relaxing and opening up to Mensah. MB is still awkward, but it's visibly more relaxed and natural and more "itself" when interacting with her in this episode. And Mensah gets to see MB's ridiculous nerdy side. "Sanctuary FUCKING Moon?" Perfect line delivery, A+++. xD And also the two of them helping each other, and pushing out of their respective comfort zones, and cooperating to get each other working again, and the shuttle working again, was just really satisfying.

(Murderbot cursing itself for having deleted the manual to make space for TV shows! HONEY.)

But then at the end, the humans and Murderbot slam directly into the uncanny valley of difference between them - because it *isn't* like them, and now they all have to deal with having that brought home to them in an extremely violent way.

Also, wow, did Leebeebee ever pick the wrong human to take hostage. I mean, MB would probably have done more or less exactly what it did regardless of whose head she had a gun pressed to - it might have had more trouble with Mensah - but Leebeebee picked the one that wasn't going to cause it an instant of hesitation. I assume Murderbot's matter-of-fact execution of Leebeebee is what's going to lead into Gurathin telling everyone that it calls itself Murderbot and honestly .... I can see why!

Like. As well as killing Leebeebee, it made it clear that it didn't particularly care if it killed him too, and this is in a situation when he's hurt and traumatized and covered in someone else's blood. Revealing its secret name for itself is not only a relatively small thing under the circumstances, but from his point of view, completely justified in protecting his friends from a rogue SecUnit that very clearly does not mind killing people. (Not to say that this doesn't come across as a betrayal from SecUnit's point of view, but it feels like he's been given ample setup for doing it.)

I am really curious what the last two episodes have in store! I know the very broadest strokes of it, but I'm looking forward to seeing how it happens.

Also, this is just complete speculation now, but the show has signposted clearly enough that Gurathin is narratively Important (he's probably the ... triteuroganist, I guess? after MB and Mensah) that I wouldn't be surprised if Gurathin and his corporate trauma come into play somehow in MB leaving the group - I'm kind of vaguely speculating that he is aware of it leaving and chooses to let it go without telling anyone, or facilitates it leaving; anyway, I halfway expect the show to give us some kind of closure on Gurathin and MB, because it's done too much with them so far not to.

[lunavyn]

BLACKTHORN DEAL | SYLUS, LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ » Synopsis— In the lawless depths of N109, Leila, the elusive Blackthorn Siren, fails a hit on Sylus, the ruthless leader of Onychinus, and soon after, whispers of a bounty on her head emerge. With no allies left, she’s forced into an uneasy alliance with the man she was meant to kill. Sylus, who sees through everyone’s desires, should have ended her—but instead, he offers a deal that keeps her alive and bound to his world. As tensions rise and unseen threats close in, their reluctant partnership becomes something far more dangerous. But in a city where betrayal is inevitable, survival isn’t just about strength—it’s about knowing who to trust before it’s too late. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Pairing— Sylus x Original character (reader) ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Word Count— 36.1K (a legit novela, grab a drink lol) .⊹ ࣪ ˖ Disclaimer— mentions of violence, sex, blood, death, and SA

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A/N— Hey! This is my very first fic with Sylus, my first post here in general. so I really do hope that you will enjoy this one. This isn't fully grasping the true storyline of Sylus in tne game. I just got a few details about him and make an entirely new plot out of it since i find it fun that way and I hope you feel the same way too!

The rain on the N109 Zone wasn’t a gentle drizzle. It was a deluge, a furious, hammering curtain of water that turned the slick, grimy streets into treacherous rivers. Neon signs, their vibrant hues fractured and distorted by the downpour, flickered erratically, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like phantoms in the puddles. The city, a labyrinth of steel and concrete, hummed with a low, malevolent energy, a symphony of urban decay punctuated by the staccato rhythm of the relentless rain.

A man, his tailored suit now a sodden, clinging shroud, sprinted through the narrow alleyways, his breath ragged and desperate. Each pounding footstep was a frantic drumbeat against the slick cobblestones, echoing the frantic rhythm of his own terrified heart. He was hunted, pursued by something unseen, something relentless. The air tasted of ozone and fear, a metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide and panicked, but the rain obscured everything, turning the world into a blur of grey and shimmering light.

He stumbled, his foot catching on a loose stone, and he nearly fell, his hands scraping against the rough brick wall. The alleyway opened into a wider space, a derelict warehouse, its corrugated iron roof sagging and rusted. He lurched inside, his lungs burning, his chest heaving. The warehouse was a cavern of cold, damp air, the silence broken only by the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of a melody, a haunting, ethereal tune that seemed to drift from the shadows.

He leaned against a decaying crate, his body trembling, his eyes darting around the vast, empty space. He thought he was safe, at least for a moment. He thought he’d found sanctuary in the cold, silent darkness. But he was wrong.

“Hi.” The voice, a sultry, silken whisper, cut through the silence like a razor, sending a shiver down his spine. He turned, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Leila sat perched on a stack of crates, her silhouette a stark contrast against the dim light filtering through a broken window. She was dressed in a sleek, midnight-blue dress that shimmered like liquid night, its elegant lines accentuating her graceful form. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a face that was both beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth. She held herself with an air of regal composure, her gaze, sharp and predatory, fixed on him. She looked like a queen surveying her kingdom, not a killer in a slaughterhouse.

The man froze, his blood turning to ice. He realized his mistake, the horrifying truth sinking in like a lead weight. This wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a stage, and he was the final act, the star of a macabre performance.

Leila didn’t move, didn’t rush. She was a predator who savored the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. She slid gracefully from the crates, her footsteps silent on the concrete floor. She circled him, her movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer performing a deadly ballet. Her voice, soft and teasing, filled the empty space, each word a delicate, venomous barb.

“Did you really think you could run?” she purred, tilting her head, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. “It’s cute, really. The way rats scramble for their lives.”

She reached out, her fingers tracing the handle of a gleaming, obsidian-black knife that she held loosely in her hand. The man’s eyes followed the movement, his breath catching in his throat.

He pleaded, his voice a desperate, trembling whisper. He offered money, power, anything, everything, if she would just let him go. But Leila only laughed, a soft, chilling sound that echoed through the warehouse. She flicked the knife between her fingers, the blade catching the dim light and throwing off a faint, menacing gleam.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “You’re already dead. You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”

She began to hum, a soft, haunting melody that filled the empty space, a tune that seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of the warehouse. The man’s eyes widened, his face contorting in terror. He recognized the tune, a chilling, familiar melody. The Blackthorn Siren always sang before she killed.

He lunged, a desperate, futile attempt to escape his fate. He was a cornered animal, driven byprimal fear. But Leila was faster, untouchable, a phantom slipping through the shadows. She moved with a speed that defied human perception, her movements precise and deadly.

The final strike was elegant, swift, and merciless. The obsidian blade sliced through the air, a whisper of steel, and then a gurgling sound, a final, desperate gasp. A thin line of crimson bloomed across the man’s throat, a stark contrast against his pale skin. His eyes widened in shock, then glazed over, his body crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

Leila stood over the corpse, her expression unreadable, her face a mask of serene indifference. A small spatter of blood dotted her cheek, a slight inconvenience. She sighed, pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket, its delicate fabric as white as fresh snow. With practiced ease, she wiped the crimson away, her movements precise and efficient.

With her free hand, she pulled out her phone, its surface smooth and cold. She dialed a number, her fingers moving with practiced precision.

The moment the line picked up, she didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “It’s done.”

A pause. Then, her tone sharpened, her voice laced with a cold, demanding edge. “Double the payment.”

The voice on the other end stammered, protested. “That wasn’t the deal…”

Leila smirked, flicking the blood from the tip of her blade. “He put up a fight. I got blood on my dress. I charge extra for that.”

A moment of silence, then a reluctant agreement. “Wire transfer confirmed.” She disconnected, pocketing the device with a satisfied click. The rain continued to fall, a relentless, drumming rhythm against the roof of the warehouse.

As she turned to leave, another notification pinged on her device, a soft, electronic chime. A new target.

Sylus, the leader of Onychinus. The smirk on her lips deepened, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Her fingers twitched, eager for the next kill. The city of N109 belonged to criminals, to kings and queens of the underworld, but she had never feared them.

“Let’s see if the devil can bleed,” she whispered, her voice a soft, deadly promise. The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from the streets, cleansing the city for the next act of violence.

A sudden gust of wind sent the scent of blood and rain swirling through the air. Leila cast one last glance at the cooling corpse at her feet, then slid her dagger back into its sheath with a practiced flick of her wrist. Without urgency, she stepped over the body, her heels clicking against the wet pavement as she melted into the shadows. The city swallowed her whole, the neon haze reflecting off slick streets, painting her silhouette in fleeting streaks of red and gold.

By the time she reached her black Aston Martin, parked discreetly a few blocks away, the atmosphere settled into its usual rhythm.

She slipped behind the wheel, the leather interior cool against her skin, and exhaled slowly. The thrill of the hunt still lingered in her veins, sharp and intoxicating.

By the time she arrived at her penthouse sanctuary, the storm had worsened, sheets of rain hammering against the glass. She stepped inside, leaving behind the world of bloodstained alleys and whispered death, and traded it for silk, whiskey, and the quiet hum of wealth. Now, perched on her velvet chaise, she took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down her throat.

The penthouse was a stark contrast to the world below, a sanctuary built from obscene wealth. Every inch of it was curated, from the sleek marble floors to the towering glass display cases housing artifacts worth more than entire city blocks. She poured herself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as she settled onto a velvet chaise. The city pulsed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, its heartbeat syncing with her own. But Leila’s focus was on the sleek tablet in her lap, its glow illuminating the name on the screen.

Sylus.

The weight of the bounty was enough to make any assassin pause. It was a number so high, so obscene, that it was less of a payout and more of a challenge. Leila tilted her head, scanning the details. Sylus wasn’t just another target. He is the god of N109, a myth wrapped in flesh and power. He moved without leaving a trace, controlled the city’s darkest corners with an iron grip. People feared him, whispered his name as if it summoned him from the shadows.

They said he had no weaknesses. That just meant no one had encountered him yet. She exhaled slowly, closing the file with a flick of her fingers. Outside, the storm raged on, streaks of lightning illuminating the skyline in violent bursts. The city was restless. Waiting. And so was she.

---

Days turned to a week, Leila spent her days calculating her attack until she finds her chance. The underground gala was a decadent affair—exclusive, secretive, filled with the kind of people who could afford to kill for sport and still sleep soundly at night. It was a room full of wolves, draped in silk and false civility, their power sharper than the crystal chandeliers above. Leila moved through the crowd effortlessly, wearing wealth like a second skin, her disguise impeccable. Her mark was here.

And then—her gaze landed on him.

He was lounging at the bar, a glass of champagne in hand, his silver hair tousled in a way that made it look intentional. He exuded power, the kind that didn’t need to be announced. The kind that made others hesitate before approaching. Their eyes met. A smirk tugged at his lips. A silent acknowledgment. He knew. He had been waiting.

Leila’s pulse remained steady, but inside, her mind recalibrated. Adjusted. Adapted. She slid up beside him, her voice a soft, alluring purr. "Beautiful party."

Sylus tilted his head, red eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Took you long enough."

She stiffened, a crack forming in her carefully constructed facade. He knew exactly who she was. And worse—he was enjoying this. The air between them was charged, a silent standoff disguised as casual conversation. A predator toying with another. Sylus raised his glass, the smirk deepening. "If you’re going to kill me, Siren," he murmured, voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

"At least make it interesting."

The challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown down amidst the glittering facade of the gala. Leila’s eyes, dark and sharp, locked onto Sylus’s. The game had shifted, the rules rewritten by her prey. He wasn’t running, he wasn’t hiding. He was playing.

“Interesting,” she echoed, her voice a low, melodic counterpoint to his. “That can be arranged.” She took a sip of her champagne, the bubbles fizzing on her tongue, a stark contrast to the icy calm that settled over her. “But tell me, Sylus, what constitutes ‘interesting’ for a man who lives in the shadows?”

He chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through her senses. “A fair question, Siren. For me, ‘interesting’ is a dance. A tango of shadows and steel. A game where the stakes are life and death.” He swirled the champagne in his glass, the liquid reflecting the chandelier’s light like liquid rubies. “And where the partners are equally skilled.”

Leila’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “And you believe we are?”

“I wouldn’t have invited you to dance otherwise.” He gestured to the dance floor, where couples swayed to the slow, seductive music. “Care to join me?”

It was a blatant provocation, a taunt disguised as an invitation. He wanted to see her move, to gauge her skill. Leila accepted the challenge. “Lead the way.”

They moved onto the dance floor, a silent ballet of predator and prey. Sylus’s hand, gloved in black leather, rested lightly on her waist, guiding her through the steps. His touch was feather-light, yet it held an undercurrent of steel, a reminder of the power he wielded. As they danced, their conversation continued, a subtle exchange of veiled threats and calculated observations.

“You’re good,” Sylus murmured, his voice a low whisper in her ear. “I’ve studied your work. Efficient. Clean. A ghost.”

“And you,” Leila replied, her eyes never leaving his. “A ghost yourself. A phantom king.”

“We have much in common then,” he said, his red eyes gleaming. “Perhaps too much.”

The music swelled, the rhythm mirroring the tension between them. They moved together, a fluid, graceful dance, each step a calculated move in their deadly game. Leila’s senses were heightened, every muscle coiled, ready to strike. But Sylus was a master of misdirection, his movements unpredictable, his intentions hidden behind a mask of charm. Suddenly, he dipped her, his hand sliding down her back, his fingers brushing against the small of her spine.

Before she could react, he pulled her back up, his smile widening. “Such a shame,” he said, his voice laced with mock regret. “The music’s ending.”

The dance ended, but the game had just begun. Leila’s mind raced, analyzing every movement, every word. He had shown her a glimpse of his power, a taste of the danger she faced. He was playing with her, testing her limits, pushing her to reveal her hand.

“Thank you for the dance, Sylus,” she said, her voice smooth and even. “It was… enlightening.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Siren,” he replied, his red eyes gleaming with amusement. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Leila standing alone on the dance floor, the echoes of the music fading into the background. She felt a coldness settle over her, a premonition of danger. Sylus wasn’t just a target. He was a force of nature, a predator who relished the hunt. And he was playing for keeps.

She knew then, with a chilling certainty, that this would be no ordinary kill. This was a war. Leila hissed through her teeth. Her prey was in her hands in a dance. Now, he casually disappeared to the crowd. With pure determination, she decided to follow him.

The alleyway, slick with rain and shadowed by the towering buildings, became a stage for a deadly spectacle. Sylus, his silver hair gleaming under the faint neon glow, moved with an unnerving grace, a predator reveling in the hunt. He wasn’t just defending; he was performing, showcasing his power, his Evol.

Leila, her blade a silver flash in the darkness, pressed her attack. She was a whirlwind of motion, her movements precise and lethal. But Sylus, with a casual flick of his wrist, deflected her strikes, his red eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Such passion, Siren.” he purred, his voice a low, melodic drawl. “I can almost taste your desire. Want some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?”

He wasn’t wrong. Every fiber of her being screamed for his death. He was a challenge, an insult to her skill, a target that needed to be eliminated. But as their fight intensified, Sylus’s evol began to manifest. The shadows in the alleyway deepened, writhing and coalescing around him. They weren’t just shadows; they were extensions of his will, tendrils of darkness that moved with an unnatural fluidity.

Leila’s blade sliced through them, but the darkness reformed just as quickly. He was toying with her. Studying her. She pivoted, seeking an opening, but the shadows moved with him, whispering taunts, flickering illusions at the edge of her vision. With calm steps, Sylus approached Leila who is now kneeling on the concrete ground, completely helpless as the shadows flowing out of Sylus's palm forbids her from moving an inch.

“You want to kill me so bad, don’t you?” he asked, kneeling to her level with Leila's chin between his thumb and index finger, his voice a low, seductive whisper. “I can hear it, Siren. The whispers in your mind. ‘Kill him, kill him…’”

Leila’s breath hitched. He wasn’t just reading her movements; he was reading her. A jolt of cold realization rippled through her, but she buried it. Focused. Adapted. She lunged—one decisive strike aimed at his heart—but he moved with impossible speed. Shadows swallowed the distance between them. A hand, gloved and strong, caught her wrist. The grip tightened.

“Such determination,” Sylus murmured, his tone laced with something far too close to admiration. “It’s… intoxicating.”

Leila gritted her teeth, refusing to react. Refusing to give him the satisfaction. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear.

“I enjoy this, Siren,” he whispered. “The thrill of the hunt. The dance of death. Seeing the desire to kill me burning in your eyes. It is exquisite.”

And then, just as suddenly, he released her. Shadows slithered away, retreating as though the fight had never happened. He stepped back, his smirk lazy, his amusement palpable.

“Consider this a lesson,” he said. “You are out of your depth.”

Then he was gone, vanishing into the night, leaving Leila alone in the alleyway. The silence continued to fall, washing away the evidence of their battle—except for the black feather at her feet. A parting gift from Mephisto. A silent taunt.

She exhaled, slow and measured. The devil doesn’t bleed. Not yet. But he will.

Leila returned to her penthouse, the sleek interior glittering skyline doing little to soothe the storm within her. Failure. A rare and bitter taste. The memory of Sylus, his red eyes gleaming with amusement as he toyed with her, burned like a brand. She moved through the meticulously designed space, each step sharp and agitated. The image of his mocking smile, the echo of his taunts, fueled her frustration. A guttural cry tore from her throat, an expression of the rage she refused to suppress. With a violent gesture, she swept a crystal vase from a nearby table, the shattering glass a discordant counterpoint to the city’s hum.

Yet, amidst the anger, a darker current stirred. Sylus’s perverse enjoyment, the thrill he found in their deadly dance, had ignited a dangerous fascination within her. The hunt, once a clinical exercise, had become a personal vendetta, a twisted game she was determined to win.

She sank into the leather chair behind her desk, the city lights reflecting in the polished surface. Her senses, honed by years of training, registered a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. She's not alone anymore. The intrusion shattered the carefully curated tranquility of Leila’s penthouse. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the intent to harm, a tangible pressure against her skin.

Her hand, as if guided by instinct, slid beneath the polished surface of her desk, closing around the hidden blade. She rose, a fluid motion, her movements deceptively graceful despite the precarious height of her stiletto heels. Her eyes, dark and sharp, scanned the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Three figures materialized, their faces obscured by featureless masks, their weapons – a knife, a silenced pistol, and the power of clenched fists – glinting in the dim light.

Their movements, though practiced, were clumsy compared to her own. Their objective was clear: termination.

Without a second thought, Leila stepped out of her study. The door creating a loud thoud as it hit the wall, startling the intruders. The first attacker, a lean figure wielding a wickedly sharp knife, lunged with a speed that spoke of desperate intent. Leila sidestepped with a fluid grace that defied gravity, her own blade flashing in a swift, predatory arc, leaving a crimson line blooming on his forearm. He hissed, a sound of pain and frustrated rage.

The second, his movements precise and controlled, fired a silenced pistol. The shots, though muffled, still echoed through the room. Leila, her reflexes honed to a razor’s edge, moved like a phantom, her body weaving and dodging, her movements a testament to her years of training.

The third, a hulking figure with the brute strength of a brawler, charged, his fists like battering rams. Leila, her movements a study in controlled violence, used his momentum against him, flipping him over her shoulder. He crashed into a glass display case, the shattering glass a discordant symphony. The impact resonated through the room, a jarring counterpoint to the silent threat that still lingered.

The first attacker, his arm bleeding, lunged again, his rage a palpable force. But Leila, her focus unwavering, disarmed him with a swift, brutal motion, her blade finding its mark – a clean, decisive strike to the throat. She could feel the life draining from him, a chilling sensation, even through the delicate fabric of her heels grounding her.

The second attacker, his pistol now empty, realized the futility of his efforts and attempted to flee. But Leila, her agility was on him in an instant, a blur of deadly grace, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. She seized him by the neck, her grip like iron, and slammed him against the wall, the impact cracking the plaster, a stark reminder of the force she wielded.

The third, still disoriented from his fall, attempted to rise, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. But Leila, her reflexes predicting his every move, ended the fight with clinical efficiency, her blade a final, decisive stroke, her heels planted firmly, her balance unwavering.

She stood over the bodies, her breath ragged, her eyes cold and hard. The fight, messy and visceral, had served its purpose. It was a brutal reminder that even within her own sanctuary, she could be a target. Her heels, now slightly scuffed, were a reminder of her ability to be lethal, even in the most impractical footwear.

She dragged the second attacker, the one still clinging to the fragile thread of consciousness, to a chair. His eyes, wide and terrified, reflected the stark reality of his situation. “Who sent you?” she demanded, her voice a low, menacing growl, each word laced with a chilling undertone. He remained silent, his jaw clenched, fear and defiance battling in his eyes.

Leila’s lips thinned. She grabbed his injured arm, the one she had slammed against the wall, and twisted it sharply. A sharp, agonized cry ripped through the room. "Tell me," she said, her voice dangerously soft, "or I'll find other ways to make you talk."

He still refused. Leila then grabbed his other arm and repeated the previous action, this time a bone audibly snapped.

He screamed, a sound of pure agony. "Alright! Alright! I'll talk!" he gasped, his body trembling.

“Who sent you?” she repeated, her voice laced with icy patience.

He stammered, his words slurred and broken. “No one… I saw… the bounty…”

Leila’s eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing. “The bounty? What bounty?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing nervously. “The one on you… they said… it was huge… everyone’s talking about it… in the underground… They just said, 'The Blackthorn Siren'… and the number… it was a lot."”

“Everyone?” Leila’s voice was a low, dangerous purr. “So, it’s not just you. It’s everyone.”

He nodded, a jerky, terrified movement. “Yes… everyone who heard… everyone who wants the money…”

"And who placed this bounty? Who wants me dead?" Leila asked, her voice dangerously calm.

His eyes darted around the room, fear etched into his features. "Corpus… Corpus Dainhart… they said he wants you gone… and Sylus too…"

A cold realization settled over Leila. Corpus Dainhart. The same individual who had contracted her to eliminate Sylus had also placed a massive bounty on her head, turning her into a target for every opportunistic killer in N109. He wanted her gone, he wanted Sylus gone, and he was willing to pay handsomely for it.

Leila stood amidst the carnage, the echoes of the intruder's screams still ringing in the air. The name "Corpus Dainhart" hung heavy, a dark promise of the conflict to come. The city, already a viper's nest of ambition and violence, had just become a hunting ground, with her as the prize. She released the broken man, his whimpers echoed within the walls. He slumped in the chair, a broken doll, his eyes wide with terror.

The game had changed. It was no longer a simple assassination. It was a war, a three-way dance of death, and she was caught in the center. Corpus Dainhart, a puppeteer pulling strings from the shadows, wanted her and Sylus eliminated, clearing the stage for his own ascent. The entire underworld, lured by the promise of a hefty bounty, was now a ravenous pack, eager to tear her apart. And Sylus… he was a wild card, a predator who relished the hunt, a force as unpredictable as the city itself.

She also needed to prepare. The bounty on her head meant she couldn't rely on her usual safe houses, her usual routines. She was a marked woman, hunted in every shadow. She needed to disappear, to become a ghost, even more elusive than she already was. She needed to move, and she needed to move fast. As she thought, a cold, calculating fury settled over her. Corpus Dainhart had made a grave mistake. He had underestimated her. He had turned her into a cornered predator, and cornered predators were the most dangerous of all.

She would find him. She would dismantle his network, piece by piece, until he was left with nothing. And then, she would make him pay. And Sylus… she wouldn't forget him. He was a challenge, a dangerous obsession, but he was also a key.

She turned back to the broken man, his eyes still wide with terror. "I'm feeling like being exceptionally nice tonight," she said, her voice a low, almost playful purr, a stark contrast to the violence that had just transpired. "So why don't you go to your underground friends, tell them about tonight's story with the Blackthorn Siren, okay? Tell them how I let you walk away. Tell them… I'm not to be trifled with."

He nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet, his movements jerky and panicked. Without another word, he scurried out of the penthouse, disappearing into the shadows of the city.

The city lights outside painted the room in a cold, artificial glow. She looked out at the sprawling cityscape, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. However, the air in the penthouse, once a sanctuary, now felt thick with the scent of betrayal. Leila, stripped of her usual comforts, relied on her instincts, her senses honed to a razor's edge. She was a lone wolf, cornered and fighting for survival.

Panic, a rare emotion for Leila, began to gnaw at the edges of her composure. She was isolated, hunted, and facing an enemy far more powerful than she initially anticipated. Corpus Dainhart had unleashed a wave of chaos, turning the city into a hunting ground and she was the deer. Desperation, a cold, calculating emotion, began to take hold. She needed an ally, someone with the power to counter Corpus Dainhart's influence, someone who understood the game as well as she did.

And then, she thought of Sylus.

The memory of their encounter, the dance of death in the alleyway, the unsettling amusement in his eyes, flashed before her. He was a predator, a force of nature, a king in this city of shadows. He is also her enemy, a target, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could be an unlikely ally. The thought was audacious, bordering on insanity. But the alternative was bleak. She was facing annihilation, and she needed a powerful ally, someone who could navigate this treacherous landscape as expertly as she could.

Connecting with Sylus was a dangerous gamble, a calculated risk but the stakes were too high to hesitate.

---

Leila's penthouse, a monument to her vanished existence, reeked of phantom violence. The shattered glass, reflecting the neon-drenched cityscape, served as a macabre mosaic of fractured memories. The bodies, like her old life, were gone, scrubbed from reality by the cold precision of her evol. Only the echoes remained, a silent testament to the brutal efficiency of her departure.

She inhaled, the air thick with the metallic ghost of blood, and exhaled, the tension leaving her in a slow, deliberate wave. Her evol had already worked its magic, smoothing over the carnage, blurring the lines of reality until nothing remained—no struggle, no trace. She was a void, a whisper in the wind.

And so, with hands still bearing the invisible stain of violence, she stepped into the neon-drenched streets of N109, unhidden, defiant. The city watched, a million eyes in the darkness. She sensed them before she saw them—the predators drawn by the scent of blood money, the bounty hunters and assassins lurking in the shadows. Their movements were cautious, their patience fraying, their greed a palpable hunger. She allowed them their anticipation, their desperate hope.

Then, she sang.

A low hum, a haunting melody, slipped from her lips, threading through the city's cacophony like a silken thread through coarse fabric. It was a warning, a siren's call, a lullaby for the damned.

Come if you dare.

And they did.

The first attacker, a shadow leaping from an alleyway, moved with practiced brutality. Leila, a predator in her own right, didn't break stride. A swift, almost casual twist of her wrist, the flash of a hidden blade, and his throat bloomed crimson.

The hum continued, a chilling counterpoint to the gurgling death throes.

A second assailant, a silent predator from behind, lunged with deadly intent. Leila pivoted, a fluid, almost graceful movement, her dagger slipping between his ribs with surgical precision. He gasped, his lifeblood spilling onto the rain-slicked pavement.

The song remained, a haunting testament to her lethal grace.

Then came the third. A woman.

Leila turned, her breath slow and measured, her eyes cold and unwavering. The attacker was young—too young. Hesitation clung to her like a shroud, her grip on the blade unsteady, fingers trembling in the neon glow. Wide eyes met hers. Not with the sharp resolve of a killer, but with a dawning horror. Leila saw it—the fear, the doubt, the chilling realization that she had stepped into a predator’s den. She was a lamb among wolves, and she knew it.

Leila’s humming faded, swallowed by the thick silence between them.

She lifted her dagger, its blood-warmed tip hovering inches from the woman’s throat. The would-be assassin froze, her body rigid, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Leila could end it. One movement. One precise strike. It would be easy. Expected.

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned in, her voice a low, velvet whisper. “You don’t want to do this.” A beat. A choice. “Run.”

The woman staggered back, pulse hammering against her skin, before she turned and disappeared into the city’s labyrinthine alleys. Leila didn’t watch her go. She had already made her decision.

It wasn’t mercy. It was control. And that made her something far more dangerous.

Leila moved through the city’s underbelly like a phantom, her evol unraveling every trace of her presence before it could even exist. No footsteps echoed. No scent lingered. No breath stirred the air. She is able to erase her existence through the traces she could have left in a blink of an eye with her evol, which made her a ghost. The night swallowed her whole, leaving only the faintest whisper of a presence that never was. The Onychinus base loomed ahead—a fortress of power, crawling with guards, sensors, and security measures designed to catch even the most elusive intruders but Leila didn’t need to sneak. She didn’t need to dodge.

She simply walked.

The cameras turned, but saw nothing. The motion sensors blinked, yet detected no movement. The guards shifted uneasily, sensing something—an itch at the back of their minds, a shadow at the edge of their vision—but found only empty space. She was a ghost in the machine, a glitch in reality itself. Inside, the corridors pulsed with quiet danger, the air thick with the weight of unseen power. She slipped between the cracks of perception, her evol weaving silence into the spaces she passed through.

And when she reached the command center, she found them waiting, the infamous twins under Sylus's commands, Luke and Kieran. "Well, well," Luke drawled, tilting his head. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"The Blackthorn Siren," Kieran murmured, his voice filled with amusement. "Paying us a visit. How unexpected."

"Looking for Sylus, are we?" Luke’s voice held a note of dark amusement, his gaze flickering to the blood on her hands, the bruises forming beneath her skin.

"He said you’d come crawling," Kieran added, voice smooth as silk.

Leila’s pulse remained steady. She had no illusions about what she was walking into. This was a game of wolves and she was stepping right into their den. "Take me to him," she said, her voice cold. Unwavering. Luke exhaled a slow, low whistle. Kieran’s chuckle deepened.

"As you wish," Luke murmured. “But be warned, Siren. This is his game.”

"And he always wins." Kieran’s continued.

Leila scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive, as she slid her well-worn dagger back into the holster strapped to her thigh. The movement was fluid, practiced, a testament to the countless times she'd performed the action. "I don't care," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of any pretense of fear or respect. "I'm not here for a game that he can win. I'm here for something else."

Her eyes, dark and unwavering, met the twins' amused gazes. She wasn't intimidated by their synchronized menace, their carefully crafted display of power. She was a predator in her own right, and she knew the difference between a threat and a performance.

"And what, pray tell," Luke drawled, his voice laced with mocking curiosity, "could be so important that it brings the Blackthorn Siren to our doorstep?"

"Information," Leila replied, her voice clipped and precise. "Information that Sylus possesses. Information regarding Corpus Dainhart. Given his connections, his eyes and ears everywhere, he knows quite a bit about the man, I presume."

Kieran's amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of suspicion. "Dainhart? What business could you possibly have with him?"

"Business that concerns Sylus as much as it concerns me," Leila stated, her eyes narrowing. "He's playing a dangerous game, and he's using both of us as pawns."

"And you think boss would just give you this information?" Luke asked, his tone incredulous. "Just like that?"

"I don't expect him to 'give' me anything," Leila said, her voice laced with a hint of steel. "I expect him to recognize a mutually beneficial arrangement when he sees one. Dainhart is a threat to his control, just as he is to my… autonomy. And I suspect Sylus values his position too much to let someone like Dainhart disrupt it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a silent glance, a flicker of communication passing between them that Leila couldn't quite decipher. They were weighing her words, assessing the risk, calculating the potential gain. It was a dangerous dance, a negotiation between predators.

"And what guarantees do we have that you won't turn on us the moment you get what you want?" Kieran asked, his eyes narrowed.

"My word," Leila replied, her voice flat, devoid of any hint of deception. "And the understanding that Dainhart's downfall benefits us all. I'm not interested in playing games. I'm interested in survival."

"Survival?" Luke scoffed. "You make it sound like you're the one in danger."

A tense silence descended upon the room, the only sound the low hum of the base's machinery. The twins were still hesitant, their distrust a palpable force in the air.

"Fine," Luke finally said, his voice laced with reluctant agreement. "We'll take you to Sylus. But don't think for a moment that we trust you."

Leila replied, her voice cold and steady. "Just get me to him."

Kieran nodded, his eyes still wary. "Follow us."

They led her through a labyrinth of corridors, deeper into the heart of Onychinus's base. The atmosphere shifted, the air growing thick with a sense of hidden power. They were entering Sylus's domain, a place where the rules were his and his alone. As they approached a heavy, reinforced door, Luke turned to her, his eyes glinting with a predatory amusement. "Be warned, Siren," he said. "Boss is unpredictable and he has a flair for the dramatic."

The doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit chamber, its walls lined with screens displaying a network of information. At the far end of the room, Sylus sat in a high-backed chair, his silver hair gleaming in the low light. He turned to face her, his red eyes glowing with an almost unsettling intensity.

"After you," Kieran said, stepping aside with a theatrical sweep of his hand.

Leila didn’t move immediately. She knew better than to trust any invitation from Onychinus but hesitation was weakness, and she’d already lost too much ground. So, with steady steps, she walked forward, crossing the threshold into Sylus’s domain. The room was bathed in shadows, the only light coming from a series of screens lining the walls—surveillance feeds, city maps, fluctuating data streams. At the far end, a figure stood by the window, overlooking N109.

His silhouette was sharp against the neon glow outside, the faintest reflection of his mechanical crow, Mephisto, glinting in the glass. He didn’t turn as she entered.

"I was beginning to wonder," Sylus murmured, his voice like silk over steel. "How long before you accepted the inevitable?"

Leila kept her stance firm, ignoring the way the room felt like it was closing in. "And what would that be?"

"That we were always meant to cross paths like this."

Finally, he turned. Crimson eyes met hers. Unreadable. Measuring. The corner of his mouth curved in a smirk, but there was something else beneath it—something more dangerous.

"You came to kill me, Siren. But now you’re here, wounded, hunted." His gaze flicked to the blood drying on her skin. "And instead of finishing the job, you’re standing in my abode, asking for something." His voice dipped lower, amused. "What shall I make of that?"

Leila clenched her jaw. She didn’t want to be here but survival demanded it. "Whoever hired me to kill you has now put a price on my head as well," she said, forcing the words out evenly. "Someone wants both of us gone."

Sylus tilted his head, considering. Then, he chuckled. A dark, knowing sound.

"Ah. Now this… this is interesting." He took a step closer, slow, deliberate. "Tell me, Siren," he murmured, eyes gleaming like a predator sizing up its prey. "How badly do you want to survive?"

Leila held her ground as Sylus closed the distance between them. His presence was suffocating—controlled, calculated, a predator who already knew he had the upper hand. But she wasn’t prey.

“I don’t need your help to survive,” she said, her voice sharp, unwavering. “I just need to know where Dainhart is.”

Sylus hummed, his red gaze unreadable as shadows flickered at his fingertips, curling and shifting like living ink. “You think I’d hand you that information for free?” Mephisto fluttered onto his shoulder, its feathers rubbing against the fabric of his coat. The crow's unblinking stare bore into her, an eerie mirror of its master’s amusement.

“I think,” Leila said, stepping forward—closing the space between them instead of retreating, “that you’re just as interested in this as I am.”

A beat of silence. Then—Sylus smiled. Slow. Indulgent. Dangerous. “And why is that?”

Leila exhaled, slow and measured. She couldn’t afford to play this game recklessly, but she also couldn’t afford to let him control the board. “Because someone wants you gone. Not just weakened, not just wounded. Erased. You and your empire.” Her voice dipped lower, testing him. “That doesn’t worry you?”

Sylus let the silence stretch, tension coiling in the air like a blade poised to strike. Then—shadows erupted from his fingertips.

Before Leila could react, the red and black tendrils lashed around her wrists, twisting like silk but with the grip of iron. A sudden pull—and she was lifted off the ground, drawn toward him, her boots hovering inches above the floor.

Leila’s breath hitched, but her expression remained cold. Unshaken. A lazy smirk curved Sylus’s lips as he tipped his head, his voice a velvet whisper.

“Oh, kitten,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with something wicked. “You assume too much.” The shadows shifted, forcing her closer—until the space between them was a mere breath. “Worry?” His voice was a whisper of steel and silk. “I am thrilled.”

Leila clenched her fists, her instincts screaming at her to fight—but before she could, the doors behind them slammed open.

The spell broke. The shadows unraveled, and she dropped lightly to the ground just as Luke and Kieran stepped in, their usual amusement gone.

“Boss,” Kieran said, voice clipped. “We have a problem.”

Sylus sighed, as if annoyed at the interruption. He turned, casting a glance at the flickering security feed behind him. Leila followed his gaze—and her pulse spiked. Figures in the darkness. Armed. Moving in. A breach. And at the head of it—a man she recognized. A high-ranking enforcer from the very organization that had put a bounty on both their heads. Sylus glanced back at her, his smirk returning—pleased, amused, utterly unbothered.

“Well,” he mused, cracking his knuckles as the air around him hummed with raw energy. “Shall we?”

Leila’s jaw tightened, tension coiling within her like a blade drawn taut. The intrusion was a declaration of war—a calculated strike meant to fracture, to destabilize. But she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“We,” she corrected, voice cold and precise, “will deal with this. But I’m not playing by your rules, Sylus.”

She moved before he could respond, a whisper of death in the chaos. The first wave of attackers breached the perimeter, weapons spitting fire and steel. Leila cut through them like a phantom, her blade a blur, her strikes surgical. No wasted movement. No hesitation. She didn’t fight for spectacle. She fought to end. Bodies hit the ground before they could register their deaths. Their final gasps lost in the cacophony of battle.

Sylus watched, red eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Not concern. Not urgency. Amusement. He moved differently—languid, deliberate. A conductor orchestrating destruction with the flick of a hand. Luke and Kieran were a synchronized storm, tearing through the invaders with lethal efficiency. The Onychinus twins—flawless in execution, effortless in precision.

The battle was over in minutes. Leila exhaled, blade still gripped tight as silence settled over the room. The only thing left was the scent of blood and the bodies littering the floor. Sylus turned to her, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. “Impressive.” His voice was indulgent. Amused. Satisfied.

Leila met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not here for praise.”

“No.” His smile deepened. “You’re here for something far more interesting.”

She didn’t bother with preamble. “Corpus Dainhart. I need everything you know. His movements. His resources. His weaknesses.”

Sylus studied her, curiosity flickering in his gaze. Then, he hummed. “Information is a costly thing, kitten. It requires… investment." He gestured lazily to the room around them—the security feeds, the intricate network of Onychinus laid bare in glowing screens.

“Stay,” he said smoothly. “Work for me. Onychinus will be your sanctuary. You’ll have access to my intel, my resources… my protection.” He stepped closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “We both want Dainhart gone. You and I together? That’s a war he won’t survive.”

Leila’s grip on her blade didn’t loosen. She knew exactly what this was. A test. A leash wrapped in the guise of an offer.

“I don’t work for anyone.” The words came out sharp, unyielding.

Sylus chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “No. But you need me.”

Leila said nothing… because he was right. She could run but every bounty hunter, every assassin, every opportunist in the city was hunting her. There was nowhere left to go as her fortress has been infiltrated earlier tonight and Sylus—his fortress, his power, his influence—was untouchable.

Survival versus autonomy. A necessary trade. She exhaled slowly. “What are the terms?”

Sylus’s smile was razor-sharp. “You work within Onychinus until Dainhart is dead. You operate as you see fit, but you answer to me and you trust me.”

Leila scoffed. “Trust is a luxury I don’t afford.”

Sylus’s gaze burned into hers. “Then consider this an alliance of necessity. A means to an end. You want Dainhart gone?” His voice was velvet and steel. “I’ll give you the weapons to destroy him but you don’t get to fight this war alone.”

Leila held his gaze. The deal was a devil’s gamble but the devil she could see was better than the one in the shadows.

“…Fine.”

Sylus’s smile was slow, deliberate—the kind that meant he’d already known her answer before she spoke it.

“Smart choice, kitten.” His voice was smooth, edged with something almost amused. “Try not to make me regret it.”

Leila sheathed her blade, but the tension in her stance never eased. “That makes two of us.”

---

The water ran hot. Scalding. Just the way she needed it. Leila braced her hands against the cool marble of the shower wall, letting the steady stream drum against her skin, washing away the filth of the night. Blood swirled in delicate crimson ribbons at her feet, vanishing down the drain as if it had never been there at all. She exhaled, slow and controlled, rolling her shoulders beneath the punishing heat. Her muscles ached, not from exhaustion—she was used to pushing her body beyond its limits—but from the weight of the choice she had made.

A deal with Sylus.

Her fingers curled into fists. The devil’s hand had closed around her, and she had let it. The night’s carnage clung to her in more ways than one. Not just in the blood that streaked her skin, but in the way her mind replayed every strike, every kill, every calculated decision. Efficiency, precision, survival—she had never fought for sport, only to end. And tonight, she had ended many.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She reached for the soap, running it over the faint scrapes lining her arms, the phantom burns left by too-close gunfire, the bruises that would darken by morning. It stung, but pain had always been a familiar thing. A grounding thing. She tilted her head back, letting the water cascade over her face, drowning out the thoughts she didn’t want to entertain.

There was no turning back now.

When she finally shut the water off, steam curled around her like a phantom’s embrace. Wrapping a towel around her, she stepped out into the dimly lit bedroom—the one Sylus had given her. Dark, sleek, and draped in shadow, it was more fortress than sanctuary. The silk sheets were neat, the candles along the bedside table flickering lazily, casting elongated shadows against the walls. A bookshelf loomed in the corner, filled with stories left unread. A room built for someone who knew how to disappear.

Fitting. She barely had a moment to process before she sensed another presence.

Sylus stood near the doorway, effortlessly at ease, his sharp red gaze taking her in like she was yet another puzzle piece he intended to fit into his grand design. In his hand, he held a neatly folded set of clothes—dark, understated, but expensive.

“Didn’t peg you as the modest type,” she drawled, keeping her grip on the towel firm.

Sylus smirked. “Consider it a gesture of hospitality.” He stepped forward, placing the clothes on the bed with the same careful deliberation he used for everything. “I’ll have a proper wardrobe arranged for you in the morning.”

Leila arched a brow, amusement flickering beneath the lingering exhaustion. “Generous. But unnecessary.” She moved past him, plucking the shirt from the pile and holding it up. The fabric was soft, expensive—worn just enough to lose its stiffness. It smelled faintly of smoke and something darker, something undeniably him.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “These are yours.”

Sylus’s smirk was lazy, deliberate. “You’d prefer I raid the twins’ closets instead?”

Leila scoffed, shaking her head as she tossed the shirt back onto the bed. “I’ll manage and don’t bother with the wardrobe. I can buy my own.”

Sylus hummed, tilting his head slightly as if assessing the statement. “Of course you can,” he said, tone smooth, indulgent. “But it’s not about what you can do, kitten. It’s about what’s efficient. And I prefer efficiency.”

Leila met his gaze, unwavering. “And I prefer autonomy.”

Something flickered in his eyes—interest, amusement, maybe both. Then, a slow nod. “Noted.”

Satisfied, she turned away, dismissing him with the gesture. But Sylus lingered a moment longer, watching. Calculating.

Then, just as smoothly as he had entered, he took his leave. Leila let out a slow breath, fingers brushing the soft fabric of the borrowed clothes. Leila ran the towel through her damp hair, sighing as the tension in her muscles slowly unwound. The hot shower had washed away the grime, sweat, and blood of the night, leaving behind only the dull ache of exhaustion. Dressed in his shirt—because practicality outweighed pride—she padded barefoot across the room, instinctively checking the locks before settling into her usual routine.

A flick of her knife, the familiar weight spinning between her fingers. A quick check of her weapons, reloading where needed. A final sweep of the space, mapping exits, ensuring everything was exactly where she left it.

Satisfied, she slipped beneath the sheets. The bed was softer than what she was used to—luxurious, even—but sleep came quickly, pulling her under before she could linger on the strange comfort of it.

---

A knock. Then the distant murmur of voices outside her door. Leila's eyes snapped open. Instinct took over—silent, swift. A blade was in her hand before she was fully awake. She moved without sound, pressing to the side of the doorway as she listened. No immediate threats. No gunfire, no forced entry. Just… something being set down.

A beat. Then footsteps retreating. She exhaled slowly, lowering the knife before cracking the door open.

And stopped.

Her bedroom floor was buried in shopping bags. Luxurious. High-end. Every brand that screamed wealth and excess. Shoes—boots, heels, combat-grade and couture. Dresses that shimmered even in the low morning light. Leather jackets, silk blouses, workout gear. Even loungewear, absurdly soft-looking and undoubtedly expensive. Leila dragged a hand down her face.

What. The. Hell.

She crouched, rifling through one of the bags, pulling out a sleek black dress that felt like sin between her fingers. Another held a pair of gloves—reinforced, combat-ready.

Of course.

She didn’t need to guess who was behind this. She stood, threw on a fresh set of clothes, and stormed out the door. She found Sylus exactly where she expected—lounging in his private study, nursing a drink, looking far too pleased with himself.

Leila crossed her arms. “I assume you have an explanation for the disaster currently occupying my room.”

Sylus glanced at her, amused. “A disaster? Interesting choice of words, kitten.” He set his glass down. “I’d call it thoughtful.”

She exhaled sharply. “I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leaned back, gaze sweeping over her. “You need a wardrobe. Unless, of course, you plan to keep parading around in my clothes?” His smirk deepened. “Not that I’d mind. Or, you know—” his voice dropped, teasing, “you could always go without.”

Leila’s brow twitched. Sylus chuckled. “Ah, there it is.” He tilted his head. “Admit it, kitten. You’d rather be dressed well than suffer through wearing my shirts every night.”

She scoffed. “I can buy my own.”

Sylus lifted a brow. “I don't doubt that but you’d prefer what? Strolling through the outdoors while all of the black market wants your head?”

Leila rolled her eyes. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Of course you have.” He gestured lazily toward the door. “Keep what you want. Burn the rest.”

Leila narrowed her eyes, scanning his expression. This wasn’t just about convenience—it was a calculated move. Control, disguised as care. She hated it.

And yet… Her gaze flicked to the shopping bags still visible through the open door. Leila exhaled sharply. “Fine.” She turned on her heel. She didn’t miss the way Sylus’s smirk deepened. But later, as she shoved the bags into the corner of her room, she did keep the all of them.

Because damn it, they were nice. Sylus does have a sense of style.

Leila doesn’t waste the morning entertaining Sylus’s antics. After begrudgingly accepting the wardrobe situation, she gears up, determined to make use of Onychinus’s resources for what she actually needs—information on Corpus Dainhart. But Sylus? He has other plans. Before she can vanish into her own agenda, Sylus intercepts her at breakfast. He’s already waiting in the dining lounge, looking infuriatingly unbothered as he drinks his coffee. The Onychinus compound is a well-oiled machine, members moving in and out, all under his command.

Sylus gestures to the seat across from him, smirking. “Sit. Eat. We talk.”

Leila has spent years operating alone, not answering to anyone. The idea of reporting in, of being treated like one of Sylus’s subordinates, grated on her nerves like sandpaper. But she sat, her movements stiff and controlled, if only because she needed what he knew.

“Talk about what?” she asked, voice sharp, devoid of pleasantries. “I have information to gather.”

“Information gathering can wait,” Sylus replied, smooth and unhurried. “Breakfast cannot. You need sustenance, kitten and I need to ensure you don’t pass out before we get to the fun part.”

Leila exhaled through her nose, unimpressed, but picked up a fork regardless. The spread before her was elaborate—fresh fruit, warm bread, eggs, meats cooked to perfection. Sylus ate like a king, and it seemed he extended that luxury to her. She didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust him… yet.

Still, she ate. Efficiency over pride. Sylus took his time sipping his coffee, watching her with an amusement that made her want to throw the steaming cup at his face. “We have an engagement to attend to,” he said finally, setting his mug down with a soft clink. “An auction. Private. Exclusive.”

Leila spoke as she cut the food on her plate without looking up. “And?”

“And one of Corpus Dainhart’s men will be there.”

Now she did look at him. Sylus’s smirk deepened at the interest flickering in her gaze. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like this was just another morning, just another conversation that didn’t involve calculated murder.

“One of his top enforcers—Davenport—is handling a transaction there. Expensive wares, more than just weapons. He’s attending in person.” Sylus tilted his head. “We could ambush him outside, but I thought you might prefer a little more… theatrics.”

Leila wiped her mouth with the linen napkin before setting it down. “Let me guess. I’m the bait.”

“You’re perfect bait.” His tone was too pleased. “Davenport is eager to rid the world of you. Bounties make men sloppy especially when it on a attractive lady. He’ll come to you like a moth to the flame.”

She considered that. Luring a mark was something she’d done a hundred times over, though the idea of working in tandem with him still sat uneasily in her chest.

Sylus must have noticed the flicker of hesitation because he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll be there, too. Just not by your side.”

Leila arched a brow. “So you get to sit back while I handle everything?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of missing the fun. I’ll just be waiting for the right moment to cut in.”

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping idly against the rim of her coffee cup. “You mentioned theatrics,” she said, eyeing him. “I don’t walk into places blind. I need details.”

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew something sleek and unassuming—a black envelope, its surface matte, its edges crisp. With a deliberate slowness, he placed it on the table between them, his fingers lingering for just a second too long before sliding away.

Leila glanced at it, then back at him. Sylus leaned back on his chair, watching her with a glint of amusement. “Consider this your official invitation.”

She plucked it off the table, turning it between her fingers. No markings, no insignias. But the weight of it—the unspoken promise it carried—was enough. A place like that didn’t need to flaunt its exclusivity. Leila ran her nail along the edge, breaking the seal. Inside, a single card, deep onyx with lettering embossed in silver: Vermillion Hall. Private Auction. Entry Non-Transferable. No date, no time. Which meant that those who were invited already knew.

She exhaled, pressing the card between her fingers. “Onychinus has had access to this little event for years.”

Sylus smirked. “Would you expect anything less?”

No, she wouldn’t. She flicked the card back onto the table. “What’s the security like?”

“Tight,” he admitted, but there was no concern in his voice. “Armed guards. Restricted access beyond the main hall. No weapons allowed past the second floor, but I imagine that won’t be a problem for someone with the ability to erase all her tracks, physical, mental, or digital.”

Leila hummed. No, it wouldn’t be. “And Davenport?”

“He won’t be selling,” Sylus said, drumming his fingers against the table. “He’s there for a different kind of business. And when he sees you, that business will change very quickly.”

She leaned forward slightly, her smirk edged with something sharper. “Good. I like it when men make mistakes.”

Sylus’s lips curled, amusement flickering in his silver eyes. “I knew you’d say that.” He leaned back, exuding effortless confidence. “You have three weeks.” He paused, then added, “I’ll let you handle this your way. You have the money—you decide what you wear. I’ll bring in a high-end tailor, someone exceptional, to the base. But beyond that?” He shrugged, the gesture lazy yet deliberate. “It’s all yours.”

Leila’s lips parted slightly, a hint of teasing in her eyes. “And what happens if I fail to impress?” she asked, her voice laced with a dangerous undertone. Sylus’s smile turned sharp. “Then you’ll have wasted three weeks and a perfectly good tailor.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “Don’t waste my time, Leila.”

---

Sylus's Mercedes glided to a halt outside the auction venue. Its sleek lines and understated elegance spoke of wealth and power.

Sylus emerged first, his movements fluid and precise, a predator surveying his domain. He rounded the car, his gaze lingering on Leila as she prepared to exit. He extended a hand, an offer she took. She stepped out of the passenger seat, the slit of her dress revealing the elegant length of her legs as she adjusted the fabric, her movements a study in controlled grace. She felt his gaze, a silent appraisal that raked over her, but he offered no comment. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a silent battle of wills.

The building before them was a monument to opulence. Tall, with blackened glass windows that reflected the lights outside, it emitted a subtle golden glow, a beacon in the night. This was no ordinary auction; it was a private event, a gathering of the city's most influential criminals, their wealth and power concealed beneath a veneer of civility. The perfect stage to lure their target.

As they entered, the interior unfolded into a long, opulent hallway, a gallery of illicit treasures. Protocores, each encased in reinforced glass and displayed like priceless artifacts, lined the walls. The bidding was silent, electronic, each guest logging their offers on sleek black tablets positioned beside each core. Leila barely spared them a glance, her focus already shifting to the task at hand. The weight of the night's mission settled on her shoulders, a heavy cloak of anticipation and danger.

Then, with a casual grace that belied his predatory nature, Sylus reached up and slipped an earpiece into her ear, his fingers brushing against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. His voice, a low whisper that curled around the words like a ghost, echoed in her ear.

"I assume you already know how to act as good bait."

Leila didn’t flinch, but her jaw tightened slightly. He was testing her, always pushing her limits, probing for weaknesses. She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, their proximity almost intimate, the air between them charged with a dangerous energy.

"Stay frosty," she replied, her voice low and steady, "it's showtime."

A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of Sylus’ lips, a silent acknowledgment of the game they were about to play. Sylus and Leila moved through the crowd like shadows, silent and deliberate. The auction hall was dimly lit, the gleam of the protocores casting an eerie glow over the sea of well-dressed criminals, warlords, and high-ranking syndicate members.

Leila felt Sylus’s presence beside her, unwavering, commanding, even in the hush of their approach. Then, as they reached the midpoint of the hall, he halted.

“This is where we part,” he murmured, his voice brushing against her ear like silk over steel. Before she could step away, his fingers ghosted over her jawline, a brief, deliberate touch as he adjusted the earpiece he had slipped on her earlier.

“Don’t forget,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “You’re the bait. Keep him close. Keep him distracted. And don’t get yourself killed.”

Leila arched a brow. “You'd miss me if I die.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Before she could retort, he was gone, disappearing into the throng like smoke dissolving into the air. Leila exhaled, composing herself, before scanning the room. She didn’t have to look for long. Davenport was already watching her. His eyes gleamed with recognition. The bounty had done its work—her face was well known, and the price on her head was enough to make any man greedy.

She met his gaze, tilting her head slightly, letting her lips curve into the faintest ghost of a smirk before she turned and walked away. She didn’t need to check if he was following. He was. Leila kept her pace measured, her posture poised but effortless. The key was in the invitation—not too eager, not too obvious. Just enough to make him think he was the one in control.

She weaved through the crowd, pausing here and there to feign interest in the displayed protocores, her fingers skimming the bid interfaces without placing a single offer. She could feel Davenport behind her, closing the distance in slow, deliberate steps.

A lesser assassin might have tensed under the weight of his attention. But Leila? She welcomed it.

When she finally slipped past the auction floor and into a dimly lit side corridor, she cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder. Davenport was right where she wanted him. He followed, his approach silent but confident. "Didn't think I'd see the infamous Blackthorn Siren waltzing around so openly," he murmured. His voice was smooth, laced with amusement—and something darker.

Leila let out a soft chuckle, turning to face him fully. "Maybe I got tired of running."

His smile was all teeth. "That so?"

She gave him a slow, unreadable look, every inch of her body language designed to lure him in just a little closer. The plan was simple: keep him occupied, keep him talking, and let Sylus do the rest but Davenport had other ideas. Before she could react, a sharp, electric crackle filled the air. Pain surged through her body as a stun device pressed against her ribs, sending violent currents through her nerves. Leila barely bit back a gasp as her limbs gave out, her vision blurring at the edges. She hit the cold metal wall behind her, her body unresponsive, her Evol useless under the effects of the shock.

Davenport leaned in, his breath warm against her ear as he chuckled. "Got you." His fingers trailed down her arm, slow, deliberate.

Leila's mind burned with fury, but her body refused to move. Her breathing was shallow, her muscles locked in the aftermath of the stun. Davenport clicked his tongue. "Shame about that bounty. Would’ve been easy to turn you in." He traced the edge of her collarbone. "But I have a few ideas before we get to that part."

Leila’s body screamed at her to move, and she obeyed. Even with the residual sting of the first shock, her instincts took over the moment Davenport loosened his grip. She twisted sharply, one leg snapping up to smash her knee into his ribs. His breath hitched, and she used that split-second opening to wrench herself free.

Davenport stumbled back with a low grunt, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. “Oh, you’ve got fight in you,” he mused, rolling his shoulders as if testing for damage.

Leila didn’t waste time on a response. She lunged, swift and lethal. Her fist struck out—aiming for his throat—but he caught her wrist at the last moment, twisting it painfully. She spun with the momentum, using her other hand to drive her knuckles into his jaw. He staggered, but she wasn’t done. A sharp heel to his knee—then a precise elbow strike to his temple.

He cursed under his breath, momentarily thrown off balance. She could end this now. All she had to do was—

The second shock hit before she could react.

A brutal crackle of electricity surged through her spine, her body seizing up as she gasped involuntarily. Davenport had anticipated her counterattack. Pain spiderwebbed through her limbs as her knees buckled. She collapsed against the wall, breath shuddering, her muscles refusing to cooperate.

Davenport clicked his tongue, crouching before her. “Twice in one night. Maybe you’re not as untouchable as they say.”

Leila’s vision blurred at the edges, but her mind stayed sharp. She had to get up. Had to move before—

Another jolt.

This time, the world tilted. White-hot agony licked up her spine, forcing a strangled sound from her throat. Her body betrayed her completely. She slumped, muscles locked, limbs useless.

Davenport’s fingers curled under her chin, tilting her head up. He studied her, his grin widening. "That’s better."

Leila's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps when Davenport slammed her body on the wall. Her body refused to obey her commands, every nerve still quivered from the electrical shock. Davenport’s grip on her chin was firm but unhurried, his thumb grazing along her jaw in a mockery of something tender. "You’re quite the elusive little ghost, aren’t you?" he murmured, tilting her face toward the dim light. "Never thought I'd get the chance to see you up close before someone else cashed in."

A slow chill crawled down her spine, different from the aftershock of the stun. She had seen this look before. It wasn’t just the bounty he was interested in.

No.

A flicker of something violent surged through her chest. She forced her fingers to curl, nails biting into her palm. Move. She commanded her body, but it refused, still locked in the stun’s aftermath. Davenport leaned in, his breath fanning against her skin as he whispered, “What a shame, really. Someone as pretty as you, wasted on a life of running and killing.” His fingers drifted, brushing the exposed skin of her collarbone, his touch lingering—

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Move, damn it.

Her mind screamed, but her limbs remained frozen. Davenport’s smirk deepened at her silence. "Ah… that's better. Not so untouchable now, are you?" His fingers trailed lower until…

Davenport’s breaths turned ragged as he felt himself unraveling. The shadowy force coiled around his body, threading through his veins like liquid fire. He tried to fight it, to push back against the unnatural pull, but his limbs refused to obey. His knees buckled, his fingers spasmed—his very existence trembled at the edges.

Sylus took a slow step forward, unbothered, unhurried. The glow in his iris intensified, threading through the dimly lit corridor like ghostly blood-tinted veins. "Dainhart." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Where is he?"

Davenport let out a sharp, ragged laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Go to hell. You think you can just turn your back on Dainhart?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, and the pressure intensified. Davenport’s back arched as a fresh wave of pain ripped through him. It wasn’t a sharp, sudden agony—it was slow, invasive, like something was unraveling him thread by thread. His breath hitched, his legs buckled, but still, he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold out. Sylus remained patient.

He took a measured step closer, eyes gleaming with that eerie, crimson glow. “You’re making this difficult.”

Davenport’s body convulsed. His fingers clawed uselessly at the wall behind him, searching for some kind of grip, some kind of anchor to reality. He could feel himself slipping. His heartbeat stuttered—too fast, too erratic—his vision blurred at the edges. And still, Sylus waited.

A cruel smirk tugged at his lips. “Last chance.”

Davenport let out a choked sound, somewhere between a growl and a sob. His resistance was fading, his body fraying apart at the seams. The pain wasn’t just physical anymore. It was deeper, invasive, a force so unnatural he could barely comprehend it. He wasn’t going to survive this.

His breath shuddered out. His pride fought against it, but in the end, self-preservation won. “Nocturne District.” The words spilled out, unwilling but undeniable. "Warehouse thirty-two. Underground. Secured."

Sylus didn’t react. Davenport’s body seized, another violent tremor racking through him as if something inside him had been forcefully pried open. He gasped, barely able to hold himself up.

"How many men?"

Davenport’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to say. Sylus didn’t give him a choice. His vision swam, pain wrapping around his skull like a vice, and the answer was ripped from his throat before he could stop it.

"200. Maybe more. Tech-armed. Drones. Shock fields. Automated defenses." His breath came in ragged pants.

Sylus exhaled slowly, as if filing the information away. Then, finally, Davenport saw it in his eyes. His uselessness.

Panic flared. “Wait—”

Sylus’s gaze didn’t waver. Davenport’s scream barely had time to leave his throat before his body fractured apart, breaking down into nothing but shimmering red dust.

Leila pushed off the wall, her legs trembling beneath her, but she refused to crumble. Not now. Not in front of Sylus. The moment she straightened, her body swayed—too much. The lingering effects of the shocks still burned in her nerves, leaving her muscles sluggish, uncooperative. Her breath hitched as frustration built, hot and suffocating.

Then Sylus was there. He caught her wrist, steadying her, his grip firm but careful—like he expected her to pull away. She didn’t. Leila kept her gaze down, her breathing uneven. She was fine. She had to be fine but then her vision blurred.

Damn it.

She clenched her jaw, willing the sting in her eyes to fade but her body had other plans. The tremor in her hands betrayed her, her shoulders locked so tight they ached. Everything ached. Not from the pain. From the violation. From the helplessness. From the reminder those nights she had to endure years ago. She hated it. She hated that she was standing here, shaking like a leaf, hated that she couldn't stop it.

She tried to pull away, but Sylus didn’t let her. His grip on her wrist tightened—just slightly. Not restraining. Anchoring. Then, without a word, he moved. Warmth surrounded her, slow and deliberate, as his arms wrapped around her. Not forceful, not demanding—just there. A quiet offering. A shield. Leila stiffened on instinct. A touch like this—voluntary, unthreatening—was unfamiliar and foreign.

For more than a decade, she had never let a man get this close without consequences, without knives drawn, without bones breaking and without blood spilled. But Sylus didn’t expect anything from her. He didn’t speak. He didn’t pry. He just held her.

And for the first time in over 10 years, Leila didn’t push away.

Her fists were still clenched against his chest, ready to push away, but she didn’t. Not yet. The world felt too unsteady beneath her feet, the echoes of her past clawing at the edges of her mind, threatening to drag her under. But Sylus wouldn’t let her fall.

His arms tightened—not enough to trap, just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone. His chin barely brushed the top of her head, the faint scent of smoke and metal grounding her. She had spent so long convincing herself she didn’t need this. That she could only ever rely on herself. Then, in the quiet, his voice came—low, unwavering.

“This was the last time. You won’t be the bait again.” His crimson gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering. “Not while I’m around.”

---

Leila returned to her room, the opulent surroundings a stark contrast to the churning turmoil within her. Weariness, a bone-deep exhaustion, settled upon her, but it was a restless kind, a tension that refused to dissipate.

She stood beneath the scalding spray of the shower, the water a relentless assault against her skin. Her hands, clenched into fists, braced against the cold, slick tile. She scrubbed herself raw, her nails dragging over every inch of skin Davenport had touched, a futile attempt to erase the violation. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The water, hot enough to scald, became a phantom touch, a twisted echo of his unwanted presence. The relentless pressure of the droplets morphed into the sensation of hands that didn’t belong, a chilling reminder of past horrors. Her breath hitched, her throat constricted, and she pressed her forehead against the cold tile, a desperate attempt to anchor herself in the present. Breathe. Feel the difference. But the memories, dark and insidious, clung to her like a second skin, refusing to release their hold.

She emerged from the shower, her skin red and aching, a testament to her desperate attempt to cleanse herself. The mirror, fogged and distorted, reflected a blurred image, a fragmented representation of herself. Perhaps that was for the best. She didn’t want to see the vulnerability, the raw, exposed nerves that lay beneath her carefully constructed facade.

She pulled on a robe, the soft fabric a small comfort, and sank onto the couch, the exhaustion hitting her like a physical blow. But sleep, she knew, would be a distant, unattainable luxury. Not tonight. Perhaps not for many nights to come.

A single tear, hot and defiant, slipped down her cheek, a betrayal of the carefully constructed walls around her heart. It wasn’t a tear of weakness, but of rage, a burning, incandescent fury at the memory of powerlessness.

A knock, soft yet insistent, echoed through the room, pulling her from the depths of her torment. She knew who it was, even before she answered.

Sylus stepped inside, his crimson eyes scanning the room, taking in the scene with a predatory intensity. He held a glass of water and a small bottle of melatonin, a silent offering. “I figured you won’t be able to sleep,” he stated, his voice softer than usual, devoid of his usual playful mockery. He placed the water and pills on the nearby table, his movements precise and deliberate. “This will help.”

Leila stared at the offering, then at him, her eyes guarded. He wasn’t hovering, but he wasn’t leaving either, his presence a silent, unwavering force. A humorless scoff escaped her lips. “Since when do you play caretaker?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Since you came back shaking.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried a sharp edge, an undercurrent of something that wasn’t gentle.

It was anger, a cold, controlled fury. Not directed at her, but at the man who had dared to violate her. Leila exhaled, a slow, measured breath. She could feel the unspoken questions in his gaze, the way he was trying to piece together the incongruity of the situation: Leila, the Blackthorn Siren, the embodiment of lethal grace, reduced to trembling vulnerability by a single, unwanted touch.

She looked away, her gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re wondering why.”

Sylus remained silent, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t need to speak.

Leila swallowed, her fingers curling into tight fists. “It’s not the first time.”

The words hung in the air as it felt heavy on her tongue. Sylus went still. She stared at the floor, coming up to the words of a painful confession. “I grew up in an orphanage,” she began, her voice hollow, devoid of emotion. “Most of the kids were just trying to survive. Some of us learned to fight young. Some didn’t.”

Her throat tightened, a lump of unspoken pain but she forced the words out, each syllable a painful shard of memory. “There was a man, one of the caretakers.” Her nails dug into the fabric of her robe. “He made sure we all knew how powerless we were.”

The memory clawed its way to the surface, unrelenting. It wasn’t just an echo of the past—it was a storm, sweeping through her with merciless force. She could still feel it. The smallness of her child-self, the way her limbs had thrashed in vain, the crushing weight of powerlessness pressing her into the cold, unyielding floor. The taste of blood in her mouth. The way the air had felt too thin, like she was drowning on dry land.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. “It wasn’t just once.” Her voice was eerily steady, stripped of any tremor, a testament to years of forcing rage into silence. “I fought every time. Kicked. Screamed. Clawed at him until my nails tore.” Her breath hitched, but she refused to let the weakness win. “And every time, it didn’t matter. He always came back. Again and again.”

Her throat tightened. The memory of it, the inevitability of it, had been worse than the pain itself. Knowing that no matter how hard she fought, no matter how much she begged, no one was coming. No one would save her.

“Until one day—” Her voice faltered, the words catching on something sharp inside her. She exhaled sharply, the sound too close to a choked sob. Her nails dug deeper into her palms. “I snapped.”

The memory of that night, the night she finally broke, was etched into her soul. The shard of broken glass, the crimson spray, the sickening thud as she buried it in his throat, again and again, until he was nothing more than a lifeless husk.

“I ran after that.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a dark confession. “But someone found me first. An old woman.” She exhaled, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across her face. “She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just looked at me and knew.” Her hands slowly relaxed, the tension draining away, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

“She trained me. Taught me how to be strong, how to be something men like him feared.” Her jaw tightened, her expression hardening. “By the time she passed, I had already decided—men who take, who violate, who destroy… they don’t get to live.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. She expected him to pry, to demand details, to dissect her vulnerability. But he didn’t. He simply stood there, his crimson eyes unwavering, his presence a silent acknowledgment of her pain.

Then, he spoke, his voice low and resonant, echoing her own words. "That's why you don't go after women."

The echo of her own statement, spoken back to her, hung in the air, a subtle shift in perspective. He wasn't simply understanding; he was acknowledging a shared understanding, a dark mirror reflecting her own internal code. As she looked up, her eyes meeting his, as a single tear cascaded down her cheek. Before she could react, Sylus's hand moved, his touch surprisingly gentle. His thumb brushed against her skin, wiping away the tear with a feather-light touch.

The gesture, so unexpected, so contrary to his usual predatory demeanor, sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't a caress, nor a display of sympathy. It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared moment of vulnerability between two predators who understood the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. His crimson eyes, usually gleaming with amusement or predatory intent, held a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't pity, nor was it desire. It was something akin to… understanding. A silent recognition of the shared scars they both carried.

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Even the strongest have their breaking points, and sometimes," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "even the strongest need someone to acknowledge their pain."

The air in the room thrummed with unspoken tension. Sylus's eyes, usually sharp and calculating, held something different—something genuine. A flicker of vulnerability, dark and unguarded, surfaced beneath the predator’s gaze. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Leila caught it.

Her breath hitched. The man before her, the one who wielded control like a weapon, stood unmasked for just a fraction of a second. There was something dangerously alluring about it. A recognition, an unspoken understanding between two creatures forged in blood and betrayal.

The space between them shrank.

Leila barely noticed when his hand lifted, fingers grazing the side of her face before settling on her jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding. But deliberate. His thumb traced along her skin, slow and measured, as he tilted her chin up. His touch burned—not from heat, but from something far more potent. Something dangerous.

She should have pulled away, should have laughed, deflected, retreated but she didn’t. Sylus’s breath, warm and predatory, ghosted across her lips. Their noses nearly brushed, the charged air between them crackling with anticipation. The world beyond this moment ceased to exist, drowned beneath the weight of their collision.

Then— A sharp, insistent knock fractured the moment like a blade slicing through silk.

"Boss," Kieran’s voice, flat and urgent, cut through the heavy silence. "Arsenal delivery just arrived. Needs your immediate attention."

Sylus didn’t move right away. His fingers remained against her skin, his grip tightening just slightly, as if deciding whether to let reality intrude or dismiss it altogether. A slow exhale left him, sharp and edged with irritation. His eyes flickered toward the door, his expression turning cold once more—a mask slipping back into place. The moment, the almost-kiss, was severed by reality's cruel interruption.

"Let them in," he commanded, voice regaining its usual sharpness. "Tell them I’ll be there shortly."

His gaze returned to Leila. His thumb brushed against her skin one last time before he pulled away, a slow, almost amused smile curving his lips.

"It seems our… conversation must be postponed." His voice was low, edged with something knowing. Something promising.

And with that, he was gone.

---

A week had passed, but the air between them remained thick with unspoken words and lingering touches that never quite landed. Ever since that night, something had shifted. It was there in the way Sylus’s gaze lingered a second too long. In the way Leila caught herself watching him, studying the sharp angles of his face when he wasn’t looking.

But neither of them made a move.

Instead, they buried themselves in planning. Calculating every possible outcome. Dissecting every entry point, every weakness in Dainhart’s fortress. The weight of the mission pressed down on them like a loaded gun, yet beneath the layers of strategy and precision, something far more dangerous brewed between them.

Tension.

It was in the way Sylus would stand too close, his voice dropping to something lower when they spoke in private. In the way Leila’s breath would catch, her muscles coiled tight whenever his fingers brushed hers while reviewing blueprints. Neither acknowledged it. Neither dared.

Leila found distractions where she could. She spent her nights slipping into the underbelly of N109, gathering intel, moving like a shadow through the streets. Sometimes she went alone. Other nights, Luke and Kieran accompanied her, their presence a welcomed buffer from the thoughts that clawed at the back of her mind. They handled informants and threats alike, keeping themselves sharp in the absence of high-stakes missions.

Currently, Leila was focused, her gaze scanning every alley, every figure that lingered too long in the dark. Intel gathering wasn’t her favorite thing, but it was necessary. Unfortunately, her companions were less interested in the mission and more in enjoying their temporary freedom. The streets of N109 pulsed with life, the neon signs flickering over the damp pavement as Leila, Luke, and Kieran moved through the shadows. The trio blended effortlessly into the chaos, their presence felt but unnoticed—a lethal trio on a seemingly casual stroll.

Luke stretched his arms with a satisfied sigh. "Finally, some fresh air. I was about to start talking to the damn walls back at the base."

Kieran huffed in agreement. "For real. If I had to listen to Mephisto squawking one more time, I was gonna lose it."

Leila smirked. "Didn’t know you two were so fragile."

"Not fragile. Just bored," Luke corrected, his crow-like mask tilting toward her. "That place is dead without a proper mission. You, at least, make things interesting."

Kieran nodded. "Yeah, and you actually let us stab people when needed. Unlike boss, who just glares at them until they cry."

Leila chuckled, shaking her head. "I don't let you stab people. You just do it anyway."

Luke waved a hand dismissively. "Either way, better than sitting around." His tone shifted, a bit too casual. "Though, I gotta say, there has been some entertainment lately. Something about our boss acting… different."

Leila didn’t react. Not outwardly.

"Yeah," Kieran added, his tone amused. "Less bossy. More… I don’t know. Distracted."

Luke snapped his fingers. "Right! And it just so happens to have started after a certain Blackthorn Siren showed up."

Leila exhaled slowly. "You two are awfully chatty tonight."

Luke shrugged. "You haven't denied it."

"Because there’s nothing to deny," she said smoothly.

Silence. Then Kieran let out a low chuckle. "You really expect us to believe that?"

Leila shot him a warning look. "I expect you to focus."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance—at least, that’s what she assumed behind their crow-like masks—before Luke sighed dramatically.

"Fine, fine. But when you and Sylus finally combust from all that tension, just know—we called it first."

Leila rolled her eyes and walked ahead, pretending not to hear their quiet laughter as they followed.

Soon after, they went back to the base. The trio moved through the corridors of the Onychinus base, their footsteps echoing against the sleek marble floors. The air was thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne, a constant reminder of the world they lived in. The night had been productive—efficient, methodical. They reached the heavy double doors of Sylus’s office, the ominous black wood polished to a perfect shine. Luke exchanged a glance with Kieran before pushing them open without hesitation.

Upon entering Sylus’s office, they found him already waiting—perched behind his sleek mahogany desk, crimson eyes flicking up from the papers before him. Mephisto shifted on its perch, clicking softly. Luke and Kieran dropped into the chairs across from the desk, while Leila remained standing, arms crossed. The debriefing began.

“Dainhart’s main compound is reinforced with twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Leila started, her tone all business. “Cameras cover every entry point except the west perimeter, which has a two-minute blind spot during shift changes.”

Kieran leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “The guards aren’t just hired muscle. They’re well-trained, well-armed.”

Luke nodded. “Patrols rotate every fifteen minutes. We spotted at least twenty men outside—double that inside, maybe more.”

Sylus listened, his expression unreadable, fingers steepled in front of him. His gaze remained sharp, calculative, absorbing every detail. “There’s an underground storage wing,” Leila continued, “heavily secured. We’re guessing that’s where he keeps his more valuable assets.”

Luke shifted slightly. “If we hit from the west and time it right, we can slip in before the next—”

“Not we.” Sylus’s voice cut through the room, smooth but absolute. Luke immediately clamped his mouth shut. “Leila stays. You two, out.”

A tense pause. Leila stiffened but still maintained composure. Luke and Kieran both exchanged a glance, masked faces unreadable, but she knew them well enough to sense their amusement.

“Well,” Kieran drawled, standing up. “That’s our cue.”

Luke smirked, rising to his feet. “Yeah, we’ll leave you two to… debrief.” Leila shot them both a warning glare, but they were already making their way to the door.

“Try not to have too much fun, boss,” Luke added over his shoulder.

“And don’t keep her up all night,” Kieran deadpanned, shutting the door behind them.

Silence.

Leila’s pulse kicked up a notch as she turned back to Sylus. His gaze was locked onto her now—piercing, unreadable. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, watching her, before slowly rising to his feet. Her breath hitched slightly as he rounded the desk, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate steps. Towering over her, his presence was a shadow stretching long over the room.

His voice was quiet, yet it sent a shiver down her spine. “Now,” he murmured, “tell me everything.”

Leila held her ground as Sylus came closer, his movements slow, measured—predatory. His eyes gleamed under the dim lighting of the office, dissecting her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. She wasn’t afraid of him. No, that was the problem. The way he looked at her, the way he lingered too close without ever touching—there was something far more dangerous about that.

Still, she forced herself to focus. "We already told you. Dainhart's security isn't impenetrable, but it's a fortress compared to most." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "His men are trained and armed. They’ll respond fast. Any wrong move, and we’ll be buried under bullets before we reach Dainhart in the underground."

Sylus hummed lowly, tilting his head. “And yet, you’re still willing to go in.”

Leila narrowed her eyes. "I’m not afraid of a challenge."

He took another step forward, invading her space, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of his cologne—dark spices and something sharper, something unmistakably him. "No," he murmured, "you're not."

The air between them thickened. Leila willed herself to look unaffected, but Sylus had an infuriating way of seeing through things. His gaze swept over her, calculating, searching for something unspoken.

“You should get some rest before we finalize the plan.” His voice was lower now, smooth like silk, but she caught the edge beneath it—something deeper. Something unreadable.

She scoffed. “I don’t need you to coddle me.”

“I don’t coddle.” His lips curved into something just shy of a smirk. “But I do make sure my people aren’t reckless.”

“Your people?” she echoed, her voice dipping with challenge.

Sylus didn’t waver. “Yes. Mine.”

The words sent something sharp through her—something she refused to name. Before she could form a response, Sylus took a step back, breaking the moment like it never existed.

“Go,” he said smoothly, turning away as if he hadn’t just dropped a grenade between them. “We’ll go over the final details in the morning.”

Leila forced her feet to move, heading for the door without another word. But as she gripped the handle, she hesitated. She didn’t look back. But she could feel his eyes on her, burning into her skin long after she left the room.

---

The silence of the night was suffocating. Leila sat on her couch, her body restless, fingers drumming against her knee. She had tried everything—pacing, showering, even pouring herself a drink—but nothing could shake the sensation crawling under her skin. Something in her churned, a restless, aching pull that refused to be ignored. It wasn’t like her. She never let herself want, never let herself crave. Wanting led to weakness. Craving led to mistakes.

But this was different. This was stronger than any force she had ever encountered. And she knew exactly what—who—she wanted. Sylus. The way he looked at her tonight, the way his voice curled around her name like a promise—like a challenge—had rooted itself deep, sinking into the cracks she swore didn’t exist.

Leila clenched her jaw, her nails digging into her palms. This was reckless. This was dangerous.

“Fuck it.” The words left her lips in a breathless curse before she could stop herself.

Then she was up, shoving past reason and restraint as she stormed out of her room, her bare feet silent against the cold floors. She didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate, not until she reached Sylus’s door. The door creaked open, and there he was. His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable, his hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing a sliver of skin she had no business noticing. He didn’t look surprised to see her. Of course he didn’t.

"Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice a low, husky drawl. The words weren't accusatory, but rather, a statement of fact, a confirmation of an unspoken desire. He had been waiting, anticipating her arrival.

The animalistic need that pulsed through her demanded immediate gratification. "Shut up," she growled, her voice rough with desire, the word a command, not a request.

She marched towards him, her movements predatory, her eyes fixed on his. Before he could respond, she closed the distance as she stood on her tiptoes, her lips crashing against his in a hungry, demanding kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of true need, of a desperate attempt to erase the lingering shadows of unwanted touch with the burning heat of their shared desire.

Her hands moved over him, possessive and demanding, her fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. She wanted him, needed him, with a ferocity that bordered on violence. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic, more desperate, a silent battle for dominance.

Sylus, for his part, met her aggression with a silent compliance, his body yielding to her touch, his lips parting beneath hers. He was a predator, a master of control, but in this moment, he allowed her lead, his submission a dangerous game. His hands, however, didn’t stay still, they mapped the curves of her body, pulling her closer, a promise of the power he held in reserve.

Leila's hands moved with a restless urgency, tugging at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons. She wanted skin against skin, the undeniable heat of their bodies melding together. The kiss grew more desperate, more demanding, a silent conversation spoken in the language of touch. Sylus's hands, though seemingly passive, moved with a subtle, predatory grace. He traced the line of her jaw, his fingers ghosting across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. He was mapping her, learning her, anticipating her every move.

With a low growl, Leila pushed him back against the wall, her body pressing against his, the hard planes of his chest a welcome pressure. She wanted to feel him, to possess him, to erase the lingering memory of unwanted touch with their shared desire. She nipped at his lower lip, her teeth grazing his skin, eliciting a low groan from him. The sound fueled her desire, emboldening her. She wanted to push him, to test his limits, to see how far he would let her go.

Her hands moved lower, her fingers tracing the line of his belt buckle, her touch impatient and demanding. Before she could unfasten his belt, Sylus's hands moved, his grip tightening on her wrists. He pulled her hands away, his eyes, dark and intense, locking onto hers. The shift in dominance was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, a silent declaration of control.

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a predatory smirk. "Impatient, kitten?" he murmured, his voice a low, husky drawl.

The question, laced with amusement and a hint of challenge, ignited a spark of defiance within her. She wasn't used to being denied, to having her desires thwarted. "I get what I want," she growled, her voice rough with desire.

Sylus chuckled, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through her. "And what, exactly, do you want, kitten?"

His question hung in the air, charged with unspoken promises and dangerous possibilities. The air crackled with a tension that wasn't entirely hostile, a silent battle for dominance that both thrilled and terrified her. Leila's eyes narrowed, her gaze locking onto his. The question, though seemingly simple, was a loaded weapon, a challenge wrapped in a silken thread of desire. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer.

"You," she breathed, her voice a low, husky growl. "I want you."

The words hung in the air, a declaration of intent. She wasn't playing games; she was stating a fact. A fact that, she suspected, he already knew. Sylus's smirk widened, a flash of predatory amusement in his crimson eyes. "And what makes you think you can have me?" he purred, his voice laced with a dangerous undercurrent.

"Because," Leila replied, her voice dropping to a whisper, her hands sliding up his chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles, "you want me too."

She pushed him back against the wall, her movements predatory, her body pressing against his, the hard planes of his chest a welcome pressure. She was taking control, dictating the terms of their dangerous dance. Her hands moved with a possessive urgency, tugging at his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She wanted skin against skin. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic, more desperate, a silent conversation spoken in the language of touch.

Sylus's hands, though seemingly passive, moved with a subtle grace. He traced the line of her jaw, his fingers ghosting across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. He was mapping her, learning her, anticipating her every move. With a guttural growl, he shifted, his hands moving to her hips, pulling her closer, their bodies grinding together. The movement was a subtle shift in power, a silent reminder that he was never truly passive, that he was always playing his own game.

He tilted his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her. The sound, raw and primal, fueled his desire, emboldening him. He wanted to push her, to test her limits, to see how far she would let him go. The air in the room crackled with an almost feral energy. Leila stood before Sylus, her gaze locked on his, the unspoken tension between them a tangible force. The dangerous dance of power and desire had reached a fever pitch, a silent battleground of wills. She moved with a deliberate, almost predatory grace, her hands sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his torso. Her touch was possessive, a silent declaration of ownership, a claim on the territory of his body.

Sylus watched her, his crimson eyes gleaming with a dark intensity, a mixture of desire and predatory anticipation. He stood still, a silent observer, allowing her to dictate the terms of their encounter. Leila’s hands reached his belt, her fingers deftly undoing the buckle. The sound, sharp and metallic in the charged silence, echoed the unspoken desires that thrummed between them. She lowered his trousers, her gaze never leaving his, a silent challenge in her eyes.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she knelt before him. The gesture, a stark contrast to her usual dominance, was a calculated act of submission, a delicate balance of power and vulnerability. Sylus’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He watched her, his eyes dark and hungry, as she reached for him. Her touch was reverent, almost worshipful, yet possessive, demanding.

She took him into her mouth with her movements slow and deliberate, exploring him with an uninhibited hunger. The act was both an offering and a command. The room was filled with the sounds of their ragged breaths, the air thick with unspoken promises. Sylus’s hand clenched at her hair, his body rigid with anticipation. He was a master of control, yet in this moment, he allowed her this dominance, this intimate act of possession. The silence was charged, electric, a silent testament to the energy that pulsed between them.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desires. Leila's touch was a delicate balance of power and vulnerability, a display of both submission and dominance. Sylus, his body rigid with anticipation, allowed her this intimate act of possession, his gaze intense and unwavering. The sensations were building, a firestorm of need consuming them both. Sylus's hands clenched at his sides, his control slipping, the predatory mask momentarily faltering.

He finally broke the silence, his voice a low growl, thick with a mixture of pleasure and a desperate need for control. "Leila," he breathed, his voice rough, "look at me." His hand, with a sudden, possessive movement, clenched in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. The unexpected force, though not painful, was a clear assertion of dominance, a sharp reminder of the power he held in reserve.

She lifted her gaze, her eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the desire that mirrored his own, even with him still within her mouth. A slight gag reflex rippled through her, an involuntary response to the depth and pressure. The power dynamic shifted, a subtle dance of dominance and submission played out in the charged silence. He reached for her, his other hand framing her face, his touch both possessive and reverent.

His thumbs traced her cheekbones, his gaze intense, searching. "You know what you're doing to me," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. It was a statement, not a question, a low growl of satisfaction. Leila's breath hitched, her chest tight. The intensity of his gaze, the hunger in his eyes, sent a shiver down her spine. The air crackled with a palpable energy, a dangerous mix of desire and control.

Sylus, with a slow, deliberate movement, pushed Leila gently off of him. The shift in power was subtle, yet undeniable, a calculated move in their dangerous dance. He reached for her, his hands strong and sure, lifting her with an effortless grace that belied his strength. He carried her towards the bed, his gaze never leaving hers, the unspoken promise of possession hanging heavy in the air. He laid her down gently, his eyes tracing the curves of her body, igniting a fire within her. His hands moved to her clothes, his touch possessive, stripping her of the last vestiges of control. He peeled away the fabric, revealing her skin, now flushed and heated with desire.

His gaze lingered, a slow, deliberate appraisal, before he lowered himself to her. His lips now tracing a fiery path across her skin, his touch both demanding and reverent. He explored her body, his hands and mouth claiming every inch, igniting a symphony of sensation. Leila, under his touch, went feral. The carefully constructed walls around her desire crumbled, her inhibitions melting away in the face of his intense, possessive touch. She arched beneath him, her breath hitching, her body responding with primal hunger. His touch was relentless, pushing her to the edge, driving her wild with need. He was a master, a conductor of their shared symphony of desire, and she, a willing participant in his dangerous game.

Then, he moved lower, his touch becoming more intimate, more demanding until his tongue danced against her most sensitive area, his movements precise and deliberate, a sensation that threatened to consume her. His touch, intimate and demanding, sent waves of sensation crashing through her. He lingered, his tongue a delicate torment, pushing her to the very edge of control. The air sparked with unspoken desires, the room thick with the scent of arousal. Just as she teetered on the precipice, a gasp escaping her lips, he pulled back.

The abrupt stop sent a jolt of frustration through her. She arched beneath him, her hands reaching for him, a silent plea for the release he had so cruelly withheld. He climbed atop her, his movements predatory and possessive. "Not yet, kitten." His eyes, dark and gleaming, locked onto hers, a silent acknowledgment of the power he now held. He paused, his gaze lingering on her flushed face, the vulnerability laid bare in her eyes.

Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he pushed himself into her. The sensation was sharp, almost painful, a stark contrast to the delicate torment that had preceded it. It was a claiming, an assertion of dominance. Leila gasped, her body arching beneath him, the sudden intrusion sent a shock to her senses. The pleasure, sharp and intense, quickly followed, a wildfire of sensation that threatened to consume her. He moved within her, his rhythm slow and deliberate, each thrust a calculated act of possession, each thrust a deliberate, possessive claim. The initial sharpness of his entry gave way to a slow, building rhythm, a controlled burn that ignited a fire within them both. Their bodies moved together, a primal dance of dominance and surrender.

Beneath the surface of lust, something else stirred. A connection, a fragile, unspoken understanding that transcended the physical. Their bodies melted together, the friction and heat blurring the lines between pleasure and something deeper, something akin to… vulnerability.

The room filled with the sounds of their ragged breaths, their bodies slick with sweat. Moans escaped their lips, a symphony of shared pleasure. The names they uttered, whispered and shouted, were punctuated by a string of profanities. It was a release, a surrender, a moment of shared vulnerability in the heart of their dangerous game. A silent acknowledgment of something they were both too afraid to name. A dangerous, exhilarating possibility that hung heavy in the air.

The rhythm shifted, the power dynamic subtly altering. With a sudden, fluid movement, Leila flipped their positions, her body now poised above his. She looked down at him, a predatory gleam in their depths.

She began to move, her hips rocking against his, setting a new, faster pace. The sensation was intoxicating, a visceral connection that sent waves of pleasure crashing through them both. Sylus's eyes rolled back, his control momentarily slipping, lost in the intensity of the moment. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements, a silent acknowledgment of her dominance. The room filled with the sounds of their ragged breaths and rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

As the intensity built, Sylus sat up, his movements driven by a primal need for connection. He embraced her, his arms wrapping around her bare torso as his hand rested on the back of her head, pulling her closer. His grip was tight, almost possessive, a subtle, unspoken plea. "You drive me insane." He whispered on Leila's ear.

It wasn’t just the physical pleasure that drove him. It was something deeper, something genuine and vulnerable. A desperate need to hold on, to keep her close, to prevent her from slipping away. His hug was a silent declaration, a desperate attempt to bridge the chasm between their carefully constructed walls. He wanted her close, as close as possible. He wanted her to stay.

Leila continued her rhythmic movements. The friction, the heat, the sheer animalistic energy of their coupling filled the room. A guttural groan escaped her lips, her control teetering on the edge. "Fuck, kitten" Sylus whispered against her shoulder, his voice a low, husky growl. The endearment was a stark contrast to his usual dominant pronouncements, a moment of vulnerability in the midst of their shared intensity.

Leila's grip on his hair tightened, her knuckles white, her body arching with each powerful thrust. The sensation was intoxicating, a visceral connection that pushed them both to the edge. She rocked against him, her movements driven by a primal need for release, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The room pulsed with the smell of sex. Their bodies, slick with sweat, moved in a desperate, synchronized rhythm, each thrust pushing them closer to the edge. The air crackled with the unspoken desires that hung heavy between them.

Leila's breath hitched, her body tensing, a wave of pleasure building within her. A guttural scream ripped through her throat, a primal release of the tension that had coiled within her. Simultaneously, Sylus groaned, a string of curses escaping his lips as the overwhelming sensation that consumed him. His body shuddered, his grip on her tightening, a desperate attempt to hold on to the fleeting moment of shared ecstasy.

The intensity subsided, leaving them breathless and trembling. Their bodies, still locked together, slowly stilled. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the sound of their ragged breaths. Their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment connection they had just shared. The predatory masks had fallen away, leaving behind a flicker of vulnerability, a shared moment of humanity.

Sylus, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, leaned in, his lips finding hers. The kiss was delicate, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of their coupling. It was a silent apology, a tender acknowledgment of the fragile connection that had formed between them. He still held her close, a subtle, almost desperate, plea for her to stay, to linger in the aftermath of their shared release.

Sylus, his arms still wrapped around Leila, searched her eyes, his crimson gaze intense and searching. He saw a flicker of something new, something that went beyond the desire and predatory instincts that usually defined their interactions. He saw a softness, a vulnerability that she rarely allowed to surface. It was a subtle shift, a delicate blooming of something fragile and unspoken.

Her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, held a warmth that made his breath catch in his throat. He saw the honesty of her desire, a yearning that went beyond the physical. It was a hint, a subtle whisper of the hidden emotions she kept locked away, a silent confession of the love she dared not speak.

A low growl rumbled in his chest—a mix of possession and something deeper, something dangerously close to desperation. The unspoken emotion in her gaze was a spark, igniting a fire within him, a hunger that burned beyond mere desire. He wanted her—not as an asset, not as a weapon in his arsenal, but as something more. Something his. His partner. His equal. And damn anyone who tried to take her from him.

A flicker of something—amusement, tinged with submissiveness—danced in Leila's eyes. The intensity of the moment, the honesty of their shared release, had loosened the walls she kept so carefully constructed.

She tilted her head, a smirk curving her lips, teasing but laced with something real. "You're starting to love me," she murmured, her voice a low, husky whisper.

Sylus stilled. The word settled between them like a loaded gun, heavy, dangerous. Love. Foreign on his tongue but something in the way she looked at him demanded a response—some acknowledgment of the undeniable shift between them. His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching. "Perhaps," he said, the word slow, deliberate. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, the touch deceptively gentle for a man who had never known softness. "Perhaps, I find myself… drawn… to your particular brand of chaos."

A beat of silence stretched between them, charged, suffocating. Then, softer, almost a confession—"And perhaps," his voice barely above a whisper, "I find myself unwilling to let you go."

His fingers brushed her jaw, tilting her face up, his gaze searching hers. "Perhaps even… incapable."

Leila smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips that transformed her usually sharp features. The subtle confession, the barely veiled vulnerability in his voice, was… endearing. It was a stark contrast to the predatory persona he usually projected, and it touched a chord within her, a flicker of warmth in the cold, guarded corners of her heart.

"Cute," she murmured, her voice laced with a playful affection that surprised even herself.

Sylus's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of his usual predatory edge returning. He cleared his throat, the moment of vulnerability quickly receding. He said, his voice regaining its usual commanding tone, "Your room will be repurposed. An arsenal, perhaps. Or a secondary control center. You won't be needing it."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over her, a possessive glint in his crimson eyes. "You'll be sleeping here," he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "In my room."

The possessiveness, though veiled beneath a layer of practicality, was unmistakable. He wasn't asking; he was claiming. It was a subtle assertion of dominance, a way of keeping her close, of ensuring she remained within his sphere of influence. And, she suspected, a way of indulging the burgeoning, unspoken emotions that simmered between them.

---

The strategy room carried the usual crisp efficiency of Onychinus, its dim lighting casting long shadows against the sleek black table. The air smelled of strong coffee—a scent Leila had long associated with early debriefings and calculated warfare. She sat on the couch with her coffee in hand, posture relaxed, face unreadable. But beneath the surface, her body still hummed with the remnants of last night. The heat of Sylus’s hands, the weight of his gaze, the way he had unraveled something deep, something she wasn’t ready to name.

Across from her, Luke and Kieran sat in perfect, eerie silence. Too silent. "Tsk, tsk," Luke broke the quiet, voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. "Rough night, Leila? You look like you barely got any sleep."

Her grip on the coffee mug tightened slightly as Kieran hummed in agreement. "Yeah. Funny thing—so did we. So much noise in the air vents. Must’ve been the wind." Leila shot them a sharp glance, her expression flat.

Luke leaned back lazily in his chair, tilting his head. "Crazy how sound carries in this place, huh?" Kieran nodded sagely. "Especially from—oh, what was it—the west wing?"

Leila inhaled slowly, a picture of forced patience. "You're both insufferable," she muttered.

"And yet, you keep us around," Luke shot back, tapping a gloved finger against the table. "Must be my charm," he added.

"Or," Kieran mused, "she just needed a break from—oh, wait. Never mind. She already got one last night."

The teasing would have gone further—if not for the slow, deliberate clink of porcelain against the table. All three of them turned their attention to Sylus. He sat at the head of the table, crimson eyes glinting with quiet authority as he adjusted his glasses back on his nose bridge. His coffee sat untouched before him, a clear sign of his growing irritation. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—too calm.

"If you two are done playing court jesters," he mused, "perhaps we can begin the debriefing."

A tense pause. Luke and Kieran straightened slightly, but Kieran—ever shameless—muttered under his breath, "Touchy."

Sylus’s gaze flicked to him. "Repeat that?" Kieran didn’t. Luke, for once, had the sense to stay quiet.

Satisfied, Sylus exhaled slowly, picking up his coffee at last. "Good. Now," he said, "let’s get to work."

Leila took a long sip of her coffee, fighting the urge to smirk. The air in the briefing room was thick with tension, but this time, it had nothing to do with lingering touches or stolen glances. It was the kind of tension that came before bloodshed—the quiet, calculated preparation for an execution.

Leila, Luke, and Kieran stood before the large table where a detailed map of Dainhart’s compound was spread out. Surveillance images, guard rotations, and security layouts were meticulously marked. The weight of what they were planning wasn’t lost on anyone. This wasn’t just another infiltration. It was a kill order.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the room with cool precision. The ruthless businessman, the king of Onychinus, was in full control.

"This isn’t just about getting into his compound," Leila said, arms crossed. "It’s about making sure he doesn’t walk out."

Luke, always the first to cut through the tension, tapped the map. "The bastard’s got more layers of security than a paranoid emperor. Underground vault, biometric locks, armed guards in shifts—this isn’t going to be clean."

"It doesn’t have to be clean," Sylus cut in, his voice calm, deadly. "It has to be final."

A heavy silence settled.

Leila leaned forward, tapping a specific location on the map. "Dainhart's private quarters are here. He doesn’t leave this section of the compound unless he has to. Security tightens after midnight, but there’s a gap between shift rotations at 1:45 AM when the supply truck arrives."

Sylus considered this, his crimson gaze unwavering. "And the target?"

Leila’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I’ll handle him personally."

Luke let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Sylus, however, wasn’t amused. His gaze sharpened on Leila, the room seeming to darken.

"This isn’t personal," he stated.

Leila’s expression remained unreadable. "He made it personal the moment he put a bounty on my head."

Sylus held her gaze, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He didn’t argue.

"Fine," he said smoothly. "But you won’t do it alone. I’ll be there to ensure there are no loose ends."

Leila raised a brow. "Afraid I’ll make a mess?"

Sylus looked at her with a hard gaze, slamming his palms on the table. "Afraid you’ll get yourself killed."

Another beat of silence. Then Luke clapped his hands together. "Alright, now that we’ve established who’s protecting who, can we talk about our exit plan? Or are we just winging it?" Still, silence engulfed them.

Kieran snickered. "Considering how long you two have been staring at each other, I’d say improvisation is our best bet."

Sylus’s gaze flickered to them, a sharp warning. "Try to act professional for once."

Luke held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying, boss. Barely got any sleep last night with all the… tension in the air."

Leila shot him a glare, but Kieran only grinned beneath his mask. "Yeah, Luke’s got a point. Hard to sleep when the walls feel like they’re carrying secrets."

Sylus exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple like a father dealing with insufferable children. "Both of you—out. Now."

Luke and Kieran exchanged knowing glances but obeyed, heading toward the door. Just before stepping out, Luke threw one last glance at Leila. "Try not to keep the boss too distracted tonight, yeah?"

---

The sky bled into the city like ink, stretching shadows long and swallowing the neon glow of N109’s underbelly. The air was thick with the scent of rain and gasoline, the hum of distant engines a constant undercurrent. Leila adjusted the comm in her ear, gaze locked on the towering estate in the distance. Dainhart’s compound sat like a fortress, draped in cold steel and armed guards, the very picture of paranoia. They had spent days studying its weak points, memorizing security rotations, planning for contingencies.

Now, it was time.

“Luke, Kieran,” Sylus’s voice came smooth and unshaken through the comms. “Move into position.”

From their vantage point, Leila spotted the twins slipping through the perimeter, their movements synchronized, almost inhumanly precise. They were good—she’d give them that. “Moving into position now,” Kieran’s voice crackled in.

“Copy that. Start the diversion on my mark,” Sylus responded. Leila felt the tension coil inside her, muscles taut, instincts sharp. She had done this a thousand times—silent infiltration, surgical kills—but this felt different. The weight of what they were about to do pressed heavy against her ribs.

Beside her, Sylus adjusted his gloves, his eyes scanning the compound with the same cold calculation he always carried “You ready?” he asked.

Leila exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips before he turned, pressing a gloved hand to his earpiece. “Luke. Now.”

The explosion rocked the south wing of the compound, a burst of fire and shattering glass tearing through the night. Alarms shrieked. Guards scrambled. Chaos erupted. Leila and Sylus moved.

They slipped through the chaos like phantoms. A guard rounded a corner, his weapon raised, but Leila was faster. She moved like a whisper, her blade a silver flash in the dim light. The guard crumpled to the ground, a silent testament to her speed and precision.

They pressed forward, encountering a squad of guards converging on their position. Sylus moved first, his energy crackling at his fingertips. He unleashed a wave of force, sending the guards flying, their bodies slamming against the walls. Leila followed, her blade a blur of motion, weaving through the chaos. She disarmed one guard, using his own weapon against him. Another lunged, but she sidestepped, her elbow connecting with his throat, silencing him instantly.

They reached the main hall in record time. “East corridor is clear,” Kieran’s voice filtered in.

“You’ve got two guards stationed outside the secured office,” Luke added. “Handle it and you’re in.”

Leila pressed her back against the cold stone wall, listening to the shifting weight of footsteps ahead. She glanced at Sylus. He lifted a brow, wordlessly asking—you or me?

She rolled her eyes before slipping forward, vanishing into the dark. A soft thud—then another. By the time Sylus turned the corner, both men were down, their throats slit in eerie unison. “Show-off,” he muttered.

Leila wiped the blood from her blade. “You’re just mad you didn’t get to do it.” He huffed a quiet laugh before reaching for the secured office’s reinforced door. The next phase of the plan was simple: locate Dainhart, eliminate him, leave nothing behind but bodies. But then, the doors down the hall opened.

Celeste Marrow, Dainhart’s right hand, a strategist, a woman who didn’t make mistakes, stepped into their path. Yet here she stood, unarmed, hands raised in surrender. Leila stilled, instincts screaming. Something wasn’t right.

"You’re too late," Celeste said, her voice smooth. "Dainhart has fled. He knew you were coming."

"Where did he go?" Sylus demanded, his voice low, edged with quiet authority.

"This isn’t your fight, Onychinus," Celeste said smoothly, but her eyes flickered toward Leila. "It’s hers." Leila’s pulse spiked. Celeste wasn’t looking at Sylus. She was looking at her.

A beat of silence hung in the air, then Celeste continued, her eyes now solely on Leila. "You don’t know, do you?" Celeste’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. "Who placed the initial bounty on your head? Who set the price so high that every hunter, every syndicate in the city wanted your head on a plate? Yes, Dainhart amplified it, but he wasn’t alone.”

A pause. A breath. A single moment before the knife twisted. "Onychinus was involved."

Silence. Cold. Electric.

The words slammed into Leila like a bullet, hollowing her out. No. Her breath came short, sharp. A beat of disbelief. A cold, creeping fury. She snapped her gaze to Sylus, searching for a flinch, a crack a fucking denial. He said nothing.

Celeste laughed. "And you, little siren, have been running in circles for nothing." She tilted her head. "Did you really think you were sent after Sylus because Dainhart wanted him dead?" A cruel amusement danced in her eyes. "Sylus can't be killed. Dainhart knows that. Everyone in this city knows that."

Leila’s fingers curled into fists, her pulse a war drum in her ears. Celeste leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "You were sent on a goose chase for the hell of it. You were never meant to succeed. You were just entertai—"

A gunshot.

The sound ripped through the space like a violent exhale. Celeste crumpled, a clean shot to the skull. Instant. Brutal. Final. Leila didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her breath came jagged, her heart slamming against her ribs. Not from fear—but from the horrifying, gut-wrenching realization. Sylus had pulled the trigger, not because Celeste was a danger but because she was about to say something he didn’t want her to.

Her voice came out low, trembling with something dangerous. “What the fuck did you just do?”

Sylus exhaled, lowering his gun, his expression unreadable. Controlled. Too controlled. “I eliminated a threat.” Her stomach twisted.

"Is it true?" Leila whispered, her voice barely audible. "Did you… Were you involved?"

Sylus's red eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, flickered with something she couldn't quite decipher. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Yes," he admitted, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "It's true."

The confession, so blunt and devoid of remorse, shattered something within her. It wasn't just the betrayal, the knowledge that he had lied, that he had manipulated her. It was the fact that she had allowed him to. She had allowed him to chip away at the walls she had spent years building, to see the vulnerability she kept hidden from the world.

"Then I'm done," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. She turned, her back to him, the man she had trusted, the man who had broken her. "Don't bother trying to explain."

She turned to leave, but Sylus's hand shot out, reaching for her. This time, however, his touch faltered. His fingers brushed against her arm, but the grip lacked its usual confidence. He felt a wrenching guilt, a twisting pain in his chest. His usually cold, calculating demeanor crumbled.

"Leila…" he called out, his voice a desperate plea, a stark contrast to the controlled tone he usually employed. There was a frantic urgency in his tone, a desperate attempt to rectify the situation but Leila didn't stop.

She tore her arm away, the action sharp and decisive. She broke into a run, her footsteps echoing in the silence he had created. Tears blurred her vision, hot and unwelcome, a testament to a vulnerability she had long denied. She wiped them away with a furious hand, refusing to succumb to the weakness they represented. She was Leila, the Blackthorn Siren, a force to be reckoned with, not a heartbroken fool. Yet, beneath the hardened exterior, a raw ache pulsed, a wound inflicted by the very man she had allowed to see past the mask.

She burst through the compound's main entrance, the rain a cold, stinging curtain against her skin. Luke and Kieran, who had been monitoring the perimeter, turned, their faces etched with confusion.

"Leila? What's going on?" Luke asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Boss told us to wait for you two and the others," Kieran added, his brow furrowed. "What happened in there?"

Leila didn't answer. She shoved past them, her movements sharp and desperate, a whirlwind of emotion.

"Leila, wait!" Luke called out, reaching for her arm.

She wrenched herself free, her eyes blazing with a pain that made them both flinch. "Leave me alone," she snarled, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Before they could react, she was gone, swallowed by the rain-soaked darkness of the city. They exchanged a bewildered glance, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.

Inside the compound, Sylus remained frozen, his outstretched hand trembling slightly. The weight of his actions pressed down on him, a crushing burden of guilt and regret. He had silenced Celeste, not to protect himself, but to protect Leila, to shield her from the truth he knew would shatter her. He had thought he was able to bury that piece of truth, but now, watching the emptiness where she had stood, he realized the devastating cost of his choices.

His eyes, usually so cold and calculating, reflected a turmoil he rarely allowed himself to feel. He had broken her trust, and in doing so, he had broken something within himself. He had pushed her away, the one person who had dared to see past his carefully constructed facade. The silence of the compound was a deafening reminder of his failure, the echo of her retreating footsteps a haunting melody of loss.

---

The rain-slicked alleyways became Leila's sanctuary, a chaotic labyrinth where she could disappear. Usually a place of calculated movements and precise strikes, now echoed with the energy of her evol. Each step, each touch, left no trace. Security cameras flickered and died, their recordings a blank slate. Digital trails vanished, leaving behind only static and confusion. Moving through the city's veins, she left nothing but an unsettling emptiness in her wake.

The bounty on her head remained. Hunters, desperate for the reward, swarmed the city's shadows. They found her, eventually. They always did. A group of them, hardened mercenaries with cybernetic enhancements and heavy weaponry, cornered her in a derelict warehouse, their faces grim, their eyes hungry.

"Siren," the leader growled, his voice distorted by a vocal modulator. "We're here to collect."

Leila stood, her posture loose, almost careless. The betrayal, the gaping wound Sylus had inflicted, had stripped her of her usual precision. She fought, yes, but with a reckless abandon that bordered on self-destruction.

Blades flashed, bullets whizzed, energy crackled. She moved like a whirlwind, a blur of lethal grace, but there was a wildness to her movements, a disregard for her own safety. She took hits she would normally avoid, ignored wounds that would usually send her into a calculated retreat.

A blade sliced across her arm, drawing a hiss of pain. She barely flinched, her eyes burning with a cold, distant fury. She retaliated with a brutal efficiency, her blade finding its mark, silencing her attacker with a sickening thud.

The fight was a brutal dance of death, a macabre ballet performed in the shadows. Leila fought with a ferocity born of despair, a reckless abandon that made her even more dangerous. She didn't care if she lived or died. The betrayal had hollowed her out, leaving only a burning rage that fueled her every move.

When the last mercenary fell, she stood amidst the carnage, her breath ragged, her body battered and bruised. The rain seeped through the warehouse's broken roof, washing away the blood, leaving her standing in the cold, empty silence. She looked down at her bloody hands, and the wounds that littered her body, and felt nothing. No pain, no fear, no remorse. Just a hollow, empty ache. She was a walking void, not caring what happened next.

---

The silence in the command center was a suffocating shroud, each tick of the clock a hammer blow against his composure. Leila was gone, a phantom, erased from every screen, every sensor. His most sophisticated systems, usually his instruments of absolute control, were now useless, mocking him with their blank, empty displays. She was a ghost, a whisper of smoke in a city he thought he owned.

He clenched his fist, the knuckles bone-white, trembling slightly. Frustration tore at him, a desperate, unfamiliar fear. He had lost her, not just physically, but emotionally, to the very shadows he once commanded.

"Any sign?" he rasped, his voice a broken growl, barely audible. He ran a hand through his usually meticulously styled hair, leaving it disheveled and wild. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his crimson eyes, a stark contrast to their usual sharp intensity. He hadn't slept in days, the image of Leila's betrayed eyes burning into his mind, keeping him awake, torturing him.

Luke and Kieran exchanged worried glances, their faces etched with a concern he usually inspired in others. "Nothing, boss," Kieran replied, his voice subdued, strained. "It's like she vanished. Clean."

"Her evol," Luke added, his voice trailing off, laced with a hesitant fear. "It makes her untraceable. Completely."

Untraceable. The word echoed in his mind, a mocking reminder of his own supposed invulnerability. He had underestimated her, dismissed the depth of her pain, the power of her abilities. He had pushed her away, and now, he was drowning in the consequences.

He paced the room, his movements erratic, a caged predator in a space that suddenly felt too small. The silence amplified the frantic pounding of his heart, a desperate drumbeat against his ribs, a constant, agonizing reminder of his failure. He had to find her. He had to. It wasn't just about control anymore; it was about… something he couldn't quite name, something raw and desperate, something that felt terrifyingly close to love. A concept that was foreign, and terrifying to him.

But as he stared at the blank screens, the chilling reality began to sink in. Finding her was only the beginning. He had shattered her trust, ripped apart the fragile bond they had built. Could he ever mend the damage? Could he ever face her again, knowing the pain he had inflicted?

Doubt, a foreign, corrosive emotion, gnawed at him. He felt a sickening lurch in his gut, a raw, almost physical pain. He had lost control, not just of the situation, but of himself. He was adrift, lost in a sea of his own making, and he didn't know how to navigate the storm. He was a man unraveling.

He turned, his eyes blazing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'm going out," he growled, his voice hoarse. "I'm finding her myself."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a worried glance. "Boss, you can't just—"

"I'm not asking," Sylus interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm telling you. I'm going out there."

Luke and Kieran hesitated, their faces etched with concern. They knew better than to argue with Sylus when he was like this, but they also knew he was operating on pure emotion, that he was a danger to himself.

"We're coming with you," Luke said firmly. "We can help."

Kieran nodded in agreement. "We're a team, boss. We'll find her together."

Sylus glared at them, his eyes narrowed. He turned away, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his emotions heavy upon him.

The hunt for Leila was about to begin, and it would be a desperate, dangerous, and profoundly personal affair.

---

Leila slumped against the cold brick wall, her body a battlefield of agony. A fortnight. Fourteen relentless days of running, fighting, bleeding. Days without sleep, without respite. She had held on with sheer will alone, but now—now, she was at her limit. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a struggle, each one a reminder that she was still alive—for now. The world blurred at the edges, her vision swimming, twisting. She could feel it—the weight of death creeping closer.

Pain was a living thing, coiling around her like a serpent, fangs buried deep. The gunshot wound in her shoulder throbbed in a slow, merciless rhythm, the bullet still lodged inside, sending fire through her veins. Blood seeped from two stab wounds—one in her side, dangerously deep, the other just below her ribs. Every breath pulled at the open flesh, making her feel as though she were being torn apart from the inside.

She pressed a trembling hand to her side, but it was useless. There was too much blood. Warm, sticky, pooling beneath her as it soaked into the cold stone. She had won the fight. She always won but it didn't feel like it will be worth it. Eight mercenaries, enhanced, ruthless, in a span of an had come for her, and they had left this world as nothing more than bloodstains on the pavement. But this time, her movements had been different. Slower. Less precise. It wasn’t exhaustion—it was something deeper. She hadn’t cared if she lived.

Every strike she had thrown was automatic, every dodge half a second too late. Her instincts, once honed to perfection, had dulled under the crushing weight of indifference. She should have moved faster. Should have fought harder. Should have cared but she didn’t and now, her body was paying the price.

Her head lolled against the brick wall as her strength bled out alongside her life. She coughed, a wet, broken sound, more blood spilling from her lips. A deep, numbing cold was settling into her limbs, spreading inch by inch. She knew what this meant. The body always shut down like this, conserving what little it had left before giving in entirely. She should be afraid. The old her would have fought harder, clung to life with bared teeth and iron will. But now? She was just so, so tired.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Maybe she’d just close them for a moment.

And then—footsteps. Slow. Steady. Purposeful. A shadow loomed at the mouth of the alley, dark against the dim glow of flickering streetlights. She tried to lift her head, to focus, but her vision was failing her. Her fingers twitched toward the dagger still clutched in her palm, but she couldn't even lift it. Too late. Too weak. Too far gone. Whoever it was, they were coming closer. And Leila… She was too broken to run.

The alleyway echoed with the slow, deliberate rhythm of footsteps, each heavy thud slicing through the suffocating silence like a blade. Sylus moved with a predatory grace, his senses heightened, his gaze scanning the shadows. But this wasn't his usual calculated hunt. This was driven by something raw, something desperate, a primal need to find her.

The moment he saw her, his breath stilled, his heart seizing in his chest.

She was a broken doll, slumped against the cold brick wall, her body a canvas of crimson and grime. Blood pooled beneath her, a dark, creeping stain that seemed to spread with every agonizing second. The sight ripped through him, a brutal, physical blow that stole the air from his lungs.

"No," he breathed, a guttural sound escaping his lips. He broke into a sprint, his movements frantic, desperate.

She was barely holding on, her fingers twitching weakly, her lips parted as if she wanted to speak. But her eyes were glazed, unfocused, and before she could even register his presence, before she could see that it was him—she surrendered. Her body went limp, her head lolling to the side.

'Leila!' He caught her before she could collapse entirely, his arms wrapping around her fragile frame. He could feel the sickening warmth of her blood soaking into his clothes, clinging to his skin like a macabre embrace. It was everywhere, staining his hands, his sleeves, his very soul. His pulse roared in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. He pressed a trembling hand to her cheek, his touch feather-light, almost afraid to break her. Her skin was deathly pale, cold, her breaths shallow, barely there.

His earpiece crackled to life, a distant intrusion on his terror. "I found her," Sylus said, his voice tight, dangerously low. "Get the medical team at the base. Call the doctor. I'll meet you there. Now."

A primal instinct took over. He couldn't bear to lay her down, to set her aside. He needed to feel her, to hold her close, to keep her from slipping away entirely. With a careful, almost desperate motion, he adjusted her in his arms, cradling her against his chest as if she were a precious, fragile thing.

He moved with a fierce, almost reckless urgency, his movements betraying the normally precise, controlled man. He placed her as best he could within the vehicle, while still maintaining as much contact as possible. One arm stayed wrapped around her, while the other took control of the vehicle. The engine roared to life, tires screeching against the pavement. His free hand tightened around the wheel, knuckles white, his grip a desperate anchor in the storm raging within him.

"Please, just hold on a little longer for me, kitten." he whispered, his voice hoarse, a desperate plea to the fading life in his arms.

Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the road ahead, but he refused to let them fall. He never let them fall but now, they burned, an agonizing ache behind his lids.

By the time he reached the base, the medical team was already waiting, their faces grim, their movements efficient. He didn't waste a second. He carried her inside, laying her down on the cot as the doctors swarmed around her, their voices sharp and urgent. His clothes, his hands, even his neck—everything was smeared with her blood, a stark, horrifying testament to her injuries.

Sylus stepped back as he watched the doctors swarm Leila's barely breathing body, his stomach twisting into a knot of nausea as he watched them work to save her. Her battered body, the deep gashes and cuts, the fresh, brutal wounds—this wasn't the Leila he knew. The Blackthorn Siren had always been a force of nature, a whirlwind of lethal grace. Elegant, precise, untouchable. Every move she made was calculated, a deadly dance of power and control. But now…

Now, she was broken, vulnerable, a shadow of her former self. Her wounds told a story of a fight not fought with her usual precision, a fight where she hadn't cared if she lived or died. Sylus’ breath staggered, a cold dread settling in his chest, a chilling premonition that stole the warmth from his blood.

It hit him then, like a physical blow, a blade sinking into his ribs, twisting with agonizing precision—she had given up. She had stopped fighting for herself. The realization was a crushing weight, a suffocating darkness that threatened to consume him.

His chest tightened, a vice clamping down on his lungs, something sharp and suffocating settling in his throat, a burning ache that made it difficult to swallow. He tore his gaze away, unable to bear the sight of her broken form any longer, the image seared into his mind. Without a word, he turned and walked out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical, like a puppet with its strings cut.

His office door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in a suffocating silence, a tomb of his own making. The silence amplified the frantic pounding of his heart, a desperate drumbeat against his ribs. He lifted his hands, staring at them, at the crimson stains that clung to his skin like a second, horrifying layer. Hands that had shaped an empire, hands that had wielded power without hesitation. Hands that were now painted with her blood, a damning testament to his failure.

"This is my fault."

The realization settled over him like a noose tightening around his throat, choking the air from his lungs, a suffocating darkness that threatened to extinguish his very being. He had betrayed her. He had made her a target. And now, he was an inch away from losing the one person who had dared to see beyond the ruthless facade he had perfected for years, the one person who had dared to see the man beneath the monster.

His fingers curled into fists, trembling with impotent rage, a silent scream against the injustice of his own actions.

For the first time in his life, Sylus felt truly, utterly helpless. He was a man drowning in the consequences of his own actions, a man terrified of losing the light he had so carelessly extinguished, a light that had begun to illuminate the darkness within himself.

---

The days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of silence and anxious anticipation. Leila remained suspended between worlds, her breaths shallow and even, a fragile rhythm against the backdrop of Sylus's bedroom's unnerving stillness. The rhythmic drip of the IV, a slow, steady pulse, was the only sound that dared to break the oppressive quiet, a constant reminder of her fragile hold on life.

Sylus sat vigil by the bedside, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on her still form. The room, usually a testament to their shared bond, now felt like a prison, a place where time stretched and distorted, each passing moment an agonizing eternity.

He held her hand, the one encased in a cast, his fingers tracing the childish doodles that Luke and Kieran had surreptitiously drawn. He allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. Those bastards. Even in the face of such grim circumstances, they found a way to inject their brand of irreverent humor. He had half a mind to be annoyed, but the small act of defiant levity was a welcome distraction from the crushing weight of his guilt.

Leila's body was clean now, the crimson stains of battle washed away, replaced by sterile bandages that wrapped around the gunshot wound on her shoulder and the brutal stab wounds on her side and abdomen. The sight of her, so still, so vulnerable, was a stark contrast to the fierce, indomitable woman he knew.

He watched her chest rise and fall, the steady rhythm a fragile beacon of hope in the suffocating darkness. It was even, a testament to the medical team's skill. She was going to make it. He knew it. But the question that gnawed at him, the question that kept him tethered to this sterile room, was when. When would she wake? When would those vibrant eyes open, those sharp, intelligent eyes that held the weight of a thousand untold stories?

He longed for her voice, the sharp wit, the sardonic humor that could cut through his carefully constructed defenses. He longed for the spark of defiance, the fire that burned within her, the fire that he had so carelessly extinguished. He knew he didn't deserve her forgiveness. He knew he had shattered her trust, ripped away her strength. But he also knew, with a chilling certainty, that he would spend the rest of his life trying to earn it back. He would spend every waking moment trying to rekindle the flame he had so foolishly allowed to die.

He tightened his grip on her hand, his touch gentle, almost pleading. "Wake up, Leila," he whispered, his voice rough with unshed emotion. "Please. Come back to me."

The silence stretched on, unbroken, heavy with unspoken emotions and the fragile hope that clung to the rhythm of her breathing. He waited, a silent sentinel in the sterile stillness, a man desperate for a second chance. His thumb traced absent patterns over her fingers. His head was bowed, his jaw tight, exhaustion weighing heavy on his frame.

Then—so faint he almost missed it—her fingers twitched beneath his touch. Sylus stilled. His breath hitched.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto her hand, willing the movement to happen again. Another slight shift—delicate, weak, but real. His gaze flew to her face just as her eyelids fluttered, the first signs of waking stirring across her features.

He barely breathed as her lashes lifted, revealing dazed, unfocused eyes.

A slow, disoriented awakening.

The world swam into focus for her, a soft, muted blur. She blinked sluggishly, her brows knitting together as she tried to push through the haze clouding her mind. Sylus watched, his grip tightening around her fingers, the relief crashing into him so forcefully it left him unsteady.

"Leila," he murmured, voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

But she was already lost in her own confusion, trying to piece together the fragments of her last memory—the alleyway, the blood, the cold bite of betrayal—before finally, her gaze met his.

A flicker of recognition passed through Leila’s half-lidded eyes, but it was distant, fogged by exhaustion and pain. Her breath hitched as her mind sluggishly fought to bridge the gap between then and now. Sylus stayed utterly still, watching the realization settle, the way her pupils dilated slightly as memories crept back in. He could see it—when she remembered the betrayal. When she remembered the knife in her back, the sting of deception. Her fingers twitched again, but this time not in weakness. In restraint.

She felt the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers, grounding, steady. Yet, Leila didn’t pull away. Not yet. Her lips parted, dry and cracked, but no words came. Sylus reacted instantly, reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table. He slid a hand beneath her head, carefully lifting her just enough to press the rim of the cup to her lips.

"Slow," he murmured, watching the way her throat worked as she swallowed.

A few sips were all she managed before she turned her head slightly, breath shallow, eyes sharpening ever so slightly as they found his. He could see the question forming before she spoke. Could feel it in the shift of her energy, in the unsteady way her gaze darted around Sylus's room. Her voice was barely audible when she finally spoke."Why am I alive?"

Sylus exhaled, a slow drag of breath as he leaned back slightly. He rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as he considered his answer. "Because I wouldn’t let you die."

Leila stared at him, her eyes narrowed, her expression a mask of cold fury. The confusion she had felt earlier was gone, replaced by a burning resentment.

"Are you finished with your knight in shining armor skit?" she said, her voice rough, laced with a venomous edge.

The words were sharp, barbed, meant to wound. All she felt was the sting of betrayal, the agonizing pain of his deception.

Sylus flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He had expected anger, but the sheer intensity of her fury took him aback.

"Leila—" he began, his voice pleading, but she cut him off.

"Don't," she snarled, her voice rising. She tried to sit up further, but the pain in her side flared, forcing her to gasp.

She continued, her voice trembling with rage. "You think this will make up for it? You think that will erase what you did?"

She glared at him, her eyes burning with a hatred that chilled him to the bone. The room was thick with tension, the air crackling with unspoken accusations and unresolved pain. Sylus sat frozen, the weight of her fury a heavy, suffocating presence.

Fueled by a desperate need to escape his presence, pushed herself up from the bed. The room spun, the edges of her vision blurring, but she ignored the dizziness. She had to get out, had to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had shattered her trust. She took a shaky step, then another, her legs wobbly and unsteady. The pain in her side, a dull throb until now, flared into a searing inferno. She hissed, her breath catching in her throat, but she pressed on, determined to reach the door.

The sound of her yelp echoed through the room, cutting through the tense silence. Sylus, who had been sitting frozen, his gaze fixed on her retreating back, reacted instantly. He was at her side in a heartbeat, his face etched with concern.

He was there in an instant, his grip firm but careful as he steadied her against him. His warmth was overwhelming, the scent of him—clean, sharp, unmistakably him—flooding her senses. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other supporting her back as he eased her upright.

“Dammit, Leila,” he hissed, his voice rough with something she couldn’t place. “You’re tearing your stitches.”

She struggled against him, pushing weakly at his chest. “Let me go.”

“Like hell I will.” His hold tightened as he lifted her effortlessly, ignoring her feeble attempts to shove him away. The pain in her side flared with every movement, sending another wave of dizziness crashing over her.

“Fuck,” she groaned, her fingers curling into his shirt despite herself.

Sylus exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “This is exactly why you need to stay in bed.”

He carried her back to the mattress, lowering her carefully, his touch gentler than she wanted to admit. The moment he let go, she turned her head away, furious at the weakness in her body, at the way she had to rely on him.

“Why are you doing this?” she muttered, her voice laced with exhaustion and resentment.

Sylus stilled, his eyes unreadable as he looked at her. Then, with a quiet, almost resigned sigh, he murmured, “Because I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then why did you do it?” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

Sylus, who had just been adjusting the fresh bandages over her wound, stilled. Leila turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto him. “Why did you agree with Dainhart to have me killed? Why didn't you say anything?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching as if he were weighing his words. Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair before resting his elbows on his knees.

“When the bounty was first placed, I didn’t know who you were,” he admitted, his voice steady but laced with something she couldn’t quite place. “I didn’t care. You were just another name. Another problem to eliminate before it got too big.”

Leila’s breath hitched, but she forced herself to stay quiet, to listen.

“You were becoming a liability,” Sylus continued, his blood-tinted eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Too many contracts turned down because people were too afraid to go after you. Too much noise, too many bodies left in your wake.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “And I don’t allow liabilities to get in my way.”

Leila’s fingers clenched tighter around the sheets. His gaze met hers then, and for once, she saw it in his eyes. Regret.

“But that was before,” he said, quieter now. “Before I actually met you. Before I saw you fight, before I realized how goddamn determined you were. How you refused to break, even when the odds were against you.” His throat bobbed slightly. “Before I knew what it felt like to have you right there beside me.”

Leila’s heart pounded painfully in her chest, her mind screaming at her to look away, to shut him out. But she didn’t.

“Before I felt something different,” he murmured. The words sent a sharp pang through her, something unsteady, something dangerous.

She should hate him. She wanted to hate him but as she lay there, breathing heavily, staring at the man who had once plotted her downfall— She wasn’t sure if she still did. Leila's heart pounded in her chest, a chaotic rhythm against the backdrop of the room's silence. She stared at Sylus, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to cling to the anger, the betrayal, the pain. It was easier than facing the confusing storm brewing within her.

"What are you saying?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, her vulnerability laid bare despite her attempts to hide it.

Sylus's gaze intensified, his eyes burning with a desperate sincerity. "I'm saying… I'm saying that I was wrong, Leila. About everything. About you, about myself."

He moved closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face. His touch was hesitant, almost reverent.

"I exist here like a blade sharpened by cold calculation," he continued, his voice low, rough with emotion. "I came to put out a fire, to end a threat before it grew. But you… you weren’t just a fire to be snuffed out or a storm to be calmed. You were something bigger—untamed, unstoppable. A force all your own."

He paused, his throat working. "I've never felt this way before. This… this pull, this need to be near someone. To protect them, to… to cherish them." He looked away for a moment, then back at her, his eyes filled with a pure honesty.

"What I'm trying to say is… You've carved yourself into me in ways I can't undo. No matter how hard I try, I can't walk away—I don't want to. You're in every breath, every thought, every goddamn piece of me."

The words hung in the air, a fragile, terrifying confession, a poetic surrender. Leila's breath hitched. Her heart seemed to stop, then erupt into a frantic rhythm. Love. The word felt foreign, dangerous, and yet undeniably potent.

She wanted to deny it, to scoff, to push him away. But the look in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability he was displaying, it chipped away at the walls she had built around herself. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She wanted to hate him, but she couldn't deny the truth that was echoing in her own heart.

"Sylus…" she whispered, her voice trembling.

He leaned closer, his gaze searching hers. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know I broke your trust. But I swear to you, Leila, I will spend the rest of my life trying to earn it back. I will spend the rest of my life trying to show you how much I… how much you mean to me."

He moved closer, his hand cupping her cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. He leaned in, his lips hovering over hers.

"Can I?" he murmured, his voice a desperate plea.

She didn't answer with words. She leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was both tentative and desperate, a fragile bridge built over the chasm of their broken trust. It was a kiss of forgiveness, a kiss of hope, a kiss of something that felt terrifyingly like… love, a love that was a dangerous, consuming fire.

The kiss lingered, a fragile truce in the battle raging within her. Leila's eyes fluttered open, her gaze locking with Sylus's. The vulnerability in his eyes, the desperate sincerity, made her heart ache. She wanted to cling to the anger, to push him away, to rebuild the walls he had so effortlessly shattered. But the truth, the undeniable truth that echoed in her own heart, made it impossible.

A small, shaky laugh escaped her lips, a sound that was both fragile and defiant. "That's one poetic way of saying you love me," she murmured, her voice still rough from disuse, a hint of her old sardonic wit cutting through the emotional tension.

The words, though laced with a hint of humor, held a weight that made Sylus's breath catch in his throat. He had laid his soul bare, offering her a confession as raw and unfiltered as the blood that had stained his hands. A faint smile touched his lips, a smile that was both relieved and vulnerable. "Is it too much?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Too dramatic?"

Leila's gaze softened, the anger that had burned so brightly dimming into a fragile understanding. "It's… you," she said, her voice quiet. "It's dramatic, intense, and utterly ridiculous. Just like you."

She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, her touch hesitant, almost reverent. "But it's also… affectionate," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "And that, Sylus, is something I never thought I'd see from the leader of Onychinus."

The fragile moment of understanding between Leila and Sylus hung in the air, a delicate balance between vulnerability and hope. Then, the door slid open with a whoosh, shattering the intimacy of the moment. Luke and Kieran stood in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of surprise and something akin to smug amusement.

"Well, well, well," Luke drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "Look who's all lovey-dovey. Sylus and Leila, making up already?"

Kieran snorted, stepping forward. "Yeah, we were expecting a week of brooding and intense staring contests, at least. Guess we were wrong. Did you two finally figure out how to play nice?"

Leila, despite the lingering pain, managed a wry smirk. "You're lucky I'm not mobile enough to kick your asses right now."

"Aw, come on, Leila," Luke protested, but there was a hint of caution in his voice. "We're just messing around. Besides, we brought celebratory drinks." He held up a bottle of something that looked suspiciously like expensive whiskey.

Kieran, ever the instigator, added, "Yeah, you know, for the happy couple. A toast to… whatever this is." He exclaimed.

Sylus didn't bother looking at Luke and Kieran. He simply sat, his back to them, and the air around the door shimmered, a barely perceptible distortion. Without a word, without a glance, the door slammed shut with a resounding bang, the sound echoing through the room, a final, emphatic dismissal. The force of his evol was subtle, but undeniable.

Leila's smile faltered, and Sylus caught it instantly. His sharp gaze flicked to her face, reading the subtle shift in her expression “What’s wrong? What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with concern.

She hesitated for only a moment before exhaling. “Dainhart.”

Sylus’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening at the mention of the name. “You don’t have to worry about him. I sent men out in the field, gathering information about his current loca—”

Leila cut him off, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. “What if we do nothing,” she said flatly. “Let the bounty die out. I’m staying here—where no one will find me.”

Sylus’s expression darkened instantly. He turned to face her fully, his eyes burning with something sharp, something barely restrained. “You almost died because of that bounty, Leila,” he said, his voice low but edged with steel. “Because of him.”

She met his gaze, unwavering. “He’s a rat. Cowards like him go into hiding and every time a cat goes near.”

Sylus let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “People don’t forget a price like that. You think if you lay low, it’ll just disappear? That no one will come sniffing around?” His tone was harsh now, but there was an undercurrent of frustration—of something deeper.

Leila’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need you handling my problems, Sylus.”

His eyes flashed. “Handling your problems?” He leaned in slightly, his presence suffocating, the space between them charged. “Do you even hear yourself? You think this is just your problem?”

Leila stared at him, pulse steady despite the shift in the air. “The bounty is on my head, not yours.”

“And who do you think amplified it?” His words landed like a punch, and for a brief second, something flickered in her expression. Sylus didn’t look away. “Dainhart put the target on your back, but I made sure every merc, assassin, and bounty hunter knew exactly how valuable you are.” His voice was razor-sharp now, deliberate. “So no, Leila. This isn’t just your problem.”

Her fingers curled into the sheets, but she kept her tone cool. “And now you want to clean up the mess you helped on making?”

His jaw clenched. “I want him dead.” The words were final, absolute. “And I want the bounty erased. Not left to fade. Not left lingering in the dark where it can resurface when it’s convenient. Gone.”

Leila let out a slow breath, studying him. “So that’s what this is about,” she murmured. “You don’t just want him gone. You want to make a statement.”

Sylus tilted his head slightly. “And you don’t?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, feeling the weight of it. Then, finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t like being hunted,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to make a spectacle of it anymore.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The flickering light above cast jagged shadows across his face, sharpening the fury simmering just beneath his skin. “A spectacle?” His voice was low at first, but the frustration bled into something sharper, louder. “You almost died, Leila, and you’re worried about making a damn spectacle?”

Leila didn’t flinch, but her fingers dug into the sheets, bracing.

Sylus took a step back, running a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. Then, just as quickly, he turned back to her, ruby-like eyes ablaze. “You think this is something you can just wait out? That hiding here in the base is enough? That people will just forget about the bounty?”

His voice rose, breaking past the usual cold control he always wielded. “That’s not how this works, Leila! You don’t just disappear and hope the world moves on. As long as Dainhart is breathing, there will always be someone looking for you. Waiting. Watching.” He gestured sharply, his fury crackling in the air. “I refuse to sit back and watch them take another shot at you—watch you bleed out in my arms again!”

Leila’s breath hitched, but she kept her gaze locked on him, unyielding. “Sylus—”

“No.” His voice cut through the space between them, hard and unrelenting. He was breathing heavier now, barely keeping himself in check. “You don’t get to tell me to do nothing.”

Sylus exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before pinching the bridge of his nose. He stayed like that for a moment, forcing himself to rein in the frustration simmering beneath his skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He glanced at her, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I just—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t like that you almost died because of this.”

Leila held his gaze, studying him carefully. He wasn’t just angry—he was furious at himself, at Dainhart, at the entire situation. But underneath all of that, there was something else. Something true. A beat of silence passed between them. Then, quieter, more vulnerable, he added, “I was scared.”

It wasn’t an easy admission, but it was the truth. The sight of her bleeding out, of her barely holding on—it had lodged itself deep in his chest, refusing to let go. Leila studied him, the rawness in his voice settling deep in her chest. She could still feel the echo of his earlier anger, but now, stripped of its edge, it left behind something far more telling—something she wasn’t sure how to name.

Leila’s throat tightened, but she forced a smirk, tilting her head slightly. “Didn’t think anything scared the great Sylus of Onychinus.”

He huffed a short, humorless chuckle. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

A humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before it faded just as quickly. “Let’s get you healed up first,” he murmured. “Then we’ll talk about it.”

Leila arched a brow. “You mean argue about it.”

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh. “Probably.” His thumb brushed absently against her bandaged knuckles, a fleeting moment of warmth before he pulled away. “But not now.”

Leila gave a slow nod, her gaze following Sylus as he stood. Her eyes fluttered shut when he pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. The warmth of it seeped into her skin. When he pulled away, his voice was low, steady. “I’ll get you some food.”

As Sylus turned toward the door, his hand resting on the handle, Leila spoke—soft, hesitant, yet undeniably certain. “Sylus.”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. She held his gaze, something unguarded flickering in her expression. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she said it. “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between them, quiet but undeniable. Sylus stilled, his fingers tightening around the door handle. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there as if the weight of her words had knocked the breath from his lungs.

Leila swallowed, her heart pounding, but she refused to take it back. She had never needed words to define what she felt, never saw the point in them. But right now, she needed him to hear it. Slowly, Sylus turned to face her fully. His eyes burned with something unreadable, something sharp and consuming. He crossed the space between them in a few deliberate steps, lowering himself onto the bed until they were eye to eye.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face before resting lightly against her cheek. He didn’t speak—not yet. Instead, he just looked at her, as if memorizing every detail, as if letting her words settle deep into the parts of him no one else could reach. Then, his thumb traced gently over her cheekbone, his voice rough when he finally answered. “Say it again.”

Leila let out a breath, shaking her head. “You heard it the first time, I’m not repeating it.”

Something in Sylus’s expression shifted. He let out a quiet, almost breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if in disbelief. Then, after a pause, he exhaled and said it himself. “I love you.”

The words came out steady, firm, without hesitation. As if they had always been there, waiting to be spoken. Leila blinked, lips parting slightly, but she didn’t speak. She only looked at him, taking in the way he watched her—like he had just given away something sacred. Sylus leaned in then, pressing his forehead against hers, his hand cupping her cheek with a touch so unlike the ruthless man he was known to be.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice quieter now, like a vow. “And I’m yours.”

---

The gym, a cavernous space filled with the rhythmic thump of heavy bags and the metallic tang of exertion, was Sylus's sanctuary. If he wasn't immersed in the labyrinthine workings of his study, he sought refuge here, amidst the controlled chaos of physical discipline. Tonight, the boxing ring, bathed in the harsh glow of overhead lights, was their shared domain.

Leila stood poised before him, her stance a testament to her resilient spirit, despite the lingering fragility of her injured shoulder. After days confined to the confines of her bed, she had finally ventured back into the world of movement, seeking to reclaim the strength that had been so violently stolen. The bandages, a stark white against her skin, served as a constant, unwelcome reminder of her brush with mortality.

Sylus, dressed in a sleek black tank top that accentuated the lean musculature of his arms and a pair of dark, loose-fitting shorts that hinted at the power coiled beneath, observed her with a keen, almost clinical eye. Crimson hand wraps, a splash of vibrant color against his dark attire, encased his fists. He watched as Leila executed a punch, her form precise, yet lacking its usual fluid grace. The moment her fist extended, a sharp intake of breath escaped her lips, her free hand instinctively cradling her injured shoulder.

Sylus exhaled, a low, controlled sound, and closed the distance between them. "You're still compensating," he stated, his voice a low rumble that cut through the ambient noise of the gym. "A proper punch isn't just about the arm. It's a symphony of movement—rotation through the shoulder, engagement of the core, a push from the ground up through the legs. Power stems from control, not brute force."

Leila's jaw tightened, a flash of frustration in her eyes. "I know how to throw a punch, Sylus."

A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. "Not with a fucked shoulder, you don't."

She huffed, rotating her shoulder in a tight circle before settling back into her stance. "Let me try again."

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her determined expression, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. "One more. But if you hiss in pain again, we're done for the night."

Leila inhaled deeply, her focus laser-sharp. She unleashed a punch, sharper, more controlled than the last, but the instant the motion strained her wound, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, her fingers instinctively seeking the protective embrace of her shoulder.

"There it is." Sylus stated, his voice firm yet laced with a quiet understanding. "Let's call it a night, kitten."

Leila exhaled through her nose, a frustrated sigh. "No, it's fine."

"You said that thirty minutes ago." He crossed his arms over his chest, a single brow arched in silent reproach. "Come on. You need to allow it to heal. Don't push it."

A beat of tense silence hung in the air, then, with a reluctant sigh, she lowered her hands. "Fine."

Sylus stepped forward, his gaze softening, the intensity replaced by a gentle concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment before he leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips. When he pulled away, a ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "You're getting better," he murmured, his voice a low caress.

Leila huffed, a hint of her usual defiance returning. "Not fast enough."

His grip on her waist tightened imperceptibly. "Then we'll continue. But not tonight."

He guided her out of the ring, his touch firm yet gentle, and for once, she offered no resistance. Leila took a long sip of water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She leaned back against the gym wall, her muscles protesting with a dull ache, a reminder of her recent injuries. The exertion, though minimal, had taken its toll. Sylus watched her, his expression softening as he took in her slightly flushed cheeks and the lingering weariness in her eyes. He retrieved a towel from a nearby bench and approached her, his movements gentle.

"Here," he murmured, offering her the towel.

Leila accepted it with a grateful smile, wiping the light sheen of sweat from her forehead. "Thanks."

A comfortable silence settled between them, the only sound the gentle hum of the gym's ventilation system. Sylus sat beside her, his gaze lingering on her face. "You pushed yourself too hard," he said softly, his voice laced with concern.

Leila shrugged, a hint of her usual defiance returning. "I needed to see where I was at."

Sylus reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. "You're healing," he said, his voice a low caress. "But you need to be patient."

Leila leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."

A soft chuckle rumbled in Sylus's chest. "I've noticed."

He gently pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. Leila rested her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing counterpoint to the lingering ache in her body. The silence stretched between them, comfortable and warm, filled with unspoken emotions.

"You know," Leila murmured, her voice soft against his chest, "you're surprisingly good at this."

Sylus chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Good at what?"

"Being… gentle," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I was expecting more of the 'you will rest, and you will obey' routine."

Sylus smirked, his fingers brushing along Leila’s jaw before he leaned in, his lips a breath away from her ear. “Oh, kitten,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dark and teasing. “If you wanted me to make you obey, you’d be too sore to be throwing punches.”

Leila froze for half a second before a slow, knowing smile curled on her lips. “Bold of you to assume I’d obey in the first place.”

Sylus chuckled, pressing a fleeting kiss just below her ear before pulling away, satisfaction gleaming in his red eyes. “We’ll test that theory later.”

He chuckled but didn’t push further. Instead, he straightened, running a hand through his sweat-dampened silver hair before his expression hardened again. “Now, about what we discussed before—Dainhart.”

Leila sighed, already knowing where this was going. “Sylus—”

“No.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting this die out, and I’m sure as hell not waiting around for him to make his next move.” He turned fully to her, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I told you—I want him dead, and I want that bounty wiped out. End of discussion.”

Leila tilted her head, studying him. “So, no matter what I say, you won’t let this go?”

“Not a chance.” His eyes burned with resolve. “You’re not walking around with a target on your back. I won’t allow it.”

She let out a long sigh, her shoulders dropping in reluctant acceptance. “Fine,” she muttered, meeting his gaze. “But if we’re doing this, I’m involved in every step. Every decision, every move—you don’t shut me out.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, making it clear she wasn’t asking. “Deal?”

Sylus studied her for a moment, his red eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, a slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Deal,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “As long as you remember—being involved means following my lead when it counts.”

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face before his fingers trailed down to her chin, tilting it up slightly. “Think you can handle that, kitten?” A question to which Leila rolled her eyes to but still nodded.

His tone still carried that teasing edge, but his expression soon sobered as he sat up straighter, fingers tapping idly against his knee. “Since you’re so restless,” he mused, “you can join tonight’s debriefing. My men have gathered intel on Dainhart’s movements—you should hear it firsthand.”

Leila tilted her head. “You’re finally gonna let me sit in?”

He arched a brow. “I figured that now you agreed to my decision, you’d want to hear it firsthand rather than have me tell you everything in bed.” His hand drifted to her waist, squeezing lightly. “And I prefer having you where I can see you.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away as they left the gym together, heading back toward his study.

When they arrived, the room was already occupied. Several of Sylus’s most trusted men—including Luke and Kieran—stood waiting. But instead of stopping at her usual spot in front of his desk, Sylus pulled her beside him, settling her at his right with his hand resting possessively on her waist.

The subtle shift in position didn’t go unnoticed. Most men showed a curious expression before returning composure, except for Luke and Kieran, who had known about their relationship even before I started. Leila remained impassive, but she could feel the weight of their curiosity pressing in. Sylus, however, was completely unfazed. If anything, the corner of his lips twitched with amusement, as if daring anyone to comment.

"Let’s get started," he said smoothly, his fingers briefly tightening against her hip before he turned his attention to the report.

One of his men, a strategist named Corin, stepped forward. He placed a file onto the desk and flipped it open, revealing a map with red markings. “We’ve confirmed Dainhart’s new location. He’s holed up in an underground facility in the lower district, just outside the city’s main surveillance grid. It’s heavily guarded, but not impenetrable.”

Leila’s eyes flicked to the map, scanning the details. “How recent is this intel?”

“Less than forty-eight hours,” Corin answered. “We intercepted a message between his men—he’s consolidating forces, but he’s also paranoid. He moves locations frequently, though this seems to be his most secure base so far.”

Sylus leaned forward, tapping a finger against the map. “Escape routes?”

Luke stepped in. “There are three primary exits, all leading into different sectors. But there’s also a hidden tunnel system. If he senses a threat, he’ll vanish before we even breach the main entrance.”

Leila exhaled through her nose. “So we have to cut off his escape before we move in.”

Sylus nodded. “Exactly.” He glanced at her. “That’s why we’re not rushing in. We need to be sure he has nowhere to run.” His gaze returned to his men. “We need a full layout of those tunnels, every possible route he could take.”

Kieran crossed his arms. “Already working on it. We’ll have a full report by morning.”

Leila leaned against the desk, her mind already working through the possibilities. “If we wait too long, he might move again. What’s the window we’re looking at?”

Corin hesitated. “Three, maybe four days. After that, it’s a gamble.”

Sylus’s jaw tightened. “Then we make sure we’re ready before then.” His eyes flicked to Leila. “You wanted to be involved in every step—so tell me, what do you think?”

Leila studied the map for a long moment before meeting his gaze. “I think we make sure his paranoia works against him. Let’s give him a reason to stay put.”

A slow smirk formed on Sylus’s lips. “Now we’re talking.”

The session went smoothly as Leila and Sylus asked questions then receiving concise answers. They ended the meeting quickly, a sense of purpose and shared resolve hanging heavy in the air. Back in their shared bedroom, the steam from the shower enveloped them, a warm, humid cocoon. Leila sighed contentedly, pushing her hair back from her face, the lingering scent of sweat finally washed away.

Sylus stood behind her, his arms circling her waist, his body warm and solid against her back. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. Leila chuckled, the sound muffled against his chest. "Can't you behave this time?"

Sylus didn't answer, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck. He nipped at her skin playfully, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Leila turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her hands resting on his chest. Their bodies were close, their breaths mingling in the steamy air.

"Do you truly expect restraint when you stand before me all naked?" Sylus murmured, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. Leila's arms instinctively tightened around his shoulders, her body arching closer as she rose on her tiptoes, seeking a deeper connection.

With slow, deliberate steps, Sylus guided her towards the frosted glass of the shower, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat that radiated between them. He gently pressed her against the glass, his palm resting beside her head, effectively trapping her, while his other hand traced the delicate curve of her neck. His touch was both firm and gentle, a passion that was about to unfold.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding, yet still laced with a tender reverence. Leila met his passion with her own, her breath catching in her throat as the intensity of their embrace grew.

A soft gasp escaped Leila's lips as Sylus's kiss trailed down her neck, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. The delicate dance of his tongue against her skin, the gentle pressure of his teeth, sent a wave of heat through her body. A soft curse escaped her lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation, as her breath hitched.

In a swift, almost instinctive movement, Leila's palms met the cool, frosted glass, her fingers splayed against the surface. Sylus, his movements fluid and deliberate, trailed kisses down her back, each touch a spark igniting her senses. He then straightened, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of her spine.

A soft cry escaped Leila's lips as Sylus pushed against her, the intimate connection sending a wave of heat through her body. A low groan rumbled in his chest, an expression of the pleasure that coursed through him. He moved slowly, deliberately, each movement a sensual exploration. His grip on Leila's waist tightened, a silent expression of the intensity of their embrace.

Leila's fingers curled into tight fists against the cool glass, her knuckles white, as her body swayed with Sylus's pace and rhythm. The warm cascade of water from the shower above mingled with the heat radiating between them, heightening the sensations that pulsed through her.

A low groan escaped Sylus's lips as he reached for her neck, his touch both possessive and tender. A soft gasp escaped Leila's lips as she felt the warm press of his body against her back. He whispered praises in her ear, his voice husky with desire, each word a caress against her skin. "That's a good fucking kitten," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Just like that. Fuck."

Sylus watched as Leila's head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed, her breath coming in soft gasps. The sounds that escaped her lips, a mixture of pleasure and surrender, fueled a sense of possessive desire within him. The rhythm of their movements intensified, their bodies moving in a synchronized dance of passion.

His left palm anchored against the cool glass, while his other hand traced a slow, deliberate path down her body, lingering on the delicate curves and sensitive skin. He paused, his touch lingering on the most intimate part of her, his fingers gently exploring the source of her pleasure.

"Oh my god, yes." Leila breathed, her voice a husky whisper, as Sylus's touch in quick circles sent waves of pleasure through her body.

A low growl rumbled in Sylus's chest, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. The shared pleasure reached its peak, their bodies shuddering with the force of their release. A soft smile played on Leila's lips as she leaned back against him, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of their passion. "I can already hear the twins' bickering about not having enough sleep tomorrow morning," she murmured, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Sylus let out a breathy chuckle, his chest still rising and falling to catch his breath. "They’ll survive."

---

The dim glow of the monitors cast eerie shadows across the room, amplifying the tension thickening the air. Dainhart sat rigidly at the edge of his leather chair, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against his knee. His mind, once sharp and untouchable, felt frayed at the edges, gnawed away by an insidious unease.

He had been a step ahead last time. Barely. Celeste had bought him time—her blood had paved his escape. But now, time was running out. His jaw clenched as his eyes flicked to the city skyline beyond the reinforced glass, his own reflection staring back at him, dark and restless. He felt it in his bones: they were coming.

Sylus and Leila. He exhaled sharply, a humorless chuckle scraping his throat. What a twisted turn of fate. Leila should have been dead by now. The bounty on her head should have guaranteed it. He had made certain of that. And Sylus—he had expected Sylus to finish the job when given the opportunity.

After all, they had once been partners. A pairing forged in power, sharpened by ambition. Onychinus and Dainhart—the orchestrators of the underground, the ones who dictated the flow of chaos rather than being swept by it. He had stood beside Sylus in the bloodstained corridors of N109, had trusted in the ruthlessness they both wielded like a weapon.

And yet, Sylus had turned the knife on him instead. Not only had he refused to claim the bounty on Leila, but he had done worse—he had chosen her. Dainhart exhaled slowly, willing the frustration clawing at his chest to settle. Why?

It wasn’t just strategy. Sylus didn’t let sentiment cloud his judgment. If he had seen Leila as a mere tool, he would’ve used her, then discarded her. If he had wanted her dead, he would’ve finished what Dainhart started. So why the hell had he thrown away everything to side with her? The realization struck him like a gunshot to the gut.

Those two are fucking in love with each other.

Dainhart let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. It all made sense. Sylus wasn’t just protecting an asset—he was protecting her. He wasn’t just hunting Dainhart for revenge—he was making sure she lived. And Leila? She, the infamous Blackthorn Siren, who answered to no one, was fighting beside him.

His stomach twisted, a sharp laugh escaping him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Of all the reasons Sylus could’ve turned against him—money, power, betrayal—he had done it over her. Dainhart pushed himself off the chair, pacing toward the window, his pulse hammering through his skull. He could feel the walls closing in, the inevitable weight of what was coming. Sylus and Leila weren’t just coming for revenge. They were coming for each other.

And that was more dangerous than anything Dainhart had planned for. A knock at the door nearly made him reach for the gun at his hip. He inhaled deeply. Paranoia. It was sinking into his bones like a sickness.

“Enter!” he snapped.

The door creaked open, revealing a stiff-backed operative. “Everything is in place, sir. Perimeter’s secure, men are stationed at every entrance. No signs of movement.”

Dainhart nodded, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Sylus didn’t move in ways that could be anticipated. He didn’t strike when you expected him to. By the time you noticed, it was because his hands were already around your throat. His fingers curled into fists. He would not wait for that to happen.

“Double the men,” he ordered, his voice razor-sharp. “I don’t care if you have to pull them from the docks or the warehouses—no one gets through. No one.”

The operative hesitated. “Sir, the resources—”

“I don’t give a damn about resources.” Dainhart shot to his feet, shoving his chair back with a sharp screech. “Do it.”

The man stiffened before nodding and retreating. Dainhart inhaled deeply, trying to ground himself, but the unease never left. He had spent years building himself into the untouchable force of the underground. He dictated the game. He had never been the one running. Yet, here he was and Sylus was closing in.

Dainhart’s gaze swept over the men stationed below, their weapons at the ready, standing like an impenetrable wall of defense. For a brief moment, a flicker of relief settled in his chest—until a faint red dot crept up his torso, catching in his peripheral vision. His breath hitched. Shit.

Instinct took over. He dropped just as the glass behind him exploded, shards slicing through the air. His heart pounded as he pressed himself against the floor, ears ringing from the impact. Slowly, he lifted his gaze—his pulse spiked at the sight. A single, precise bullet hole marred the center of his portrait, right between the eyes.

With a swift, almost frantic movement, Dainhart's fingers found the hidden emergency button beneath his desk. He pressed it, the click echoing in the sudden, charged silence. The room plunged into darkness for a heartbeat, then lurid red lights flickered to life, casting an eerie glow across the space. A deafening wailing siren pierced the air, its shrill cry echoing through the base, a call to arms.

"They're here! Go go go!" Dainhart's men yelled, their voices laced with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. The once-orderly base erupted into chaos, a whirlwind of panicked movement and shouted orders.

Kieran chuckled darkly as he peered through the sniper’s scope, watching Dainhart scramble across the floor before bolting out of his office. "Motherfucker’s a coward!" he barked out, laughter spilling through the comms. His finger hovered over the trigger, itching to take another shot, but he knew better. He followed what Leila asked him to do, take a shot, miss it to scare the already-paranoid. Dainhart. They wanted Dainhart cornered, not dead. Not yet. Pressing a hand to his earpiece, Kieran grinned. "The rabbit has left his hole."

Dainhart’s breathing was uneven as he ran out, his pulse a wild drumbeat in his ears. He had been in high-stakes situations before, but never like this. Never where he felt like the hunted instead of the hunter. "With me," he barked, his voice slicing through the tension like a whip. "We’re heading to the south exit. Move!"

His men snapped into action, falling into formation around him, rifles raised and eyes scanning every shadow. Boots pounded against the marble floor as they hurried through the corridor, the flickering emergency lights casting distorted silhouettes along the walls.

Dainhart gritted his teeth. Sylus was toying with him. The sniper had been a warning, the power outage a second taunt. They wanted him running—wanted him cornered. Not happening. As they reached the stairwell, one of his men pressed a finger to his earpiece. "South exit is still clear, sir. We have a car ready."

Dainhart nodded sharply, motioning for them to keep moving. "Keep your eyes open. If you see so much as a shadow that looks wrong, shoot first." They descended quickly, the stairwell echoing with the sound of their movement. He could already see it in his mind—the black SUV waiting in the alley, the reinforced doors slamming shut behind him as they sped off. He just needed to get there.

As Dainhart reached the final steps of the stairwell, his eyes locked onto the black SUV parked in the alley, engine humming, ready for a quick escape. Relief was a fleeting thing—just as his boot hit the pavement, a violent boom shattered the night.

The explosion tore through the alleyway, a blinding eruption of fire and metal. The force sent Dainhart stumbling back, heat licking at his skin as shards of glass and twisted debris rained down. The deafening blast rang in his ears, drowning out the panicked shouts of his men. Dainhart’s breath came in ragged gasps, his heart slamming against his ribs. That wasn’t just a trap. It was a statement.

A low growl built in his throat as he turned away from the inferno, fists clenching. "We’re changing routes," he snarled. "Move. Now." But the moment they turned back toward the building, the radio on his belt crackled to life. A voice, smooth and edged with amusement, slithered through the static.

“Running already, Dainhart?” It was Sylus.

Dainhart’s blood ran cold. His grip on the radio tightened as he ground his teeth, fury eclipsing the lingering shock from the explosion. The bastard was playing with him. His men were already scrambling, weapons drawn, eyes darting to every rooftop and shadow. But it didn’t matter. Sylus had them exactly where he wanted them—trapped.

He forced his breath to steady before responding, his voice low and venomous. “You’ve made your move, Sylus. Don’t think I won’t return the favor.”

A dark chuckle crackled through the radio. “Oh, I’m counting on it.” Then, the line went dead.

Dainhart’s pulse pounded against his skull. He threw the transceiver to the ground, sending it to shatter at his feet. He didn’t have time to waste. “We’re going for the docks,” he snapped at his men. “Now.”

They moved fast, the scent of burning fuel and blood clinging to the air as they navigated through the alleyways. But the moment they stepped into the open street, something was off. Too quiet. Too empty. Then—click.

A metal clank beneath their feet. Dainhart barely had time to register the tripwire before the streetlights above flickered—then cut to black. A second explosion erupted, this time from behind them. Shrapnel and dust filled the air as one of his men was thrown to the ground, motionless. The others scrambled for cover, but before they could react, a new sound cut through the chaos. Footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.

He is no longer the hunter. He is the hunted. Then—he heard it.

A soft, haunting hum, threading through the smoke-filled air like a whisper of death. His blood ran cold. He knew that sound.

The Blackthorn Siren.

Dainhart’s fingers tightened around his gun, his heart hammering. He turned sharply, scanning the shadows, but she wasn’t there. Not yet. But she was near—too near.

The hum continued, low and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world. His mouth went dry. He had once mocked the rumors, dismissed them as mere theatrics. But now, standing alone in the wreckage of his own undoing, with nothing but that eerie melody wrapping around him like a noose, he understood. This was no performance. This was a death knell, a shift in the darkness, a flicker of movement just beyond the glow of the flames. Then, she stepped into the light. Leila.

She was calm, poised—untouched by the chaos surrounding them. Her dark eyes glowed with something quiet, something lethal. Dainhart swallowed hard and raised his gun. “Where’s Sylus?” He hated the way his voice came out.

Leila tilted her head, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across her lips after hearing the tremble in Dainhart's voice. “Busy.”

The hum was gone now. She didn’t need it anymore. The song had already done its job. Dainhart exhaled through his nose, planting his feet. “You think I’m just going to let you waltz in here and finish the job?”

Her smirk deepened. “No,” she murmured, taking another step forward. “But I do love watching men realize they’ve already lost.”

Dainhart fired. The bullet never met its mark. Leila was already gone.

Dainhart's grip on his gun tightened, as he scanned the chaotic scene, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, searching for any sign of Leila. He knew better than to waste ammunition on blind shots. "Come out, you bitch!" he snarled, his voice laced with a mixture of fear and rage.

A sudden, piercing scream ripped through the air, startling Dainhart and his men. They spun around, their weapons raised, to see Leila, a figure of deadly grace, withdrawing her dagger from the shoulder of one of his men. The man crumpled to the ground, his scream echoing through the base.

The moment another body hit the ground with a sickening thud, the remaining men faltered. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their grips on their weapons trembling. Then, one by one, survival instinct kicked in. A gun clattered to the ground as the first man bolted. Another followed, then another. And just like that, Dainhart found himself alone.

His heart pounded as he turned to see his men disappearing into the shadows, their loyalty crumbling under the weight of fear. He couldn't blame them. He wanted to run too. So he did.

Leila saw him move, her focus snapping away from the retreating cowards. Her eyes locked onto Dainhart’s back as he sprinted toward the docks. Without hesitation, she launched after him. Her boots barely made a sound as she closed the distance.

Then—movement. Five men emerged from the wreckage, stepping directly into her path. No hesitation. Just cold, merciless grins as they twirled blades in their hands. Leila slowed, exhaling through her nose.

They knew better than to waste bullets on someone who could weave through gunfire. Up close, with nowhere to vanish, they thought they had a chance. She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her grip on her dagger.

"Really?" she muttered, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

One of them lunged. Leila's response was a blur of motion. The dagger, a silver streak against the backdrop of moonlight, found its mark with chilling precision. The attacker stumbled, a choked gasp escaping his lips before he crumpled to the floor. The others, momentarily stunned, reacted. Steel flashed, a symphony of deadly intent. Leila danced, a whirlwind of motion, her dagger a venomous serpent, striking and retreating, a blur of deadly grace.

One by one, they fell, their surprised cries cut short by the sharp sting of steel. Leila, a whirlwind of motion, fought with a brutal efficiency, her movements honed by years of brutal combat, her every move a calculated strike.

The air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood and the heavy scent of fear. Leila, surrounded by the fallen, stood amidst the carnage, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light. The fight was far from over, but she had made her point.

She was not to be underestimated. Without pausing to savor her victory, Leila resumed her pursuit, her focus locked on Dainhart's trail. It was a swift chase; she quickly closed the distance, finding him at the docks where his boats rocked idly on the waves. The air was thick with the scent of salt and damp wood, the rhythmic creaking of the vessels a stark contrast to the violence she had just left behind.

Dainhart was just steps away from the boat when a sharp whistle cut through the air.

Pain. A choked snarl ripped from his throat as the blade sank deep into his hip. His legs faltered, his balance snapping like a severed wire as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the dock’s wooden planks. The world spun for a fraction of a second, the salt in the air turning acrid with the scent of his own blood.

“Shit—” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hand snapping to the knife embedded in his flesh.

He forced his head up, and there she was. Leila's form illuminated by the flickering dock lights. The Blackthorn Siren—silent, deadly, but utterly human. Dainhart yanked the knife from his hip with a ragged breath, blood trickling down his leg as he forced himself to stand. He kept the knife clutched in his hand, the metal a cold comfort. He didn't need it. Not yet. He still had his gun.

Or so he thought.

Leila moved before he could even raise his arm. A blur of motion, and then—crack! A sharp kick slammed into his wrist, sending his gun skidding across the dock the down to vanish in the water. A second kick followed, aimed at his ribs, but Dainhart twisted, absorbing the impact before lunging at her. She stepped back, fluid as water, avoiding his grasp but he was fast too.

With a desperate snarl, he closed the distance, throwing a wild punch toward her face. She ducked—predictable—but he anticipated it, bringing his knee up. It connected with her torso, forcing a breath from her lips as she staggered back.

Dainhart didn’t let up. He lunged again, and this time, he caught her. His weight slammed into her, and she hit the dock hard. Her vision spun, and before she could react, Dainhart was on top of her, his knee digging into her side.

Leila’s fingers scrambled for a weapon, anything—but Dainhart already had one. Her weapon. Her own throwing knife, still slick with his blood, was now clenched in his fist, its tip just centimeters from her eye.

She grit her teeth, both hands straining against his as she fought to keep the blade away. Her arms trembled with effort, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she pushed back with everything she had. But Dainhart was bigger, heavier, and his strength was fueled by desperation. The blade inched closer.

"You're not winning this," he growled through clenched teeth, pressing down harder. Her arms burned, her weak shoulder screaming under the pressure. A single centimeter was all that stood between her and death.

Then—a powerful force yanked Dainhart back, out of her reach. One second, he was above her, forcing the knife toward her skull, and the next, he was yanked backward with a vicious force that sent him crashing onto the dock.

Leila gasped, scrambling up just in time to see him struggle against the iron grip wrapped around his collar.

He stood there facing his old partner, his expression eerily calm. "Who do you think you are, laying a hand on her?" Sylus murmured, his voice a low, dangerous question.

Then, without warning, he slammed his fist into Dainhart’s face. Dainhart's head snapped to the side with the force of the punch, blood spraying from his lip as he staggered. But Sylus didn’t let him fall. His grip on Dainhart’s collar tightened, keeping him upright like a marionette in his hands.

Leila watched, chest heaving, as Sylus pulled Dainhart. The amusement in Sylus’ eyes was gone now, replaced by something colder, something razor-sharp. "You’ve been running for a while," Sylus said, voice quiet but dripping with menace. "Did you really think it would last?"

Dainhart, still dazed from the blow, let out a ragged breath. "Go to hell," he spat, his bloodied lips curling into a sneer.

Sylus smirked. "Oh, I’ll send you there first."

Then, with brutal efficiency, Sylus drove a kick into Dainhart’s gut. The force ripped the air from his lungs, his body curling in on itself as a choked sound of agony left his throat. Sylus finally let him drop, and Dainhart crumpled onto the dock, coughing violently, his hands trembling as he tried to push himself up.

Leila rose to her feet, wiping sweat from her brow as she stepped beside Sylus. Her gaze dropped to Dainhart’s sprawled form, watching as his breaths came in uneven, ragged pulls. He was done. He had fought, he had run—but there was nowhere left to go.

Dainhart let out a bitter, wheezing laugh, his fingers curling weakly against the wooden planks. "Took you two long enough," he rasped.

Sylus tilted his head, looking almost thoughtful. "We wanted to give you a show."

Leila exhaled, rolling her shoulder to shake off the lingering ache. "And you put up quite the performance," she added, voice smooth but laced with quiet steel. "Too bad the ending was already decided."

Before Dainhart could respond, Sylus’s shoe connected with his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone echoing across the docks. Dainhart screamed, a sound that was cut short as Leila’s dagger flashed across the air sticking the sharp edge on the wood beside his cheek, slicing a shallow cut on the skin. He flinched, his eyes widening in pain and surprise.

Dainhart, his body screaming in protest, tried to defend himself, but he was too slow, too weak. He was a broken toy, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He spat a mouthful of blood at Sylus’s feet, a twisted grin curling his split lips. "You’ve gone soft," he wheezed, his voice laced with bitter mockery. "All this… sentimentality. For Leila. A woman. The weaker link!"

Sylus’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with something lethal. His grip on the gun was steady, but his fury was anything but. Insult him all you want—he didn’t care. But Leila? "Say her name again. I dare you."

Dainhart’s laughter was a wet, gurgling sound. "You were a blade, Sylus. Sharp, merciless. Now you’re dull—rusted—for a woman who was meant to be a corpse."

Sylus clocked his gun, the cold steel a stark contrast to the warmth of the setting sun. "A weapon without an edge dulls," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "She keeps me sharp."

There was no fear in Dainhart’s face anymore—just the weight of inevitability. He had played his part. The game was over. A single gunshot echoed across the docks. Dainhart fell silent. Sylus withdrew his foot from Dainhart's chest, then nudged his shoulder with a casual kick, sending the body rolling off the dock and into the water with a dull splash. He then reached into his pocket, retrieving the handheld transceiver he'd taken from one of Dainhart's men.

"I know someone on the other end can hear me," he spoke into the device, his voice low and steady. "Your boss is dead. Cancel the bounty he placed on the Blackthorn Siren, unless you want this entire location reduced to rubble with all of you inside, at the push of a button." A calculated bluff.

Silence crackled through the transceiver then followed by a burst of static. A voice, flat and devoid of emotion, replied, "Understood."

Leila glanced up at Sylus, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he pressed a tender kiss to her hair.

---

The rumble of the speedboat’s engine faded as Leila slowed, guiding it toward the dock. The salty breeze tangled in her hair, and she couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face as she glanced at Sylus, who sat blindfolded beside her. “What are you up to this time?” His voice was steady, but she caught the subtle impatience beneath it.

Leila chuckled. “Patience.” She secured the boat, then took his hand, leading him onto the dock. His grip was strong, trusting, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself savor the way their fingers fit together.

“I figured you deserved something after that championship match two weeks ago,” she said as she guided him across the soft wooden planks. “Since you gave me your champion’s ring, I thought it was only fair to give you something in return.”

Sylus tilted his head slightly. “You’re not usually the type for sentimental gestures.”

“True,” she admitted with a smirk. “But I’ve been wanting this for years. Never had a good enough reason to get it… until now.”

She stopped walking, standing just at the edge of the pristine beach. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, waves lapping at the shore with a rhythmic hush. The golden hues of the sunset bathed the landscape in warmth, setting the white sand and palm trees aglow.

Leila reached up and untied the silk necktie that served as his blindfold, slipping it from his face. "Tada!" Leila exclaimed with her arms up in the air.

Sylus blinked as the sudden brightness hit him. His sharp gaze took a moment to adjust, then slowly widened as he took in the sight before him. A private island. Their own paradise.

His lips parted slightly. “You—”

“Do you like it?” Leila asked, watching him carefully. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, a rare, genuine smile curved his lips.

“You bought an island?”

She shrugged. “Figured you could use a place to disappear when the world gets too loud.”

Sylus exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You are completely unpredictable.”

She smirked. “And you love it.”

His gaze softened as he stepped closer. “I do.” Then, with the crashing waves as their only witness, he pulled her into his arms.

Leila felt the warmth of Sylus’ embrace, the weight of his hands at her waist—possessive, certain. For a moment, they simply stood there, the ocean whispering against the shore, the last traces of sunlight painting the horizon in molten gold. Then, with a playful smirk, she pulled away, tilting her chin toward the path leading inland.

“There’s more,” she said, stepping back onto the wooden walkway lined with flickering torches. Palm trees swayed lazily overhead, casting shifting shadows across the smooth stone path. The scent of salt and hibiscus lingered in the air, mingling with something richer.

As they ascended the steps, Sylus took in the architectural marvel before him. The estate was a seamless blend of luxury and restraint—white stucco walls with sleek, dark wood accents, massive glass doors that reflected the fiery hues of the setting sun. The mansion sprawled effortlessly across the land, its open design allowing the sea breeze to flow freely through its halls. The faint aroma of cedar and sandalwood drifting from the open archways of a mansion that seemed almost sculpted from the landscape itself.

Leila took out the keys from her pocket then slid the doors open. “Welcome home,” she murmured, leading him inside.

The interior was a study in contrasts—modern minimalism meeting untamed nature. The living space was vast, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the infinity pool. Soft, sun-bleached linen draped over low-profile furniture, and a statement fireplace of polished black stone stood at the center of the open-concept room. Light fixtures hung like cascading vines, their warm glow casting gentle illumination against textured walls.

Sylus let out a low hum of approval, running his fingers along the smooth marble of the bar. His sharp gaze flickered toward her, unreadable, though she caught the slight upward tilt of his lips. “You did all this for me?”

Leila folded her arms, leaning against the bar. “I did it for us,” she corrected. “Figured we deserved a place that’s ours. No watching eyes. No unfinished business lurking around every corner.”

Sylus exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I gave you a ring. You bought me an island.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “Kind of makes me look bad, doesn’t it?”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “You spoil me almost every day, Sylus.” She reached up, adjusting the collar of his shirt like she was smoothing out something invisible. “Now it’s my turn.”

A slow, rare smile tugged at his lips as he studied her, the weight of his gaze sending warmth curling in her chest.

“You realize what you’ve done, don’t you?” His voice dipped lower, edged with something unreadable.

Leila arched a brow. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve made it impossible for me to ever let you go.”

Her smirk softened into something dangerously close to tender. “Good.”

Sylus let his fingers trail over Leila’s wrist as they walked inside, their steps slow, unhurried—like for once, neither of them had to be anywhere but here. The mansion was sleek yet inviting, a perfect blend of indulgence and comfort. The open-concept space held modern furniture softened by warm lighting, and beyond the living area, a grand staircase led to the second floor.

Leila guided him through the hall, past the airy living room, and onto a sprawling terrace that overlooked the infinity pool. A plush outdoor lounge was set beneath a wooden pergola draped with sheer, billowing curtains, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the sleek stone. A tray of wine and fruit was already set out, like she’d planned every detail down to the very moment.

Sylus exhaled, his hand tightening around hers. “You really thought of everything.”

She smirked, nudging him toward the couch. “I didn’t want to half-ass it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime surprise, after all.”

He sat down, eyes never leaving her as she settled beside him, one leg curled beneath her. “I still can’t believe you did this.”

Leila tilted her head, brushing a few strands of his hair. “I told you, you deserve something that’s just yours. A place where you don’t have to be Sylus of Onychinus, just… Sylus.”

His gaze softened. “And what about you?”

She shrugged. “I think I deserve to see you like this. Unburdened. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just reached for her hand, tracing slow, deliberate circles against her palm. “You know,” he murmured, “I used to think I didn’t need a place to escape to. That I could carve out my own peace in the chaos.” He exhaled, gaze dropping briefly to their intertwined fingers. “I could adapt to any location and call it home as long as I'm willing. But now I have a condition, if you're not there, then I'm not interested.”

Leila blinked, her breath catching slightly at the unexpected confession.

He smirked at her stunned silence. “What? Did I finally find a way to shut you up?”

She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That was unfairly smooth.”

“I meant it, though.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “All of it.”

Leila let the moment settle, let the warmth of his words wrap around her like the evening breeze. Then, with a smirk, she leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

Sylus inhaled slowly, his hand cupping the back of her neck. “I know, my beloved.” His voice was quieter now, lower. “I love you. There’s no universe where I’m not yours.” He kissed her then, slow and deep, with the kind of certainty that felt like an unspoken vow.

The waves carried their steady rhythm against the shore, a constant, soothing presence beneath the quiet hum of the night. For once, there were no threats lurking in the shadows, no unfinished business waiting to be settled—just the glow of the sunset dancing across their skin. A bond forged in chaos, tempered in blood, and now, resting in peace. Wrapped in each other’s warmth, in the gentle hush of the sea, they let themselves sink into their quiet promise of forever.

[strangesthirdeye]

THE CIPHER BETWEEN US {ARTHUR MORGAN X FEM HOLMES! READER} { RDR2 x Sherlock BBC Crossover}

Disclaimers: This story is purely fictional and credit for the Characters and Storylines used goes to Red Dead Redemption 2  by Rockstar Games and BBC Sherlock and Y/n is you. This story has nothing to do with life or death. If anything, it's a coincidence. Some of the storylines I added in this story are mine. Kinda made Arthur Morgan not the only child in the Morgan Family. Instead he has twin. Female version of Arthur Morgan is on the way. (Veryyyy slow burn book. They both noticed but very blind sooooo)

I know you'll like to hear this but Arthur is TB free. So he won't die with TB. TB is still there but it will be given to another character.

Warning: mention of death, blood, kidnapping,, injuries, wars, murder, betrayal, lots of cases, lots of Pinkertons and outlaws, fluff, love, platonic, romantic, and more because its a lot of warnings.

Summary: Bearing the weight of her family's legacy, Y/n Holmes crosses into the shadows of America, seeking justice for her brother Sherrinford’s untimely death. Her only clue draws her to the eerie town of Blackwater—where secrets fester and a hidden web of outlaws awaits her discovery.

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"if you do that, then you and the Outlaws are no different" Edith spat.

The woman stared at him coldly. "then so be it"

Based on Red Dead Redemption 2. Characters and storylines are not mine but belong to Rockstar Games. Any additional storylines and characters are mine and Y/n is yours.

CHAPTERS:

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1: the Killer Prostitute of Valentine

CHAPTER 2: Americans At Rest

CHAPTER 3: Polite Society, Valentine style

CHAPTER 4: A Stranger Among The Outlaws

CHAPTER 5: The First Shall Be Last

CHAPTER 6: Smoke, Guns, and Guesses

CHAPTER 7: An Olive Branch in an Envelope

CHAPTER 8: Crossroads of Intellect and Outlawry

CHAPTHER 9 : Echoes of a Name Unspoken

CHAPTER 10: Letters Across the Ocean, Eyes Across the Trees

CHAPTHER 11: Dust in the Veins, Smoke on the Horizon

CHAPTHER 12: The Cipher Between Us

CHAPTHER 13: The Cost of Being Right

CHAPTER 14: Before the Storm

CHAPTER 15: Still Waters, Storm Beneath

CHAPTER 16: Morgan, Morgan & Co.

READ THIS

CHAPTER 17: Further Questions of Female Suffrage

CHAPTER 18: What Lies Beyond the Fence

Keywords:

Y/n : Your Name.

F/C : Favourite Colour.

H/C : Hair Colour.

Y/S : Your Skin. (Idk what words to use)

E/C : Eyes Colour.

F/F : Favourite Food.

F/D : Favourite Drink.

Characther biodata:

Name: Y/n Holmes

Age: 34

From: London

Related to: Mycroft Holmes, Sherrinford Holmes and Sherlock Holmes

Personality: Y/n Holmes is the opposite of her older brother Sherlock Holmes. She is determined, eccentric in her own way. Socially awkward investigator and yet still manage to socialize with other people as a way to break her own shell. Thinking with emotion although her brothers said it is a weakness but she sees it as strength and humanity. intelligent and a rational person. Know how to defend herself but sometimes caught off guard due to her being small among her siblings. The last daughter in the Holmes family.

Gap between her brothers: and sister 13 years between her and Mycroft. 11 years between her and Sherrinford. 6 years between her and Sherlock. 5 years between her and Eurus.

Mycroft: 47 (1852)

Sherrinford: 45 (1854)

Sherlock: 40 (1859)

Eurus Holmes: 39 (1860)

Y/n: 34 (1865)

who is Sherrinford Holmes?

Sherrinford Holmes is a proposed elder brother of Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes. His name is taken from early notes as one of those considered by Arthur Conan Doyle for his detective hero before settling on "Sherlock Holmes". In this story, Sherrinford Holmes is the second brother of the reader, Sherlock and Eurus. Mycroft stays as the eldest brother. 

There's a lot of things I added to this story. Side missions will be divided between the reader and Arthur so there will be some strangers missions or companion missions given to the Reader or Arthur as a way to balance this story. For example, the serial killer in Valentine where body parts were found was solved by you earlier in this story. 

[starrybl1ss]

burning desire౨ৎ

⋆｡°🕯️✩.˚₊

stu macher ghostface!abby x billy loomis ghostface!ellie x sidney prescott!reader

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟ⊹

<;> importaint info (please read) Hii! Sooo, the storyline of the fic is abt this part in the scream 1 but i changed it up a bit! ౨ৎ warnings: threesom, mention of blood, murder, smut, fingering, knife play, betrayal??, both psycos eating u outtt, pet names, swearing, trauma, death threats, angst, dead body but not really??? begging

꒰୨୧꒱

The night was a total horror, it just all started from the woodsboro murder of casey becker, the girl from your school and now it has turned into a nightmare to you and everyone else.

All the murder that the anonymus serial killer in the ghostface mask has done. Your friends, dead. It's all a tragedy,

The aftermath of the party at abby's is all fucked up. Now your running around for your life inside abby's house, terrified.

Your currently upstairs. Now your running down the stairs, sweat and blood all over you.

Your heartbeat felt like it stopped when you saw dina on the living room floor with blood all over.

You start sobbing. "O-oh my fucking g-god! Dina?!" You yelled while breathing heavily.

You quickly looked up as you heard a noise so your ran as quickly as possible towards the kitchen trying to hide when you bumped into abby.

"Woah, woah you 'kay?" She asked you. You panicked around and finally replied trying to catch a breathe "F-fuck, t-the killer is... is.. is fucking here, Dina's dead we need to call the cops and get the fuck out of here abby!"

You heard a noise and looked back quickly as you saw... ghostface.... standing there. You shrieked "FUCK, ABBY LETS GO!"

"shhh, calm down" she insured you. "ARE YOU MAD? THERES A KILLER INFRONT OF US" you shouted at her getting ready to run.

Suddenly, the killer took off the mask and... and... ellie?! "Suprise babe" she said grinning. "WHAT THE FUCK ELLIE?"

You were in horror. "ABBY WE SHOULD FUCK OFF AND RUN" as abby hugs you from behind, she grabbed something from her pocket, a soundbox...

She turned on the soundbox and began speaking. "Hello, y/n" with the terrifying voice that you have heard so many time through the phone before getting attacked.

"SHIT, ABBY LET ME GO PLEASE" you cried out. abby doesn't answer. Ellie got closer and lifts up your chin. "You thought i could do this fucked up game alone huh?"

Ellie lets out her hand as abby game the voice box to her. She turned the voice box on "wanna play a game..... y/n?" She laughed madly. She sounds like she has lost her mind.

"please.... Just fucking let me go..." you begged. Abby whispers in your ear "how bout we draw a little blood first?"

"god, please no... let me go please" you helplessly sob. Tears falling down your cheeks as ellie whipes them off. "It's okay babe, we'll be gentle" as her sweet caring smile turns into an evil smirk.

"Fucking hell ellie, i thought i trusted you" you said. "I know, i know im sooooo sorry babe" she whispers while holding you. Her left hand on your shoulder and right hand on your hips.

"i should have let you rot in jail until your execution day" you sobbed. "You'd miss me if i was gone doll" ellie said.

"See y/n? Wont you miss her if she was gone? Counting down days until she gets executed and die? You wouldn't want that right pretty?" Abby said still holding you back.

"I would, but now i wish you two were fucking dead" you replied with anger. "What if your the one whos gonna be dead tonight doll?" Ellie walk around slowly around the kitchen.

"Fuck you." You yelled while still trying to catch a breath. Ellie gets closer to your body. "What was that? You don't need to act so bitter babe"

"dont ever call me 'babe' again you fucking bitch!" You shout at her. "Remember i have a knife right? I could stab you and gut out your insides anytime. But i won't"

Ellie pulls out her knife as you try to flee from abbys arm but it was impossible, she was so strong. "FUCK YOU BITCHES LET ME GO!" you screamed.

Ellie drags the side of the knife around your bare stomache as you were wearing tight croptop. You felt the cold sensation of the knife on your skin without drawing any blood but is enough to make you panic.

"you look so pretty like this doll" said to you grinning. You were breathing heavily but her words somehow made you blush.

"Awh, your so cute" she teased dragging the knife lower down your stomache. "F-fuck..." you said as your skin gets cold due to the knife.

"Dont worry pretty, ellie's knife is clean. She hasnt killed anyone with it" abby insured you.

Ellie circles the side of her blade on your lower stomache with you closing your eyes. "Don't pretend that you dont like that" she said teasingly.

She stop and slides down the end of her blade carefully down your shorts without making you bleed. You whimper softly from her actions.

"S-shit dont fucking stop" you said desperately. Abby grabs your chin and starts kissing you as ellie drops her knife on the floor and unbutton your short jeans.

Now your just gonna let two psycopaths to ruin you rather than gutting your insides, enexpected but you enjoyed the thrill of it.

It was like 5 minutes ago that you were screaming, begging and shouting telling them to stop but this time you'll be doing the same but differently.

Ellie takes off your jeans leaving your panties on as abby lets go and sits down. Ellie pushes you like a fucking ragdoll throwing you down on abby's lap as you groan.

Ellie squats down infront of you still in the mysterious black coat. She pulls down your panties to your lower knee as you let out a small gasp.

"Fuck, you get soaked real quick babe" you were avoiding eyes contact from the tense when suddenly you felt her two fingers right in you.

"Sh-shit..." she whispered. She then curled her fingers that made you arch your back "ah- fuuuckkkk!" You groan out.

She pulls out both her fingers out of you. "N-no, no pleaseeee dont stop!" You cried out. "Don't worry babe, im not planning to anyways"

She quickly opens up your legs. Her face got closer to your soaking cunt. She gave you small licks around as you grabbed on to abby's thighs.

Then ellie totally eats you out like she was almost starved to death. "mmphhhh! Fucking hell! Shitshitshitshit- a-ah!" You yelled out.

"Fucking hell ellie, move out of the way its my turn to fuck the living shit out of her" as abby stood up and pushes ellie out of the way.

Ellie drops down and tumbles to the floor. "WHATS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM ABS? IM GONNA FUCKING STAB YOU IF YOU KEEP DOING THAT YOU SLUT" ellie yells at her.

"Yeah, you can stab me later after i fuck the brains out of this stupid girl" abby replied.

Abby starts kissing and making out with your sloppy cunt aggresively. Her saliva mixed with your juices. "ngghh- shoot im gonna fucking cum!" You shouted.

"Fuck this abby, i want her to cum on my stupid fucking face. IM HER FUCKING GIRLFRIEND! MOVE" ellie pushes abby and quickly eats you out.

A loud groan leaves your mouth as you came all over ellie's face making her satisfied. "Okay, now can you move?" Abby asks ellie in an annoyed tone.

"Fine whatever" ellie rolled her eyes and moved back. Abby sudenlly flips your body bruising you a bit. "The fuck abby? Could you be more careful with her?!"

"Shut up" she replied. Abby pulls down her pants revealing her black strap-on. Oh fuck- i mean its so big... if you could see it you'd probably think i wont fit at all.

Without hesitation, abby shoves her strap in you causing a little shock to you. "Fuck abby!" You yelled out.

She went back and forth. Fast, and i mean fast. You felt like she was about to cut you in half. Not like she hasn't tried doing that to you in more brutal way.

Abby looks at ellie. "Won't you just sit on her fucking face?" She said smirking. "Sure she could breathe?" Ellie asked grinning. You managed to choke up some words "Please just fucking sit on me"

"Your so desperate. Getting all nasty to be fucked by literal serial killers" ellie said holding your chin so you could face her. then she kissed your lips.

Abby got off of you and flipped your small body again from the floor.

Ellie took off her coat, her pants.... and her boxers. She went on top of your face, hovering on top of your lips. Your lips are just a few inches from her cunt.

Then she sat on your lips, bumping her clit on your cute nose, huffing. You twirled around her cunt. "Oh fuck..." ellie groaned.

Suddenly you felt someone breathing on your cunt. Thats when you knew abby was already under you, licking your fucking wet cunt.

You moaned into ellie's cunt from the action. Ellie stopped and when off you.

She kissed you on the lips and whispered into your ear "you know we're not done with you right, doll?"

The night would never end. Maybe it will, if the god damn cops caught you getting your brains fucked out by two serial killers.

౨ৎ

KAY THIS WAS NASTYYYY ANYWHO IM SOOO PROUD OF THIS AND SO HAPPY THAT I COULD POST THIS TODAYYYY!!! Lately been sooo obsessed with scream like i wish i watched it sooner!!!!ALSO PLS DONT ASK WHAT HAPPENDS TO DINA NEXT LIKE GIRL GOT STABBED AND IGNORE THE FACT THEY DID A FUCKING THREESOME NEAR DINAS (dead??? Idfk) BODY. LETS JUST HOPE SHES OK😭

[vivacissimx]

Hi, hey! :3 (warning for mentions of the @bu$e in Daenerys’ storyline)

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.

Please, feel free to ignore me, but I was just wondering what your thoughts are on Dany’s “If I look back, I’m lost” and generally on the way she deals with trauma, and if/how you think that relates to “to go forward, you must go back” and whether (any headcanons fully appreciated) you think she will deal with that in coming books?

I feel like her past is just waiting to swallow her up half a step behind her, but I cannot picture how she would actually confront it? Or do you believe she already has?

I love how you write characters facing their inner demons and generally undergoing mental health issues (Luke in GYBtM and Jon in All the Gin joints… and Viserra… and Theon… I mean, could I go on forever?) and I feel like canon!Dany would be such an interesting and important (healing-wise. I mean, she’s the character dealing with domestic abuse, no matter how much everyone in this fandom wants to sweep it under the rug) character to explore trauma with, but it hasn’t been done, yet, so I wondered if you had any thoughts you wouldn’t mind sharing…

Many, many thanks and courtly curtseys to you!

well thank you for the kind words! sorry for the long response time but I have been mulling on dany & abuse recovery in preparation for dany week on twit (info here if anyone needs it!) so I was organizing my thoughts at some length lol.

specifically with the phrase 'if I look back I am lost' that is a coping mechanism which is explicitly addressed in ADWD Daenerys X:

She called until her voice was hoarse… and Drogon came, snorting plumes of smoke. The grass bowed down before him. Dany leapt onto his back. She stank of blood and sweat and fear, but none of that mattered. “To go forward I must go back,” she said. Her bare legs tightened around the dragon’s neck. She kicked him, and Drogon threw himself into the sky. Her whip was gone, so she used her hands and feet and turned him north by east, the way the scout had gone. Drogon went willingly enough; perhaps he smelled the rider’s fear.

this is said in preparation for her coming face to face with khal jhaqo, who along with mago (the man who raped & murdered eroeh) daenerys once swore revenge on in AGOT. to that end, she also hatched the dragons in part to avoid being imprisoned with the dosh khaleen in vaes dothrak--a place she must now return to.

and I have talked somewhere else about how AGOT Bran I (gared's execution/discovery of the direwolves) & AGOT Dany X (MMD's execution/birth of the dragons), how questions of bravery and fear, life and death, are brought up such that they're asked in AGOT's very first chapter and answered in AGOT's last chapter. so we know that in moments when fear is present there is the flipside of the possibility of bravery, of characters making paradigm-shattering choices which they simply were not locked into before.

in dealing with trauma--and specifically I would hone in on the trauma of sexual abuse (by viserys & drogo, as well as the many horrific threats made towards her), of patriarchal structures which enabled her initial enslavement to drogo, of isolation/loneliness and her understandable difficulty with trust due to betrayal, of her forced abortion as done by MMD--I would say she is grappling with it continuously, yes. when in ASOS she tells jorah that a ruler who trusts no one is no better than one who trusts everyone, she is saying that both because it's true on it's face and also because she is trying to gently push away jorah, his toxic possessiveness over her which is fueled by his deeply inappropriate and unrequited romantic/sexual obsession with dany. though she's couching it in the language of her growing relationship to queenhood, she is also a young girl trying to slip out of the predatory grasp of an older man. certainly I would call that daenerys reckoning with her position of subservience to viserys and drogo. here we can also pin daenerys's multiple acknowledgements that drogo bought her from illyrio/viserys and that this economic arrangement is fundamentally unjust.

later, though dany's attracted to daario and fantasizes about him for a length of time, fantasies that emphasize his forceful and even cruel nature, there is a subtle shifting we can see. unlike drogo whose authority daenerys could only claim when it was to his pleasure to allow it, daario wholeheartedly supports daenerys as a queen (to the point that dany thinks to herself he wouldn't want her if she weren't one). he pushes her constantly to step further into her hard power/influence. daario does not desire dany's wifely subservience (even when she loves to do certain "submissive" acts out of affection; ex. kneeling and tying his shoes) but rather her boldness and ferocity. and this is a problem because daenerys cannot only be one facet of herself. that's the tension. I think of the phrase dany uses, that she wants a dress made of "starlight and seafoam" for daario's viewing pleasure. starlight & seafoam are both moon-coded things (the stars/the tides) and daenerys was once called "moon of my life" by drogo. daario and drogo are different men but to share a life with them, daenerys would have to restrict herself from the wholeness of herself. with drogo she was confined to the domestic sphere. with daario, the political.

now I want to point out that daenerys does not fuck daario the night when she says that starlight/seafoam line. in fact she sends him away for his harsh (though pretty much fair) criticism of her, including him saying that maybe she's forgotten who she is. rather it's the night daario returns after brown ben plumm has betrayed her that daenerys breaks down, confessing that she thought it was daario who would betray her-- suddenly, in this moment of vulnerability, she for the first time feels she can trust daario. and that is what leads to their intimate relationship beginning. daenerys had been yearning for someone she can both trust and love passionately for a long while. she understands that daario cannot be permanent in her life (due to external political factors but also simply daario's lifestyle as a sellsword) but she takes him for the limited time they have because he both comforts her and excites her.

generally, these steps where she reckons with or attempts to avoid falling into the cyclical nature of abuse are important. I would say with the reproductive aspect that her ongoing relationship re: protectiveness over children, both in general but also specifically with missandei, the meereenese hostages etc, show that she wants to have that nurturing relationship in her life. again with the doublestacked metaphor but dany chaining her dragons after hazzea's death is symbolic both of how liberation movements are often shackled by these conciliatory 'liberal' politics that seem like compromises but are in fact just cages, as well of her attempting to crush her own desires because she does not see the world where they are fulfilled as being possible (see: her reminding herself constantly of mirri's infertility prophecy). and indeed the parallel of dany trying to remember the name of the girl drogon killed while simultaneously miscarrying her and daario's child shows us just how impossible compromise (with systems like slavery) actually is. a truce is not a peace: it's a delayed surrender. the ideals/better world that daenerys is 'pregnant' with will never come to fruition under these conditions-- by the end of the chapter she mounts drogon and embraces the violence which is necessary for change.

okay, my final point, and my most long-winded: personally, l've only lived as much life as I've lived. I'm navigating the world as a queer survivor of color etc etc so that's the insight I have into recovery from assault, abuse. yes I think it is crucial that one finds pride and joy in discovering themselves, their identities, and refusing to apologize for any of it. being able to name the pain and humiliation and rage that you have lived and/or are living is... rattling... but it is a unimaginable weight lifted. where there are words there can be understanding. there can be connection.

however, knowing what is unacceptable vs. what is the base level of respect that every person deserves is not the same as the euphoria of experiencing respect, care, affection, love when it's 'right.' we need other people in our lives. the fics you mentioned: give you back to me is based on my first real queer relationship which began beautiful and descended into petty jealousy, hurt, finally violence. I wrote it because I have always wanted to redeem that story--I have wanted to forgive and, selfishly, to show how very much I cared despite the many moments where I am sure I was careless. love doesn't live here is emotionally based in my experience with conversion therapy and my ensuing estrangement from my family.

all of that is to say that I hope very much to see daenerys build a family of her own, and have children of her own. for someone like daenerys, 'recovery' (a process, not a destination) is found not simply in the ability to love humanity of which you are a part once more, but in experiencing the very raw process of sharing yourself, what made you yourself, and yes in in many cases, re-living these horrible things from a place of *safety* which is shared with (perhaps symbolized by) another human being to whom you are so much an equal that your story is treasured nearly as their own.

please understand that I don't personally subscribe to ideas of 'rot' in families, or inescapable cycles, or whatever. asoiaf's thesis on romantic love is shown in the relationships between rhaegar & lyanna and jaime & brienne: that 'love' is one of the few transformative forces in the world. however, asoiaf moreso excels in dissecting the sibling relationship (really the brother/sister one) over the husband/wife or even the parent/child dynamic. as put by deborah nord & joseph boone:

Theoretically, at least, the idealized union of brother and sister rests on a more egalitarian, less threatening mode of male-female relationship, precisely because the bond is one in which gender difference is rendered secondary to the tie of blood-likeness, familiarity, and friendship.

and this is the base equality I am speaking of which I hope to see in snowstorm, and whose equivalence I believe is already explored in rhaelya & braime. let it be noted that lyanna went to rhaegar only after her brothers had shown their unwillingness to stand by her side, advocate for her; whatever he offered her, it was something her brothers would not give for all their love of her. let it be noted that jaime and brienne's 'twinning' occurs as his relationship with his literal twin, cersei, unwinds. in total: as the sibling relationship crumbles, the romantic comes into play, in part as an attempt to redress what 'went wrong' between siblings.

in daenerys's case, her siblings are rhaegar and viserys. my headcanon is this: I would like for daenerys to witness arya & jon's relationship, reliving the pain of her and viserys's from a place of safety (no ADWD dany X where she is starving and bleeding does not count), seeing what it might have been had viserys remained the boy who let her into her bed when she had nightmares. snowstorm's relationship growing from her existing desire for that redemption of her brother (which we know she feels from when she named viserion, to do what viserys could not), to being curious about what it would feel like to experience jon's 'brotherly affection' herself, ultimately unfolding into desiring him as lover not as separate from said brotherly affection but encompassing that type of love and more. daenerys/rhaegar as it relates to snowstorm is slightly more complicated, we can do some psychoanalysis here about jon being rhaegar's son BUT perhaps sweeter would be to say that here is something of her family which survived, not a redemption of rhaegar (in this house we don't believe he needs to be redeemed LMAO) but rather a proof of his joy and love. for daenerys, who wonders about rhaegar's weariness and loneliness as it parallels her own, to have the physical representation of him 'surviving' would likely be uplifting. blink twice if this makes sense.

with that-- I think I've rambled enough now, lol. if any of this spoke to you on a visceral level then I would recommend reading her side of the story by alba de céspedes. just a qwik book rec from me to you.

[maevelovessae]

❧ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄, ���𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄-𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊

Masterlist

❧ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵: @monroesturnns

❧ 𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Kang sae-byeok x fem!reader

❧ 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦: Sae-byeok has a lip piercing, and the storyline is a bit different from the original squid games.

❧ 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: Violence, death, blood mention, guns mention...

slowburn! | enjoy <3

❧ 𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴:

in a game where survival is the only rule, Y/N and Sae-byeok are drawn together by an unspoken force—glances that linger too long, touches that mean too much. in the chaos of bloodshed and betrayal, their connection is a risk neither can afford, yet neither can resist. but in a place where attachments are dangerous, will their bond be their greatest strength or their ultimate downfall?

The sound of that all-too-familiar song echoed through the massive room once again, signaling the start of another dreadful day. Day 3. You were already so done with this routine, but what choice did you have?

Your eyes fluttered open, feeling the warmth of another presence beside you. Sae-byeok. It was so nice having her close, you both felt that but never said anything. As soon as your gaze adjusted to the dim lighting, you realized she was already awake, staring off into the distance. Had she stayed up all night?

"Morning," you mumbled, voice still laced with sleep, but still soft as always. "Did you stay awake all night?"

She turned her head slightly toward you, her cold but somehow comforting eyes meeting yours. "Yeah… I couldn’t fall asleep after what happened."

You frowned. Of course, last night’s events had been brutal. Every day here was a fight for survival. "Aren’t you really tired?"

She exhaled softly. "Yeah, but it’s okay. I preferred it this way… so I could really watch what was happening."

Your heart skipped a beat at that. There was something about the way she said it. Her expression was as cold as ever, yet there was something different in her voice, something deeper. A warmth hidden beneath the icy exterior. You couldn’t help but blush at the memory of her words from the previous night.

"I'm really fucked up with you Y/N"

What did she mean by that?

Shaking the thought away, you both stood and made your way to the breakfast line. Sae-byeok motioned for you to go first, an unspoken gesture of care, and you both grabbed your trays before returning to your shared space.

You took a bite and grimaced. "Ugh, they really don’t know how to cook in here. Like, I don’t either, but if they’re going to kill us, they could’ve at least put in a little effort, y’know?"

A sound broke through the bleak atmosphere. A laugh. Not just any laugh—Sae-byeok’s. Your breath hitched at the sound. It was the first time you had ever heard her laugh, and it felt like the entire world shifted. Her laughter was light, almost hesitant, like she wasn’t used to letting it out. But it was warm. Angelic. Her hand came up to cover her mouth as if embarrassed, her eyes closing with amusement.

You had never heard anything more beautiful.

Her laughter was now your favorite sound.

You found yourself laughing too, the moment feeling strangely precious.

"What are you laughing for, Sae?" you teased.

Still smiling, she shook her head. "You don’t know how to cook? How?" she asked, still giggling lightly.

You huffed playfully. "One time, I was frying an egg, and before I knew it, there was fire."

Sae-byeok burst into full laughter, her entire body shaking with amusement. You couldn’t help but stare. God, you loved hearing her laugh.

You continued, grinning, "I don’t know, but every time I try cooking, something like that happens. So I usually just eat the college canteen food since it’s free for me."

She shook her head, still chuckling. "God, Y/N… how is that even possible? I’m actually a really good cook. When we get out of here, I’ll cook for you."

Your breath hitched. Was that… an invitation? Was she saying she wanted to see you after this? To spend time with you? You felt your heart rush at the thought, completely unprepared for the warmth spreading through you.

Trying to keep your voice steady, you smirked. "I can’t wait to see if you’re really that good."

She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. "You’ll see that I’m really that good."

But what you really wanted was just to be with her.

The announcement cut through the air like a knife. The third game was about to begin.

Once again, you were led through the vibrant, eerie hallways. Everything about this place was disturbing—the games were horrifying, yet the environment was like a twisted playground.

You followed behind Sae-byeok when suddenly, you felt someone step unnervingly close. A breath ghosted over your ear, and a voice you dreaded whispered, "I can’t wait to see how you and your little friends are going to die."

Deok-su.

Fear clawed at your stomach. Before you could react, Sae-byeok glanced back at you and immediately noticed your tense posture. Her eyes darkened with anger. Without hesitation, she moved behind you protectively, her hand slipping into her pocket. In a swift, subtle motion, she flashed her knife at Deok-su, just enough to show him what she was capable of.

He scoffed but backed off slightly. Sae-byeok quickly tucked the knife away before any guards noticed. She was so protective of you. The way she had done that, so effortlessly, sent a strange, warm feeling through you. Your stomach twisted, but not in fear. It was something else entirely.

Finally, you arrived at a massive room where you were given five minutes to form teams of ten. Your group already had six. Gi-hun and Sang-woo managed to find two strong men, but no one else. You all gathered, trying to figure out what to do when a woman—Player 212—walked over with another man.

"Can we join?" she asked, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I’m Mi-nyeo."

With only seconds left on the clock, Gi-hun nodded. "Yeah, welcome to our team."

Then, you were led to the game’s location.

Tug-of-war.

Your stomach dropped at the sight of the giant pit, the rope extending across the platform. If you lost, you wouldn’t just fall—you would die.

You glanced at your team, worry creeping in. You weren’t strong. You knew that much.

"I can’t do it," you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Sang-woo turned to you, irritation clear in his voice, he then grabbed your arm a little rough. "What do you mean you can’t do it? You have to."

Sae-byeok reacted instantly, her body moving before she could think. Fury blazed in her eyes as she saw him gripping your arm in such a way. Her voice was sharp, almost a growl, as she demanded, "Let her go, now"

His expression twisted with irritation, but after a tense moment, he released you, leaving a faint red mark on your arm where his fingers had been. Sae-byeok's gaze flickered down to the mark, then back up at him, her jaw tightening. Without hesitation, she stepped closer to you, her presence a shield between you and him, her stance protective—warning

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. "I can’t… I don’t have any strength. I’m really weak. I’m sorry, I just can’t."

You looked down, ashamed, but suddenly, cold hands cupped your face. Your eyes snapped up, meeting Sae-byeok’s intense gaze. She was so close, so unbelievably close that you felt your entire body heat up.

"Of course you can," she said firmly. "If you can’t do it, then I can’t do it either. And now? What do we do?" Her voice softened just slightly. "You’re really strong, Y/N. I just know it. You can do this."

Your heart pounded. The way she was looking at you, the determination in her eyes—it made you want to believe her. For her.

Then, as if realizing just how close she was, Sae-byeok’s eyes flickered to your lips for a split second before darting away. She quickly let go, looking down, a light blush dusting her freckled cheeks.

"I have a way that can make us win this game easily," the old man’s voice broke through the tension.

You took a deep breath. It was time to survive.

The air was thick with tension as the announcement echoed through the room. They were picking two teams to go against each other. The first name called: Deok-su’s team. A wave of nerves crashed over your team as you all waited for the second name, the anticipation suffocating. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. And then—relief. It wasn’t your team.

The game began, and the atmosphere turned electrifying with dread. The moment Deok-su’s team started pulling with brutal force, the opposing team faltered. Their feet skidded against the cold steel platform, bodies jerking forward as the rope cut into their hands. The inevitable happened—they lost their grip. The crowd gasped as they dangled desperately, mere moments from death. Then, with a chilling snap, the rope was severed. The players plunged into the abyss, their screams swallowed by the void.

Your breath caught in your throat. The horror of it all was even worse than you had imagined. This was real. This was death. The weight of your own mortality pressed down on you as you began to think: Was this where it ended for you, too? Your heart pounded against your ribs like a war drum, your mind racing with thoughts of everything left unsaid, everything you never got to do.

Your thoughts quickly going to her, Sae-byeok.

The guards moved with mechanical efficiency, preparing for the next round. You willed the universe to spare your team, but fate wasn’t so kind. The next names rang out, and each one stabbed deeper into your gut:

“Player 456, player 199, player 001, player 218, player 212, player 067, player 068, player 046, player 138, and player 090.”

Fuck. You were fucked.

Guided by the guards, you stepped into the elevator. The walls felt like they were closing in, each second amplifying the pounding in your chest. Then, player 001 spoke, his voice surprisingly calm, almost eager. He began explaining his tactics, laying out a strategy with a wisdom that defied the horror of the situation. You listened, trying to absorb every word, every trick that might keep you alive. The doors slid open, and you walked out into the arena.

The rope stretched before you like a lifeline, or a noose. You took your place in the lineup: Gi-hun at the front, then Sang-woo, 001, the two other men, you, then Sae-byeok and Mi-nyeo, with Ali and the last man at the very end. Your hands wrapped around the coarse fibers, your grip tight, your heart hammering. Gi-hun tried to rally the team with words of encouragement, but you barely heard him. Your mind was an abyss of panic, dread creeping up your spine.

“Okay, so everyone ready?” Gi-hun called.

“Yeah!” your team shouted in unison.

You remained silent. The weight of it all had stolen your voice. Sae-byeok noticed. She turned her head slightly, her dark eyes locking onto yours.

“You got this. I believe in you,” she said, her voice steady, serious.

Then, the gun fired.

The battle began. You held on as if your life depended on it—because it did. The strain on your muscles was instant, but you pulled with everything you had. The other team was strong. Too strong. The rope trembled violently as they yanked with brutal force. Your feet began to slide.

“Bend back! Go!” Gi-hun shouted.

You did as he commanded, leaning back at a sharp angle. The other team hesitated, momentarily confused.

“Let it go!” Gi-hun ordered.

You obeyed. The rope slackened in your grip, and the other team, caught off guard, stumbled forward. Your own team nearly fell, Gi-hun dangerously close to the edge, but the plan worked. With renewed determination, you all pulled again, harder than before. The other team scrambled to regain their footing, but it was too late.

Pull.

You felt your hands on fire.

Pull.

You felt your arms weak

Pull.

You felt tears coming off your face

And then...

With one final heave, the opposing team lost their hold completely. They screamed as they tumbled forward, the rope snapping back with force as they plummeted to their deaths.

Victory.

Your legs gave out, sending you all sprawling to the floor. In the chaos, you accidentally fell onto Sae-byeok. Heat rushed to your face as you scrambled to get up, mortified, but before you could move, she pulled you back down. Your breath hitched as you found yourself lying beside her, your upper body half draped over her arm, your head resting against the nape of her neck. The world around you faded. The exhaustion, the adrenaline, the relief—all of it melted into something else. Something unspoken. Her closeness, the way she hadn’t pushed you away but instead pulled you in—it sent your mind spiraling.

What did this mean? Was she just exhausted? Or was it something more?

The guards began untying you from the rope, breaking the moment. You stood up, shaken but alive, and followed them back to the main room.

Inside the elevator, silence wrapped around you all like a thick blanket. You sat down, legs still trembling from exertion. Sae-byeok stood next to you, her presence a grounding force.

“Thank you all for doing a great job,” you finally said, your voice hoarse. You turned to 001, offering a small, grateful smile. “And player number one—”

“I remember my name now,” he interrupted, his voice filled with something almost like wonder. “I do. I remember. My name is Il-nam.”

Gi-hun’s lips curled into a soft smile. “So that’s your name. I’m glad you remembered.”

You nodded. “Yes, I’m so glad. Thank you, Il-nam, for your tactic.”

He smiled, a warmth in his expression that was rare in this place.

Gi-hun exhaled deeply. “We did it.”

But your thoughts drifted elsewhere. The bodies. The ones who had lost. Your stomach twisted.

“I feel so bad for the others,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “We… I don’t know…” You looked down, the weight of guilt pressing against your chest.

Sang-woo’s response was blunt, but unshaken. “Don’t feel bad. It was them or us. And we’re alive, and I'm sorry for overreacting with you”

You hear Sae-byeok scoff.

You said calmly: "It's okay, I was nothing"

Silence swallowed the group again. The truth was harsh, but undeniable.

You reached out, fingers brushing against Sae-byeok’s jacket, gently tugging. She turned to you, her face unreadable, but you knew. She felt it too. She then got down kneeling closer to you.

With a small, soft smile, you whispered, “Thank you, Sae-byeok.”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “For what?”

“For believing in me. For making me think I could do it. No one’s ever made me feel that way before.” The words spilled out, embarrassment creeping up your neck.

The elevator doors opened before she could reply, but as you all stepped out, she finally spoke.

“You’re welcome,” she said, her voice steady. “I told you you could do it. I told you.”

There was something there—pride? A glimmer of something softer? You couldn’t quite tell. But it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand.

And that scared you more than anything.

The air in the main room was heavy with exhaustion and quiet murmurs as you and your team trudged back to your beds. The adrenaline from the last game had finally worn off, leaving only the aching fatigue in its place. You barely had time to process it all before you noticed Deok-su standing on the other side of the room, his expression dark and seething with frustration. His team hadn’t expected your victory, and neither had he.

What caught your attention next was Sae-byeok. She was staring at him with a look so sharp and menacing that it sent a chill down your spine. It was intimidating, dangerous even—but somehow, it made you laugh silently, it kinda turned you on. You quickly sat down on your bed, the exhaustion taking over. Sae sat on yours, of course, both of you lost in the weight of what had just happened.

Time passed, and more teams began to return. You watched as the remaining survivors trickled in, one by one, but it wasn’t enough. The number of people left had dwindled significantly. The reality of the game settled into your chest like a heavy stone. You felt bad—horrible, even—for those who didn’t make it. It was a bitter thought, one you couldn’t push away no matter how hard you tried.

Sae-byeok noticed. Without a word, she placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch grounding you.

"Don’t think about it too much," she murmured, her voice softer than you had ever heard it before. "If you keep thinking about it, you’ll only make it worse. I feel really bad too, but it’s better if we don’t dwell on it."

You turned to her and nodded. Something had changed between you two. She was different with you now—softer, warmer. She spoke with you more, laughed with you. She comforted you in a way that was so unlike the distant, guarded person she had been before. Everyone had noticed. And now, as you sat there beside her, you realized something: you couldn’t imagine being here without her anymore.

Your mind drifted, drowning in that thought. When had she become this important to you? When had her presence turned into something you craved? But you didn't want to admit, it wasn't only her presence you craved, it was her too. 

She had always been strong, always kept to herself—but with you, she was different. The thought made your chest tighten. Was it possible she felt the same way? And worse, why did she have such an effect on you?

There were moments when she got too close—her voice too smooth, her touches too lingering, her eyes locking with yours for too long. It wasn’t just warmth you felt; sometimes, it was something else. Something you didn’t want to admit to yourself. It made your pulse quicken, your body tense in ways you didn’t understand. And yet, you never wanted her to stop.

Your thoughts were interrupted by an announcement.

"Dinner is now being served."

The routine kicked in. You stood up along with the others, heading toward the line. As always, Sae let you go first. It was such a small thing, but it meant something to you.

The two of you sat down together, eating as you always did, talking as if nothing else in the world existed. This had become something you looked forward to. A small moment of normalcy amid all the chaos. You needed it now. You needed her now.

Your conversation drifted to school, to teachers, to the mundane things that made life feel real again. Sae was easy to talk to—not because she didn't spoke much, but because she listened. Really listened.

"So yeah, I couldn’t pay attention with Mr. Johnson either, like you said" you said between bites. "I couldn’t focus. He starts talking about one thing, and then suddenly he’s off on a whole other subject! Then he forgets what he was saying in the first place!" You sighed in frustration, gesturing with your food in hand.

Your hair fell into your face, strands slipping over your eyes. But before you could move to fix it, Sae-byeok did.

She placed her food down on the bed and, with a quiet ease, reached over. Her fingers brushed against your skin as she tucked your hair behind your ear, gently adjusting your bangs as well. It was effortless, casual even, but it sent a shiver down your spine. The warmth of her fingertips lingered, an innocent touch that set your skin alight.

She had no idea what she had just done to you.

Your body tensed, heart pounding in your chest. The casual intimacy of it left you breathless, knees weak under the weight of her presence. It wasn’t fair—how she could do something so small and completely undo you.

"T-thank you, Sae," you stammered, barely able to get the words out.

She only nodded, a small smirk playing at her lips. "Keep talking," she said, her voice light, as if she hadn’t just left you completely at her mercy.

You tried—tried to act normal, to continue speaking—but all you could think about was the warmth of her touch, the way she had looked at you. The conversation carried on, but a new thought had settled deep within you.

You were falling for her. Hard.

It wasn’t just admiration, wasn’t just comfort. It was deeper, rawer. You found yourself wanting her attention, needing her presence in ways that terrified you. Every look, every word, every time she touched you—it sent you spiraling.

And there was no turning back now.

[theevilsewerrat]

Hopping on the Lilo and Stitch live action hate train cause I noticed something else that they botched, but haven't seen anyone bring it up.

Lilo adopted Stitch and now has the galactic counsel trying to forcibly remove him from her care and confine him with a bunch of other 'evil' experiments, because they do not believe Lilo is properly equipped to look after him. Sound familiar? Nani is an older sister turned sole parent/guardian of Lilo and has cps breathing down her neck to transfer her to the Foster system, because they are unsure if she is capable of properly caring for Lilo. The two of them being parallels of each other is actually super sweet and adds/reinforces themes, and ultimately deepens the bond between the two sisters.

Having Nani relinquish custody of lilo willing is a huge betrayal to the story itself, beyond just the meaning of ohana and opposing the plot. It's far too meticulously written to not be intentional, it's the only plot line in the movie, even though it was split into two storylines. Nani and Lilo aren't just connected by blood or love their stories were intertwined on a basic plot level. Ohana means cute and marketable family, and everyone else gets left behind. Because Nani isn't considered "important enough" or "marketable" they cut up her storyline and slapped a "woke" lable on it, destroying the story in the process.

Honestly, the og movie is actually incredible, and I think we are all able to properly appreciate it beyond just "aww cute" because we were given a version that stripped it down completely.

[rainbowmoonstonestories]

A Bounty As Boundless As The Sea | Chapter 8

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: One Piece (Liveaction 2023) Rating: Explicit Relationships Dracule Mihawk x F!Reader Characters: Dracule Mihawk, Original Characters, Akagami no Shanks, Roronoa Zoro , Perona. Warnings: Mention of blood and physical torture, violence, 18+ content (minors DNI), explicit sexual content, POV switching. Summary: Constantly evading capture due to a bounty on your head, you were forced to embrace the life of a pirate, despite your initial desire for a thrilling adventure and a simple exploration of the world. One fateful day, the Marines dispatched Dracule Mihawk to hunt you down, plunging you into a game of hide and seek with the formidable Warlord of the sea throughout the East Blue. However, to your surprise, the man proved to be less bloodthirsty and hostile than you had anticipated. His piercing, hawk-like eyes, shimmering with a deep golden hue, left an indelible impression on your mind, while his apathetic yet self-assured demeanor ignited a newfound sense of intrigue within you.

Credits: The divider was made by firefly-graphics.

Tagging: @gg-trini, @commanderfreethatdust, @canthebest1, @shakysif, @i-am-vita. If anyone else wants to be tagged in the future chapters, feel free to drop me a comment!

Read on AO3

As time progressed, the distance between you and Mihawk became increasingly frustrating to maintain. Concurrently, despite your bounty being cancelled, potential risks from undisclosed parties may still persist.

Author's note: It's hard to believe we're in 2025 already. The story is flowing well, and I expect the first part to conclude within the next chapter or two. I had planned to include an important scene with a major OP character in this update, but space constraints prevented it. I'll incorporate it in the next chapter alongside other plot developments.

The second part shouldn't be particularly long, but I want to write about daily life on Kuraigana Island. This means readers who haven't read the manga or watched the anime will encounter some spoilers. Since we don't know how many seasons the live-action will cover, it might take years before they film that storyline.

I wish you all a wonderful 2025!

You awoke to birds chirping, their gentle whistles drawing you back to reality. When you opened your eyes, sunlight streamed directly into them, causing you to squint and roll away from the harsh rays onto the cool grass. 

Upon discovering Mihawk's departure, a sense of melancholy settled over you. His solemn promise lingered in your thoughts, accompanied by memories of ardent kisses and gentle touches. The previous evening had marked a significant development in your relationship; you had simply held each other, finding peace and contentment in a quiet embrace with no need for anything more. 

Though naturally reserved, Mihawk revealed his softer side in private through subtle gestures of intimacy and affection. His tenderness emerged in the way he welcomed your presence and left thoughtful gifts on your pillow—each action carrying the same quiet precision that defined his character.

An involuntary sigh escaped your lips as his absence weighed heavily upon your consciousness. Yet you chose to trust his resolve, hoping he would return before the ache of separation could truly take hold.

You pushed yourself up from the ground, stretching to shake off the last traces of sleep. Making your way down the hill toward the village, you noticed townspeople already bustling between the harbor and main streets. Fresh fish scented the air while seagulls wheeled overhead, and the sounds of merchants setting up their stalls echoed off the surrounding walls. You'd nearly forgotten the vitality of your homeland during these early dawn hours.

Life had a peculiar way of shifting perspectives. Not long ago, you would have given anything to return home and forget your dream of adventure, one that had twisted into a nightmare of betrayal and deceit. Now you found yourself unwilling to stay, unable to give up the life at sea you had built through hard work, determination, and sacrifice.

A life with the ocean breeze blowing through your hair, and Dracule Mihawk by your side.

Mary-Ann visited the tavern in the early afternoon, choosing the quiet lull for an intimate conversation. Since your arrival, moments alone together had been extremely rare, and she craved the kind of private chat that only two best friends, separated by time and distance, could finally have. 

The tavern was comfortably warm, wisps of steam curling up from your drinks. Mary-Ann sat in thoughtful silence, choosing her next words carefully.

"So, I heard something interesting this morning," she said, sipping her tea with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Oh? Do tell," you replied with a smile.

"Your boyfriend came all this way just to see you, didn’t he? What a shame I wasn't here to meet him in person."

You pursed your lips and cast a suspicious glance at your cousin, who was casually wiping down tables nearby. "Runa told you, didn't she?"

Mary-Ann shrugged. "You know how she is. She said he's quite the handsome fellow. And judging by those old bounty posters, I'd say she's absolutely right."

“I mean—”

"You're not going to deny it, are you?" she teased. "Go on, don't stop on my account."

A wider grin tugged at your lips as thoughts of the Warlord drifted through your mind once more. "He's gorgeous, Mary-Ann. Breathtakingly so. But that's not the main reason I care for him."

"I bet. You've always been able to look beyond the surface. When I first heard the rumors about you two, I was skeptical… after all, he has quite the reputation. And those eyes of his..."

"Trust me, I was terrified when I first realized he was pursuing me."

Mary-Ann froze with her mug suspended in mid-air, unblinking. "Wait, he was?"

“Crazy, right?”

She sighed, setting the beverage down on the table. "Damn, sweetie. You've been through quite a journey out there."

"That's putting it mildly."

Her cheerful expression faded as a shadow crossed her face, giving way to a more serious tone. "So, he was chasing you because the Marines ordered him to? How did you get from there to this?"

You chuckled. "I honestly don't know. It just... happened naturally. Mihawk was never truly interested in capturing or killing me, he was fascinated by what I'd accomplished."

Her eyebrow arched impossibly high. "Seriously? Everyone says Dracule Mihawk is heartless and a savage on the battlefield."

"That's what I thought too. But believe me, he's the very reason I'm sitting here with you today."

She nodded. "Right, because he got your bounty cancelled. Runa told me about that too."

"Can't that girl keep anything to herself?"

Mary-Ann shook her head with a smile. "Can you really blame her for being excited?"

“Not really, but…”

The atmosphere grew heavy as Mary-Ann's face tensed, her gaze holding the weight of a thousand unspoken concerns as her lips formed a straight line. 

"You disappeared for weeks, Y/N, and we had no idea where you'd gone. Then suddenly we learned the World Government wanted you dead. Can you imagine how terrified I was for you?"

“I—”

"Look, I don't mean to sound harsh," she cut in. “I know it was difficult, and I understand why you couldn't reach out to us after that. But every day, I dreaded hearing news of your execution. I would break down in tears just thinking about it."

You had feared your family and friends would see you as just another wayward criminal lost to the sea, someone who could only disappoint them for committing what seemed like an unpardonable act. You were terrified to reach out, knowing the Marines could track any communication and endanger your loved ones. Yet you had failed to consider the most crucial aspect: how intensely frightened they all would be for your safety.

Your shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry, Mary-Ann. I know I've caused you all so much worry."

"I'm not blaming you, I know it wasn’t your fault. Though I have to admit, I spent a long time being angry that you chose such a dangerous dream."

Your eyes flickered as you fidgeted with your hands in your lap. "Actually, there were times when I regretted my decision."

Mary-Ann's warm smile returned as she settled in her chair. "If I were in your shoes, I couldn't have endured that alone. The way you found the courage to stand on your own, without support… it's truly admirable. I'm just so grateful you didn't give up."

“Why?”

She looked at you thoughtfully, her face glowing in the warm sunlight. "Because I've never seen you this happy before."

Oh.

"Whatever people say about Mihawk, I trust your judgment. And seeing how much you like this guy, I'm certain he's not the mindless World Government’s lapdog that everyone makes him out to be.

Your fingers reached for the cross pendant, subconsciously toying with it. "No. He's complex and contemplative, far more than just empty words and violence. He's direct, honest, and believes in me more than I've ever believed in myself."

Mary-Ann sipped her now-cold tea with a satisfied hum. "You spent time with him last night, didn't you?"

“Yeah.”

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Nothing, actually. We just slept."

She propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand. "Slept, sure."

"Is that really any of your business?" you asked with a playful smirk.

"You're my best friend, of course it is."

"Well, you're in for a disappointment; we really did just sleep. Get your mind out of the gutter."

“Mhh.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "But that's not all you've done together, is it?"

"Nope, not going there."

"Come on, spill!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands enthusiastically. “With his fierce prowess in battle, I bet he's just as wild in the bedroom—"

"Oh for fuck's sake. Stop it!"

She erupted into laughter, clutching her stomach and nearly toppling backward in her chair. Her booming voice echoed through the tavern so powerfully you worried she might shake the rafters loose. 

"You should see your face right now. You're as red as your mother's tomato soup!"

"Well, who do I have to thank for that?"

"Alright, alright. My apologies. I can see you'd rather not discuss those details."

"For good reason,” you retorted, crossing your arms. “I never ask you about your husband’s performance during sex, do I?"

"Ah, I'd be happy to tell you all about it. You see, there's this special thing he does with his ton—"

You waved your hands frantically. "No, no, please. I'm perfectly fine not knowing. I'd rather be able to look him in the eye without any disturbing mental images."

Mary-Ann dissolved into uncontrollable giggling, just like in the old days. Wiping tears of joy from her eyes, she finally caught her breath and composed herself. "I didn't realize how much I've missed this."

“I missed it too.”

"But not enough to make you want to stay, right?"

You released a gentle sigh, tilting your head. "It's not that I don't want to."

"I understand. Your heart belongs to the sea now… and to Dracule Mihawk."

Lost in thought, you gazed through the window at the pristine sky above. The salty scent of the ocean had become part of your essence, clinging to your skin and dancing on your lips no matter how much you washed or what foods and drinks you tasted. And the distinctive aroma of the man you had fallen in love with, like the finest spice in a gourmet kitchen, had woven itself into your being, remaining a constant presence in your life.

"Yes," you whispered, blinking back tears before they could fall. "It does."

The seven days spent in your homeland proved transformative, offering insights into aspects of life previously overlooked. This period of reflection facilitated personal rediscovery, lending new perspective to familiar routines and emphasizing the importance of rest. The nurturing presence of family and friends served as a powerful source of rejuvenation for your spirit.

Runa struggled the most with your impending parting, retreating to her room the moment she noticed your packed belongings. After half an hour of coaxing, she finally opened the door, her face tear-stained, her breath hitching with crying. 

"Why do you have to go?" she asked, curling into a ball on her bed. "Why did you have to meet that Warlord?"

"Runa, it's not that simple," you said softly, placing a gentle hand on her knee. "I have a whole life waiting for me; a job, someone counting on my services, and so many places still to explore."

"But it's so dangerous out there!" 

"I can’t deny that, Ru. But I know you're mature enough to understand why I need to follow this path."

"No," she sniffled. "I know why you want to go, but I just can't make sense of it. Why risk your life when you could be safe and comfortable? It's not like you're planning to sail the Grand Line."

You hesitated, unable to find the right words to offer. The idea of venturing further had been growing in your mind—a chance to push beyond familiar waters. Though the East Blue was vast, you felt you had visited every corner of it, from remote islets to bustling cities. While you once dismissed the Grand Line as too risky, you now wondered if you might be ready to take on its challenges somehow.

Your silence made Runa's eyes widen in panic. "Wait… you won't go to the Grand Line, right? Please tell me you won't!"

"To be honest, Runa, I'm not sure,” you admitted. “While I haven't made any specific plans, I can't promise I won't consider that possibility someday."

"You can't do that! You may never return!"

A soft smile tugged at your lips. It seemed a flair for the dramatic truly ran in your family.

"Ru, I know I'm asking a lot. I don't expect everyone to agree with my choices. All I'm asking for is your acceptance of the journey I must take."

"Well, I refuse," she declared between hiccups, tears streaming down her face in endless rivulets.

“Ru—”

"No, I mean it. I don't want Dracule Mihawk to take you away from us. I don't want you to go to the Grand Line. I don't want you to be a pirate. And I certainly don't want you to put your life in danger every single day."

You exhaled deeply, brushing her damp hair away from her eyes. "Nobody is taking me away from you, and being a pirate doesn't mean I'm going to become a bad person."

"It's not about that. Being a pirate puts a target on your back, doesn't it?"

"I only became a target because of bad luck,” you explained. “A chain of unfortunate events forced me to do something terrible, something I would never choose unless I had no other option."

She bit her lower lip hard enough to nearly make it bleed. "And what if you find yourself in that situation again? What if you need to survive and the World Government condemns whatever means you have to use? I doubt even Mihawk can protect you from that all the time. How well do you know this man, anyway?"

Knowing there was no response that could contradict the truth of your cousin’s statements, you took her hand and gave it a light squeeze. "I can't promise you that things will be easy. All I can do is assure you that I'll be as careful as I can be, and call you at least once a week to keep you updated about my whereabouts."

"How can I be sure you won't end up with another bounty?"

"The reason I got a bounty in the first place was my inexperience."

She pouted, her throat tightening with emotion. "It's not enough, Y/N."

"I know, and I wish I could give you more reassurance."

"You're going to leave regardless of what I say, aren't you?"

“Yes.”

Her lips quivered as fresh tears soaked into her shirt. "Fine. Go ahead and do whatever you want, then."

The resentment was clear in her voice, anger and disappointment blazing in her darkened eyes. It pained you deeply to leave her this way; hurt, angry, and utterly miserable. Knowing she might hold a grudge against you made your determination waver, but abandoning your commitments and chosen destiny was simply not an option you were willing to consider.

With a gentle kiss on her forehead, you rose from your position. Maintaining your poise, you proceeded toward the door, accepting that you must once again depart from your cherished foundations in pursuit of a life that promised the fulfillment you had yet to discover in your hometown.

And of a man whose undefined role in your relationship held profound significance.

Before you could leave the room, Runa called your name, halting you mid-stride. You turned to look at your cousin one last time, as she hesitated, getting up slowly from the bed but staying a few paces away.

Finally, she ran to you for a tight hug, wrapping her arms around your neck and pulling you against her. She breathed heavily into your hair, whimpering and shaking, barely releasing you to say, "If that guy ever dares to hurt you, I swear I'll kill him with my own hands. I don't care how massive that sword of his is.”

Embracing her tightly, you felt your own tears cascade down your cheeks while a soft laugh escaped your lips. After dabbing your eyes dry, you pulled back to take in the fierce look on her face, which gave her a maturity you had never seen in her before.

"I'll take your word for it."

It had been three weeks since you'd last seen Mihawk. You dove back into your sea routine with renewed intensity, sailing tirelessly from port to port. 

Each day brought pleas to Isaiah for more assignments as you tried to outrun time's sluggish pace. While the busy schedule didn't quite ease your restlessness, it at least kept your mind from lingering too long on thoughts you'd rather avoid. 

The Warlord had returned to the Grand Line, withdrawing into his usual silence without any communication. You wanted to trust him—truly—and a part of you would never doubt his word. Yet the uncertainty of when he would return created an unbearable emptiness in your heart, one that left an aching void nothing else could fill.

Every night felt dull and meaningless, your bed suddenly becoming colder and much too spacious for you alone. The bathtub was stifling, each soak a reminder of your passionate moment with the swordsman, awakening desires you struggled to contain. Your cabin was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and every solitary meal tasted bland and lifeless. A deep ache consumed you, for your loved ones back home, for Mihawk's presence beside you, and for companionship to fill the endless lonely days.

Though you didn't lament leaving home again, the extended isolation was beginning to take its toll.

Fueled by pent-up emotions, you began picking fights more often than necessary. You weren't actively looking for confrontations, but after the incident on Mirror Ball Island, your patience with profiteering scoundrels had worn thin. You refused to let anyone take advantage of your services again.

One day, you stood with unwavering confidence before another fool who tried to cheat you out of your fair price, methodically counting the banknotes between your fingers. The thug snarled, blood dripping from his thrice-broken nose as he twisted against the ropes binding his hands. While you preferred peaceful solutions, mercy had no place in this world.

"This is more like it," you said smugly, securing your Berries into the inside pocket of your jacket. "It was nice doing business with you."

"You damned witch," he snarled in response. "If you think this is over—"

"Oh, it is," you cut him off sharply. "I wasn't the one who violated our agreement in the first place."

"Tch."

"Smart of you to stay quiet."

You pivoted on your heels and strode down the empty hallway, your sword and pistols echoing with metallic clinks against your sides. Before you could round the corner toward the harbor, the man called out from behind, his harsh voice booming with arrogance, causing you to stop abruptly.

"Must be real nice having that infamous Warlord watching your back and cleaning up your messes."

Your jaw clenched at the insult, striking a raw nerve. You turned menacingly, boots grinding against the dirt as you stalked back to where the man lay sprawled, each step deliberate and radiating malice. The man's smug expression wavered under your piercing gaze, but his words hung irretrievably in the air. 

You crouched down, your voice lowering to a deadly whisper that carried the same bone-chilling edge as Mihawk's infamous demeanor. "If you think he's my babysitter, you're dangerously mistaken."

The thug’s breath hitched, but you didn’t stop there. Your hand shot out, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and yanking him closer. “I fight my own battles. I settle my own scores. And I certainly don’t need anyone to clean up after me. So, unless you want me to show you just how much I don’t rely on him, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

You let him go with a forceful shove, standing tall as you dusted off your hands. The scammer scrambled backward, his face pale as he muttered half-hearted apologies. But then, under his breath, emboldened by the distance between you, he sneered, "Figures a brute like him would choose someone just as savage. Warlord or not, he's still a glorified pirate.”

The muscles in your shoulders tensed visibly, your expression cold and unyielding as a storm brewing on the horizon. “What did you just say?”

His bravado faltered again, but he pressed on, perhaps out of misplaced courage or sheer stupidity. “I’m just saying, someone like him thinks he’s above the law because he waves a giant sword around and terrorizes everyone who crosses his path. It’s pathetic. You’re both—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish. In a blur of movement, you grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet with surprising strength. “Listen closely,” you hissed, your face inches from his. “You don’t get to speak his name, let alone insult him.”

Your grip tightened, and the scammer squirmed, realizing too late that he had pushed far beyond the limits of your tolerance.

“That ‘glorified pirate’ could destroy you and everything you’ve ever known with a flick of his wrist. Do you know why he doesn’t?”

The thug shook his head frantically.

“Because unlike you,” you spat, “he has honor. He got strength you couldn’t even begin to understand, and he doesn’t waste it on cowards who can’t even win a simple scam. Next time you even think about speaking ill of him, ask yourself—are you prepared to deal with the consequences of your actions?”

You dropped him to the ground like a sack of bricks, leaving him gasping for air. "You are the only pathetic one here."

Without another word, you strode back toward your ship, your blood still boiling with rage. As you disappeared into the crowd, you grumbled curses and complaints under your breath, uncaring about the passersby who eyed you as if you had lost your sanity.

Heavens above, you longed desperately to see Mihawk again.

Weeks had turned into months, and it had become overwhelmingly unbearable. 

The Warlord's extended absence had created a palpable void across the East Blue region and in your personal life. Despite your resolute exterior, the question gnawed at you: would he honor his promise and return, proving his commitment to the bond you'd forged together? Though you wanted to believe in his reappearance, doubt crept in like an unwelcome shadow. You waited for any indication of presence, whether through reported sightings or even a single communication via transponder snail—none of which had materialized.

It unsettled you to realize how deeply he had influenced your thoughts, each day without him intensifying the craving that consumed both your soul and flesh. Even self-gratification brought no relief to your nerves, feeling hollow and incomparable to his touch. 

Missing him was truly maddening, but you could only wait and hold fast to his promise.

Meanwhile, your dealing job continued with more excursions and fruitful exchanges, immersing you in dynamic expeditions that provided just the right balance of stability and excitement. It was a good consolation, something that brought joy and gave your days purpose when you woke each morning with the sun rising. This was exactly what you'd always wanted; a life you wholeheartedly enjoyed, one you had chosen regardless of its lurking dangers over the comfort and security of your hometown. 

Still, as months went by, it became clear that the East Blue's opportunities were growing scarce. The region's limitations had become increasingly apparent, with Isaiah himself noticing the declining quality of your acquisitions. Though he was understanding about it, you both recognized that your finds were now predictable and less remarkable than before.

In hindsight, you should have anticipated his proposal.

"Wait, are you serious?" you asked, knitting your eyebrows.

"I know this is sudden, but honestly... I've been considering it for a while now."

"I thought you preferred avoiding the Grand Line," you remarked. "How are you planning to get there?"

He drew in a deep breath, folding his hands on the lantern-lit table. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"That's quite the plan to start with."

He laughed. "I know. I have no means to cross the Reverse Mountain, and I'd rather take the other route if I could."

"You can't simply sail through the Calm Belts in an ordinary ship."

"I'm aware. At minimum, I'd need one with a Seastone-lined hull,” he said firmly.

"Isaiah, let's be realistic. Seastone is an extremely rare mineral that only the Marines and World Government have access to."

He massaged his temples. "Yeah, that's the problem."

"So, you're only speaking hypothetically here."

"I am and I’m not. Look, I've always said I was content living here, but I'm getting tired of seeing the same faces and following this mundane routine. Even you know the East Blue has its limits. Sooner or later, there won't be anything left for us here."

Your eyes narrowed. “Maybe. But why are you speaking in plural?"

"Because this isn't just about me, Y/N. I want you to be part of this."

A heavy silence fell as you turned his words over in your mind, trying to make sense of them.

“Isaiah, what—”

"I know I don't have the means right now, but I've got connections. People who could help us form the crew we need and obtain some Seastone."

You exhaled. "Isaiah, listen to me for a second. While I've considered reaching the Grand Line someday, even a Seastone-lined ship wouldn't fully protect us from Sea Kings. They can still spot ships from the surface and attack any areas not protected by the mineral."

Isaiah nodded. "Exactly, we need to gather skilled people. Sailors with real talent and experience navigating the Calm Belts."

You sat in contemplation, weighing the risks against the potential rewards.

"Think about it. You could benefit too; after all, doesn't Mihawk have a residence in the Grand Line?"

“He does, but…”

"If we bypass Reverse Mountain, we could travel through the Calm Belts and establish the most efficient route."

"Come on, the Grand Line is vast. Some parts of it take years to reach."

"And it could take us years just to leave the East Blue anyway. I'm only asking you to consider the possibility."

This thought had been weighing on your mind more and more. If your relationship with Mihawk deepened further, you knew he couldn't simply abandon his duties to visit you in the East Blue. It would be unreasonable to expect him to give up his title and retire, reducing Yoru to a mere wall decoration. 

And certainly, enstablishing a long-distance relationship simply wasn't an option you could accept.

Yet, could you and Isaiah realistically cross the Calm Belts without being thrown overboard and devoured by a Sea King? While Reverse Mountain seemed like the better alternative in theory, it came with its own deadly risks. Put simply, neither path seemed safe enough for you to attempt at this time.

"I will, of course," you replied. "But I can't make any promises."

"That's fine. I would love to have you as part of my crew, Y/N, but I won't pressure you into it."

A smile crossed your face as he left his seat, bid you goodnight, and retreated to his room with measured steps. Your thoughts swirled in disarray as you stared at the lantern's glow—your mind adrift in possibilities— transfixed by its golden hues. 

Like the mesmerizing amber glow of Mihawk's piercing eyes.

Four long months had passed without a glimpse of the Warlord. From time to time, you asked Isaiah whether his contacts had heard any news of Mihawk's location or caught wind of rumors from across the four seas. So far, no significant news had emerged—his activities in the Grand Line had been unusually quiet and uneventful, nothing noteworthy enough to stir up any gossip.

As disappointing as it was, you had long since accepted it. Your faith in him remained unshaken, as you knew in your heart he would honor his promise and return to the East Blue for you, without fail. The ache of separation endured, but your strength of character carried you through each day, bolstered by your independence and resilience in your work.

However, nothing could have prepared you for what would become the most terrifying, life-threatening experience of your maritime career.

Notwithstanding prior experience and better judgment, you found yourself venturing once again into potentially hostile territory. 

The initial contact seemed legitimate and innocent enough: a potential client at a local tavern presented what appeared to be a straightforward business transaction of modest scale. The rendezvous point was on an inhabited island, with nothing outwardly suspicious about the arrangement. Red flags immediately went up when you arrived to find the meeting site was an isolated warehouse, completely cut off from civilization with no nearby buildings. The deal's questionable legality didn't faze you, that was normal in your line of work. But the circumstances raised significant concerns that warranted immediate withdrawal rather than merely exercising heightened vigilance.

No matter how capable you had become, certain battles were not meant to be fought alone.

You crept forward with caution, one hand resting on the sword at your hip while the other hovered near your holstered pistol. The decrepit wooden structure loomed ahead, its unstable frame making your skin crawl in alarm. 

A prudent course of action would have been to withdraw to your vessel without engagement. Still, something compelled you onward as you pushed open the door with a disturbing creak. The interior was dim and barren, containing nothing but scattered hay and broken planks, with decaying support beams that somehow still held the structure upright. 

The vast space had only a single entrance; the doorway you had just passed through. Though the contractor might simply be running late, your mind filled with darker possibilities, drowning out any optimistic thoughts. Before you could return outside to wait, the door slammed shut with a thunderous bang that echoed through the hollow chamber, making you jump and gasp.

An eerie silence descended, with no indication of activity outside. Upon attempting to exit, you discovered the door was immovable, refusing to yield even a fraction despite applying considerable force against the deteriorating structure.

You slammed against it repeatedly with your shoulder, until the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. Dark wisps curled up from beneath the door frame, forcing you to stumble backward as flames suddenly erupted in an incandescent blaze. You stared in horror at the advancing inferno, your eyes wide as the temperature soared with each lick of fire.

You spun around, desperately searching for another escape route, but found none. The wood greedily absorbed the flames, swallowing you into a scorching circle. You ran from one side to another, pounding your feet against the planks in hopes of creating an opening to slip through. Unfortunately, by the time you managed to make cracks and fracture pieces, the fire had effectively blocked your way to freedom.

The gravity of the situation took a moment to sink in. Your breath shortened as you panted and coughed, the smoke burning through your nose and filling your lungs. Sweat trickled from your hairline down your face as pieces of wood broke and fell from the roof. 

You leaped aside to dodge a massive girder crashing to the ground, but the sudden movement sent you reeling back toward the flames. A tongue of fire lashed out and caught your neck, searing pain shooting through you as your skin blistered and tore. You screamed in agony, clutching the burn with trembling hands as tears welled up, both from the excruciating sting and the dire reality of your predicament.

Though your smoke-filled lungs struggled for air, you refused to accept defeat. Your vision blurred as you climbed along the remaining foundations, only to slip and lose your balance, crashing onto your back. Your life flashed before your eyes, memories of childhood, faces of loved ones, and recalled Runa's distressed countenance as she implored you to reconsider your departure.

“This isn't just about me, Y/N. I want you to be part of this."

A heavy silence fell as you turned his words over in your mind, trying to make sense of them.

“Isaiah, what—”

"I know I don't have the means right now, but I've got connections. People who could help us form the crew we need and obtain some Seastone."

You pictured Isaiah's determined expression as he shared his aspirations of venturing to the Grand Line, an ambitious journey he envisioned undertaking together.

"This isn't farewell."

"Really?"

With a sigh, Mihawk sat up straight, facing you. His expression was serious and resolute. "You ought to have more faith in what I say."

Although his repeated assurances and actions could prove his sincerity, a persistent doubt was rooted in the recesses of your psyche. His motives were clearly not a pretense, yet that skeptical inner voice refused to be silenced completely.

"What further proof do you require from me?"

You pressed your lips together, contemplating the most appropriate response to give him. As silence lingered, Mihawk reached for the golden pendant hanging around your neck. "I don't give meaningless gifts. This necklace is more than mere decoration."

“I know.”

"If you do, then cease doubting my will to see you again."

Your thoughts turned to Mihawk, and you were gripped by a crushing despair. The bitter realization dawned that he would return to find only ashes where your life had been claimed by these merciless flames.

"I'm just wondering if I should start shopping for a wedding outfit," Micah teased. "I don't want to miss out.”

A bitter laugh escaped between your sobs as you struck the ground with your fist. Life held so much more in store for you, so many experiences yet to come, so many reasons to keep fighting and survive. 

“I don’t have the patience to constantly remind you of your worth, Y/N.”

Your grin vanished instantly, replaced by an expression of utter shock. Countless thoughts raced through your mind, but you couldn't focus on any of them. All you could process was the sound of your name, spoken aloud by Mihawk for the very first time since you'd known him.

And it felt exquisite, resonating in your ears like a perfectly struck chord.

“What did you just say…?”

"Has your hearing suddenly failed you?"

"No, I mean—" You touched his warm cheek with trembling fingers, his sideburns gently prickling your sensitive skin. "You said my name. You've never done that before."

"Unless you prefer I address you as 'Cutthroat' instead."

With a rapid intake of breath, you grasped the lapels of his coat and pulled him into another, fervent kiss. "Don't you fucking dare."

A guttural wail erupted from your throat, straining your vocal cords as your eyes burned with the same intensity as the surrounding blaze. Clutching the golden necklace with your hand, you hoped for a miracle to occur, for anyone in the distant villages to notice the rising smoke and come to your rescue before the flames consumed you. Digging your nails into the dirt, you prayed between choked weeping, casting your pride aside as the fire advanced.

Then, like a mirage, a possible route to salvation appeared in front of you. The fallen rafter had created an acute angle against one of the last standing supports. Above it, an opening in the roof revealed the sky, so blue and beautiful it seemed like divine intervention. You assessed the situation methodically, mapping out each critical point along the potential trajectory, your heart hammering in your chest. It was perilous, considering you could easily lose your footing once more and plunge into the flames below. 

With the limited alternatives available, this presented a more viable choice than remaining passive and succumbing to the inevitable.

Inhaling deeply, as far as your body allowed, you forced yourself to your feet and took a running start, racing along the rafter and leaping onto the support before it could collapse. You clung to it with your arms and legs like a monkey on a tree, carefully sliding up toward the roof as holes and tears formed in your jacket from the crackling flames. The heat was unbearable, the smoke rising so high it seemed to chase you to the top. Your right boot slid from the wooden pillar, but you maintained your grip by channeling all your strength into your arms. 

You were so close now, reaching for the ceiling boards and twisting your torso, your legs painfully crossed around the foundation piece. Gritting your teeth, you fought against your blurring vision and fading focus, summoning one final burst of willpower to propel yourself upward and slam against the edge of the broken roof. Your feet swung precariously close to the flames as your hands clawed frantically ahead, dragging you to safety. 

Finally, you were outside, gulping in fresh air between violent coughs that expelled ash from your airways. As you lifted your head, you caught sight of a small vessel in the distance, its Marine flag billowing, sailing away from the island's port. 

Whether that meant anything in relation to the arson or not, there was no time to dwell on it. The warehouse was on the verge of collapse, with parts of the roof crumbling and melting away. You made it back to the ground through unsteady movements and collisions with the walls, managing to limp away mere seconds before the building exploded. The force of the blast sent you flying, leaving you rolling across the grass with groans of pain.

Voices approached from the woods as townspeople rushed toward the unexpected explosion. Fighting through the sharp pain in your neck and the various aches throughout your body, you dragged yourself up without pause. You quickly retreated from the scene to avoid potential misconceptions about your involvement. Given your history, being discovered at the site could result in unwarranted accusations and legal complications, particularly concerning an incident that  posed significant risk to the surrounding area. No authority would consider your injuries with a lack of evidence against the real perpetrators, given your prior status as a fugitive in international law enforcement records.

As you walked, you discarded your ruined jacket and wrapped your belt scarf around your burned neck for protection. Brushing off as much soot as possible from your face, hair, and clothes, you forced a natural gait to reach your ship without garnering unwanted attention.

"Isaiah," you rasped through the portable transponder, collapsing onto your bed as the island faded behind you. The burn on your neck throbbed and stained your scarf with blood, your muscles and joints throbbing and creaking as though you had been crushed by a ship at full speed. 

"I need your help."

"Y/N, I've got just one question for you: what the actual fuck?"

You winced as Isaiah tended to your burn, carefully cleaning and disinfecting the wound.

"I didn't exactly plan on getting trapped in a burning building," you retorted.

"Oh please, don't clutch at straws now. You've got to stop charging headfirst into dangerous situations like this."

“I don’t.”

"No? Didn't I warn you that the Mirror Ball invitation might be a trap?"

“You did.”

"But you went anyway. And you ended up in serious trouble there too."

You clenched your teeth and gripped your thighs as he dried the injury, dabbing gently at the damaged skin. "What are you trying to get at?"

"All I'm saying is that you should be more mindful of yourself," he explained. "Mihawk isn’t even in this part of the sea now. He won't always be there for you."

"You think I don't realize that? I saved myself today, in case you hadn't noticed."

Isaiah let out a deep sigh as he set aside the bloodied cloth and washed his hands. "Don't get angry, I'm not trying to diminish your abilities."

"No, you're just implying that I rely on Mihawk for my safety."

"That's not what I meant at all," he said softly, applying a big plaster to your burn. "Y/N, you don't need to prove your strength, we both know how capable you are. But when your instincts warn you of danger, you need to take precautions instead of walking blindly into the unknown. What will you accomplish besides getting yourself killed?"

Though difficult to acknowledge, Isaiah's assessment was accurate. Perhaps you had subconsciously anticipated that Mihawk would sense your peril and arrive in time to rescue you from the flames. With him being on the far side of Reverse Mountain, such wishful thinking was absurd.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yeah, I get it. I don't know why I still went to that warehouse."

"You're lucky the burn isn't too severe. I'm not a doctor, but with time, the scar should fade."

You gently brushed your fingertips along the bandage, flinching as your skin still stung beneath it.

"Yes, ah, maybe don't touch it and make it worse now."

You chuckled, pouring quality rum into your empty glasses. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, by the way."

"No worries, I understand. That must have been absolutely terrifying."

"I truly thought I was done for, Isaiah."

He nodded, clinking his glass against yours in a silent toast. "I bet. But who would want to do something like that? Is there anyone there with a grudge against you?"

You shook your head. "You're the one with all the connections, I barely know anyone in the East Blue."

Suddenly, you remembered the Marine vessel you had observed from your elevated position. Through the thick smoke, you could clearly discern their official flag with its characteristic, simplified seagull emblem and "MARINE" inscription, billowing against the horizon. 

"Although..."

“Yeah?”

You hesitated, downing your rum in one swift motion and recoiling at its bitter taste. "I'm not entirely sure, but... I think I've noticed something."

"What did you notice?"

Could the World Government truly be pursuing you still, despite Mihawk's influence and intervention on your behalf? Or was this the work of an independent group, operating covertly for their own agenda?

"After escaping, I saw a Marine vessel leaving the island. A small one, unlike their usual ships."

"Seriously? And you think they were behind this?"

You shrugged. "I don't really know. They could have been there for completely different reasons, leaving on their own by the time the warehouse exploded. There's no way to prove whether the World Government or Marines are behind my attempted murder."

Isaiah slammed his glass onto the table. "Well, if you ask me, you've got quite a clue."

"You don't trust them at all, do you?"

"Like hell I do. Y/N, we know how corrupt these people are. Most Marines are rotten to the core, they rarely do things properly or care about our interests and safety. The World Government can easily keep its hands clean by having their lower-ranking pawns do the dirty work."

You pursed your lips thoughtfully. "If you're right, then not having a bounty doesn't mean I'm safe from trouble."

"I'm not trying to alarm you. No hunters have come after you since your bounty was removed. But if we're right about this and the Marines are still targeting you, it means even Dracule Mihawk doesn't wield the authority over them that we assumed he did."

The mere mention of his name sent your heart fluttering and your stomach twisting. "This is completely messed up."

“The whole world is, my dear. If I can give you some advice, maybe try to lay low for a while. Forget about work and stay vigilant. I can reach out to my contacts and see if they've heard anything suspicious.”

You couldn't bear the thought of idleness, which likely explained your reckless decision to enter the warehouse even though your instincts warned against it. You sought professional engagement to occupy your thoughts, finding it preferable to focusing on Mihawk's inaction and how much you missed him. You let your feelings take control, consuming and commanding you. Your promise to Runa about self-preservation remained unfulfilled as you continued falling into familiar patterns of risky behavior. While your devotion to the Warlord ran deep, managing these impulsive tendencies required immediate attention. 

For your own wellbeing, your family's peace of mind, and for Isaiah, whose steadfast support had guided you through countless challenges.

And above all, for Mihawk himself, who recognized and nurtured your inherent capabilities, preserving your life with the expectation that you would value and protect it accordingly.

"Thank you, Isaiah. I'll actually follow your advice this time."

The subsequent week passed in relative tranquility as you kept to strict isolation to facilitate proper healing of your neck injury. Isaiah diligently managed your recovery, performing regular bandaid changes every 48-72 hours while following thorough antiseptic protocols for the affected area. Though the recovery process remained uncomfortable, the wound showed gradual improvement with diminishing inflammation and more manageable pain levels.

While Isaiah's network had begun investigating the attack, their findings proved inconclusive. Rumors suggested Marine officials were unhappy about the removal of your bounty, but no concrete evidence could be established linking them directly to the incident. Dismissing the matter without further probe could potentially expose you to similar risks in the future.

"No word in the newspapers or on the streets about your death," Isaiah observed. "My guess is that someone inspected the scene, and they've reported the absence of your body to the mastermind behind this attempt."

"Well, at least my family won't be panicking for nothing."

"Yeah, that's not something any parent should ever have to endure."

"Or uncles, cousins, and friends."

Isaiah offered a smile, but his tense posture and unfocused gaze betrayed his underlying concern.

“Are you okay?”

"Yes, I'm just worried about you, that's all."

"I appreciate your concern, but please don't worry too much."

He scoffed. "How can I not? Y/N, you could've died!"

"I was there. I know exactly what happened. Thank you."

"Then please, stop pretending this isn't serious."

You swallowed hard and looked down, absently twirling the pen between your fingers as the open journal rested in your lap. "Someone has to. Otherwise, those images will haunt me day and night."

“Y/N…”

"I see the fire whenever I close my eyes. I feel the heat on my skin, and the smell of smoke follows me everywhere; in every corner of this place, on every piece of clothing I wear, even in my hair. I've showered twice today, yet it doesn’t go away."

Isaiah ran his fingers through his hair as your voice cracked. You could no longer keep up the façade of being strong and unshakeable.

"I can't stop thinking about how my family wouldn't even have had a body to mourn if I had failed."

"I get it, I really do. But—"

“And the truth is... I miss him, Isaiah. I miss him so much it hurts."

Isaiah remained silent, pursing his lips and clearing his throat as he straightened his posture. His eyes darted back and forth, suggesting he knew something you had yet to realize.

"Well... about that..."

You wiped your eyes, fighting back tears. "You must think I'm being ridiculous."

"No, not at all. I'd never mock someone who's in love. Actually, there's something else I need to tell you."

Your body stiffened as the journal and pen tumbled from your lap, your attention suddenly focused. "Did you hear something?"

"Indeed. And it's quite interesting," he replied with a grin.

"Well, might as well keep me in suspense for a moment," you remarked sarcastically.

Isaiah's smile widened. "I could, but I'm not that cruel."

"Oh, just tell me already!"

“Sorry! Okay. He's here in the East Blue."

Your breath escaped just as it had in the fire, constricting your chest and draining the blood from your face at this sudden revelation.

“What?!”

"From what I've heard, he was pursuing Don Krieg and his fleet. Needless to say that he succeeded effortlessly in his task."

"Uh-huh..."

"He was last spotted at the Baratie restaurant. Apparently, he's carrying out some mission for Vice Admiral Garp, though the specifics remain unclear."

“Oh…”

So, Mihawk's presence in the East Blue stemmed from his official duties rather than any personal motivations regarding your whereabouts.

"Where is he right now?"

"I'm afraid I don't know his exact location. He's constantly on the move. But from what I understand, he's always been the one to find you, hasn't he?"

“Yes…”

He settled more comfortably on the couch, stretching his legs out. "Just relax then."

"That's easier said than done, you know."

He groaned, tipping his head backwards with a loud grunt. "Look, I love you, but sometimes you really drive me insane."

"I'm sorry, it's just hard to control my feelings."

"Listen, Y/N. That man is crazy about you."

"What makes you say that all of a sudden?"

"You look and act like a beaten puppy just because he's busy elsewhere instead of coming straight to you."

Indignant, you lifted your chin with a scowl. "That's not true."

"Yes, it absolutely is," he countered firmly. “Sweetheart, have you noticed how he practically burned holes through me with his glare? I've never seen anyone look more jealous. How could a man show such possessiveness if he didn't truly care about you?"

"Logically, I understand what you're saying. Still, here he is sailing through the East Blue, and I knew nothing about it."

"He likely has his reasons. Being a Warlord comes with privileges, but it also requires following orders from the World Government. That's the agreement these pirates made with the higher ups.”

Exhaling softly, you contemplated his words. "I know that. But Isaiah, there's still nothing official between us yet."

"That doesn't mean anything. What happened to your faith and conviction? You were so sure he would come back to you. That necklace he gave you must mean something, right?"

"It's not that I've lost faith, but it's been months. Words and gifts can be fleeting—what holds meaning today might lose its value tomorrow. Now that he's back in these waters, am I supposed to just sit here waiting?"

Isaiah scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Unless you want to wander aimlessly across the East Blue searching for him. And frankly, I'd rather know you're safe."

"I can't stay here indefinitely. We may never find the perpetrator."

He pressed his lips into a tight line, clasping his hands as he leaned forward on his elbows. "You might have a point there. It's just..."

"You're worried about me."

"I really care about you, Y/N. You're my best friend. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Over time, Isaiah had transformed from a trusted professional contact into an essential part of your life at sea. What began as mutual respect had deepened into an unshakeable bond of friendship that you treasured above all else, along with a brief romantic connection that had naturally run its course.

Your love for Mihawk had become unshakable, but the camaraderie you had formed with Isaiah was timeless.

You extended your hand with a warm smile, and he gently clasped it in his own without a moment's pause. "You won't lose me, Isaiah. I know this might sound like an empty vow, but I swear I'll be more careful from now on."

"It's not just about being careful. When someone wants you dead, they'll keep trying until they succeed. Every place you go could turn into a battleground."

"So what's the solution then? Should I just lock myself away in your headquarters?"

"No, of course not."

"You have a good network of contacts. Now we know what we're up against."

"Perhaps. But there's only so much I or my informants can do."

You shook your head. "It's more than I could ask for."

Isaiah released your hand with a composed chortle, looking at you with pride in his eyes. "I do believe Mihawk knows how lucky he is to have your heart. But if he doesn't, I should probably remind him of how amazing you are."

"Just be careful not to become minced meat."

“So comforting, thanks," he groaned with exasperation.

As you burst into a hearty laughter, Isaiah joined in, the tension dissipating from the room as your shared mirth echoed through the space like a cheerful melody.

The peaceful rhythm of waves against the vessel's hull provided a serene backdrop to the bustling activity of Marines aboard, who diligently attended to their duties - tending to the sails, securing rigging, swabbing decks, and servicing artillery.

As the Vice Admiral proceeded to his office, his face betrayed mounting ire at reports confirming your continued survival and evasion of capture. Evidently, he had significantly underestimated your capabilities, regardless of whether fortune had played a role in your survival. His hasty plan had proven insufficient to eliminate someone so tough, he required something smarter, something that even your determination couldn't withstand.

Upon entering his private quarters in the late hours, he was met with minimal illumination from a solitary desk lamp. As he proceeded to loosen his collar, his expression etched with weariness, he suddenly froze at an unexpected presence in the room.

He blinked repeatedly, attempting to dismiss the apparition, but his heart rate accelerated upon realizing the figure seated comfortably in his chair was indeed real.

Right there before him was Hawk-Eyes Mihawk. His legs were propped on the desk, crossed at the ankles, while his trademark hat cast a shadow over his piercing, unyielding eyes. Yoru, his colossal black blade, rested across the table, its edge gleaming ominously in the lamplight.

The officer's hand instinctively moved toward his sword, but Mihawk's low, velvety voice stopped him cold. "That would be unwise," the Warlord drawled, his tone deceptively calm yet brimming with malice.

He remained motionless, not even sparing a glance at the man's weapon. The air in the room grew thick and heavy, weighed down by the sheer force of his aura.

“How did you—” the officer stammered, his words faltering.

Mihawk moved forward deliberately, his boots landing heavily on the floor. His right forearm came to rest on the desk as his fingers drummed a quiet rhythm against the wood. "The how is irrelevant," he said. "What matters is why I'm here."

The Vice Admiral swallowed hard, trying to mask his fear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

"You set a trap," Mihawk interrupted, his voice cutting like Yoru's blade. His golden eyes narrowed, their intensity rooting the man to the spot. "You failed," he said simply. "But not from lack of effort. And for that..." His voice dropped to a whisper that carried the weight of an executioner's blade. "You will pay."

The officer staggered backward, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. "I... I was following orders," he croaked, his voice thick with desperation.

"Oh no," Mihawk replied coldly. "It was personal."

"That—that bitch slaughtered my father like a pig! Of course it was bloody personal!!!"

Mihawk stood slowly, his movement unhurried yet reminiscent of a predator coiling to strike. He loomed over the desk, Yoru's hilt within easy reach. "You chose her as your target. You attempted an ambush, imprisoned her, and set the flames. A coward's approach befitting your mediocrity. This matter has become... very personal indeed."

His suffocating presence dominated the room as he towered over the officer, who trembled in fear. "I could end you now," Mihawk murmured, his fingers grazing the blade's hilt. "It would be easier than drawing breath."

The man recoiled, his eyes darting to the sword, but Mihawk made no motion to take it. Instead, he straightened to his full height, his stare as cold and impenetrable as steel.

"But that would be too merciful for someone like you," Mihawk continued, his voice dripping with venom. "You will live. And every moment of your existence will be haunted by my presence."

The officer’s eyes widened in terror, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You'll look over your shoulder at every sound, at every shadow," Mihawk continued, his tone unnervingly silken. "You'll wonder if today is the day I choose to end this. You will not sleep. You will not know peace. You will live in constant fear, knowing that I can—and will—appear when you least expect it."

With fluid grace, Mihawk lifted Yoru from the desk as if the massive blade were weightless. He secured it to his back in one practiced, graceful maneuver, his predatory stare fixed unwaveringly on the trembling Marine.

"Consider this your punishment," he said, turning toward the door. "A life spent waiting for the inevitable."

With that, the Warlord strode out, his coat sweeping behind him like a dark omen. In the suffocating silence of his office, the man crumpled to the floor, face drained of color, hands quaking uncontrollably. Calling for backup would be futile against an opponent like Mihawk, who could easily split the entire ship in half, just as he had done with Don Krieg's fleet.

From that night forward, every creak, every gust of wind, every flicker of shadow became a harbinger of doom. He would wake in cold sweats, feeling the phantom weight of Mihawk's oppressive glare weighing down on him.

Isaiah thoroughly analyzed his collection of notes, books, and maps, trying to devise a strategic plan. Now that you had returned to your vessel and resumed maritime operations, he was particularly concerned with assembling a qualified crew capable of ensuring your safety.

Reaching the Grand Line through the Calm Belts had become an increasingly tangible goal, but the time wasn't right. Isaiah insisted on thorough preparation, ensuring every detail was in place before such a momentous undertaking.

Engrossed in his analysis, Isaiah methodically traversed the room while reviewing documents, failing to notice the presence of a figure who had silently entered and now observed him from just a few paces away. He spoke to himself, alternating between nods of approval and whispered curses.

Upon turning around, he nearly collided with the unexpected visitor. His eyes widened in recognition as he found himself face-to-face with those distinctive, piercing golden hawk-like eyes, dropping his papers as he let out a startled gasp.

Mihawk stood motionless, his head tilted slightly as he observed the scene. His gaze swept over Isaiah with calculating intensity, causing the latter to swallow nervously and take a cautious step backward.

"Damn, a warning would've been nice," he stuttered. "If you're looking for her, she's not here."

"That is not the purpose of my visit," Mihawk responded.

"No..? Then... what can I do for you?"

Mihawk stepped forward, his sword gliding with a metallic clink against his back. "I have something for you. And in return, you will do something for me."

Isaiah exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. When Mihawk dropped the large bag he was carrying, which looked far too heavy for casual transport, Isaiah tentatively reached for the thick cord keeping it closed.

When he opened it, a blue glow emanated from the pile of minerals inside. The stones looked almost otherworldly, encapsulating all the color, magic, and translucency of the ocean.

Isaiah was transfixed, momentarily speechless at the contents before him. The bag contained an extensive collection of premium Seastone crystals, meticulously extracted and of exceptional purity—a treasure of immense value and rarity.

Isaiah looked up to meet Mihawk’s stoic expression, the Warlord standing watchful in absolute silence. "Holy hell, man."

Upon disembarking from your vessel, the familiar atmosphere of the island struck you with immediate recognition. Isaiah had maintained an unusually upbeat demeanor while being deliberately cryptic, selecting this location as the meeting point for a prospective arrangement with one of his trusted associates.

When you inquired about this contact, Isaiah maintained an enigmatic air of mystery, offering only reassurances about their reliability. He arranged your travel to the location with complete confidence, his usual concerns notably absent.

The scene was precisely as it had been etched in your memory: the shadowed entrance of the cave where you had discovered the emerald ring—now a permanent fixture on your finger—the soft yet distinct sound of sand shifting beneath your footfalls, and the subtle tropical fragrance of palm trees and coconut carried on the breeze. Mihawk's voice seemed to echo in your mind, though you stood alone in this familiar place.

You walked along the shore at a leisurely pace, placing one foot in front of the other. You kicked a few rocks as you went, watching them roll away and come to rest in the distance. You waited in the tranquil oasis, touching your stomach as a sudden twinge made its presence felt.

The physical proximity yet distance between you and Mihawk was excruciating. Reports from Isaiah's network indicated that the Warlord remained within the East Blue region, having not yet returned for the Grand Line. Were his duties truly so demanding that he couldn't spare a moment to find you? During your first encounter there, he had made it clear that he operated on his own terms, refusing to be bound by orders that conflicted with his personal interests or convictions.

You snorted, gazing at the horizon while the coastal wind whispered past. At the sound of approaching footsteps, you steadied yourself, smoothing your hair back and relaxing your shoulders. However, when an unexpected voice cut through the peaceful ambience, you felt your heart freeze and swell in your ribcage.

“You are quite challenging to track down.”

Mihawk stood mere inches behind you, echoing his words from your first conversation. His proximity was palpable, his breath ghosting against your hair as warmth emanated from his form.

Your lower lip quivered as words caught in your throat, refusing to emerge. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as your eyes squeezed shut, then fluttered open.

Finally, when you found your voice again, you were able to speak. “Not that much for you, apparently,” you repeated softly, a gentle smile spreading across your face. "Took you long enough," you added.

"I had urgent matters to attend to," he replied. "Affairs that could not wait."

You swiveled on your feet, meeting his eyes again after what felt like an eternity. His keen attention was captured by the large plaster on your neck, his golden irises following its line along your skin as darkness clouded his gaze.

"Ah, this," you said, brushing your fingers against the fabric covering your wound. "Just another scar to add to my collection, I guess. It should fade eventually."

"I hope so," he responded, his tone stern.

“Does it disturb you that much?" you asked.

"The mark itself doesn't trouble me."

You reached for the front of his coat, sliding your hand along its lapel until it hovered over his cross knife. "Have you heard what happened?"

Mihawk’s eyes met yours once more. "I’ve heard enough.”

A deafening silence hung between you, filled with tension and anticipation.

“And?” you pressed. "Do you know who was responsible?"

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he closed his hand over yours, stilling your restless movements against his coat and chest. He was calm, yet carried an unmistakable edge, like a perfectly honed blade. "The answer should be quite evident."

"You do, of course," you concluded. "So the World Government wants me dead?" 

"No. Just one arrogant fool who believed himself clever enough to evade my notice."

"And who might that be?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The identity of that person no longer matters. I ensured he understands what it means to make a mistake of such magnitude. That lesson will haunt him for the rest of his life.”

There was no need to ask for details, you knew Mihawk well enough to understand that his vengeance would be methodical, calculated, and as terrifying as the man himself.

"I shouldn't have expected anything less," you whispered.

Though Mihawk's countenance remained impassive, he moved his hand to rest delicately upon your waist. He pulled you nearer with effortless precision, his face inclining until his nose gently grazed yours. "What is mine shall remain safeguarded. Without exception."

His words reverberated powerfully, each one sinking into you like an anchor, grounding you in the depths of his devotion and commitment. Unable to resist any longer, you gripped his collar, pressing your lips against his in a fiery collision. You savored their salty taste as if starved, the kiss searing and desperate, completely unrestrained.

For a moment, Mihawk was still, caught off guard by the force of your passion. His response was controlled yet equally consuming as his tongue darted forward, seeking yours in an entwining dance.

When you finally parted, your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you stared up at him. His eyes now held an unmistakable warmth, a quiet acknowledgment of both your fervor and his own.

"You've been holding onto that for a while," he remarked, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I missed you too," you said teasingly. "No need to be so maddeningly composed."

"Someone has to keep balance when you're set on tipping the scales.”

"Then it’s a good thing you’re mine to tip.”

The storm between you had been unleashed, surging like wildfire in the aftermath of your kiss.

His lips quirked ever so slightly, his golden eyes steady as they locked with yours. "That much has never been in question.”

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 (currently reading) Go to Chapter 9 (coming soon) ->

[pendragonsclotpole]

help, i just got slapped in the face with the existence of WILL. be still my beating heart as i write an essay on this man, will of ealdor

firstly, i adore the silent and implicit trust hidden in the first joke that introduces will’s character. like merlin’s been aware his whole life that if his secret is ever found out, he will be hunted down and persecuted, but here comes will with a jab that they both inherently understand is a joke in the macabre style only true friends can lovingly master. the smile they share almost immediately gives me ned stark and robert baratheon meeting again in the courtyard of winterfell in season one of got. there’s also something so normal in their interaction that speaks of a familiarity borne from their equal status and years of friendship. i know merlin’s friends in camelot tend to skew to the non-royal/non-noble, but when you tally it up, those closest to merlin often hold some title that’s greater than merlin’s role as arthur’s servant. gwaine is a knight implied to be of noble blood; lancelot, percival, and elyan are also knighted and esteemed members of arthur’s court; gwen is the lady morgana’s maid and close companion long before she is ever queen; gaius is a physician and long time member of camelot’s court; morgana before her betrayal is literally uther’s ward. i feel like when placed among them all, merlin has a tendency to fade into the background offscreen. obviously the audience knows how important merlin is to the overall story given how much of the storyline focuses on him, and the characters regularly acknowledge merlin’s importance to them or arthur, but all of them still regard merlin as merlin the servant from camelot and few of them are privy to the plots we as the audience see firsthand. and even when they acknowledge him for his merits, his role as arthur’s close friend and confidante takes precedence. look at leon’s reaction in the later seasons when merlin is bewitched by morgana. merlin literally makes a comment about plotting to kill arthur and leon barely even blinks before quipping back, “driving you mad isn’t he?” or something along those lines. except for a few instances with even fewer characters, they never get a chance to know him as merlin the sorcerer from ealdor.

will does! and more than that, he got to know merlin as he is without arthur. we all hype up their status as magical soulmates but damn if i wasnt living for how jealous of arthur will seemed to be in this episode. call me crazy, but it makes me desperately headcanon a realistic past in ealdor for merlin, full of hardship and strife, but never without it’s moments of happiness. furthermore, will’s lone appearance in season one shines some real light on the unfairness of the fate that has been bestowed on meelin. the moment that will points out why he’s been so obstinate with arthur really strikes a deep chord. sure it could be just jealousy, but more compellingly, i choose to read it as a deep sense of care for merlin. everyone merlin has met within camelot, (or reunited with in the case of his own mother) has continually pushed him closer and closer to arthur. will presents a crucial exception. he knows exactly who merlin was before camelot, and who merlin is completely separate from arthur.

will is staunchly in merlin’s corner, and that position allows him to identify a key characteristic of merlin’s series’ long arc: his complete devotion to arthur. will even points it out himself: merlin could singlehandedly defend their home if he just used the full extent of his power. merlin doesn’t, and actively chooses not to because of his desire to stay close to arthur. it’s such a small moment, but i think it demonstrates how much of merlin’s decisions become motivated by his desire to stay close to arthur and to always put arthur first, even at a detrimental cost to himself. merlin understands and readily accepts arthur as his destiny, but this acceptance does not come about independently, instantly, or of merlin’s own volition. it does so eventually, but initially merlin sticks by arthur’s side because of the encouragement of everyone around him. “arthur needs you, merlin” or “arthur is your destiny, merlin” or “arthur is a good man, merlin. he has the potential to be a great king, he just needs the right people, merlin.” its codependent as hell.

sure, merlin originally does not tell arthur about his magic because they do not know each other and as far as merlin knows revealing his magic would lead to his death, but eventually the reasoning changes and becomes so focused on doing what’s best for arthur. merlin can’t tell arthur because then arthur would have to kill him and then who would look after arthur or ensure his fate? merlin can’t tell arthur because if arthur chooses to defy uther’s law, merlin is then forcing arthur to turn against his father and how could he look after arthur then? merlin can’t tell arthur because another betrayal from magic would ruin everything and truthfully, he wonders how would arthur react? merlin comes to fear what his magic might do to arthur and what it’s reveal might mean for his place in camelot more than the laws of camelot and their verdicts.

by this logic, merlin is a magical solar system orbiting entirely around the celestial body known as arthur pendragon. eventually merlin cared more about his relationship with arthur and what arthur thought about him than his own life. in retrospect, it’s so sad that will died so early on, because it strips merlin of a person solely in his corner. will’s death is the first in the series’ long pattern of loss that merlin endures and that eventually comes to define him because people either find out about his magic and their knowledge is directly tested against his loyalty to arthur, or he cannot allow them to know about his magic because it will unravel his relationship with arthur.

will, freya, balinor, morgana, mordred, arthur.

also the fact that will covered for merlin’s use of magic in his last moments just adds to the tragedy AND the growing pile of moments merlin could have told arthur about his magic but didnt. and also the fact that will literally died to save arthur. like tell me that just doesn’t prove my point. tell me. will never stood a chance. tell me every aspect of merlin’s life does not get consumed by arthur pendragon.

i’m all for merthur being soulmates, but god the original series is rife with the unbalanced mess of merlin being wholeheartedly aware of arthur’s great potential and destiny leading to some intense devotion and faith that yes, arthur earns and pays back in full measure but can never fully reciprocate because he just does not know anything. by the triple goddess, it can get so toxic. i wish will had lived if just for that. and like the jealousy arthur gets whenever merlin has other people. because i 100% live for possessive arthur and protective merlin dynamics.

[da-rulah]

Rituale Septem - Day 5: Envy

Pairing: (Cardinal Copia x f!reader)

Summary: Terzo refuses to acknowledge his growing jealousy, and instead sets out a plan to invoke some in you. But perhaps, he goes a little too far...

Rating: Mature, MDNI 18+

Word Count: 9.9k

Warnings: Betrayal (sort of), the angstiest of angst, f soft dom, cock stepping, guided masturbation, spit kink, p in v sex, inability to climax, mind-break (sort of), jealousy (of course), exhibitionism, cream pie 

This chapter features themes of jealousy and the angst that comes with it. Please do not read if this will upset or trigger you in any way. I can update you with plot points, should you need it! 🖤

AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

A/N: I just want to say a quick thank you for all the love and support on this series so far. I hope you're enjoying the storyline as well as the filthiest of smut each day.🖤

Prev: Day 4 - Wrath | Next: Day 6: Greed

October 29th 

Secondo wouldn’t be angry if you turned up late again. Not anymore.  

He’d basically given you a free pass for the week yesterday, telling you to do as you needed and he would handle things for the next few days. It was quite amazing, how relaxed he seemed about all of this. Of course, you weren’t aware that he was allowing all of this because he was actually frightened of losing his only true friend in the Ministry, not so much that your faith was teetering on the edge of a very foreboding cliff face.  

So this morning, you had popped in to see Secondo first and iron out some things for the rest of the day for him, before you headed over to Terzo’s office. You figured you could hand him back the clipboard, maybe see which sin he had planned for you to tackle today and how.  

When you arrived at his office door, your fist hovered in mid-air before the door, a sound freezing you in place. A kind of... rhythmic scraping, like chair legs on the stone floor. Perhaps he was rearranging his office? If the grunts you could hear softly floating through the cracks in the wood were anything to go by, that surely was exactly what he was doing – lugging heavy furniture across the floor by himself. 

You knocked anyway, and you heard him call from inside.  

“Who is it?” he yelled.  

“Uh, it’s... it’s me?” you called back. You heard whispering, more scraping on the floor... 

“Come on in, Principessa,” he invited. You turned the doorknob, stepping inside the office with the clipboard clutched to your chest.  

Oh, how wrong you had been...  

Terzo was, in fact, not moving furniture. At least, not intentionally. In fact, what he was actually doing was railing his fucking assistant on one of his guest chairs.  

Broad daylight. Unashamedly completely nude, save for his gloves and paints. Balls deep in your friend, Sister Christine.  

Your eyes widened and you dropped the clipboard where you stood in the open doorway, a loud gasp coming from your throat you couldn’t control. The clipboard clattered loudly to the ground and Terzo looked up, eyes locking with yours.  

Christine was facing you, knelt on one of the chairs in front of his desk with her arms resting on the back of it, her head flopped limply between them. Terzo stood behind her, his white-gloved hands holding her by her hips as he repeatedly drove himself inside her, right fucking in front of you. 

“S-sorry, Papa.... I didn’t mean to...” you stuttered, unable to look anywhere but his damn face. Your heartbeat spiked in an irregular rhythm, blood rushing to your ears just barely blocking out the quiet whimpers and moans you heard from Sister Christine. You felt like you’d been punched in the chest with a sledgehammer...  

“Nonsense, Sorella! Christine here was just... ugh... helping me... with something,” he laughed, grunting as he continued to fuck into her without a care in the world. “You don’t mind, do you Christine?” he asked her, landing a playful spank to her ass.  

“N-no, Papa...” she whimpered, lifting her head to look at you with a playful smile.  

“In fact, you could... cazzo... you could join us,” he smirked, Christine giggling with him. Where had the air in the room gone? 

“N-no thank you...” you shook your head violently, eyes welling up with tears as you watched the look of bliss on Terzo’s face as his eyes closed and jaw went slack. Your tears fell with a blink, and you wiped them away immediately before either of them could see. 

Seriously, why couldn’t you breathe? 

“I should... should go,” you turned quickly, but Terzo called out to you. 

“What’s the rush, eh? You don’t want to stay for the show?” he laughed, landing another spank to Christine’s behind, from the sound of it. You couldn’t see behind you, but it certainly sounded that way. But you were too busy steadying yourself on the doorknob, trying to keep yourself upright. Your legs were giving in.  

Oxygen. You needed oxygen. 

“I don’t want to do that,” your voice came out strained, your lungs struggling with the lack of breath. 

“Oh come on, Principessa... Are you jealous?” he teased in a sing-song, playground bully type of way.  

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Instead, you bolted. Without another look back at all, you rushed out of the door, slamming it behind you as you collapsed against the wood. It was the only thing keeping you on your feet, the world around you spinning as you took in a large, deep breath to finally soothe the burning of your emptied lungs that had seized up at the shock of the scene before you.  

More tears brimmed in your eyes but you wiped them away, hurt replaced by an anger you couldn’t describe. It felt different to the rage from yesterday, the kind you’d directed at Secondo. He had hurt you then, sure, but this... felt different. It wasn’t injustice, it didn’t make you want to fight for your honour. This just felt like... betrayal.  

You had no right. Terzo could sleep with whoever he chooses, you knew that. And you knew he did. But... he was rubbing your nose in it, taunting you with it. You thought you had something different, a connection. Perhaps that was a foolish notion, a fantasy you’d concocted to make this week long ritual easier on yourself. Instead of submitting to the idea of being intimate with people you had no emotional tie to all week, you had clutched onto the idea that at least one of them was a safe space, a haven that you could confide and run back to like a safety blanket to hide from the monsters under at night. 

But Terzo had just ripped that blanket from your grasp and exposed you to the elements. There was no connection, and you were nothing more than another lay to him.  

Jealous. HA! Fucking jealous. How dare he. Standing there so brazenly humping his little conquest and accusing you of jealousy... No, you just didn’t particularly feel like partaking in voyeurism, let alone a ménage à trois with his fucking assistant.  

That anger that brewed inside you festered where you stood, spilling out into a need to get him back. If he wanted to play games, well shit, you could fucking play too. He’d made his move, and he believed he was winning. Check... Like he’d cornered your King, ready to take him out.  

But you were a queen, you reminded yourself, and all you needed was a single pawn...  

You pushed yourself up from the door, stomping your way down the corridor on the hunt for someone, anyone... The first man you came across; it didn’t matter who, necessarily. A willing participant was all it would take, someone attracted enough to you that they’d be more than willing to... 

“Buongiorno, Sorella! (Good morning, Sister!)” Your train of thought was interrupted by a familiar voice, brimming with positivity and a hint of nervousness he’d seemed to adopt around you recently. He was heading down the corridor towards you, away from his office and towards the library with his arms filled with dusty old books ready to spend his day translating in his little room behind the bookcases.  

Cardinal Copia.  

You stopped in your tracks, tilting your head in fascination as you watched him casually strolling towards you, a smile on his face while his eyes betrayed his anxiety around you, averting your own. Not that you could blame him... the way you were looking at him reminded him of an animal sizing up its prey.  

“Cardinal,” you stated plainly, stopping him where he stood just a few feet ahead of you. He looked at you confused, like a deer in headlights. This poor man... he had no idea what he’d walked into. “Are you attracted to me?”  

His eyes bulged out of his skull, a string of stutters that started as excuses in his head and flooded out as incoherent mumblings filling the silence.  

“Well, I... see the thing is, Sorella, you just... I mean, I-” In any other scenario it may have been quite sweet, but right now, it simply annoyed you. You needed a yes or no.  

“Yes or no, Cardinal,” your tone told him you weren’t playing around.  

“Y-yes... I guess, I... Yes?” he shrugged, hugging the pile of books tightly to his chest. That was enough for you.  

“Good. Come with me,” you stepped towards him, grabbing him by the fabric of his cassock and pulling him down the corridor towards the library. He dropped two of the old books when he stumbled, clattering to the floor behind you both. 

“W-wait, I should... The books...” he looked behind him, reaching a hand out precariously trying not to drop any more precious materials and gather what he’d already dropped, but you had already dragged him too far and were showing no signs of stopping. The books would have to lay abandoned, and he hoped he could collect them later, after... wherever the hell you were going. 

You pulled him with you to the library, through the bookshelves and ignoring the strange looks of one or two siblings doing their own research or searching the shelves. The look on your face was pure determination, and when you finally got to the end of the stacks of books and to the door you knew to be Copia’s little hideaway, you smirked and barged your way inside.  

You pulled him in and let him go, him stumbling in the middle of the room and dropping the rest of his books to the floor while you shut the door, lowering the blind on the glass window. No one would come in here, you knew that. This was Copia’s space, one he used to translate old texts, restore ancient books and research in peace. He’d made it his own; a little workbench with his tools and various pastes laid out for his restoration work; a small but comfortable looking old couch against one wall with novelty pillows; shelves covered in books and drawers built into wooden units; lamps on various surfaces, the small overhead sitting neglected without a bulb and contributing nothing to the warm glow to the room.  

Copia knelt on the floor in the centre of the room, picking up and checking each book he’d dropped and mumbling to himself about keeping them in good condition. You stepped towards him, curling your finger under his chin and dragging his attention up to you stood over him.  

“Sorella, what are you-” 

“You’re attracted to me, yes?” you asked again, interrupting him. He swallowed, gulping down any confidence in his authority as a Cardinal in that moment.  

“S-sì, but...” he started but you interrupted him again. You didn’t want excuses, just black and white fact. 

“Just a physical attraction?” you asked; you weren’t about to play with this poor man’s feelings if it was anything more than that. You were not like Terzo... 

“Sì,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing pink beneath you. How sweet. 

“If given the chance, would you fuck me, Cardinal?” you asked brazenly, as if you’d just asked him something as simple as whether he wanted a cup of coffee. His eyes widened, the pink hue on his cheeks turning to a shade of crimson to match his cassock.  

He stuttered, unsure of his answer. Was this a trick? A joke? Were you laughing at him? You wouldn’t be the first...  

“Don’t look so scared, Cardinal. If you say no, I’ll leave. We won’t speak of this again. But if you say yes...” you tapered the end of your sentence off, leaving it to his imagination. You saw him bite his lip, chewing on it as his mind worked over the possibilities. Beneath his cassock, a stirring began. “I’ll ask you again, Cardinal. If given the chance...” you tilted his chin further up as you paused, not missing the way he licked his lips in nervous anticipation, “would you fuck me?” 

A beat of silence passed between you, as if he was weighing up his options. He wasn’t sure what you were doing, or why you were suddenly so interested in him and his silly little attraction. He hoped he wouldn’t have to admit it had been that dress you wore to the clergy dinner that sparked an interest in what lay underneath it, but he’d also be lying to himself if he tried to act as if the humiliation wasn’t beginning to swell and fill his cock out underneath his uniform. 

“I-I would, Sorella...” 

You smiled at his confession, a somewhat wicked and evil smile playing on your lips. You had found your pawn. Now, to make your move.  

“I’m going to let you, Cardinal. Right now,” you told him, “Any objections?” You gave him one last out. 

“N-no...” he stuttered again, already under your spell. With the confirmation you needed, you wasted no more time, pressing your lips harshly to his from above him, your free hand coming to remove his biretta and grip tightly to his hair. He dropped the book in his hands he had been so worried about before and gripped your bare calves to steady himself where he knelt, getting lost in the heated kiss you had deepened with the introduction of your tongue swiping along his bottom lip. 

It was somewhat pathetic how quickly this man submitted himself to you, particularly when he so clearly outranked you. But it seemed to be working for him, if his whimpers against your lips and his bruising grip on your calves were anything to go by.  

“Are you hard for me, Cardinal?” you mumbled into your kiss, tugging on his hair a little. His grip tightened. 

“Sì...” he panted. Despite his grip, you managed to lift one of your feet, the pointed toe of your boot dragging along his inner thigh over the top of his robe, settling over his crotch. He groaned into your mouth at the pressure, revelling in the way you pressed against his erection. The harder you pressed, the louder he groaned in pleasure under your boot, and a thrill of power ran through your body. 

“Take this off,” you demanded, flicking at the fabric that draped over his shoulders; the heavy wool coat of his cassock that covered his matching red shirt and pants underneath. He didn’t hesitate, hurriedly undoing each button and shaking it from his shoulders, pooling around him on the floor. Now you could see underneath, the bulge in his trousers was unmistakable under the sole of your boot. Although, with the tightness of these trousers, the term ‘bulge’ was used loosely... What you saw was more of a perfect sculpting out of red marble as if Michaelangelo had carved it himself. And it was large.  

You bent down to kiss him again, pressing your boot harder against his cock. His hips bucked against your foot, your heel coming into contact with his balls with a whimper.  

“Careful, Cardinal... Don’t get too carried away,” you warned as he humped your boot, “you wouldn’t want to spoil it for yourself before you got a chance to bury your cock in me, would you?” 

Copia shook his head violently; he most certainly didn’t want that, and so he stilled his hips.  

“Good,” you praised, standing up straight again and pushing off him with the foot on his cock, one last jolt of pressure as you did so. You took a step back, and held his gaze while your hands began to undo the buttons of your habit. You’d opted for an above the knee option today, a little more tailored and fitting to your waist and curves, so you had less buttons to undo. You’d taken to wearing prettier lingerie as of late, a gift for whoever was due to unwrap you that particular day and by some strange coincidence you had worn a red floral set today that was just a shade or two darker than the red of Cardinal Copia’s cassock.  

You let the habit drop to the floor, watching with glee as his eyes ran over every curve and ridge of your body. The veil on your head remained in place; a reminder to the Cardinal that he was being commanded by a Sister, that his control was being given over to someone typically with less power than himself. And no, that thought was not lost on him. It excited him more than he cared to admit – but it was, after all, your power in that divine dress that he had been drawn to in the first place. Like a moth to a flame...  

“This is what you want, yes?” you gestured to your body, posing yourself seductively just out of arm’s reach from the Cardinal, on his knees still and achingly hard beneath his trousers. He nodded wildly, his hair bobbing on his head and falling in his eyes. “Ah-ah... Speak to me,” you demanded.  

He hurriedly pushed his hair from his eyes. “Sì, sorella...” He took instruction well. Good to know. 

“Was it my dress, Cardinal? Did you picture what was underneath after the clergy dinner?” Oh, so you’d noticed... he thought to himself. Shit. He wasn’t as discreet as he thought... 

“Sì,” he looked down at his hands, picking at his gloves in shame. “Y-you looked così potente (so powerful).”  

“Thank you, Cardinal,” you smiled. “Did you... ever touch yourself while you pictured me?” his head snapped up, eyes wide in shock as if you’d plucked the memory of it right from his mind. It had only been once, and he swears, he felt awful after he came. The post-nut clarity had been unbearable guilt, but yes, he had... 

“Solo una volta... (Just once,)” he said guiltily, as if just once might excuse him, make him seem pathetically helpless instead of a totally perverted jerk. Well, it certainly made him seem pathetically helpless to you; but that turned you on more. 

“Show me,” you instructed. “Show me your cock, Cardinal, and how you pleasured yourself with me on your mind.”  

“S-sì, sorella...” Slowly, he undid the zipper of his trousers as if unsure of himself, a shyness overcoming him. In these tight trousers, he never wore underwear as it was always too visible, and so the layers he had to dive through were minimal, fist wrapping around his hard length to pull it free for you. A smirk carved its way onto your face when you saw the size of him. You looked forward to having that filling you up soon...  

You stepped towards him as he lightly stroked himself, the leather of his glove not making for a particularly easy glide across his shaft. “Open your palm,” you told him, and when he did, you spit down onto it for him to use as lube. “There.” 

“G-grazie,” he thanked, unprovoked. Oh, you liked this man... Submitting so easily.  

He wrapped his now wet palm around his length again, and began to stroke himself in front of you. He couldn’t help the little moan you heard from him, his dizzying arousal clouding his mind when he repeated over and over again in his head that that was your spit... your warm, wet gift to him. Before long, he was sat up on his knees, fist stilled and hips fucking into it as if pretending it was your cunt instead. His head fell back, moans repeatedly getting caught in his throat and releasing as staggered breaths instead. 

“You were that desperate for me that you pretended your fist was my pussy, Cardinal?” you asked in the most condescending tone you could. His thrusts faltered at your words, every syllable a turn on.  

“Sì, mi scusi, I couldn’t - ah! C-couldn't help it...” he whimpered. Poor thing, he was already so far gone. You chuckled at the sight of this man on his knees for you, fucking into his hand. What a sight it was. A man who should have so much more power than you, put down consistently by those around him as it was, allowing you to do exactly the same thing to him and getting off on it. You might have felt bad for him, had it not been for the moans and whimpers he spilled for you. 

You stepped towards him, boots clacking on the stone floor. His eyes remained shut in ecstasy, but he was well aware you were stepping closer to him, and his hips bucked faster in response. You bent down, caressing your palm over his flushed cheek until his eyes fluttered open, glazed over with longing. 

“How about the real thing instead, hm?” you asked softly, wrapping your hand around his own and squeezing it down on his length tighter, “Would you like that, Cardinal?”  

“V-very much, Sorella,” he hiccupped. “Per favore... I’d love to feel you.” You smiled sweetly, pressing a kiss to the end of his nose. His eyes fluttered shut again with a whimper.  

“Take your pants off for me, and take a seat on the couch, okay?” Your voice was so gentle with him, as if he might break if you were a single decibel louder.  

“Sì, Sorella. Grazie...” You bit back the ‘aww’ you so badly wanted to emit at his tenderness, so grateful that you’d even consider giving him what he so desperately needed. You had no idea such submission could be as arousing as it was, but between your legs you were soaking through the red lace of your panties.  

Copia stopped fucking into his fist with a little whine at the loss of contact, but stood and did as instructed, removing his shoes, socks, and finally his pants. They were strewn on the floor with no rhyme or reason to it, neither of you caring at that moment. He sat himself down in the middle of the plush couch, his hands gripping his bared knees until his knuckles turned white under the leather like he was trying everything to keep them off his cock; which right now, was stood proudly in his lap, red and leaking from the tip. If you weren’t playing a role right now, you very much would have liked to sit between his legs and give him the most sensual, erotic head of his life.  

But no, perhaps another time. For now, you didn’t wish to torture the poor man anymore. And you weren’t sure your own willpower was enough to stop you sinking down on his girth anyway... 

So, you put on a bit of a show for him when you stood between his legs, kicking off your boots and wriggling out of your panties, sliding them down your legs and stepping out of them. His eyes were trained on your hands, the fabric... It gave you an idea. 

You balled them up in your fist, slowly leaning over him and straddling his thighs where he sat. The heat between your legs burned at the close proximity to his cock, but a few more seconds of waiting wouldn’t hurt... Instead, you used your free hand to cup his cheek, lowering your lips to his for another slow, passionate kiss. You felt the leather of his gloves come into contact with your waist, squeezing as the tip of his cock dragged itself over your stomach, his hips naturally rolling up into you.  

“Open up, Cardinal,” you told him, and he obliged as he had so far, letting his jaw go slack, mouth wide open. You stuffed your panties into them, making sure he got a taste of the mess you’d made of the gusset. A muffled groan sounded around the fabric, hips bucking beneath you again. “So good for me...” 

‘Sì, sì, I am... I’m good...’ he thought to himself, unable to voice it now his mouth was otherwise occupied. He couldn’t believe how sweet you tasted, or how well you were treating him. Everything about this encounter with you was sweeter than he could have imagined. 

You undid the buttons of his red shirt, exposing his chest to you and letting your hands run over his skin, tickled by the chest hair. You only briefly toyed with his nipples, but it was enough to earn another whimper. His happy trail led down to his well-groomed pubes, where his cock stood weeping and ready for you, still pressing against your own stomach.  

“Let’s see if all this fits, shall we?” you teased, taking him at the base of his shaft and lining him up with your dripping entrance. Slowly, you began to sink down on him, his girth stretching you so perfectly you dangled over the line of bliss and discomfort. And poor Copia, all he could do was stare as his cock disappeared inside you, inch by inch, squeezed by your tight, wet walls. He desperately bit down on your panties to stifle his groan. You bottomed out before long, stretched and filled entirely and stilling to adjust before you could move.  

“Just about,” you chuckled, “I had no idea you were so... equipped, Cardinal.” He stared blankly at you, your compliment shooting straight to his dick where you felt it kick inside you. That was it; you couldn’t wait anymore.  

You began to roll your hips against him, letting him hit that delicious spot inside you that would have you seeing stars in no time at all. His grip on your waist fell to your ass, where the bruises from yesterday with Secondo had bloomed into purple stripes where the leather belt had hit you. He squeezed and you hissed in pain. 

Copia’s eyes widened and he looked to where his cock was sheathed inside you in panic. 

“No, no... not that sweetheart, don’t worry,” you reassured him, still wincing at the pain from his grip. You moved your hands over his and raised them back to your hips, “hold me here, Cardinal. I’m, uh... bruised...” you confessed. His brow furrowed in confusion and concern, but you reassured him it was okay. “Don’t ask,” you laughed, picking up the pace of your hips. He couldn’t focus on that anymore once you did, his head rolling to lay on the back of the couch. 

His mind was gone, too focussed on how you felt around him. And frankly, you could barely think of anything but the same... 

“P-Papa... Papa, stop,” Christine called back to Terzo, who still had her bent over the back of one of his desk chairs. He grunted in annoyance, stilling his hips.  

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his mind distracted.  

“I think I should be asking you that...” she said, pulling off his length and turning in her spot to face him, folding her arms over her bare chest. “Something’s wrong, you don’t usually take this long.” Terzo scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.  

“You have a problem that I can last?” he spat. “You’re certainly the first.” Christine scowled; it wasn’t like him to have this attitude with her.  

“That’s not what I mean... What is it, did Sister Imperator get in your head yesterday? Is it stress?” she asked, genuinely concerned. Terzo had been fucking her for a good twenty minutes, to no end. He had been grunting desperately, wanting to chase a high that simply would not come. His mind was far too busy.  

“What? No! Shit, you had to ruin it putting that old bag in my head, eh?” he scolded, his cock already softening as he bent down to rip his trousers from their place on the floor, beginning to redress. Christine stared at his face as he did his trousers back up, his brow furrowed in a dark scowl. She studied him, and saw easily that he was thinking about something... or someone. 

“Was it when Sister _____ came in? Did it put you off?” she asked, and his head snapped back to her, frown lines deepening in anger.  

“No! It has nothing to do with her!” he raised his voice. Bingo.  

“Oh, it has everything to do with her...” she smiled knowingly, climbing off the chair and searching for her habit and underwear. She, too, dressed herself.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he denied poorly, pulling his shirt over his arms and doing it up button by button. 

“You asked her if she was jealous... And, Satan’s taint, the look on her face when she caught us! Now I think of it, she did look jealous... I’m pretty sure she looked like she was crying,” she recalled, realisation hitting her like a smack to the face laced with guilt. “Shit, she’s my friend, Terzo! What did you do?” she accused. 

“Me?! Nothing! I just... She was...” he stumbled. He couldn’t tell Christine about the ritual, that would be a violation of your privacy, but he had no excuse, immediately jumping to defensiveness until the reality of what Christine just said came crashing down around him. ‘She was crying’... 

Christine saw the look on his face; shock mixed with vague repulsion. She saw his mind racing behind his eyes, darting from side to side in a panic, looking at nothing in particular.  

He hadn’t meant to hurt you... he didn’t think you cared enough to be hurt by this. He just figured it might spark a bit of jealousy, that he could go and find you later and be ‘taught a lesson’ or something. Hell, even if you had opted to join them, he could have coaxed envy out of you in a fight for his attention, but... this was not the plan.  

He had decided to fuck Christine out of his own jealousy, his need to remind himself that other women existed aside from you, that you weren’t anything special to him after all but the way his chest ached thinking of hurting you? It was proving him wrong. So very wrong. 

What if he’d fucked up this entire ritual now? What if you shut him out and no sin was performed today? He’d never forgive himself, and he could end up pushing you out of the Ministry itself, let alone away from him. This wasn’t just about him.  

“Oh, Papa... you like her, don’t you?” Christine sighed, now fully dressed and looking at Terzo with pity in her eyes. 

“Like her? Oh please, Sorella, this isn’t a school playground...” he scoffed, still partially in denial. He still wouldn’t admit it to himself. No, not after just some meaningless sex together and a bit of flirting back and forth. He couldn’t possibly hold any true feelings for you other than vague attraction. There wasn’t an undeniable pull like a magnetic attraction between the two of you. Not at all.  

“Well then for Lucifer's sake, stop acting like a child and go find her!” she scolded. She was lucky she had a personal relationship with Terzo as his assistant, because had anybody else spoken to him this way, he might have lost his temper. But no, she was right. He was acting like a child, out of spite and jealousy. He had to find you, and apologise. He had to fix this.  

He slipped his shoes on and straightened out his hair in the reflection on the glass cabinet that housed his robe. “Not a word to anyone about any of this, do you understand me?” he warned, pointing at Christine where she stood by his office door, holding it open for him.  

“Just go, you moron,” she jabbed, rolling her eyes. “If she hates me after this, I swear, I’m quitting.”  

Terzo hurried towards the door, stopping in front of Christine and picking up the clipboard you had dropped when you came by earlier. He clutched it to his chest to shield it from Christine’s view. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to use you like that, I’m not in my right mind lately...” he admitted, hanging his head in shame. 

“Don’t worry about it, I think your dick punished you enough already,” she smirked. “Go. I’m fine, really. This never means anything, just stress relief. Or, you know... I tried,” she shrugged, laughing. Terzo wanted to laugh with her, at least at the awkwardness that came with him not being able to climax. But he was too panicked, mind racing with things he wanted to say to you. Apologies, excuses, truths, lies... he had no idea what to tell you. 

Instead he just nodded at her, heading out of the door and into the corridor. He was halfway down it when he almost tripped, his foot hitting something on the floor and almost sending him flying.  

“Ah, cazzo!” he cried, his toe throbbing from the weight of whatever it was. When he looked, it was a thick, heavy old hardback book in terrible condition. Slightly ahead of it, was another, recklessly strewn across the floor and opened on a random page. He bent to pick them up, noting the lettering embossed in gold on the front of both of the worn covers was Olde Latin.  

These must be the Cardinal’s, he thought to himself, that klutz.  

Terzo figured he would just take them back to him, he had to pass the library anyway to get to Secondo’s office, where he assumed you would be. And if not, Secondo might at least have an idea of where he could find you.  

Copia couldn’t contain the moans he fought so hard to control, your panties falling from his slack jaw to rest on his chest. You felt too good around him, squeezing him, clenching on him, dragging him further and further towards an orgasm. His hips began to buck up into you in time with each roll of your hips, chasing and chasing... 

“Sorella...” he whined, “you feel... ah! Magnifica... (Magnificent...)” You chuckled breathlessly in response. Your thighs were beginning to burn, ignored in order to focus solely on the pleasure building inside you. Frankly, Cardinal Copia felt magnificent inside you too, grazing every wall, hitting every spot you desired. And now he was bucking up into you, his hips were slapping against your mound and sending blunt shockwaves through your clit too.  

“Want you to feel good, Cardinal. You deserve it, you’ve been so good,” you praised. He keened at that and buried his face between your exposed breasts; he’d removed your bra some time ago when he had the realisation that he couldn’t bare not to suck at your nipples while you rode him any longer. For now, he dragged his lips and tongue over the fullness of each breast in sloppy open-mouthed kisses.  

As you drew ever closer to your end, pulling Copia with you every step of the way, you didn’t notice the click of the office door unlatching, or the quiet squeak of it swinging open... 

“Cardinal, I think you dropped these-” Terzo entered the room, stopping suddenly when his eyes landed on the scene before him.  

You had your back to him, your veil over your shoulders and shielding your face for the moment. Nothing registered in his mind, assuming Copia had brought a Sister back to his little workshop for some fun as he was more than entitled to do if he wished. Except, then he saw the bruises on the ass of the sister in question, and he actually looked at the woman in front of him... 

Neither you nor Copia had noticed the new spectator enter, and were still both very much enraptured in the pleasure you were giving each other instead.  

“Cazzo, Sorella ______…" Copia groaned from between your breasts, earning another moan from you.  

Terzo’s chest tightened. It was you.  

He wanted the ground to swallow him up whole. Bad enough he’d walked in on his half-brother getting railed by anybody, but you? He felt sick. Nausea crept up his throat that he had to swallow down along with a rage that burned like acid in his veins. Please tell me this is a nightmare, Lucifer, he prayed to himself. The pain was too much, and it only solidified that he too was a horrible person, if he had made you feel even a fraction of the despair that he did in that moment.  

His natural reaction was fury. Silent, obnoxious fury.  

Only when you heard a slam behind you did you and Copia still, jumping and gasping with the sound as your heads whipped around to see Terzo stood behind Copia’s desk, having just slammed the two books and clipboard he was carrying onto the surface.  

Copia immediately reached for a couch pillow to cover your behind – some ridiculous Star Wars pillow of his – and sat up straighter, readying to move when you did.  

Except you didn’t move. 

Instead, you were stuck in a staring match with Terzo, whose eyes bored into yours as if laser beams protruded from them like the fucking lightsabres on Copia’s stupid pillow. He looked angrier than you had ever seen him, fists balled tightly at his sides and a furious scowl deepening the lines in his face. This was unplanned; you hadn’t intended for him to walk in on you fucking somebody else. You just needed an outlet for your own jealousy, a way of expressing the anger and pain he’d caused you, but this was perfect...  

Checkmate, motherfucker.  

Letting the evil feeling inside of you possess you, you smirked at him where you still sat on Copia’s cock, and without breaking the stare, you began rolling your hips slowly just as before.  

“W-wait, what are you-” Copia began to protest but you shushed him with a finger on his lips.  

“Ignore him, Copia,” you accentuated his name, forgoing his title on purpose. It suggested a personal connection, and it was a stage you had yet to reach with Terzo in either of your encounters. You had only ever referred to him as ‘Papa’, never called him by his name. It stung him, deeply. “Papa was just leaving.” 

You turned back to Copia, holding his head as you ground down into him. Copia hated himself for it, but you felt too good against him to argue with you. When you leaned down to kiss him, he forgot there was anyone within the room at all, his mind going blank. You exaggerated a moan against his lips, enjoying Copia again but moreso wanting to get to Terzo, to twist the knife you’d already stabbed in his back.  

Terzo’s pale eye twitched, and without another word, he left, slamming the door behind him.  

Perhaps a part of you felt guilty, maybe thought you were being a cruel witch but then... this was exactly what he had done to you, no? And besides, there was something thrilling about the way he had glared at you, in much the same way as Secondo’s anger had fuelled your lust the day before.  

This was it. Envy, embodied. To His taste.  

You were brought back from your thoughts when Copia’s grip fell from his ridiculous pillow and landed on your ass again, and you cried out at the sting. He let go immediately in a panic.  

“Shit, sorry! I forgot...” he cried, but you grabbed his hands, slapping them back into place on your bruised cheeks, the pain fuelling you to ride him harder, faster, chase the high that had ebbed away when you stilled at Terzo’s interruption. “Oh, cazzo...” he moaned, realising it had spurred you on and revelling in it. 

As you rode on, Terzo’s glare became the forefront of your mind. You shut your eyes, seeing it again plain as day. You were almost there... Copia’s grip tightened as he neared his orgasm, the bruises burning deliciously on your ass.  

“Fuck, Cardinal, I’m gonna cum. Make me cum, please!” you sang, your nails digging into his shoulders delivering sharp stings that incited him as much as his grip on you did for you.  

His hips bucked up furiously into yours until your orgasm crashed down on you, the image of Terzo’s envy the last thing you pictured as pleasure burst through your body. You rode out your high, not wanting to waste a moment of it and continue to get Copia there too. With the way you clenched around his length, he wasn’t far behind you, lurching forward to bury his face in your neck beneath your veil while he bucked and came inside you, shooting his load deep as you spasmed around his cock. 

Exhausted, Copia fell back against the couch again, head facing the ceiling with his eyes shut. His chest rose and fell with the deep breaths he took, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. You planted your hands on his chest to steady yourself, deep breaths of your own making you feel a little dizzy from the high. 

You got what you wanted. You played the game, your move working perfectly in your favour.  

You won.  

Primo’s joints were getting too old for this. The autumnal chill in the air was making them seize up, his fingers cramping when he was trying to pot some new hyacinths. October was the perfect time for them, readying his garden for the Spring bloom. They had to start in these little pots to begin with, until you begin to see a little green shoot; then, they could be moved outside of the greenhouse and into the flowerbeds.  

Despite his aching fingers, Primo continued potting the bulbs into his little pots, just a little slower than he would have liked. Still, it kept him busy in his retirement; his own little corner of peace after the decades of hard work.  

“Fucking shit.” He heard a whispered shout and a clatter of pots from the other end of the greenhouse. When he turned to look, he saw his younger brother, Terzo, hopping around with a plant pot stuck on his foot. He kicked it off, letting it hit the shelving unit with an annoyed huff.  

“Hey!” he called, his tone scolding, “careful, fratellino mio! My shelves do not deserve this abuse!” Primos tone took on the parental figurehead role again, just by instinct at this point. Years of parenting his younger siblings in his own father’s absence had done that to him.  

Terzo didn’t apologise, instead shoving his fists into the pockets of his trousers and kicking at some of the dirt on the concrete floor of the path. To Primo, he looked as if he was sucking on a sour sweet, the way his lips pursed and his tongue protruded in his cheek. Something was bothering him. 

Primo sighed and reached for an empty pot, and another hyacinth bulb. He set them down on his worktop beside him. “Vieni, aiutami, (Come, help me,)” he instructed. Terzo did as he was told without question, wondering over to the bench in a sulk.  

He removed his white gloves and set them down on the bench, diving his hands into the open bag of composted soil Primo had laid out. He lifted a decent amount and patted it down in the empty pot, shoving the bulb inside and adding more soil, slapping at the soil as if it had just told him the Catholic Pope was coming to visit.  

“Delicatamente, razza di cavernicolo! (Gently, you caveman!)” he scolded again. Terzo slapped his dirtied hands onto the edge of the workbench, leaning and hanging his head as he took a deep breath, clearly angry at something.  

“Perdonami, fratello, (excuse me, brother,)” he apologised, lifting his head to continue gently patting the soil into the pot, “I’m not myself today.”  

“Lo vedo, (I see,)” Primo hums, picking up a rag and dusting the soil from his gardening gloves. “Care to tell me why?” he pries. He knows he does; why else would Terzo be here? Rarely did he pay a visit to his greenhouse since his ascension, but Terzo knew he could come to him any time.  

Terzo sighed, grabbing another empty pot and bulb, stuffing more soil into the bottom as he planted another of the bulbs Primo had waiting in a tray. He wasn’t sure how to phrase any of this, or how to even get the answers he needed without sounding like a fool or a spoilt child; especially not without divulging your secrets to him and betraying your trust again. 

“If it’s Sister Imperator, you must try to ignore he-” Primo began, but was cut off. 

“It’s not her.” Terzo was being sharp, short with his words and tone, but he couldn’t help it. He felt... defeated, helpless. “Well, I suppose she isn’t helping,” he scoffed. True enough, she had been on his case and causing more stress than he needed, all whilst comparing him to his absolute stronzo of a father but that was the least of his concerns. It was you on his mind.  

Primo didn’t rush Terzo, handing him another empty pot to plant another hyacinth bulb. The monotony of the task was actually helping to calm Terzo’s anger, give him space to process and think of how best to phrase this. Primo could see it, the lines of his face lessening with each planting he completed.  

“Fratello, what do you know of donne (women)?” he asked, somewhat cryptically. Primo laughed; not to poke fun at his little brother, more out of surprise that Casanova himself should be asking him for advice on women. 

“I can’t promise a great deal more than you. But I’ll hear you out. Per favore, continua, (Please, continue,)” he encouraged, motioning with a wave of his hand to carry on. 

“I thought I was helping someone. She came to me in her time of need, as her Papa, and I... wanted to help. I have helped. But I think I may have just ruined it all for her anyway. I think I unravelled the scarf I helped her to knit, so to speak...” Terzo sighed, so much sadness in his tone. Primo rarely saw this sadness anymore, kept confined in the walls of his lonely apartment these days. 

“I’m not following,” Primo said, confused. “What exactly were you helping this woman with?” 

Terzo looked up at his brother then. He weighed his options, wondered if he could truly trust him with the full story or if he should make something up. He’d never not been able to trust him before; any secrets of his that Primo was unable to keep had been for his own safety in his reckless teenage rebellion years. And with his years of wisdom within the human experience, he found that Primo was often not one to judge anybody on decisions they’d made either.  

With a final pat to the bulb he was currently planting, he pushed the pot away from him, grabbing the rag Primo had used to dust his hands off and did the same for his own, turning to lean his back against the high worktop.  

“Fratello, have you heard of Rituale Septem?” 

Primo’s back straightened at the mention. Yes, he had heard of it. He’d encountered it, once or twice. Very rarely, of course; such an extensive ritual is rarely performed. And neither time he had encountered it had it been completed.  

“That rituale is more trouble than it is worth, fratellino. Are you telling me a Sibling asked you for help performing it?” Terzo chewed on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like the way his brother had stiffened at the mention of the ritual, nor the inclination that it had been a ridiculous idea to try it.  

“Well, I... Actually, I may have... suggested it.” 

Primo’s shoulders sagged, exasperated. Why must his brothers insist on running him ragged at his tender age, eh? Why must they still, even now, test him so? Primo hadn’t uttered a single word before Terzo began to defend himself, judging by the look on his brother’s face that he was about to receive a rather stern bollocking. 

“It was the only thing I could think to help her, she needed to hear Him so badly or we might have lost her. She would have left, Primo, and if Sister Imperator saw an esteemed Sibling leaving under my leadership, she'd have my balls in a jar on a shelf next to our Euinch of a padre.” 

“Oh, so you were doing this for you, not for her?” Primo accused. Terzo dove straight back in with defence. 

“No! No, I swear, I... I wanted to help her, Primo. She looked so sad, she kept telling me how she’d never heard His voice and all her siblings had. She’s been here for sixteen years, and she doesn’t know why anymore, I couldn’t just let her walk away from all this – to walk away from Him, could I?” 

“Sixteen years? Who...? Hold on, not Sorella _____?” he asked, his eyes wide and brow creased in anger. “You have been performing Rituale Septem with Secondo’s assistant, Terzo?! Oh, idiota! Do you know how many siblings have truly heard the Olde One’s voice? How many he’s actually spoken to?”  

Terzo faltered. He hadn’t expected Primo to know it was you he meant, but then, if anybody knew the Ministry’s comings, goings, longest serving Siblings... it was him.  

“Well, a lot of them say they ha-” 

“They’re liars.” Primo pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “He doesn’t talk to just anyone if they pray hard enough. Since when did we teach that? Are we Evangelists now? ‘Do this and he will show himself to you! Do that! Follow this!’ L'inferno qui sotto, (Hell Below,) you know this. The Siblings who say they have heard him have either gone through terrible, terrible tragedies in their lives, are on a Divine path set out specifically by Lucifer himself or quite simply are fucking liars.”  

Terzo was dumbfounded. He should have known that; why did he not know that? “Does that mean... all of this was useless?” 

“No, fratellino. Complete the ritual, and it will work. But the point of the ritual is that it’s hard, nigh impossible. I’ve never seen it finished, it always got too messy. You don’t devote yourself to each sin in such a short span of time without ruffling a few feathers in your inner circle. Greed turns to theft from loved ones, or pride comes between a family, or jealousy between two lovers...” Terzo looked down at his hands then, picking at the soil under his fingernails.  

Primo stopped, scrutinizing the look on his brother’s face. He saw how his teeth clenched, how his eyes looked at his hands yet remained unfocussed, how his shoulders tensed.  

“Ah. You seem to know what I mean, hm?” He had put two and two together, and come up with four. Terzo looked ahead of him, still picking at his nails, and nodded. 

“She slept with Secondo for Wrath. I got jealous. I got ‘revenge’,” he made air quotation marks with his fingers, clearly angry at himself for even thinking acting petty had been a solution, “which she didn’t seem to take too kindly to, and then... she got me back.” 

 “She played you at your own game?” Primo scoffed, frankly impressed that you’d put him in his place, “Surprise, surprise... Casanova is capable of feeling?” 

“Primo please, now isn’t the time for a lecture about how ‘even the mighty fall’ when I just walked in on her screwing the half-wit!” Terzo’s voice raised in anger, riled up by the image of you in Copia’s lap. 

“Hey!” Primo shouted and smacked the back of Terzo’s head, “You know better than to talk of Copia that way. Enough. He is your brother, maternal or not, and you are just a jealous, bitter man in this moment. Did he know you have developed a liking to Sorella _____?” 

He rubbed the back of his head where he’d been hit, eyes flickering over to his brother and looking away when he realised, he had indeed been in the wrong. He felt a wave of guilt for how he’d spoken of Copia; it wasn’t exactly his fault, and he certainly wasn’t a half-wit. “No... he didn’t. Probably wrong place, right time. Perdonami...” 

“So, she clearly completed envy today. What is left?” Primo continued to gage the gravity of the situation. He needed more detail.  

“Greed and pride. The rest are complete.” 

“I see. I must admit, you’ve done well to keep her on track for five sins, usually people don’t make it past three. But it seems to me, an outsider, that in order to complete this ritual you will need to take a step back. Remove yourself from the equation. You are a guide, but I believe that you must let her choose her path from here, and see if maybe at the end of the path, she finds her way back to you. I assume that is what you want, sì? For a chance?” Primo used his logic, his outside perspective. Feelings weren’t muddying the water for him, and he could see in black and white.  

Terzo mulled his advice over for a moment. He didn’t want to take a step away from you, to let you continue your devotion to sin with anybody but him, but Primo was right; he was nothing more than a guide. He’d enacted two incredible – he would even say beautiful – sins with you. But this wasn’t about him, was it? If he didn’t want you to pack your bags and say farewell to the Satanic Church, he needed you to complete this ritual. 

And now that he was begrudgingly admitting to himself that feelings were indeed involved, at least on his end, the fear of you leaving was nothing to do with Sister Imperator’s watchful eye or his inability to lead his congregation – it was the thought of you leaving him that scared him more than anything, of never having a chance to better himself for you.  

“What if she doesn’t figure it out for herself? What if I’ve failed her?” he asked, his eyes glossy. Primo’s own eyes widened in shock; he hadn’t seen his brother so close to tears since he was a child, and now... over a woman?  

“She’ll never forgive me, Primo. I might have already ruined any hope for a relationship with my ridiculous little games, but if she disappeared... then what?” Terzo loathed himself for not having control of his emotions, for not being able to recognise which ones he was experiencing before he acted on them. A product of his childhood and not entirely his fault, of course, but nonetheless it had ruined any and all relationships - platonic or otherwise - in his past, and now... his inability to allow himself to feel was ruining another. 

“Let’s be logical. Greed is easier than you might think... It’s not simply abundance. It’s selfish desire. So, what kinds of things would you selfishly desire, eh?” he asked him. All he could think of was you.  

He desired you, selfishly. 

“Money, power, fame, food... Anything, I suppose. But she’s not the kind to be... selfish...” he sighed. It was one of the many traits about you he liked, your selflessness. Primo nodded in understanding.  

“Send your Ghouls to her tomorrow. Perhaps they can be of assistance, but I believe you need to stay clear now. She can be greedy with them, in some respect. Guide her, but at a distance. And if you feel jealous, affrontalo (deal with it). That’s a you problem.” 

Primo was right, of course. His jealousy was his own problem, and not something he should let get in the way of your goal. Besides, if he couldn’t go another two days without losing his mind completely, then he was a fool anyway. With just two more sins to complete, you were so close. He wasn’t going to stand in your way now, no matter how much it might hurt him. He was a big boy; he could handle it. 

Else, he’d just barricade himself in his office until the ritual was complete... 

“What about Pride?” he asked, unsure how to ‘guide’ you in that particular sin from a distance. Primo thought for a moment, before he placed a comforting hand on Terzo’s shoulder.  

“Let me think on that one. Fidati di me. (Trust me.)” Terzo did trust him, implicitly. Already he had given him the best possible advice, and somehow managed to calm him from his jealous and childish rage. “And keep yourself busy, fratellino... Jealousy will drive you mad, if you let it.” 

Terzo nodded thoughtfully. He was fairly certain it already had, but he understood his sentiment. He would just have to take a backseat, let this play out like divine intervention. He could only hope that after the ritual was complete, and Lucifer had bestowed himself upon you, you might find it in you to give him the time of day; if for no other reason than simply to apologise.  

“Come now, there are still hyacinths to plant. Fetch me those pots from the shelves you attacked earlier,” Primo waved his hand in the direction of the entrance, ordering Terzo to help and finish what he’d started; some irony in that, he felt. He did as told, fetching more small pots and heading back to the bench. 

Primo let him do most of the work; he needed the distraction, and besides; it was nice to have his little brother’s company for a change. Too easily, the Emeritus brothers would find themselves in their own little bubbles, forgetting they had a family they could actually lean on when they needed to. Still, if Terzo had found his way to his greenhouse when he’d fallen into emotional turmoil, it must have meant he had done something right in raising him. He smiled fondly to himself at that thought.  

From what Terzo had told him, Primo was almost completely sure there were more feelings at play here than just Terzo’s. Why else would you have wanted to beat him at his own game? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’, after all, and to be scorned was to be rejected. You simply cannot be rejected if you don’t feel anything at all for a person.  

If he had to involve himself in this somehow, to come between you both and play the puppet master in the interim, he would do so. Far be it for him to stand by idly when he felt he may be able to help you at least stop being mad at each other and dancing around the Pandora’s box of emotions that lay open in the middle of you both. If Primo had learned anything during his tenure as a living soul on this earth, it was that feelings can, and should, be dealt with. And far be it for him to deny a Sibling as devoted as you the opportunity to commune with the Dark One when you needed it.  

He could only hope Lucifer would give you the answers you were looking for... 

Prev: Day 4 - Wrath | Next: Day 6: Greed

A huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading, and @adinferix for fine tuning the Italian translations! 🖤

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[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

what do you think of the rumors about Aemond's possible betrayal of Aegon in Ep4?

Oh do I have a lot to say about this one! So here's the thing. A possible Rook's Rest betrayal situation has been a long running theory among F&B readers even before the show. In the book, Vhagar slams into Sunfyre and Meleys from above while the two are locked together fighting, and they all crash to the ground. It's unclear whether Aemond slammed them both because Vhagar was too big to maneuver in a precise way, or if he was intentionally trying to harm his brother. It's ambiguous, but when Aegon is badly injured, Aemond becomes prince regent and declares the crown looks better on him than it ever did on his brother. In Aemond's favor, he did not declare himself king, but it's also the case that in the book, Aegon had a second son, so Aemond wasn't his heir either. Declaring himself king would have been a direct usurpation of Maelor even if Aegon himself died. We also know that at the end of the Dance Aegon wanted statues made of both his brothers, Aemond and Daeron, so Aegon himself likely did not believe Aemond was responsible for his injuries. But it is ambiguous, and book!Aemond does turn out to be not very smart and not much of a team player, so in and of itself, I don't actually mind the betrayal theory so much. But I would prefer it remain a theory, that is, keep it ambiguous, but even if it is an outright betrayal, it's the execution and motivation which concern me.

In the show, Aemond has a very clear second son syndrome. Whether it's true or not, he certainly thinks he's smarter, better, more dutiful, and of course on top of all that, he has the largest dragon. Show!Aegon, on the other hand, is insecure and struggling with depression, alcoholism, and a big case of imposter syndrome. He's impulsive and reactive, wasn't properly prepared to be king, didn't particularly want to be king, but now that he is king, he's desperate not to fail. In the events leading up to the war, Aemond kills Luke in a moment that seems more rash than calculated, and this ultimately leads to Aegon's small son being decapitated by Blood and Cheese in revenge, throwing him deep into grief and rage. On top of that, Aegon is feeling undermined by his council, including Aemond, and Larys is planting the seeds of mistrust between Aegon and his brother. It's absolutely reasonable for there to be some resentment between the two and some unresolved issues that might manifest on the battlefield. Would these issues lead to an actual attempted murder? Eh, I tend to think that, in the spirit of leaving it ambiguous, Aemond might have the passing thought that he could totally "accidentally" allow Aegon to come to harm. He might even hesitate just long enough that Meleys is able to seriously wound Aegon or Sunfyre before he joins in, causing him to feel a great deal of guilt. This is my preferred scenario.

The problem I have is with how the show is framing it so far. I've never been a fan of the way the bullying storyline seemed to humanize Aemond at Aegon's expense, but it now appears as if it's being used as a motivation or justification for Aemond betraying Aegon at Rook's Rest, as well as his general shift to a darker character, which I find cliched and disappointing. At this point Aemond is a grown man by all Westerosi standards, and despite their issues, we've seem Aegon display loyalty towards Aemond more than we've seen him "bully" him. They're siblings, they're going to fight and bicker and tease, but we've seen nothing from Aegon so far that would justify murder. Maybe if your brother is going through the worst thing a person can possibly experience, losing his son in a murder that, while not your fault, happened as a retribution for your actions, perhaps you could grant him some grace, even if he makes some obnoxious comments in a brothel. I've seen so many takes which basically amount to "Aegon had it coming" as if we haven't seen Aegon absolutely distraught over the death of his child, receiving no emotional support from his family, least of all Aemond himself, and spiraling back into alcoholism and reckless behavior. Now is really not the time to get pissy about teasing. It's not about you, Aemond. A child is dead.

And in fact, we've seen Aegon be supportive of Aemond on screen in ways that we generally haven't seen Aemond support Aegon. Aegon speaks up on Aemond's behalf, inviting him into the council when Alicent wants to shut him out, and we've seen him support Aemond's battle plans, even though we know Cole and Aemond have been planning behind Aegon's back. In S1 we've seen Aegon have Aemond's back at dinner with Rhaenyra's family, and going even further back, we've seen Aegon allow Aemond to throw him under the bus about the bastard comments, taking the fall even though he was not the culprit. There is certainly jealousy and rivalry there from both sides, but as much as Aegon is an ass, it is clear he loves his brother.

Also, I think some fans, perhaps because the well was poisoned against Aegon in S1 in ways that his character has struggled to recover from, tend to read everything Aegon does uncharitably and ignore some of Aemond's more questionable behavior, granting him grace that they do not grant others. I rarely see critical analysis about Aemond the way I do about Aegon, so I'm going to be frank here for a moment. Aemond is only the "good" brother to Aegon's "bad" brother because we haven't seen him at his worst yet, but the potential is there for him to be so much worse than Aegon could ever be. Show!Aemond is thin skinned, self-centered, and a bit of a "can dish it out but can't take it" type. Aemond's assholery is more subtle (for example, Aemond's patronizing little "that's a brave thought" to Aegon in council), whereas Aegon's is loud and obnoxious, but Aemond knows how to make his insults pointed and hurtful ("Strong boys" toast, you will die screaming in flames like your father). And look no further than his reaction to Blood and Cheese to see his egotism in action. In this moment when he's supposed to be showing some level of vulnerability with the madame, he's talking about how honored he is that sempai Daemon noticed him. Mind you, this notice is what resulted in the death of his four year old nephew. His "remorse" over killing Lucerys amounts to "I do regret that business with Luke," while immediately following up with his justification, citing how they used to tease him for not having a dragon. Sincere remorse involves examining your own actions without immediately justifying them or centering yourself, and in that moment I felt no remorse from Aemond, or even sympathy for what his killing of Luke might have unleashed upon the family. Aemond hasn't even mentioned Helaena once post-B&C, and you'd think that even if he doesn't feel sorry for Aegon, surely he'd show some sympathy for his innocent sister? And yet, nothing.

So while I can't say it would be necessarily out of character for the Aemond they've been giving us in S2, I don't really like this take on Aemond at all, and I just don't find this supposed grudge against Aegon a particularly compelling justification for attempted murder. While the bullying storyline humanized Aemond in S1 as a child, keeping it going now, as a motive for harming his brother and his brother's dragon, which, lets be clear, would absolutely fuck over his entire faction, is ridiculous and unnecessary, and really kind of saps any goodwill I might have had for Aemond. I don't have any sympathy for someone who was rather mildly teased and decides his brother deserves to die for it, and it makes me feel incredibly sad for Aegon who is just getting dumped on by his entire family to the point where it's honestly kind of hard to watch. There is plenty of drama inherent in the situation already as-is. If this happened because of tensions over Storm's End and Blood and Cheese, it would still be stupid for Aemond to do, but Aemond has never been as smart as he thinks, and it would frame the betrayal in the context of the ways Aegon and Aemond have hurt each other. However, if it is framed as Aegon's comeuppance for being an asshole, Aemond's Joker moment where he goes fully dark in some sort of bullying revenge plot that he decides to enact in the middle of a war? Honestly, forget building gigantic gold covered statues, I'd be burning effigies.