#Obsidian Protocol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hughesmybaby · 1 year ago

Note

Can you write something about Jacaerys velaryon x targaryen wife reader

Where she gives birth to a baby that looks like jace and it bothered alicent but they don't care? :3

Saving Face (Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!Reader)

(a/n): i’m sorry this request took over a year but my, what a great idea! i hope you like it

word count: 3.0k

summary: with what was supposed to be a happy moment in the new chapter of your family with jacaerys, only wounds linger when your mother is unhappy with your child's appearance.

warnings: slight angst, family tensions, complicated family relationships, implied incest (the targaryen way), not alicent hightower friendly

request status: OPEN

The joy of his newborn child is nearly eclipsed by the fear that his beloved would be called to face the same humiliation his mother endured upon his birth.

Even in distress, his beautiful wife still looked otherworldly silver hair spun in gold, and with her pale lavender eyes, he would not have that ginger sucker of joy to rob him from this life changing celebration. His relief that his beloved survived the precarious birth, worried about her lithe frame and the prostration it weighed on her during the pregnancy.

His little boy, his beloved son, a fragment of the other half of soul and his own. He is perfect, with his ten little toes and fingers, and he is all his.

Jacaerys is thankful his mother was in the birthing room with him and his wife, breaking protocol (as always) to be with the mother as she went into labour. Without her, he thinks he would’ve been hysterical and lost his mind without her guiding hand and comforting presence in seeing Y/N in distress.

“Where is my mother?” Y/N cradles the babe to her breast, as he suckled in his mother’s warmth and he feels his heart drop to his stomach as her face contorted in disappointment.

The child yearned for nourishment, and the midwives guided the young mother so she could feed the child with her milk.

The Dowager Queen remained unyielding even as her step-daughter arose as Queen, and she was still given some privileges even with her dispute with his mother. The marriage of Jacaerys and Y/N, her youngest daughter, was made as a desperate attempt to patch the two sides together and make peace as his mother sat on the Iron Throne.

Her mother attended the wedding, wearing a dark muted forest green that still appeared obsidian in certain angles, but the flame patterns could not be missed on her gown.

A mockery indeed as if she did not accept his mother’s ascendance to the throne and wanted her small rebellions in forms of cloth, he would not grant her the satisfaction of his reaction, for the sake of the realm and his wife, her daughter. It would be too scandalous to do so.

When his beloved was called abed, all pretense of dignity and calm collapsed underneath him. Whatever confident front he had broke apart as fear consumed him, sweat dripping from his forehead, hands shaking, heart beating wildly as he realized his wife was to cross the barrier between life and death to birth their child.

Seeing Y/N’s clean white robes stained the bed in scarlet as she quickens and the pain increases as the babe nears reminds him of the chills whenever he walks the path from the princess’ chambers to the queen’s, the same path forged in blood when his mother then Princess Rhaenyra, the crown princess and heir to the Throne, had to face the humiliation called upon by her stepmother, now Queen Dowager Alicent.

His blood boils when he sees the auburn former queen walk that path meekly nowadays on her way to see her daughter, as if it was all an act when she had pulled rank and caused so much suffering to his beloved mother. Jacaerys fears his wife, now the Princess of Dragonstone will have to walk those same halls, perform the same walk of shame and mummery with all the courtiers of the Keep to bear witness.

There is no possibility he will allow her to endure the same, he would bring fire and blood to all of Westeros shall she have to face that, yet it brings him relief when he reminds himself that woman is no longer Queen but his mother is, Queen of her own right and first of her name, and yet all the same, that woman is also his mother-in-law, mother to his darling. And grandmother to the child that shares his blood.

Jacaerys never left the side of his wife even when her birth continued onto the hour of the wolf, his hands intertwined with her own, assuring kisses on her temple and cheek and encouraging her when she would cry she wanted to relent. Across from him stood his mother, whose locks resembled her half sister and his wife, an experienced mother who has felt such joy and such sorrow too, with a maternal comfort gained with experience.

He would not allow a woman filled with hate to the brim in her heart to rob him of the joys of fatherhood and the relief of his wife safe and sound after such birth to their babe. Jace felt relief like no other when he began to see the dark haired head of the child crowning, and the guttural, final scream she exerted as the child exited her womb.

Jacaerys comforted and whispered assurances of gratitude and encouragement to his lady wife, that she be reminded how grateful he was of her efforts to grow their family, of her devotion and love for him, and fulfilling her duty with nothing but grace, peppering kisses all over her flushed face.

As he caressed the fine hair of his child much like own while he fed from his mother’s breast, his elated expression dropped as if in a chilling reminder when she asked for her mother. As despicable as that woman was, he could not deny her wishes if it brought her reprieve. Jace smiled and promised her that she would be coming and has been informed of the birth of her new grandchild.

When Y/N was beyond earshot, he approached the young midwife with a hardened gait, grinding through his teeth. “If the Dowager Queen wishes to see the prince, she will make her way here herself. She can walk, can she not?!"

While his wife was preoccupied and in isolation during the last few months of the pregnancy, Jace had made efforts to convince his mother to move the Lady Alicent to the second floor below the palace where the current royal family lived. “To remind her of what she’s done to us and may feel the pain we have endured.” He told Queen Rhaenyra, who was hesitant but accepted afterwards.

Jacaerys marched his way outside the ornate doors where his wife and their babe rested, raising his chin and standing with his chest puffed out, a cold indifferent expression, back straightened and fists clenched white as his wife’s mother made her way up the stairs with difficulty.

In the years since her queenship, the then young queen had begun to develop striking pain all over her body, especially down her spine and legs no matter what the maesters or foreign healers would advise. Jacaerys thought it was fitting for when he would make his mother walk up with him and his newborn siblings, bleeding across the hallways and staircases due to the green queen’s attempt to humiliate them.

Perhaps he is his mother’s son, as diplomatic, gracious, intelligent and cunning as he may be, grudges linger.

He could hear a pin drop as the auburn haired woman nearly stumbled down the final stairs and tripped over her gown, with a few septas rushing over to assist her but he showed no commiseration.

The doors swung open as Alicent limped towards her daughter’s bedside, slightly softening in consolation her daughter was safe in childbirth and the child was kicking like a goat.

“Praise the Mother, my girl.” She brushed her blood-smeared fingers over her silver hair shakily, whispering. He did not miss the glimpse of disappointment when she noticed the dark brown hair of the child, even when the boy had her pale lavender eyes.

Alicent cleared her throat, avoiding the gaze of those around her. “I see that the prince strongly resembles his father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, instinctively reaching towards the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword. “Is that supposed to be a problem, Dowager?” He stomped forward, hovering above his wife and child.

“Not at all, my prince. He is a handsome boy-”

Queen Rhaenyra noticed the tension beginning to develop and interrupted with a smile. “She means no ill, Jacaerys. Merely an observation.”

“An observation?! She wished to have us named as bastards to replace you as heir with one of her spawns and humiliate you.” He raised his voice, accusatory at his mother’s former adversary, and he could feel Lucerys next to him, pulling him away to calm him.

His wife Y/N, exhausted and delirious from the birth, began to grow pale and overwhelmed from the commotion around her, just as her babe broke out in tears and wailed. The Queen ordered everyone but Jacaerys to exit the room and give the family their space. The door shut with a thunderous thud.

…

Hours later, the midwives finished cleaning up the afterbirth, bathed and cleaned the lady and the child before they both fell asleep in new linen sheets and fed.

Jacaerys never left his young family’s side, despondent he had lost his cool, distressing his family during a vulnerable moment, turning what should have been a celebration into an altercation.

He cringed as he could only imagine what the murmurs and whispers about his behaviour and the events that followed with his wife’s mother would share about him. He had brought this upon himself and his family.

AS Y/N began waking from her first rest since the labours, he turned to her as soon as he could hear her rise from her sheets, reaching for her hands in his.

“I have failed you, wife. I should have protected you but I have only raised in anger over old wounds and created altercations when I should have.” Jacaerys felt his tears brim, cheeks red with ignominy and shame.

Her eyes fluttered awake, still weary from the long delivery but visibly more rested already. She shook her head in understanding with an enervated sigh.

“I understand your relationship with my mother has been tense, for what she had done to Her Grace and your family. But I can assure her she has changed, if she is not with me, she is on the knees at the Sept begging for forgiveness and giving alms-”

“She looked at our son the same way she used to look at me and my brothers as children, when she would use her tongue to call us bastards! I fear she will do the same to you and the boy. What good will alms do if she still wishes to see me and our son six feet under ground for the colour of our hair!?” Jacaerys exclaimed, lips quivering in fear as he felt tears brim in his eyes.

Y/N brought their son closer to her arms, only comforted by the sight of her child and her beloved.

“I will handle her, trust me. She thinks I do not pay attention to these things, but I do.” She reaches her free hand to his, unmoving to not wake the babe and squeezes his larger palms into her own.

Jacaerys sniffles, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “I do not wish to drive you apart from your mother, my love. I only worry about you and our family’s safety, and the throne. That you and our son may not suffer on my behalf.”

Their son had just begun to fall asleep in her arms, and she began bouncing him instinctively, quickly gaining the ropes of what it took to be a good mother. Jacaerys knew she would be nothing like her own mother, eagerly learning from his mother Queen Rhaenyra, speaking with other royal and noble mothers and even listening to wet nurses and nannies on how to rear children best.

“Are you sure you can handle this conversation? Would you like me outside or in the room with you?” He asks with uncertainty, not entirely confident with his wife even with her own mother.

The wife of the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone nods fiercely. “You forget I am a dragon too. We do not bow to these snakes that suck from their prey.”

…

In the overmorrow on the first day of spring, Y/N had just put her son in his cradle, handcrafted in limestone and marble with seahorses and dragons, lined with sheets of silk with pearls and aquamarines, befitting the future King, and the scion of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon.

She hummed as she watched him sleep, having gone through feeding him herself to the surprise of the wet nurses she had followed through, unlike most royalty. She swore she would leave nursing and care to others if she had no other choice.

Underneath sat the hearth of the magenta and mauve swirled dragon egg surrounded by pieces of coal, emitting whirls of smoke that signified the life alive in those eggs. The egg was special as it was the first from her young ride, a nervous flighty thing who only managed to hatch when she found out she was expecting herself, rarely only having one dragon when most on Dragonstone laid many.

As she hums old Valyrian nursery hymns from the crypts of ancient Valyrian text retrieved from the tombs of the Keep’s libraries, she recognizes the steps of her mother without a glimpse.

In her jade hued robes, Lady Alicent was quaint yet undaunted to remind the court of her former standing as once the queen who ruled these halls. A black veil hid part of her auburn hair that turned to flames in certain lighting.

Her mother grimaces with a smile that does not reach her eyes, but relief is painted all over her being. “You are well, daughter? I presume so is the babe.”

Y/N curtly interrupts her. “The babe is your grandson, my child when I am your flesh and blood, mother. Most importantly, he is the future heir to the throne, second in line to my husband.”

Alicent frantically fidgets with her fingers, tugging at her old emerald rings in consternation.

“Of course, yes. His name, Aemon, is fitting for a future monarch.” She could hear the strain in her mother’s words, laced with lies. All her life she had learned those sealed with malice and deceit.

“You forget yourself, mother. My husband and my children are of the blood of the dragon, as do I. You do not understand the ways of the dragon, in your jealousy of wanting to unseat my sister and put Aegon on the throne. Your attempts to disgrace and dispossess my future husband and his brothers has brought the Stranger hanging over mine and my own son’s head!” Y/N chides in betrayal, voice tinged with disbelief her mother would do such a thing.

“Y/N-”

“I could not believe you, mother, that you still harbour such ill will after many years. My marriage with Jacaerys should have buried whatever disagreements you may have had with Queen Rhaenyra, but you value imbuing hate and division on this house more than choosing the peace and stability of this kingdom!”

“Your husband and your son are unbecoming of what Targaryen princes are supposed to look like-” The Dowager attempted to reason, but was impeded as her daughter held an imposing hand towards her.

“Unbecoming? Have you not glimpsed into a mirror? You are nothing of what a Targaryen queen should be, a mere second son’s daughter who brought nothing of value to the throne, and only sought discord to advance her family. Who replaced the Targaryen tapestries with ones of the Seven in hopes of bringing your radicalism to the rest of the kingdom!”

Guards barge in the doors of the babe’s nursery, their armour and swords clattering loudly in the quiet hall.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Y/N coldly turns away from her mother, even as she frowned the same way she would. “By order of the Princess of Dragonstone with the seal of approval of the Prince of Dragonstone and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,

I order your arrest for treason, and insubordination not only for your past grievances but your efforts to call my son a bastard. You will be stripped of your privileges of Queen Dowager, and turned into a septa who will serve the Seven for all her days.”

The former queen is astonished, struggling among the grips of the soldiers who surround her. “Daughter, you are mistaken, please do not do this to me. For all I have sacrificed for this realm and for your father, you must understand why I am the way I am.” She pleaded on her knees, hands clasped as she cried for mercy.

“No, you have served your ambitions and my late grandsire’s treacherous longing for power and the throne, that you would put the Hightower banners and replace Targaryen customs with the Seven and southern ways, that you would tear the kingdom apart for it. I have given you too many chances, forgiving you and turning the cheek in hopes you have accepted it and at least been happy for me, but I am a fool. I am not as forgiving as my father was to your digressions!”

Y/N paced slowly around her mother, sorrow on her face, but no regret or forgiveness.

“You are lucky I will not be putting you in a cell, because for better or for worse, you are still the mother who birthed me. But you would understand, there is nothing a mother would do to grant protection to her children.”

The princess dazed into the window, grasping onto the rails as she heard her mother being dragged out the halls and stripped of her royal ordinances. She could feel herself biting into her nails nervously after years of no longer doing so.

Jacaerys sauntered carefully, approaching his wife with comfort, rubbing her shoulders and bringing her into his arms, looking down at their son as he slept.

“Was I not too cruel, Jace?” She whimpered, weeping into his arms as she was devastated at whether treating her own kin in such a way was a fatal mistake.

He rests his chin on the top of her head before pressing kisses on her temple. “I understand why this troubles you, wife. As abominable and misguided she was, you still are her blood, her daughter.”

She glimpsed at her son, cooing at him as he quietly sleeps. “As a mother, I want to be nothing like her. My son will never be safe while she is around.”

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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PANOPTICON — tenant!satoru x cctv operator!reader

cw/cn : voyeurism, masturbation, psychological tension and obsession, degradation kink, 2.2k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/ n : wrote this with this fic in mind, premise was just so good i had to do my own take with it, yummerz <3 part two someday!

tokyo’s crown jewel, they call it. the obsidian spire.

a high-rise so exclusive it’s practically a myth, its black glass facade slicing the tokyo skyline. ninety floors of wealth and secrets, where the air smells of money and the shadows hide sins. the lobby alone could swallow your old apartment whole—marble floors veined with gold, chandeliers dripping crystal, air so crisp it stings your lungs. the tenants? ceos, diplomats, faces you’ve seen on headlines but never in person. they glide through, untouchable, their lives a mystery behind keycard-locked doors.

you’re just the night watch. the graveyard shift concierge-slash-cctv operator, tucked in a surveillance room that hums like a living thing. thirty-two screens, a glowing wall of eyes, each one a window into their world. your world is smaller—coffee gone cold, a chair that creaks, a badge that says you belong but doesn’t mean it. on paper, it’s simple. monitor. log. report. keep the machine running.

nobody told you the screens would pull you in.

nobody warned you about floor seventy.

nobody warned you about him.

satoru gojo. penthouse 70-B.

a name you didn’t know until that first night, but now it’s carved into your pulse, a rhythm you can’t shake. he’s a creature of habit—gym at 10:00 p.m., pool at midnight, smoking shirtless on his balcony by 2:00, always lit like a stage, always alone. always just close enough to the camera to make your skin burn.

you tell yourself it’s protocol. safety. your job.

but you don’t track the others like this. don’t grind into your chair when they stretch, don’t replay their footage, don’t whisper their names through trembling fingers as they move, unaware, under your gaze. only him. only satoru. his body in the jacuzzi, head tipped back, hands sliding over his chest like a lover’s—your hands, in your dreams.

he doesn’t smile at the cameras. doesn’t wink.

but god, he knows. he lingers too long in the lobby mirror, adjusting his tie with fingers that drag slow, deliberate, down his throat. lets his robe slip open in the sauna, just enough to tease. pauses in the elevator, fixing his hair, his reflection a taunt you can’t look away from.

you consume it. devour it. a starving thing, clawing at scraps of him through glass and wire.

it started three weeks ago. your first shift.

your workplace was new to you then, its weight still sinking into your bones. the surveillance room felt like a cockpit, all blinking lights and quiet menace, the screens alive with the building’s pulse. you were still learning the system—camera toggles, tenant logs, the web interface that mapped every floor, every door. your hands shook, fumbling with the controls, nerves raw from the pressure of not screwing up.

then he walked in.

lobby camera, center frame. 1:47 a.m.

a man—tall, lean, platinum hair catching the chandelier glow like a halo. black coat unbuttoned, shirt half-untucked, tie loose like he’d tugged it free mid-conversation. he moved like water, smooth and unhurried, every step a claim on the space around him.

your breath hitched.

he stopped at the lobby desk, empty at this hour, and leaned against it, one elbow propped, head tilted back. his throat—long, pale, exposed—gleamed under the light, and you stared, frozen, as his fingers brushed his jaw, slow, almost lazy, like he was touching himself for you.

you didn’t mean to zoom in.

your finger slipped, nudged the control, and the camera tightened on him—his jawline, sharp enough to cut, the faint curve of his lips, the way his lashes framed eyes you couldn’t see but felt, even through the screen. your mouth went dry. your pulse throbbed, low and heavy, between your thighs.

he didn’t look at the camera. didn’t need to.

he just stood there, a god in tailored black, and you were already falling. already his.

“who…” you whispered, voice cracking, barely audible over the hum of the room.

your hands moved before you could stop them. the web interface—tenant directory, access logs. you pulled it up, fingers trembling as you typed, cross-referencing the timestamp, the lobby feed, the elevator he’d step into.

floor seventy. penthouse 70-B.

satoru gojo.

the name burned itself into you, a brand you’d carry. you stared at it, at the screen, at him, still lingering in the lobby, now turning toward the elevator. he paused, just for a moment, and ran a hand through his hair, slow, deliberate, fingers dragging through platinum strands like he knew you were watching. like he wanted you to.

your thighs pressed together.

you felt it—the heat, the ache, the pull of him through the screen. you sat there, shaking, staring as he stepped into the elevator, as the doors closed, as the number ticked up to seventy.

you didn’t sleep when you got home. couldn’t.

you saw his throat, his fingers, the way he moved, every time you closed your eyes.

now, weeks later, it’s worse.

he’s a habit you can’t break. a drug you don’t want to.

tonight, he’s on the balcony, not the gym. 2:13 a.m. cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around his lips like a lover’s caress. shirtless, of course, because he knows—god, he has to know—how it wrecks you. his chest gleams under the city lights, lean muscle shifting as he leans against the railing, head tipped back, throat bared like an offering.

your finger hovers over the balcony feed. trembles. taps.

the screen zooms in, and you’re gone.

“satoru…” you whisper, voice raw, breaking on his name.

the surveillance room is a tomb, dim and buzzing, your only company the cold coffee at your elbow and the chair that groans under your weight. your shoe taps the desk’s base, a nervous rhythm, but it’s not enough to ground you. nothing is.

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you lean in, elbows braced, forehead dropping into one hand as the other slips between your thighs. just over your pants, at first, palm pressing against the damp heat already soaking through. you’re shaking, breath caught in your throat, the pressure hitting too sharp, too fast.

he exhales, smoke spilling from his lips, and you whimper, a tiny, choked sound, as your fingers press harder, grinding slow circles that make your hips twitch. shame burns your cheeks, but it’s not enough to stop. it’s never enough.

he shifts, one hand sliding down his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his waistband—low, too low, always too low—and you’re panting now, thighs squeezing tight, the chair creaking as you rock against your hand.

“fuck…” you hiss, barely audible, but it feels like a scream.

you imagine him knowing. imagine him turning, ocean eyes piercing the lens, that cruel, lazy smirk curling his lips as he sees you—sees you falling apart, sees you desperate, sees you his. you imagine his voice, low and smooth, calling you filthy, calling you his little voyeur, telling you to beg for him.

your other hand tangles in your hair, pulling, muffling the sounds you can’t keep in. you’re pathetic. you know it. every night, the same surrender, the same ruin. and still, your stomach twists, your pulse hammers, like it’s the first time he’s stripped you bare with a glance.

he flicks the cigarette away. leans further back, arms spread along the railing, chest flexing, abs tightening. a performance. a fucking taunt.

your fingers slip under your waistband, find slick, find heat, and you moan, soft, broken, as you curl them inside, chasing the ache he’s carved into you. you’re trembling, hips jerking, the pressure building too fast, too sharp.

“please… satoru…” you’re begging now, nonsense spilling from your lips, tears pricking your eyes as you grind against your hand. you want his fingers, his mouth, his cock—want him to pin you down, to fuck you until you’re sobbing, until you’re nothing but his.

the screen blurs. your vision blurs.

he turns, just slightly, and for a moment—god, fuck—you think he looks. not at the camera, not quite, but close enough, his lips twitching, almost a smirk, like he feels you, knows you’re there, knows you’re coming undone for him.

the orgasm cuts through you like glass—swift, brutal, unrelenting. your body jerks, folds in on itself, thighs squeezing tight around your trembling hand as your hips lurch forward. your other palm flies to your mouth, barely stifling the broken sob that claws its way out. you come fast, filthy, slick flooding your fingers as your eyes stay locked on him—on the way he just stands there, untouched, untouchable, claiming you without ever lifting a finger.

you slump back, shaking, panting, the screen still burning with his image.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t glance up. but that almost-smirk lingers, like he knows.

your fingers fumble, minimizing the feed. you close your eyes, bite your cheek until you taste copper, but it’s no use.

it’s just the same old regret with no attempt to change.

the morning after, you’re late.

first mistake.

the service elevator’s down, stairwell’s sealed, and your badge won’t open the freight. no choice but to take the main lift, even with the day staff still lingering, even with the high-rise’s elite drifting in for their shadowed deals. you tap the button, fix your collar in the glass pane, tell yourself it’s fine.

it’s not.

the doors slide open, and he’s there.

satoru gojo. seventy-B.

leaning against the panel, one hand in his pocket, black coat draped over his frame like it was tailored for sin. tie loose, platinum hair mussed, like someone’s fingers—or the wind—already claimed it. his presence fills the space, heavy, suffocating, and your mouth goes dry, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, gaze sliding from your shoes to your throat, lingering there—too long, always too long—until you forget how to breathe.

you step in. no choice. the doors are closing.

you take the opposite side, careful, too careful, not to stand too close. but it’s useless. his scent—clean, sharp, something faintly sweet—curls around you, and your heart’s pounding so loud you’re sure he hears it. sure he feels it, like a predator sensing prey.

floor 1 to 70.

an eternity of silence, broken only by the elevator’s hum and the soft tap of his fingers—once, twice—against his thigh. you steal a glance, catch his reflection in the mirrored walls. his jawline, sharp as a blade. his shoulders, rolling under the coat. the veins on his hand, the glint of his watch.

you’re trembling. thighs pressed tight, hands curled into fists to keep from reaching out. you’ve seen him bare, seen him slick with sweat, seen him stretch for your cameras like he’s offering himself. you’ve touched yourself to the shape of his hips, cried his name into your palm, and now he’s here, real, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin you.

your lips part. you almost speak.

he turns.

slow. deliberate. like he planned it.

his eyes—ocean-blue, half-lidded, unreadable—pin you in place. they flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and you flinch, a tiny shudder you can’t hide.

“hi,” you whisper, voice cracking, too small, too desperate.

he doesn’t answer. not at first. just watches, lets the silence stretch until it’s a noose around your neck. then, low and smooth, like ice sliding down your spine:

“we really don’t have to do this, do we?”

his voice slices through you—sleek and precise, like a scalpel. it doesn’t raise, doesn’t crack. it lands. right in your stomach, clean as a knife to soft flesh. shame floods in fast. need follows close behind. the ache of being seen carves itself into your ribs. you flinch—sharper this time—fingers spasming at your sides, nails biting into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself in.

“r-right,” you stammer, too fast, too weak, and your eyes dart to the floor, to the numbers ticking up. floor 33. floor 52. you bite your cheek, taste blood, try to hold yourself together, but you’re unraveling, and he knows it. he sees it.

his gaze doesn’t leave you. not for a second. it’s heavy, burning, stripping you bare, and you’re shaking now, thighs squeezing tighter, heat pooling where you don’t want it. you’re desperate—god, you’re so desperate—for him to say something else, to step closer, to pin you against the wall and make you beg.

you imagine it. his hands on your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. his mouth, hot and cruel, whispering how pathetic you are, how you’re his little whore, watching him night after night. you imagine him pulling your hair, bending you over, fucking you until you can’t think, until you’re nothing but his.

floor 61.

floor 70.

the bell dings.

he steps out, unhurried, like the world waits for him. like you wait for him. and before the doors close, he pauses by the mirrored panel, adjusts his tie. his hand slides down his chest, slow, deliberate, fingers grazing the waistband of his pants.

he smiles.

not at you. at his reflection. but it’s enough. it’s too much.

the doors seal shut, and you’re alone, trembling, thighs slick, hands clawing at your own arms to keep from falling apart.

you’re not even at the security room yet, but you already know that tonight, you’ll come harder than ever. to his voice. to that smile. to the way he looked at you like he already owns you.

because he does.

he fucking does.

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deliciousangelfestival · 5 days ago

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The Director's Obsession - Phase 5

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 9,460

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , -

A/N: The intimate moment is here!

Phase 5 : His Equal

The speeder glided beneath the towering lights of the Imperial Gala, slipping through the heart of Coruscant’s elite like a ghost in velvet. Outside, camera drones swarmed, flashing like artificial stars. The entrance was a spectacle of power and elegance—senators, admirals, aristocrats, and planetary governors moving like jeweled chess pieces across a grand marble board.

Inside the speeder, your hands rested tensely in your lap, fingers curled against the smooth fabric of your gown. It was the most exquisite thing you had ever worn. Deep obsidian blue, edged with silver threading that caught the light like fractured starlight. It hugged your form without apology, the bodice structured, the neckline sharp and modern. Your shoulders were bare, sculpted and elegant, exposed beneath the delicate sweep of the fabric that gathered at the spine and fell into a long, commanding train. It was more than a dress. It was a declaration. And Krennic had chosen it.

"We're late," you murmured, trying to keep the rising panic from tightening your throat.

Beside you, Director Krennic adjusted his cufflink with calm precision. His white uniform was immaculate, gleaming beneath the subtle interior lighting. Every detail was deliberate: the straight line of his collar, the subtle shine of his boots, the perfect alignment of his rank bar.

He did not look at you when he answered. "I made us late."

You turned toward him, brow furrowing. "You planned this."

At last, he met your eyes. That measured smile played at the corner of his mouth, refined and infuriating.

"Timing is everything," he said, voice silk and steel. "The last to arrive always own the room." His eyes swept over you, deliberate and slow. "And tonight, the room belongs to you."

Before you could reply, the door opened.

Krennic stepped out first, cape flaring with theatrical elegance as it caught the breeze. He turned, extending his hand to you with ceremonial calm. You took it, and the moment your heels touched the steps, a wall of flashes erupted. Camera drones burst into motion. Murmurs swept the grand plaza like a wave.

He guided you up the marble staircase, his arm linked with yours, posture impeccable. His steps were slow, deliberate, forcing every dignitary in the atrium to turn and look.

Inside, the Imperial elite turned like planets toward a gravity they couldn’t resist. Mon Mothma’s expression flickered. Senators whispered into gold-trimmed glasses. Officers stared too long.

"Is that Krennic?"

"Who’s the woman?"

"He never brings anyone."

"She’s the ISB’s propagandist?"

He leaned toward your ear, voice low and cool. "You hear them?"

"They’re all staring," you whispered back, breath shallow.

"Good," he said, barely moving his lips. "Let them. You are mine tonight. Let them see what perfection looks like when I make it."

His touch was refined. His tone was respectable. And yet, everything about him screamed claim. Not affection. Possession.

At the base of the grand staircase, two figures awaited: Governor Tarkin and Mas Amedda. Power incarnate.

Krennic bowed just enough to show protocol. "Governor. Chancellor. I’m honored by your presence."

Tarkin’s pale eyes narrowed as they settled on you. "You’ve brought… company. That’s unusual for you, Director."

Krennic didn’t flinch. His voice remained level, clear. "This is the architect of our public initiative. Her words have unified more systems than our fleets could reach. She is the reason the project finished ahead of schedule."

Mas Amedda turned his gaze to you, intrigued. "What makes your voice so persuasive, Agent?"

You met his eyes without faltering. "Because I’ve seen what chaos creates. Hope is fragile. Comfort is rare. What people crave is order. And order only exists when power is absolute."

Tarkin tilted his head, impressed. "A pragmatic view. I may have use for someone with your instincts."

Krennic’s smile was polite, but thin. "She’s not available."

You nearly sighed aloud. Even in public, his need to keep you close bordered on compulsive.

The orchestra swelled.

Krennic turned to you and extended his gloved hand. "Shall we?"

You placed your hand in his, and together, you stepped onto the floor. The dance was measured, elegant, slow. His hand rested on your waist, the other curled around yours. Every spin placed you at the room’s center. You were no longer his shadow. You were his announcement.

When the music faded, he led you toward the refreshment table. His hand did not leave your back. It moved lower. You allowed it.

A server offered two crystal flutes of Corellian wine. Krennic took both and passed one to you.

"You use me like a trophy," you muttered.

"My most precious trophy," he replied, voice even.

"You enjoy this far too much."

"I did not bring you here for small talk. They need to see who stands beside me. You frighten them more than I ever could."

"You are impossible."

"And yet you are still here."

You sipped your wine, trying to ignore the heat rising under your skin.

He watched you, calculating and calm.

"Enjoy this while you can," he said suddenly.

You raised a brow. "Why?"

"You will be promoted soon. That means…" He tilted his head, feigning neutrality. "You’ll lose a friend. A valuable one."

Before you could answer, a senator waved him down from across the hall.

Krennic gave a slow, courteous nod, his tone dry. "I must return to being congratulated."

His hand brushed your back again, a subtle squeeze—deliberate, firm. Not romantic. Strategic.

"I will return shortly."

And then, just like that, the Director of Imperial Advanced Weapons strolled into the crowd, perfectly poised, leaving behind the storm he had so carefully sculpted.

You stood still, wine in hand, gown gleaming like star-forged silk, with every eye in the room still pinned to you.

Just as he intended.

You finally exhaled, letting your shoulders fall, the weight of the evening temporarily softened—until you saw him.

Marlon.

He moved through the sea of dignitaries like a ripple of shadow, his eyes locked on you with predatory precision. Your stomach clenched. You turned your head, hoping the flicker of recognition had gone unnoticed, but his voice sliced clean through the swell of music and conversation.

"You look breathtaking tonight," he said, low and deliberate, each word dipped in venomous charm.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have the patience.

"Outside. Now."

The command left your mouth like a blade. You didn’t wait for a reply, already walking, weaving through the crowd toward the balcony. He followed. Of course he did.

You reached a shadowed alcove away from the eyes and ears of the Imperial elite. The city lights below flickered like a false constellation. You turned on him the moment you stopped.

"You shouldn’t be here."

"I came for you," he said, his voice still that same worn-out softness he had used when you first met. "You don’t belong with him. Look at yourself. He parades you like an ornament."

You crossed your arms. "Do not start. You knew what this was from the beginning."

"You’re smarter than this." He stepped closer, his tone shifting. "I can give you purpose. Real freedom. The Rebellion needs someone like you."

You scoffed. "And what? Become your tool instead of his? You were never honest with me, Marlon."

"I was honest about one thing," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I want you."

He reached for your arm. His fingers brushed your bare skin, trailing lower toward your waist.

You shoved him with force, but your heel caught on uneven stone. The stumble gave him just enough room to close the distance. He grabbed your wrist, desperation crackling in his voice.

"You’re only afraid because he owns you."

Your voice dropped, cold and unwavering.

"No. He doesn’t own me. He values me. He knows my worth."

There was a beat of silence, then a sharp crack. Marlon’s head snapped sideways as Krennic’s fist collided with his jaw.

Marlon staggered, clutching his face. Krennic stepped between you both, towering, composed, his white uniform pristine, his eyes aflame with cold fire. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Leave. While you are still breathing."

Marlon’s breath came heavy, teeth clenched, blood already on his lip. "This isn’t over."

Krennic didn’t even blink. His silence was louder than fury.

Marlon backed away, retreating into the shadows like a coward who had mistaken a diamond for glass.

Krennic stood still for a moment, restraining his breathing, then slowly turned to you. His hand found your waist, steadying you as your balance shifted.

"Enough excitement for one evening," he said quietly. "We’re leaving."

You nodded, but as you took a step, pain shot through your ankle.

"Orson," you gasped.

He halted immediately, eyes snapping to your face. In one smooth motion, he scooped you into his arms as though you weighed nothing, cradling you like something irreplaceable.

"What are you doing?" you whispered, breath catching.

"You’re hurt," he said, his tone gentler than you’d ever heard. "I do not tolerate seeing you in pain."

His grip was firm, protective, like the world might dare try again and he would strike it down.

Inside the speeder, he didn’t let go. Not right away. Not until you had caught your breath.

"You should have told me about that parasite," he said at last.

"I didn’t want to give him power," you murmured.

His voice dropped, dark and razor-edged. "No one should breathe near you without my approval. Let that be the last time someone tries."

Outside, near the walls of the gala plaza, Jung and Heert stood smoking, watching the speeder.

Jung exhaled slowly. "That escalated."

Heert nodded. "I thought ISB was brutal. But that? That was personal."

Across the city, in a dim underground chamber, Marlon slammed his fist against a metal table, his lip split and still bleeding.

"You lost control," Luthen snapped, his face colder than ice.

"I almost had her," Marlon growled.

"Almost got her killed," Luthen corrected. "You’re done. You’ll return to your sector and stay there. She’s not yours. Not your mission. Not anymore."

Marlon’s fists trembled. "This isn’t over."

Luthen didn’t flinch. "For your sake, it better be."

*******

The speeder halted outside your flat, lights dimming as the vehicle powered down. You didn’t move. Not because of pain, but because you were afraid your legs would betray you. Your ankle throbbed. Your head spun. Your chest… still burned from the chaos of the gala.

Krennic didn’t ask permission. He reached for you again and lifted you as though it was his right, not a kindness. His arms, strong and sure, wrapped around your back and beneath your knees, holding you like you weighed nothing at all. You pressed your hands against his chest. It's useless, half-hearted resistance.

"You don’t have to carry me every time," you muttered.

He didn’t answer. But the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lingered on your lips just a second too long, told you he wanted to.

Inside, your door slid open with a hiss. Lights flicked on automatically. The space welcomed you with silence.

Krennic stepped in like he owned it.

He carried you past the threshold, ignoring the furniture until he found the softest part of your couch. He eased you down like something precious, his hands careful, precise. But his gaze… it never let go.

His cape slipped from his shoulders with practiced ease. He draped it across the back of the chair, and then… Stars help you. His gloves.

One by one, the leather peeled from his fingers. The sound made your breath hitch.

He dropped them to the table, loosened the top buttons of his uniform with one slow motion, and knelt in front of you. Your heels were still on, barely clinging after everything. His fingers reached for them.

"Wait…"

He silenced you with just a glance. No words. Just eyes full of unspoken things you weren’t ready to name.

He touched your foot.

You tensed.

He was gentle. The pressure light, careful, reverent. His thumbs pressed slowly along the arch, circling near the sore spot. You bit your lip. Not from pain. From the way it felt—like every inch of you mattered.

"I’m sorry we had to leave the party early," you said softly, trying to focus on anything but the warmth of his hands moving up your calf.

His head tilted. "I’m not."

"You’re not?"

He looked up at you with that smug smile.

"The point was to celebrate my work, and they did. My mission was to show you to them. And I’d say it was executed perfectly."

He continued to work his way up your leg, massaging lightly. His palms were warm against your skin, your dress pushed slightly higher with every touch.

"You’re too calm about all this," you whispered.

He met your gaze. "I got what I wanted."

You swallowed. "Director—"

"Orson."

The name slipped out of his mouth like a confession. Your breath caught.

"Call me Orson. You screamed my name before that," he said again, quieter this time. It was not a command. It was not a suggestion. It hovered somewhere between pride and vulnerability, a plea cloaked in control.

You blushed, the memory still fresh. The panic when he suddenly carried you. You had cried out for him, not as a director, not even as a superior. Just his name.

Orson.

You hadn't realized you'd done it. But he had.

Your cheeks flushed with warmth. You tried to glance away, but his gaze held you fast.

"Orson," you said quietly.

Something shifted in his eyes. They softened, but not weakly. It was the kind of softness that could shatter steel. A quiet intensity filled the space between you.

He slid closer. Your knees parted just slightly. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He hovered.

His hand rested at your thigh now, his fingers splayed wide. He leaned in. Your faces were so close his breath warmed your lips. Your heart thundered, and your entire body ached—not from the pain this time—but from the tension so thick it smothered you.

You thought he was going to kiss you. You tilted forward just enough to meet him.

But he stopped.

Right there. Inches away. Close enough for your lips to crave his. Far enough to be cruel.

His smirk returned.

"There’s a lot I want to do to you," he murmured. "But not when your ankle is wrapped like a ration pack."

"You're a bastard," you breathed, face flushed, breath shaky.

"And yet you’re still sitting here," he replied, rising to his feet with maddening grace.

He grabbed his cape, his gloves, every layer of armor he had peeled off… and put it all back on.

You stared, stunned, lips still parted from the kiss that didn’t happen.

He reached the door.

"You should ice it," he said, motioning toward your leg. His tone was neutral, like none of what just happened meant anything.

You stood. Barely.

"You came into my home, touched me, undressed me with your eyes, and now you leave?"

He turned at the door, eyes roaming your figure slowly. "You think I didn’t undress you in my head the moment I saw you in that dress? I’ve been patient all night."

Your stomach flipped.

"And I will continue to be patient," he added, smoother now. "Because when it happens…"

You didn’t breathe.

"It won’t be interrupted. Or rushed. And you will beg for it."

He opened the door, then paused. "Rest well, Agent."

And then he was gone.

You stood in your living room alone, heart pounding, face flushed, knees weak. You pressed a hand to your chest.

Damn him.

He left you burning.

And you hated how badly you wanted him to come back.

*******

The ISB Headquarters greeted you with its usual cold efficiency. The moment you stepped through the security doors, you could feel the weight of every gaze on you. The whispers, the sideways glances—everyone watching, calculating, observing.

You kept your chin high, trying to ignore the prickling sensation running down your spine. Inside, you could hear the soft murmur of voices, the familiar hum of the ISB machinery that had once felt like home. But today, it felt different. Out of place. You were different.

Something about last night had shifted.

Your steps echoed as you walked deeper into the halls. You passed your colleagues who watched you a little too closely, some turning their heads quickly, others meeting your eyes with a mixture of curiosity and caution. It didn’t take long for you to notice that a few desks were empty.

Heert, always the one to linger at the periphery, caught your eye. You approached him and Jung, both men standing near a row of screens, seemingly distracted. Your heart sank.

"Where’s Dedra?" You asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Heert glanced at Jung before looking back at you, clearly unsure whether to answer. His lips parted as if to say something but hesitated. The uncertainty was palpable. You were no longer just an agent to them, but a force of something else entirely.

Before he could respond, Paltargaz appeared from the shadows, his footsteps firm and purposeful. You stiffened instinctively. He was a man who carried weight in his voice. A man who made decisions that affected lives.

"Agent," he said, his tone more neutral than expected.

"Major," you responded with a nod.

"I heard someone tried to hurt you last night at the gala," he continued, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if he had been following the trail of rumors, and there was something more beneath the surface. Something simmering.

"It’s been taken care of," you replied flatly, refusing to give him more than necessary.

Paltargaz studied you for a moment. His sharp gaze flicked toward an empty chair near the far side of the room, and his lips pressed together in something like displeasure, though it was expertly hidden. "She’s still in interrogation," he said, voice firm, but there was an undercurrent of frustration just beneath the surface. It was clear that whatever had happened to Dedra, Paltargaz wasn’t happy about it. Or perhaps he wasn’t happy about her being so distracted.

The tension in the room rose slightly. You couldn’t help but turn to Heert and Jung, both of whom had looked down at their boots as if the answer lay hidden there. Heert shrugged, his usual calm demeanor momentarily breaking. Jung’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

You thought about Krennic’s words from earlier, about the Empire’s endless backstabbing and the high cost of ambition. Dedra had always been someone you could count on, but in the cold world of the ISB, allegiances were fleeting. Trust was fragile. In a way, the words Krennic had said about losing a friend felt like they were carved into your bones now.

There was a pang of something, maybe regret, maybe guilt. Or perhaps fear.

"You make the ISB proud," Paltargaz said, his voice cutting through your thoughts. His eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, they softened, just slightly, as if he recognized the weight you were carrying. "Don’t disappoint us, Agent. I’ve had enough searching for rats."

His words hung in the air. The layers of meaning behind them were impossible to ignore. Searching for rats, he’d said. The ISB was full of rats—traitors, spies, people with their own agendas. People like Dedra? Or people like you, the ones who were starting to see the cracks in the system? You weren’t sure anymore.

“There was a breach. Minor, but targeted. Some idiot tried to access restricted weapon development files. It was contained before anything spread, but it triggered a full protocol audit.”

Your stomach dropped slightly.

“And?”

“Every agent is required to secure their data. Effective immediately. Yours included.” He finally looked at you. “Some of us thought you’d already gone rogue.”

That earned a few glances from nearby officers.

“I’ve been off-world. Under direct orders,” you said steadily.

“I’m sure,” he replied with a clipped tone. “Agent Meero is currently in holding. Her clearance activity flagged anomalies.”

Paltargaz stepped closer. “You're back. Good. Then no excuses. Lock down your console. Triple encrypt everything. I don’t want to hear your name next.”

You nodded once. “Understood.”

He turned away without another word.

You made your way to your station, feeling the weight of every watchful eye. As your hands hovered above the console, you glanced toward Dedra’s empty chair. The tension curled in your chest like smoke.

Backstabbing. Promotions. Interrogations.

Krennic had warned you this would happen. And now the game had already begun.

When you were doing your job, red light flooded the corridors as warning sirens cut through the thick tension already gripping HQ. Officers jumped to their feet. A synthesized voice barked over the loudspeakers: “Security breach detected. Immediate lockdown initiated. All non-essential personnel evacuate the upper floors.”

Paltargaz’s voice followed seconds later. Sharp. Stern. Laced with authority. "All departments, evacuate to Level Four corridors. You know your protocols. Move."

Jung bolted from his console. Heert cursed under his breath, slamming his terminal shut as agents flooded the main hallways. The panic was restrained, but it was real. Everyone assumed it was related to the breach. No one questioned it. Not at first.

And that was the problem.

In the chaos, no one noticed the woman walking down the hall at a controlled pace, flanked by two men in ISB uniforms. The insignia matched. The badges cleared. She looked slightly dazed, maybe in pain. One man supported her arm, the other walked ahead.

Security let them pass.

The troopers were too focused on the potential cyber breach. Everyone believed the alarm was about data. No one imagined a physical extraction was underway. Not here. Not in the heart of Coruscant’s intelligence center.

You tried to speak, but the pressure in your veins made it hard to focus. You felt lightheaded, dizzy. Cold sweat clung to your neck.

The sharp sting at your side—barely noticed at first—had been a syringe.

You stumbled once, but they steadied you, smiling like allies. Your limbs started to fail you. Vision blurred. One of the men whispered something into your ear, something you couldn’t comprehend through the sound of the sirens and your pulse thudding louder than thought.

The last thing you saw before the world went dark was the glint of Marlon’s eyes.

His face hovered above yours, mockingly gentle.

"You should’ve chosen better."

Then there’s nothing.

Not the blaster-ready stormtroopers, not the agents rushing to secure the data vaults, not even Paltargaz himself. None of them realized that in the middle of this breach, something far more valuable than data had been stolen.

You were gone. And by the time they noticed, it would already be too late.

********

You woke slowly. Your head throbbed, your limbs felt heavy, and the low rumble beneath your body told you immediately that you were in a shuttle. Not Imperial. Smaller. Rougher. The scent of old fuel and recycled air scraped against your throat.

Your vision blurred at first, swimming behind a veil of pain, but as your eyes cleared, your stomach twisted.

Marlon sat in the pilot’s seat.

You bolted upright, chains on your wrists clinking harshly. "What the hell—"

He didn’t look back. His voice came over his shoulder, casual. Almost gentle.

"We’re going home."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Home?"

You leaned forward, struggling to push through the lingering fog in your mind. Then, you saw it. Through the viewport, a brown-orange planet loomed ahead.

No.

Your chest seized with sick recognition. You knew those jagged rock ridges, the burnt treelines, the barren plateaus carved by years of war and neglect. The very bones of the Outer Rim were etched in that world’s soil.

Cinderis.

"No," you whispered, horror creeping up your spine. "Turn it around."

Marlon didn’t even blink. "We’re landing."

"I said turn it around!" You lunged forward, but the cuffs dragged you back. Your voice cracked. "Why would you bring me back here?"

He finally turned to face you, the shadow of something long buried in his expression.

"Because I’m from here too."

The silence inside the cockpit roared louder than the engine. Your breath hitched.

"What?"

He didn’t answer. The shuttle jolted as it began its descent.

Dust clouds spiraled in the air as the landing gear struck dirt. You felt your heart racing, your body tense as he stood and moved toward you, unlocking your safety harness but not your cuffs. He offered no explanation as the ramp lowered.

The light outside was harsh and raw, exactly as you remembered. The smell of dry earth and metal filled your lungs. The air was colder than you expected, or maybe that was your memory chilling your blood.

You stepped down beside Marlon, flanked by two armed men in scrappy uniforms. They weren’t dressed like the polished Rebels you’d seen in intelligence briefings. These were local. Underground. Old loyalties. Old grudges.

And then you saw him.

A tall man stood in the center of the landing zone, arms open like a mockery of welcome.

"Welcome home," Joric Stone said with a thin, calculated smile.

The voice hit you like a blaster to the chest.

You froze, every muscle in your body locking.

Joric Stone

The man who ordered the execution of your parents. The man who turned your village into ash.

"Good job bringing her, son," he said, glancing at Marlon.

You turned slowly. "Son?"

Marlon didn’t meet your eyes.

Joric grinned wider. "What an honor to have the Emperor’s favorite propagandist here." He turned to the scattered Rebels around him. "And would you believe it? She’s from Cinderis. One of ours."

Murmurs spread like poison in the crowd. Eyes narrowed. Hands gripped blasters tighter. Their stares burned into your skin: judgment, suspicion, hatred.

You kept your spine straight, jaw tight. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

"I am not one of yours," you said, voice low. Controlled.

Joric chuckled. "Come. Let’s give our guest a proper seat."

Inside the crumbling command building, you were shoved into a seat. Your wrists still bound. You faced a semi-circle of local leaders—elders, militants, opportunists wrapped in old resistance colors that hadn't meant anything in decades.

Joric paced like a man preparing a speech.

"To think," he mused aloud, "a girl from this dirt-ridden world would rise so far. ISB. Director Krennic’s right hand. Tell me, what do you dream of, now that you're rubbing elbows with the men who build the stars themselves?"

You looked him in the eye, no fear left to spare.

"You don’t know who I am, do you?"

Joric raised a brow. "Should I?"

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

"I’m the daughter of Kessa and Halin Verin. My father refused to give you the safehouse coordinates. So you killed them. And the others with them."

Something shifted in his face.

You pressed further. "You called it strategy. But we called it betrayal. You burned our homes. Took our food. Sacrificed children. That was your rebellion."

Joric scoffed. "Ah. Now I remember. Ingrates, all of you. We gave you shelter. We gave you a purpose."

"You gave us death."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Massacre is a strong word. Your people simply didn’t know how to defend themselves."

You stared, hollow and sharp. "Is that what you told yourself while my mother bled out in the street?"

The room went silent.

Joric’s expression darkened. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and slapped you across the face. The blow rang through the small chamber like a gunshot.

"You should’ve died with them," he snarled.

You didn’t flinch. You bled from the lip, but your gaze held steady.

"That’s the problem with your cause," you whispered. "Rotten leaders pretending to fight for peace."

"Take her to the holding cell," he growled.

Marlon hesitated.

"Now, boy!"

He moved to your side. But as he pulled you to your feet, you turned your face toward him.

"I hope you’re proud," you murmured, voice trembling from pain, not fear.

And he couldn’t meet your eyes again.

Not this time.

*******

At ISB Headquarters, the mood shifted quickly. Whispers passed between agents. Your absence had gone unnoticed for the first few hours, but as the day wore on, it was impossible to ignore.

"Is she with Director Krennic?" Partagaz asked, voice sharp as ever.

"I don’t think so, sir. No transport requests, no dispatch notices, and no orders came through from Scarif or Coruscant High Command," Heert replied quickly.

"Maybe she's sick," one of the junior agents offered, almost too casually.

"What?" Partagaz narrowed his eyes.

"Last night, during the breach alarm, when we had to gather outside the command floor... I saw her. She looked pale and was leaning against another agent. He was helping her. I thought maybe she fainted or something."

Heert and Jung immediately exchanged a look. Partagaz’s face darkened.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Heert moved fast. "I’ll check the surveillance records."

Minutes later, the three of them stood in a control bay, observing holorecordings on glowing Imperial holopanels. Footage flickered. They saw you following evacuation protocols after the data breach. Then in another feed — you being led away discreetly, supported by someone in an ISB uniform.

"Wait," Partagaz narrowed his gaze. "Enhance that visual. That’s not one of ours."

"I’ve seen him before..." Jung said carefully.

Partagaz’s jaw tightened. "So have I. That boy from the fundraising gala. The one who made Director Krennic twitch with jealousy."

Heert leaned in a little closer. "Well, I guess it’s a good thing Director Krennic ruined her date."

Jung shot him a look, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

Partagaz cursed under his breath. "Stars help us... he's going to kill someone when he hears this."

He tapped the holocomm. The signal flickered once, twice, then sharpened into focus—Director Krennic appeared, surrounded by the clean lines and bright light of Scarif Command. His white cape shimmered faintly in the background, and his expression was cool, unreadable.

"Krennic," Partagaz began without ceremony, his voice clipped, "I need a moment of your time."

Krennic didn’t look up from whatever data he was reviewing. "Make it quick. I’m debriefing with the Scarif engineers before the Finance Guild arrives."

"It’s about your propagandist."

That made Krennic glance up, but only mildly. "What about her?"

Partagaz hesitated just slightly. Just enough to be noticed.

Krennic’s brow twitched. "Partagaz?"

"She’s… missing."

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating. Krennic stood straighter, his face hardening, but his voice stayed measured.

"Missing as in unaccounted for, or missing as in someone took her?"

Partagaz’s jaw flexed. "We have reason to believe she’s been taken. By rebels."

Krennic stared, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice dropped, dangerous and low.

"How long have you known?"

"She didn’t report in today. That alone isn’t irregular. But an agent saw her during last night’s security evacuation. Pale, disoriented, being helped by someone we now believe wasn’t one of ours."

Krennic's face shifted—just slightly—but enough to betray what Partagaz rarely saw from him.

Fear.

"And you’re just telling me this now?"

"We were verifying before—"

"You should’ve called the second she was late." Krennic’s voice cracked like glass under pressure. "You think I wouldn't notice her absence? You think I’d be too distracted by bureaucrats to care?"

Partagaz stood silent. Not out of guilt, but because there was nothing he could say to temper the storm brewing through the comm.

Krennic exhaled sharply, trying to reel it in. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Who."

"The man she was seen with at the fundraiser. We pulled footage. He's not on our personnel list."

Krennic didn’t even blink. "Marlon."

Partagaz nodded grimly.

There was a loud crash—off screen, something metallic hitting the floor. Krennic had thrown something. Then he paced out of frame briefly before returning, his composure beginning to fracture at the edges.

"I left Scarif for two days to deal with financiers and walk imbeciles through the Death Star's metrics. Two days. And this happens."

Partagaz straightened. "We’re already tracing his ship. We’ll have a location soon." Actually they have no lead. But he lied to ease Krennic anger.

Krennic’s eyes bored through him. "If you don’t find her, I will personally raze the entire ISBy department and bury it to the ground."

"We will find her," Partagaz said flatly. "You have my word."

The line cut. Silence remained.

He turned to Heert and Jung.

"You heard him. Lock every hyperspace corridor from here to the Outer Rim. Track every flight manifest and heat trail. I want Marlon before the sun sets. No excuses."

They nodded sharply and moved in unison.

********

Somewhere in the lower levels of Coruscant, buried beneath the glowing towers and chaos of the upper districts, Jung waited in the shadows of a narrow service corridor. The stale scent of coolant and metal clung to the air, mixing with the faint hum of power lines overhead. His eyes tracked every sound — footsteps, the hiss of hydraulics, distant traffic above — until finally, a figure stepped into view.

Luthen Rael approached with his usual calm, the folds of his dark cloak hiding his arms, but his stance betrayed tension. They were alone — or at least as alone as anyone could be in this city.

Jung stepped forward, his voice low but loaded with accusation. "Is this your plan? Kidnapping an Imperial agent?"

Luthen exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding that breath for hours. "No. That wasn’t supposed to happen." His voice dropped, almost regretful. "I should never have trusted Marlon. He’s reckless. Ambition clouded him. Whatever he’s doing now... he’s doing it alone."

"Then give me something," Jung demanded. "Anything about him. Location. Contact. Ship ID. Anything."

Luthen tilted his head slightly, studying Jung with piercing eyes. "Why do you care so much?"

Jung’s jaw tensed. "You don’t understand what you’ve done. Krennic will burn everything to find her. He’s finished his weapon. And now? Now he has motive."

Those words struck like a bolt to Luthen’s spine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The faint twitch in his jaw, the flicker of fear behind his eyes, was enough.

"You know what that thing is capable of," Jung added, stepping closer. "And he’s already unleashed it once. Imagine what he’ll do when it’s personal."

For a long moment, the silence between them crackled with unspoken threats and truth. Finally, Luthen reached into his cloak and pulled a datachip. He held it out with reluctance.

"That’s all I have. Coordinates. A drop point from Marlon two days ago. He stopped responding after that."

Jung snatched the chip without hesitation, his fingers cold around it. He gave Luthen one last look, one that said, if this goes further south, none of us are safe.

"You better hope she’s still alive."

*******

The cell was small. The air stank of rusted metal and mildew, a cloying, rotted scent that clung to every breath. The walls were damp and bruised with age, and the faint trickle of water in some unseen corner made the silence worse. The dim light flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced too slowly. You sat on the cold floor, knees pulled close, the metal cuffs biting into your wrists. This wasn’t just a prison — it was a memory. And not one you wanted.

You had grown up in places like this. In corners of the galaxy forgotten by the Senate and ignored by the Empire. Back then, you had to sleep beneath broken roofs and dig through ration crates just to eat. The smell in this cell was the same as the caves you’d hidden in when the fighting got too close. And now here you were again, only this time with nothing but your title, your pain, and a past you’d tried so hard to erase.

Beside you, in the opposite cell, two stormtroopers sat chained together, their armor dirtied and scorched. Even they looked hollow. It was strange seeing them like this — once so imposing, now reduced to quiet breathing, just as trapped as you were.

The cell door groaned open. You didn’t look up.

"Miserable place, isn't it?" Marlon’s voice echoed off the walls, too familiar, too calm. He stepped forward carrying a tray, the weak scent of reheated rations doing nothing to improve the atmosphere.

You still didn’t meet his gaze.

"I brought food," he said simply. "Eat. You'll think clearer with something in your stomach."

You turned your head slightly, eyes sharp. "You think I’m going to change my mind because of scraps and kindness?"

Marlon crouched, placing the tray on the ground just out of your reach. "I think you're tired. I think you're remembering why you came from here. Why it hurts. I'm offering you a way out — a real one. Leave the Empire. Come back to what your parents believed in."

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking your head slowly.

"My soul was already torn to shreds the day my parents died in front of me," you said. "I had to hide. I had to crawl through ash and bone just to survive. There were days I envied worms — at least they could burrow deep underground and disappear. I couldn’t. I had to keep running. Keep breathing."

Marlon's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "And now you betray that sacrifice by siding with the very people who helped tear this planet apart?"

"If my parents were still alive and saw what I have become — they would understand," you replied coolly. "Because I no longer sleep under rubble. I no longer starve. I live with comfort. I live with control. I am not a hunted animal in a hole anymore."

Your words echoed through the cellblock. One of the prisoners nearby gave a loud cheer. Another clapped a chained hand against the wall in support. Even the stormtroopers grunted their amusement.

Marlon rose to his feet with a humorless scoff. "You're clever with words. No wonder the Emperor and Krennic keep you close." His voice sharpened. "I wonder if Krennic even realizes you're gone yet. If he does, I hope he's enjoying the chase — because he won’t find you."

You flinched before you could stop yourself. That flash of dread, sudden and heavy, slammed into your chest.

Marlon noticed. His gaze softened, almost pitying. "Clear your head. No one here wants to hurt you. You're too valuable for that."

Your voice came out low, bitter. “So. The first meeting. The date. It was all for a mission.”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, the words pressing into the space between you like a heavy fog. Finally, he admitted it. “It was. I took the assignment because you were from Cinderis. I thought you’d be easy to pull back. One of us.”

He looked at you then, and for the first time, there was no mask. No act. “But you weren’t. You were different. Smarter. Colder. It stopped being a mission after the second time we spoke. And that scared the hell out of me.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. The betrayal settled in your gut like a bruise that would never fade.

He turned and walked toward the door, pausing only briefly before the guard opened it for him. Then he was gone, leaving you in the silence that somehow felt colder than before.

You curled in on yourself, resting your back against the wall. Your thoughts drifted, too fast to stop. Mia’s laugh. The soft giggles of her daughters. The quiet joy of watching the little one hand you a drawing with pride. Your ridiculous director — smug, impossible, infuriating. The way his eyes burned when he looked at you. The unexpected gentleness in his voice that night after the gala. The way he carried you like you mattered. Like you were his.

And now?

Now you were in a place that reeked of ghosts, waiting to see who would find you first.

******

They made you walk again. This time, escorted by Marlon, his grip firm on your arm as he guided you through the base. The air outside the prison was just as stifling, though now filled with the murmurs and glances of rebel fighters as you passed. Your injured leg ached with every step, but you didn’t let them see it. You kept your spine straight, your face cold.

They brought you into a larger chamber. At the center stood Joric Stone, his presence as smug and arrogant as you remembered — the man whose orders had ended your parents' lives. His expression was all show, arms spread in mock welcome.

“She’s here,” Marlon announced.

Joric stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, voice low and controlled. “We need your skills, girl. The Empire’s propaganda has flooded too many systems. But we have you now. You’re going to turn the tide.”

You didn’t answer.

“Make a piece. Just one,” Joric said, tone too casual. “Stir up sympathy for our cause. Convince the people the Empire is a machine. Cold, cruel. Empty.”

You stared at him with open contempt. “I won’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, then smiled, slow and venomous. “Mia,” he said.

You blinked. The name hit like a slap.

“She’s from this planet too, right? Your friend? Married well. Living comfortably in Coruscant. Two lovely daughters.”

Your stomach twisted. “What did you say?”

“I know everything,” he said softly. “Where she lives. Where her children play. Who drives them to school. I have people near her. Watching. Waiting.”

Your hands clenched into fists. “Fine,” you hissed.

Joric turned to Marlon with a smirk. “Bring her a pen. Let her do the job.”

Marlon placed a sheet of flimsi and a pen in front of you. You didn’t move.

“I’m still cuffed,” you muttered.

Marlon hesitated, then unlocked the cuffs. “Try anything, and it won’t end well.”

Joric chuckled. “You’re an ISB agent, sure, but they don’t train you for real combat. Just enough to die dramatically.”

You stared at the pen for a heartbeat. Then you smiled. “That’s true.”

In one fluid motion, you grabbed the pen and drove it into Joric’s eye.

He screamed, stumbling backward in agony. “Arrgh!”

You lunged behind him, wrapping your arm around his throat, dragging him upright even as his blood slicked your arm. The room erupted into chaos, blasters raised, voices shouting.

“Drop it!” someone shouted.

You pressed the edge of the broken pen to Joric’s neck. “Do it, and he’ll never speak again,” you growled. “Put. Them. Down.”

Joric whimpered, clutching his eye, pain overcoming his pride. “Stand down. Stand down!”

Blasters lowered.

With her hostage trembling, you used him like a keycard. One room, then another — barked commands, stifled panic. No one dared challenge you, not with Joric bleeding and furious.

Finally, outside. You didn’t have a plan. You just needed to get away.

A parked glider bike waited by the supply platform. Sleek, half-powered, but fast enough. You shoved Joric away, climbed on, ignoring the white-hot stab of pain in your leg.

“Stop her!” Joric roared behind you.

Blaster fire rained across the tarmac as you gunned the accelerator and shot forward. Lights streaked past. Voices blurred. All you knew was the wind and the pain and the desperate need to get out.

The vehicle jerked as a blast clipped the side panel. You lost control. The world spun violently. You hit the dirt hard, tumbling through brush and bramble before slamming into the edge of the forest floor.

Your ears rang. Your ribs burned. You tried to crawl.

Footsteps followed.

Marlon emerged from the trees, face twisted with frustration. He raised the blaster in his hand but didn’t shoot.

“Why,” he said, breathless, “do you have to make everything so difficult?”

You forced yourself upright, swaying. “Because I don’t belong here.”

He laughed — not amused. Bitter. Unhinged. “So you’d rather be dragged around by a man in a white cape? That’s better than this?”

You didn’t flinch. “It’s not about him.”

“It is. You love him,” he spat. “I can see it.”

You said nothing.

“Damn it.” His voice cracked, the blaster trembling slightly in his grip. “You really do.”

Then he laughed again, the sound wild. Something about it made your chest tighten with unease. You took a step back, slowly, the dirt and leaves crunching underfoot.

Marlon stopped laughing. His hand steadied.

He raised the blaster.

You closed your eyes, accepting it. If this was your final moment, at least let it be quick.

And deep down, your only regret was not kissing Krennic that night.

Suddenly, a sharp crack shattered the air.

Marlon’s scream tore through the clearing, raw and helpless.

You gasped, eyes snapping open just in time to see him stagger backward, his hand clutching his shoulder. Blood bloomed between his fingers. He tripped in the dirt, eyes wide with pain and disbelief.

The wind screamed louder now, a sudden gale rushing through the trees. Dust rose around you in a violent whirl. Above, cutting through the storm clouds like a blade, descended a black shuttle. Its landing thrusters roared as the ramp lowered with a hiss, swallowing the earth in shadow.

He emerged from the storm like a myth made real.

Orson Krennic.

White cape billowing, posture tall and unyielding, he moved down the ramp with measured steps. The fabric snapped in the wind behind him like a war banner. Death Troopers followed, their presence massive and silent, flanking him with the precision of judgment.

Krennic didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His eyes were locked on Marlon, gaze like a weapon in itself—burning, fixed, merciless. He didn’t so much walk as command the space around him. The wind seemed to part in his wake.

Marlon’s mouth worked soundlessly. He tried to move. A second shot rang out.

He screamed again, this time falling to one knee, his leg torn beneath him.

Still, Krennic did not rush. He advanced with slow, terrifying calm, the kind of deliberate pace that promised no escape. His boots struck the ground like the toll of a war drum.

His eyes flicked to you.

The bruises.

The cuts.

Your trembling form.

His expression barely changed, but his jaw tightened, his breath shifted—enough to show the storm inside him was far more dangerous than the one raging around you.

When he reached you, he did not speak.

He pulled you into his chest without hesitation, one gloved hand cradling your head, the other curling protectively around your back. The moment his arms wrapped around you, something in you collapsed. A sob escaped your throat, muffled against the fabric of his uniform.

"You came," you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He pressed his lips against your temple, his breath shallow and trembling with fury.

"Of course I came, darling. No one touches what I value. No one takes you from me."

Behind you, Marlon whimpered in agony.

Krennic turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. He raised one hand. The gesture was subtle. Dismissive.

The third blast echoed like judgment.

And then, silence.

Marlon’s cries were gone. So was Marlon.

You didn’t turn to look. You didn’t need to.

"Is it done?" you whispered.

Krennic exhaled slowly, his breath a controlled release of fire. He nodded once.

"It’s done."

His hand found your cheek, brushing gently across the tender bruising. His touch, so soft now, trembled with everything he refused to say. The cold rage that had consumed him moments ago was buried beneath something deeper. He leaned close.

"Let’s go home."

He didn’t let you go, not once, as he led you back toward the waiting shuttle. The storm clouds above had not calmed, but their fury no longer reached you.

You were in his arms.

And nothing dared touch you again.

*******

You didn’t remember fainting.

One moment, you were wrapped in Krennic’s arms, the scent of his uniform clinging to you as your adrenaline finally gave out. The next, everything was light and noise.

You awoke slowly to a sterile hum, the sharp scent of antiseptic stinging your nose. The lighting overhead was clinical and bright, too clean. Your body ached. Cold metal beneath you. Soft beeping echoed faintly from the monitor beside your bed.

You blinked, disoriented.

"You're stable," a voice said.

A physician stepped into your view. Imperial white. Calm. Detached. "Mild concussion. Lacerations. Deep tissue bruising. But nothing permanent. You're lucky."

Your throat was dry, your voice barely audible. "Where am I?"

The physician didn’t answer right away.

Then another voice filled the room, deeper, familiar, and somehow cutting straight to your core.

"The Death Star."

You turned, slowly, already knowing what you’d see.

Krennic stood in the doorway, cape draped behind him, gloves absent, though his posture was still rigid, still dignified, like nothing could rattle the empire forged in his mind.

“You’re safe now,” he said, but his eyes never quite softened. They scanned you like a checklist, finding every bruise, every mark, and filing them away with lethal precision.

He turned to one of the command officers waiting behind him. "Report."

"Sir, we’ve retrieved every Imperial asset from the rebel prison. All accounted for," the officer added. "Including the children."

"Good," Krennic said coldly. "That means only one piece remains."

The officer nodded and stepped aside.

He stepped forward to you, and without another word, he held out a hand.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated, weakly pushing yourself upright.

“I want you to see something,” he said.

And somehow, despite everything, you took his hand.

He led you silently through the sterile corridors of the Death Star, the vastness of the station unfolding around you like a throne carved into space. Stormtroopers stepped aside. Officers stood to attention. No one questioned your presence.

He brought you to an observation room overlooking one of the central detention decks. You immediately recognized the figure kneeling on the floor.

Joric Stone.

He looked different now. Small. Broken. His hands were bound behind his back, his body bruised and bloodied, one eye missing. He didn’t look like a rebel leader anymore.

“You didn’t kill him?” you asked quietly.

Krennic’s voice was low. “Not yet.”

He gestured to one of the guards.

“Bring him.”

The stormtroopers moved quickly. Joric didn’t resist, but he groaned in pain as they hauled him to his feet. You turned away, just slightly. Not out of sympathy. Out of memory.

Krennic led you to another chamber. A circular control room—one that overlooked the vast targeting array. On the central screen, the blue-green surface of Cinderis filled the projection. Cloud banks drifted lazily over its mountains. You knew those forests. You knew the smell of the dirt. The taste of hunger.

Joric was dragged in and forced to his knees before the viewport.

“You wanted her to suffer,” Krennic said, voice quiet. “Now you’ll see what that earns you.”

He moved behind Joric and crouched. Then, with one gloved hand, he gripped the back of the man’s bloodied head and forced his face upward.

"Look."

Joric flinched, trying to pull away, but Krennic tightened his hold.

"You made her bleed. You dragged her back to this place. And now you're going to watch it vanish."

"Don’t—" Joric wheezed, shaking.

Krennic ignored him completely. His eyes were on you.

“You deserve this,” he said. Not to Joric. To you.

Then, to the operator: “Target the rebel stronghold.”

Joric screamed.

"You can't! My soldiers!”

"Collateral," Krennic said simply. "The price of your rebellion."

The targeting system aligned. The weapon charged, humming with power that vibrated through your chest.

Joric sobbed now, his voice ragged. "Please… Please!"

Krennic leaned closer to him. His voice was almost gentle.

“Do you want to know why I brought you here?”

Joric whimpered.

Krennic’s voice dropped, cold as vacuum.

“Because I want this to be the last thing burned into that skull of yours.”

Then he nodded once towards the operator.

“Fire!"

The chamber went silent as light erupted across the screen. A single beam lanced from the weapon array. Blinding. Absolute.

Cinderis bloomed into a sun.

Joric screamed, convulsed, and fell limp in the guards’ grip.

You watched, unmoving. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. The world that had hurt you your entire life was now a smear of smoke in orbit.

Krennic finally released Joric’s head, and the man slumped to the floor in a heap of whimpers and failure.

“Dispose of him,” Krennic said, his voice devoid of weight.

Then he turned to you. The storm in him settled. Not gone. But quiet.

"Are you satisfied?"

You didn’t answer right away.

But a part of you—one you had buried long ago in the forests of Cinderis—whispered yes.

And you followed him to another room to avoid the chaos. There’s only both of you at the moment.

You turned to him, lips parting with disbelief. "Why did you show me this?"

Krennic didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were trained on the fading light from the projection, watching the data clear from the screen as if brushing off ash. He didn’t look at you when he finally spoke. "Because I wanted you to see what justice looks like."

You stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs.

He turned then, slowly, the edges of his voice softer now, but no less steady. "That place... It stole everything from you. It buried your family. It made you believe there was no power that could ever protect you."

He stepped closer, his eyes locking with yours, unflinching. "I wanted you to know that I can." The breath caught in your throat. "I didn’t do this for protocol," he continued, voice quieter now, but deeper. “I did this for you. Because you deserve to see it gone. Not hidden. Not buried. Gone.”

Your vision blurred, but you didn’t look away.

You couldn’t. "And Joric?" you asked, your voice low.

Krennic’s lips twitched faintly. No smile. Just grim truth. "He watched his empire burn. Just like you watched yours. The difference is, you built something greater out of the rubble."

You exhaled shakily, your body trembling from more than injury. You looked out at the screen again, at the now-empty sky.

No more lies. No more ghosts. No more Cinderis.

Krennic stepped closer and, without asking, placed his gloved hand over yours. "You asked me once if I saw you as my equal," he said. "This is my answer."

‘My Equal.’

The words echoed between you, low and deliberate, landing like a final strike on everything that once held you apart. The room was quiet now. The only sound was the low hum of the Death Star’s power systems in the walls and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

You stared at him.

No smirk. No smugness. No layers of manipulation. Just Orson. Exhausted. Unflinching. And for once, not trying to win. Just telling the truth.

You hadn’t come looking for this. You hadn’t thought your moment of justice would look like this, feel like this. But in the aftermath of everything of blood, ruin, betrayal, and survival. It made terrifying, perfect sense.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t graceful.

You stepped forward and kissed him.

A startled breath left him through his nose, like you’d struck him again. Not with a weapon this time, but with something more dangerous. You felt it the moment his mind caught up to his body, when surprise turned into something hungry, something scorching.

And then, he kissed you back with controlled force, one gloved hand sliding behind your neck, the other bracing against the glass wall beside you. You rose onto your toes, pulling him closer, as if the world around you didn’t matter, and for the first time in so long, it didn’t.

He tasted like heat and metal and thunder. And you wanted more.

When he finally pulled away, just barely, his breath was ragged, his eyes unreadable but burning. He looked at you like a man seeing something sacred. And for once, you didn’t feel like a pawn. Or a weapon. Or a piece of strategy.

"You kissed me," he said quietly, like he needed to hear himself say it to believe it.

You nodded, heart racing. "Yes."

His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "It’s about time."

You stared at each other for another beat. The kind of beat that changes everything.

And for once, it was not about power. Not about politics. Not even about revenge.

It was just the two of you. Finally standing in the same place. At the same time. No more waiting.

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woradat · 1 month ago

Text

Hold me tight

SUMMARY - before you drift away, into the galaxy —too far for him to reach, he should have held onto you tighter, but he didn't (pre-war)

PAIRING - jetfire x reader, skyfire x reader

He should have left the moment the projector’s beam sliced through the dim chamber and cast the silhouette of another onto the polished obsidian floor

The light cut across the dust-moted air like a blade of frozen sunlight—soft, but unyielding. The silhouette did not shift. Merely stood there, tall and still, as if carved from old starlight and authority

Jetfire’s vents caught in his throat

He remained rooted. Not out of defiance—no, never that—but because the variables of movement and consequence had suddenly multiplied beyond calculation. His body refused to obey logic. The simplest action—turn, retreat, explain—felt like a catastrophic misstep on a precarious quantum equation

He could feel the temperature change in the air. Not with heat, but with presence—that ineffable shift when another mind steps into your radius and rewrites the gravity of the room

He tilted his gaze upward, slowly. Reluctantly. Bracing for a voice made of judgment and protocol

Expulsion. Citation. Public apology. Reclamation

A thousand outcomes bloomed in his mind like faulty computations

Instead, the voice that came was neither clipped nor cruel

It was curious

“If the universe is a question... are you attempting to answer it with a nobleman’s equation?”

The words rolled out with a peculiar elegance—like poetry smuggled into science, soft and sharp in equal measure. The voice was stately but playful, as though both mocking and indulging him

Jetfire blinked. His vocalizer crackled slightly before functioning

“I’m sorry. I just… the datapads fell, and I—”

“And you chose to pick them up” the other said, stepping closer. Their silhouette became clearer in the light, glinting at the edges—like moonlight caught on the lip of a goblet “And you read them”

Jetfire stiffened

“Not the worst choice. But don’t expect praise for daring to think without permission. Not in this building”

He looked down, shame creeping like corrosion through his circuits—until the next words caught him off-guard

“But I commend you”

His gaze snapped back up, optics wide

The other offered the datapad back to him with a delicacy that bordered on reverence—like handing over something fragile, alive, and perhaps forbidden

“Are you the kind who reads to believe, or the kind who reads to question?”

It wasn’t a trick question. And yet it felt like it held a lock to something far beyond data

Jetfire opened his mouth—but the question was too rich, too strange. Not designed for swift answers, only quiet undoings

The stranger smiled. It was not warm, but it was honest

“I ask for one hour of your time. Each day. In the lower chamber. The one they abandoned after the war scare. I wish to see whether your gravitational equations map the stars as I do”

“You mean… you want me to research with you?”

“No” A quiet, indulgent laugh “I want you to answer one question a day. No more”

They stepped past him then, their field brushing faintly against his like the edge of magnetism—unseen, but undeniable

“Here’s one to begin: do you believe the sinusoidal fluctuations in the gravity of dying stars suggest any pattern in the behavior of consciousness?”

Jetfire made a choked noise

“What?”

“Too soon? Forgive me. I tend to start conversations in the middle.” They turned, pausing in the doorway like a scholar on the brink of forgetting their own name

“Let’s begin again. What’s yours?”

“…Jetfire”

The figure did not offer their own. They merely studied him—as though reading a newly named particle—and murmured:

“Fitting. One day, perhaps, you’ll fly”

Then, without waiting for response, they vanished into the hall—leaving Jetfire to stare at the flickering projector still humming softly, and wonder if he had just been inducted into a secret society of one

—

No one had ever once suggested to him that silence, in a space built to amplify the smallest of sounds, could resonate in such a peculiar, almost devastating manner. Silence in a laboratory wasn’t a void, not quite. No, it was a substance, something that wrapped around you like an invisible fog, as if every molecule of the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next disruption, the next event, the next explanation. But tonight, the air felt particularly thick with it—as though the universe had paused for a heartbeat, just for him

It had taken him years of training, of learning how to concentrate in the face of chaos, of adapting his mind to the punctuated rhythm of data and deductions. Yet it was in this silence, this suspended moment, that Jetfire realized with a sudden jolt of clarity: he had been waiting

Waiting for what? He wasn’t entirely sure, but the answer lingered just at the edge of his awareness, like a half-remembered dream or a word you knew was on the tip of your tongue but couldn’t quite pull to the surface. Perhaps he had been waiting for the familiar hum of his sensors to be disturbed by the singular presence that always found him here, at the desk beside some unfinished analysis, surrounded by research notes, and the faint scent of machine oil

“You're two and a half minutes late”

The words—no, the voice—cut through the stillness with a precision Jetfire could never quite predict. Dry. Unfazed. The perfect example of an observation made simply because it was there to be noted, like the path of an asteroid traversing the cold void of space

Jetfire smiled faintly—a rare, slanted curl of his mouth that he never showed to anyone else

"I was detained by an emergency briefing. Apologies, I—"

“Mmm… A grave offense indeed” you replied in a drawl, lifting a bottle of lubricant and giving it a shake like someone mixing a midnight cocktail

A faint snort interrupted him, not mocking, but amused in the way that only someone who knew how to reduce the weight of all things could manage "Grievous misconduct. And as for your punishment, I’m afraid you’ll have to endure my complete and utterly enlightening lecture on The Gravitational Philosophy of Dream Oscillations"

Jetfire let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head slightly "I... didn’t realize that was an actual field of study"

"No, of course not" came the immediate response, with an exaggerated lift of the speaker’s shoulders as if it were entirely unimportant whether or not they were speaking of any truth

"But you see, I had a dream last night—a dream—and in it, the entire universe existed without a gravitational core. It was, naturally, quite difficult to navigate, because everything, every matter, every thought, just… drifted. But strangely, there was one constant. One force"

The absurdity of the words struck his mind like a needle to the most tender part of thought—sharp, precise, and disturbingly accurate

Jetfire lowered himself into the lab's rickety swivel chair. The metal frame groaned in protest

“And in that dream of yours… did anyone survive?”

There was a pause. The other bot stilled, set the bottle down, and looked up with an expression halfway between amusement and strange clarity

“There was one. The one who created gravity themselves… and pulled all the stars toward them — with sheer will of heart"

Jetfire didn’t reply right away. He simply sat there, listening as the scientist across the room rambled on in whimsical metaphors—half-poetry, half-forgotten philosophy. And while his logical mind attempted to separate fantasy from fact, his spark was doing the opposite

It was pulling everything inward. Toward a center

Toward you—the one who always sounded like you were joking, but never once lied

At first, he had merely been here because the lab offered access to rare instruments—free from bureaucratic rituals. Then he had chosen to stay because you understood the language of science. But now…

He didn’t want to leave

"Do you always dream like that?" Jetfire asked, his voice softer than he intended. It wasn’t just about the dream, of course. It never really was. But this—this peculiar pull, this gravity between them, that wasn’t the kind of thing Jetfire could admit easily. And so, he hid it behind his inquiry

You smile, when it came, was a quiet thing, edged with a knowing that only made Jetfire more uncertain of his own thoughts "Sometimes" they replied. "I think it’s the only way to escape the weight of everything around us. Dreams don’t have to make sense, after all"

He wanted to argue with that, wanted to say that dreams weren’t supposed to be some ethereal escape, but the truth was, he couldn’t. Not when the room itself felt so real when it was just the two of them standing at its center

There was a tension here, one that neither of them had asked for, but neither could escape. A strange, compelling force between them that felt like the pull of unseen stars—a pull neither had the strength to ignore. And yet, there was no admission. No declaration. Just an ever-growing understanding that, in the quietest moments, they both understood the same thing without ever speaking it aloud: the universe, in all its infinite complexity, could very well be shaped, and bent, by the simplest of forces—whether gravity, or will, or even something as unmeasurable as a glance

It was when the silence stretched again, both of them sitting side by side, neither of them quite able to leave, that Jetfire realized with a sudden clarity that the silence between them had changed

It had shifted, imperceptibly, but undeniably

And the only thing left for him to do now was to accept that it had happened. And maybe… maybe he didn’t need to fill it with words

Maybe the absence was the answer

—

After day and after day, Jetfire returned

He told his superiors that he was conducting field surveys around the Senate Tower perimeter. In truth, he just kept finding reasons to enter the lab again. To sit across from you—the planetary scientist who seemed less like an academic and more like a verse carved from the cosmic dust itself

You explained quantum entanglement with the cadence of a bedtime tale. Your hand gestures painted orbit lines in the air. You labeled your document drawers with star charts instead of numbers

You once asked, in a perfectly serious tone: “If stars could write letters to one another, what grammar would they use?”

It wasn’t a question he could answer. But he remembered it

—

Each day, once the experiments ended, there came a brief, weightless moment—just the two of you, sitting quietly beside cooling machinery. Watching an unfinished star map flicker on the display screen. Sometimes, no words were exchanged. And yet, the silence felt full—like a breath the universe was holding in

“You know” your voice broke the hush, “in this vast universe… perhaps we’re nothing but space dust. Maybe none of this means anything"

Jetfire turned to look at you. He had never considered the thought in quite that way before. But then, unexpectedly, words slipped past his lips

“Maybe… it means something to us. Just now.. like this”

You gave him a faint smile. You looked like you were going to say something else, but chose not to

The silence that followed wasn’t like the one from the first time you met. It wasn’t hollow. It was full of questions that didn’t need answers

“Do you have a plan for what comes next?” Jetfire asked, voice almost hesitant

“Explore the whole universe” you replied at once, mischief dancing behind your optics “And you?”

He paused, then smiled too “I’d like to go with you.. but I don’t know where to start"

And in that moment, he realized: it wasn’t just about the stars above, or the trajectories he could calculate. It was that with you beside him, even the smallest questions in life felt like they carried immense weight

“Sometimes, it only takes one strange little question to lead us away from everything we thought we knew” you said gently, your voice already drifting into another realm

Jetfire looked at you, and the universe suddenly felt smaller

Maybe… the journey didn’t need a destination

“And what if there's no path to follow?”

“Then we’ll find one. Or make one. Together”

The answer came clearly, as if it had been waiting inside you all along

And for the first time, Jetfire felt as though he was beginning to understand his own journey—not through drive or ambition, but through a stillness that could not be measured by instruments

—

Jetfire was hunched over a data console, utterly immersed, when they leaned on his side—too close, of course, deliberately so. They always had a knack for standing where they weren’t needed, asking questions that twisted like Möbius strips and left interns fleeing for quieter company. But Jetfire never asked them to leave

You didn’t speak at first, only watched the patterns scrolling across his screen, their chin resting in one servo, optics half-lidded like a cat watching a bird it wasn’t quite hungry enough to catch

“So"

You murmured eventually “if quantum field fluctuations respond to proximity and intent—what do you suppose that says about us, hm?”

Jetfire didn’t turn. He paused, one servo frozen mid-input, then resumed typing with a sudden stiff precision “It says you’ve been reading fringe journals again"

“And flirting, if you noticed"

“I noticed"

A beat. Then another, long enough for them to step back like they usually would, laugh it off with a joke about social experiments gone wrong. But you didn’t. You stayed

“You always act so composed” you said softly “but your EM field is terribly loud when you're pretending I don’t affect you"

Jetfire’s digits stalled again

They continued, letting their words fall with the kind of offhand rhythm that made people forget how sharp they really were

“Do you know what I think? I think you like being bothered. I think you find me—” Their digits lightly tapped the back of his shoulder, where circuitry was most sensitive “—stimulating"

Now he did turn, ever so slightly, not enough to meet their gaze but just enough to suggest caution “You’re not usually.. be like this"

“I’m not usually this serious” you replied, smile lopsided and voice light as starlight

“But you are. You’re always so precise. So heavy with your truths. So terribly fond of structure. And I… well” you stepped closer again, tone dipping into something uncharacteristically tender “I’d like to see what happens when something... unstructured gets under your plating"

Jetfire inhaled sharply, and for once, didn’t have an answer ready. Not a theory. Not a quip. Just the steady thrum of his field responding, betraying him

You tilted your helm and added—half playful, half hopeful “Would you permit the hypothesis that I’m fond of you?”

Jetfire stared for a moment, then—slowly, achingly—nodded

A beat passed

Then you smirked

“Excellent. Expect several invasive follow-up experiments. Peer-reviewed, of course"

He sighed, the sound brittle with half-swallowed laughter, and muttered under his breath “I should’ve known”

“Oh, you did” you grinned, optics bright “You just hoped I’d be subtle"

They didn’t leave that evening

Not when the lights dimmed for shift-change. Not when Jetfire’s screen flickered into idle starlight. Not even when silence began to pool between them like liquid static, heavy with unsaid things

You stood beside him, arms folded, posture languid—but your optics gleamed with calculation, as though you were calibrating an orbit

“Did you know” you began in that infuriatingly smooth tone “that shared frequency alignment over time can be... accelerated, if both subjects are in prolonged proximity?”

Jetfire glanced at you warily “Are you proposing that we sit closer?”

“Oh, sweetspark. I’m proposing far more than that"

You stepped in until your helm nearly brushed his shoulder, their voice a low hum—part mockery, part invocation “I’ve been circling your orbit for cycles, Jetfire. Tapping at your shields. Reading your footnotes. Tuning myself to your silences and you—” your servo brushed his arm, a fleeting contact that felt measured, deliberate, almost reverent “You always flinch like truth is a wound. But I wonder... what happens if I don’t let you look away this time?”

Jetfire inhaled sharply. His optics flicked to theirs, wide, vulnerable—and caught

“I ..I didn’t mean to mislead—”

“Oh, I know” they interrupted gently, stepping closer still “You were trying to protect yourself. You always do. But I’m not here to dissect you, Jetfire. I’m here to choose you. Again and again. With all your walls and silences and nervous, noble spark"

He swallowed thickly “You can’t just say things like that"

“I can” you whispered “and I will"

A moment passed. And then, as if gravity had given up—

Jetfire reached for them

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was the startled, breathless motion of someone who had spent too long holding back—and now couldn’t

Their bodies met in a slow, deliberate collision, a hush of metal and warmth. His arms enfolded them like he was afraid they’d vanish, and they leaned into him with a smile that tasted like triumph and tenderness all at once

“I love you” he whispered, almost inaudible “Primus help me"

The confession landed like stardust—soft, infinite, real

They leaned up, brushing their mouth along the edge of his jaw in a kiss so subtle it felt like a secret, and murmured “I know. You were terribly obvious. But adorable about it"

He gave a shuddering laugh—and when they kissed him fully, it was slow and breathless and aching, like two minds syncing after endless static. No rush. No chaos. Just resonance

When you pulled back, they pressed their forehead to his and added with mock-seriousness “Now that we’ve aligned... may I begin the real experiments?”

Jetfire exhaled, optics fluttering shut “Primus. What have I unleashed?”

“A lover with a lab and very ambitious hypotheses”

—

The world was already fraying at the seams

Cities once humming with philosophy and particle dreams now bristled with paranoia, blared slogans through smog-thick air. Everywhere, signs were changing—banners raised, sides drawn, colors worn not with pride but with the desperation of identity carved into metal and flame. War had not yet come in name, but its scent was already in the circuits of every thinking mech

You stood in the hangar of the survey vessel they once treated like a daydream—tall, sleek, built for long-term celestial research. It was the kind of ship only a handful of scientists could even touch. But you had clearance. You had always been too curious, too vocal, too exhausting for bureaucratic comfort—but undeniably brilliant

Enough to be tolerated

Enough to be trusted

Enough to leave

You had recalibrated the nav systems two cycles ago, quietly. Stocked the coolant, loaded rations. Ran diagnostics under cover of "long-range sub-quantum testing" All ready and now, Jetfire stood before them, half-shadowed by the cold white light

“You knew I wouldn’t come"

You smiled softly. Not sad. Not angry. Just... aware

“Yes. I knew” your voice was like paper slowly folding in firelight—delicate, measured, but glowing from within “But knowing doesn’t dull the wanting, Jetfire. I wanted to believe we’d chase nebulae together. That we'd map the gravitational poems of the void and argue about nothing for a few million years"

He looked away. His Decepticon badge wasn’t fully painted yet—half-dried on his plating, like a promise he hadn’t learned to carry “There’s too much wrong here to run from"

“I’m not running” you stepped closer “I’m leaving. There’s a difference"

Jetfire’s optics flicked up, stricken “Don’t say it like it’s noble"

“It’s not..” A small, tired laugh “It’s cowardice and dreamdust and a touch of statistical pragmatism. There’s nothing noble about solitude, Jetfire. But... I have to go"

You reached up, gently resting two digits on the badge’s edge. Not to peel it away. Just to feel the heat of it

“I know what this means to you. I know why you chose it. And I don’t blame you for choosing a war over the stars. Someone has to stay and fight for the ones who can’t escape"

He looked at them as if they were already a ghost

“And what if I regret this?” he asked quietly

“Then I hope you find me” they said simply “Out there, among the dark harmonics of some distant system. I’ll be cataloguing the spin of dying suns. Waiting. Not for you—but for the version of you who’s ready"

Silence bloomed between them like a nova

No kiss. No hug. Just two minds, once aligned, now drifting—still caught in each other’s gravity, but on diverging trajectories

And then you turned, boarding the ship alone

As the launch thrusters powered up and the docking bay peeled open to the black, star-speckled vastness, they allowed themselves one final indulgence—a line spoken softly to the emptiness beside them: “You were my favorite hypothesis, Jetfire. I hope the data proves me wrong"

And then you were gone

—

Some nights,

he sits in front of the console, reading through your logs—the ones detailing anomalous gravitational phenomena you were trying to make sense of

And in one of them, there’s a single line that has nothing to do with science at all: "If I became a star no one could see, would someone, somewhere, peer through a lens and know that I was lonely?"

Jetfire quietly closes the datapad

He understands now… you weren’t asking for an answer. You were reaching out, wondering if someone was listening

And he—he always was

Even if he never said a word back

NOTE - don't be so surprised. I mean yeah and they broke up like that. Ha

#transformers idw publishing #transformers x reader #jetfire x reader #skyfire x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert #transformers

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revanknightwoman · 8 months ago

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assistant-meowrchivist · 11 months ago

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upadate on the Magnus Protocol Obsidian Vault

this sure is getting crowded real fast

#tmp #the magnus protocol #tmp spoilers #the magnus protocol spoilers #spoilers #spoiler #MAGP01 #MAGP02 #obsidian md #I love graphs #to whoever made the persistant graphs plugin. I love you so much #the magnus protocol petri dish

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justlikeanoldfool · 4 months ago

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SIE, from the game Alpha Protocol (Obsidian Entertainment, 2010).

#alpha protocol #sie (alpha protocol)#obsidian entertainment #gameedit #vgedit #alphaprotocoledit #jlanof

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whywontyoucomeout · 26 days ago

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The Prestige

(Note: This is a long story. There is kinky content near the end. Pls skip if you dont like kinky stuff).

-----------------------------------------------------

The obsidian marble beneath Valentina Castellano's heels clicked with each deliberate step as she approached the towering bronze doors of the Meridian Club. Even in the dim glow of the gas lamps that lined the underground entrance, the opulence was unmistakable—crystal chandeliers cast prismatic rainbows across walls adorned with Renaissance masterpieces that most museums could only dream of acquiring. This was no ordinary gathering place, but rather the crown jewel of the city’s shadow economy, where power brokers and kingpins conducted business away from prying eyes.

Valentina paused at the threshold, one gloved hand instinctively moving to rest against the imposing curve of her belly. The swell of her pregnancy was undeniably prominent—a perfect sphere that strained against the midnight blue silk of her gown. The fabric, despite being expertly tailored, could barely contain the fullness of her condition, and she found herself having to adjust her posture frequently to accommodate the weight that seemed to have settled low and heavy. Her empire waistline, positioned high beneath her breasts, allowed the silk to flow like liquid mercury over the impressive roundness that dominated her silhouette. Diamond earrings caught the gaslight as she tilted her head, listening to the muffled sounds of conversation and ragtime piano emanating from within.

The massive doors swung open with surprising silence, revealing two imposing figures in perfectly tailored black suits of the style fashionable in 1930. Beyond them, a steady stream of elegantly dressed guests moved through the marble-lined entrance hall, forming an orderly queue as they presented their invitations. The soft murmur of conversation mixed with the gentle shuffle of expensive shoes against polished stone.

The first guard was a mountain of a man whose scarred hands and weathered face spoke of decades navigating the city's prohibition-era violence. "Papers, ma'am," extending his hand while his eyes briefly took in her obviously expectant condition.

Valentina reached into her beaded clutch with practiced ease, allowing herself to move just a fraction slower than necessary. The guard examined her invitation thoroughly, his gaze moving between the elegant script and her face.

"Mrs. Valentina Castellano," he read aloud, then looked up with professional courtesy in his gravelly voice. “Please step up toward the security check”.

Valentina offered a gracious smile, her voice carrying the soft, refined tones of a well-bred lady. "Of course, sir. I understand completely." She shifted her weight subtly, the movement drawing attention to her considerable bulk while her free hand found the small of her back. "Please, do proceed with whatever is necessary. I only ask your patience—I find myself moving rather more slowly these days."

The weathered guard's face softened as his gaze dropped to her impressively swollen belly. Behind them, the queue of guests continued their patient procession, the soft conversations creating a backdrop of civilized anticipation.

"Naturally, ma'am. Our usual protocols require a brief security check, but given your... condition..." he began, his hand moving toward the security wand at his belt with obvious reluctance.

Valentina nodded graciously. “Sure, I understand”. Valentina answered with labored breath. She fumbled with her garments, proceeded to be examined. Viktor's expression immediately shifted to one of concern. In his twenty years of working security for the underworld's elite, he had developed an instinct for reading people, and what he saw in Valentina was genuine discomfort mixed with the quiet dignity of a woman accustomed to power. More importantly, he recognized the tactical advantage of treating the high class guests with the respect they position demanded.

"Of course, Mrs. Castellano. No need for the usual formalities tonight." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the opulent interior where the sound of string quartet music mixed with the gentle clink of crystal glasses.

The young guard behind him, however, stepped forward with the rigid determination of someone still learning the nuanced rules of their profession. "Sir," he said in a low, urgent whisper that still carried clearly in the marble-lined entrance, "Mr. Salvatore Maroni specifically mentioned that with him present tonight, every guest needs to undergo the full security protocol. No exceptions."

The older guard's jaw tightened as he turned toward his colleague. Valentina remained perfectly still, her dark eyes demurely focused on her gloved hands. "Please, don't let my condition interfere with your duties. I shall manage quite well, though I do hope you'll forgive me if I need to pause occasionally." As if to emphasize her point, she placed a steadying hand against the doorframe, her breathing becoming just slightly more labored. The movement was so natural, so unconsciously feminine, that it seemed to happen without her awareness. Behind them, the sounds of impatience started to emit from the queue of guests.

After a moment that stretched like an eternity, the older guard made his decision. "Mrs. Castellano may proceed. Tonight's... complications don't extend to ladies in her delicate condition."

Valentina's relief was genuine, though she maintained her gracious composure. "Thank you both so very much for your consideration. I do hope this evening proves pleasant for everyone."

As she moved past them into the luxurious interior, the silk of her gown whispered against the marble floor. She navigated with the careful, swaying gait of a woman carrying considerable weight, one hand trailing along the wall for support. The bronze doors closed behind her with a soft, final sound.

Inside the Meridian Club, crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across walls lined with what appeared to be genuine Old Masters. Men in expensive suits clustered around small tables, their conversations punctuated by the clink of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the sweet scent of bootleg champagne. Women in beaded gowns moved between the groups like exotic birds, their jewelry catching the light. The Meridian Club's main ballroom was a symphony of illegal opulence. Valentina moved through the gathering with the unhurried pace her condition demanded, her silk gown catching the light from chandeliers that had once graced European palaces. She accepted a glass of what appeared to be genuine French champagne from a passing waiter, though she merely held it for appearances.

"Terrible business about the warehouse fires," she overheard a distinguished gentleman saying to his companion as she paused near a marble pillar, ostensibly to rest. "Third one this month. Someone's making a statement."

His companion, a thin man with nervous hands, glanced around before responding. "Word is it's connected to the new shipping routes from Canada. Territory disputes."

Valentina shifted her weight, wincing slightly as she adjusted her position. The movement was natural enough—any woman in her condition would need frequent rests—but it allowed her to linger near their conversation without appearing to eavesdrop.

"Boss is not pleased," the first man continued, lowering his voice. "Meeting tonight is specifically about consolidating control. Can't have independents thinking they can muscle in."

She moved away before they might notice her presence, drifting toward the far end of the ballroom where a small orchestra played lively jazz. Her path took her past clusters of conversations, each pause seemingly dictated by her physical needs but positioning her perfectly to catch fragments of discussion.

When she emerged from the main events room, Valentina noticed a small commotion near the back entrance. A latecomer had arrived—a woman in an elaborate emerald gown who commanded immediate attention from several guests. As people shifted to greet the newcomer, Valentina found herself with a clearer view of the elevated section.

There, in a circular arrangement of leather chairs, sat a group of men in expensive suits. Even from her distance, she could see that their conversation was intense, their postures suggesting important business. One figure sat with his back partially turned to the ballroom—a man whose mere presence seemed to create a gravitational pull in the room's social dynamics.

Valentina began making her way in that direction, her progress necessarily slow and punctuated by frequent pauses. She stopped at various points, sometimes placing a hand on a nearby chair or table as if to steady herself, sometimes engaging in brief pleasantries with other guests who expressed concern for her comfort.

She watched as various men approached the central group, some staying for extended conversations, others delivering what appeared to be brief reports before withdrawing. The pattern was clear to anyone who took the time to observe: this was where decisions were being made.

The man who had been sitting with his back to the ballroom—clearly the focal point of the entire gathering—began to turn in his chair. Conversations throughout the nearby area seemed to quiet slightly, as if by instinct.

Valentina was adjusting her position, one hand pressed to the small of her back in apparent discomfort, when their eyes met across the shortened distance.

Salvatore Maroni was younger than she had expected, perhaps forty-five, with the kind of sharp intelligence in his dark eyes that had built empires in the shadows of Prohibition. His gaze took in her condition immediately, then moved to her face with the calculating assessment of a man accustomed to reading people quickly and accurately.

For a moment that felt suspended in time, they simply looked at each other. Then the mafia boss rose from his chair with fluid grace and began walking directly toward her, his movement causing a subtle ripple of attention throughout the elevated section.

Valentina remained where she stood, one hand still pressed to her back, her expression showing nothing more than mild curiosity about the approaching stranger.

The crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across the opulent ballroom as Valentina adjusted her silk gloves, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly. The baby kicked restlessly, as if sensing the danger that surrounded them both. She forced herself to breathe slowly, steadily, as she had been trained to do.

"Mrs...?" The voice was smooth as aged whiskey, with just a hint of an accent that spoke of old country roots and new world power.

She turned, her movements carefully calculated to appear awkward with her pregnancy. " Valentina Castellano." The name rolled off her tongue as naturally as if she'd been born with it.

Salvatore “The Boss” Maroni stood before her, impeccably dressed in a tailored tuxedo that couldn't quite hide the predatory gleam in his dark eyes. He was smaller than she'd expected from the photographs, but there was something about his presence that filled the space around him—a quiet menace that had kept him alive and in power for over two decades.

"Ah, a fellow Italian." His smile was warm, but his eyes remained cold, calculating. "Tell me, Mrs. Valentina , how are you finding the party? The music, the champagne..." He gestured to a passing waiter carrying a silver tray. "Though I suppose you're not partaking in the latter."

"The music is lovely," she replied, allowing a slight tremor to enter her voice—the nervousness of a woman out of her depth. "Though I must admit, I feel a bit... overwhelmed. Such grandeur."

Maroni nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. "First time at one of my gatherings?"

"Yes, sir." She lowered her eyes demurely, then looked up through her lashes. "My cousin Maria—Maria Delacroix—she said I simply had to attend. That it would be good for me to get out."

"Maria, yes." His expression didn't change, but she caught the slight pause, the way his fingers drummed once against his thigh. Testing. Always testing. "Sweet girl. Married that French boy, didn't she? Against her father's wishes, if I recall."

Valentina's face clouded with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Oh, Mr. Maroni, I hope you don't think less of her for that. She was so torn up about disappointing Uncle Enzo." She twisted her wedding ring nervously. "But Jacques, he's... he's actually been wonderful for her. He converted to Catholicism, learned to make proper ragu, even started calling Uncle Enzo 'Papa' instead of his real father's name. Maria says Uncle Enzo's coming around, especially now that little Giuseppe is walking."

The detail hung in the air between them—intimate family knowledge that only someone truly connected would possess. Maroni's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, but Valentina caught it. The first test, passed.

The baby kicked again, harder this time, and Valentina winced genuinely. The movement, the slight grimace of pain, seemed to satisfy something in Maroni 's watchful gaze.

"You seem to be managing well on your own tonight," he continued, his tone conversational but his words weighted with meaning. "Where is your husband? Surely he wouldn't let his wife attend such an event alone, especially in your... delicate condition."

This was the moment. She could feel the attention of several nearby guests subtly turning toward their conversation, though they pretended to be absorbed in their own discussions. Even the jazz quartet seemed to play more softly, as if the entire room was holding its breath.

Valentina ‘s hand tightened protectively over her belly, and she let genuine anger flash in her eyes—the fury of a betrayed woman. When she spoke, her voice carried just the right note of bitter disappointment.

"My stupid husband is probably at Rosetti's card table right now, losing the money he was supposed to save." She shook her head, looking down at her hands. "Ever since this belly started to grow big, he hasn't looked at me the same way anymore”. Deep sadness filled Valentina’s eyes. “I feel so lonely at times."

For a moment, something almost like genuine sympathy flickered across Maroni 's features. Then his smile returned, warmer now, though no less dangerous.

"Mrs. Castellano, I think you underestimate yourself." He reached out and gently patted her arm, a gesture that might have seemed fatherly to observers. "A woman like you, who can carry herself with such dignity despite her circumstances... that takes a special kind of strength."

She felt her pulse quicken, but kept her expression puzzled, innocent. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." His laugh was soft, almost fond. "Come, let me introduce you to some people. Perhaps we can find a solution to your husband's... gambling problem."

As he guided her deeper into the crowd, Valentina allowed herself the smallest exhale of relief. The first test was passed. But she knew Salvatore Maroni hadn't survived this long by trusting easily. The real challenges were just beginning.

The evening progressed like a carefully choreographed dance. Maroni introduced her to his associates—men with hard eyes and soft handshakes, their wives dripping in jewels that caught the light like captured stars. Through it all, he remained close, his attention focused on her with an intensity that made her skin crawl even as she smiled graciously.

"You know," he said during a lull in conversation, his voice lower now, more intimate, "there's something about you, Mrs. Castellano. Something that sets you apart from these peacocks." His eyes traveled deliberately over her figure, lingering on the curve of her pregnancy before meeting her gaze again.

Valentina felt heat rise to her cheeks—part genuine discomfort, part calculated response. "Mr. Maroni, I—"

"Call me Salvatore," he corrected, stepping closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. "And please, don't look so shocked. Pregnancy... it brings out something primal in a woman. Something beautiful and powerful." His finger traced along her gloved wrist. "Your husband is a fool to leave such a treasure unguarded."

She allowed herself to appear flustered, her breathing quickening in a way that could be mistaken for attraction rather than the adrenaline coursing through her system. "You're very kind, but I shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what?" His smile was predatory now, all pretense of gentlemanly behavior falling away. "Shouldn't accept a compliment? Shouldn't allow yourself to feel desired?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Shouldn't let a real man show you what you've been missing?"

The baby kicked hard against her ribs, and she gasped—a sound Maroni clearly interpreted as something else entirely. His hand moved to the small of her back, possessive and insistent.

"You're trembling," he murmured, and she realized with alarm that she was. Not from fear or revulsion, but from the effort of maintaining perfect control while every instinct screamed at her to act. "Come. Let me show you something private. Away from all these eyes."

Before she could protest—though her cover demanded she appear conflicted rather than resistant—he was guiding her through a side door, down a richly carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men who looked like they'd killed for less than a sideways glance.

His private study was exactly what she'd expected: dark wood paneling, leather-bound books that had never been read, and a massive desk that spoke of power and intimidation. But it was the wall safe behind the portrait of his mother that made her pulse quicken for entirely different reasons.

"Much better," Maroni said, closing the door behind them with a soft click that sounded like a trap springing shut. "Now we can really get to know each other."

He moved toward her with the confidence of a man who had never been refused, never been denied. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer despite the barrier of her pregnancy.

"Maroni, sir, please," she whispered, her voice carefully breathless. "This is... this is happening so fast."

"The best things always do," he replied, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Don't think, bella. Just feel."

As his hands grew bolder, as his breathing grew heavier against her neck, Valentina’s eyes remained sharp and calculating. She catalogued every detail: the position of the safe, the weight of the letter opener on his desk, the distance to the door. Her fingers, appearing to clutch at his jacket in passion, were actually feeling for the outline of the weapon she knew he carried.

The baby kicked again, violently this time, and she cried out—a sound of genuine discomfort that Maroni mistook for something else entirely.

"That's it," he whispered roughly, his hands moving with extreme intent. "Let me take care of you the way a woman like you deserves." He immediately drew in and started kissing her and grabbing her breasts, pushing her backwards towards the bed.

In that moment, as his guard dropped completely, as his attention focused solely on his conquest, Valentina’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The helpless, overwhelmed pregnant woman melted away, replaced by something cold and lethal.

"What the—"

Maroni 's words were cut short as Valentina stepped back with fluid grace that seemed impossible for someone in her condition. In one swift motion, her leg swept up high, her foot connecting with his throat and pinning him against the oak-paneled wall. Her belly, swayed to the side to make room for the leg in action, hanging low and impossible big, yet did not slow her down one bit. The movement was so fast, so precise, that he barely had time to register what was happening before he found himself trapped, gasping for air.

"Shh," she whispered, her voice no longer trembling with nervous excitement but steady as steel. "Make a sound louder than a whisper, and I'll crush your windpipe before your guards can even reach the door."

Maroni 's eyes bulged with shock and terror. The predatory confidence had vanished, replaced by the dawning realization that he was prey. He tried to speak, to call out, but the pressure on his throat allowed only the faintest wheeze.

"Good," Valentina said, her free hand moving to her swollen belly in what looked like a protective gesture but was actually something else entirely. From within the specially designed padding, she withdrew a thin, gleaming blade. "Now, Salvatore Maroni, we're going to have a very different kind of conversation."

His hands clawed at her foot, trying to relieve the pressure, but she adjusted her position with mathematical precision. Every movement was controlled, calculated. The baby bump that had made her appear vulnerable was revealing itself to be something far more tactical.

"The shipment arriving tomorrow at Pier 47," she continued conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Tell me about it. The one from Mexico with Capone's blessing."

Maroni 's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. She eased the pressure just enough to let him speak.

"I... I don't know what you're—"

The blade appeared at his jugular before he could finish the lie. "Wrong answer. My intelligence says otherwise. The guns, Salvatore. The new Thompson submachine guns. Where are they being distributed?"

"I… I… how?" he gasped.

"Nine seconds."

"Sweet Mary, mother of—" He tried to struggle, but her positioning was flawless, her leverage absolute. Years of training distilled into this single moment of perfect control.

"Eight."

"The warehouse!" he choked out. "The old brewery on Sullivan Street! But you'll never—"

"Distribution network?"

"Seven families." Fears fill his eyes. "How could you be prepared to be pregnant? Jesus Christ, how deep do you know?"

"Deeper than you can imagine." She pressed the blade a fraction closer. "The other families. Names."

The information poured out of him like blood from a wound—names, locations, dates, amounts. Everything the Bureau needed to dismantle his entire operation. Her mind catalogued each detail with photographic precision, storing away every revelation for the report she'd never live to file if she made even one mistake.

When he finished, gasping and shaking, she studied his face with clinical detachment.

"Please," he whispered. "I have children. Grandchildren."

"So did the families your guns killed," she replied softly. "So did the children caught in your territory wars."

"Who... who are you?" he gasped, terror peaked in his eyes.

"Someone who's been planning this conversation for a year," she replied, her voice eerily calm. "Someone who learned everything about your operation, your habits, your weaknesses. Someone who knows that your one fatal flaw is your inability to resist a pregnant woman." Her smile was razor-sharp. "Now, the Bureau sends its regards."

The word 'Bureau' hit him like a physical blow. His face went white.

"Bureau? You're... federal?"

“Doesn’t matter to you now anyway”, Valentina smiled, as she applied the pressure from her foot.

"Wait, please, I can give you more. I can—"

Valentina’s foot moved with deadly speed, finding the exact spot that would ensure silent death without struggle. Maroni 's eyes widened in surprise rather than pain, then slowly closed as his body went limp.

Valentina lowered her leg, stepping back to survey her work. She adjusted the padding around her middle, smoothing her dress, checking her hair in the mirror above his desk. She looks at herself in the mirror, her mind racing back to that fateful night where it all began.

—------------------------------------------------------------

9 months earlier

The case files were scattered across the kitchen table like fallen leaves, photographs of crime scenes mixing with surveillance reports and witness statements that led nowhere. Catherine Kyle rubbed her temples, trying to ease the headache that had been building for hours as she stared at the same dead ends that had plagued the Bureau for three years.

"Cat, you need to eat something." Her husband James set a plate of scrambled eggs beside her elbow, his own FBI badge catching the morning light as he leaned over to kiss the top of her head. "And maybe get some sleep. You've been at this all night."

"I can't, James. Not when we're this close." She gestured at the photos of Salvatore Maroni—grainy surveillance shots, blurry images from social events, always surrounded by his protective circle of killers. "Three years, James. Three years and sixteen dead agents. The Bureau is ready to classify him as untouchable."

James Kyle pulled out the chair beside her, his weathered face creased with concern. At thirty-five, he'd seen enough cases consuming good agents to recognize the warning signs. "Maybe they're right. Maybe it's time to try a different approach."

"What different approach?" Catherine's green eyes flashed with frustration. "We've tried everything. Undercover operations—he has them made within a week. Infiltrating his businesses—his security is too tight. Following his money—he's got judges and bankers in his pocket. The man is a ghost who happens to leave bodies in his wake."

She stood up abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked their modest apartment. At twenty-eight, Catherine Kyle was the youngest agent ever assigned to the Organized Crime Division, and the only woman. She'd fought for every case, proved herself with every arrest, but Maroni remained her white whale.

"We've been studying him for months," she continued, her voice heavy with frustration. "His patterns, his habits, his associates. There's something there, James. Something we're missing."

James rubbed his temples, staring at the photographs and documents they'd assembled over the past year. "We've been over this a hundred times, Cat. His inner circle, his business partners, the judges and officials he's bought. We know who they are, we know what favors they owe him, but we can't prove a damn thing."

"That's just it." Catherine slumped into her chair, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. "We keep hitting the same walls. Every lead on his associates goes nowhere. The corruption network is too tight, too careful." She gestured helplessly at the surveillance photos. "Judge Kellerman, DA Morrison, City Councilman Chen—we know they're in his pocket, but they're untouchable."

"Twelve months of surveillance on his social events," James muttered, flipping through reports. "Cataloging every handshake, every conversation between Maroni and these men. And what do we have to show for it? Nothing concrete enough for an indictment."

Catherine stared at the evidence board, her eyes unfocused. "We're missing something fundamental. Something obvious that we're just not seeing because we're too focused on..."

She trailed off, then suddenly sat up straighter.

"James, what if we've been looking at this all wrong?"

"How do you mean?"

She moved to the surveillance photos, scanning them with fresh eyes. "We've spent months analyzing every interaction between Maroni and the men in his circle. Every conversation, every deal, every favor exchanged. But what about their wives?"

James looked skeptical. "The wives? Cat, they're just... they're arm candy. Trophy wives there to look pretty and make small talk."

"Are they?" Catherine pulled out several photos from different events, laying them side by side. "Look at these images again, but this time ignore the men completely. Focus only on the women."

James approached reluctantly, then found himself studying the photographs with new interest. "Okay, I'm looking. They're all well-dressed, obviously wealthy..."

"Keep looking. What else do you notice?"

He examined each photo more carefully, his detective instincts slowly kicking in. The women's postures, their body language, the way they carried themselves... "They're all..." He paused, counting. "Jesus, Cat. They're all pregnant."

"Not just pregnant," Catherine said, her voice growing excited as the pieces fell into place. "Look at how far along they are. Mrs. Kellerman in this photo, Mrs. Morrison from the March gathering, Mrs. Chen from September..."

James studied the timeline, his expression growing darker. "They're all at roughly the same stage. Seven, maybe eight months along."

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. After months of focusing on the wrong targets, the real pattern had been hiding in plain sight.

"You think he's using them as informants?"

"I think he's obsessed with them," Catherine said quietly. "My contact in the Italian community says it goes back to his mother. She died in childbirth when he was twelve, trying to deliver what would have been his brother. The trauma shaped him in ways that make pregnant women both his weakness and his obsession."

James was quiet for a long moment, studying his wife's face. He could see the wheels turning, and could almost hear the dangerous plan forming in her mind.

"Cat, no."

"James —"

"No. Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no." He stood up, his voice rising. "You're talking about getting pregnant to catch a killer. Do you understand how insane that sounds?"

"Do you understand how many people die every month because we can't touch him?" she shot back. "Sixteen agents, James. Sixteen good men who left wives and children behind because conventional methods don't work with Maroni ."

"Then we find another way!"

"What other way?" She grabbed a file from the table, waving it at him. "The Bertinelli, the Benedettos, the whole connection—it all runs through him. Take him down, and we break the back of organized crime on the East Coast. Leave him alone, and the body count keeps rising."

James ran his hands through his hair, a gesture Catherine recognized as his attempt to stay calm. "Even if you're right about his obsession, even if getting pregnant would get you close to him—Cat, you're talking about carrying a child into mortal danger."

"I'm talking about being the only female agent in the Bureau, which means I'm the only one who can get close enough to him to make this work." Her voice softened slightly. "James, we've been trying to have a baby anyway. The timing could work perfectly."

"The timing?" He stared at her in disbelief. "You want to plan a pregnancy around a mafia investigation?"

"I want to plan a pregnancy around ending one of the most dangerous criminal enterprises in the country." She moved closer to him, taking his hands in hers. "Listen to me. Maroni 's next major gathering is planned for late spring next year. If we time this right, I'd be about seven months pregnant—far enough along to catch his attention, not so far that I couldn't handle myself if things go wrong."

"If things go wrong, you could lose the baby. You could lose your life."

"If we don't try this, dozens more people will lose their lives." She squeezed his hands. "James, I'm the best agent the Bureau has for close combat. You know that. My record speaks for itself."

"Your record doesn't include being seven months pregnant!"

Catherine was quiet for a moment, then spoke with deadly calm. "What if we fake it? Padding, prosthetics?"

James' eyes lit up with hope. "That could work. The risk would be minimal—"

"No." Catherine shook her head. "It wouldn't work. A man like Maroni doesn't survive by being careless. He'd see through a fake pregnancy in minutes—the way I move, the way I carry myself, a thousand little details that only a real pregnancy would provide. The plan only works if everything is authentic."

They stared at each other across the kitchen, the morning light casting long shadows between them. Finally, James sank back into his chair.

"Seven months," he said quietly.

"Seven months. Big enough to be obvious, small enough that I can still fight if I have to."

"And if the Bureau won't authorize it?"

Catherine’s smile was sharp as a blade. "Then they don't need to know the pregnancy was intentional. As far as they're concerned, Agent Catherine Kyle got pregnant and decided to use her condition to finally crack an impossible case."

James was quiet for a long time, staring at the photographs scattered across their table. Finally, he looked up at his wife—at the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw that he recognized from every major arrest she'd ever made.

"When do we start?" he asked.

Catherine smiled and began calculating dates in her head. By the time Salvatore Maroni held his next gathering, she would be carrying the perfect weapon to bring him down.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

7 months later…

"What?"

The word exploded from Catherine’s lips with such fury that James actually took a step back. She stood in their living room, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, the other gripping the back of their sofa so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

"Cat, please, just listen—"

"Listen to what?" Her green eyes blazed with an anger James had rarely seen, even in their most heated professional disagreements. "Listen to how 7 months of planning, 7 months of my body, 7 months of our lives have just been thrown away because the event is canceled?"

James moved toward her carefully, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Which is exactly why I'm relieved. Thank God it's off. Cat, you and the baby are safe now."

"Safe?" She laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in their quiet apartment. "Do you see this?" She gestured to her prominently rounded stomach. "Months of preparation. Months of timing everything perfectly. And for what?"

"For nothing, and I couldn't be happier," James said softly. "Cat, look at yourself. Really look. You're seven months pregnant. You can barely see your own feet. The idea of you going up against a killer in your condition was insane from the start."

"My condition is exactly what would have gotten me close enough to put a bullet in that bastard's head." Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And now it's all for nothing."

For a moment, the fight went out of her. She sank onto the sofa, both hands cradling her belly as the baby kicked restlessly, as if sensing the tension. When she looked up at James, desperation filled her eyes.

"Tell me more about it. What exactly did they say? Who made the decision?"

James sat beside her reluctantly, recognizing the tone that meant she wouldn't let this go. "The Bureau got cold feet. Too much risk, they said. Too many variables."

"But what about intelligence? The months of surveillance? All that work can't just be—"

"Cat, let it go."

"No." She turned to face him fully. "Something's not right. You're not telling me everything. What aren't you saying, James?"

He was quiet for a long time, and she could see the internal struggle playing out across his face. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"It's... it's not exactly canceled."

Catherine's eyes sharpened like a predator scenting prey. "What do you mean 'not exactly'?"

"It's been delayed. Postponed."

"When?" The word came out as barely a whisper, hope flickering in her voice.

"Cat—"

"When, James? When is the new date?"

He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he spoke with obvious reluctance.

"Two months."

Catherine's eyes widened, then began to shine with renewed hope and excitement. "Two months. That would make me..."

"Full term," James said, his voice suddenly sharp with alarm as he realized what she was thinking. "Thirty-eight, thirty-nine weeks. Cat, no. Absolutely not."

Her face lit up with the same fierce determination he'd seen when she'd first proposed this insane plan. "It could work. It could actually work even better. A woman that far along, that vulnerable—he'd never suspect."

"A woman that far along could go into labor at any moment!" James shot to his feet, pacing away from her. "Do you want to give birth in the middle of a firefight? Are you completely out of your mind?"

"I'm close to finishing what we started." Catherine struggled to her feet, her excitement making her movements more animated despite her bulk. "James, we're so close. Closer than anyone's ever been to taking him down."

"We're close to getting you and our baby killed!" His composure cracked completely. "Jesus, Catherine, listen to yourself! You're talking about going on a deadly mission when you're ready to pop!"

"I'm talking about completing the most important case of our careers!"

"You're talking about suicide!" James turned to face her, his face flushed with anger and fear. "I won't allow it. I forbid it. The answer is no, Catherine. Absolutely, unequivocally no."

But she was already calculating, her mind racing through possibilities. "I'm still the best hand-to-hand combatant the Bureau has. Pregnancy doesn't change that."

"Doesn't it?" He moved toward her, his eyes desperate. "Can you honestly tell me you're as fast, as agile as you were nine months ago?"

Instead of answering with words, Catherine smiled. In one fluid motion, she pivoted on her heel, using his moment of distraction to sweep his legs and guide him backward. Despite her bulk, despite the awkwardness of her condition, the movement was perfectly executed. James found himself on his back on their bed, staring up at his wife in amazement.

"Fast enough," she said, settling beside him with a satisfied smile. "Strong enough. Smart enough." Her hand trailed down his chest. "And apparently still attractive enough to catch a dangerous man off guard."

James's resistance was weakening, and they both knew it. "Cat..."

Despite everything, James found himself staring at her—really looking at the woman above him. The way pregnancy had transformed her body into something both powerful and feminine, her breasts fuller, her hips curved, that taut round belly that spoke of life and strength. His hands moved to span her waist, or what was left of it.

"God help me," he murmured, his voice roughening. "I'm starting to understand Maroni . I'm beginning to see what draws him to women like you."

"Like me?" Catherine's voice was breathless as his hands explored the changes in her body.

"The curves," he whispered, his palms tracing the swell of her belly, the fullness of her breasts. "The way you look so soft, so ripe, so..." His eyes met hers. "So incredibly beautiful carrying our child. That bastard sees the vulnerability, the maternal glow, the round belly and thinks 'easy prey.'"

"And you?" she asked, her lips finding the sensitive spot just below his jaw.

"I get the better version," James's voice was thick with desire and admiration. "I see all that beauty, all that feminine power, but I also know what's underneath. The deadly training, the sharp mind, the woman who can kill with her bare hands while looking like she should be home knitting booties."

Catherine laughed against his neck. "Are you comparing yourself to a murderer, Agent James Kyle?"

"I'm comparing myself to a man who can't resist his wife when she's this magnificent, this dangerous, this..." His hands cupped her face. "This is absolutely irresistible."

“I know”. Catherine laughed playfully as she leaned toward his body.

"Well. I'll need the baby's cooperation, of course," she continued, her voice taking on a playful tone as her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. "I'm hoping he or she decides to stay put until mama finishes her work. No early arrivals, no inconvenient timing." She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Think you could have a word with our child about professional courtesy?"

As Catherine's laugh dissolved into a deeper kiss, as their conversation shifted into whispered endearments and gentle touches that accommodated her condition, James found himself surrendering to both his desire and his wife's unshakeable determination.

Two months. Two months until she would use every weapon at her disposal—including the child they'd created—to bring down the most dangerous criminal on the East Coast.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And yes, you did. Thanks for your cooperation tonight, little one," Agent Catherine Kyle whispered to her unborn child, smoothing her hands over her swollen belly as she met her own eyes in the ornate mirror of Salvatore Maroni's private chamber. The reflection showed a demure society wife in pearls and silk, not the federal agent who had just crushed a crime lord's windpipe with her heel.

Behind her, Salvatore Maroni's body lay crumpled on the Persian rug where he'd fallen, his face purple and grotesque. The surprise in his eyes had lasted only seconds before her foot came down with lethal precision on his throat. All those months of combat training, adapted for her condition, had paid off. The knife she used just for interrogation was put back, concealed behind the garment—sometimes the simplest methods were the most effective. Catherine allowed herself exactly thirty seconds to catch her breath, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the mirror, before snapping back into action.

She moved to the body with practiced efficiency. The Bureau had been tracking Salvatore Maroni for three years, and they knew he carried his most valuable secrets not in any ledger or document, but etched permanently into his own flesh. Catherine knelt beside the corpse and began unbuttoning his shirt with clinical detachment.

There, sprawled across his pale chest in intricate black ink, was what the Bureau had been hunting for—a detailed tattoo map of underground tunnels, complete with coordinates and coded symbols marking safe houses, weapons caches, and money drops. But it was the names tattooed along his ribs that would truly bring down his empire: every corrupt judge, politician, and police captain on his payroll, rendered in elegant script along the curve of his torso. On his back, the names of all smaller mafia families that submitted to him were also laid out before her eyes.

Catherine pulled out the tiny camera hidden in her compact and methodically photographed every inch of the macabre artwork. The intelligence tattooed on Salvatore Maroni's body would dismantle the largest criminal network in the country.

She snapped the compact shut and moved to the massive oak desk. Salvatore Maroni's appointment book lay open, revealing meetings scheduled through the end of the month. Catherine photographed the pages with the tiny camera hidden in her compact, capturing names, dates, and locations that would give the Bureau everything they needed to roll up his entire organization.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed eight-thirty. She'd been gone from the party for exactly fifteen minutes—much longer and someone would come looking. Catherine quickly rearranged the scene, positioning Salvatore Maroni to look as though he'd simply had too much to drink and dozed off. By morning, when they found him truly dead, she'd be long gone. But now, the escape route…

“You know, if it wasn't for you, I would have just crawled the air ducts and jumped rooftops. Your mom is more action likey, you know”. Catherine talked jokingly looking down to her massive belly. “But, since I got it done thanks to you, I need to waddle through a thousand eyes again”.

She was adjusting her dress and fixing her hair when a sharp pain shot through her lower back and wrapped around her belly like a vice. Catherine gripped the edge of the desk, breathing through the contraction.

"Really?" she muttered, glaring down at her stomach as the pain subsided. "You've been the perfect partner all evening, and now you decide to make your grand entrance? Your timing, my dear child, leaves something to be desired."

The sound of footsteps in the hallway sent adrenaline flooding through her veins. Catherine straightened her shoulders, placed one hand on her lower back in the universal gesture of pregnancy discomfort, and prepared to play the role that would get her—and her baby—out of this mansion alive.

She opened the door with a satisfied smile. 2 guards at the door straightened as she emerged, their eyes automatically dropping to the small but unmistakable stain she'd carefully applied to her dress during her preparation.

"Gentlemen," she purred, adjusting her shawl with deliberate modesty. "Mr. Salvatore Maroni is quite... satisfied. He asked that I see myself out quietly."

Tommy nodded knowingly, his scarred face breaking into a crude grin. The evidence of her supposed encounter was exactly what these men expected to see. But Eddie frowned, tilting his head toward the closed door.

"It's awfully quiet in there, Tommy. Usually the boss likes his music after..."

Catherine felt her pulse quicken but kept her expression serene. "He mentioned wanting to rest. All that excitement, you understand." She placed a hand on her belly for emphasis.

Eddie's frown deepened. "I'm gonna take a quick look. Make sure everything's—"

"Of course," Catherine interrupted smoothly, stepping aside. "I do hope I haven't tired him too much."

Eddie pushed open the door and stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding Salvatore Maroni's crumpled form on the Persian rug. The boss's face was purple, his eyes bulging, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

"Jesus Christ!" Eddie gasped, his hand flying to his gun. "Tommy! TOMMY!"

He spun toward the door, ready to raise the alarm, but froze. The pregnant woman stood directly behind him, having moved with impossible silence. Her demure smile was gone, replaced by something cold and predatory. In that split second, Eddie realized he'd made a terrible mistake.

"How did you—"

The question died in his throat as darkness claimed him.

Catherine caught Eddie's unconscious form as he collapsed, easing him to the floor with practiced care. Outside in the hallway, Tommy lay equally still where she'd left him. She worked quickly now, dragging both men into the chamber's adjoining bathroom. Tommy was heavier, but adrenaline and months of modified training gave her the strength she needed. She positioned them both in the large marble bathtub, checking their pulses to ensure they were merely unconscious. She didn't want to kill them, just needed them out of her way.

Satisfied, she locked the bathroom door and pocketed that key as well, then secured the main study door from the outside. There should be twenty minutes before anyone else came looking.

Just as Catherine walked away from the door, the second contraction hit, twice as strong as the first. She doubled over, gripping the doorframe as the pain radiated through her entire torso. As it subsided, she felt a warm rush of fluid down her legs.

Her water had broken.

"Oh, perfect timing, sweetheart," she whispered through gritted teeth, looking down at her belly with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "Mama's in the middle of the most dangerous mission of her career, and you decide it's moving day. I suppose all this excitement has you eager to meet the world."

Catherine took a shaky breath and forced herself to move. She had perhaps an hour before the contractions became too intense to function. More than enough time to get out of —if she moved fast.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Downstairs, the hall thrummed with jazz music and drunken laughter. The baby inside Catherine seemed to press downward with each passing second, as if sensing the urgency.

Catherine forced herself to breathe through her nose, drawing on every technique they'd taught her at Quantico. Mind over matter. Control through discipline. She smoothed her dress, checked her reflection in the window's black glass, and walked toward the door.

The hallway stretched before her like a gauntlet. Persian rugs covered the hardwood floors—thank God for small mercies. Her heels clicked against the wood between carpets, but the sound was masked by the music below. Another contraction hit as she reached the top of the staircase, this one stronger than the last. She gripped the banister, willing her face to remain composed.

Smile. Look bored. You're just another dame leaving another boring meeting.

A drop of amniotic fluid hit the carpet runner. Then another. Catherine glanced back and saw the dark spots marking her path like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her forehead, using the motion to glance behind her. The trail was faint but visible if someone knew what to look for.

The main floor was a maze of cigarette smoke and silk stockings. Couples pressed close on the dance floor while others huddled over illegal gin at marble-topped tables. Catherine moved through them with practiced ease, her training allowing her to appear relaxed even as another wave of pain crashed through her midsection.

"Mrs. Castellano!"

Catherine's blood turned to ice. Tony Benedetto, Salvatore Maroni's lieutenant, emerged from the crowd with his gold-capped smile. "Leaving so soon?" Tony asked, his eyes scanning her face. There was something different in his expression tonight—sharper, more alert. "How did things go upstairs? The boss really took a shine to you. He always does with the ladies in your... condition." His gaze dropped meaningfully to her belly. "You're not the first expecting mother he's invited to his private study."

Catherine's face lit up with practiced delight, the kind of glow wealthy society women wore when discussing their conquests. "Oh, wonderfully! Your boss is such a charming man—so attentive, so passionate about everything." She pressed one hand to her stomach, letting a dreamy expression cross her features. "It's refreshing, really. My stupid husband was never so... engaged. Salvatore has such interesting stories, such worldly experiences."

Another contraction hit, stronger than before. She channeled the genuine discomfort into a delicate wince, the kind a pampered society lady might make. "Though I'm afraid this little one is being rather demanding tonight. All the excitement, perhaps."

Tony's expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Not suspicion exactly, but a kind of focused attention that made Catherine's skin crawl. "Sal does have that effect on expecting mothers. Very... nurturing."

"Indeed," Catherine replied with a tinkling laugh that sounded like champagne glasses clinking. "Though I should probably head home before this baby decides to make any more demands. You know how it is."

A thin stream of fluid ran down her leg. “Oh no, not now, please stop”. She started to feel sweat running from her temple, sticking on her hair. Catherine paused her breath, praying Tony wouldn't notice.

Tony stepped closer, that unreadable expression still in his eyes. "Sal always says expecting mothers have a special... glow about them. Makes them more interesting to talk to." His voice carried an odd undertone. "You seem to have impressed him more than most."

Catherine tried to maintain her bright society smile, even as alarm bells rang in her head. "Well, I do try to be good company. A woman in my condition doesn't get many opportunities for stimulating conversation these days."

"Right," Tony said slowly. "Well, don't let me keep you. Drive safe—wouldn't want anything to happen to you or the little one."

She turned toward the exit with a gracious wave, fighting every instinct that screamed at her to run. More fluid leaked with each step, leaving tiny droplets on the marble between carpets. Behind her, she could feel Tony watching, but his footsteps weren't following.

Don't look back. Don't run. Walk like a lady who's had a delightful evening.

The front door seemed miles away through the crowd of revelers. Finally, she reached the entrance where the same two guards who had checked her invitation hours earlier stood watching the crowd.

"Evening, Mrs. Castellano," the larger one said, tipping his hat. "Hope you had a pleasant time."

"Quite lovely," she managed with another practiced smile. "Though I'm afraid I need to cut the evening short. This little one isn't being cooperative tonight." She patted her belly with motherly affection.

The guards chuckled knowingly and waved her through without a second glance.

Outside, she spotted her black Packard parked under a street lamp inside the event’s compound. Catherine walked to the car with measured steps, her society lady smile never wavering even as another contraction built like a rising tide. “Just a bit more. Just. A. Bit”

She fumbled for her keys with shaking hands, the pain making her fingers clumsy. The car door felt impossibly heavy as she pulled it open and slid behind the wheel. As she turned the ignition, a massive contraction seized her, and she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white.

she gasped to her belly, her voice tight with pain and bitter affection. "Please give mommy a bit more time, sweetheart"

Behind her, shouts erupted from inside the building. Much sooner than she'd expected. She could hear men yelling Salvatore Maroni's name, car doors slamming.

"They found him," she whispered, gunning the engine. The Packard lurched forward as she pressed the accelerator, her hands trembling on the wheel. "Looks like you couldn't wait for a quiet exit either, could you, sweetheart?" she murmured to her unborn child, her voice mixing exhaustion with desperate tenderness. "Nine months of perfect timing, and now you want to steal the show."

The Packard's engine purred through the labyrinthine streets of South Side, each turn precisely calculated, each route memorized months in advance. Catherine had studied these roads like a scholar studies scripture—every alley, every shortcut, every possible escape path mapped and re-mapped until they lived in her muscle memory.

Behind her, the streets erupted in mechanical fury. Car engines roared to life from a dozen different directions, their headlights cutting through the night like angry eyes. Salvatore Maroni's men were spreading out across the streets in a desperate dragnet, but Catherine smiled grimly through another crushing contraction. They were chasing shadows. She had planned for this chaos, anticipated their panic, their predictable patterns of pursuit.

The beauty of her route lay in its simplicity—a series of residential streets that curved away from the criminal building in a gentle spiral, each turn taking her further from their search radius while appearing random to any observer. No straight lines, no obvious destinations, nothing they could predict or intercept. Her plan was perfect. Almost perfect. Almost

The only thing she hadn't planned for was the iron fist that seemed to be squeezing her entire midsection every few minutes, each contraction stronger than the last.

"Come on, sweetheart," she gasped between clenched teeth, one hand on the steering wheel, the other pressed against her belly. "Just hold on a little longer. Daddy's waiting for us, and then we can—"

Another contraction hit like a sledgehammer, and Catherine's foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The speedometer climbed as she raced through the empty streets, her breathing coming in sharp bursts. She could feel something shifting inside her, the baby dropping lower with each mile, each turn, each bump in the road.

The distant sound of engines was fading now, scattered across the city in futile pursuit. But the pressure between her legs was building, becoming impossible to ignore…

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Catherine had been driving for nearly two hours. By the time she reached the final stretch toward the suburb of Burnley, Catherine could barely focus on the road through the haze of pain. Sweat had soaked through her dress now—twice she'd had to pull over and breathe through the pain. But now it was different. Urgent. Final.

She spotted the designated meeting point—a small park overlooking the West River where her husband James would be waiting with a clean car and medical supplies. But as another massive contraction seized her, Catherine knew with crystal clarity that she wouldn't make it to those final three blocks.

The Packard lurched to a stop beneath a cluster of elm trees, hidden from the main road. Catherine's hands shook as she turned off the engine, then fumbled for the door handle. Each movement sent waves of agony through her body, but she forced herself out of the driver's seat and stumbled toward the back of the car.

The rear door felt impossibly heavy, but she managed to wrench it open and collapse onto the leather bench seat. There was no time for delicacy, no time for modesty. Catherine's hands found the delicate beadwork of her evening gown and tore at it with desperate strength, silk and sequins scattering across the car floor like fallen stars.

The fabric gave way with a satisfying rip, and suddenly her belly was free—enormous, pale, yet completely smooth with no sign of the strain of nine months' growth. Without the constraining silk, her abdomen seemed to expand even further, the skin stretched tight as a drum, blue veins visible beneath the surface like a roadmap of life itself.

Catherine struggled to position herself across the narrow bench, her back pressed against one door, her feet braced against the opposite window. The cramped space of the Packard's rear seat became her entire world as she spread her legs as wide as the confines would allow.

And then, for the first time in hours—perhaps for the first time in her entire life—Catherine Kyle let go of her perfect control.

“Nghhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

The scream that tore from her throat was nothing like the refined voice that had charmed Salvatore Maroni. This was primal, raw, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of her being. It echoed through the car and out into the silent night, carrying with it all the pain and fear and desperate strength she had been holding inside.

Her body arched with the force of the contraction, every muscle straining, her face contorted in an expression of pure animal intensity. Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down her cheeks, mixing with tears she didn't remember shedding. Her hands gripped the leather seat so hard her knuckles went white, and another guttural cry escaped her lips.

This was Catherine Kyle stripped of every pretense, every carefully constructed facade. Gone was the elegant wife who had sipped champagne and traded pleasantries with criminals. Gone was the cool-headed agent who had snapped a man's neck with surgical precision barely an hour ago. In her place was something far more elemental—a woman caught in the most fundamental act of human existence, her body doing what bodies had done for millennia, regardless of bullets or badges or carefully laid plans.

Her belly contracted again, the muscles rippling visibly beneath her skin like waves across water. The baby was coming whether the world was ready or not, and Catherine could only surrender to the inexorable force of biology, her body no longer her own but something ancient and powerful that knew exactly what it needed to do.

The night outside was surprisingly quiet and peaceful. Leaves fell down the path. Street lamps sparkling in the night mist. But inside the car, Catherine was beyond caring about that, beyond anything but the overwhelming need to push, to bring this new life into a world that seemed determined to tear everything apart.

The pressure was unbearable now, a burning, stretching sensation that consumed every nerve in Catherine's body. She could feel it—the baby's head, right there, pressing against her from the inside, demanding release. The knowledge should have been reassuring, but instead it filled her with a desperate urgency that made her heart race even faster.

Catherine pulled her knees toward her chest with trembling arms, her muscles screaming in protest as she forced her legs as wide as the cramped confines of the Packard would allow. The leather seat beneath her was slick with sweat and fluid, and she struggled to maintain her grip on her own legs as another contraction built like a gathering storm.

"Come on," she gasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Come on, baby, please..."

She bore down with everything she had, every ounce of strength and determination that had carried her through nine months of undercover work. The pressure intensified, and she felt the baby's head begin to emerge, stretching her beyond what seemed possible. For a moment—just a moment—she felt the crown of her child's head slip forward, and hope flared in her chest.

But then she had to breathe.

The instant she relaxed, the instant her muscles released their iron grip, she felt the baby's head slip back inside. The retreat was unmistakable, devastating, and Catherine's scream of frustration echoed through the car like a wounded animal.

"No! No, no, no!" she cried, panic flooding her system like ice water. "Please don't go back in! Please!"

She immediately bore down again, pulling her legs closer to her chest, straining until she saw stars. Again, the head emerged slightly, the burning stretch returning with renewed intensity. Again, she had to pause for breath. Again, the baby retreated.

"God, please," Catherine sobbed, her professional composure completely shattered. This wasn't like her training, wasn't like the careful control she'd maintained her entire adult life. Her body was betraying her, refusing to cooperate when she needed it most. "Stay out, please just stay out..."

The cycle repeated—push, emerge, retreat—until Catherine was gasping with exhaustion and terror. Each time the baby's head slipped back, she felt a piece of her confidence crumble. Each failed attempt brought her closer to complete panic.

She tried changing positions, bracing her feet against the car window differently, adjusting the angle of her hips. Nothing worked. The baby would crown for a few precious seconds, Catherine's heart would soar with relief, and then gravity and anatomy would conspire to pull her child back into the darkness.

"Why won't you come out?" she whispered desperately, looking down at her enormous belly for the first time with something she'd never felt before—genuine fear. Not the calculated risk assessment of an agent in the field, but the raw, primal terror of a woman whose body seemed to be failing her at the most crucial moment.

Her belly looked impossibly large from this angle, stretched, distorted, and tight. She could see the baby moving beneath the surface, restless and trapped, as desperate to escape as she was to deliver. The sight that had once filled her with wonder now seemed alien, frightening.

Catherine Kyle—who had walked into a den of killers without flinching, who had taken lives with her bare hands, who had maintained perfect composure under the most extreme pressure—was terrified. For the first time in her adult life, she was facing something she couldn't control, couldn't manipulate, couldn't overcome through skill or training or sheer force of will.

"I can't do this," she whispered, the admission torn from her like a confession. "I can't... I don't know how..."

Another contraction built, and she had no choice but to try again. She pulled her legs up, bore down with everything she had left, felt the familiar stretch and burn as the head emerged once more. This time she held her breath as long as she could, trying to maintain the pressure, trying to keep the baby from retreating.

But her lungs burned, her vision blurred, and when she finally gasped for air, she felt that devastating slip backward once again.

Catherine's scream this time was pure anguish, a sound that came from a place deeper than pain, deeper than fear. It was the cry of someone pushed beyond their breaking point, someone who had run out of options and was staring into an abyss of their own making. She was trapped in this leather-and-steel prison with her own failing body, locked in a battle she didn't know how to win.

The woman who had never met a problem she couldn't solve was drowning in her own helplessness, and for the first time in her life, Catherine wasn't sure she was strong enough to survive what came next.

"James!" Catherine's voice cracked as she screamed his name into the darkness, desperation making her sound like a lost child. "James, where are you? I need you! Please, I need you!"

The silence that followed was deafening except for her ragged breathing and the distant sound of the West River lapping against its banks. Another contraction was building, and Catherine felt herself breaking apart, fragmenting into pieces she didn't know how to put back together.

"JAMES!" she screamed again, her voice raw and primal. "Please! I can't—I can't do this alone!"

The baby's head pressed against her again, that familiar burning stretch, but this time Catherine barely had the strength to push. Her body felt like it was giving up, her spirit crushed by the endless cycle of hope and failure.

Then—like salvation itself—she heard the purr of an engine cutting through the night.

Headlights swept across the trees, and Catherine's heart leaped as she recognized the familiar rumble of James's Buick. The car pulled up beside her Packard, and suddenly the night was filled with the sound of car doors slamming and running footsteps.

"Catherine! My God, Catherine!"

When James appeared at the rear door of the Packard, Catherine dissolved completely. All the strength that had carried her through the mission, through the escape, through the endless nightmare of labor, simply evaporated. She was no longer Agent Catherine Kyle—she was just a woman in agony, crying for her husband.

"It hurts," she sobbed, reaching for him with trembling hands. "Oh God, James, it hurts so bad. I can't get the baby out. It keeps going back in, and I don't know what to do, and I'm so scared—"

James's face went white at the sight of her—his elegant, unflappable wife reduced to tears and desperation, her torn evening gown revealing the full magnitude of her struggle. But his hands were steady as they found hers, his voice strong and sure in a way that made her heart clench with relief.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he said, climbing into the car beside her, his large frame filling the cramped space. "I'm here, Cat. I’m here with you. Always”. The masculine yet soothing voice of James filled Catherine’s ears like the voice from an angel. “You're not alone anymore. You're the strongest woman I know, and we're going to do this together."

Catherine cried harder at his words, but they were different tears now—tears of relief, of gratitude, of love so fierce it took her breath away. "I tried so hard," she whispered. "I tried to be strong, but—"

"You are strong," James interrupted, his hands moving to cradle her face. "Look what you did tonight. You completed the mission, you escaped, you drove yourself here while in labor. You're incredible, sweetheart. Now let me help you bring our baby into the world."

Baby. The word sent a thrill through Catherine's exhausted body. Another contraction began to build, and James immediately shifted into position, his hands gentle but sure as he helped adjust her legs. "When the next one comes, I want you to push with everything you've got, and I'll guide the baby's head. Don't stop pushing until I tell you to, no matter how much it hurts. Can you do that for me?"

Catherine nodded, gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles went white. "Don't leave me."

"Never," he promised, his voice fierce with love and determination. "We're in this together."

The contraction peaked, and Catherine bore down with renewed strength, fueled not just by her own will but by James's unwavering presence beside her. She felt the familiar stretch and burn as the baby's head emerged, but this time James's hands were there, steady and sure.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice tight with emotion. "I can see her head. She's beautiful, Catherine. Keep pushing, don't stop—"

The pain was still excruciating, perhaps even worse than before, but somehow it felt different with James there. Manageable. Shared. When the urge to stop and breathe became overwhelming, his voice pulled her through it.

"I've got her head," James said, wonder creeping into his voice. "One more big push for the shoulders, sweetheart. You can do this."

Catherine summoned every ounce of strength she had left, every reserve of determination that had carried her through years of dangerous work. But now she wasn't pushing for the Bureau, or for justice, or for the mission. She was pushing for the family they were about to become, for the daughter who was fighting just as hard to be born.

With a final, earth-shattering effort, Catherine felt her baby slip free in a rush of warmth and relief so profound she thought she might faint. The sudden absence of pressure was shocking, overwhelming, like awakening from a nightmare into bright daylight.

And then—the most beautiful sound in the world.

A baby's cry, strong and indignant, filled the car and spilled out into the night. James' hands were gentle as he lifted their child, and when Catherine saw it for the first time—tiny, perfect, furiously alive—she began to cry all over again.

"It’s a girl”,James whispered, “She's perfect," his own voice thick with tears as he placed the baby on Catherine's chest. "She's absolutely perfect."

Catherine cradled her daughter against her skin, feeling the tiny heart beating rapidly against her own. After nine months of partnership, of shared missions and shared secrets, they were finally meeting face to face.

"Hello, little one," Catherine whispered, her voice soft with wonder. "You certainly know how to make an entrance."

The baby's cries quieted at the sound of her mother's voice, and Catherine felt a peace she hadn't known in months settle over her. The mission was over. The danger had passed. And here, in the backseat of her car under the stars, their family had officially begun.

—------------------------------------------------------

The baby settled against Catherine's chest with a soft sigh, her tiny fingers curled around a strand of her mother's hair. In the gentle glow of the car's dome light, Catherine could see every perfect detail—the delicate eyelashes, the rosebud mouth, the way her daughter's nose wrinkled slightly in sleep.

"She's extraordinary," Catherine whispered, unable to take her eyes off the miracle in her arms.

James smiled, his hand gentle as he stroked the baby's downy head. "She gets that from her mother. Speaking of which—" He looked at Catherine with pride shining in his eyes. "The mission was flawless. Absolutely flawless. Salvatore Maroni never saw it coming."

Catherine's face lit up with professional satisfaction, even in her exhausted state. "Nine months of preparation, and it worked exactly as planned. Well, almost exactly." She glanced down at their daughter with a rueful smile. "With Salvatore Maroni eliminated, the entire Maroni network will crumble within weeks. The Bureau will be able to roll up their entire operation."

"But?" James knew his wife well enough to hear the concern in her voice.

Catherine's expression grew serious. "The intelligence I gathered from Salvatore Maroni... There are other names. Smaller families, but growing. The Vitis are expanding their smuggling operations, and there's a family called Falcones that's been quietly building power in the dock districts. And not only families, but lone, young gangsters. I remember seeing names like Cobblepot or Sionis"

James nodded thoughtfully. "They're small now, but in a city like this..."

"Exactly. We should consider taking action before they grow too large to contain." Catherine shifted the baby slightly, her maternal instincts and professional mind working in parallel. "Crime in Gotham is like a hydra—cut off one head, and two more appear."

"Gotham's a big city," James said with a sigh. "Crime will always thrive here. We can never really rest, can we?"

Catherine was quiet for a moment, then smiled as the baby made a small sound in her sleep. "Speaking of rest, we should think about getting home. This little one needs proper care."

"About that," James said, his eyes twinkling. "I got a message from my mother before I came to find you. She wanted to congratulate us, and she's sent some... unusual baby gifts."

"Unusual how?"

"A litter of newborn kittens. Born tonight, just hours before our daughter. She thought it was fate—that they should grow up together."

Catherine laughed, the sound mixing exhaustion with genuine delight. "Kittens? Your mother certainly has interesting ideas about appropriate baby gifts."

"Well. She loves you. She started to raise cats when she knew how much you love them. And she wants to pass that tradition to our baby."

"And if she hates them instead?"

James grinned. "Then we'll have a house full of very disappointed kittens."

Catherine looked down at their sleeping daughter, her expression growing contemplative. "I hope she'll be strong like us, James. Strong enough to handle whatever this world throws at her. But I don't know if that kind of strength is a gift or a curse."

"Both, probably," James said softly. "The best gifts usually are."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts about the future, about the country they'd sworn to protect, about the tiny person who would grow up in the shadows of 's endless struggle between order and chaos.

"So," James said eventually, "we never did settle on a name if it was a girl."

Catherine smiled, running her finger along the baby's cheek. "Actually, I've been thinking about that for weeks but never came to an answer. But there's something perfect about tonight—the way she chose her moment, the way she fought to be born, the way she already seems so... independent. All in this destiny night"

"What are you thinking?"

"Selina," Catherine said softly. "Selina Kyle. It just sounds—mysterious, powerful, beautiful, like the darkness."

James tested the name quietly. "Selina Kyle." He nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his face. "It's perfect. Strong but elegant. Independent but not lonely."

"She'll make her own path in this world," Catherine murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Selina's forehead. "Whatever that path might be."

As if responding to her name, baby Selina stretched slightly in her mother's arms, one tiny hand reaching up toward the car's ceiling, fingers spread like small claws grasping at the stars visible through the window.

In the distance, the lights of Gotham City twinkled like fallen stars, and somewhere in those shadowy streets, the next generation of both heroes and villains was already being born. But for now, in this moment, there was only love, hope, and the promise of tomorrow held safe in a mother's arms.

The Kyle family was complete, and Gotham would never be quite the same.

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