#Conquer Your Enemies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yinyuedijun · 26 days ago

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When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) masterlist | part two →

12.8k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. warnings for themes of war, slavery, and threats of sexual violence (none from Mydei). Mydei also seems quite terrible to you at first, but this is all unreliable narration; he is actually very kind to you for the entirety of the story. MDNI.

author's note including discussion of themes, ancient Greek influences, canon lore (including the multiple timelines), and a list of characters and terminology for my non-hsr readers lol. dividers by @/strangergraphics!

They find you at the altar.

The Sons of Gorgo are a cruel people. Their hands are smeared with the blood of your fallen temple, staining the ivory silk of your chiton as they drag you outside. Chaos roars around you: the streets are strewn with corpses, the olive trees are devoured by flames, the sky is filled with ash. The city is screaming in its death throes. The Kremnoans jeer at you, at your humiliation. High priestess of a weak god, they say. Prophetess turned slave. They’ve heard that the hiereia of your temple are required to be virgins. You won't be a holy maiden anymore, after they're done with you.

They argue over who gets to rape you.

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes and worshippers alike, but you remain impassive. You refuse to give the invaders the satisfaction of seeing your tears, and anyway, they are much too small to intimidate someone who speaks to the Titans. They bicker over who is more deserving of the valuable plunder of your body—who has killed more people, who has captured more slaves, who has burned down more homes—and you feel disgust, rather than fear. They're closer to animals than men.

The hoplites fall silent when their leader comes. His hair is fire and gold; his eyes gleam like the sun. He cuts a terrible figure—the shape of a man who feasts on strife and fear. Just like the rest of his army.

Just like Nikador himself.

“What’s happening here?” he says, harsh and oppressive. His gaze is sharp on you, but you do not tremble. “Who is this?”

A soldier speaks proudly: “She was the high priestess of this temple,” he says. “But now she’ll be a slave.”

The men laugh.

“We were fighting over who should get to keep her,” another says. “But I think it's clear as day who's most deserving, eh?”

“The fiercest among us should get the greatest prize,” someone else says. They cheer and bark like hyenas. Their general does not smile. He only looks at you, eyes burning. Outraged. How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their leader to glare at you like this.

“Fine,” he says. “I'll take her, then.”

They grab you with their red hands. Push you toward an encampment, a tent. Laugh in delight and bloodthirst. About time our Crown Prince shows interest in a woman, they say. We were starting to think you were a eunuch, Your Highness! It wouldn't do if he were. In the wake of victory, Kremnoans are meant to take all the glories and treasures they can. That includes all the peoples they've conquered. Our mighty general needs to enjoy his spoils of war!

When they finally reach his tent, they throw you onto the ground, and the pain slams through your bones. You are left alone with the Kremnoan general, glaring up at him from your place on the floor. His eyes are less sharp now; rather than burning on you, they merely seem cold. He will kill me, you think, he will kill me like he has killed my city, but then he kneels down. A hand extends toward you, reaching, pilfering, violating—

You spit in his face.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you snarl, and the general jerks back, surprised. Your hand darts out as he falters, grabbing a dagger from his hip, swift and deadly.

The sharp metal of his gauntlet snaps around your wrist before you can slash open your throat.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. Your brow arches.

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” you ask, scathing. “I'd rather die than let a Kremnoan touch me.”

His mouth twists. “I have no intention to do such a thing,” he says, and the bark of laughter you let out is so cruel that you hear in it the echo of the soldiers who dragged you to your doom.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” you hiss. “That’s what your people do when they win wars. What the Cult of Nikador does to the women they enslave.” The blade is pressed against your jugular, and you feel its edge when you swallow. “Or will you instead bleed me dry and drink my blood from your chalice? That's what your god demands of you, isn't it?”

His eyes narrow. “Foolish. I was going to help you up, but I suppose you prefer being on the ground.”

You watch him, wary, unconvinced, but he turns away. As if utterly disinterested in you, he crosses the threshold to rummage through his personal effects. You spot a golden winecup in his hands when he turns, and he snorts when he catches you looking at it suspiciously. “You have no need to worry,” he says dryly. “Kremnoans prefer pomegranate juice to blood.”

“If only they preferred to be humans rather than beasts,” you retort, and the general’s eyes harden as he pours himself a drink. You wonder, for a moment, if he will strike you, but he seems to temper himself as he takes his draught.

“I hope you prefer living to dying. If you should, then you won't leave this tent tonight. Doing so would mean throwing yourself to those beasts.”

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

His nostrils flare. You can sense his fury, but his voice is taut and restrained when he says, “Better to contend with one beast than twenty, don't you think?”

Your captor walks over, his boots heavy against the ground as he kneels before you. You expect to feel his hands on your neck, or the weight of his body crushing yours into the earth, but instead you are presented with his winecup, half empty.

“Take it,” he says. When you don't move, merely glaring at him, he frowns and sets the drink next to you before rising again. You're left staring at the nectar, and—unbidden—you see the rivers of blood on the temple steps, lacerations in your holy ground. Smell the copper stench of slain men, hear the sorrowful cries of your goddess through the Evernight Veil. Your captor misinterprets your grimace: “You just saw me drink from that yourself. It isn't poisoned.”

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

He turns away, as if to leave. You swallow, disbelieving.

“And then?”

“And then you may do whatever you wish, so long as you don't leave my tent. I have a war to wage, so you'll need to entertain yourself for the rest of the night.”

Entertain yourself. Your city is aflame, your temple is desecrated, and he wishes for you to drink pomegranate juice and amuse yourself until he has the time to rape you. As if you can't hear the screams and cries of your city. As if you can't smell the charcoal and death through the fabric of the tent. As if you will be content to lie back and wait for him to cleave you open once he returns.

How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their prince to be so cruel to you.

You imagine rushing toward him. You envision grabbing his knife, lodging it into his back, in the soft space between his vertebrae, a path into his heart—but you hold yourself back, because you have no doubt he’ll easily overpower you now. No—if you wish to kill him, you will need to do it while he's unguarded. Likely when he's asleep, or perhaps even inside you, depending on how stupid or drunk he’ll be when he rapes you.

You will need to humour his whims until then.

“How much?” you ask when he is about to leave the tent. When he glances back at you, you add, uncomprehending, “How much do you want me to pour out?” And why?

He shrugs. “However much makes sense to you.” The general glances back, thoughtful, and says, “I’ll see to it that someone else cleans up in here tomorrow,” and then you understand.

You drink half of what remains in his cup, and then you pour out the rest.

Your goddess sends you visions that night, dreams of the past, present, future. You peer upon a child drowning in the sea, a poisoned woman with a golden dagger, a mad king cleaving a statue into fifths. You dream of burning villages, fallen idols, a father slain by his son. Aquila closes his eyes; Georios drowns in shadow; monsters roam the earth. A great fortress looms before you, dark and decrepit, and the young king seated upon its throne is covered in blood. He reeks of the corpses of a thousand temples, of your temple. You cannot see his face, but you recognise the shape of him, mighty and terrible—a man who feasts upon strife and fear. You are lying at his feet, wounded. Your chest is heavy, aching, and your heart bleeds in the hand of Nikador, scarlet dripping through his fingers.

You are crying when you wake up.

You do not need to look outside the tent to know that your city is gone. Aurelia is silent, bereft of life—its buildings gutted, its people slain, its treasures stolen. Death has settled over your home, and in its wake, the Kremnoan legion prepares to leave.

The soldiers sent to disassemble your captor’s tent all bear white caps. They must be helots, the children of slaves; you have met a few of them during your time as an acolyte, watching them trailing after the rare Kremnoan master who would sometimes seek supplication at your temple.

You used to pity them for their station; now, they pity you.

The helots give you sorrowful looks as they strip the bed of its red-stained sheets. They speak gently to you when they give you water to wash your face and thighs. They try to counsel you, tell you that Prince Mydeimos is the best person who could have stolen you. He is just for a Kremnoan warrior, they whisper, show the soldiers grace and you'll see, and then they put you in chains.

You do not show the Kremnoan army any grace. You glare at every hoplite who lays eyes on you, and you refuse to bow your head for any of them. On the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, they study you like you are an animal. Some of them look at you with wonder—for you are a divine oracle in the flesh—some with shameless curiosity—for it has spread like wildfire that you have been defiled by the Crown Prince Mydeimos, who has never taken a woman as his plunder—and some with unadulterated glee. They pester you and the other prisoners-of-war, and you recognize them as the animals who sacked your temple and burned your olive groves.

“Has Prince Mydeimos given you a Kremnoan welcome?” they ask in their dialect, mocking. Has he told you what your life will become? Do the men behind you know that their priestess has been ruined, or are they too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?

“HKS,” you retort, and their faces fall. They look at one another, aghast.

“What did you say?” one grits out the Aurelian dialect, and you cast him a cool glance.

“HKS. I called you a hyena—or are you too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?”

You do not expect to be struck. A hand cracks across your cheek; the pain is blinding. You are on the ground, knees in the dirt, reeling. The prisoners behind you are crying for their priestess; the memory-ghosts of the acolytes behind you are screaming for help; the olive trees behind you are turning to charcoal and dust; the city behind you is burning, burning, burning. Oronyx will never let you forget this, nor any other memory.

“What is this?” a voice snarls, and time freezes.

The procession has come to a halt. The hoplites are suddenly children, caught red-handed with a broken toy. The offending soldier swallows, and you feel some semblance of glee. The Cult of Nikador is famed for their obsession with order and with glory. It is taboo among their people to touch another’s spoils, and suicide to try it with one’s superiors. Killing the slave of the Crown Prince would be the same thing as stealing his belongings or breaking his sword—acts of impudence punishable by death.

He stutters: “She—the priestess… she was out of line, Your Highness, mocking us—”

“And you were not out of line for touching her?”

The offending soldier looks at the ground beneath him. Sweat beads his temple. “I… forgot myself. I apologize, Your Highness.”

Your captor is not placated. His gaze roams the bystanders, scalding. “Should any other man be foolish enough to strike the priestess,” he booms, “I will cut off his hand myself. I have claimed her as my war prize, and no one else shall touch her. Do you understand?”

The yessirs are immediate. Unanimous. The general is restless still. He turns to you, the edge of his voice now muted, but still present. “Can you stand?”

I will slit your throat someday, you think as you look up at him. “Yes, my lord,” you reply demurely. “He merely struck my face. The rest of my body is untouched.”

“Then you will ride upfront with me,” he declares. “I will not have my spoils within the reach of anyone else.”

You end up next to him in his chariot, which makes you want to claw off your skin—to be so far from your worshippers, and so close to your captor. You turn your cheek to him, throbbing and bruised, but he deigns to speak with you anyway.

“Tell me,” he asks brusquely, “do you have a death wish? Or are you just a fool? Though even fools usually know when to hold their tongue.”

“I know too many tongues to hold them all, I'm afraid,” you reply neatly in the Kremnoan dialect, and your captor gives you an incredulous stare. You pointedly look ahead, eyes unwavering on the winding road to the City of Strife. “I am the High Priestess of the Aurelian Cult of Oronyx. I will not be cowed by a gaggle of idiots.”

“You are very proud for someone currently wearing chains,” the general remarks.

“And you are very cruel for someone who will someday wear a crown.” You pause then, thinking of your dreams before gambling: “Though a man who plans to kill his father could only be cruel.”

Your captor falls silent. You glance at him, mouth curling in satisfaction as you catalogue his reaction. His features are stoic, and someone with a lesser eye for expressions—someone not practiced in the art of telling fortunes and giving counsel—might miss it, but it's clear as day to you: your captor is ungrounded.

Disturbed.

“I know not what you mean,” he says coolly, and you raise a brow.

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.”

The prince remains composed despite your goading. “...so the rumours of your visions are true.” He studies you. “There were almost children or elderly in your city when the walls fell. Nearly no women. And the Aurelian soldiers… it was as if they knew all our plans.” At your silence, he concludes, “It was you, wasn't it? You foretold our attack and warned them.”

“It seems that the future king of Kremnos is a clever one,” you say dryly.

“And the High Priestess in his hands is a fool.” His jaw clicks. “I am trying my best to keep the wolves away from you, but you seem determined to throw yourself at them.”

You bare your canines with a smile, and you try dangling your newfound leverage over his head. “If I were you,” you reply, “I would be more worried about the wolves who would hunt for you, Your Highness. I’ve heard that King Eurypon and his council threw you into the sea as a baby; I am quite sure they would do the same to you now—unless you kill them first, of course.”

A great deal of being an oracle is guesswork. Oronyx sends you dreams, visions, echoes; people give you hints, gossip, microexpressions. Together, you can get a fairly good grasp on a man’s circumstances. Your captor is no exception: from the way his brows knot, you know that you've guessed true.

His eyes narrow, and he glances back at the rest of the Kremnoan procession, who are too far behind to hear anything. “Keep quiet,” he commands. “Don't think I won't kill you if you are a liability. There are limits to my patience.”

You snort. “I won’t give you away”—not yet—“but it won't be out of fear of death. Kill me if you'd like; I will not cower.”

Your captor makes a noise of displeasure. “I have never met a person so eager to die.”

“Haven’t you?” You arch a brow at the perplexed look he gives you. “Valorous death before glorious return. That’s your way of life, isn't it? You’ve burned my city and destroyed my temple—I will never see a glorious return. By the laws of your own god, there is now only one path left for me.”

You turn your wrists, let the iron chains sing. It occurs to you that you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

Never have you been anywhere so strange nor frightening. The walls of the fortress climb high enough to eclipse the sun; the streets are crawling with soldiers carrying spears and shields. Every man and woman carries a sword; every child play-fights with a wooden one. Each one of them cheers as their army returns from its campaign, and nearly all of them eye you curiously—the war prize chosen by their famed Crown Prince.

During your long procession into the inner city, all you can hear are the whispers and jeers of the crowd. It is the warriors who are the loudest—the ones who did not put Aurelia under siege and are disappointed to have missed out on the glory of its destruction. They speak about you, about what you must look like beneath your bloodied robes, about how they cannot blame General Mydeimos for capturing you. Any Kremnoan man would want to fuck the High Priestess of their long-time enemy, and that is only truer now that their leader has staked his claim on you. All of them want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince.

Your own face remains unmoving, but Prince Mydeimos’ eyes darken. “Hyenas,” he growls, and you have to stop yourself from snorting at the hypocrisy.

The king is said to be senile and half-mad, and his queen died some years back of illness, so the homecoming warriors are greeted by a high statesman, General Krateros. You have heard many tales of him: legendary strategos, shrewd politician, the right hand of King Eurypon. The Seaside States once launched an offensive on Castrum Kremnos and was met with Krateros’ Goldshield Brigade; every enemy soldier was either put to death or bound in chains.

Chains just like yours.

General Krateros gives you a thoughtful look when he meets you, eyes locked on your iron cuffs. “I had a great hand in raising you, Prince Mydeimos, so I know you well,” he says. You’ve heard tell that after Prince Mydeimos was thrown into the Sea of Souls, General Krateros spent years searching for him at the request of his mother, eventually finding him years later in some fishing village. Krateros has ever since served and counselled the Crown Prince—perhaps poorly, for he says, “I did not take you for the type of man to capture a woman as your bounty.”

“Nor did you raise me to be the type of man to throw an innocent to the wolves,” your captor replies evenly, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

No, you think, you are only the type to put a holy maiden in chains.

Your face must give away your disdain, for General Krateros studies you carefully. “Innocent or not, you may do whatever you wish with her, Mydeimos,” the strategos says, his eyes keen on you. “A predator need not worry for his prey other than how to keep it for himself.”

The message is clearly for you—know your place—but your captor appears to take the words to heart. Keeping you for himself is exactly what he does: rather than sending you to the slave’s quarters or some courtesan house, Prince Mydeimos has you stay in his room and orders that no one—aside from his appointed servants—should be allowed an audience with you.

Thus begins your life as the war prize of the Crown Prince.

If you were a different sort of person, you might enjoy the position. The Aurelian soldiers who fought to protect you are likely chained in iron and performing hard labour; the older women who were accosted in your temple are likely being forced to do menial work; the younger ones may have been ushered into brothels. You are instead placed into a beautiful, private chamber, and you are given robes of silk. Your wrists are manacled like every other slave under Kremnoan law, but the chains are gold. You are told to bathe in fragrant water, and the scent of flowers is ever-present on your skin.

You don't mistake any of this as kindness toward you. It is clear that you are not meant to enjoy this opulence; you are part of the opulence. A thing for the Crown Prince to indulge in, a treasure stolen from Aurelia. The time will come when you are raped, and the time will come when he bores of you, and the time will come when you will be killed at the foot of his throne.

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

An entire moon passes, and your fate does not befall you.

You are unsure why your captor does not hurt you. Perhaps he is busy with making war; the servants say that he stays at the barracks every night rather than coming home. He might be expected to fuck you anyway, but he visits you only once a day for half an hour, and he only ever stays long enough to ask you three questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone?

For an entire month, your answers are single words: Yes. No. Nothing. You sit as far away as possible from him, though you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear—you always meet his impassive gaze, your own hard-edged.

Sometimes he tries to speak with you: Are you comfortable? Are you bored? Do you want anything? But most days, he leaves as soon as he can, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something that edges on discomfort. You start to wonder if he finds you too unattractive to touch, if he is debating whether he should kill you instead of fucking you. But regardless of his intentions toward you, it is clear that he does not care for you.

So it surprises you when your captor one day says, “You have not been eating.”

You give him a long look, wondering if you'd misheard.

“No,” you eventually reply. “I have not.”

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?” His expression becomes puzzled—and it aggravates you. You point out, “You are a Kremnoan prince. It should not matter to you if a slave is starving. Or are you worried that I'll waste away before you can fuck me?”

His eyes narrow, and you think you see that hint of discomfort again. “I am worried you will starve to death in my care.”

Your nostrils flare. “I am not in your care. I am your prisoner.”

“I see to it that you are fed and clothed and bathed. Is that not care?”

You snort. “A man who took my home away from me cannot care for me. He can only torture me.”

His jaw tightens. Your captor’s voice measured, but his frustration is palpable: “He can also keep you alive—even though you seem determined to die.”

“Death is a mercy. I would much prefer it to being raped.”

“I thought it would be clear by now that I do not wish to touch you,” your captor says, frowning, and the bark you let out is so loud that he startles.

“Do you think I'd be stupid enough to believe that lie?”

“I think you'd be smart enough to see reality for what it is.”

“Yes,” you reply, voice bitter, “I am smart enough to see the reality of what you have done to my city. And I am smart enough to know the reality of what happens to women after they are captured by the enemy.”

Prince Mydeimos inhales sharply. His eyes flicker with—with something. Something you don't care to identify. Something you quickly decide is disdain.

“Believe whatever you want. Either way, I want to keep you alive.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is it that you want to die? Is that why you aren't eating?”

You give him that fanged smile again. “No, Your Highness, I do not wish to die. I wish to stay alive so that I may someday slit your throat.”

Prince Mydeimos disappoints you when he does not react in kind. “Fine,” he writes off. “You are free to kill me as many times as you want, so long as you eat.” You give him a strange look; he ignores it. “Now, why haven't you? Surely you must want to, if your goal is to live long enough to kill me. Is the food not to your liking?”

A frown. “I don't understand why you care.”

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

You open your mouth, countless questions on your tongue. What do you mean? Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? But Prince Mydeimos leaves, and you are alone again in your prison—untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

Your conversation with Prince Mydeimos leaves you feeling strange. Perplexed. Nervous. The longer you think of it, the more you wonder why he is taking so long to torture you. You'd been dragged into his tent, fully expecting to be either mauled or violated; over a month later, the worst that has happened is that you have been served unappetizing meals, and that you have spent your days so idly that you have grown bored.

But even if you are idle, you are not unharmed. You still dream of the night of your abduction. You dream of the cries of your worshippers, of the stench of burning flesh, of your olive groves turning to ash. You dream of being pushed to the floor of your captor’s tent, of golden gauntlets cleaving open your legs, of pomegranate-red stains on silk sheets. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that you wonder if they are actually visions from Oronyx—echoes of a future yet to be played out, or a past that you’ve somehow forgotten.

Whenever you wake from these dreams, you crawl under the bed and spend the rest of the night there, and you spend your day afterward untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

You are in one of these tense moods the next time you speak at length with Prince Mydeimos, after his usual questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do yesterday, while you were alone?

“I am trapped in your room, so I did nothing but read your books,” you reply bluntly, picking idly at the chicken on your dinner plate. “Don't you have anything other than war histories, by the way? I should like a romance novel or two. I'd even take a philosophical dialogue over this. Kremnos must surely have a few thinkers who do not write solely about war.”

Your captor stares—perhaps surprised at your sudden chatter, though not displeased by it. Though he does seem perplexed.

“You are not ‘trapped’ here,” he points out, frowning. “I gave you leave some time ago to wander the grounds, so long as you are accompanied by one of the guards I have assigned you.”

“So you say, but not a single one of your guards has thus far dared to let me out.”

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

You give him a strange look. “Do you not know the rules of your own land, Prince Mydeimos? Helots are given free movement, and even trusted slaves have some autonomy, but prisoners-of-war are not allowed to wander anywhere except in service of their given task. And my given task is…”

You gesture to the bed, and the prince’s mouth tightens.

“I see.”

You note the displeasure on his face—genuine, a sign of true oversight. “Why would you expect that I'd ever be allowed to roam around as I please?” you ask. “You paraded me around on your chariot as you returned home from war, and you announced me as your plunder to the entire city. Everyone knows I am your prisoner, and everyone treats me accordingly.”

“I have never kept a personal slave, let alone taken one for my spoils,” he says evenly. “I did not think these laws would supersede the orders of a Crown Prince.”

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

“The Crown Prince of Kremnos has never kept a slave? Your esteemed father has at least half a hundred of them in his personal service, I'd wager.”

“And my late mother did not allow any of them to serve me. She disliked the practice.” His voice is terse, belying something that turns your stomach. You look away, not wishing to think of it.

“Does that matter?” you deflect. “Your Highness, if you wish to ascend the throne and follow in your father’s footsteps, then you'd better get used to keeping slaves. Castrum Kremnos is built on them.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a hard look. “I will not be the kind of king that my father is,” he says bluntly.

His words carry weight. Suppressed anger. You watch him keenly, interested—suddenly wondering if there is more to Prince Mydeimos’ plans to commit patricide other than self-preservation.

“And why would that be?” you ask.

He raises a brow. “You are an oracle. You haven't seen what he's done for yourself?”

“If I could see whatever I wanted at will, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” you ask dryly, and his brow twitches. His expression is otherwise impassive, but his eyes give away his alarm, and you exploit it immediately: “Worry not, Prince Mydeimos. Whatever secrets you've let slip are safe with me, so long as you do not touch me.”

“I thought it would be obvious by now that I have no wish to touch you.”

“And I thought it would be obvious by now that I am not stupid enough to trust you.” You laugh when he frowns. “No need to pout, Your Highness. You don't need my trust to keep me under control.” You shake your chains. "These are all you need."

He glances at your manacles, his eyes narrowing. “Controlling you is not my aim.”

“Then you are a fool and will make for an idiot king.”

“Surely no more of an idiot than the prisoner calling their captor a fool.” He contemplates you, his eyes suspicious. “...have you truly seen my future as a monarch?”

“No,” you lie. I hope you suffer every moment you sit on that throne, you think, remembering how Nikador will reach into your chest and close his hand around your heart, how you will bleed to death at the feet of King Mydeimos. You have no intention of giving him foreknowledge of his victory over you: you remain quiet, unyielding under his shrewd gaze.

The prince eventually relents, though clearly unconvinced. “I'll see to it that the guards and servants allow you some movement,” he says as he turns to leave. “I will… convince them to overlook the laws.”

His hand is on the door when he hesitates, glancing at the full dinner plate on the table.

“Do you still not like the food here? I had it changed after our conversation some time ago.”

You default to your usual answer: “Does it matter?”

He makes a noise—one that almost sounds displeased. “So it still isn’t to your taste.”

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

“Well, then, what should change to make you agree with it?”

You come very, very close to laughing in his face. “You could serve me a dish cooked by the Goddess of the Hearth herself, and it would taste like ash in my mouth because I am a prisoner.”

He sighs, closes his eyes, and you suspect he is silently counting to ten. “...I cannot blame you for your misery,” he finally says, “but you haven’t been eating, and I would prefer it if you didn't starve to death under my care.”

“Why?” Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

His voice grows quiet: “Because I do not wish to see any harm befall you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. There is no hint of deception in them, nor in his eyes—which flicker with something that looks so much like pain that even you, with your practised skill of reading expression, find yourself thinking that he feels sorrowful for you. That he feels guilty over you. That he wants to see you safe.

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

Because he must be lying. This must be some kind of manipulation. Perhaps he is afraid of your prescience, or perhaps he plans to use it for his own gain, and this is his way of appealing to you. Or perhaps he wants you to be willing when he fucks you. Some men do prefer that to outright rape; their egos demand it.

There is no other reason for him to come to your room every night and ask if you have been eating, ask if you are well, ask what have you been doing while alone. No other reason for him to say, “You barely touched your food yesterday, nor the day before that. Surely there is something that could be done to make you eat.”

You decide to play along for now. If you will die eventually, you may as well eat better in the meantime.

“More spices,” you say neatly, “and better olive oil. At minimum.”

“Of course,” he mutters. “The oil. I knew it.”

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

The next day, you are served honey cakes with safflower, grilled fish salted to perfection, and wheat-bread with an olive oil so fresh and thick that you know it can only be an import from the south. The servants deliver to you five texts: three romance novels and two Socratic dialogues. Kremnos has no great storytellers nor philosophers, an unsigned note reads, so you will need to make do with these works from the Grove of Epiphany.

Prince Mydeimos does not visit you, and you find yourself in bed the whole night, three questions echoing in your head.

For whatever reason, Prince Mydeimos continues treating you well. The food is better—you’d even call it mouthwatering, at times—and new books are frequently delivered. He makes fewer stops by your room, possibly because he is busy or perhaps because he is growing disinterested with you. You don't care to ask why.

But as it turns out, he has been trying to find some way around the laws about your movements. He has been failing, too—quite miserably—and his way of compromise is driving you mad.

On the first day you are allowed outside your room, Prince Mydeimos is leading you, taking you for a walk on the palace roofs and parapets. For the first time since being abducted, you feel sunlight and wind on your skin—and you are too annoyed to enjoy it.

“This is your way of allowing me some freedom? Taking me out so you can walk me like a dog? I won't bark for you, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos clears his throat, pointedly avoiding your stare. If you didn't know better, you'd call him embarrassed.

“Because you are a prisoner,” he explains tersely, “I have been strongly advised against letting you wander the grounds unless it is to fulfill your assigned job as my companion.”

“You mean, as your whore?”

Prince Mydeimos looks so offended that you nearly laugh. “As a concubine.”

“Use whatever word you want—a slave you fuck can't be anything other than a whore,” you point out evenly. Your captor gives you a look of mild pain, but it is gone before you can unravel it.

“Well, then, it is a good thing that I will not be touching you,” he retorts. “Regardless, I cannot let you wander without drawing undue attention to myself”—a poor idea right before a regicide, you infer—“but I may eventually be able to let you move freely without me if we are able to convince people that you are serving me willingly. Not as my prisoner, but as my lover.” His mouth slants. “This would require you to give the impression of enjoying my company, however.”

“Then I suppose I will be trapped forever in your quarters,” you reply instantly. When his expression sours, you add, “Worry not, Your Highness. I do not much like the sights of Castrum Kremnos anyway.” Your eyes flick over the strange innards of the city—the high walls hiding open skies, the stone paths barren of any flowers or shrubs, the constant thunder of marching hoplites and proud salutes. The sword of Nikador hanging over the fortress gates, sharpened by the souls of countless slain Kremnoans.

This city runs on war. Hungers for it. It makes your heart pound, has you hearing the screams of your worshippers as the Kremnoans flood through the gates of Aurelia. Gone forever are the musicians who strung on their lyres every morning and night; gone are the streets of laughing children who would always ask you to fix their toys; gone are the olive groves full of birdsong and gossiping women.

Gone is everything that you love.

“You might like it better within the city,” your captor tries to reason, “or if I can someday take you beyond the walls and into the settlements—”

“—then it will still never be home.”

Prince Mydeimos has the grace to stay quiet, for which you are glad.

“...your home,” he says eventually, “what was it like?”

What was it like, before I took it away from you?

You shrug, feeling a dull ache in your chest that you'd rather die than show him.

“Peaceful. Kind. The people were nicer. The music was lovelier. The food was better.”

You remember the flavour of the dishes that the women in the neighbourhood always made for you, the figs and apples and olives that the farmers always brought to the temple, the simple but sweet breakfasts that you would have with the other acolytes—eat up, my love, the older ones would always laugh, eat your fill!—and then all you taste is ash in the sky and copper between your teeth and the acrid, nauseating stench of human flesh burning, burning, burning.

You close your eyes to the looming walls of Castrum Kremnos—a prison from which there is no escape.

“None of it should matter to you, of course,” you add lightly.

Because no matter how much Prince Mydeimos denies it and no matter how gently he treats you, you are just a bed-slave—and Castrum Kremnos does not care about its slaves. The burning of your home will become naught but ink in their war histories—a paragraph if you are lucky, a footnote if you are not. You are merely one massacre in a thousand years of them. Your death will be one casualty in hundreds of millions.

But you return to your quarters later that night, and you see another book delivered—an Aurelian play, wildly popular a few years back—and you notice a lyre on the nightstand, and your meal tastes just like the ones the grandmother next door always brought over to share. You realise that your captor must have sought out an Aurelian helot or slave to make it, that he must have gone out of his way for it. You ask silently: Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? And you answer for him: He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me.

But you eat your entire meal anyway, and then you crawl into bed and cry.

A fortnight later, Prince Mydeimos discovers that you sleep with a knife under your pillow.

It is a harmless thing, sharp only enough to cut the steak that you'd been fed. It brings you comfort nevertheless. After seven days of your mantra—he is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me—you couldn't help but take it. If he is stupid enough to touch you, you will use it to make it as painful for him as possible.

The Crown Prince is sitting on a chair when you return from the bath. He is playing with your little knife, spinning it a hand. His expression betrays neither anger nor displeasure—though there might be a hint of disappointment. Why, you would not know.

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

“No,” you lie. “I do not fear you. I abhor you. All the books and Aurelian dishes in the world cannot change that.”

It is slight, but Prince Mydeimos nods. His shoulders bear a heavy weight suddenly, and you avert your gaze. You don't want to see him looking weak, looking human. He is your captor and nothing but your captor: the man who laid waste to your home. He is the heir to a millennia of Strife.

Fortunately for you, he soon returns to his usual, stoic countenance. “You really expect to hurt me with this?” he asks.

“I would try my best,” you say tersely, “if it came to it. I would hurt anyone who tried to touch me.”

You nearly shift under the weight of his gaze, but you manage to contain your discomfort. You return his stare coolly—you don't scare me, Son of Gorgo—until his hand drifts to his waist. He reaches for a sheathe dangling from his belt, and you recoil immediately, expecting the sharp kiss of his blade. But there is no blow, no knife across your neck nor lodged within your heart. He merely holds the weapon out to you, presenting its golden hilt.

“Take this,” he offers. At your hesitation, he adds, “This is not some trap. I am gifting this to you.”

Even as you snatch it, you ask, “Why?”

“Because I think it's wise for you to have some kind of weapon—a real one, not an eating utensil.” He glances at the door. “The palace is full of guards and soldiers, and now that I have begun taking you outside, some of them have seen you and grown… overly curious about the High Priestess of Aurelia.”

Anyone would want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince himself, you remember them saying.

“But I am yours,” you point out, and when Prince Mydeimos looks at you, startled—or disconcerted?—you add, “your slave, I mean. By law, I belong to you. They cannot touch me without facing the wrath of the crown.”

He scowls. “If only the men here were so easy for me to control. Then I would not need to keep you here and worry about…” The prince's brow knots as his voice drifts off, and then he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don't want to know what he had been about to say. You don't want to hear him pretend to feel concern over you. You do not want to think that he may be keeping you here for any reason than to fuck you. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me: this is your mantra as you study the blade. It gleams in the candlelight, gold like his hair in the fire of the invasion, and its weight is familiar—the weight of the dagger you tried to slit your own throat with, you realise.

It is light, you notice now. The blade sits easy in your fingers, moves for you too gracefully. You should not be able to hold the weapon of a grown man so easily. “This was made for a woman,” you realise. “And not a very strong one.”

“Not strong in terms of brute strength, no. But she was swift. Deadly.”

You are neither strong nor swift, but you can imagine waiting for the right moment to strike—when he's drunk or sleeping or inside you. You'd run this across his neck. Bleed him dry before he can bleed you.

“You're not worried about me attacking you with this?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Would I be afraid of a kitten with sharp claws?” At your sour look, he either mocks or consoles you—you cannot tell which—“Don’t feel too poorly. Most people in this world could not touch me; I am invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable?”

“Immortal,” he clarifies. “Any wound I take heals without a scar; any death I die reverses without fail.”

“Ah… because of the Sea of Souls, I presume.” You remember the child in the waters of the Styx, the way he cried and cried and cried—and you push away the memory. How many babies have wailed as the Kremnoans marched on their homes? Countless. Countless in Aurelia alone. Your goddess has shown you enough memories for you to know, and sometimes the images blend with the massacre of your worshippers.

A massacre that your captor led.

“So there is no way to kill you,” you remark, voice now subdued.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Something in your captor’s eyes flickers, something that makes you look away again. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me. You cling onto all the visions that your goddess sent you: King Mydeimos is seated on his throne of blood; the claws of Nikador are cutting into your heart. Aurelia is still burning, burning, burning. As long as Oronyx is alive, it will never stop.

No olive oil, spice, nor book will ever change that.

Prince Mydeimos leaves for a time. Okhema—the greatest enemy of the Kremnos—has launched an assault on the city, and it is his duty to defend it. You can hear the distant cries of war from your room, the thunder of marching troops and the roar of terrible men. You hide in the sheets and try not to think of dying Aurelia. You pray for every Kremnoan soldier who invaded your home to perish, to receive the valorous death for which they long.

You play no songs. You receive no books. The food tastes like shit.

For a single night, you think you have been granted your wish. There is a breach into the city, and the bells toll in emergency. The guards tell you to stay in your room no matter what—any Okheman soldiers would desire you, would defile you, and there will be no hope for you if they steal you away, the prized concubine of their greatest foe—and then they leave to join the fighting.

You hide under the bed. You clutch the golden dagger that Prince Mydeimos gave you and you hold it to your breast. You think of all the hands on you as you were dragged from your altar from the Kremnoans, the way they jeered at you and threatened to violate you. If the Okheman soldiers do the same, Prince Mydeimos will not be here to save you—

Save you?

No, he didn't save you. Your captor merely stole you for himself. He is slaughtering the enemy soldiers right now, massacring them the way he did your people. He is taking prisoners of war. He will feed them nicely and send them beautiful novels and texts. He will lie to them, manipulate them, and wait until they're willing.

Or he could be dead.

Of course he's not dead, you idiot, you tell yourself, as soon as you have the thought. He will live long enough to kill you like in the visions, and anyway, he is immortal.

There is no use hoping he is dead—for that is your hope. That he will someday be gone from this world, and that he can never again take away someone's home. That you will have the chance to slit to his throat at least once before he kills you. That you will have the satisfaction of seeing him die before Nikador takes your heart.

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

The fighting ends a few nights later, and your captor returns soon after the bells of victory toll.

Prince Mydeimos is invulnerable, but he looks worse for wear. His armour is scuffed, shattered in a few places. His hair is a mess, sweat and dirt matting it, dulling the gold. The whole of his body—from his legs to the bare expanse of his chest—is covered in a thin layer of soot.

His shoulders relax when he sees you, and you try your best to ignore it.

“You won, then?” you ask. You are in bed, seated in the far corner. The sheets are pulled up to your neck, hiding away your chest and bare arms. The handle of your knife is warm in your palms, comforting.

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. There's a tinge of fatigue marring his stoicism when he replies, “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” His eyes flick to yours, belying a surprise that you decide to kill: “I am an oracle. I knew you would not perish in this battle.”

“...of course.” He closes his eyes, counting to ten again. You study him as he tempers himself, wondering why he has returned to you when neither of you enjoy each other’s company.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “Shouldn't you be taking a bath? Enjoying libations with the other soldiers? Toasting the king?”

“I will join the others later,” he says. “I came here first for the same reasons as always.”

Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone? The prince stands at the threshold as he asks his three questions, watching you carefully. It occurs to you that he must have just come from battle, that his first desire afterwards was to check on you, and you drop the sheets but you also look away.

“I am not ill, and I reread some of the books you sent me,” you reply, because you would rather die than tell him that you hid under the bed. “And as for the food…”

Prince Mydeimos glances at the untouched slop on your plate, then frowns.

“My apologies,” he says. “Now that I've returned, I will be sure to make you proper meals. I know the servants here do not make food to your liking, so—”

“What do you mean, you'll make them?” you interrupt. At his blank stare, you say, “Isn’t it the helots who cook all the meals here?”

“They cook for most of the palace. But for your meals, it has nearly always been me—ever since I noticed you were not eating.”

You stare, wondering if you've somehow misheard him. “But…” You swallow, and it feels painful. You don't want to look at him. “That can't be true. There have been Aurelian dishes—it must have been an Aurelian who made them. A slave, or maybe a helot…”

“I learned the recipes myself,” he says simply, “though I did ask an Aurelian to sample it first, an old woman who sells spices in the city. She made sure the flavour was right.”

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

He shrugs, though you don't miss the way he clears his throat. “I enjoy cooking, and I prefer to make my own meals. It is simple enough to cook for two instead of one.”

“You enjoy cooking,” you repeat flatly, staring.

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He’s not meant to be human. He's an animal who feasts on strife and blood. He lies to you, manipulates you, waits until you're willing. But now you are imagining him going out of his way to find southern olive oil, or thinking on which cut of meat to buy from the butcher’s, or squinting at an Aurelian recipe and wondering where to get cassia, and he isn't supposed to be human but monsters don’t enjoy such quaint things.

“Why would you even know how to cook?” you ask—weakly. “You were raised to be a soldier, a king.”

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

You can't look at him anymore, after that.

A few days later, you are served milopita after dinner.

It is well-made. Prince Mydeimos was generous with the cinnamon, and the apples are fresh. The yogurt is thick. The olive oil is that expensive, southern variety, the one that the old Aurelian woman in the city likely picked out for him. It comes with a cup of pomegranate juice and a bottle of goat’s milk, which you don't touch—paired with the cake, it is too sweet.

You catch yourself thinking that Prince Mydeimos must have a sweet tooth, and then you kill the thought.

The prince comes to visit, which he does not often do nowadays. The Chrysos War has entangled Kremnos into so many battlefronts that he is now always in demand as a general, and all the meals have gone back to being untouchable. But the books keep coming, and now there is sheet music as well. You are slow to read the music and your fingers are even slower on the lyre strings—you have not played much since you were a child, when you were taught as part of your training as a hiereia—but it is enough to occupy you.

You'd been wondering if you would be left alone forever when you received the cake.

He comes to you at night. Steps inside as always, closes the door to block out any listening ears. Leans against the wall, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a constant habit of his; you briefly wonder if he does it so as not to make you feel threatened, and then you kill the thought.

You try not to look at him.

“You ate the cake,” he says, in a calm but distinctly satisfied way.

“Yes. It was quite good.” Sweet on your tongue, nothing like bitter copper between your teeth. You can't believe how sugary the apples are. You can't imagine this cold prison of a city, this home of warmongers, having anything like an orchard—yet they must exist here, for Prince Mydeimos to have gotten fruit so fresh and ripe.

Are the orchards here as peaceful as the olive groves back home? The cake was certainly as good as what you had in Aurelia—something close to what the grandmother next door would make for you. She would serve hers with tea, though, and you'd sit outside her quaint home and watch the children run by, playing. Be careful, my loves, she would say to them as they ran up and down the street. Take care not to fall.

Your heart aches as you think of her.

“I have not had any sweets in a very long time,” you say, trying not to let your voice sound tight.

“Nor have I. It has been too busy for me to bake, and I generally avoid desserts—they are unhealthy—but I made them today.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Prince Mydeimos looks away, clears his throat—“I have not been by in quite a while. I could hardly come empty-handed.”

He is mannered, you think. He wants to show you hospitality. He is treating you as if you are an esteemed guest, as if he enjoys your company, and perhaps that is why he didn’t make you into his personal attendant or a labourer; it is because guests aren’t meant to work in the palace, and—

—and now you're killing the thought.

You must kill these thoughts. You are not his guest; you are his slave. He is not a human; he is your captor. The only reason he hasn’t assigned you any menial tasks is because he wants to make it clear to others that you only have one purpose here: to be a hole for him to fuck, and no one else.

He conquered your city. Sacked your temple. Ruined your home. He will ruin your body too.

“I am a slave,” you murmur. “You do not need to come with anything for me.” You should not be giving me things. You should be taking everything from me. “There is no need to treat me so graciously.”

“What, would you prefer that I torment you?”

“I would prefer you to be honest about your intentions.”

He raises a brow. “And what are my intentions supposed to be?”

You finally take a sip of your pomegranate juice—red and tart and sweet, it tastes like the night you were stolen from your temple—and then you rise from your seat.

Prince Mydeimos is startled when you make your way to him, slow but sure. You have never gone to him willingly before, it occurs: you have always been taken to him by force, dragged by Kremnoan men or compelled by chains. Perhaps he is taken aback by it, or startled by the look you give him—the one you use on worshippers who have incurred the wrath of the Titans—for he presses himself even further against the wall.

There is little space between the two of you when you stop. His face is impassive as ever, but you can hear his breath hitch.

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

His face creases. “What?”

“You like your women willing. The freedmen and the slaves alike, I'm sure. You think that if you ply me with gifts and treats, you will also be able to ply open my legs.”

Your captor watches you in alarm, in discomfort. Probably startled at being found out. “...that's not—”

“It won't work, you know. No matter how kind you are to me, you will always be the man who burned my city and sacked my temple. You will always be the beast who dragged me from my altar and into your bed. If I ever spread my legs for you, it will only be because they are held open by chains.”

His jaw tightens. “You've misunderstood my intentions.”

You laugh, light but cruel. “What, are you waiting for a better time to kill me instead? I know you Kremnoans like to hunt people for sport. Are you toying with your prey right now?”

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

“I am sure there are some of you who behave like humans, but I don't think they would include the Crown Prince of all people. You lead a nation of warmongering beasts—you ride into battle at their helm.”

His nostrils flare. “My people depend on me. It is my duty to protect them from all those who want Kremnos fall.”

“And protecting your city means massacring cities? Sacking temples? Dragging holy maidens out from their temples to be raped?” Your captor falters, but you are too angry to take any joy in it. Too angry at the hypocrisy, at the golden chains, at the city that is forever burning behind you. “If you were really so kind, why would you even have come back to Castrum Kremnos in the first place? Even if you were a child, surely you knew you were going to be joining an army of monsters.”

“Because I wanted a home,” he snaps, and his voice is so harsh that you flinch. He breathes sharply as you step back, and you watch as he struggles to control his—rage? It must be rage. It can't be hurt.

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

“Yes, even a monster like me would desire a home. I spent my first seven years drowning in the Sea of Souls and the next several being cast away by countless families simply because of my heritage—do you think that was an existence I enjoyed?”

You don't know how to reply. You wish to recall the memories of your burning city, your visions of being slain, but all you can remember now is the baby you saw in your dreams—the one who was tossed into the sea, drowning, drowning, drowning. Is Prince Mydeimos forever being dragged into the tides, just as how you are forever being dragged from your altar?

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

Prince Mydeimos does not wait for your response. He walks back to the door, terse. Cold.

“If you are so aggrieved by my presence,” he snaps, “then I won't torture you with it any longer.”

He slams the door on the way out.

You and Prince Mydeimos do not see each other for a fortnight after that.

The moons behave strangely while he is gone. Night is always odd in Castrum Kremnos—too long and too inconsistent, as if Oronyx is struggling against something volatile, a presence that is not Aquila. Still, you can usually see at least one of her two moons—one gold and one red, one always waxing while the other wanes. But for an hour, they blink out of existence entirely, and your blood chills at the sight. At the omen.

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

Of course he isn't dead. He will live long enough for you to slit his throat as many times as you wish. He will live long enough to kill you afterward, to give you your valorous death without chains. He will live long enough to offer your heart to Nikador, who will devour it and drink your blood.

But every time you imagine it, all you can hear is his voice in your head, irritating and persistent every night—

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

You tell yourself to kill the thought. You must kill all these thoughts. You must not believe that he worries for you, even though you are practised in the art of reading faces and all you can ever see in his is plain honesty. You are not allowed to hope that you are right, let alone hope that he is alive.

The only thing you are allowed to hope for is to someday slit his throat before he kills you.

The morning after the moons disappear, Prince Mydeimos returns to you. You are surprised when he walks in—he has never visited you so early in the day—and immediately, you want to say something to him.

But you don’t know what.

The both of you stare at each other, and he seems to struggle equally with his words. All you can think about is your last encounter, and he is likely doing the same.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask—not unkindly. Prince Mydeimos startles at your voice.

“I…”

He hesitates. His eyes, gleaming in the morning sun, are underlined by darkness. They're bloodshot, too. He has not slept, you realise.

“Did something happen last night?” you guess, remembering the two moons and how they flickered out like dying flames.

“Perhaps.”

Prince Mydeimos’ expression falters. You want to look away, but you know now the movements of his face well enough to understand what you should not believe—

I worry for you.

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly.

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

You stare at the stack of books on the table, which has grown so high over the past two months that you always wonder if the whole thing will collapse. The war histories are at the bottom of the pile, read so long ago, but you remember them well—the facts alongside the propaganda. The Kremnoans like to perpetuate the myth that they are incapable of fear, but you think that Prince Mydeimos is failing to maintain this illusion.

“Was what you encountered as frightening as the Okhemans?” you ask.

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

Your brow arches. “Is that the only word you know now, Your Highness?”

His uncertainty disappears, replaced by a usual annoyance, and the tension finally breaks. “There is only so much information I can share with a prisoner of war.”

“You have already given away your plans to commit patricide—I do not think any information could be more sensitive than that,” you say flatly. He frowns.

“Oronyx told you what I will do, not me.”

“You could have lied or played dumb about it, at least.”

“Why would I try to lie to an oracle? You said yourself it would be meaningless.”

“Plausible deniability in case anyone overheard. You simply could have written me off as mad had I tried to reveal your plans, you know, it's happened before to oracles who foretell tragedies…” Your mouth slants. “You are not very skilled in the art of manipulation, Your Highness. You won't survive the court for very long after you ascend the throne, at this rate.”

“I can survive it well enough,” he says curtly. “I'm alive right now, aren't I? Though I'm sure that disappoints you constantly.”

“No, I'm glad for it.” He blinks. “If I am going to slit your throat, you will need to live long enough for it to happen.”

He snorts. “Of course. I look forward to the day.” Prince Mydeimos looks at you then—scrutinizing. “You will need to stay alive too. Have you been eating? Have you been healthy? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“I have been eating, and I am not ill. Terribly bored, but not ill.”

He frowns. “Bored? What could you possibly want for, with all that I have given you?”

You give him a long look, sensing an opportunity. “Well…”

He scrutinizes you. “What is it? Better food? More books? Another instrument, or a sharper weapon? I have an entire library at my disposal, plus the royal armory. Name whatever it is you want.” His voice is impatient, but his shoulders are relaxed, weightless. You can't it in yourself to deny the truth: he is relieved that you wish to demand something from him.

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

“No,” you say, subdued. “I don't want any of that.”

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

It is unsurprising. All citizens in Castrum Kremnos worship Nikador, and they war with other gods as often as the Strife Titan himself does. Nevertheless, the main palace has a few shrines dedicated to Oronyx. As much as the Kremnoans like to wreak havoc in the cities of other gods, all deities have their uses, especially Oronyx. It makes you bitter; the Goddess of Time sends enough visions for you to know that the use of her powers is painful for her, and you are certain that Kremnoans do not recompense her with any blood sacrifices.

You do, though. The Aurelian Cult of Oronyx has always honoured its goddess well. If Prince Mydeimos had brought you to a temple, you'd have also asked for a goat and sacrificed it. But as it is instead only a shrine, the only thing you can offer is your own blood.

At night, while the torches are burning low and the windows let through the dim light of the red moon, Prince Mydeimos takes you to the largest shrine of Oronyx. Her altar there is waiting for you—an alcove of cobalt and gold holding within it an azure light, its glow otherworldly. The Crown Prince is startled when you pull out a dagger and steady the blade over your hand; he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you before you can wound yourself.

“What are you doing?” he says tersely. At his alarmed stare, you give him a blank look.

“I am about to appeal to Oronyx for her wisdom,” you explain, “and I will offer my blood in return.”

He gives you a dubious look. “Oronyx demands blood sacrifices?”

“No, but my temple provided them to honour her.” Your brow arches. “Don't tell me that this disturbs you. Your god not only gains strength from every Kremnoan death, he also demands blood sacrifices from other people. Don't think that the world has forgotten your tradition of drinking the blood of your slain enemies."

“We no longer engage in that practice,” Prince Mydeimos retorts immediately. “And in any case, what the Cult of Nikador does is entirely different.”

You squint at him. “What, so blood sacrifices are only acceptable when you do them?”

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

#mydei x reader #mydeimos x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #banners from @/strangergraphics #cw.slavery #yueshuo.fics #SoW tag

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maenefa · 5 months ago

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Why does Eowyn want to die?

Because Aragorn won’t love her? Because she feels trapped in her feminine gender role?

These are the explanations we get in the text. However, none of the characters really acknowledge Eowyn’s darkest fear: being taken alive by the enemy.

There are some bad takes on Eowyn that boil down to patronizing her and downplaying the seriousness of her problems. People say that she had a naive desire for glory and Faramir teaches her that war isn’t actually fun. Then there’s the whole “Eowyn was a deserter who selfishly ran away from her duty” argument.

You can only say these things if you ignore how dire the situation was, how close Sauron was to winning, and how gruesome Eowyn’s fate would have been if he won. She knew that death or capture likely awaited her, and she knew that dying in battle was the least bad option. (She also knew her own worth and believed that she was too useful a warrior to be left behind with the civilians. And she was right.)

Eowyn’s actions are ruthlessly practical! She wants to die fighting because that’s better than waiting around for The Horrors. Let’s be real, Eowyn is too sensible to be suicidal over an unrequited crush.

Here are some of her most revealing quotes:

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.”

“And those who have not swords can still die upon them.”

“Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.”

“But I do not desire healing…. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.”

In the end, Eowyn only stops wanting to die after Sauron is defeated. Just before the Ring is destroyed, she tells Faramir:

“I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.”

Eowyn can’t turn to light and life until the war is over. Hope is too painful; death at least offers “honor and peace.” This passage is so important because it EXPLICITLY links Eowyn’s despair to the outcome of the war and makes it clear that she is not simply having a meltdown because Aragorn rejected her.

There are two important moments where Eowyn is threatened with violence. The very first time we meet her, we are told by Gandalf that Wormtongue planned to turn her into a sex slave after Saruman conquered Rohan. Even though this threat is dismissed quickly, it’s a disturbing reminder of what could happen to Eowyn if Sauron wins.

Then we have the most triumphant moment of Eowyn’s story: her battle with the Witch King. Once again, Eowyn is not threatened with death, but with captivity and torment:

“Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

Eowyn laughs at him and makes sure to announce that she is a woman before killing him. Her victory is all the more satisfying because the Witch King has just threatened her with captivity, loss of agency, the violation of her body and mind—all threats that Eowyn has faced before. But the Witch King’s words continue to haunt Eowyn and us. He threatens to withhold death; and death is therefore framed as an escape, a gift. Eowyn is taken to the Houses of Healing, but she is obsessed with returning to battle and fighting until she dies.

When Eowyn says that she fears “a cage,” this is a brilliantly simple metaphor for the entire spectrum of oppression she has faced: from the well-meaning restrictions of her culture to the horrifying enslavement threatened by Wormtongue.

Once the war is over, Eowyn is able to laugh at her fears. She teases Faramir: “And would you have your proud folk say of you: there goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North!” Her fear of being caged has been turned into a bit of flirtatious banter. She feels completely safe with Faramir, and the idea that he “tamed” her is nothing but a joke between them.

#eowyn #tolkien #lotr

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saintobio · 10 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑. (second part to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑.)

in the battle of hearts, he was the conqueror, and you, the conquered, for his love was a war you could never win. but if in this ruthless battlefield, only one can come out victorious, could you still turn things around and let the victor be you?

♱ pairings. sylus, fem!reader

♱ genre. angst, smut, boss/assistant, 18+

♱ tags. villain!reader, reader previously works for onychinus, reader is not l&ds!mc, sylus is a little ooc, main story spoilers, melodic weave spoilers, lots of timeskip, fast-paced, lore heavy, unrequited love, profanity, petnames (kitten, sweetie), explicit smut, cunnilingus (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, espionage, reader smoking, reckless driving, violence, spitting, choking, jealousy, usage of guns, suicide (or attempts thereof), death, and a twist in the end i can’t reveal.

♱ notes. 10.4k words too lazy to edit T-T also, there’s a scene that will remind you of nwh :))) part 1 is already fine as is, so this one is just an extra.

— 1 YEAR AFTER.

“Got an invitation?”

Only barely did you lift your head up, just enough to meet the bouncer’s eyes as you handed over the invitation. “I’m a regular.”

“Lady, I don’t think so.” The man scrutinized you with itching suspicion, then turned on his flashlight to verify the authenticity of your invitation by looking at every corner of the paper. Was he trying to look for any flaw just to say it was fake? Jesus. For an entire minute, his eyes darted between you and the letter, as though debating whether or not to let you inside.

“Come on,” you said impatiently, tapping your feet on the ground, “I’m not someone you should keep waiting.”

He was ready with a rebuttal, still reluctant to let you in, until a familiar sight of purple hair peeked from behind the entrance. Your savior for the night—it was Rafayel.

“Let her in,” he said, ushering you inside and giving the bouncer a knowing look. “She’s with me.”

Fucking finally.

The neon red LED signage of The Nest flickered against the grimy walls, serving as the only bright light in the sketchy dark surroundings. The bar was a haven for those seeking refuge from the law and a place to trade secrets, as it was brimming with intel from a network of people. From high ranking officials, businessmen, and criminals—just offer your part of the bargain and you’d find a good trade in no time.

It wasn’t your first time there, but your negative impression of the place remained unchanged.

You strode through the crowd with Rafayel, and your eyes scanned the room with practiced ease. There were still familiar faces around, though most of the people had gone unrecognized as it had been awhile since you last came here.

“Wearing a hoodie in a place like this,” Rafayel spoke into your ear, his voice barely audible over the loud music. “You stick out like a sore thumb, you know?”

You merely shrugged, keeping your face hidden under the large black hoodie until Rafayel secured you inside a private balcony he had reserved for the night. Once inside, you quickly pulled the hoodie down and comfortably revealed your face.

“Just give me what I asked you so I can leave,” you commanded, your tone assertive.

Rafayel, however, only smirked as he sat on the couch across from you. “Be patient. We’re still missing one person.”

One person? “Who—” Your attention was caught by the figure of a lean, white-haired man entering the private balcony in a calm and quiet manner. A person so familiar to you that you couldn’t even keep eye contact with him. Xavier.

Xavier might be civil around you, but you knew that if the circumstances were different, he would have let Lumiere show up to assassinate you in one strike. It didn’t matter if you were colleagues before, he still always had his guard around you. Though, things had become more complicated for everyone. And friends who had become enemies, were now allies again.

Somehow.

“Well, isn’t this a delightful gathering? I have two wanted individuals in the N109 Zone here with me,” you quipped, pointing to Rafayel first. “You’ve got a bounty on your head,” then to Xavier, “You’ve got a bounty on your head, too. Damn, I’d be rich if I turned you both in.”

Xavier stayed leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “That makes three of us, then,” he replied in a stolid mien, nodding toward the wall behind you.

Your eyes adjusted from the dark before it finally landed on a large, tattered poster pinned to the wall near the bar. The bold letters at the top read the following:

MOST WANTED! Y/N L/N Alias: Scarlet Viper Reward: 500,000,000 Credits Crimes: Betrayal of Onychinus Espionage Intelligence Leaks Treason Status: Traitor Last Known Location: N109 Zone, Linkon City Beware: Y/N L/N is considered extremely dangerous and cunning. She is highly skilled in espionage and intelligence gathering, and is now a traitor to Onychinus. Approach with extreme caution. All bounty hunters and loyal Onychinus followers are authorized to apprehend her by any means necessary. Payment will be made upon successful capture or confirmation of her whereabouts. Contact: Report all sightings and information to the Onychinus base. Payment is guaranteed for verified leads.

The grainy image was unmistakable—it was your own face in that poster staring back at you. But instead of acting hurt or even alarmed, a laugh bubbled up from deep within you, growing louder and more unhinged as you took in the sight. Heads turned from outside the private room, curious and wary, as your laughter echoed through the balcony.

“Crazy bastard,” you muttered to yourself between fits of laughter. “Sylus really went all out this time, huh?”

Preferably Alive? You mused at the highlighted words on the poster. Did he want me alive so he’d be the one to kill me?

The absurdity of it all washed over you. Here you were, once Sylus’s most trusted confidante, now branded a traitor with a bounty on your head. Even Luke and Kieran wouldn’t spare you. In fact, they might even be the first ones to capture you had they received the slightest intel on your whereabouts. Ha ha ha! Your maniacal laughter was a cocktail of bitterness, amusement, and the thrill of the rebellion that had driven you to this point. The very people you treated like family, were now your enemies.

You composed yourself, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye as you glanced around. The patrons were still watching—Xavier with concern for your sanity, and Rafayel with amusement to your charade.

“Not what you expected from your ‘lover’?” mocked Rafayel, shifting into a more comfortable position.

But you were ready with a confident reply. “Oh, I expected just as much. It’s flattering, really, that he hasn’t found me despite all his connections.”

Xavier adopted a more serious tone when he added, “He hasn’t been seen anywhere himself. It’s been months since the raid happened, and the Onychinus faction is still leaderless.”

“Sylus isn’t that pathetic,” you replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. You lit one up with a flick of your lighter, and the flame briefly illuminated your face. “He’s just laying low. He’s got plenty of properties to hide in, but the H.A. will need to pay me extra if they want intel on his locations.”

Rafayel smirked. “Oh, come on now, we know you won’t give up his hideouts that easily. You still care about his safety after all. Right, Miss Scarlet?”

You displayed a defensive stance as referred to you by your alias. “I care about whether or not that hunter girl you’re all obsessed with stopped chasing after him,” you said, irritation now lacing your once-sarcastic tone. “A deal’s a deal. Keep her out of the N109 Zone and away from Sylus, and I’ll keep my hands off her. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to send a bullet or two to her head.”

“You—” “Don’t even try—”

Both boys sprang from their seats and yelled simultaneously, as if your vague threat against the apple of their eyes activated their mode of defensiveness. In all honesty, you admired how much they cared to protect that girl. That despite their rivalry, they were willing to do anything to keep her safe. You were the biggest threat to her life right now, but eliminating you wasn’t exactly an easy feat now that the H.A. had your back.

So, this was their compromise. A mutually beneficial arrangement. In simpler terms, they need to keep the girl away from Sylus. Giving intel about Onychinus and its boss was already your part of the bargain. Theirs was to ensure that the hunter girl had no means to contact Sylus or even enter N109 Zone whenever she wanted.

“Hand out her brooch,” you demanded, gesturing for Rafayel to hand out the very piece you were here for. “It’s about time I come home.”

Rafayel’s eyes widened in curiosity. “You’re really returning to the N109 Zone?”

Xavier’s face mirrored his concern, likely because you carried the largest bounty of all the wanted fugitives in the most dangerous No-Hunt Zone. But honestly, their unease puzzled you. If they wanted to keep the girl safe, having you out of Linkon City would be to their advantage. Besides, the brooch would give you unrestricted access to the N109 Zone—something you wanted to take from the hunter girl who generously received it from Sylus.

“Stop stalling and give it to me,” you insisted, your frustration growing by the second. “I’m sick of this place.”

Rafayel sighed and tossed the brooch to you. “You must be crazy.”

— 1 YEAR AGO.

“You’ve already taken everything from me, Sylus. Finish what you started.”

Sylus had the power to end you right then and there. If he truly intended to kill you to protect that woman, all he needed was to intensify the pressure of his evol around you. Yet, as he observed the shifting expressions on your face, Sylus chose to ease the bone-crushing pressure of the black-red mist that encircled your body.

You collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath like fish out of the sea. But Sylus looked down at you with a cold, unyielding gaze. “I’m just showing you mercy now,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “If you dare touch her, I’ll break every bone in your body for real next time. You’re just gonna be another dead body to me.”

With that final threat, Sylus kicked your gun away and vanished into the dead of night, leaving you alone and vulnerable in the dark alleyway. Even Mephisto, who often guarded your safety, was completely out of sight. Sylus must be happy knowing that his last words pierced through your soul—its pain gnawing at your heart and ripping every artery apart. How easily was it for him to tear you asunder despite giving you his mercy? The turmoil inside you was almost unbearable, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ultimately, you chose both.

Sitting on the gravel, you clenched your fists, tears mingling with the dirt on the concrete. Anger, spite, and hatred consumed you. All you wanted was revenge.

And so, a few weeks after that, you decided to pack your bags and run away from the N109 Zone. Away from the place where Sylus was the boss of everyone. Away from a place where his omnipresence would not reach or track you.

Your destination of choice was Linkon, not because you wanted to live in that city, but because it was once your home. Returning to the bustling metropolis after four years was driven by a single purpose, and it was to see a few key people who could help you achieve your revenge.

The bright and busy streets of Linkon City were still a stark contrast to the dark and gritty atmosphere of the N109 Zone. But because you had lived most of your years here than its more dangerous counterpart, it was easy for you to maneuver through the fast-moving crowd while navigating through the complicated subway stations that even Luke and Kieran would struggle with. That day, your mind was set on your first destination: Akso Hospital.

Dr. Zayne’s clinic was tucked away in a quiet corner of the hospital. While it took some finesse to secure an appointment under a false name, you managed it without raising suspicion. After all, four years in the N109 Zone had taught you how to camouflage into roles you never expected to play.

Obviously, he was surprised to see you entering his clinic as if he had seen a ghost. His usual stoic countenance was momentarily replaced by a state of discombobulation when you finally sat across from him in his sterile, white office. “Zayne,” you cut straight to the chase. “I need to know about the girl with the Aether Core.”

Four years ago, Zayne was the last person you talked to about the Aether Core before plunging into the dangers of the N109 Zone. He knew more about it than anyone else in Linkon. Therefore, he would also be the first person you sought out upon your return.

Dr. Zayne’s expression remained impassive, however. “I’m afraid patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing any details.”

You leaned forward, your voice low and urgent, as you pressed a hand against his desk. “I’m not here for pleasantries, Zayne. I need answers. How and where does she have it?”

You had to know. You really, badly ought to know. Because knowing where she had the Aether Core would acquaint you where exactly to target her when the opportunity arises.

But in spite of the desperation in your voice, Dr. Zayne regarded you with a cool, clinical detachment. “Whatever you’re planning, I would prefer that you don’t involve an innocent person in it. If you want answers, seek it somewhere else.”

Dammit! His actions and strange avoidance of the subject were all the hints you needed. Zayne liked that girl. And he would never be the person to put her in a dangerous position.

In that case, there was only one place left to turn, a place you had avoided for far too long. It even took you three days to gather the confidence you needed to even step foot into the familiar halls of The Hunter's Association’s most secretive department, the Hunter Intelligence Services or the HIS—the very place where undercover agents and intelligence officers resided. It was hidden beneath the city and only the high ranking hunters knew and had access to it, because being a spy certainly wasn’t for the weak heart.

It was time to confront your true past.

The entryway to the headquarters didn’t change. And to your surprise, pulling out your access card still granted you entrance to the quarters. Were they anticipating your return or did they simply miss the task of revoking your access card?

Descending further into the underground facility, however, you were met with a familiar sense of unease. The sterile, metal hallways seemed to close in around you as you approached Lauryn’s office. She was the head of the department, your true boss, and the person who tasked you into infiltrating the N109 Zone four years ago.

Lauryn was there as you entered, her sharp eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms at you. You were right. She did anticipate your arrival, because the advanced CCTV monitors around the city were displayed all over the room. “What brings you back to the fold?” she asked, stern and unwelcoming, “Are you going to beg on my knees for turning your back against the Hunter’s Association?”

Feisty as ever. Her austerity was harsher than you remembered, but then again, there was no room for shame after all the crimes you committed while supposedly being a spy in the N109 Zone.

“I need your help,” you admitted, shamelessly. “I have intel on Sylus and the Onychinus. Extremely valuable information that you need. In exchange, there’s something I want you to do.”

Lauryn’s expression was unreadable as she leaned back against the wall. “So, you’ve decided to turn on your beloved Sylus? What happened to your loyalty? Is it always this unstable?”

You took a deep breath, not allowing her words to get to you. “I just… need to protect my interests.”

“Interests?” The woman guffawed at your chosen words. “And do your interests also include betraying the H.A. because you fell in love with the enemy? Or did the enemy also betray you that’s why you’re crawling back here now?”

She hit the sore spot, but you masked your voice with defensive indifference. “If that’s how you define it, then so be it. I’m not asking to be recruited by the H.A. again, I know that. I broke the Hunter’s Code and I’m marked as a Tenebra now, but…” Letting out a heavy exhale, you looked into her eyes, “Lauryn, you know I have the most intel you’ll get about Sylus and Onychinus out of everyone. Not even Xavier as Lumiere would have this much intel as I do.”

How could she deny such an offer? You knew the temptation was heavy since you were speaking the truth; you worked for Sylus for four years. You have all the necessary intel they need to even get to him.

For a millisecond, you caught the corner of Lauryn’s lips twitching upwards with a glint of approval hiding in her eyes, but she was pretty good at concealing her emotions. “Very well. Share your intel, and I’ll see what I can do.”

The past year had been a blur of longing and subterfuge.

You supplied Lauryn with detailed intelligence on Onychinus’s illicit activities, including their smuggling routes, black market transactions, and the clandestine trade of armory and protocores with corrupt officials. You also exposed Sylus’s personal connections to the high ranking officials who were secretly doing business with him. This information immediately set off a series of events aimed at destabilizing Onychinus, providing sufficient evidence to provoke a significant response from the Hunter’s Association and law enforcement.

In return, you requested two things: 1) for the Hunter’s Association to offer you protection and support against Onychinus’s threats; and 2) for them to enforce restrictions and surveillance on the hunter girl, ensuring she remained completely isolated from Sylus and the N109 Zone.

It would have been better if they had chastised her. You had convinced Lauryn that a public whipping would be the perfect punishment, but the H.A. upheld principles far better than yours. After all, you had been stripped of your morality after living in a lawless environment under the influence of the mastermind himself. Being in the N109 Zone for too long dehumanized you. But for your peers in Linkon… they could never harm that hunter girl for some reason, and had been treating her like a valuable asset under everyone's protection—even Sylus’s.

You hated it. You hated her. And each time you caught a glimpse of her around Linkon, your hands were often itching to take out a gun and end her life.

But that was easier said than done. Besides, you decided to harness all of your anger towards Sylus himself because he was the one who had tossed you aside after she came to his life. He was the one responsible for the wounds in your heart that would never heal.

It had been a year. You wondered if he ever even thought about you, or did his anger completely consume him to the point where all he wanted to do was kill you?

“Of course,” you mumbled under your breath, scoffing as you remembered the bounty he had placed on you. He was definitely apoplectic at the fact that you ruined his plans, and that you took his precious hunter girl away from him. The thought of you betraying him and Onychinus probably made him ballistic.

But to think about it, who betrayed who first?

Everyone knew the difficulty of getting into the N109 Zone. Keeping yourself safe while inside the lawless city was also another struggle. Yet, for someone like you who belonged here better than in Linkon, you were already used to the ins and outs of its dangerous scene. And having the hunter girl’s brooch was your gateway to return to the city unsuspiciously.

Pushing through the throng of people, you made your way to a nondescript door at the back of the bar. Two burly guards stood in front, their expressions deadpan as they eyed the beaked mask you were wearing. You wore the Onychinus uniform, one that was similar to Luke and Kieran’s, in order to hide your identity. For now.

“Is it a man?”

“No, a woman! Look at her body behind the uniform.”

“You think we should let her in?”

“Idiot, she’s from Onychinus! You can’t deny her entrance.”

With a nod, you handed over a small token—your entry pass to the underground fight club that operated in the depths of an abandoned warehouse. “Fellas, I have a pass if you need it.”

The guards stepped aside, finally allowing you entry after you showed a token that was marked by the Onychinus insignia. And as you descended the dimly lit staircase, the roar of the crowd and the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh grew louder. The anticipation began to thrum in your veins.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were here, but you knew you needed information on Sylus. Anywhere. And what better way to hear about him than to visit a place where his presence often loomed large? Maybe you could even take out your frustrations in the ring tonight. With every punch and kick, you would remind yourself of the path you had chosen—a path leading to Sylus’s downfall, no matter the cost.

As you stepped into the arena, an irregular thumping in your heart began to destabilize you. You forced yourself to focus, squeezing between people loudly cheering for the current match, screaming their biases, and trash-talking the opponents. Clusters of people gathered around the ring and placed their bets on their favorite fighters. How nostalgic, you mused. You used to come here with Sylus on Friday nights. And turned the rest of those active nights into passionate ones.

Now’s not the time to reminisce. Your chest was starting to feel tighter, unsure if it was because of the crowd or the uncomfortable thought of being back in the N109 Zone. But the more time you spent inside the fight club, the more your heart felt like it was being squeezed. You had to make a move now before it was too late.

The fight club continued to throb with a visceral energy, and you stood in the shadows, the hood of your cloak still pulled low to hide the overwhelming pressure you were feeling inside your body. You managed to weave through the people, while your ears were attuned to the murmur of conversations in hopes of catching intel on Sylus.

That was, until a group of grizzled men to your left caught your attention, and their voices were rising above the din.

“I’ve got five hundred credits on the big guy,” one of them boasted, slapping a hefty stack of bills into the hand of a bookie.

“You’re gonna lose,” another jeered. “That scrawny kid’s faster. I bet he’ll surprise everyone.”

You lingered nearby, pretending to adjust your hoodie while listening intently to their conversation.

“Hey, did you hear about Sylus?” one man whispered, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

Your pulse quickened at the mention of his name, and you took a step closer, careful not to draw attention.

“Yeah. He hasn’t been seen in weeks, ain’t he? Word is, he’s gone underground. Something big must’ve gone down.”

“Big? That’s an understatement. They say someone ratted him out to the Hunter’s Association that’s why his base got raided. He’s also got a bounty on his head now, and not just any bounty—a serious one. Every hunter and merc in the zone's looking for him.”

“What about the hot chick he’s been seen with? You think she’s involved?”

“Dunno,” the first man whispered. “But if she’s smart, she’ll lay low. Sylus doesn’t take kindly to betrayal, and neither do his people.”

You bit your lip as the urge to ask questions was getting heavy. But you knew better. Drawing attention to yourself now could be disastrous. So, you had to think of how to navigate this situation first. The fight in the ring reached a fever pitch, and the crowd’s roar swelled. Perhaps joining today’s fight might not be a good idea after all, and instead, you should harness your remaining energy into preparing for the time you would have to face Onychinus again.

Sylus was in hiding, the hunter girl had been isolated, and you had made yourself a target.

It was for the best that you stormed out of the fight club, helmet on, speeding away on a motorcycle you had rented. Riding in the N109 zone was always a thrilling escape, and it now became your dangerous distraction from the turbulent thoughts that plagued your mind. Sylus. Sylus. Sylus. Where did he hide?

In your trail of thoughts, you revved the engine, and its roar echoed along the stretch of dark roads as you maneuvered your bike towards the highway.

There was no other vehicle around you.

Until a truck appeared.

Not just any truck—it was a supertruck, with its headlights blazing and tailing you like a predator.

The lights tried to blind you, but you took off, and the world around you instantly became a blur of speed and sound. You leaned into the bike, feeling the wind whip against your face as you cornered into the nearest exit. But no matter how fast you went, you couldn’t outrun such a large, fast-moving vehicle. You knew that if you didn’t accelerate into sixth gear or until you hit the rev limiter, you would be dead.

He’s fucking out for me!

Lost in thought, your eyes focused too much on looking back and forth between the road and the stealth mirrors before you got rear-ended by the truck. The impact was jarring, and it sent you flying off your bike and crashing onto the hard, cold ground. Upon impact alone, pain immediately exploded in your body. And the burning, stinging sensation was brought upon by the road rash you obtained after you skidded along the rough concrete road. It was intense pain—like a thousand searing needles piercing every inch of your skin. Your flesh felt as if it were being flayed by red-hot knives, each scrape and cut screaming with a fire that seemed unquenchable. The raw, exposed nerves throbbed violently, sending electric shocks of pain through your entire body, and making every heartbeat feel like a hammer blow.

Aghh! It was a relentless, burning torment, and the slightest movement amplified the suffering, every breath dragging razors through your shredded skin. But you refused to cry out, refusing to give the culprit the satisfaction. Was it Sylus?

As much as you wanted to lift your helmet and find the culprit, the shock from the crash was an all-consuming inferno of agony, the kind that made the world blur and darken at the edges, and eventually pulled you into a black abyss of unconsciousness.

The last thing you remembered was being carried in the arms of a man.

“Think she’s in a coma?”

Voices filtered through your ears, distant yet distinct. Familiar, mischievous voices that sent a shiver down your spine. You could barely open your eyes, your fingers twitching as you slowly regained consciousness.

“Maybe.” That was Luke’s voice. “Or maybe she’s just pretending. Wouldn’t put it past her after she spied on us for years.”

“Yeah, she’s good at that,” Kieran egged on. “Always scheming, always one step ahead. And she’s tougher than she looks! Surviving that crash?”

“But not invincible.”

Their exchange suddenly took a halt, replaced by a discomfiting silence that made you wish you could force your eyes open in a mere count to ten. You tried to move, to make a sound, to let them know you were not in a coma, that you could hear every word. But your body remained stubbornly still, as if pressed down by an unseen weight.

“You think boss-man will forgive her?” It was Kieran who asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Luke snorted. “Forgive? She’s a traitor. If she wakes up, she’s a dead woman walking.”

No! Upon realizing that this wasn’t a dream or a figment of your imagination, the beat of your heart began to accelerate, vibrating loud and aggressive against your chest. The sound of the twins’ footsteps eventually faded, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence of your half-conscious state. Fear and regret coiled within you, but there was also a flicker of determination.

That if you wake up—when you wake up—you would have to face Sylus. And you would have to find a way to survive.

Time lost its meaning as you floated between wakefulness and sleep. A minute, an hour, days must have gone by. Eventually, you could hear classical music being played in the background and became aware of a new presence in the room, then a weight on the edge of your bed. That familiar cardamom and leather scent. A hand soon brushed your forehead, cool and gentle. Sylus? You wanted to open your eyes, to see him, to speak, but your body refused to obey.

“You can’t hide from me forever,” his voice murmured. His breath was warm when you felt it on your ear. “Wake up, kitten. We have unfinished business.”

Darkness tugged at you again, pulling you under, but not before the fear took root. The weight on your chest suddenly lifted, as if an invisible force released its hold on you. Your eyes then snapped open and your lungs burned as you dragged in deep, desperate gulps of air.

“Where—” You struggled to sit up with your weak body trembling from days of enforced stillness. Every movement felt foreign, muscles protesting as you pushed yourself upright. The room spinned for a moment before your vision cleared, and you saw him.

“Awake?” Sylus stood at your side, his crimson eyes burning with fire as he looked down on you like a master to his subject.

“What… what did you do to me?” you manage to ask even though your voice was hoarse. “It was y-you in that truck!”

“Oh, honey. I don’t ride in cheap trucks. Besides, I saved you from that crash,” Sylus replied, almost nonchalantly. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice. And also a ‘long time no see’, don’t you think?”

If it wasn’t him on that truck, then… “It’s still a hitman you hired because of that bounty!”

Sylus didn’t change. His silky gray hair, his vivid carmine eyes, his pinkish thin lips. Whenever he smirked, it was still the handsome old him. “I won’t deny that, sweetie. But I had to kill the guy for doing a poor job. My instructions were to not get you badly injured, and only to scare you.”

“Liar,” you spat, “I bet you’d be happier if I was incapacitated.”

“Please. You’d serve no good to me if you’re dead or permanently disabled.” Sylus reached down to pull the duvet away from your body, and your supposed road rash and injuries were seemingly gone, replaced by newly-healed scars. “Your body needed time to recover, and I couldn’t afford to lose you. Not yet. So I had to put you in an induced state.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. How he did it, you had no idea, but with Sylus, anything was possible. Anything! After all, he had all the connections and the rarest protocores.

“Three days,” he continued, stepping closer, his gaze never leaving your face as he lifted your chin with his finger. “I kept you under for three days. Enough time for your wounds to heal. You recognize where you are?”

When he trailed off, you looked around the room and realized you weren’t in the Onychinus base nor his presidential suite. It was one of his many residences—the underground shelter.

“Why are we here?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound strong.

Sylus extended a hand once more, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained hard, unreadable. “Ask that to yourself, kitten,” he says quietly. “We’re here because an ungrateful stray cat decided to leak the location of my other residences.”

You swallowed hard when you felt him grab you by the neck, his tight grip restraining any air from entering your windpipe. “S-Sylus!”

His eyes had unruly flames beneath them. “You were a spy?”

As his grip loosened a little to let you speak, you still ended up choking from asphyxiation. “S-So what if I was?” You tried to push him off. “It only means I caught you lacking. You allowed me to infiltrate Onychinus without knowing my background.”

Sylus’s hand trailed gently over your cheek, his touch lingering longer than necessary. “I’d blame it on your cunning face,” he said, almost seductively. He then shifted to lower himself onto the bed, both knees on either side of you, pinning you down. His eyes locked onto yours with a dark, predatory gleam. “Any man is a willing fool to a pretty face and a sexy body.”

You swatted his hand in response, your back hitting the headboard as you scrambled for distance. “How many times have you recycled that line between me and that hunter girl with the Aether Core?”

At the mention of her, Sylus’s deep chuckle erupted and reverberated through the dark room. It was a chilling sound that was full of twisted amusement. “Ah, I almost forgot about the root of your betrayal,” he remarked with a mocking grin. “Jealousy.”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if I had killed her,” you spat, struggling to break free as Sylus slammed you back onto the bed. “Let me go—!” It was a fierce contest of strength, with you pinned beneath him, and him on top of you in an undeniable display of dominance. But you fought back. You resisted. And in an effort to offend, you ejected spit onto his cheek. “Let go!”

Sylus was caught off guard, but he stayed unfazed, wiping your spit from his cheek before gripping your neck again. “You really want to play this game, honey? I love how sick in the head you are.”

“You m-made me like this.” You choked in between words. “In the end, I still achieved my goal. Now you have no way to see or contact that girl.”

“Says who?” Sylus’s sarcastic tone made your heart sink. Is he still in touch with her?!

“What do you—”

“Don’t be dense, kitten.” Sylus soon grabbed you by the collar, handling you like a ragdoll as he threw you onto the floor with a resounding thud. Pain shot through your hip, but Sylus’s expression held no remorse. You knew he could do worse. “I have my own ways of ensuring she’s safe and protected. I can still see her whenever I want.”

That was when the tears started to fall uncontrollably. You couldn’t stop them—nor could you hold back the words that poured out. “Y-You! I ran away from the N109 Zone for a whole year. I disappeared from your life for a whole goddamn year, Sylus. Yet not once did you look for me, not once did you worry about me, not once did you make sure I was safe. But for her, you—”

“It’s only natural to protect someone important to you.” He crouched down to meet your eyes as if pouring salt to the wound. “I’d let the world burn for her, honey. You and her aren’t the same. She’s not someone who would betray me.”

“I betrayed you because of her!”

His laughter died down, but the amusement in his eyes only deepened. The cruel curve of his lips was the kind of smile that enjoyed seeing your agony. “It’s always been about her, hasn’t it? You see me with her, and you can’t stand it. It eats at you, makes you act out.”

You tried to move away, but he kept his foot firmly on your wrist, stepping on your hand was his constant reminder of your powerlessness. The distance between you was a stark symbol of how he saw you—a mere object of disdain.

“I’ve seen your struggle,” he continued, his voice soft but laced with wicked satisfaction. “The way you watched me with her, the way it gnaws at you. It’s almost poetic, really.”

In a moment of desperation, you snatched the nearest weapon from his nightstand while tears blurred your vision. It hurt. His words, his treatment, and the stark difference in how he treated her compared to you were too much. You should have ended this long ago before he had the chance to wreck you all over again.

And so, with a gun in your hand, you cocked and raised it.

But instead of pointing it towards Sylus, you surprised him by pointing it to yourself.

The gun’s nozzle was pressed against your temple, your finger inching toward the trigger.

“...All I wanted was your love,” you choked out with tears cascading down your face, flowing out like an endless waterfall, “I j-just wanted you to love me. I turned my back on the H.A. for you. I left all my friends and family for you.” Your breathing was still for a moment. “Now I don’t have anyone left.” Pausing, you locked eyes with his crimson ones. You didn’t want him to be the one to kill you, because the thought alone was fatal. “All I had was you. I loved you. I devoted all my body and soul into loving you, Sylus. Why c-can’t I have even a little bit in return?”

Even as his gaze softened, as a flicker of regret crossed his features, you already drove your finger to pull the trigger. The recoil immediately jolted through your wrist, but before the bullet could find its mark and penetrate your skull, Sylus’s hand shot out and expertly deflected your aim. So instead of blowing your brains out, the bullet ricocheted off the now-shattered window.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Sylus roared, his orotund voice an amalgam of anger and disbelief.

Tears blurred your vision, but you were still able to look at his bright red eyes as he cupped your cheeks. Your entire body shook hysterically for someone who had just almost ended her own life. This is what he wanted, right? You asked yourself over and over, but couldn’t find the energy to respond to his calls for your name.

“Y/N,” Sylus agitatedly tried to shake you, “Y/N! Enough. Let’s end this game.”

You stared at his face blankly as reality flickered and faded, like an old film reel skipping frames. “I was never playing one with you.”

Sylus was suddenly a different person in front of you. “I warned you many times before to never fall in love with me. It’s for the best, and it’s what will keep you safe,” he spoke in a low yet softened tone, “Why don’t you listen?”

The tension in the room was suffocating, and each second dragged into eternity. Sylus’s question remained unanswered until the loud burst of the door shattered the silence. You flinched, heart pounding, as you saw the very subject of your heartbreak.

The hunter girl stormed in, eyes wild in fear. “Sylus! Are you okay? I heard a gunshot—” she cried out, scanning the room frantically until her gaze landed on the two of you. She then froze, taking in the sight of you and Sylus on the floor, the gun lying ominously near your hand. Putting two-and-two together probably made her think that you tried to kill the man in front of you. “Sylus, step back!”

“Wait!”

Without hesitation, she aimed her gun squarely at you. But right before you could react, the gun was fired. And the shattering sound of another gunshot echoed in the room.

Time seemed to slow as you fell, the world spinning around you when you felt a sudden, searing pain on your head. Sylus’s eyes widened in shock, his hand reaching out just in time to catch you before your head hit the floor.

“No!” Sylus’s voice was raw, hysterical, filled with a pain you’d never heard from him before as he cradled your head gently—his face a mask of both horror and disbelief when your blood pooled on his arms. “Y/N, no! Fuck, what did you do?!”

You struggled to focus, your vision blurring as darkness encroached. Sylus’s eyes were strangely wet with tears, desperation etched into every line of his sharp features. The Sylus you knew wouldn’t cry over someone unimportant to him. So, why…?

You tried to speak, but the effort was monumental.

Who knew that your life would end at the hands of another woman?

Yet, it was the karma you deserved for your wrongdoings.

“I... love... you,” you whispered to Sylus, nonetheless. Each word was a struggle, and your breath hitched as you forced them out, but you had to let him know. For the last time.

You saw the pain in his eyes deepen, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of something close to peace. That was when Sylus’s grip tightened, his tears falling onto your face as he held you close. “Y/N, please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Don’t leave. I can’t let this happen!”

He must have noticed how your eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring off into the distance without really seeing anything. Pure numbness was you would best describe it. And as your life slipped away, you felt a strange sense of relief.

In the battle of hearts, he was the conqueror, and you, the conquered. His love was a war you couldn’t win, and your loss, a defeat you couldn’t bear. For in his eyes, you saw both your greatest triumph and your deepest fall, where the lines between the victor and the vanquished blurred into the shadows of a bittersweet end.

But at least, you had said what mattered most, and that in your final moments, you were held by the one person you loved. The rightful owner of your heart. The conqueror of your soul. It was him, Sylus Qin, and no one else.

— 1 YEAR AFTER.

“Two black coffees, three espressos, and a caramel macchiato, extra caramel!” A peculiar guy placed orders one after another, followed by his twin’s mischievous laughter.

You turned to face them, offering a polite smile even though you were worried deep inside if they were just pulling a prank. They were regulars, always coming in with their complicated orders and playful banter. Yet, something about them seemed oddly familiar, and they always gave you a nagging sensation you couldn’t quite place.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small café you were working at in the Bloomshore District. You were standing behind the counter while the rush of customers was relentless. You barely even had a moment to catch your breath today, and here came the twins creating yet another one of their complicated orders.

“Coming right up,” was your monotonous reply, your hands deftly moving to prepare their drinks. But as you worked, the twins exchanged amused glances, their eyes flicking over you with a mix of curiosity and disappointment.

“Actually, can I make a small change to that?” the other twin interjected with a grin.

You sighed inwardly but kept your smile. “Sure, what would you like?”

“Okay, so for the black coffee, can you add a splash of almond milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top?” one of the twins began. “For the espressos, I need one with a shot of vanilla, one with a shot of caramel, and the last one with a double shot of mint. And for the caramel macchiato, make sure it's extra caramel, but can you also add a dash of sea salt and a drizzle of dark chocolate on top?”

Gosh. They were menaces.

“Do you think you can remember our orders?” the other twin remarked, leaning on the counter. “Because you don’t seem to remember our names.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “We have lots of customers everyday. I’m not really good with names.”

When the bell above the door chimed, your attention was immediately drawn to the towering man with ash gray hair and bright crimson eyes. His presence was commanding even in the relaxed atmosphere of the café; he carried such a dominant aura that even the twins backed off from pestering you the moment he entered the coffee shop.

“Good evening, Mr. Skye,” you greeted, your tone warming at the sight of him. The man had become a regular fixture in your life. Every day, like clockwork, he came in for his coffee, and every day, he lingered just a bit longer, watching you with eyes that seemed to see more than you could comprehend.

He nodded, his eyes staying on you while he was pointing towards the twins. “Are they bothering you?”

You were under the impression that the twins worked for Mr. Skye, but the type of relationship they had with their boss was none of your business. That was why although the twins could get really annoying as customers, especially when they tend to change their orders a lot, you still didn’t want them to get in trouble over something as little as that.

“No, they’re fine,” you answered with a smile. “Are you going to get the usual today, Mr. Skye?”

“Yes, please.” The tall man studied your face with a focused gaze—it was as though he was trying to read your mind, trying to interpret the emotions on your face, as he looked at you intently. He always did this. Every single day he came in, even from afar, you had grown accustomed to his watchful gaze. Yet even with the awkwardness it brought, he also knew how to keep his distance. He always treated you with respect and was always the first person to come to your aid when things did get unruly in the cafe. Broken coffee machine, spilled coffee, entitled customers. Name it, and he was always present to help around.

It was strange. Really, really strange. And what’s even stranger was that, every time he looked at you, the tenderness in his eyes that often opposed the fiery red color of his irises. Perhaps, you really couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

As you wrote his name on the plastic cup, you heard him suddenly clear his throat. “Miss Y/N, forgive me. I couldn’t help but notice that scar,” he said with a poignant stare, gesturing towards your temple. “Quite a story behind that, I imagine?”

Your hand instinctively touched the faint scar, a puzzled look crossing your face. You had always been insecure about the scar on your temple, because not only was it unattractive, it was also extremely visible. Not even a laser treatment could help clear it out.

“Oh, uh… I’m not really sure how I got it,” you admitted, searching through your mind’s archive to no avail. “I was told it was while I was fighting off wanderers. I don’t remember much from that time because I’ve since retired from the Hunter’s Association.”

His eyes darkened for a moment, as if his heart dropped from a memory he had recalled, but he quickly masked his expression. “So, you’re a hunter?”

You shrugged. “Well, yeah. But it’s all in the past now.”

Mr. Skye stood there waiting for his order with an unreadable expression on his face. And you wondered why he looked heartbroken while lost in deep thought. Was he having a bad day? Going through a break-up? You weren’t nosey enough to ask. Eventually, his order was done and he took the cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

“Sometimes the past has a way of catching up to us.” His deep voice was smooth and soft when he spoke again. “But perhaps it’s best to focus on the present.”

You smiled, feeling a strange comfort in his words. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Would you like to… have dinner with me sometime? I’d love to get to know you better.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden invitation. A date?! You couldn’t remember the last time you were even in love. All you could recall was having a silly childhood crush on your neighbor, but then again, that was more than a decade ago. You knew nothing about dating at your age and it was ridiculous. But there was something about Mr. Skye, a familiarity you couldn’t ignore, and that rejecting his offer seemed wrong in your head.

Besides, you couldn’t deny how extremely handsome he was.

“Um, sure… Mr. Skye.”

“Perfect,” he said with a small smile, his gaze softening into one of genuine joy. “Tomorrow evening, then?”

Before you could agree on a schedule, the sudden flash of lightning illuminated the interior for a brief moment. Then, the subsequent crash of thunder made you jump, following the sound of rain pounding against the windows that filled the small space. Oh, boy.

“Ugh. How am I going to get home in this weather?” you muttered to yourself.

Mr. Skye, who had been quietly watching you from his spot, gave you an offer. “Need a ride?” he asked, his voice gentle but carrying a note of urgency. “It’s too dangerous to walk or wait for a cab in this storm.”

You hesitated for a moment. “I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Skye. But what about your,” you pointed towards the oblivious twins who were sitting on the corner, “minions?”

Your chosen term elicited a deep chuckle from the man. “Don’t mind them. They know their way back home.”

“But boss!”

“Boss, you said you’ll let me drive the sportscar tonight!”

“I’ll wait for you until your shift ends,” Mr. Skye ignored the duo and responded to you with an endearing smile. “No rush.”

It didn’t take long until you locked up the shop, but you did feel bad that Mr. Skye had to stay with you until ten in the evening when he could have already gone home. In fact, he had been acting strange. Acting too familiar with you. Did he already know you prior to your small interactions in the cafe for the past few weeks?

He held the door open for you as soon as you secured the shop, and together you ran through the torrential rain to his black sportscar. You were already aware that he was a wealthy man, and yet, you always wondered why he preferred a small, laid-back cafe in the Bloomshore Distrct rather than the lavish ones in Azure Square or even Universum. Was it to see you all along?

Jeez, you had so many unanswered questions in your head. Yet, you were also afraid to address the elephant in the room because you believed in the saying that ignorance is bliss. So in the end, the drive was quiet, the only sounds being the rhythm of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Mr. Skye didn’t speak a word and nor did you.

Once you reached your apartment, he quickly rushed out of the car and headed to open your door. He even used his jacket as a makeshift umbrella, covering you from the heavy rainfall. It was almost funny, really, how his face screamed of danger but he was actually quite a gentleman.

In return, you had to invite him in out of courtesy. “Would you like to come in for a while? It’s still pouring out there.”

He accepted your offer with a nod, and followed you like a tail inside. “Do you usually invite other people, too?”

“Sometimes,” you casually answered while the both of you walked through the empty corridors. “Why?”

“You aren’t talking about male colleagues, right?” he asked, seemingly taking a deep breath.

That wasn’t any of his concern, obviously. But the drive to test his emotions was strong. “Sometimes,” you said, finally reaching your door and unlocking it with your fingerprint. “Welcome to my home.”

The warmth of your apartment was a stark contrast to the cold storm outside, and you felt a little conscious of your small living space knowing that he probably lived in a luxurious presidential suite. It didn’t help that he started looking around your place, as if studying the smallest details of every corner for a reason you couldn’t quite tell. You weren’t sure if he was simply silently judging the aesthetics of your home, but you were beginning to feel uncomfortable as you placed his coat on the rack, watching the way he stopped to look at your photo on the wall.

It was like he felt a pang of sorrow.

“You’ve really erased me completely, kitten,” he quietly whispered.

You turned to him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe that’s for the better,” he replied, but his expression betrayed him. It was clear that he was holding back a flood of emotions.

Your heart started to race, pounding at a rhythm that you had never experienced before. And just then, you could see how tears welled up in his eyes. Tears that he concealed by leaning in to capture your lips in a desperate kiss. His hands cupped your face, and you could feel the intensity of his suppressed feelings that seemed to transcend the confines of your apartment. The yearning. The longingness. Perhaps, it was even sprinkled with feelings of regret.

“Mr. Skye, wait—!” You pulled away with wide, bewildered eyes, shocked by the fervor of his kiss. No matter how attractive he was, he was still a stranger to you. But then, your breath came in shallow gasps as a sudden, sharp pain began to explode in your head. A throbbing pulse spread from your temples and radiated outwards. It was a stabbing sensation that seemed to slice through your skull, as if a thousand needles were jabbing into your brain. What’s happening?

Mr. Skye’s face appeared above you. “Does it hurt?” he asked softly, his voice laced with a mix of worry and something deeper. He was whispering something about a protocore in your head, but you could barely understand a word, not when the ache in your temple was overcoming you entirely.

You were unable to form words, clutching your head with both hands in hopes of stopping the ache for even a little. But the pain was overwhelming. Too overwhelming for you to handle, and it came to a point where tears of pain began streaming down your face.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

He gently guided you on the couch, his touch careful and soothing. “Just breathe,” he murmured, offering a comforting presence like buoy in an open sea. “It’s my fault, kitten. I shouldn’t have kissed you so suddenly.” The intensity of the moment had shifted because of how tender his touch was. “You’re safe here,” he gently whispered into your ear. “Let the pain pass. I’ll be here with you.”

As the pain began to subside, you could feel the storm in your head gradually receding. And in his presence, you felt a strange mix of comfort and unease.

Studies say that a kiss can help calm someone’s nerves. You weren’t sure where that research was based on, but it was your body who allowed itself to seek it from the man in front of you. While your mind was telling you no, your heart was urging you to grab his shirt and pull him, once again, to a passionate kiss.

The kiss deepened naturally, and you found yourself responding to his need as the pull between you became irresistible. You were like a magnet to him—the force of attraction getting stronger and stronger the closer you were. Where was it coming from? How come you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame?

And while you were engaged in a tight lip-locking moment, you both ended up walking towards your bedroom; stumbling towards the bed, hands exploring, hearts racing. Soon, you were lost in each other, and the world outside was forgotten.

With both your clothes discarded on the floor, and with your steamy exchange continuing throughout the night, you found yourself eventually straddling him, moving your body to meet him with a gentle thrust. Every sway of your hips made his member hit you at your sweet spot, instantly sending a wave of pleasure within your body.

“S-Sir—”

“Sylus,” he breathed into your ear, hands tracing your curve, “Call me Sylus, kitten.”

Sylus. Sylus. The name sounded familiar yet foreign at the same time, but you were too sensually intoxicated to think about the history behind his name. All you could selfishly focus on at the moment was reaching your high. You were losing your mind over the euphoric sensation of having an intercourse with such a man who, not only was attractive on the face, but also on the body.

Sylus was packed. His muscles were toned from a seemingly consistent active lifestyle and intense workout routines. It felt great when you ran your hands along his broad shoulders, down to his toned chest, and further down to his perfectly sculpted abs.

“Mmh—!” A moan escaped your lips when you felt his shaft going deeper inside. “That’s…”

‘Good?” he whispered to your lips, encasing yours with his before he trailed his soft kisses around your neck. Each kiss definitely left a purple mark on your skin with the way he was suckling and nibbling on the flesh.

God, he was huge, too. His member completely filled you, stretched you even, as his cocktip kissed your cervix in a single thrust. He was crazy good at knowing all your sensitive places, holding your hips down so he could start pounding you upwards. Your tits began to bounce wildly and you even had to hold onto the headboard for support, because he was starting to go deeper and faster inside you.

“Ngh!”

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed this,” he said in between shaky breaths before latching his mouth into your right tit. He devoured your breast like a meal, playing with the nipple with the precise movements of his tongue. It was so good. Crazy good. It made you wonder how he seemed hyper-aware of the things you liked in bed. But how would that be possible when this was your first time having sex with him?

Sylus decided to shift the control by flipping you over, and hoisting your hips so he could lower his head down to your lady part. Your eyes almost rolled back when he spread your labia apart so he could lick your inner folds and taste every corner of your slick-coated cavern.

“S-Sylus,” you whined as his tongue rapidly moved in and out of your entrance until drool oozed down on your cunt. His eyes fluttered as he pulled his face away, soon palming your wet vulva with slow strokes. “Mmh…”

He eyed you with a tender gaze. “You’re so beautiful to me.”

It was certainly odd that his compliment seemed to touch your heart deeper than intended—that if you weren’t doing sexual activities right now, your heart would have been fluttering from his sweetness, especially when he met your lips again with a soft, loving kiss.

This time, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t detach his lips from yours, even as he was penetrating you with his cock again. With a single thrust, you were mewling into his mouth. His girthy member gave you a heavenly stretch that seemed to awaken the lustful demon inside of you.

Even Sylus was cussing under his breath as he continued to slam his entire length in, soon increasing the speed of his penetration to a pace that made him reach his peak. At this point, the coil in your lower abdomen was beginning to intensify, and you were clamping around his cock as if your walls weren’t tight enough to make him release a series of guttural moans.

“Are you near?” With a quick suction on your left breast, his own moans left his lips along with the loud squelching noises that filled the room. “‘Cause I am.”

Coincidentally, you were just arching your back because of how near you were, too. With screams getting louder, gasps causing your mouths to part open, and two people connected into a single body—you disintegrated under him as your lower abdomen signaled your orgasm and your toes started curling. “Ngh—Haah! Aah!”

“Hold on for me, kitten.” Sylus pounded into you through your overstimulation, picking up the pace until spurts of seed were sent straight to your womb. His movements became sloppy and uneven, pulling out of you only to see his semen seeping out of your pussy.

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t fucking believe you just hooked up with a stranger.

But was he really one? Because your heart was telling you one thing, but your mind was telling you another. You didn’t know who to trust and listen to.

After your passionate session, the room was filled with the sound of your breaths mingling. Sylus, still holding you close, leaned in to plant a soft kiss on your cheek, whispering, “How’s it?”

Curiosity got the better of you, and you asked the very question that had been plaguing your mind, “Sylus, please be honest with me,” you paused, “Did you know me before?”

He was silent.

But you continued, “What was our relationship?”

Sylus looked like he was contemplating his answer, his gaze distant. His eyes seemed to have found your ceiling interesting as he thought deeply, drawing in a deep breath, and gently caressing your arm. If you didn’t know better, you swore you could see the sorrow and resignation in his eyes—the somberness he tried to hide with a smile.

“Let’s just say I’m a fool who was in love with you for years, but you never reciprocated my love.”

“How so?” you asked, turning to face him. You absorbed his words while the pain of his unrequited love intersected with your own confusion. His answer didn’t quite feel right, but if he was truly your lover, then you knew there was a level of trust you should be placing on him. “Why do I get the feeling that I was the one who experienced a one-sided love before?”

“No, you were loved. You were very loved. There was no one else,” he continued, lachrymose eyes staring back at you as he stroked your hair, “I was the one who wasn’t worthy of you… But I’d like to try and win your heart again this time. If you allow it.”

Sylus’s eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the facade of the composed, enigmatic man you had come to know seemed to crack.

The vulnerability in his voice resonated with you, and you reached up to touch his face gently. “Sylus… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for not recognizing you before. I just… I lost a chunk of my memories, and I don’t know if it’s been altered or what, but…” Realizing that you were rambling, you took a deep breath. “I’ll try to remember, okay?”

“Please don’t.” He shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips while thinking of the past that was rightfully erased. “And there’s no need for apologies, sweetie. There wasn’t anything you did wrong.”

As the rain continued its gentle patter against the window, you both settled into the quiet of the room until he pressed his lips onto yours once more.

Sylus’s touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “You should know,” he said quietly and earnestly, “that this time, I’ll only have eyes for you.”

FINAL PART

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus angst #sylus smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads x you #l&ds x reader #l&ds x you #lds x reader #lds x you #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #love & deepsace x reader

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

Text

MARK VARIANTS X FEM!READER

You are his lover in all universes, and in these you have joined him—what is it like to be his queen?

Characters: Sinister Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Prisoner Mark, Sheisty Mark, Bald Mark, Goggles Mark, Viltrum Mark & Omni-Mark

Sinister Mark / Capevincible

- You are his moon in a sky perpetually painted in blood. The only thing he does not destroy. He moves through the world like a blade cutting through flesh, carving out civilizations with the efficiency of a butcher, and yet, when he looks at you, there is something like reverence in his eyes. His love is not gentle; it is a possession, a claiming, a cruel kind of worship. He touches you with the same hands that have torn bodies apart, and the contrast is almost poetic—his violence does not reach you, but it is there, always simmering beneath his skin.

- When he kisses you, it is not an act of love but of conquest. His lips press against yours with the force of a war drum, his teeth scrape, his tongue invades. He wants you breathless, drowning in him, a willing offering on the altar of his dominion. There is no hesitation in his touch, no uncertainty. He owns you, and you do not resist, because resistance is meaningless. He is Capevincible. He could rip apart the cosmos itself if it dared to keep you from him.

- The nights are a battlefield. Sheets twisted like bodies in the aftermath of war, your throat hoarse from gasping his name, from the unbearable weight of his body pressing into yours, pinning you down as if he fears you might vanish into the ether. He does not love with tenderness—he loves with hunger, with ruin. There is no act between you that does not leave its mark, no moment of intimacy that does not feel like surviving something primal. And yet, you cannot imagine belonging to anyone else.

- He whispers terrible things against your skin in the dark, the same way he speaks before executing his enemies. His breath is hot, his voice like the edge of a blade, telling you how beautiful you look when you break, how you are the only thing he will never destroy. And you believe him, because even monsters can have their treasures, their obsessions. You are the one thing he will not lose, and that means he will kill for you, destroy for you, burn entire worlds if you so much as shiver.

- There is a moment, sometimes, when you wonder what you have become. You were once human, once fragile, once bound by mortal morality. But now you sit beside a god of carnage, watching the universe bend to his will. You no longer flinch at the screams, no longer care for the lives snuffed out like candles in a storm. He has made you his Queen, and a Queen does not weep for the conquered. You were beautiful before, but now? Now, you are terrifying.

- And perhaps, that is why he loves you. Because in the end, you are not just his lover—you are his legacy. When the stars finally collapse under the weight of his brutality, when there is nothing left but blood and ruin, he knows you will still be there, standing beside him, unshaken. Because you are his, and there is no fate more absolute than that.

Mohawk Mark / Movincihawk

- He is laughter in the midst of carnage, grinning wide as his fists tear through bodies like they are made of paper. He does not kill with duty, nor with hatred. He kills because it is fun. And you? You are the only thing he keeps intact. His beautiful little trophy, the only thing he does not mock, the only thing he does not break. He calls you gorgeous like it’s an insult, mine like it’s a death sentence. And it is. No one touches what belongs to him and lives.

- He does not worship you—no, that is not his way. But he adores you in his own twisted fashion, in the way he pulls you into his lap as blood pools around his feet, in the way he tilts your chin up to kiss you even as his hands are still warm from crushing a skull. He loves you the way a wildfire loves a forest—devouring, consuming, leaving nothing untouched. You burn under his attention, and you love every second of it.

- The bed is not a sanctuary; it is just another battlefield. He is relentless, insatiable, merciless in his desire for you. His strength is overwhelming, his need all-consuming. He does not ask permission—he takes, he claims, he leaves bruises like war paint on your skin. And you let him, because there is no greater thrill than surrendering to a force that could end you, yet chooses to keep you instead.

- He talks while he fucks you, taunting, teasing, mocking. What, can’t take it? And here I thought you were my little Queen. Pathetic. But his grip tightens when you moan, his breath stutters when you rake your nails down his back. He wants you, needs you, in a way he will never admit. So instead, he laughs, bites at your throat, leaves marks that scream to the world that you belong to him.

- There is no peace with him, no soft moments of love and tenderness. There is only the thrill, the rush, the violence of passion that never fades. He does not say I love you. He says you’re mine. And it means the same thing.

- One day, when the universe is nothing but dust beneath your feet, he will still be laughing, still be reveling in destruction. And you will be beside him, his Queen, his equal in this glorious, endless reign of chaos. Because love, for Movincihawk, is not a chain—it is a fire. And he will burn for you forever.

No Goggles Mark / Nogogglesible

- He is arrogance incarnate, a god among insects, untouchable, invincible. And yet, you have touched him. You have brought him to his knees, not with force, but with something far more dangerous—desire. He is cruel to everyone, but with you, it is different. He does not kill you. He does not mock you like the others. Instead, he craves you, like a dragon hoarding treasure, like a king unwilling to share his throne.

- He is insufferable, cocky, and childish in his amusement, always grinning, always talking, always taunting. But when he touches you, all that arrogance melts into something sharper, hungrier. He does not like to be denied, does not like to be challenged. And you? You challenge him. You push back. You make him work for your affection, and it drives him insane.

- The way he takes you is almost playful—almost. He grins as he pins you down, as he makes you beg, as he ruins you. Is that all you’ve got? he teases, even as he’s shaking, even as his hands tremble against your skin. He is obsessed with making you fall apart beneath him, with proving that even the Queen of Invincible is his to break.

- But the moment someone else so much as looks at you? That arrogance vanishes, replaced by something much darker. He is a nightmare when jealous, a force of pure annihilation. He will kill without hesitation, will make sure the universe knows that you are his and his alone.

- He likes to watch you after, basking in his victory, stroking your skin like a dragon hoarding gold. He tells you you’re beautiful in the same breath that he tells you how easily he could break you. And yet, he never does. Because he is already broken for you.

- In the end, the universe will crumble, the stars will die, and he will still be here, grinning, mocking, loving you in his own twisted way. Because he is Nogogglesible. And you? You are the only thing he has ever truly wanted.

Prisoner Mark / Prisonincible

- He is not the Mark you once knew. That Mark—the hesitant boy with wide eyes and too much hope—died long ago. What stands before you now is a man sharpened into a blade, honed by violence, stripped of mercy. He is not kind. He does not pretend to be. The world tried to break him, so he broke it first. And yet, despite all his cruelty, all his rage, you are the one thing he cannot hurt. He holds you with hands that have wrung the life from countless enemies, hands that have tortured, ripped, shattered. But when they touch you, they are careful. Reverent. As if you are the last beautiful thing in a world of ruin.

- He doesn’t ask for your love. He takes it. The way he takes everything else. His kisses are bruising, possessive, his grip unrelenting. You feel his strength in every touch, in every whispered threat against your throat—Mine. Mine. Mine. He is not gentle. He is not soft. He does not worship you; he claims you. And you let him, because what else is there? He has remade the world in his image, and you are the only thing that remains untouched. Untouched, but not unmarked. He ensures that.

- The bed is a battlefield, a place where he does not have to hold back, where the rage that simmers beneath his skin finds its release in you. He grips your wrists too tight, drags his teeth along your skin, leaves bruises that bloom like violets against your flesh. He loves the sight of them. Proof of his claim. Proof that even the Queen of Invincible belongs to him.

- He whispers terrible things when he is inside you—promises, threats, dark admissions. If anyone ever touched you, I’d rip their spine out through their mouth. His lips are at your ear, his breath hot, his voice raw. He does not speak of love. He speaks of possession. And you don’t need to hear the words to know what he feels. His love is in the way he would burn the world for you. In the way he already has.

- And when it is over, when the sweat cools on your skin, when the bruises begin to fade, he holds you. Tightly. Desperately. As if letting go would shatter him completely. His lips press against your temple, his breath ragged. There are no apologies. No guilt. There is only the silence, the aftermath, the unspoken truth that neither of you will ever leave. You are bound to him, by blood, by war, by something darker than love.

- And in the end, you do not want to leave. Because if he is a monster, then you are his Queen. And monsters do not weep for the fallen. They stand among the ruins and rule.

Sheisty Mark / Hoodvincible

- He is chaos given form. A force of destruction wrapped in arrogance, in crude words and bloody knuckles. He does not fight for duty, does not conquer for power. He does it because he can. Because he enjoys it. Because he looks at the world and sees something to break. And yet, when he looks at you, it is different. He does not see something to destroy. He sees something to keep.

- His love is reckless, feral, unyielding. He grabs your chin when he kisses you, bites at your lower lip, pulls at your hair like he is daring you to fight back. He wants you to. He wants the challenge, the game. But you never win. You can’t. He is stronger, faster, crueler. He does not let you have the upper hand. Not in the fight. Not in bed. Not ever.

- He fucks like he fights—wild, unpredictable, merciless. He throws you down and drags you back up, leaves scratches down your thighs, bruises on your hips. His voice is raw with laughter, with dark amusement. You’re still breathing? Damn. I must be getting soft. But his hands tell a different story. They shake when they touch you, as if the thought of losing you makes something inside him unravel.

- He hates how much he needs you. Hates the way his body betrays him when you sigh his name, the way his chest tightens when you smile. He is cruel to everyone else, but with you, there is something else beneath the mockery, beneath the swearing and the sneers. Something fragile. And that terrifies him. So he covers it with arrogance, with insults, with violence. But you see through it.

- When the world is quiet, when the battles are over, when his body is slick with sweat and exhaustion, he does not let you leave his arms. He holds you with a grip that is too tight, too desperate. Don’t fucking go anywhere, he mumbles into your skin, voice slurred with sleep. And he will never say it, never admit it, but you know what it means. Stay. Stay. Stay.

- And so you do. Because you are his, and he is yours, and there is no world where you would ever choose anything else.

Bald Mark / Capvincible

- He is a nightmare wearing a smirk. He does not kill out of duty, or necessity. He kills because he enjoys it. Because he loves the way people scream, the way their bones crack beneath his fists. He is the worst kind of monster—the kind that does not believe he is one. And you? You are his one exception. His one indulgence. His one weakness.

- He touches you with the same hands that have torn men apart, but with care. Not because he is gentle, but because he wants to savor it. To take his time. To draw out every moment, every sound, every shudder of your breath. He likes when you squirm beneath him. When you beg, when you break. Not out of cruelty—no, this is love. Love, for him, is the act of unmaking you piece by piece, then putting you back together just to do it all over again.

- He makes you beg. Not because he needs to hear it, but because he wants you to admit the truth. That you need him. That you want him. That you are his. He drags it out, teasing, taunting, watching your resolve crack like fragile glass. Say it, he purrs against your throat, breath hot, hands relentless. Say you belong to me. And you do. Of course, you do.

- He whispers against your skin as he takes you apart—dark promises, wicked threats. You’d look so pretty covered in blood, sweetheart. Maybe next time, I’ll let you have a little fun with me. He means it. You know he does. He would kill for you. He already has.

- When it is over, he watches you. Eyes dark, unreadable. There is something terrifying about the way he looks at you—like a lion watching its mate, possessive, protective, utterly devoted. You own him as much as he owns you, and he knows it.

- And so, when he kisses you again, slow and deep, it is not a claim. It is a vow. No matter what happens, no matter who dares to stand in his way, he will never lose you. And if the universe tries to take you from him, well—he will simply have to burn it all down.

Goggles Mark / Gogglesvincible

- He is stillness—a predator that does not need to snarl, a killer that does not need to raise his voice. Where others rage, he is quiet. Where others lose themselves in the thrill of bloodshed, he remains composed. There is no excess in him, no wasted movement, no unnecessary cruelty. When he kills, it is efficient. When he destroys, it is deliberate. And when he looks at you, it is with that same terrible focus.

- His love is calculated, methodical. He does not indulge in theatrics. He does not waste words on affection. Instead, he watches you, memorizes you, understands every detail—what makes you shiver, what makes you whimper, what makes you beg. When he touches you, it is with the same precision with which he tears the world apart. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows exactly how to unravel you, and he does. Slowly. Mercilessly.

- He does not speak of love, but he shows it in the way he possesses you. His fingers trace the marks he leaves behind, his lips linger over the bruises, his grip tightens when another dares to look at you too long. They are insignificant, he murmurs, voice calm, deadly. They don’t matter. But I will kill them anyway. And he does.

- In bed, he is merciless. He does not give without taking. He does not allow you to simply exist beneath him—you must surrender, you must earn every touch, every moment, every gasp of air. He denies you what you crave until you are shaking, pleading. Until you forget your own name and can only sob his. He listens to your every breath, your every sound, adjusting, fine-tuning, perfecting the torment he inflicts. And when he finally gives you what you need, it is overwhelming.

- He does not rest after. He remains awake, watching, waiting. He traces patterns over your skin, his expression unreadable. You ask him what he’s thinking, and he only tilts his head, gaze unwavering. Nothing. A lie. Everything.

- And when you sleep, he remains at your side, a silent sentinel, guarding the only thing in the universe he has ever allowed himself to keep.

Viltrum Mark / Viltrumincible

- He was raised with purpose. Raised to be strong, to be ruthless. To conquer, to rule, to win. There is no hesitation in him, no doubt. He knows what must be done, and he does it. Earth belongs to the Viltrum Empire. You belong to him. There is no question, no argument, no alternative. You are his Queen, his consort, his everything.

- And yet… there are moments. Small, quiet moments. A flicker of something behind his eyes when you say his name softly. A hesitation in his grip when his hands are rough against your skin. A sigh, barely audible, when he allows himself to rest against you. A part of him still remembers the boy he was before he chose power over love. Before he became this. He does not speak of it. He will not speak of it. But you see it all the same.

- When he takes you, it is with the force of a conqueror. His hands do not ask—they demand. His kisses are not gentle—they are devouring. He does not let you hide from him, does not let you breathe without his permission. You are mine, he growls against your throat, his body pressed against yours, unyielding, overwhelming. He does not need to hear you say it. He already knows.

- He does not tolerate weakness. Not in himself, not in you. If you dare to challenge him, if you dare to push, he meets you with force—pinning you down, forcing obedience from your lips, making you submit with teeth and tongue and hands that refuse to let go. And yet, there is a thrill in it. In the way he wants you to fight, to resist, just so he can remind you who you belong to.

- When it is over, he does not move. His arms remain around you, his breath warm against your shoulder. He does not speak, does not soften. But his grip tightens, just for a moment. As if he is afraid. As if he knows that, despite everything, you are still the only thing he cannot afford to lose.

- And so, he does not lose you. He will not. If the Viltrum Empire demanded it, if his father ordered it, if the entire universe conspired against him—he would burn it all before he let you go.

Omni-Mark / Omnivincible

- He is cold. Detached. The world means nothing to him. His past means nothing to him. Even his own name is an afterthought. He does not care for nostalgia, does not waste time on regret. He has seen too much, lost too much. Love is a weakness, attachment a liability. And yet—you.

- You are the one thing he cannot ignore. The one thing he cannot abandon. He tells himself it is not love. He tells himself it is possession, a claim, a consequence of habit. But even he is not so deluded. He needs you. And that terrifies him.

- He does not speak of his feelings. He does not tell you he loves you. Instead, he shows it in the way he keeps you close. In the way he stands at your side, unwavering, even when it would be easier to let you fall. In the way he touches you—not with passion, not with desperation, but with certainty. As if you are the only thing in existence that he will allow himself to have.

- When he fucks you, it is methodical. Efficient. Every movement is controlled, every touch calculated. And yet, there are moments—brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible—where the control slips. A sharp breath, a tremor in his hands, a growl that is just a little too raw. He buries them quickly, forces them down, but you notice. And it is in those moments that you understand—he is afraid of how much he feels.

- After, he does not speak. He does not hold you. He does not linger. He watches. As if waiting for something. As if expecting you to vanish. And when you do not, when you remain at his side, when you reach for him with hands that are too warm, too soft, too human—he exhales. A slow, quiet thing. As if he has been holding his breath for years.

- He will never say it. He will never admit it. But you know. You are the only thing in the universe that he has not abandoned. The only thing he will never let go. And if the world burns because of that—so be it.

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