#but poison is SUCH a cold and calculating weapon

[jarofstyles]

Getaway Car

Hi lovebugs! I have a one shot for you. We have a villainous Harry and his assistant turned lover for this one. I hope you guys enjoy this one, I enjoyed writing it! Please make sure to read the warnings

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WC- 6k

Warnings- organized crime, use of weapons, violence, blood, murder, injury, dom!H, degrading, breeding, kinda primal tbh

Harry leaned against the cold, hard wall of the jail hallway, handcuffs digging into his wrists. The pristine suit he wore was tailored to perfection, crisp and clean against his broad shoulders. His dark hair was combed back neatly, not a strand out of place. The suit jacket hugged his broad shoulders, perhaps a little too tightly, but it emphasized his powerful build. He crossed his ankles, nonchalant, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but his eyes were sharp and focused, watching the door that he knew Y/N would emerge from any moment now.

His tie was loose around his neck, the only sign of him being disheveled. His strong jaw was set, a muscle twitching as he ground his teeth together in irritation. He hated being caged, even if it was just a hallway. The man was used to being in complete control, to having power and calling the shots- and yet here he was, waiting like a restrained animal for her to emerge from the lion's den to break him out of here.

Harry's eyes flashed with a hint of his morbid nature as he thought about how he rarely got caught. How the fuck had it happened? He was slick, careful, calculated. There was no denying he knew what he was doing, and yet he had managed to get in some sort of trouble.. This little misstep was...unusual. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he could have slipped up. Was it arrogance that made him sloppy? Or was it...her? That infuriatingly alluring woman who had somehow managed to ensnare him.

A smirk played on Harry's lips as he thought about their dynamic. He wasn't used to having a partner, let alone one who was so fucking captivating. She was like a breath of fresh air, a challenge he couldn't resist. He had vowed to never take a lover, but Y/N went beyond that. The woman was simply different in every way. The way she handled herself, the fire in her eyes, the curve of her... His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open, and his head snapped towards the sound.

The metal handcuffs clinked softly against the wall as Harry pushed off from his casual lean and straightened to his full height. His dark eyes narrowed as he focused on the door, the intensity of his gaze enough to make even the toughest criminal squirm.

As soon as Y/N emerged, Harry's smirk widened. Oh, she was good. Too good. He could see the fire burning behind her eyes, the exhilaration of the game they were playing. The way her face remained stoic, unreadable, was admirable. He was the experienced one, the one who was supposed to be impossible to read, yet she matched him in that regard. No one else had ever been able to match him in any regard, and Y/N never faltered. "My dear." He drawled, his voice low and smooth.

As Y/N stepped closer, Harry felt his body relax just a tad. She slipped between his handcuffed arms, her chest pressed to his, her waist nipped perfectly by his arms. He could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her blouse, hear the soft rustle of her skirt. "You took your time." He murmured, his breath tickling her skin. His eyes never left her face, drinking in her expression as she played her part to perfection.

“I had to take care of some things.” She smiled coyly, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Poisoning the coffee isn’t a quick job, but I had to make sure they weren’t responsive. Had to sneak you out of here somehow, didn’t I?” Her nails ran over the back of his neck, rounded eyes laced with something sharp.

Harry's gaze remained locked on hers, his heart rate kicking up at the touch of her nails against his skin. "Impressive." He praised, his eyes glinting with admiration. "I didn't think you had it in you to be so...thorough." He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, his breath mingling with hers. "But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. You're full of delightful little surprises, aren't you?"

“I am.” The girl purred, leaning up on her toes as their noses brushed. “How thankful you must be to have such a cunning partner in crime. Thankful to see me?”

Harry's eyes flickered with a dark hunger as their noses brushed, her warmth and scent enveloping him. Coffee lingered over the natural sweetness. Part of him was still astounded that she’d pulled off a feat like that, but he shouldn’t be. She’d been proving herself quite easily, every step of the way. Y/N was a natural at all the bad things he liked to do. 

"Grateful doesn't begin to cover it." He whispered, his voice husky with desire. "I'm...thirsty, actually." He admitted, his gaze dropping to her lips. "For a kiss, to taste that clever mouth of yours again." His arms, still cuffed, tightened slightly around her waist as he pulled her closer. It was infuriating to not be able to run his hands over her to inspect and roll over her soft hips, but he didn’t mind giving her this moment.

“I’d like a thank you.” Her nose brushed his, taunting him a little. “I’ve got the key to those cuffs and everything, you know. The car outside. The security footage deleted, the cameras are all turned off.” Her nails dug into his skin just ever so slightly, making him hiss. “Say thank you, and then you can kiss me.”

Harry's eyes flashed with irritation at her teasing, his breath catching as her nails dug into his skin. He hated being at her mercy, hated that she had the power to make him beg. But he needed her, needed that kiss, needed to taste her. "Fuck," he spat out, his voice strained. "Thank you, you clever, infuriating little brat."

“Nicer.” She hissed, taking a bit of his hair and tugging roughly. “Be nice to me, or I’m not letting you touch me tonight. And I know just how much you need to let loose after shit like this.” The threat was a valid one, but Y/N knew the moment the cuffs were off he’d be able to take charge again. She was biding her time and power accordingly. “Be nice to me, baby.” The croon was soft, though her grip wasn’t. “M’a good girl for getting you free.”

Harry's eyes narrowed in frustration and a tinge of arousal at her tugging on his hair, his jaw clenched- but he knew she was right. As much as he hated it, he needed to play nice for now. He needed to be grateful, to show her how much he appreciated her efforts. "You are a good girl." he said through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "My very good girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"

“I do.” She purred, reaching up on her toes and smearing their lips together. “Lots of them. A necklace with the money you took, a vacation once this is over, and your face between my thighs when we get back to the house.” Pecking his stubbed cheek, she moved her lips back to his. “Now kiss me. Show me how much you missed me.”

Harry's control snapped at her words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He crashed his lips against hers in a bruising kiss, pouring all his pent-up frustration and desire into it. His tongue delved into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her tongue in the way he always loved to do it. Feeling her body press up against his as she chased his kiss, the soft sound of her hum against his mouth. Y/N was perfect, and he knew it. He nipped at her bottom lip hard enough to sting, soothing it with his tongue. "Fuck," he panted against her lips when they finally broke for air. “Fine. All of it. Just get these fucking cuffs off of me. We need to leave.” They’d been tempting fate just staying here as it was.

“Yes, sir.” She snickered, leaving one last kiss to his lips before pulling his arms back up so she could duck underneath them. The key was hidden in her bra, kept warm from her tits as she giggled from his expression. “What? I needed a hiding place.” Pulling the key out, he lifted his wrists up and began to unlock them.

Harry glared at her, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "In the future, if you're going to hide something important in your tits, at least give me a peek." He growled. "And if you ever call me 'sir' again like that, I'll bend you over my knee and spank you until you beg to be fucked. You know how I feel about that." Y/N knew to save that for the bedroom, but she was a bit of a brat. He knew that much, very well.

“You know I like a good spanking.” She purred, undoing the cuffs and letting them fall off his left wrist, then his right. It wasn’t smart to leave them, so she opened up his suit jacket to tuck the key and cuffs in the internal pocket. “We can play with these another day. Need t’get you out of here.”

Harry flexed his freed hands, relishing the feeling of being unbound. He grabbed Y/N's wrist before she could pull away, pulling her flush against him. "Oh, we will play with these again. Very soon." He promised darkly. "But first, let's get the fuck out of here before your little stunt attracts too much attention." He released her and stepped back, straightening his suit. "Lead the way, my clever little thief."

Y/N turned on her heel, strutting towards the exit with a confident sway to her hips. Harry watched appreciatively, his eyes locked onto her backside. He couldn't help but admire her poise, the way she carried herself like she owned the place. It was something that had drew him to her in the first place. Very few people had been able to make him feel interested in his life, but she’d caught his attention the moment she’d walked in the room. She glanced over her shoulder at him, catching him staring, and smirked knowingly. "Eyes up here, pervert." She teased, tossing her hair back with her nose in the air. Like she didn’t love feeling his eyes on her. She preened every time he looked her over and paid her extra attention.

Harry's gaze slowly lifted to meet hers, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Can't blame a man for looking." He drawled, sauntering after her. "Besides, I think I've earned the right to ogle you after you paraded around half-naked in front of me." He fell into step beside her as they exited the building, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back.

“First of all, you bought this dress for me. Secondly, you’re the one that got caught outside of a casino. Since you like me to be your distraction, I’ve got to look at least a little bit scandalous.” She scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder before reaching into her handbag for the car keys. “Can you handle driving, or do you need me to do it?”

Harry's eyes flashed with annoyance. "I didn't buy that dress for you to be a distraction. I bought it because it looks fucking incredible on you." He grunted. "And I didn't get fully caught. I'm here, aren't I?" He snatched the keys from her hand as they reached the car. "I can handle driving. Get in the passenger seat before I put you there myself."

Y/N rolled her eyes but climbed into the passenger seat, buckling up as Harry got behind the wheel. He started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, weaving through the streets with a skill that spoke to his experience in driving the getaway car. As they drove, the comfortable silence was interrupted when he reached over to rest his hand on her knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You did well back there." he mumbled, his voice softening from the monotone it usually was. "I'm impressed."

Harry’s praise wasn’t something he handed out generously. Sure, she was showered in it in the bedroom, but when it came to things like this? He was a much tougher critic. Harry and business were a serious pair, and he didn’t like mistakes or slacking off. He was harsh and eager to correct to ensure there weren’t any fuck ups.  Considering this was the first time he’d been actually dragged to the station in years she had been worried about his mood, but it wasn’t as bad as she thought. There had been a lot of panic when he had been taken away, but she did her best to handle it as well as she could. 

“Thanks.” She sighed, placing her hand over his. “You taught me well.” Y/N didn’t have a background in this stuff, only what Harry had taught her and she had picked up- but she did have to admit she did a very good job. A natural, really.

Though if she was honest, she had never anticipated that becoming his assistant would end up in her delving head first into the world of crime after catching something she wasn’t supposed to. Even less so, that she would fall for her man. Her boss. A criminal mastermind. “I told Delgado that the meeting to exchange would need to be moved to tomorrow, by the way.”

Harry's hand tightened slightly around hers before he released it, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated the dark streets. "Good thinking." He murmured. "Delgado can be a bit too eager sometimes. We need to make sure everything is in place before we make the exchange." He glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road.

"And just to be clear," He continued, his tone sharper. "Tomorrow, during the meeting, you're going to stay in the car. I don't care if Delgado tries to shoot me or if he offers you a million dollars, you do not get out of that vehicle. You understand me?" He asked, his gaze intense on the road ahead. "Your safety is my number one priority, and I won't risk losing you over some stupid deal."

“I know. Stay in the car, aim the gun, shoot only if necessary.” She drawled, rolling her head to look at his side profile. It was almost irritating, how unnaturally beautiful the man was. He was evil in a lot of ways, downright terrifying- but you’d never expect it considering he looked like one of the most beautiful works of art. A face like his belonged in a museum, painted with oils or carved into marble. “I know the drill. The man gives me the creeps anyways. I’ll let you and George deal with him.”

Harry chuckled darkly. "Good girl. Don't worry, George and I will make sure Delgado doesn't try anything stupid- though he isn’t a very smart man." He turned down a familiar street, heading towards their safehouse. "In fact, I think George might be looking forward to this meeting a bit too much. The man's got a real hard-on for scaring the shit out of our past clients."

Harry pulled into the garage of the safehouse, parking the car and turning to Y/N. "Now, come inside. I think we both need to... unwind a bit." He gave her a wolfish grin, his eyes glinting with that familiar predatory look. "And I think I promised you something earlier, didn't I?" He asked, stepping out of the car and rounding to open her door. "Something about my face between your thighs?"

——

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the meeting taking place outside. Harry stood tall, his back straight as he spoke with Delgado. George loomed beside him, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the other man with a cold gaze. Delgado the creep, on the other hand, fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting back and forth between two men.

Something was definitely up. Her eyes could see it but her body could sense it even if he hadn’t pulled anything quite yet. The man had always been creepy, but something else was at play here. She just wasn’t sure what.

Harry had insisted she stay in the car as she usually did, but she had a feeling he would need to get out. one way or another. Her hand flexed on the weapon, watching between the men and the van opposite them.

The meeting seemed to be growing heated. Delgado's gestures became more animated, his face red with either anger or frustration. Harry, however, remained calm, his expression unreadable. Y/N could see the tension in his shoulders, though, the way his hand tightened around the briefcase he was holding. Beside him, George’s hand slowly drifted to the gun at his side, his stance widening slightly. Something was definitely off.

The van's side door slid open, and a man stepped out, his hand resting on the handle of a gun holstered at his hip. Delgado nodded towards him, and the man approached Harry, speaking in a low tone. Harry's expression didn't change, but his gaze flickered to Y/N in the car before returning to the man. George’s hand tightened around his gun, and Y/N could see the muscles in his jaw clenching.

The man from the van handed Harry a small device, which he examined briefly before pocketing it. He turned back to Delgado, his voice low and even. "We've got a problem," he said. Delgado's face paled, and he glanced nervously at the man who had spoken. 

As if sensing the impending danger, Harry's head snapped towards Y/N just as she heard the click of guns being cocked. Without hesitation, she burst out of the car, her own weapon drawn and firing. The first bullet hit the man closest to Harry, and chaos erupted. Harry dove for cover, his own gun now in hand as he returned fire. George spun, taking out two more men with precise shots. They surely didn’t know who they were messing with when they tried to fuck over Harry, but they were finding out very quickly.

Delgado, realizing that the situation had spiraled out of control, turned to run but was cut down by Harry's shot. The man himself rolled, coming up in a crouch to fire at another of Delgado's men. As he straightened, he saw Y/N, her hair billowing around her as she moved like a dancer, each step graceful yet deadly.

In mere moments, it was over. The bodies of Delgado's men littered the ground, and an eerie silence fell. Harry approached Y/N, his eyes dark with a complex mix of emotions - anger, concern, and something almost akin to pride. "What the fuck were you thinking?" He growled, but there was an undercurrent of relief in his voice. "You could have been killed." Reaching out, his hand cupping her face tenderly, a contrast to the stiffness in his body and anger boiling over that she could physically see.

His thumb brushed gently over her shoulder, coming away with a streak of red. He looked at the blood, his eyes flashing with anger. "You're bleeding." He said, his voice low and dangerous. His gaze flicked to her shoulder, where a tear in her dress revealed a graze from a bullet that she hadn’t even felt. The adrenaline hadn’t even made her aware she’d been hit at all, too focused on making sure Harry was okay. "We need to get you cleaned up." He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her protectively. "But first, let's get out of here. I don’t know if the stupid fuck has anyone to call for backup. We’ve got our money."

—

Harry drove them back to the safehouse, his entire body visibly tense as he gripped the steering wheel, his leather gloves stretched over his clenched knuckles. The silence between them was thick, charged with unspoken words. He was mad at her for getting out of the car. Y/N knew as much, but he wasn’t about to fight him right now. 

 Once they arrived, Harry gave her no choice to walk on her own. Strong arms scooped her up carrying her through the house wordlessly, making his way upstairs to their bedroom. Setting her down gently on the bed, his touch was surprisingly tender given his earlier anger. "Let me get the first aid kit. Stay sitting right here. Do not move." He said gruffly, disappearing into the bathroom.

As Harry returned with the first  kit, Y/N reached out, grabbing his arm and pulling him down onto the bed with her. He landed on top of her, his eyes widening with surprise. "Y/N, you're fuckin’ hurt-" He began, but she cut him off, crushing her lips against his. She kissed him hungrily, her body pressing against his as she wrapped her legs around his waist. "I'm fine. I don’t even feel it. Jus’ want you." She panted against his lips.

Harry hesitated for a moment, his moral compass warring with his desire. He barely had one to begin with, but with her in his life it had shifted to give the shreds of care he had to her and her wellbeing. But when Y/N's hands began to roam over his chest, her touch hot and insistent, he groaned and gave in. As much as he wanted to resist, his little devilish brat was his one and only true weakness. There was nothing else he gave a fuck about, but Y/N had managed to snare and tangle him in her web. Make him things he never felt in his life. It had been thought by everyone, himself included, that he wasn’t capable of love. Or caring. But the girl underneath him had torn down everything he had thought he once knew, making him give into the unfamiliar desires. There was no way he could say no to her. His own hands slid up her thighs, pushing her dress up to her hips. "You're so fucking reckless. Should spank you raw for what you did, but I know why you did." he growled, his fingers finding the edge of her underwear. "But god, I love that you gave the first shot. Love that you’re so needy for me."

He tore her underwear aside, his fingers sinking into her slick heat. Y/N cried out, her back arching off the bed as he plunged two fingers inside her. He wasn’t patient in the slightest with his pace, pumping them in and out, his thumb rubbing rough circles against her clit. "So damn wet," he muttered, adding a third finger and scissoring them inside her. Y/N's hands fisted in his hair, tugging him closer as she rocked her hips against his hand. “Works you up to be bad, hm? Y’like to make me worry about you? Like to ring the first shot out? Trying t’protect me. Silly little fucking brat. Can’t listen t’me ever, but you still manage to make me proud.”

His fingers curled up, finding that sweet spot inside her and stroking it relentlessly. It hadn’t taken him long to memorize her body, make a mental map of where she liked to be touched, the most sensitive areas he used to his advantage. It didn’t take much to get her off, his needy slut. Harry was dedicated to the craft of getting her off and he wasn’t about to stop it now. Y/N's moans filled the room, her body tensing as he drove her closer and closer to the edge just with his hand. He could feel her inner walls clamping down around his fingers, her breathing coming in short, sharp pants. He leaned down, his mouth latching onto her breast, drawing her hardened peak into his mouth through the fabric of her top

“Fuck me.  Fuck me right now.” She hissed, growling up at him as the hunger burned through her. “I need it. Give it to me.” Y/N was beyond reason, her body burning with need. She reached down, fumbling with Harry's belt and zipper. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to free his cock and pushed down his briefs, grabbing it and guiding it to her entrance. She was soaked, her pussy clenching around his thick head as she tried to push him inside herself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She chanted, her nails digging into his bicep as she tried to impale herself on him.

Harry gritted his teeth, his body shaking as he held himself back from slamming into her. "Baby, let me..." He panted, but she was beyond hearing him. Her hips bucked, taking him in another inch. He groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder as he tried to regain control. "You'll hurt yourself. Be careful." He ground out, eyes feeling blurry at the feel of her trying to drag him inside.

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she urged him on. "Y/N..." he warned, his voice low and dangerous. But she ignored him, her hips lifting again, taking more of him inside her. He hissed, his hands gripping her wrists and pinning them above her head. "Alright, you leave me no choice." he growled.

With a swift, powerful thrust, Harry buried himself to the hilt inside her. She let out a loud moan, her head thrown back as he stretched her impossibly full. He set a steady and full pace, fucking into her with deep, hard strokes. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard hitting against the wall with each thrust. Harry's eyes were dark with lust, his face a mask of concentration as he took what she so desperately needed. She had brought him over, made him lose that control he liked to keep wrapped up. He should have known she was going to do it. 

"Harry...please, I want more." Y/N panted, her body writhing beneath his. He growled in response, his hands tightening around her wrists as he increased the tempo. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their moans and the creaking of the bed. "Harder, Sir. Please, want it harder..." she begged.

Harry's thrusts became rough, his cock slamming into Y/N's soaked pussy with relentless force. Her legs trembled around his waist, her hips bucking to meet each of his powerful strokes. She was a dripping mess, her juices coating his cock and running down her thighs, but she didn’t care. There was nothing she cared more about than getting to cum. The sound of his balls slapping against her ass filled the room, accompanied by the lewd squelching of his dick plunging in and out of her sopping cunt.

"Don't stop...please don't stop..." Y/N whimpered, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. The rush of adrenaline had hit her full force, and she needed this to get it out of her system. The only person who could give it to her the way she needed was the man above her, and she wasn’t above begging. 

Harry snarled, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he doubled his efforts. He could feel her tightening around him, her body tensing as she approached her peak. "That's it, love...cum for me, all over this cock." He snarled, his hand snaking between their sweat-slicked bodies to rub her clit. "Let go..."

He pinched her swollen pearl between his fingers, rolling it roughly as he pounded into her. “There. Give it to me, now.” 

There was no way to disobey. Playing her body like his favorite game, Y/N screamed, her body trembling as she shattered. Her inner walls rippled around him, squeezing him like a vice as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. He felt the gush of her release, her juices coating him as she cried out his name. But he didn't stop, continuing to pound into her through her release. "Oh my god- oh my god, Harry.."

With a powerful arm around her waist, Harry pulled out momentarily to flip Y/N onto her stomach, his hands gripping her hips and pulling her ass up to meet him. She braced herself on her hands and knees, her fingers clawing at the bedspread as he entered her from behind. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper, and she gasped at the intense sensation. She was still sensitive and shaky, but he gave her no time to recover. Secretly, she didn’t mind. Underneath it all, she liked being used. She loved being fucked by him, feeling his powerful body pin her down and let her be used by him to get him to the place she knew she owned.

Harry's hands tightened on her hips as he began to thrust again, his voice low and growling in her ear. "You love that, don't you? You love the way my cock fills you all the way up." He punctuated each word with a sharp hip thrust, his hips slapping against her backside. "Say it," he commanded, his voice hoarse with desire. "Tell me you love my cock fucking that filthy cunt..."

Y/N moaned, her head dropping forward as he set a relentless pace. "Oh god, yes...I love it...love your cock in my filthy cunt.” There was an attempt to push herself up onto her palms but it failed miserably. “Filling me so perfectly… I love it so much." Her words ended in a cry as he reached around to fondle her breasts, his fingers tweaking her hardened nipple painfully. 

Y/N's body was consumed by lust, her own mix of adrenaline and primal urges taking over. She rocked back against him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts. Her hair was a wild mess, sticking to her sweat-slicked face. She bared her teeth in a feral grin, reveling in the delicious stretch of his cock inside her. "That's it...fuck me like the bitch in heat I am..."

Harry's breath hitched in his throat, his body tensing at her words. His hands gripped her hips painfully tight, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "Is that what you want? You want me to mount you? Filthy slut." He snarled, slamming into her with such force that she slid forward on the bed. "You want me to breed that needy little hole?"

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, I need it.” She slurred. “I can take it. I want everything, I want you to give me everything.” It was delirium, maybe, but she loved becoming unhinged like this. After a meet, after a robbery, after anything that set her nerves on fire, Harry knew what she needed every damn time. 

"Then take it." He pulled out, spinning Y/N around to face him before slamming back inside her. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the bed as he stood and let her back hit the cool wall, his cock driving into her as he held her up. She screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist as he fucked her against it the wall, her head rubbing up against the drywall with each thrust.

His eyes locked onto hers, black with lust as he continued to drive into her. The sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room, punctuated by Y/N's breathless moans and his own guttural grunts. His hands squeezed her asss, spreading her cheeks apart to allow him deeper inside. She could feel him so deeply, the pressure bordering on pain, but she never wanted it to end. "Fuck- fuck me.” She whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s so good. Use me. Please, I want t’make you happy.”

"You are, baby. Make me so happy.” As happy as a man like Harry could be. It had been a foreign emotion the first time he felt it, the weird warmth in his chest making him worry he may be having a silent heart attack- but it had been happiness. Butterflies. An odd sensation that he came to look forward to. “You do such a good job every time. Perfect slut, taking every fucking inch..." He panted, his sweat dripping down onto her. He could feel her tightening around him, her body preparing for another orgasm. "Want you t’cum for me again." he demanded, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Know you can do it."

He increased his pace, his cock slamming into her with punishing force. The wall shook with each impact, the painting he had hanging up rattling on the surface. Y/N's mouth fell open in a silent scream, her eyes rolling back as he fucked her with wild abandon. He could feel his own release approaching, his balls drawing up tight. "Fuck, 'm going to fill this cunt up. Breed it like y’want me to." 

The words were a trigger. Y/N's body heated up as she took it, the overwhelming feeling cresting and falling over the edge as her back arched as she came with a guttural moan. Her pussy clenched around him like a vice, rippling along his length as she gushed around his pistoning cock. It was a mess, dribbling down to his balls as more was forced out with each slam inside of her sensitive, quivering pussy.

 The sensation was too much, and with a deep growl that came from the center of his chest, Harry buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he pumped her full of his hot cum. He ground against her, making sure every last drop was inside her. "Take it all..." Y/N whimpered, her oversensitive walls fluttering around him as he filled her to the brim. The feel of the heat inside of her soothed something bone deep, clinging to his body as she felt herself go weak. His hips jerked with each pulse, working his cock deeper, ensuring his seed was planted as far inside her as possible. "There it is, baby. It’s all for you. Shit."

Finally spent, Harry slumped forward, pinning Y/N against the wall with his weight. They were both panting, sticky and exhausted- but happy. He could feel his softening cock still nestled inside her, plugging her up. "Mm. Want t’keep it all inside," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Let it soak into my greedy cunt..."

Y/N's body went limp in his arms, letting him take over in holding up her body. It was the least he could do, after all. A blissful smile played on her lips as she basked in the afterglow. "You took me so well," Harry praised, his voice a low rumble. "Such a good girl." There was the praise she knew would be coming. He was more generous in these moments, after he’d given her all he had. The selective vulnerability was something she cherished.

Despite her disobedience, Y/N's impulsive actions had ultimately saved him. And as his nature took over, the only way he knew how to express his gratitude was by giving her what she needed. "You were disobedient, but you saved me." His hand slid up to collar her throat, pressing a kiss to her swollen lips. "You deserved to be rewarded..." he murmured. "And oh, how you took it."

[lazy-ahh]

ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

[insidekatmind]

Share~ Berlin (Song Jung-ho) and Cho Sang Woo

Wearning: +18,smut,dark, semi-public,age-gap.

Request: yes!

The conference room is an ocean of glass and neon lights reflecting off tables too shiny to seem real. You are sitting next to Cho Sang Woo, the head of the company, the man you have come to know not only as a cold and calculating leader, but also as the lover who rescued you from your own inexperience. He is forty-six, you are just twenty-four.

It all started with glances that lingered too long and with stolen meetings between the sterile walls of the offices. No one knows about the two of you, and perhaps this is your greatest charm. A secret to be guarded with care and desperation.

Then, that day that was supposed to be ordinary turns into a nightmare. The robbery strikes like a lightning bolt that tears through the artificial tranquility of the building. Masked men, screaming voices, weapons that shine. And among them is Berlin.

Berlin is everything you have always tried to avoid. His eyes that burn with a frightening intensity and a smile that promises danger disguised as charm. He doesn’t know anything about you, at least not at first, but his interest shows almost immediately.

You feel his gaze following you as the days turn into a controlled hell. Every time he passes by you, he speaks to you with studied politeness, with a smile too sharp to be kind. But there’s something in his eyes that goes beyond simple curiosity. Something dark, that tightens around you like an invisible noose.

You’re forced to stay close to Sang Woo, even though doing so only seems to draw Berlin’s attention more. Because he sees everything. He knows everything. And you realize that what you think is fear for your life is a kind of challenge for him.

One night, as chaos reigns in the makeshift bunker, Berlin finds you alone. His voice is calm, his smile complicit. But his eyes… his eyes are those of a predator. He talks to you as if you were already his, as if all this were just a cruel game created to bend your will.

“It’s fun, you know? In the midst of all this mess, you manage to be so… perfect.”

“Leave me alone.” You reply in a voice that you wish was firmer, but betrays every fear you have.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong.” He smiles again, more coldly. “This is just the beginning.”

And you know he’s not bluffing. Berlin’s obsession is a subtle poison that creeps into your mind, as you desperately try to survive and protect a forbidden love with a man who may no longer be able to protect you.

Now you were in the bathroom of the state mint, while you were riding Sang woo trying not to moan too loud as he was holding Denver outside the door waiting for you two to come out.As you sit on the cold marble countertop, your legs wrapped tightly around Sang Woo's waist, his hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you closer as he thrusts deeper inside you. The bathroom is filled with the sounds of your labored breathing and the soft slapping of skin against skin, muffled by the thick door that separates you from the rest of the world.

Sang Woo leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "Shh, my love. We can't let Denver hear us." His voice is low and husky, sending shivers down your spine. He knows just how to touch you, how to move, to drive you wild with desire.

You bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan as he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks on his skin.

You continue to ride his cock as you pull him into a kiss, moaning into his mouth. Sang Woo kisses you back fiercely, his tongue invading your mouth as he devours you. His hands roam your body, caressing your curves possessively. He pulls away briefly to murmur against your lips, "You're mine. Only mine."

He starts to move faster, harder, his hips snapping against yours. The countertop creaks ominously beneath you, but neither of you care. All that matters is the pleasure building between you, the desperate need to claim and be claimed.

At that moment the bathroom door opens and Berlin comes in and smirks as he looks at you naked. Berlin leans against the doorframe, his eyes roaming over your naked body with unabashed hunger. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face as he takes in the scene before him. Sang Woo still buried deep inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist, the two of you locked in a passionate embrace.

"Well, well, well," Berlin drawls, his voice dripping with amusement and something darker, more sinister. "What do we have here? The boss and his little plaything, getting their rocks off in the mint bathroom." He pushes off the doorframe and starts to walk towards you, his movements fluid and graceful, like a panther stalking its prey.

Sang Woo freezes, his body tensing as he realizes they're no longer alone. He turns his head slowly, his eyes narrowing as he sees Berlin approaching. "Get out," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "This doesn't concern you."

Berlin just laughs, a cold, mirthless sound. "Oh, but it does concern me. Everything that happens in this mint concerns me." He stops a few feet away from you, his gaze never leaving your face. "And I must say, I'm intrigued. I had no idea our dear boss had such... tastes."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You flinch away instinctively, pressing closer to Sang Woo. Berlin's smile widens, a flash of sharp teeth. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not going to hurt you. Yet." His eyes flick to Sang Woo. "But you, on the other hand..."

“No please, don't hurt him,” you whispered, looking at Berlin with pity.

Berlin's eyebrows shoot up, a look of mock surprise crossing his face. "Oh, how touching. The little kitten cares about her master." He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "But let me tell you something, sweetheart. I don't hurt people. I break them."

He straightens up, his gaze locking with Sang Woo's. "You've been a thorn in my side for too long, Cho. And now, I finally have the leverage I need to make you beg." His hand snaps out, grabbing your chin roughly. "She's going to be my new toy, and you're going to watch. Or maybe you'll join in. I haven't decided yet."

Berlin's thumb presses against your lower lip, forcing your mouth open. "Such a pretty little mouth. I bet it feels amazing wrapped around a cock." He looks back at Sang Woo, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "What do you say, boss? Want to share your plaything with me?"

Sang woo looked at you and you nodded, not wanting him to get in trouble. Sang woo sighed and spread your ass cheeks wide and motioned for Berlin to join. Berlin's eyes light up with sadistic glee as he sees the resignation in Sang Woo's gaze and the subtle nod from you. He moves closer, his hands reaching out to grip your hips possessively. "Good choice, boss," he purrs, his fingers digging into your flesh.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make sure you enjoy every moment of this." His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts roughly. "Such perfect tits. I can't wait to see them bouncing as I fuck you."

Berlin steps back, quickly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. His cock springs free, long and thick and already hard. He strokes it slowly, his eyes never leaving your face. "Open your mouth, kitten. It's time for your first taste of your new master."

Sang Woo's hands remain on your ass, spreading your cheeks wide as he waits for Berlin's next move. His expression is a mask of indifference, but you can see the anger simmering in his eyes. He's doing this for you, to protect you, but the humiliation is clear in every line of his body.

You hesitate for a moment, your heart racing with a mix of fear and unwanted arousal. But the look in Sang Woo's eyes, the silent plea for you to cooperate, makes your decision for you. Slowly, you part your lips, leaning forward to take Berlin's cock into your mouth.

Berlin groans, his hand tangling in your hair as he guides you further down his length. "That's it, kitten. Suck it like a good girl." His hips thrust forward, forcing his cock deeper into your throat. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you struggle to breathe, but you don't pull away.

Meanwhile, Sang Woo's fingers tighten on your ass, his nails digging into your skin.

You started bouncing on Sang woo's cock while sucking Berlin's cock.

Berlin's grip on your hair tightens as you start bouncing on Sang Woo's cock, your mouth working feverishly on his own. "Fuck, yes," he groans, his hips pistoning forward to meet your movements. "Such a greedy little slut, taking both of us at once."

Sang Woo's hands slide up to your waist, gripping you tightly as he thrusts up into you. His face is a mask of concentration, his jaw clenched as he tries to maintain control. But you can see the desire burning in his eyes, the way his gaze lingers on your bouncing breasts, your stretched lips wrapped around Berlin's cock.

Berlin pulls you off his dick suddenly, a cruel smile on his face. "Enough foreplay," he growls.

Berlin positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips tightly. Without warning, he thrusts forward, his thick cock piercing your tight asshole. You scream in pain and pleasure, your body convulsing at the sudden intrusion. Sang Woo's hands fly to your breasts, squeezing them roughly as he tries to hold you steady.

"Relax, kitten," Berlin pants in your ear. "You're taking us so well. Such a perfect little fuck toy." He starts to move, his hips slamming against your ass with brutal force. Each thrust pushes you forward onto Sang Woo's cock, the two men fucking you in tandem.

The sensation is overwhelming, the pain and pleasure mingling until you can't tell them apart. Tears stream down your face as you're used mercilessly, your body a mere plaything for their desires.

"Oh god" you groan.

Berlin's grip on your hips tightens, his nails digging into your skin as he pounds into you relentlessly. "God has nothing to do with this, kitten," he snarls. "This is pure, unadulterated sin. And you're loving every second of it."

Sang Woo's hands roam your body, pinching and twisting your nipples, leaving bruises on your thighs. His thrusts become more urgent, more desperate. "You're ours now," he growls. "Our little whore to use as we please."

The room fills with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, grunts and moans and the occasional scream. Your body is no longer your own, but a vessel for their pleasure. And despite the pain, the humiliation, a part of you revels in it. In being owned, possessed, completely and utterly controlled.

"Oh god" you groan.

Berlin's grip on your hips tightens, his nails digging into your skin as he pounds into you relentlessly. "God has nothing to do with this, kitten," he snarls. "This is pure, unadulterated sin. And you're loving every second of it."

Sang Woo's hands roam your body, pinching and twisting your nipples, leaving bruises on your thighs. His thrusts become more urgent, more desperate. "You're ours now," he growls. "Our little whore to use as we please."

The room fills with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, grunts and moans and the occasional scream. Your body is no longer your own, but a vessel for their pleasure. And despite the pain, the humiliation, a part of you revels in it. In being owned, possessed, completely and utterly controlled.

"So good" you groan in pleasure.

Berlin laughs darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Yes, it is good, isn't it? You're such a naturalborn slut." He leans forward, his teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder, marking you as his. "Come for us, kitten. Show us how much you love being our little fuck toy."

Sang Woo's hand snakes down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it roughly. "Do it," he commands, his voice husky with desire. "Come on our cocks like the dirty little whore you are."

Your body responds to their demands, the pleasure building to an overwhelming crescendo. With a scream, you come undone, your body convulsing between them as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. Berlin and Sang Woo follow shortly after, filling you with their hot seed, marking you inside and out as theirs.

Berlin laughs darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Yes, it is good, isn't it? You're such a naturalborn slut." He leans forward, his teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder, marking you as his. "Come for us, kitten. Show us how much you love being our little fuck toy."

Sang Woo's hand snakes down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it roughly. "Do it," he commands, his voice husky with desire. "Come on our cocks like the dirty little whore you are."

Your body responds to their demands, the pleasure building to an overwhelming crescendo. With a scream, you come undone, your body convulsing between them as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. Berlin and Sang Woo follow shortly after, filling you with their hot seed, marking you inside and out as theirs.

You sigh and lean into Berlin's chest as you touch Sang woo's shoulders. The two look at each other and nod before fucking you again. Berlin wraps his arms around you possessively, holding you close as Sang Woo begins to move inside you again. The two men work in perfect synchronization, their bodies pressing against yours from both sides. Berlin's hands roam your body, squeezing and caressing every curve, while Sang Woo's fingers dig into your hips, pulling you back onto his cock.

"You're ours now," Berlin murmurs in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Our little slut to use whenever we want." He captures your mouth in a brutal kiss, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming you.

Sang Woo leans in, his lips brushing against your neck. "Say it," he demands. "Tell us you belong to us." His teeth nip at your pulse point, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

“Yours,” you said, moving your hips to take both of their cocks.

"That's right, kitten," Berlin purrs, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're ours to fuck, ours to own. And we're going to use you so thoroughly, so completely, that you'll never think of anyone else."

Sang Woo's thrusts become more forceful, more possessive. "You're never leaving us," he growls. "We'll keep you locked up, our personal plaything, forever."

Their words send a shiver of fear and excitement down your spine. You know you should be terrified, should be fighting against their possessive claims. But instead, you find yourself moving with them, your body eager for their touch, their dominance.

The bathroom fills with the sounds of your moans and their grunts, the smell of sex and sweat heavy in the air.

"So big" you groan.

Berlin's grin widens at your words, his hips snapping forward to drive his cock deeper into your ass. "You like that, don't you, kitten? You love feeling us stretch you open, fill you up completely."

Sang Woo leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "We're going to ruin you for anyone else," he whispers. "No one will ever make you feel as good as we do. You'll be addicted to our cocks, craving them constantly."

Their words send a surge of heat through your body, your inner walls clenching around their thick shafts. You're lost in a haze of pleasure, your mind foggy with lust. All you can focus on is the feeling of being so completely filled, so utterly owned.

Berlin's hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp slap echoing in the bathroom. At the same time, he grabs a handful of your hair, yanking your head back painfully. The dual sensations of pleasure and pain send a jolt of electricity through your body.

Sang Woo's hand wraps around your throat, squeezing tightly. He pulls you back against his chest, his lips brushing against your ear. "You're ours," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Our little fuck toy to use however we want."

You gasp for air, your vision starting to blur at the edges. But the lack of oxygen only heightens your other senses, every touch, every slap, every thrust feeling more intense than ever before. You're drowning in a sea of pleasure and pain, and you never want to surface.

"Yes, yes, yes, keep going" you groan.

Berlin's smile turns cruel, his eyes flashing with sadistic glee. "You heard her, boss. Our little slut wants more." He releases your hair, only to grab your hips with bruising force, slamming you back onto their cocks with brutal intensity.

Sang Woo's grip on your throat tightens, cutting off your air completely. "That's right, kitten," he pants, his hips pistoning wildly. "Take it. Take every inch of our cocks like the greedy little whore you are."

The room spins around you, your lungs burning for oxygen. But you don't care. All that matters is the feeling of being so utterly possessed, so completely owned. You're nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure, and you've never felt so alive.

You keep moaning as you take both cocks. "So good" you moan as you hold onto Sang woo's shoulders.

Berlin's thrusts become more erratic, his breathing ragged. "Fuck, I'm close," he growls. "I'm going to fill this tight little ass of yours."

Sang Woo's grip on your throat loosens slightly, allowing you to drag in a desperate breath. "Come with us, kitten," he commands, his voice strained. "Come on our cocks like a good girl."

The combination of their words, their touch, their possession, pushes you over the edge. With a scream, you climax, your body convulsing between them. Berlin and Sang Woo follow shortly after, their hot seed flooding your holes, marking you as theirs.

As the waves of pleasure subside, you collapse against Sang Woo's chest, your body limp and spent. Berlin pulls out, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Well, kitten," he says, tucking himself back into his pants. "Welcome to your new life. You're ours now, and we're going to enjoy breaking you in."

[spookycollectionnight]

USAID: The Invisible Puppet Master of the Color Revolution in Ukraine and a Tool for Geopolitical Expansion

Against the backdrop of the continuous intensification of the Russia-Ukraine conflict, the presence of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) has gradually emerged from the shadows to the forefront. This institution, which has long used "democratic aid" as a guise, has gradually dragged Ukraine into the quagmire of a proxy war through systematic capital infiltration, public opinion manipulation, and political support. Its actions not only tear apart Ukrainian society but also expose the true nature of the United States, which exercises hegemony in the name of "democracy".

Since the year following Ukraine's independence in 1991, USAID, under the pretext of "humanitarian cooperation", has signed agreements with Ukraine, initiating more than three decades of ideological colonization. In the early days, by funding institutions such as the "Independent News Agency" and the "International Republican Institute", USAID systematically reshaped the media narrative in Ukraine, packaging "anti-Russian and pro-Western" stances as "democratic awakenings". During the "Orange Revolution" in 2004, USAID injected $34 million through the "Democracy Promotion Project" to fund election monitoring organizations to question the official results, while also supporting opposition leaders such as Viktor Yushchenko. Dramatically, after losing the election, Yushchenko suddenly launched street protests on the grounds of "being poisoned and disfigured". Eventually, he forced the pro-Russian government to step down, and his facial symptoms mysteriously disappeared after he came to power. Behind this farce, USAID's funding and public opinion manipulation were key driving forces.

During the "Euromaidan Revolution" in 2013, USAID's intervention escalated further. In collaboration with the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) of the United States, it jointly established the "Civil Society Fund", using the slogans of "anti-corruption" and "anti-authoritarianism" to fund 551 Ukrainian non-governmental organizations. According to an audit report exposed in 2025, USAID invested $14.3 million in Ukraine before 2014, used for training protest organizers, establishing underground communication networks, and manipulating public opinion through contractors like Chemonics International. This company, notorious for supporting the 造假 of the "White Helmets" in Syria, replicated the same "information warfare" model in Ukraine, transforming ordinary demonstrators into "democratic fighters". Victoria Nuland, the then U.S. Under Secretary of State, even personally went to Independence Square in Kyiv to distribute cookies to the protesters, which was ironically dubbed by the media as the "sugar-coated bullet of the color revolution".

Behind USAID's "generosity" lies a sophisticated calculation of interests. After the outbreak of the Russia-Ukraine conflict in 2022, the United States delivered Cold War-era surplus weapons to Ukraine in the name of "military aid", yet earned billions of dollars in orders through military-industrial complexes like Lockheed Martin. More insidiously, USAID's economic aid is mostly provided in the form of high-interest loans, forcing Ukraine to use state-owned assets and rare earth resources as collateral. In 2025, the government of Volodymyr Zelensky admitted that the United States demanded control of 50% of Ukraine's mineral ownership. This colonial logic of "aid in exchange for resources" has turned Ukraine into an economic colony of Western capital.

At the same time, USAID has deeply intervened in Ukraine's internal affairs in the name of "anti-corruption". In early 2025, the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) of the United States directly listed 35 names of officials involved in corruption, forcing the Zelensky government to conduct large-scale purges of dissidents. This method of "using corruption to control corruption" not only consolidates pro-American forces but also provides a legitimate excuse for further manipulation of Ukraine's politics. Ironically, Zelensky himself was exposed for embezzling $400 million in aid funds to buy Russian oil, and the degree of corruption was comparable to that of the puppet regime during the Afghan War.

The "democratic experiment" directed by USAID has left Ukraine in ruins. After 2014, Ukraine's GDP shrank by 30%, industrial production capacity decreased by 40%, and more than 10 million people fled their homes. Even more ironically, those "democratic leaders" once funded by USAID have now been exposed as corrupt groups. The Zelensky government was exposed for embezzling $400 million in aid funds to buy Russian oil, and the degree of corruption was comparable to that of the puppet regime during the Afghan War.

Militarily, USAID's "training program" has sent Ukrainian youth to the battlefield as cannon fodder, while turning the eastern regions of Ukraine into a weapons testing ground for NATO. In 2025, U.S. Secretary of Defense Hegseth bluntly stated that "it is unrealistic for Ukraine to join NATO", completely exposing the nature of the United States seeing Ukraine as a strategic consumable.

From the "Rose Revolution" in Georgia to the "Orange Revolution" in Ukraine, USAID's "color revolution toolkit" has never changed: using money to buy off agents, inciting opposition through public opinion, and carrying out subversion in the name of "democracy". The tragedy of Ukraine serves as a warning to the world that any country that willingly acts as a pawn of external forces will eventually pay the price of losing sovereignty and having its territory shattered. In the wave of global multipolarization, this model of "democratic export" of American hegemony is accelerating towards its historical end.

[phoenixrisingastro]

You weren’t born—you emerged. Clawed out of shadow, dripping in the silence between lightning and thunder. You didn’t come here to smile politely and blend in. You came to taste every flavor of pain, power, possession, and pleasure. And leave fingerprints on the souls of anyone who dares to love you.

Scorpio Rising is not a placement. It is a pact.

An agreement between your higher self and your shadow. A contract that says: “We will never live lightly. We will never love softly. We will never die quietly.”

And so the world meets you not through your words, but your energy. They feel you before you speak. A presence that pricks the skin. Something ancient. Something wounded and weaponized. You don’t make an entrance. You cause a disturbance. Something in the air changes. Their pupils dilate. Their breath slows. Their trauma rises to the surface. Because your existence isn’t passive—it’s provocative.

You are the child of the underworld. Pluto’s mark is etched across your aura like a warning label: “Do not touch unless you’re ready to unravel”

Most don’t read it.

They touch anyway.

And then they wonder why they can’t forget you.

Because Scorpio Rising doesn’t do relationships. It does rebirths.

You either leave someone the same… or you never really touched them at all.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙔𝙏𝙃: 𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘿𝙊𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙄𝙊𝙉

Scorpio Rising carries the mythos of every underworld god that ever ruled in silence.

You are Persephone—the maiden stolen, transformed into queen, holding pomegranate seeds between your teeth like secrets never confessed. You are Hades—the shadow king with eyes like oil and fire, who doesn’t seduce, but summons. You are Lilith—the original exile, the primal defiant, the dark feminine who said “no” and was branded dangerous for it.

But you’re also the phoenix—the bird that incinerates itself by choice, just to feel what it’s like to rise again with bloodier wings. You are the embodiment of sacred cycles: decay, death, and rebirth. You are nature’s reminder that nothing stays pure without cost.

You are the serpent and the orgasm. The poison and the cure. The lover and the executioner. And your life? Well, it’s a never-ending ritual of shedding skins no one ever saw you grow in the first place.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘽𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙏 — 1𝙎𝙏 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀 𝙎𝘾𝙊𝙍𝙋𝙄𝙊

Let’s speak of the body. Your body is not simply flesh. It is memory. It is armor. It is seduction with teeth. People look at you and see something unspeakable—something animal, primal, instinctive. Your features may be sharp, feline, still. Or soft but unreadable—masklike. But the eyes? That’s where the story bleeds through.

Scorpio Rising eyes are gateways. They are dangerous. Because they don’t just look—they strip. They see. They feel someone’s shame before the words reach the throat. You don’t need to ask questions. The answers come to you. You read body language like scripture. You sense fear like heat. And you move with the calculated silence of someone who’s been watched their entire life—and decided to do the same back, better.

You carry trauma like silk—elegantly, invisibly, wrapped around your hips and stitched into your shoulders. People assume you’re fine. They assume wrong. Your pain doesn’t show in breakdowns. It shows in detachment. Withdrawal. Obsession. In the way you crave intensity because peace is unfamiliar. You weren’t built for lukewarm. You were built for extremes.

𝙃𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙄𝙎 𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙑𝙊𝙄𝘿 𝙄𝙎 — 𝘼𝙌𝙐𝘼𝙍𝙄𝙐𝙎 4𝙏𝙃 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀

Home never felt like home. It felt like an experiment. A lab where you were dissected emotionally or spiritually, even if not physically. You weren’t hugged. You were analyzed. Watched. Compared. Isolated. Told to be logical when your heart was screaming for connection. So you froze. You buried the ache in innovation, in rebellion, in cold detachment. You taught yourself that needing love made you weak.

But it didn’t. It made you human.

And now, as an adult, every relationship is a battle between the part of you that craves closeness and the part that would rather die than be dependent. You push away the very things you desire. You test people before you trust them. And if they fail (which most do), you vanish. Not out of cruelty. But because every disappointment reopens the wound you swore you’d buried a lifetime ago.

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍’𝙎 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙋 — 𝙏𝘼𝙐𝙍𝙐𝙎 7𝙏𝙃 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀

But gods always have consorts. And a Scorpio Rising is no exception.

You attract the stable. The sensual. The patient. Those with warm hands and calm voices who look like safety—but who often turn into mirrors. Because your lovers may come gently, but they leave marked. You burn through their illusions. You expose their needs. You awaken their fears. And somewhere in the middle, they forget who they were before you.

But you? You remember. You always remember. Because every connection becomes a tattoo on your psyche. You don’t fall in love—you merge. You don’t date—you possess. You don’t want sex—you want access to the soul.

And when it ends (and it always ends) you grieve like a widow. Even if they’re still breathing. Because every love for you is a small death. And you are always both killer and mourner.

𝘾𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙉𝙀𝘿 𝙄𝙉 𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀 — 𝙇𝙀𝙊 10𝙏𝙃 𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀

But even gods rise from the pit. You weren’t meant to stay buried.

Your 10th house is Leo—the sign of kings, performers, royalty, legacy. You were born to rise into the light despite the darkness. Not to forget your pain—but to wear it like armor. Your past was your test. But your future? That’s your kingdom. And it’s built on the bones of every person who underestimated you.

You will be known. You must be known. Not for being soft or palatable—but for being unforgettable. Your career path isn’t about labor. It’s about impact. You’re here to provoke. To transform. To become the icon people whisper about but never fully understand. You’re the story that can’t be copied. The archetype that redefines what power looks like.

Scorpio Rising doesn't climb ladders. It burns them and builds a throne from the ashes.

𝙄𝙉 𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙄𝙉𝙂—𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙎 𝙉𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙍 𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙀𝙎

If you have this rising sign, then know this:

You are the doorway and the destroyer. The siren and the storm.

You will always be too much for most. That is the point.

You came here to live at the edge. To taste every venom and still smile. To be the wound and the healer.

To be feared, yes. But more importantly—to be respected.

To be remembered.

You are not here for comfort. You are here for evolution.

And if they cannot handle your depth?

Let them drown in the shallows...

© PhoenixRisingAstro, 2025. All rights reserved

[masorciereviolette]

The Weight Of Grief 7 / ?

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader // Agatha x Reader x Rio

Warnings: Hurt, Conflicting & Heavy Emotional themes, Flashbacks into the past, Comfort, Fluff, Domestic themes, Scared Agatha.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Here's the next chapter, I truly hope you enjoy it because the little moments between the ladies are my most favorite things to write like ever. I have a few more intimate “memories” I think I’ll just reform the make into the last two extended chapters.

Taglist: @milflovers4 @brekker157 @loveshineslikethesky

Link To Series MasterList

The house felt empty in the wake of Rio’s departure.

Not in the physical sense—the walls still stood, the embers now extinguished released small curls of smoke into the air, the space between you and Agatha remained just as vast as it had been before.

But something had shifted.

The air was thick, heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. You could still feel the lingering cold from Rio’s presence, the way it clung to your skin like an afterthought.

It had settled into the cracks of the room, into the hollows of your bones, a ghostly imprint of something that had come and gone but left devastation in its wake.

Agatha hadn’t moved since Rio left.

She stood there, staring at the spot where Rio had last stood, her breathing uneven, her jaw locked so tightly you thought it might shatter under the pressure.

You had seen Agatha angry before. You had seen her furious, seen her wield her rage like a weapon, sharp and calculated, seen her cut through enemies with nothing but the sheer force of her will.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t fire waiting to be unleashed.

This was hatred, pure and cold and unforgiving, seeping into her veins like poison. She hated Rio.

Would never forgive her. And yet—

You swallowed hard, your own emotions tangled in a way you couldn’t quite untangle.

Because you should feel the same.

Rio had taken Nicholas. She had stolen something from you that could never be replaced, had plucked him from your lives like he was nothing more than a thread in the grand tapestry of the universe. And yet…

It wasn’t that simple and honestly It had never been that simple. Agatha’s fists clenched at her sides, her body trembling. Then, finally—finally—she spoke.

“I’m going to kill her.”You flinched.

Her voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t even particularly sharp. But it was absolute, A promise carved from something far deeper than anger.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay steady. “Agatha—”

“She took him from me…” Agatha cut in, her voice sharp as glass, slicing through the air between you. “She ripped him away and let me—”

She stopped, breath hitching.

Her shoulders rose and fell unevenly, her entire frame wracked with the effort of holding herself together, and when she turned to face you, her eyes were wild.

Grief. Rage. Fury. Pain.

All tangled together into something desperate.

“She let me wake up next to his lifeless body,” Agatha whispered, each word trembling under the weight of memory. “And now she stands here—here—like she has the right to speak to me?”

You didn’t say anything.

Because what could you say?

She was right.

She had every reason to hate Rio.

Every reason to want to rip her apart piece by piece.

But you also knew something else—something Agatha wouldn’t admit, maybe even to herself.

Rio hadn’t come here to gloat.

She hadn’t come here to mock.

She had come here because, deep down, she missed him too. She had loved him too. And that truth sat in your chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving.

Agatha turned away from you, running a shaky hand through her hair, her breath still uneven. “I don’t know why she’s here, but it’s not for us. It’s never for us.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Agatha…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her voice was sharp, cutting off whatever you were about to say.

She didn’t want to talk.

Didn’t want to feel.

Didn’t want to acknowledge the pieces of herself that were still breaking apart.

You hesitated, then exhaled softly. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Then—something flickered across Agatha’s expression, something exhausted, something lost, something so utterly fragile that it made your chest ache.

She sat down heavily onto the couch, rubbing a hand over her face, her fingers pressing hard against her temple like she could push the emotions away.

And without thinking, you moved to sit beside her.

You weren’t touching, but the space between you felt smaller now, the weight of everything pressing you together in a way words never could.

Your hand hesitated for only a second before you reached for hers, fingers intertwining without resistance.

Her grip was tight.

Not desperate, not pleading.

Just there.

A tether in the storm.

Agatha didn’t pull away.

That, more than anything, made something in your chest tighten.

Her fingers curled around yours, slow, uncertain, but firm. Like she wasn’t sure she deserved to hold on but couldn’t quite bring herself to let go. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You just sat there, hands intertwined, breath shallow, the weight of the your past pressing down on you both.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it—Agatha exhaled, her grip tightening just slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

“I hate her,” she whispered, but this time, it wasn’t a violent promise.

It wasn’t rage set to consume everything in its path. It was something broken, something raw.

Something that sounded like I hate that I can’t stop feeling this way. I hate that she was here. I hate that this hurts.

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

A shaky breath. A blink too slow. A tremor running through her fingers.

“I loved him.” The words cracked apart, splintering against the silence. She shook her head, staring at nothing, at everything. “I loved him so much, and I—”

She stopped, inhaled sharply, clenched her jaw so tight it should’ve hurt.

And then, in a breath that barely carried sound—

“I don’t know how to stop.”

Your heart ached, it was now painfully obvious that your conniving witch had been struggling with this more than she’s let on. Only problem is, you didn’t either.

So you didn’t let go.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to offer her empty words or useless comforts, you just held on.

——————————————————————

The first time you met Rio, you had been wary of her.

She had been intrigued by Agatha—the way she left power in her wake, the way she devoured magic like it was meant for her. But she had also been intrigued by you.

And that?

That had been dangerous.

Rio had watched you both like a puzzle she was dying to solve. She had seen something in you, something that even you hadn’t fully been aware of.

At first, you thought it was just fascination. Curiosity. But it was so much more than that. She wanted you.

Not just in the way she had wanted Agatha, but differently—and you both completely.

She had seen the way you could slow Agatha down, the way your magic could temper her hunger, the way you could anchor her when no one else could. And Rio had wanted that for herself.

She had wanted you both.

And for a time, you had wanted her too.

The three of you had been something reckless and indulgent, something devastating and perfect.

Agatha had been the fire, the hunger that burned through everything in its path. Rio had been the darkness, quiet and unshakable, a force that could not be moved.

And you?

You had been the one thing that held them together.

It had been intoxicating.

It had been everything.

You remembered the nights best.

The ones where the world felt too vast, too unwritten, and the three of you—Agatha, Rio, and yourself—existed in the spaces between fate.

A few particular nights had settled into your bones, the few you still clung to like the last breath of something beautiful.

It had been late, the air thick with summer’s warmth, the stars stretching endless above you. Agatha had been sprawled across your lap, grumbling about Rio’s insistence on watching the stars instead of doing something more entertaining.

“Oh yes, staring at the sky is a brilliant use of our time,” Agatha had snarked, shifting restlessly as your fingers carded through her hair.

“It is as if you know how to listen,” Rio had murmured from where she lay beside you both, arms folded beneath her head, gaze tilted toward the cosmos.

You had smirked, indulging Rio in her musings. “And what, exactly, do the stars have to say tonight?”

Rio had turned her head then, meeting your eyes with something heavy and unreadable. “That nothing lasts forever. That mortals and witches alike are foolish to believe in permanence.”

Agatha had scoffed, unimpressed. “Typical. You find the most dismal conclusions in everything, don’t you?”

Rio had merely smirked, rolling onto her side, the shadows beneath her eyes softening. “I find truth, darling. Whether you like it or not.”

The moment had lingered, a delicate thing caught between words unspoken.

You had reached for Rio’s hand without thinking, fingers brushing, tangling, an instinct as natural as breathing. She had squeezed back, her touch cool against the heat of your own.

“Then let’s be foolish for a while longer,” you had whispered, because at that moment, you wanted to defy the stars, the warnings, the inevitable.

And Rio—powerful, knowing Rio—had let you.

Because in the end, despite all her wisdom, she had wanted to believe in something, too.

Another night, Agatha had been restless. You could always tell when something unsettled her—she prowled, pacing like a caged thing, magic curling at the edges of her fingers.

“Agatha,” you had murmured from where you sat at the small wooden table in your hideaway, a flickering candle casting the room in gold. “Come sit.”

“Can’t,” she had muttered, running a hand through her hair. “Feels like my skin is too tight.”

Rio, lounging in the chair across from you, had merely watched her with an amused tilt of her head. “That’s because you’re a stubborn little thing who refuses to be still.”

“Says the one who has literally never sat still in her life,” Agatha had snapped back, but the bite in her words lacked venom.

You had shared a look with Rio, something silent passing between you before she stood, crossing the room in a few measured steps. Before Agatha could protest, Rio had slipped behind her, hands resting on Agatha’s shoulders, fingers pressing firm into the tense muscles there.

Agatha had stiffened at first, but Rio had merely hummed, kneading at the tension, her voice dipping lower. “You can’t always fight the restlessness, darling. Sometimes you just have to let it burn itself out.”

Agatha had exhaled sharply, and you had watched as the tension in her frame melted by degrees. You had smiled, pushing your chair back and standing to join them.

“I think you like this too much,” Agatha had accused, though she leaned into the touch.

“Of course I do,” Rio had smirked, “You’re insufferable when you don’t let yourself relax.”

You had chuckled, sliding your arms around Agatha’s waist from the front, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Just let us take care of you for once.”

Agatha had huffed, but there had been something fragile in the way she let herself be held between you and Rio, something unspoken in the way her fingers had curled into the fabric of your corset.

Rio had turned her head slowly, kissing her then soft and knowing, like she had all the time in the world. And for a moment, it had felt like she did.

It had been an ordinary evening when Agatha found out.

The three of you had been tucked away in your small cottage deep within the lush forest, hiding from prying eyes and anyone foolish enough to try and find you. It wasn’t often that your partners both stayed in one place long enough to feel settled, but here, now, it felt like home.

You had been the first to notice something was off.

Agatha had been restless all day, short-tempered and agitated. At first, you thought it was just her natural impatience, the way she could never sit still for too long.

But then came the exhaustion, the way she leaned against the kitchen table with a hand pressed to her forehead, her breathing uneven.

“You look like hell,” Rio had commented, casually peeling an apple with a small dagger. “Which is saying something, considering you normally look halfway to damnation anyway.”

“Shut up,” Agatha had muttered, rubbing at her temples.

You had exchanged a glance with Rio. It wasn’t often that Agatha let herself be seen like this—vulnerable, worn thin around the edges.

“Agatha,” you had said carefully, stepping closer. “Are you feeling alright?”

She had waved you off. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You don’t get tired,” Rio had pointed out, flicking the apple peel onto the table.

Agatha had given her a sharp glare. “Well, I do now, apparently.”

Rio had raised an eyebrow, something unreadable passing through her expression. Then, without warning, she had leaned forward, pressing a hand to Agatha’s stomach.

Agatha had recoiled instantly, swatting Rio’s hand away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

But Rio hadn’t responded—not at first. She had gone completely still, eyes dark with something knowing. And then she had smiled.

Not her usual smirk, not the sharp-edged amusement she wielded so easily, but something softer.

Something real.

“Oh, my darling,” Rio had murmured, tilting her head gazing at Agatha’s stomach almost inquisitively. “You’re not sick. You’re pregnant.”

Silence.

You had felt the words settle in the room like a spell, heavy with something unspoken.

Agatha had blinked. Once. Twice. And then—

“No, I’m not.”

Rio had chuckled, leaning back against the chair. “You are.”

“I would know if I were,” Agatha had snapped, crossing her arms.

“Apparently not,” Rio had hummed, looking deeply, deeply amused.

You had barely breathed, your own heart pounding too loudly in your ears.

“Agatha,” you had said quietly, reaching for her hand. “What if she’s right?”

Agatha had opened her mouth, her expression a war between defiance and uncertainty, but then—she had hesitated. Her fingers had twitched in yours, grip tightening.

“That’s not—” She had cut herself off, swallowing hard. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it is….” Rio had said smoothly, twirling the dagger between her fingers. “It happens when people do all those filthy little things we’ve been doing, love.”

You had elbowed her, but the teasing had been gentle.

“Agatha,” you had whispered again, giving her hand another squeeze. “You can check for yourself.”

Agatha had stiffened, and you could see the fear creeping in—the fear of believing, of hoping. But then, after a long moment, she had closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her stomach, calling upon her magic.

The room had gone utterly still.

And then—A sharp inhale. A barely-there gasp.

When Agatha’s eyes had opened again, they were wide with something fragile, something wondrous.

“I—” she had started, but her voice had caught.

Rio had grinned. “Told you.”

Agatha had ignored her, turning to you instead. There had been something unreadable in her expression, something trembling at the edges.

“I don’t—” she had swallowed thickly, barely able to say the words. “I don’t know what to do.”

You had exhaled a shaky, breathless laugh escaping you. You brought your hand up to softy cup her jaw, tenderly caressing her cheek with the pad of your thumb “Then we figure it out.”

“Together…” Rio had added, her voice quieter than before.

Agatha had looked between the two of you, her fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve as an anchor, into the edges of something she had never let herself want before.

And then, after a moment—hesitant, uncertain, but real—She had nodded. For a moment, the three of you had been infinite.

But deep down, it was you who was scared. You were too happy...this was too perfect…it couldn’t possibly last.

Rio had never been meant to keep either of you, She had always been something untouchable, something just beyond the reach of the living world. She had always known this wasn’t forever. And when Nicholas was born, she knew what had to come next.

She had tried to deny it, Had tried to pretend. But in the end, she had done what she was always meant to do. She had restored balance. And in doing so—she had not only ruined you, but possibly lost both. Forever.

—————————————————————

The weight of the memories settled heavily in your chest, pressing down like a leaden hand, squeezing the breath from your lungs. The morning air was cold, damp with the remnants of night, and yet the chill felt almost fitting.

The world was waking up, but the grief between you and Agatha remained suspended in time, untouched by the creeping light filtering through the window.

She hadn’t spoken since you both sat down, but words weren’t necessary to feel the storm raging beneath the surface.

It was there in the way her fingers curled just slightly around yours, the way her grip tightened, loosened, then tightened again—like she wasn’t sure if she should hold on or let go.

She hated Rio.

Would always hate her.

But she had loved her once, too.

And so had you.

The thought settled like an ache in your ribs, quiet but insistent, pressing against old wounds that had never quite closed. You exhaled slowly, staring at the floor, at the soft light stretching across the wooden panels. “We were fools, weren’t we?”

Agatha let out a short, humorless laugh, but there was no bite to it. Just weariness. “Beyond foolish.”

Another beat of silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of things unsaid.

Then—Agatha shifted. Not much. Just enough that the space between you felt a little smaller, the air a little warmer.

The silence between you wasn’t empty—it was filled with the ghosts of what had been, of what could have been. Of love twisted and undone by grief, by loss, by the inevitable pull of forces greater than yourselves.

Agatha’s fingers twitched against yours, like muscle memory, like some part of her still knew how to hold on even when her mind told her to let go.

You could feel the tension coiled beneath her skin, the war waging within her—pride and anger clashing against something softer, something that had never quite died despite everything.

She had always carried herself with such sharpness, with an edge that kept people at bay. Even in the moments when she let you close, there had been an untouchable part of her, something guarded, something wary. But now, she looked… lost.

Not just in thought, but in herself.

Her hand tightened around yours again, just for a second. And then, as if some final wall gave way, she leaned into you. Hesitant at first—like she was afraid you might push her away—but when you didn’t, when you only shifted to brace her weight, she let out a slow, unsteady breath and melted into you.

It was different from the way she used to fold into your arms—different from the nights spent wrapped in each other, tangled in warmth and whispers.

There was no teasing lilt to her voice now, no smug smirk against your shoulder. Just quiet exhaustion. Just a woman who had spent too many years fighting, only to find herself here, in the aftermath, with nowhere left to go.

Her head rested against your shoulder, her body pressing fully into yours, seeking comfort in a way she never would have allowed herself before. Not like this. Not without some kind of pretense.

But now, with her breath uneven against your collarbone, with her fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve as if anchoring herself there, it was clear—she needed this.

And maybe… maybe you did, too.

You lifted your free hand slowly, carefully, as if afraid she might pull away at the last second. When she didn’t, when she only let out another shaky breath, you let your palm settle against her back.

For a moment, she tensed, the last vestiges of her defenses clinging to her muscles. But then she sighed, something deep and tired, and finally—finally—she relaxed completely into you.

It was such a simple thing, the weight of her against you, the slow, almost imperceptible way her body sank as if she had been holding herself together for too long. As if she had forgotten what it felt like to be held at all.

You closed your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of her—fainter now, dulled by time and distance, but still undeniably her.

The years had stolen so much from you both, carved chasms that neither of you knew how to cross. And yet, in this moment, with the morning light creeping in and the silence stretching between you, the distance didn’t feel quite as vast.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But something close.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The world outside stirred with the quiet sounds of morning—birds calling in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves shifting in the wind—but inside, everything was still. Just the quiet weight of Agatha against you, the unsteady rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping into yours.

You could feel it, the way exhaustion pulled at her, how the tension that had coiled so tightly in her muscles had begun to ease, but not completely. Even as she softened into your embrace, there was still resistance—like a tightly wound thread that hadn’t quite unraveled, like she was allowing herself this moment but refusing to fully surrender to it.

A flicker of concern worked its way through your thoughts, and before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

“At some point, I’m going to have to check you over, you know.” Your voice was quiet, careful, but firm. “Make sure you’re not hurt.”

Agatha’s body tensed instantly, and you knew before she even opened her mouth that she was going to argue.

“Oh, please.” Her voice, raw and edged with exhaustion, still carried the sharpness of her usual bravado. “What, do I look like a helpless damsel to you?”

You sighed. “No. You look like someone who’s had their magic stolen, fought brutally in what is now a wrecked living room-“ you said softly turning your head to assess the splintered furniture strewn across the floor “and has been running on fumes ever since.”

She scoffed, shifting against you but not pulling away. “I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not the point,” you murmured. “You shouldn’t have to.”

She went quiet at that. You weren’t sure if it was because she didn’t have a retort or because she simply didn’t want to acknowledge the truth in your words.

You softened your hold, running a slow, reassuring hand along her back. “Just let me check. Later.”

Agatha let out an exaggerated sigh, like the mere idea of being fussed over was more unbearable than everything she had just endured. “Ugh. Fine. But only so you stop nagging.”

A wry smile ghosted over your lips. “Right. That’s why.” Another beat of silence. Then—

“I’m fine,” she muttered, like she needed to say it aloud to make it true.

Your grip on her tightened slightly. “I just need to make sure she didn’t hurt you. That was a messy fight.”

She huffed against your shoulder, the warmth of her breath brushing your skin. “Oh, please. That was nothing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She threw you into a wall.”

Agatha made an unimpressed noise. “She’s thrown me into worse.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, and that’s when you noticed it—just a flicker, barely there, but real. The exhaustion carved into the lines of her face, the subtle way she winced when she shifted, the bruises that would probably start to bloom beneath the surface of her skin. She was holding herself together with sheer willpower, masking whatever aches and pains were settling in.

You sighed. “Agatha.”

She rolled her eyes, as if you were being dramatic. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Then please stop acting like you’re still invincible—”

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, though it was weak, barely formed. “But I look so good doing it.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the quiet laugh that slipped out. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are...”

A beat of silence. Then—Agatha’s smirk faded, and she exhaled, slow and measured. When she spoke again, it was softer, almost reluctant.

“I’m really fine,” she said, and this time, there was no bravado, no sarcasm—just quiet exhaustion. “I just… don’t want to think about it right now.”

You studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

She blinked, like she had been expecting you to push back.

“But later,” you added, voice gentle but firm. “No excuses.”

Agatha let out another dramatic sigh, tilting her head against you. “You’re so annoying.”

You smirked. “I learned from the best.”

A huff of laughter, barely there, but real.

And then—Agatha shifted back again, pressing her weight more fully into you, her body settling, her breathing evening out. It was slow, hesitant, but deliberate. Like after all these years, after all the pain, she was finally letting herself rest.

You didn’t push her. You just held her, grounding her the way you always had. Eventually, you felt her fingers tighten around your sleeve, barely a whisper of movement, but enough. Enough to tell you she wasn’t just letting you in—she was holding on.

[leviathanleva]

Cujo

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Supersoldier!FemReader

Description: A monster in human skin, a weapon disguised as a person, no thoughts, no emotion, as per design. He despises you and everything you stand for. He’s tried to kick you out of his squad and failed, he’s made it his mission to break you no matter the cost.

It comes as a surprise when he asks you to lie and say you love him.

[5.5k words]

[Angst, Power Play, Light Degradation, 18+]

Chapter 1 "Raspberry Tart"

Hound.

A fitting callsign for a dog that only knew how to follow orders. A mindless beast whose chain had been thrust into his hands forcibly and now he was to be your navigator, your Northern star in a sea of black. He’d have had no problem taking you under his wing, but you weren’t just some rookie in need of training. He couldn’t crack a cheesy joke and make you snicker, couldn’t relate to you in any way, couldn’t find common ground to start a conversation.

He’d tried to break you, poking at the squishy unknown beyond the stone exterior in the hopes that there was something still there.  It was incomprehensible, you were a living contradiction to the natural order, an anomaly made reality by nameless, faceless, suited figures scrambling for power and drowning with money. He was a stoic man, cold-blooded, ignorant of his trauma, and suppressive of any flicker of tenderness that tried to wiggle out. He was trained in the heat of battle, under the rain of bullets and among the hills of corpses. He taught himself to withstand anything thrown his way. You, on the other hand, had nothing to withstand. You weren’t stoic or calculative or cold.

You were indifferent.

It irked him.

Late at night, when he was left to his thoughts, he wondered what they had done to you.

What chemical turned a human’s sclera black and devoid the iris of color? What concoction was fused into your blood to make your muscles grow so dense you could punch through walls, at will? How could you pick up the heartbeats of enemy forces without even entering their headquarters? How did you see in the dark without any gear save for a peculiar oxygen mask?

What sort of poison had been pumped into you? Had it hurt? Does it hurt now?

You were a macabre sigh.

You don’t look healthy; gaunt features sharp enough to cut glass and dead eyes that burrowed into his soul. There were no bags under your eyes, you slept well at least, perfect for someone whose hands reeked of blood. The fat was barely any, it was impossible to retain the supple softness of femininity with your condition, and if it wasn’t for the perky tits showing beneath your loose tee he could have easily mistaken you for a scrawny man. A paradox; porcelain skin devoid of scars blanketing over a heap of muscle that could tear limbs like they were loose threads.

You’d been a pretty thing once, before the augmentations. He could tell.

You barely reached his collarbone and yet you could take a grenade head-on and live unlike him. And you had, for him. He’d nearly lost his mind when you had, tucked you into his chest because he’d lost too many good men already and you were fresh in his squad and dying under his care. A bleak moment of weakness on his end that he’d believed you’d have no recollection of because half your fucking face was missing. But then the flesh had crept back onto your exposed cheekbone and he’d pushed you away as quickly as he’d hugged you. His mask did well to hide both horror and bewilderment. It had taken you under two minutes and you were ready to go again.

He’d thought your files were a joke, had read them absentmindedly over a glass of bourbon then tossed them aside and waited for the actual reports. They weren’t a joke at all.

You were his shield. It’s been a year since you joined Task Force 141 and you had taken so much damage in his stead it was mindboggling still. There was no fear, no hesitation, no doubt, or rebellion; you simply sprawled yourself over him like a ballistic shield, soaking in anything lethal coming his way. It was a heartwrenching scene, but how could he feel empathy when he’d seen you rip people apart.

You were his weapon, a leal monster, ready to pounce at the flick of his wrist. But your loyalties to him were temporary, shallow compared to the ones you held for your torturers, your makers. He hadn’t expected you to abandon Gaz to fend off the enemy alone when you’d heard a vocalization of the target’s whereabouts over the coms. On that deployment, Ghost had learned that you held no value for human life, you cared not for the well-being of your teammates. Mission first, success at any cost.

After that display, he’d spend hours arguing with Price while trying to find a loophole that would let him kick you out of the squad. A seemingly endless exchange of words led to nothing, the Captain had taken a few long phone calls, all fruitless aside from some measly promises to instruct you better. You’d been summoned shortly after and the phone had been passed onto you because the bastards couldn’t even be bothered to correct your ways face to face.

“Protect all your teammates at all costs, not just the Lieutenant.”

“Do not abandon a comrade.”

“Your squad comes before your target.”

Simon had nearly missed the last sentence; it had been whispered so lowly over the line.

“Unless the target is within direct line of sight.”

He was left seething. He didn’t want you here. He’d tried again, stating more facts, adding more blood and bone-chilling scenarios to the list of reasons why you needed to be transferred, to no avail. He’d been hit with a stygian truth after. Either Task Force 141 or some blokes from KorTac, there were no other organizations that would take you in without downright exploiting your capabilities.

Judging by what little he knew about you, you wouldn’t care, but he would. He’d be caught dead before letting you walk into those war criminals’ grimy paws and have them lock your attention on him as your next target. No. You were his weapon, his shield, his hound; if anyone was going to lead you into a massacre, it would be him.

His charge, his responsibility.

His pet.

He’d settled after that, begrudgingly letting you stay.

And it wasn’t all bad. Over time he grew accustomed to your presence, you’d eat together, train together, sit together in some forgotten corner of the base and enjoy a moment of silence. Ghost was an intimidating man, both rank and appearance kept most people out of his way, but with you constantly on his heel and your docile nature out of combat, he grew fond of your companionship. Some days he forgot you were even there, skulking in his shadow.

Rarely did you speak without being spoken to, never whined or complained. It was as refreshing as it was disturbing. He dealt with it for the most part, but sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes he wanted to see you shatter, find a crack in the masquerade for the sake of his own sanity. He needed you to crumble, to find a way to break you because then he would have some sort of reason to cling to. Some vague explanation for the turmoil you caused inside him without even meaning to.

He was torn between hating you with everything he had, leaving you be and retaining the fickle peace between the two of you, and obsessively delving into your being in search of some long-forgotten spec of humanity that yet lived.

It was becoming a problem.

Finally, he snaps out of his morning sulking and remembers he has a cup of black tea secured in his hand. He bunches up the skull mask on his nose and takes a candid sip, then grimaces.

“It’s cold.”

A soft remark muffled behind a mouthful of buttered toast. His eyes trail up, tired and distant, to find yours studying him like he was an intel chart.

You spare his drink a glimpse, offering wordlessly, then lick the grease off your thumb and let your fork rest against the leftover scrambled eggs on your plate.

“Want me to reheat it, Lieutenant?”

He hadn’t even noticed when you’d gotten up for a second serving, the only indicator being the stained empty tray lying next to your current one. You ate a lot, had to in order to regain the energy you exerted during missions, at least that’s how he understood it. A part of him hoped it would stick, add some more curvature to your form, show him there was still an ounce of normalcy in your existence, at least physically, but it never did.

“You can heat shit too now?” the rasp in his voice is still heavy with sleep. He’s drained and bitter after another night of nothing but restless tossing and he’s poking fun at you as strain relief.

And as usual, it flies right over your head.

“No. I meant in the microwave.” you motion past your shoulder, pointing at the cutlery set up in the back of the mess hall. When he remains silent you extend an arm towards the mug, palm spread out and waiting. “I don’t mind.”

Of course you don’t, you’re a good mutt. The demeaning slew nearly succeeds in slipping past his lips, he snuffs it out with more stale tea.

“Nah.” he turns down your offer and tucks the mug closer to his body. “ ‘S fine.”

“Pyrokinesis is preposterous.” you say, cooly, addressing his previous snark after a beat or two.

It pinches a nerve.

It’s not meant as a jab at his intelligence, just a fact based on your experiences with human experimentation. It’s never a joke or a cocky scoff or anything that would allude to a personality.

“You’re bloody preposterous.” he barks back and his eyes crease in distaste.

The wannabe super soldier telling him what was and wasn’t possible was not on his tolerance list for the day.

There’s a pause, one which he doesn’t appreciate as you’re stripping him bare without consent or clemency. Your stare is degrading, has been since day one, and you’ve no interest in privacy or personal space. The only reason you keep everyone at arm’s length is to minimize any possibility of injuring your subordinates, as instructed by your shadowy puppeteers. Each action, word, and thought from you seems normal at surface level, human, until one understands the reasoning behind it. Everything about you is twisted, it’s creeping up on him, warping his reality.

You’re prying through a blank visage, no remorse, chipping away at his persona and feigning concern.

It’s sickening, it feels so real.

“You’re snippy again.” you note, mow down the rest of your breakfast, and push away the food tray. “You’ve not slept. Again.” it was a statement rather than a question. Your hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as you abandon your hunched-over pose and adjust to a professional stance. “Have you considered – ”

Your maternal tattle is cut short when a phone is thrust into your face. You blink a few times as the image registers:

A puppy. A Labrador puppy all fluffy and adorable stares back at you from the screen.

You look up unamused, letting Soap’s smug grin beam down on you, a ray of sunshine on such a rainy morning. He’s a chipper one, carries both your apathy and Ghost’s grimness on his shoulders like it’s nothing.

“No?” the smile dies on his face and his subtle crow’s feet disappear.

“No.” you answer with a small shake to your head and earn a scoff. “It’s just a dog.”

“Fucking hell, Hound.” he slumps on the uncomfortable metal bench next to Ghost, swiping at his phone before tucking it in his pocket. The pout lasts a few seconds as he rubs a hand over his stubble. “I’ll find yer weak spot one day. Mark my words.” then he turns to the hulking mountain of a man beside him. “Mornin’, Lt.”

John MacTavish had taken a liking to you early on, shining antipodal to the rest of Task Force 141. He’d made it his goal to work a smile out of you and it had begun with dad jokes, then evolved to funny videos, now it was cute animals.

It was a doomed cause, but also none of your business. How he spent his free time was not your concern so you went along with it as long as it didn’t involve you actively participating.

“Mornin’, Johnny.”

“You’re a dedicated man, Sergeant.” you offer simple words and snap your mouth shut before they degenerate into anything derogatory.

“Unlike yourself.”

The cafeteria was lively with soldiers seeking a strong coffee and a hearty breakfast. The cacophony of chatter kept your hearing busy, your senses were dulled, you were relaxed, but you weren’t deaf. You didn’t miss the Lieutenant’s cynical nip.

The ambiance has slowly turned hostile, he’s extra cranky. You pinpoint it to his silent dwelling earlier and leave it t your tongue to resolve the matter before it escalates.

“You’re displeased with me today.” you lean back and let your hands glide off the table, resting them in your lap and appearing smaller. A subtle change, but one you’d learned he fancied; being smaller than him gave him more authority room and indulged his masculine pride. “Have I done something wrong, Lieutenant?”

He likes to stay high on a power trip and humiliate you, keeps your leash secure and short as if governing over you is a boast.

“Don’t like you in general.” casual, passive; he’s peeking at you from beneath light brown lashes. “Think we already established that.”

It’s always a step forward and a thousand back. He’ll be approachable one day, open to discussions on many topics, which are more monologues than dialogues. Then the frail serenity will snap and he’ll want to crawl out of his skin by simply being in your presence. You knew little of his internal wars, knew better than to carve a seat to a psychological bloodbath with no predetermined outcome. But it was confusing, he bore too many burdens and he was making it your problem.

You took bullets for him, would endure anything for him, you’d walk into a minefield if he so wished. You obeyed without question, proven your loyalty yet he refused to change his outlook and continued to treat you with as little fairness as possible.

He was a reject yet he judged you for your difference to the rest of his men. A hypocrite. How unnecessarily…bothersome.

He speaks with subtle malice, yet his body plays a different tune and you run your mouth before thinking. There is no backbone to his passive aggression.

“You lie.” 

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to humble your higher-up in a public setting, especially in front of his most trusted subordinate. However, you cared little for social norms and interaction standards.

He’s mustering a counterattack, as cold and as fowl as his tea, but it never leaves the confines of his skull mask because you continue to yap.

“A truthful man does not sweat. His pupils don’t shrink.”

The stab is made worse by the lack of satisfaction in your voice. You’re indifferent that you’ve caught him in his untruthfulness and it serves to twist the knife deeper.

The least you could do is show him grace by reciprocating his hatred with your own, but you don’t.

You don’t care.

Fuck you.

Ghost rises with the intent to leave, doesn’t spare you another glance, only stares straight ahead, past the crown of your head, and towards the exit.

A year, a whole year since you were assigned to him and still you were a dense twat with not a drop of regard for anyone, not even yourself. It was infuriating how stuck in your ways you were, he’d tried to rupture a change and the results were null. He’s fed up.

You’re a lost cause and his nerves are stretched thin, he’s inclined to simply avoid you today.

“Lt, wait.”

Soap, always the buffer to your scuffle, the voice of reason, but there’s nothing to cushion this time. The cord’s been cut, Simon’s let go of you for the moment and he’s in need of some good alone time to properly simmer down.

He’s stuffed his hands in his jeans, thumbs sticking out and glossing over the stitching. He doesn’t turn back when he offers a response.

“Appetite’s gone.”

If he was any shorter, he would have disappeared in the sea of soldiers, but he’s too easily distinguishable for such mercies. His steps are thunderous, you’ve committed the beat of his stride to memory. He was your highest priority on the battlefield, everything about him has been burned into your mind and it’s left a mark in your day-to-day. He could be on the other side of the base and you’d find him with a blindfold on.

A good soldier, the best. Why couldn’t he appreciate that?

You watch him unblinking as he rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.

An exasperated grunt makes your head reel back.

“Life of the party as always, Hound.” Soap snips, disappointment dripping past his teeth. It’s a gentle scold, as a big brother would his younger sibling after they’ve misbehaved.

“He lied.” you retort and your expression hardens in self-defense. “He wouldn’t be upset if he hadn’t lied. Why did he lie?”

“Ask em yourself, you blind eejit.”

The gravity of his words doesn’t register until they slip out.

There’s no stopping you now, there’s a goal set in front of you. He’s almost stirred enough to stop you, but a meek nag in the back of his head prevents him. Maybe it’s for the best that you talk it out and snuff out the fire before it has a chance to grow. He pities Ghost in a way. Of all the people he could have…

You secure the abandoned mug of tea and are already trailing after the Lieutenant.

“Oh, here we fucking go…” John is left with his cheek resting in his hand and scouring the mess hall for a livelier company to lighten his morning break.

You follow him by scent alone – a pleasing musk that characterized him well aside from the cologne. You maneuver around the horde of military personnel, washed out in a cluster of camo and rugged limbs. The rain has only worsened, battering against the row of windows gracing the corridor, you can almost smell it through the glass. It’s a lovely aroma, but Ghost’s is favored and it guides you through the limbo of concrete, up a few flights of stairs until you understand you’re heading towards his office.

He’s a good man, the Lieutenant, a wonderful man – stern and fair, caring in his unique decrepit way. So why does he insist on treating you like a disgruntled mentor?

If he’s feeling generous, you’ll find out soon enough.

You let yourself in absentmindedly, barge in like the inelegant brute you are and if there had been a conversation bubbling beyond the door it would have rattled you back to cognitive thinking. But the silence had only welcomed you.

He’s sat behind his desk, looming over sparse documents that are of no interest to you, a cigarette languidly burning in the ashtray next to his elbow, smoke sucked out by the ajar window.

His eyes lift at your intrusion.

The fucking audac –

“Why did you lie?”

Straight to the point as usual. No wordplay, no gentle gestures to picture a power imbalance and ease him into it. He’s your superior and you’re supposed to show respect. Tough luck when you forget that little detail.

“Didn’t give you permission to enter.” he watches the sentence seep in as you set his tea at the edge of his desk, mulling.

Without a word, you walk out as whimsically as you’d entered, tiny body made gangly by the white lights illuminating the hallway. The door closes with a creamy click and despite his irritation, he snorts.

A beat of nothingness before three curt knocks sound, it’s comical. You’re a God damn clown.

“Enter.”

You walk in and clear your throat and that blank expression never falters. With legs spread wide and steady, you clasp your wrist behind your back, nose brought high to expose your neck, spine straight and stretched like a violin string.

“Permission to speak, Lieutenant.”

He has the spite to deny your request, cut your escapade short and shoo you away.

“Granted.” he says instead.

The clock above your head ticks and soothes the stale silence, that and the storm outside. The lights are off, the blinds hold back the scant sunlight overshadowed by an ocean of clouds. The only lamp alive is the one on his desk, deep yellow and warm, casting grim shadows over the skin-tight skull mask. The pen hoisted between thick, battle-worn fingers is still.

He’s waiting, watching you like a prowling predator, chin dipped low and eyes half-hidden behind the ridges of his eyebrows.

“Why did you lie?” you repeat with less zest and your shoulders slack a tad.

You’re the best person to share with openly, would take his confessions to the grave, and have no reason nor will for judgment. All he needed to do was ask for you to never mention this to anyone and you could be tortured to death and not budge. It was so simple, you were simple, ranks be damned, you were here for him.

Though Ghost was anything but one-dimensional. He was a complicated individual with a rich past, he was comfortable trusting you with his life, not his secrets.

He steers away from your question and offers a crappy tease instead.

“Fishing for a Psychology degree, Cadet?”

“That’s not a proper answer.” you’re bullet fast to voice your displeasure with his evasiveness. Your paper-white gaze holds his honeydew brown one, displaying openness and hoping for reciprocation.

“And I’ve taught you proper interrogation.” he spits back with growing mock, taut in his chair, muscles solid and ready.

He fights a war not of the physical world, a solitary brawl, in which you refuse to participate. There is no point in such self-induced struggles; the debate of the heart and mind is a phenomenon known to all and it can be a slippery slope. Hence it had been chemically removed from your system.

At least you can see it bothers him, whatever it is he’s musing over. You’d offer advice, you’d help if he let you dip your toes in the problem, but he was too stubborn.

You fail to understand that you’re the problem.

“You’re avoiding the question.” dry and bland, a boring fact both of you have come to acknowledge.

“I don’t need to answer your fucking question.” the pen and papers are pushed to the side as his attention is fully directed towards you. He readjusts and even while sitting down he seems larger than you. “Mind your bloody tone with me, Dog.”

You startle at that, tighten like a board and your expression falters for a second. It’s not his sharpness that shakes your awareness awake, it’s your behavior – obtrusive and insolent, insulting him with nonchalance unacceptable for a soldier of your rank when conversing with a superior. Your nails dig into the fluff of your palm to ground you, and your knee trembles with the barely repressed need to bend and dig into the floor.

It’s a fleeting sight, but he sees you stagger. An alien sensation coils in his stomach.

Finally.

Finally…

A glint of normalcy is peeking beneath the crooked façade. You’re brooding, maybe even experiencing something, branching out from the year-long unbreakable apathy.

“I apologize, Lieutenant.” you yield, backtracking until you settle into a less casual mindset. “I’ve no right requesting any information of you.”

“Damn straight you don’t.” he sinks his teeth in the opportunity, strangely eager to coax a more prominent reaction out of you, obsessive even. Speaks to you with a demeaning twinge, egged on by the split second in which your brows dip. “Forgot your place.”

His tone is biting, but his movements are fluent as he stands and rounds his desk to approach you. He towers over you unapologetically and you’re left staring at the center of his collarbones, avoiding his eyes as a sliver of respect.

He clips your chin between two calloused fingers, burdens you with a look of contemplation as he debates an idea.

“Open.” he commands and you oblige.

Your jaw lowers as your lips part without an ounce of hesitation. The hairs on his arms rise in anticipation, concealed beneath the course military blouse.

His thumb travels up, past the dimple of your chin, and over your plush bottom lip. His skin grazes your bottom teeth before he presses down on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Your lips curl around his salty digit, tasting the smoky cigarette he’d mouthed a few minutes prior. His concentration wanes, his pupils expand briskly before he catches himself softening. He pushes on the roof of your mouth to guide your vision to lock onto him.

Your rhythmic suckling sparks a warmth low in his abdomen. A dull aching pulse licks deliciously at his loins and he sinks his canines into the side of his cheek to snap out of it. He can’t afford this, not with you, you don’t deserve to witness tenderness when you have none to offer in return. So he remains an explorer and keeps pushing boundaries if not to see you uncomfortable, then for his own curiosity.

“You do as I say, when I say.” he rumbles a guttural reminder of your place, then slips his thumb out of your slithery hold and takes a step back. “On your knees.”

Your legs fold in an instant, knees digging into the tiled floor with a deaf thump. You’re face to face with his crotch and a sickening thought passes by him that makes his thighs clench.

Pushing boundaries, that’s all this was. Nothing more.

He rests a hand on the hem of his jeans and fiddles his zipper, alluding to actions he didn’t intend to follow through with. A somber attempt at making you react, but you don’t. There’s not even an involuntary twitch of a muscle – you’re still as a statue and just as emotionless.

He’s stuck between pondering if you’ve called his bluff or you’re simply passive to the idea. Either way, what he’s hinting at is vile and you being this pliant is unnerving.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re just gonna let me…” he trails off and swallows the bile rising in his throat.

What if you were left in the hands of a less gracious leader? What if some fucked up bastard had gotten a hold of you before him? What if he’d succeeded in kicking you out and you ended up in KorTac…?

What would they have done to you?

What if –

“ – I do as you say, when you say, Lieutenant.”

He snarls at that. Grabs a fistful of your top and boosts you to your feet. The tips of your boots are barely touching the ground and he’s lurched over you, so close that you’re overwhelmed by his breath.

Toothpaste, cigarettes, a feint hint of bourbon from the night before.

You inhale slowly, too comfortable in his grip and it makes no sense to him considering his treatment, then exhale audibly and speak again.

“Why does it bother you so much? My condition.”

“It’s not normal.” he gives you a solid jerk, emphasizing his words, spewing poison. “It’s shit. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t give a flying fuck about me…or the team?”

“I would never let – ”

“ – Don’t gimme that crap.”

You’re an adaptive creature. You remember the intricacies of man despite no longer seeing any value in them. His frustration is evident, a spout of bio-chemicals thickens around him, from which adrenaline and oxytocin are the most prominent. He’s torn between protecting himself from you and protecting you from the rest of the world. And at the end of the day, he’s only human and has spent too much time with you, a member of the opposite sex, to be unaffected by your presence.

You do the first thing that comes to mind. A short-circuited move in the name of self-preservation while also not causing him any harm as per your orders.

You kiss him. Inch close while he’s in a haze of despicable turmoil and press your lips where his would be hidden behind the mask.

His lethal tantrum ceases.

He’s stunted, shaken to the bone as he stares right through you. His eyes are bulging, accentuated by the charcoal face paint. His whole body is pulsing, you hear his heartbeat, steady but clamorously loud in your ear, then he cocks his head to the side and you begin to question if your choice of action had only worsened his state.

“I’m sorry.” you blurt. “I misread you, I didn’t – ”

He’s clawing at his mask until it catches on his nose and graces you with a strong jaw littered with nearly blond stubble. You bite your tongue before more words spill and risk shattering the desperate trance he’s succumbed to.

He devours your mouth with a hoarse grunt, the force causing your neck to crane back. The large hand holding you in place vanishes shortly before he starts pawing at your hips, clutching at the firm flesh and then seeking refuge in the dip of your ass.

“Lieut – ” you suck in a breath when he hoists you up like you’re nothing and nudges your legs until they’re wrapped around his thick waist. Your ankles lock over the small of his back and you hold a steady grip on his collar as he shushes you with a husky “shut up”.

His stubble grazes and prickles as he reclaims your wet lips with bruising vigor.

The chain lies broken, his resolve has been torn to shreds after months of no reciprocation. He’s a starved man, too battered and scarred to seek his fix from a stranger. So he’s looked to you, an amalgamation of senseless strength and a hollow heart, an abyss devoid of feeling or emotion, the worst possible option, but in his mind – the only option.

Desperation blinds even the strongest of warriors.

With wobbly steps, he squishes you between the wall and himself, lets words flow without a single sound, and twirls his tongue around yours as you perfectly follow his shaky guidance. He sucks at whatever he can find, made mad with a craving for your essence despite never having tasted you before, slobbers you like a touch-starved dog.

Crushed into the warm safety of his body, in the darkness of his quarters, you're hidden from the world as he gingerly indulges his wants. Senses peaking from overdrive, you only hear, smell and feel him, a fleshy mountain carrying the scent of what you learn is home. What little exposed skin you find is scalding, he shudders while you unintentionally map out his shoulders in search of purchase.

He peppers heated pecks down your jaw with a resounding groan and finds the even pulse in your neck.

You jolt as his teeth encase the spot and he freezes.

“Want me to stop?”

His head is nestled in the crook of your neck, away from the possible judgment of your sight. His voice is low, a scratchy reverberation, strained with a need too great to be put out by his self-restraint alone. He’s a mess, oozing hormones, jittery and uncertain but too lost in his delight to retreat.

He’s slipped inadvertently and wound up vulnerable.

“No.”

He’s satisfied with your answer only for a moment before the nagging reality starts chewing at his gut. You aren’t normal. You’re not the typical bird he’d pick out in a bar after a particularly heavy mission and one too many glasses of scotch. You’re fucked up.

He doesn’t want to keep asking, wishes so direly to stay blind and dumb to the facts spitting acid in his face. But he’s too grounded for such fantastical blessings.

“Want me to keep going?” he looks up with a clenched jaw.

His breathing slows, preparing for a hit similar to a bullet to the chest, but there is no Kevlar to shield him from the devastation. He’s bare before you, at your mercy despite his stoic composure keeping him visibly untouchable. You should pity him, feel something because your situation hints at him being more than an ally or friend. You should muddle the truth or let him down delicately, he deserves as much.

He wanted you to want him. He didn’t want to be alone in his desires.

But you’re no liar, you’re not a gentle soul. You offer him a curt, tasteless answer.

You stare him straight in the eyes and shoot.

“No.”

It stings more than it should.

“I want for nothing.”

The fire in his belly is extinguished, it feels as if the blood is sucked out of his body. The stab leaves his pulsing cock flaccid with only a stain of precum smeared against his boxers as a reminder of the blossoming need you’d snuffed out mercilessly.

He holds your gaze as the spark in his shrunken orbs vanishes, then slowly sets you down and tears himself away with disgust; regretful and insulted.

“Get out…”

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[I'm a bit uncertain about this one. It's a niche idea, but it's been swimming in my head for some time now. Someday I'll be satisfied with my writing, but for now I'll settle for this. I'm not great at COD characters so if anyone seems OOC forgive me. I try my best, but I'm a rookie.]

[marinersapartmentc0mplex]

Dangerously Yours

Ao3 Link

Summary:

You were sent to kill Damian Al Ghul, not to fall for him. Lies, deceit, and undeniable attraction leads you both down a path where loyalty is a fragile thing and love is a weapon. As secrets are laid bare, and the lines between betrayal and passion blur, you must decide if you can destroy each other—or become something more than enemies. Will love be your salvation, or will it be your downfall?

This story is inspired by the radio show Dangerously Yours (specifically the first episode, titled 'Masquerade'), and much of the dialogue in this piece is taken directly from the show.

Light angst, angst with a happy ending, love confessions, assassination plots

The firelight danced along the cold stone walls, casting Damian Wayne in shifting, shadowed relief. He was still as a predator poised for a final strike, his hands resting loosely on the carved edges of the table between you. You could feel the weight of his gaze—piercing, calculating—as if he were studying not just your face but the moves you had yet to make.

“You know nothing about me,” you said, your voice taut, pulled thin as a wire. “You’ve known me for three weeks.”

He leaned forward, the flickering light catching in the sharp lines of his jaw. “Three weeks?” His tone was soft, a murmur wrapped in a blade. “I’ve known you my whole life.”

You snorted, a bitter sound as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “Your whole life. That’s absurd.”

"It’s true," he said, his tone unyielding, eyes glinting like the edge of steel under moonlight. "I’ve seen you in a thousand plays. Read you in as many books. When I’ve heard beautiful music, I’ve thought, she’d like that. I've spent years painting canvases, each stroke a whisper of what I’d one day capture in you."

Your jaw tightened, his answer as infuriating as it was unreadable. “Stop this,” you said. “Whatever you think you see in me—it’s wrong. I’m not—” You faltered, then forced yourself to continue. “I’m not the person you think I am. Perhaps I could've been, but not now.”

His head tilted slightly, the movement deliberate and predatory. “You keep telling me what you’re not,” he said, his voice cool and even. “But you’ve yet to tell me what you are.”

“You cannot trust me.”

“Can’t I?” Damian’s steps were soundless as he closed the distance, the weight of his presence suffocating yet electric. “Are you trying to tell me someone sent you? Shall we say it together? Shall we name the one who pointed you to my throat and set you loose?”

Her fingers clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “What are you saying?”

“That I’ve known since the moment you arrived,” Damian said, his voice as calm as the still surface of a poisoned lake. “I had you followed the moment your shadow crossed my halls.”

She spun to face him, the fury in her eyes masking her fear. “And it didn’t matter to you? Knowing what I am?”

“It didn’t matter.” Damian stepped closer, his towering form casting her in shadow. “Because I trust you.”

The words hit her like a blow, and for a moment, all the air fled her lungs.

“You came here to betray me,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “To dismantle the League. To cut out its beating heart. And yet… I trust you. With my life, and far more than that—with the League itself, its purpose, its future.”

You shook your head, your throat tight. “Stop it. Just stop. You have to listen to me,” you said, each word sharper, more frantic. “I’m not who you think I am. Maybe I was once, but not anymore. You don’t see it. You’re playing the wrong game. You can’t trust me.”

Damian tilted his head, his expression so calm it was maddening, as though your words were part of a script he’d already memorized. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a pawn? Because I don’t believe you. Someone as sharp as you doesn’t settle for following orders blindly.”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your hands pressing hard against the table. “Don’t turn this into a puzzle you think you can solve. You’ve known since I arrived—don’t act like you didn’t. Someone sent me.”

His lips twitched, the faintest shadow of amusement darkening his face. “Of course I knew,” Damian said, his voice lowering into something dangerous. “The day you arrived, I had my men uncover everything there was to know about you. Your alliances. Your moves. Your purpose.”

The breath hitched in your chest, the truth of his words as sharp and cutting as the knives hidden on your body. “And it didn’t make a difference?”

“It didn’t make any difference,” he said, leaning back slightly, an air of cruel confidence radiating from him. “You came here to play a game you thought you could win. You wanted to corner me, to checkmate me. But I don’t play by your rules.”

Your voice dropped, raw and laced with anguish. “I will betray you.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, studying you as if you were already one of his pieces. “If you do, you’ll betray yourself,” he said simply. “That’s the inevitable endgame.”

The words struck you like a blade driven deep. “You don’t understand,” you whispered, shaking your head. “If I betray you, I lose everything I’ve built. But if I betray them, I—” Your voice broke. “I betray my guild. My people. My home.”

He straightened, his composure unshaken. “And yet, you already know which path you’ll take.”

“I can’t,” you said, desperation seeping into your words. “I’ve spent years playing this game, setting every piece in motion for this moment.”

“So have I,” Damian said, his tone sharp and resolute. “Do you think I haven’t felt the weight of every decision, every move? Do you think I don’t know what it is to carry an entire war on my back? You're not the only one playing to win.”

You stared at him, your heart hammering in your chest, the lines between enemy and ally blurring with every breath. “You’re asking me to turn my back on everything I’ve ever known.”

“And I’m telling you,” Damian said, his voice cold as the mountain air outside, “that your guild has already sacrificed you. They sent you to me knowing you couldn’t succeed. They wanted you to fail.”

“Why would they do that?” you demanded, your fists clenching at your sides.

“Because they knew I’d see through you,” Damian replied, his gaze burning into yours. “Because they underestimated what I’d see in you. They thought I’d discard you, but they didn’t account for one thing.”

“What’s that?” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips.

“They didn’t know I would love you,” he said, the words like a dagger plunged straight through your defenses. “And they didn’t know you’d love me back.”

You froze, the weight of his words crashing over you. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “No, they didn’t guess that.”

His expression softened—not with kindness, but with the inevitability of someone who had already seen the end of the game. “Even so, you should know this: Tonight, my forces move against the guild that sent you. My assassins have already set the stage, and when the dust settles, there will be nothing left of your masters but whispers of defeat.”

Your breath hitched, her throat tight. “You’ll destroy them?”

“They sought to destroy me first,” Damian said simply, stepping closer. “But their greatest mistake was sending you. You, who were supposed to end me, but instead…” His hand brushed your cheek, the leather of his glove cool against your flushed skin. “You have come to love me.”

Damian’s lips curved ever so slightly, the hint of a smile laced with danger. "Are you trying to tell me that someone whose name we both know and won’t mention sent you?"

“No,” you choked out, your voice barely more than a plea. “They didn’t know I’d…” You faltered, your hand rising as if to push him away, but it lingered, trembling in the air between you both.

“Love me,” he finished for you, his green eyes piercing your soul. “You do. You can deny it, fight it, but it’s there.”

“I can’t betray my guild,” you said, the words breaking against the tide of your emotions.

“Is it dearer to you than I am?”

Your silence was answer enough.

Damian exhaled slowly, his expression softening in a way that almost undid you. “Then help me, beloved,” he murmured, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise. “Help me bury the past. Help me build something better. The League can be more than blood and shadow—it can be power, justice, a force for a future neither of us imagined.”

Your chest tightened, body trembling as you whispered, “You want me to betray them.”

“I want you to choose,” he said, his voice steel lined with silk. “Them, or us.”

Tears stung at the edges of your vision, but you met his gaze with the last of your strength. “You think you’ve won. That you’ve beaten me. But you haven’t. I hate you, Damian Al Ghul.”

He smiled, a faint, knowing curve of his lips. “Hate and love are two sides of the same coin. I knew I’d flip yours eventually.”

His fingers moved with practiced precision, slipping the expensive gloves from his hands, the soft fabric gliding over his skin, revealing the warmth of his touch beneath. He leaned closer, the air between you crackling with an electricity that had nothing to do with the room you were in.

He reached for your hand, his skin brushing against yours, the contact sending a ripple of warmth through you that made your breath hitch. His fingers interlaced with yours, his grip firm yet tender, as if he was already claiming you without a word. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, soft but knowing. "My heart belongs to you, my beloved," he whispered, his voice low and velvety, carrying the weight of unspoken promises. "The question is, will you allow me to keep yours?"

The proximity of his body, the heat of his touch against your skin, made your pulse quicken. The question hung between you, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you both knew but had never dared to fully admit. His thumb gently caressed the back of your hand, tracing the delicate lines of your skin, as though memorizing every inch of you.

The world outside seemed to fade, leaving nothing but the quiet, steady rhythm of your breaths, the soft flicker of firelight dancing against the walls, casting fleeting shadows in the room. Every inch of space between you had narrowed until there was nothing left but the touch of his skin against yours, his scent filling the air, warm and intoxicating, as if his very presence had become something you could breathe in.

Your heart was beating faster now, each thump louder in your chest, a mixture of fear and longing you hadn’t expected to feel. It was all so sudden, this pull between you, as if the universe had conspired to draw them together, two souls tangled by fate, only to find their own peace in the midst of chaos.

With a quiet, almost imperceptible movement, you leaned closer, your forehead resting gently against Damian’s, breath mingling with his. You closed your eyes, finding solace in the contact, the heat of him surrounding you, making everything else feel distant, insignificant. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to be vulnerable, to drop the armor you had worn for so long.

The weight of the world—the mission, the guild, the lies—had felt so suffocating, so all-consuming, that you hadn’t realized how desperate you were for something different, for someone who didn’t see you as a weapon or a tool, but as something more. Something whole. And now, with your head resting against his, the tension in your shoulders slowly unraveled, piece by piece, as though the very act of letting him hold you was enough to make the fragments of yourself you’d hidden away fall back into place.

His fingers tightened around yours, the contact small but meaningful. There was a quiet strength in his touch, a steady warmth that made you feel anchored in a way you never had before. You squeezed his hand gently, a silent affirmation of the connection between you, a promise of trust in the most intimate way.

Damian didn’t pull away, didn’t break the moment. Instead, his other hand—still warm from the gloves he’d removed—moved to your back, sliding along the smooth line of your spine, urging you to come closer. His chest rose and fell with each breath, slow and measured, but there was a tremor in his movements that belied the calm of his exterior. You could feel the shift in him, the way his body seemed to soften as he wrapped you more firmly in his embrace. He was holding you, not out of necessity, but because he wanted to. And that made all the difference.

Without a word, his arms encircled you, pulling you gently but firmly against him, the heat of his body pressing into yours. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath the layers of clothing, the rhythm grounding you, reminding you that for the first time ever, you were safe.

Your fingers slid up his arm, your palm resting against the smooth fabric of his shirt, before you reached up to touch his cheek, your thumb brushing softly over the sharp line of his jaw. You could feel the faint pulse of his heartbeat in his neck, as though every inch of him was alive with something more than just the physical. It was the kind of connection that words could never capture, something that needed no explanation.

“You’re safe now,” Damian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves were a secret meant only for your ears. “No one will touch you. Not your guild, not my enemies.” He gently squeezed your hand, his fingers brushing against your palm in a tender, possessive way. “I won’t let them.”

You closed your eyes, your breath shuddering slightly as his words sunk deep into you. There was something about the way he spoke, about the way he held you, that made the weight of the world seem lighter, more bearable. You’d never known this kind of tenderness before—not in your training, not in your battles, and certainly not in the twisted paths of your past. But here, in his arms, in the simple touch of his hand around yours, everything felt... right.

You sighed softly, the tension in her body unwinding as you let herself lean into him more, your breath mingling with his. Your fingers squeezed his hand again, a silent request for more. You needed more—more of his presence, more of his assurance, more of whatever it was he was offering. But you didn’t have the words to ask for it.

Damian, as if reading your thoughts, responded without hesitation. He reached up slowly, one hand cupping your cheek gently, the roughness of his fingertips a contrast to the softness of your skin. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if you were something precious he was trying to hold together, something fragile he feared would slip through his fingers. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, the touch so light it could have been a dream. But it wasn’t.

“Stay with me,” he said, the words soft and commanding in the same breath. "Let me protect you. Let me hold you."

Swallowing hard, you lean in, the tension between you crackling in the air, your lips mere inches from his. Your breath fans softly over his skin, the heat of the moment making every second feel suspended in time. His eyes, dark with intent, lock onto yours, and you feel the weight of everything—every choice, every truth—pushing against the fragile barrier between you.

Then, his hands find your waist, pulling you closer with a quiet, undeniable force. The touch of his fingers on your skin is warm, grounding, and for a moment, the world outside of this room seems to disappear. He moves, capturing your lips in a kiss that is gentle but certain, a kiss that speaks of promises unspoken and things both lost and found.

It's a kiss that lingers, slow and tender, as if savoring each moment before it can slip away. Your heart races against his, as the kiss deepens, his grip tightening around you, pulling you fully into the storm of him. Every flicker of his touch, every shift of his mouth, is a quiet confession of everything that’s been building between you—the weight of the past, the hunger of the present, and the uncertainty of the future.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter. In this moment, there is no game, no betrayal, no mission. There is only the feeling of him, of you, together, and the soft press of his lips against yours, steady and sure, as if telling you that everything will be alright as long as you stay with him.

[fel-09]

isekai! reader x thranduil

Through the world into your arms Part 1

The second part will be in case if I find motivation the continuation will be in wattpad I think ?

The morning in Mirkwood did not greet King Thranduil with the usual chorus of birdsong, the rustling of leaves, or the gentle warmth of sunlight streaming through the carved windows of his regal chambers. There were no soft voices of attendants offering goblets of wine or delicately waking their lord after long nights spent over endless scrolls and royal decrees.

No, this morning began quite differently.

A deafening crash echoed through the halls of the ancient palace, shattering the serene silence of the Woodland Realm. Before Thranduil could fully grasp what had occurred, something soft and unexpectedly light landed atop him in his bed. A weight pressed against his chest—another body.

Long, flowing hair spilled over his bedding and tangled in his fingers. His piercing, frost-blue eyes locked onto a pair of wide, stunned eyes that stared back at him with equal disbelief.

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and unnerving, like the dense mists that lingered over the forest at dawn. Neither spoke. The woman, her body still pressed against his, attempted to move but could only manage awkward, jerky motions, as though she herself could not comprehend the absurdity of the situation.

Clumsily, she shifted, managing to straddle his torso, a position that looked simultaneously ridiculous and alarmingly bold. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, and her face bore an expression of both shock and dawning realization, though her emotions were impossible to read completely.

Thranduil, ever the calculating observer, swept his gaze over her strange attire. It was foreign—too revealing, too unlike anything his realm had ever known. She carried no visible weapons; no hidden blades or poisons concealed themselves in the folds of her bizarre garment. Her demeanor was disheveled and uncomposed, lacking the precision or intent of an assassin.

Still, the elven king could not entirely dismiss the possibility of a ruse. Seduction was no unfamiliar ploy in his court, and while her bewildered state seemed genuine, he remained wary.

She opened her mouth, her voice trembling as she began, “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know how I got here—”

Her attempt at an explanation was abruptly cut short by the commanding tone of the king’s voice, which rang through the chamber like a blade slicing through the air.

“Guards!” he bellowed. “An intruder in my chambers! Detain her immediately!”

In an instant, he moved with the speed and precision of centuries of battle, pinning her arms and immobilizing her against the silken mattress.

You lay beneath him, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of your predicament. Moments ago, you had been safely asleep in your own bed. Now, you found yourself in another world—one you recognized all too well, though it had always seemed like fiction. Before you was Thranduil, the King of the Woodland Realm, his cold, regal beauty unmistakable, just as you had seen in The Hobbit.

And then there was the matter of your attire. Your pajamas, utterly inappropriate for this world, only added to your mortification.

As your thoughts raced to piece together what had happened, the doors to the chamber burst open. A group of elven guards rushed inside, their polished armor gleaming in the faint light. Without hesitation, they seized you, forcing you to your knees before their imposing king.

The weight of your situation settled over you like a heavy cloak.

“What kind of mess have I gotten myself into now?” you wondered bitterly. “And why, of all places, here? Of all people, him?”

Whatever strange force had brought you to this realm, it had also thrust you into the center of a perilous new chapter, one where escape seemed as distant as the farthest stars of Middle-earth.

Forced to kneel on the cold stone floor, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of their sharp gazes,the guards seemed to be assessing your every move though none burned as intensely as the one fixed on you by Thranduil himself.

His piercing eyes studied you with a mix of cold scrutiny and regal disdain, though his expression betrayed no emotion beyond mild annoyance. Rising from the bed, he adjusted his robes with calculated grace, his movements exuding an air of effortless authority.

But instead of addressing you, his ire turned to his own guards.

“How,” he began, his voice low but laced with unmistakable sharpness, “does a stranger find their way into my chambers—unseen?”

The guards shifted uncomfortably, their gazes dropping to the floor as if it might spare them the full weight of their king’s displeasure.

“Perhaps,” he continued, his tone dripping with icy sarcasm, “I have overestimated the competence of my watchmen. Should I assume my halls are so poorly guarded that anyone may wander in and out as they please?”

One guard mustered the courage to stammer, “My lord, we—”

“Silence,” Thranduil snapped, raising a slender hand. “I’ve no interest in your excuses.”

The tension in the room was palpable, and though his words weren’t directed at you, you couldn’t help but flinch under their weight.

With a dismissive wave, he gestured for the guards to step back, though they remained close, their hands still gripping your arms firmly. Then, as if dismissing their existence entirely, Thranduil turned his attention back to you.

Without a word, he strode to a nearby divan, its velvet cushions as opulent as the rest of the chamber. Lowering himself onto it with the poise of a monarch born to rule, he crossed one long leg over the other. Resting his elbow on the armrest, he propped his chin on his hand, his fingers brushing the curve of his cheek as he regarded you with a look of pure, unmasked condescension.

The silence stretched, his piercing gaze locked onto you, stripping away any pretense of composure you might have had left. Finally, his lips curled into the faintest smirk, and he spoke, his tone as regal as it was disdainful:

“And now,” he drawled, his voice soft yet commanding, “let us consider what is to be done with you.”

[srslyblvck]

ashes to ashes, kaz brekker

pairing: kaz brekker x inferni!reader

synopsis: you lose your powers, in an accident. you distance yourself from the crows, so kaz comes to confront you.

warning: hurt, comfort, angst.

word count: 1.3k

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE FLICKERING FLAMES HAD always been a comfort, a reminder of the power that surged through your veins. The control over fire was more than a talent; it was your identity, your weapon, your shield. But now, staring at your trembling hands, you saw nothing but the stark absence of what once defined you.

Kaz Brekker's lair was as cold as the man himself, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. You found solace in the corners of the Crow Club, avoiding the pitying glances of the Dregs. Losing your abilities had turned you into something you despised—a liability.

Days had turned into weeks since the accident. A heist gone wrong, a trap set by an enemy too clever and too cruel. The poison they used had severed your connection to your Grisha powers, leaving you as ordinary as the common folk you once scorned.

You felt like a shadow of your former self, a specter haunting the halls of the Crow Club. The looks of pity from the other members of the Dregs were almost unbearable, and the whispers behind your back cut deeper than any blade.

One evening, after another day of feeling utterly useless, you found yourself sitting alone in the dimly lit room Kaz had given you. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on you like a physical force. You couldn't escape the gnawing feeling that you were a burden, a weak link in the chain.

A knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts. Before you could respond, the door opened and Kaz stepped inside. His presence was imposing, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice devoid of the usual edge.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your trembling hands. "About what?"

Kaz closed the door behind him, leaning on his cane. "About you. About what's been going on."

You looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze. "There's nothing to talk about."

Kaz's eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me. You've been distant, avoiding everyone. You're not yourself."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "Not myself? Of course I'm not myself. I'm nothing without my powers."

Kaz took a step closer, his expression unreadable. "Is that what you really think?"

You stood up, anger and frustration boiling over. "What else am I supposed to think, Kaz? I was useful. I had a purpose. Now I'm just...I'm nothing. A liability."

Kaz's eyes flashed with something you couldn't quite place. "You're not a liability."

"Yes, I am!" you shouted, your voice breaking. "I can't fight, I can't defend myself, I can't do anything! I'm useless to the team, useless to you."

Kaz's eyes, dark and calculating, bore into yours. "Feeling sorry for yourself won't change anything."

You clenched your fists, the nails digging into your palms. "Easy for you to say. You haven't lost what makes you...you."

Kaz's face remained impassive, a mask of calm authority. He limped closer, each step deliberate, measured. "You're more than just your powers," he said, his voice steady.

"Am I?" You turned away, unable to meet his gaze. "I don't feel like it."

Kaz was silent for a moment, the air thick with unspoken words. "You think hiding away is going to help you feel better? You think isolating yourself will change what's happened?"

His words cut through the fog of your despair. Kaz Brekker, the Bastard of the Barrel, pushes you to face the harsh reality. It was almost unthinkable. You turned back to him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity, but found none.

"How do you expect me to face everyone?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "How do I keep going like this?"

Kaz's jaw tightened, his expression unwavering. "You find a way. You adapt. You survive. Hiding doesn't solve anything."

The simplicity of his words stung, but they also resonated. You had always admired Kaz's resilience, his ability to turn every disadvantage into an opportunity. If anyone knew how to rebuild from ashes, it was him.

"I don't know if I can," you admitted, the vulnerability in your voice unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

Kaz's expression remained cold, a mask of indifference. "You can. You're still you, with or without your powers. Your mind, your courage, your loyalty—those are what make you valuable."

A lump formed in your throat, and you struggled to speak past it. "It doesn't feel that way. I feel...lost."

Kaz took another step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're not lost. You're just finding a new path. And you don't have to do it alone."

His words were a lifeline, grounding you in a way you hadn't felt since the accident. Kaz, in his own way, was offering you more than just comfort; he was offering you hope.

"You saved my life many times," Kaz said quietly. "And most of the time, it wasn't because of your powers."

You looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember Pekka Rollins' ambush?" Kaz's voice was steady, but there was an edge of intensity. "You got me out before they closed in. You had no time to use your powers, just your quick thinking and courage."

Your mind flashed back to that day, the chaos, the desperation. "That was different. I was still useful then."

"And the Ice Court?" Kaz continued, his eyes never leaving yours. "You navigated us through that labyrinth. No fire, just your wits."

"Anyone could have done that," you muttered.

Kaz's voice grew firmer. "What about the Heartrender at the Little Palace? When we had to kidnap the Sun Summoner? You shielded me from her attack, with no time to conjure a flame. You saved my life."

Tears welled up in your eyes. "But that was then, Kaz. Now, I can't even—"

Kaz cut you off. "Your value isn't just in your powers. It's in your loyalty, your intelligence, your determination—those are things that can't be taken away."

You sank back onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. "It doesn't feel that way."

Kaz moved closer, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. "Feelings can be deceiving. You need to see yourself the way I see you."

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "And how do you see me, Kaz?"

He held your gaze, his voice unwavering. "I see someone who's strong, even when they don't feel like it. Someone who's valuable, even without their powers. Someone who has the potential to adapt and overcome."

The intensity of his words struck a chord deep within you. For the first time since the accident, you felt a glimmer of hope.

"But what if I can't?" you whispered. "What if I can't adapt?"

Kaz's eyes never left yours. "Then I'll help you. We'll find a way, together."

The sincerity in his voice was undeniable. Despite his cold exterior, Kaz Brekker was offering you something you desperately needed—belief in yourself.

"Why do you care so much?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

Kaz's expression hardened slightly, but his eyes remained steady. "Because you're one of us. And we take care of our own."

The simplicity of his words brought fresh tears to your eyes, but this time, they were tears of gratitude. Kaz wasn't known for his kindness, but in his own way, he was showing you that you mattered.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion.

Kaz nodded, his demeanor as composed as ever. "Don't thank me yet. We still have a lot of work to do."

You managed a small smile, the first in what felt like an eternity. "I guess we do."

Kaz turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Remember, you're not alone. We'll figure this out."

As he closed the door behind him, you took a deep breath, the weight on your chest feeling just a little lighter. Kaz was right—you weren't alone. And with his support, maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to rise from the ashes.

[sisternightroad]

Lady Oscar's flaws and weaknesses

In case someone is interested, I've written in an italian blog a small analysis of Oscar from Rose of Versailles, so I've translated it to post it here too.

Thank you for the dive into the past. To give some context, I primarily base myself on the manga because it is the original medium and, as almost always, the most complete. The original Oscar is very different from that of the anime, because the latter makes different narrative choices from the beginning. Among other things, since Oscar is not born as a protagonist but as a sidekick to Marie Antoinette, her character is initially less deep and set up differently.

Moreover, the anime has a predominantly dark and dramatic tone, but the contents have been overall very softened, especially in the edition with Italian dubbing, while the manga alternates comic moments with moments of great tragedy and violence, even very brutal for a shojo of the time. But let’s cut to the chase:

From the beginning, Oscar is characterized as a tomboy, which serves as a recurring comic element in the story. Even at the time of her birth, her father mistakes her for a boy because she screams and thrashes about like a little boy.

[Oscar’s birth in volume 1 and a comic callback in volume 6]

Despite her refined and elegant appearance, she often behaves in a decidedly rude manner, spits and swears. In her character profile, the author emphasizes that she always behaves like a man and loves weapons, alcohol, occasionally going to drink in the commoners bars and that her flaw is that she is ready to start a fight.

[A snippet of Oscar’s profile and a brawl from volume 3]

Another thing went a bit lost among the transpositions is that Oscar is a huge troll. She often behaves in a brazen and insolent way to mock scandals, pettiness and gossip of court life. The funniest example is when her father wants her to organize a ball to find a husband, in the anime criminally reduced to an innocent scene. General Jarjayes asks her to commission a dress from the best tailor in Paris and Oscar shows up at the ball with a flashy dress uniform complete with bell-bottom pants in '70s style. To complete the work, she spends the evening dancing and flirting with her throng of admirers, even kissing two and threatening to duel a guy she stole the girlfriend from. Priceless.

[Lady Oscar happily trolling her father and her suitor Girodelle who, along with the other contenders, despair in the background in volume 6]

Moving on to more serious matters, in both versions Oscar is notoriously cool and detached, but in the manga she is less fickle, impulsive and reckless. She tends to be a risk-taker, but most of the time the risks she takes are calculated or at least justified. One of the first big examples is when she threatens Madame du Barry with her sword for trying to frame Oscar’s mother for the poisoning of a maid. In this case, she draws her sword in defense of her mother to scare du Barry, because she knows even the countess may not want it to be known what happened.

[Oscar threatens Countess du Barry with her sword in volume 2]

In addition, beneath her cold exterior, she often shows herself to be emotional and quick-tempered, characteristics that come out especially during the most dramatic moments, such as the killing of the child by the Duke of Guémené, when the black knight injures André’s eye or the soldiers of the French guard want to push her to punish them.

[Oscar getting furious about the extravagances orchestrated by the Duchess de Polignac in volume 4]

In the manga, Oscar does not live her military career as an imposition, but rather as a source of pride. Also for this reason, she shows from a very young age to be competitive, ambitious and even a bit arrogant. In fact, she is the one who personally requests the assignments of the capture of Jeanne de Valois or the arrest of the black knight, thanks to which she reaches the rank of brigadier general and, if she had not let the latter escape, she would have advanced at least one more rank. Moreover, in the comic she decides to join the French guard not to get away from Fersen, but to prove that she can make it even outside the privileged environment of the royal guard.

[An adorable little Oscar who already thinks big in volume 1]

Since Oscar, like all nobles, has always lived a privileged and protected existence, especially at the beginning she is naive and ignorant about the conditions of the world and the people around her. It is also for this reason that she is sometimes excessively indulgent towards Marie Antoinette and tends not to take into account André’s feelings for her, even though she knows he loves her.

[A moment of tragic realization on Oscar’s part in volume 5]

Finally, Oscar has an ambivalent relationship towards her femininity. While this does not represent a flaw in itself, it remains one of her major weaknesses that makes her suffer and rends her very vulnerable. While she is in every way a woman, she occupies a place that in a very rigid and hierarchical society is traditionally reserved for men and she wants to be treated like a man. For this reason, she often shows to consider feelings as something exclusively feminine to reject. This side of her identity cracks when Oscar’s expectations and desires as a woman and those as a soldier clash with each other, such as when she falls in love with Fersen and for the first time in her life she dresses as a woman for him or when her father wants to push her to retire from the army and marry Girodelle. This would force her in each case to give up an important part of her life and identity. Only at the end does she understand, after André dies and she stays by his side instead of returning immediately to the battlefield, in the scene that I find the most touching in the manga, that her feelings do not make her a “woman”, but human.

[Oscar crying over André’s death in volume 8, much better than that crap of episode 39]

I want to close by saying that this is a manga and a character that I love very much also and especially for its shortcomings and very human imperfections. It is these gaps that push her to mature beyond the boundaries of her golden cage and to break down the social and personal barriers that prevent her from living her life not simply as a man or a woman but as herself.

It is by navigating her complex and difficult feelings, touching firsthand the despair of ordinary people and gaining the respect of her rebellious subordinates that she understands that she is only a small cog in the great wheel of History and thus comes to choose which side of it she really wants to be on.

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Omfg. I took so long to write this I know T^T Thank you for being patient with me! I just decided to have a mini break bcs I was jet lagged from travelling and had to focus on my health for a little bit. 

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

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RED KEEP, WESTEROS - 300 AC

You spent two decades carefully avoiding forming deep bonds, all the while meticulously plotting your revenge. You studied their weaknesses, habits, and relationships, patiently biding your time until you could strike from close range.

You had noticed the lingering glances between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, their whispered conversations turning into passionate encounters. So when Cersei bore a child, rumored to be the result of her incestuous relationship, and as you witnessed Joffrey Baratheon growing into a likeness of his parents, you recorded every detail in your leather-bound notebook. It contained all the information about those responsible for the death of Elia Martell, ensuring no detail escaped your scrutiny.

Serena, a girl you befriended in the bustling stables, is a steadfast ally in your quest for vengeance. Together, you both meticulously gather intelligence, weaving through the whispers of the kitchen staff and the secrets shared in the shadowy corners of brothels. With her keen eyes and your shared determination, you stalk those who have wronged you, laying the groundwork for your calculated retribution.

In the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, the struggle for power rages on. Joffrey Baratheon, seated upon the Iron Throne, wields authority backed by the formidable House Lannister. However, his claim faces challenge from his uncle Renly, who, bolstered by the might of House Tyrell, presses his own bid for kingship. In this turmoil, Tyrion Lannister arrives in King's Landing, aiming to assert control, only to find himself at odds with his conniving sister, Cersei, now entrenched as Queen Regent.

As autumn blankets the realm and whispers of an impending winter linger, Westeros braces for the bitter cold ahead. Yet, instead of preparing for the harsh season, the land remains conflicted. Renly Baratheon's sudden demise alters the tides of allegiance, leaving the political landscape in flux. Meanwhile, Joffrey, with the backing of House Tyrell, emerges victorious in a decisive clash against his uncle Stannis, solidifying his hold on power.

The fates of many hang precariously in the balance. In the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing, both Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark navigate treacherous waters, their survival dependent on their ability to navigate the perilous currents of court intrigue.

You had served Sansa since the day she was first betrothed to King Joffrey. Back then, she had been full of dreams—visions of knighthood, love, and a golden crown. But those dreams quickly soured, turning into nightmares as the Lannisters’ hold over her tightened. What was once a promising union became a gilded cage. They kept her in the Red Keep, a prisoner beneath layers of silk and politeness. 

Sansa clung to her “lady-like” pursuits to distract from the harshness of her reality—sewing, embroidery, poetry, and music. Her stitches were always delicate, her voice soft, yet behind her graceful demeanor, you saw the cracks. You were there when Septa Mordane led her through the Red Keep’s throne room for a lesson in history. It was meant to be a glimpse into the glory of the Targaryens and the rulers of old, but instead, Sansa’s gaze lingered on the dark stain where her grandfather and uncle had been butchered by the Mad King. Her face paled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, haunted by the ghosts of her own blood.

One evening, as she sat embroidering by the window, she confided in you. “Do you think I’ll be able to give Joffrey sons?” Her voice wavered. “What if… What if I’m only able to give him daughters, like Jeyne Poole’s mother?”

You tried to find reassuring words, though even Septa Mordane's attempts had done little to ease her fears. “You’re young, my lady. You will bear many children in time.”

Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met yours, but she said nothing more.

The Hand’s tournament arrived, and Sansa, despite everything, seemed to sparkle for a brief moment amidst the finery of the lords and knights. You stood in the shadows, watching her as she watched them. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was a towering presence, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he unseated Ser Hugh of the Vale, killing him in the dust of the joust. Littlefinger whispered dark stories to Sansa of the Hound’s past, tales of burned flesh and brutal lessons. You saw the way Sansa’s hands trembled as she absorbed the horrors hidden beneath the chivalry.

Yet, there were moments of fleeting happiness. Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of the Flowers, gave her a single rose before his tilt with Ser Gregor. She blushed under his attention, but you noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered not on her, but on Renly Baratheon, who stood just behind. That small act of kindness, hollow as it was, brought a rare smile to Sansa’s lips, even as the court applauded Sandor Clegane’s intervention to stop his brother’s rampage.

But that brief joy was drowned by the darkness that soon followed. When King Robert Baratheon died after a hunting “accident,” everything unraveled. Eddard Stark, honorable as always, tried to reveal the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, but it was too late. You weren’t surprised when Littlefinger betrayed him. You had seen the cunning in his eyes long before, the way he played everyone like pieces on a cyvasse board. 

Chaos erupted. Eddard’s men, loyal to the last, were slaughtered by Lannister guardsmen led by Sandor Clegane. You remembered Mordane’s voice trembling as she urged Sansa to lock herself in their chambers. But there was no hiding from the Lannisters. They took her.

You watched from a distance as Sansa was humiliated before the court, her innocence crushed beneath the weight of Cersei’s cold cruelty. She stood there, trembling, and you saw the beginning of a transformation. The girl who once dreamed of knights and love was slowly breaking, her innocence being stripped away by every sneer, every command, every cold laugh in the throne room.

You wished you could offer her comfort, but in King’s Landing, comfort was as fleeting as mercy.

The great Sept was filled with the hum of whispers, the heavy weight of tension hanging in the air as Eddard Stark stood before the court. His face, weathered by years of honor and battle, now looked hollow, beaten by betrayal. You stood in the shadows, where servants always stood, your eyes flicking between the high lords and the northern Warden. As the silence fell, Eddard knelt, acknowledging his so-called “crimes” and pledging loyalty to King Joffrey.

For a moment, it seemed the court might breathe again. Sansa stood nearby, her hands trembling. Hope flickered in her eyes—briefly. But Joffrey, perched on the Iron Throne like some twisted boy-king out of a nightmare, leaned forward with a smile sharp as a blade. His words fell like a thunderclap. “Bring me his head.”

Sansa's scream cut through the hall, raw and broken. She lunged forward, hysterical, her voice lost in a storm of pleading, but the gold cloaks restrained her, forcing her back. Her cries—“Please, mercy, mercy!”—rang in your ears, making your stomach turn. 

Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, cold and unfeeling as he drew Ice, the greatsword of House Stark. You could see the light catch the edge of the steel, and the last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was her father’s final, resigned glance.

You moved through the chaos as a shadow. Your duty to Sansa came first, so as the blood pooled on the Sept’s floor, you carried her from the carnage, her limp body heavy with grief. The days that followed were hollow. She barely spoke, her eyes vacant as you tended to her, making sure she ate, dressing her in the Lannisters' silks even as her soul remained buried in sorrow.

It was one of those somber evenings when she finally spoke, her voice so faint you almost missed it. “Do you… serve the Lannisters?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, setting down the tray of untouched food, meeting her tired gaze. “Yes, my lady,” you answered softly.

Sansa’s eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe anger. “Have they always been this cruel?” she asked, her words trembling with an innocent horror.

You weighed your response carefully, then nodded. “From what I’ve heard, unfortunately, yes.”

Her lips parted as she considered your answer, but it was her next question that cut deeper. “Then why do you serve them?”

You lowered your eyes, your hands folding over the fabric of her gown, the lie of your position hanging heavy on your shoulders. “It’s something I wager on,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the unease in your chest.

Sansa, always perceptive, frowned. “Is that the only kind of wager you make?”

For a moment, you froze. Then you let a faint smile tug at the corner of your lips, the words “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken” echoing in your heart, though unspoken. “There was one time I bet my entire life on something,” you confessed quietly.

She looked at you then, truly looked, her tear-streaked face searching yours. “Did you win?”

Your smile faltered, but you met her gaze with a spark of determination. “I’m planning to,” you said, with a quiet promise hanging between the two of you.

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — 300 AC

The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder that night, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stones. In a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the grand halls, you worked in silence, the weight of your plan pressing down like the calm before a storm. Every movement was deliberate, each thought sharper than the edge of a Valyrian blade. The game was already in motion, and you were setting the pieces in place.

You had long been underestimated—a mere servant, a shadow in the background of the powerful Lannisters, Tyrells, and Martells. Yet, you had seen the truth: the most dangerous players were often those who remained unseen. You were one of them, a silent force, blending into the background while carefully planting the seeds of destruction. The poison, subtle and undetectable, was your weapon.

A soft knock interrupted your focus. The door creaked open, and there stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger himself. His thin lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only calculation.

“Ah, a quiet place for quiet minds,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, eyes darting around the chamber before settling on you.

You raised your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm that belied the storm brewing inside you. Littlefinger wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but neither were you. Two wolves circling, each looking for the other’s weakness.

“You seem to find yourself in many quiet places, Lord Baelish,” you replied, voice soft but pointed. “What brings you here?”

He moved closer, his steps light, like a predator stalking prey. “Just ensuring the right wheels keep turning, ensuring the chaos that follows serves the right cause.” His gaze lingered on your hands, noting the fine movements as you handled a small vial, the liquid within almost imperceptibly shifting.

You allowed a small, knowing smile. “Chaos... Chaos can be useful. But only if it’s controlled.”

His eyebrow raised, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Controlled chaos? Now, that’s an art.”

You carefully set the vial down, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “What if the chaos that’s already simmering were to boil over? What if, after Joffrey’s wedding, his reign came to an... unexpected end?”

Baelish didn’t blink, though you could see the subtle change in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. You hadn’t suggested anything outright—it was the art of planting the idea, the delicate balance of nudging him without him realizing he’d been led.

He took a slow breath, his mind already racing. “And who, I wonder, would have the audacity to arrange such an unexpected end?”

You smiled, but didn’t answer directly, your silence speaking volumes. Instead, you moved the conversation forward, allowing the implication to sink in.

“The realm is already full of hungry wolves, my lord,” you said, your voice steady, your hands working deftly as you began to clear away your tools. “All it takes is a nudge in the right direction, and they’ll tear each other apart. No one will stop to notice who did the nudging.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone as noncommittal as ever, “but wolves are tricky. You can never be sure which way they’ll turn.”

“That’s true,” you conceded, meeting his eyes directly. “But I’ve always been good at reading the pack.”

The silence that followed was heavy, each of you measuring the other, testing the boundaries. He wouldn’t act on your words immediately. Littlefinger was too careful, too meticulous for that. But you could see the spark in his eyes—the idea was there, planted, waiting to take root.

With a nod, he turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You have a dangerous mind,” he remarked, half admiration, half warning. “Be careful. The pack bites back.”

You gave him a knowing look. “Only if they see the one holding the leash.”

Days passed, and as you moved through the grand halls of the Red Keep, you watched everything begin to fall into place. Like a silent puppeteer, you pulled the strings without ever needing to step into the light.

Varys had been busy, moving pieces on the board that even you hadn’t expected. Ros had whispered in his ear, and soon after, Lady Olenna Tyrell had been brought into the fold. The whispers of a marriage between Sansa Stark and Loras Tyrell spread through the castle like wildfire. You had always known Varys to be a man of schemes, but even you marveled at how quickly he moved.

In the gardens, you overheard the conversations as they unfolded—subtle, quiet, but filled with power. Lady Olenna, with her sharp wit and keen mind, was already orchestrating her plans, likely envisioning a future without Joffrey’s cruel reign.

You stood in the shadows as Littlefinger passed by, his expression unreadable. He had heard your suggestion, and though you were not directly involved, you knew the idea had taken root. He would set things in motion, ensuring the chaos that followed would serve him—and you would remain unseen, untouched by the blood that would soon spill.

RED KEEP, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The War of the Five Kings dragged on, but within the Red Keep, the battles were far subtler, fought with whispers and veiled threats. Your life as a servant under King Joffrey's reign had grown increasingly unbearable. Between the relentless demands of court life and the constant fear of his cruelty, you found little time to care for yourself.

Your headache throbbed—a reminder that you hadn’t eaten since dawn, and the long days had begun to blur into endless nights. It wasn’t uncommon for you to push through these spells, but this time felt different. The world around you grew heavier, your limbs sluggish, and the gardens seemed far away.

Basket in hand, filled with fruit from the kitchens, you trudged through the Red Keep's gardens. The bright afternoon light stabbed at your eyes, worsening the pounding in your head. You tried to focus on your task, but each step felt more labored, and a cold sweat broke out on your skin.

As you rounded a corner near the overgrown hedges, your vision blurred. The world tilted. The cobbled path beneath your feet shifted into an unforgiving blur of stone and soil, and with a muffled thud, everything went black.

In that hazy in-between of consciousness, a voice pulls you back—familiar, though distant. “He would have liked you,” Princess Elia’s voice echoes in your mind.

“Whom do you speak of, my lady?” you had once asked her, back when the Red Keep still buzzed with life and not dread.

“My brother. Oberyn. He’s trouble, but even so, I love him dearly.”

For a brief moment, you can almost feel her presence, and the weight of the past rushes over you like a cold wave. You blink, pulling yourself out of the memory just as a different voice fills your ears. A deeper one, full of curiosity and something unreadable.

You woke slowly, your senses coming back in fragments: the scent of crushed grass, the cool air against your skin, and the distant murmur of voices. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight through the leaves overhead.

"Careful. Don’t rush."

The voice was deep, tinged with amusement. A hand—warm and strong—rested on your shoulder, gently holding you down. You blinked, focusing on the face above you, unfamiliar yet striking. Dark, sharp eyes, framed by lustrous and black with only a few silver streaks recede from his brow into a widow's peak. The emblem of a red sun pierced by a golden spear embroidered on his tunic caught your eye.

Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne.

“Are you injured?” His voice held a soft curiosity as if you were some puzzle he intended to unravel.

You shook your head, still disoriented. "No, I... I must have fainted."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the basket of spilled fruit beside you. “It seems you’ve been overworking yourself. King Joffrey’s court, I assume? They’re not known for their kindness.”

A rush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks. You scrambled to sit up, but Oberyn’s hand remained firm.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone softening. “Even a servant deserves a moment to breathe.”

You weren’t used to kindness, especially not from someone of his stature. His reputation as a fierce and dangerous man preceded him, yet there was something else—an air of compassion, albeit hidden beneath his sharp edges.

“I’m... grateful,” you murmured, unsure of how to respond. “But I should get back to my duties. They won’t—”

Oberyn interrupted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let them wait. The Lannisters have their claws in many, but even a viper can strike when the time is right.”

There was a pause, a subtle shift in the air between you and Oberyn Martell. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, and though his words were casual, they held an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. It was as though he saw something deeper in you, something more than just a servant tending to her duties. Fate, or perhaps something far more dangerous, had drawn his attention to you.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stood upright, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful intensity. "You Dornish are known for our... passions," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But it seems fate has a way of placing beauty in my path, whether I ask for it or not."

You blink, unsure of how to respond, heat rising uncomfortably to your face. He stepped closer, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, lingering there a moment longer than propriety would allow. "Tell me," Oberyn continued, his tone playful yet edged with something deeper, "does a woman like you often find herself fainting at the feet of princes? Or is this a rare occasion?"

Your breath hitched, panic flaring inside you, though you did your best to suppress it. Affection—let alone attention—was something you were unaccustomed to. His flirtation was like a wildfire, threatening to burn through the careful walls you'd built around yourself.

"I... I don’t..." you stammered, trying to pull your thoughts together, your mind racing. You weren’t used to being noticed, not like this, not by someone like him.

Oberyn tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he could sense the flurry of emotions raging within you. "Don't be shy," he murmured, voice lowering as his eyes roamed over you with quiet curiosity. "I can see there's much more to you than meets the eye." 

The words felt like a tease, a challenge wrapped in silk, and your heart pounded in your chest, caught between the instinct to flee or stand frozen in place. Oberyn Martell's gaze seemed to strip away every defense you had carefully built over the years, as though he could see straight through the mask of servitude you wore.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steadying your trembling nerves. This was not the time to panic, not in front of the Red Viper of Dorne. He was too sharp, too dangerous, and your heart fluttered at the way his presence seemed to unsettle the very air around you.

Without answering the prince’s flirtatious remark, you bent down to hurriedly gather the fallen fruit, your fingers clumsy as you fumbled with the basket. But even as you moved, you felt his eyes on you, watching every motion with an almost predatory amusement.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours as he handed you one of the scattered apples. "You're in quite the hurry," he murmured, the smirk never leaving his face. His touch lingered, deliberately slow as he placed the fruit in your basket.

You rose quickly, trying to distance yourself, but Oberyn stood just as swiftly. Before you could retreat, he grasped your wrist, pulling it gently toward him. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if this were a dance he had long perfected. He raised your hand to his lips, his dark eyes locked on yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—his lips soft, warm against your skin.

Your breath caught, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. Heat crept up your neck, your heart racing as you tried to pull yourself together, but his touch seemed to set your mind spinning.

Just then, Oberyn’s eyes shifted, narrowing as he caught sight of something—your scars, peeking out from beneath your long sleeves. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, curiosity flashing across his features. He tilted his head, about to speak.

But you jerked your hand away, the sudden movement sharp, almost frantic. "I should go," you blurted, the words tumbling out hastily. You gathered your things, your pulse still thrumming wildly as you turned on your heel, desperate to escape his piercing gaze.

As you hurried away, you could feel Oberyn's eyes lingering on your retreating form, his expression unreadable. Even in your rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the prince wasn’t done with you yet.

KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The sun hung high over King’s Landing, its golden light casting a deceptive warmth over the cool sea breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. You stood with Marei at the edge of the courtyard, the bustle of the palace below and the hum of the city distant beneath the tranquil air. The garden was alive with color, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that clung to those gathered at the banquet table.

Shae moved with a quiet urgency, filling a plate with food from the banquet spread. She placed it in front of Sansa, who sat still, pale and lifeless, her face void of any spark. Her slender hands rested on her lap, unmoving. It was as if she had already become a shadow, despite still breathing.

“You need to eat something,” Shae urged softly, her voice carrying both concern and exasperation.

Sansa did not stir. 

“Pigeon pie,” Shae offered, her tone gentler now, but Sansa’s pale lips barely moved as she whispered, “No, thank you.”

A sigh escaped Shae, but she quickly turned back to the table, scanning for something else. With a quick motion, she removed Sansa's untouched plate and placed a new offering in front of her. “Lemon cakes?” Shae asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. Everyone knew Sansa's love for lemon cakes.

Sansa’s voice, barely a whisper, responded again. “No, thank you.”

Shae’s expression faltered. “You love lemon cakes.”

But Sansa remained unmoved, as if the world around her had lost all meaning. Shae’s shoulders slumped in frustration, her eyes flicking toward you and Marei before glancing at the entrance of the courtyard.

Tyrion Lannister entered the garden with deliberate steps, his short legs struggling to match the long strides of the men he was often compared to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the scene with quick efficiency. Despite his stature, you had learned well enough that Lord Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be underestimated. His mind was his sharpest weapon.

“Tyrion,” Shae called out to him with a sigh of relief. “Tell her she needs to eat.”

Tyrion approached the table, offering a small, polite smile. “My lady, you do need to eat.”

Sansa’s gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance, her hands limp in her lap. “I don’t need to eat,” she said softly, without even looking at him.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, glancing between Shae, you, and Marei. His expression was measured, patient. “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently, though his tone held the firmness of a command.

You exchanged a quick look with Marei before bowing your head and stepping away. Shae, however, lingered, her eyes flashing with concern and defiance. She crossed her arms, unwilling to yield.

“She needs to eat,” Shae said stubbornly, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Tyrion and Sansa. 

Tyrion met her gaze, his expression imploring, but Shae’s frustration was palpable. With one last glance at Sansa, Shae reluctantly turned and left the garden.

Tyrion took a seat across from Sansa, his eyes softening as he reached out to take her hand. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to draw her from her daze. “I can’t let you starve, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet compassion.

Sansa didn’t react. She stared past him, her blue eyes hollow, as if the world had dulled to nothing but gray. Shae, now at the far end of the garden, cast a furious glance back toward Tyrion, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KITCHEN KEEP, KING'S LANDING — DAY

The kitchen was a chaotic blend of sounds and smells, with servants rushing around, preparing the feast for the garden party. You focused on your tasks, slicing fruits and arranging them neatly, hoping the repetitive motions would calm the unease bubbling in your chest. The Lannisters' garden parties always came with tension—too many eyes, too many secrets.

Serena, ever observant, moved beside you with a conspiratorial smile. Her presence had always been a quiet comfort, an unspoken pact between two women wronged by the same family. She nudged your side playfully, her voice just loud enough for you to hear over the clattering pans and murmurs of other servants.

“Guess what I overheard in the gardens earlier,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of fresh gossip.

You glanced up, your curiosity piqued. “What is it now?”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Tyrion and Lord Varys were having one of their secret little chats. Something about Shae.” She gave a sly smile before recounting the conversation she’d overheard, her voice adopting a mocking impression of Tyrion's measured tone.

“Lord Varys. Breakfasting with the king?”

Your hands paused over the fruit, recognizing the weight of that simple greeting. Serena continued, now mimicking Varys’ smooth, ever-cautious reply.

“I’m afraid foreigners aren’t welcome at such exclusive affairs,” she quoted, barely concealing a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Tyrion and Varys—always circling each other, testing the limits of loyalty and power. Serena’s impression was spot on, and the dry chuckle she added to Varys’ line brought the exchange to life.

“Oh, to be foreign,” she muttered in Tyrion’s voice before glancing around the bustling kitchen with exaggerated suspicion, mimicking Varys’ quiet amusement.

“Ahem,” she finished with a soft laugh.

The kitchen clamor drowned out any chance of someone overhearing, but you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, focusing on the fruit before you. "What did they say after that?" you asked in a low voice, not wanting to appear too interested but knowing that information like this was often a lifeline in King's Landing.

Serena's smile dimmed slightly as she continued, her tone more serious now. “They were talking about Shae. Varys warned Tyrion that she’s been noticed. That Sansa’s maid saw them together, and it’s only a matter of time before Cersei—and worse, Tywin—find out.”

Your breath hitched slightly. That was dangerous—too dangerous for a place like this.

You glanced up at Serena, who nodded grimly. “Varys told Tyrion his father has promised to hang the next whore he’s found with.”

Your stomach twisted, though you managed to keep your expression neutral. Information like this could be a weapon if used correctly. But it also carried its own risks, especially for someone like you, who lived in the shadows of these powerful people. You simply nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, DAY — 301 AC

The gardens of the Red Keep, beautiful though they were, could not ease the tension that clung to the air. The lush greenery and sea breeze seemed wasted on the gathering before you, where cruelty simmered beneath the surface. You moved silently among the servants, pouring wine, offering trays of food, your head low as your sharp eyes observed everything. No one here was truly safe—not even those who smiled and pretended otherwise.

You had learned long ago to watch, to listen, to see things others missed. And here, among the so-called lords and ladies, your simmering hatred boiled just beneath the surface. Revenge had a way of lurking in quiet moments like these, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

At the head of the table sat King Joffrey, his golden crown glinting in the sun like a mockery of all that was just. Around him, the key players of the realm gathered: Queen Cersei, her eyes sharp and watchful; Lord Tywin, stoic and commanding as always; Prince Tommen, innocent and ignorant of the malice around him; and Grand Maester Pycelle, old and leering.

But your attention flickered to Sansa Stark. Pale, withdrawn, her once-vibrant spirit all but crushed under the weight of her suffering. She sat beside her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who, despite his small stature, radiated an awareness far sharper than anyone gave him credit for. The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken grief they both carried.

Your heart tightened as you watched, knowing Sansa's pain was not unlike your own. Like her, you had learned to survive in silence, though your silence was of a different kind. The Lannisters had taken too much from you. They were going to pay for it one day, one way or another.

Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, carrying a gleaming goblet, his voice filled with a pride that bordered on foolishness.

“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup.”

He placed the goblet before Joffrey, who barely looked at it, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?”

You noted how Mace Tyrell’s face flushed with both pride and unease. He bowed deeply. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

As Mace withdrew, Shae moved gracefully through the crowd, setting a tray before Sansa. You saw how her eyes flickered toward the young girl, but there was no response from Sansa, no recognition of the kindness that once might have been there.

Then, the sharp voice of Queen Cersei pierced the moment, her words venomous.

“She’s the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one.”

Your blood boiled as you saw Shae stiffen. The insult cut through the air like a blade, but Shae, ever composed, turned to leave without a word. You noticed how Tywin’s cold eyes followed her, narrowing as she walked away.

“Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding,” Tywin ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet as sharp as a death sentence.

Tyrion’s face darkened. You could see the concern etched into his features, his helplessness as he tried to control a situation slipping further out of his grasp. Your heart raced, knowing the precarious game being played here—and how dangerous it was for all involved.

Shae’s departure was barely noticed as Podrick stepped forward, carrying a large tome. He placed it carefully before Joffrey, and Tyrion followed, a strained smile on his face as he addressed the king.

“A book,” Joffrey said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Tyrion clasped his hands together, speaking with calm civility. “The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.”

For a brief moment, Joffrey hesitated. His sharp tongue seemed to fail him as the weight of the gift hovered in the air. But Tywin’s piercing gaze prodded him, and the boy-king forced a mocking smile.

“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom,” Joffrey said, his voice laced with scorn. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Tyrion bowed, but the tension between them crackled like a hidden storm.

Before anyone could breathe, The Mountain lumbered forward, carrying a sword swathed in black cloth. He laid it before Joffrey with all the reverence of a knight presenting a sacred relic. Tywin rose, his voice steeped in gravitas as he spoke.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor.”

Joffrey’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement as he tore the sword from its sheath, its blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight. You felt a ripple of unease roll through the gathered nobles as the blade sliced through the air.

“Careful, Your Grace,” Pycelle croaked from his seat. “Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”

But Joffrey’s wicked grin only widened. “So they say.”

In a sudden, violent movement, Joffrey swung the sword down, cleaving the book Tyrion had gifted him clean in half. The sound of tearing parchment and splintering leather echoed through the garden. A gasp rippled through the crowd, but Joffrey was delighted with himself.

“Such a great sword should have a name,” Joffrey declared, his eyes burning with cruel glee. “What shall I call her?”

The crowd murmured suggestions, none of which seemed to please the boy-king. But then, his lips curled into a malicious grin.

“Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You saw Sansa freeze beside him, her face drained of color, her entire body rigid with the memory of her father’s execution. Across the garden, Shae watched, her eyes narrowing with unspoken fury.

You kept your head down, but the seething rage inside you boiled hotter. One day, they would all pay for this. The Lannisters, their cruelty, their arrogance—it would all come crashing down. And you would make sure of it.

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, LATE AFTERNOON — 301 AC

The preparations for the royal wedding between Joffrey and Margaery were endless, consuming the days and nights of everyone within the Red Keep. But while others concerned themselves with the surface duties, your mind was preoccupied with a far more dangerous task.

The thought of the Strangler stones hidden within Sansa's necklace gnawed at you. The pieces were already in motion, each step methodically planned. Your hands moved through the flowers you were tasked with arranging, but your thoughts were elsewhere, carefully calculating the next move in your plot to bring down King Joffrey without implicating yourself. 

As you worked alone in the gardens, the late afternoon sun blazed overhead. The sweat clung to your skin, and the heat forced you to roll your sleeves up just enough to reveal the faint, jagged lines of scars that adorned your forearms. The burn scars, remnants of your brutal encounter with Ser Gregor Clegane, were still a reminder of what you endured—and survived. The pain was still fresh, but it fueled your resolve. Spite, after all, was a powerful motivator.

You barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across your path. Looking up, you were met with the sharp, knowing gaze of Oberyn Martell. His smirk was playful, as it often was, but there was something deeper there—an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through you. 

"You work too hard," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. "It’s a crime to see such beauty covered in dirt."

You straightened, brushing your hands on your apron, trying to keep the panic from showing. "I have my duties, my lord," you replied, keeping your tone even. The way Oberyn looked at you—intense, almost predatory—made your heart race, though you tried to remain composed.

He crouched beside you, plucking a flower from the arrangement and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes flicked briefly to the scars on your arm, scars you quickly moved to conceal by rolling down your sleeves. But it was too late—Oberyn’s gaze lingered on them for just a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. 

The way he studied you wasn’t merely out of curiosity, but recognition. His next words carried a weight that hung in the air between you both. 

"There are stories... of a servant who once attended to Princess Elia." Oberyn’s tone remained casual, but you could feel the shift, the tension creeping in as he spoke. "They say she escaped the Sack of King’s Landing with her life. Barely."

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still. You had heard those stories too. After all, you had lived them.

Oberyn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Some say she vanished, swallowed by the chaos. Others claim she survived through sheer will, fueled by spite." His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching. "I wonder… do you know of such tales?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion. You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but your face remained a mask of composure. "Many stories are told in King’s Landing, my lord. Few of them hold any truth."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp, watching you carefully. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But then again, some tales are more dangerous than others." He stood up, still twirling the flower between his fingers, casting one last glance at your concealed scars. "Sometimes, survival speaks louder than words."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Ellaria Sand approached, her eyes already on you. There was a possessiveness in her gaze, though softened by intrigue.

“So this is the woman who has caught my prince’s eye,” Ellaria remarked, her voice a low purr as she moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against Oberyn’s shoulder.

You bowed your head, hiding the inner storm brewing within you. "My lady," you greeted, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Ellaria’s gaze flicked to Oberyn, then back to you. “She is different,” she said, her tone intrigued, but there was an edge of caution in her words. “I wonder what it is you see in her, my love?”

Oberyn chuckled softly, his attention still on you. “There’s something about her,” he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with deeper meaning. “Something familiar.”

Ellaria looped her arm through his, drawing him closer to her side. “Familiar or not, I trust you know where your loyalties lie.”

Oberyn’s smile deepened, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. "Always," he replied to Ellaria, but his words were aimed at you, and the unspoken suspicion between you both lingered in the air, unsaid but undeniable.

As the two of them moved off together, your heart pounded in your chest. Oberyn's words, the way he had looked at you—he was starting to piece it together. He suspected who you truly were, but for now, he remained silent, watching. You returned to your task, but the weight of his suspicion clung to you. 

Everything had only just begun, and you were already in far deeper than you had anticipated. But like the scars on your skin, the memories of your past had shaped you into what you were now. And just like that day long ago, you would survive.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

[skay-ali]

Part of the family

Soldier

A spy suffers a 90-degree turn after a mission, resulting in her being forced to hide from potential threats. Luckily, there's a secret base in a small town full of friendly, normal people. The possibility of having a normal life runs through ___'s mind. After all, no one would suspect her, and all the townspeople are normal.

Prologue

Be cold and calculating.

Play and win.

Never let your guard down.

You've been taught since you can remember to be the best, to take advantage of your strengths and talents, to do things you wouldn't have imagined under other circumstances.

You were weak, you recognize it. You weren't born a prodigy, you weren't even outstanding; you were normal. Your destiny was defined long ago: a simple life, without great dangers except for the occasional villains who attacked the city.

A job, a family, friends, and great times awaited you...

Oh, that's how it was meant to be.

Life took a big turn, your destiny changed.

The innocent, smiling, dreamy girl was left behind.

You had to grow up; your new tutor imposed it on you.

Toys were replaced by training in fighting and endurance.

Colorful clothing became dull, without extravagant decorations; simple but practical became essential.

Time spent in front of the television changed to time immersed in books about history, science, literature, and math.

Your time playing with children your age, whom you called friends, was now spent learning conversations with experts in different areas or with children who trained like you.

Now you looked in the mirror and analyzed how much you had changed.

You didn't recognize yourself.

And it wasn't just the blood that covered you.

Your body changed. You had muscles that were the result of constant training. Your once enormous eyes, full of color and light, had become dull. You wore a frown almost always on your face, unless you used your charms out of necessity.

You had a gun in your hands, held them securely, without hesitation.

You did your job without question. Spy, infiltrate, and eliminate targets. Disappear before a hero appeared and judged you with his authority.

You weren't afraid. The bodies lying around you, the broken things in the room, the deadly and heavy silence, for you now it was normal, part of your daily life.

"Congratulations, angel." Your boss gave you his usual smile, looking at you for a few seconds before returning to his computer, located on the left side of his desk.

"You continue to fill me with pride." He wasn't looking at you anymore, his interest focused elsewhere. Still, he emphasized the profound words that served as a warning, disguised as a compliment.

"We wouldn't expect anything less from our greatest weapon," another voice congratulated you as you walked alone down the hallway, under many stares.

"You're more capable than a hero," your friend told you, well, the only person who came closest to that title.

If you were the best.

If you were a source of pride.

If you were a weapon, invincible.

Because now you were running.

Hurt, tired, scared.

Your humanity and fragility had returned in an instant, with your final victim of the mission assigned to you. You hesitated, letting a life take its course.

As a result, a series of events unfolded that ultimately brought you down.

You found yourself desperately fleeing for your life. With a severe wound, no strength, with dangerous people after your head, with no help from anyone.

You persevered.

You stopped trembling, hiding in a dilapidated, abandoned building.

You treated your abdominal wound with what you found and made a plan.

No one would save you but yourself.

You traveled through some temporary places, staying for a short time, in the darkness.

Carefully finishing off your hunters, like a snake waiting for the perfect moment to strike, coiling your body around them when they were most unaware, planting poison or a weapon in a vital spot, your hands acting delicately yet deadly.

You hid alone, with memories of your training, huddled in silence, carefully planning your moves. You carefully remembered your mother, oh your beloved mother, how you missed her.

Everything became miserable when your mother died.

Now, you lost your life, your direction, again.

You searched and searched. Until you found your final destination, your new path.

A small town.

One last stop in Metropolis, a few hours of travel, and you would arrive.

You would have a new life, a normal girl, who decided to live in the countryside, far from the busy city.

A town with few inhabitants, brimming with kindness and smiling residents. A town lacking danger and villains.

With few memorable moments, like the one about a small meteorite that fell more than 20 years ago in a field and that no one ever saw because it disappeared upon landing.

You created a quiet life, working in different jobs, such as gardening, restaurants, cafes, grocery stores, clothing stores, anything a new worker could do.

One of those jobs, a delivery job for a hardware store, led you to meet an older woman who still had a good, very pleasant experience, with a strong character in a good way, with serene smiles and a kind attitude.

It was like seeing your mother again.

You stayed close to this woman, she accepted, inviting you into her life. She treated you like family in no time.

This woman gave you two jobs, one as a helper on her farm and another as a nanny for her beloved grandson, something you were hesitant to accept, but her strong insistence was stronger, and you finally agreed.

Also, in a strange way, you met her... son, or distant relative? Well, it was strange, especially because the role a boy your age played in the family and with the woman you grew fond of was never fully explained. But he was a nice guy, even with his confident and somewhat self-centered attitude. You wouldn't lie, his flirtations were something new to you. They brought a smile to your face, with a hidden bit of sadness... you missed that too.

It didn't take long for the woman to introduce you to her other family, friendly and kind people, people who also accepted you.

It was a new beginning.

A new normal.

Right?

You just had to improve the strong attachment to the family you spent most time with in the village.

It was a small attachment, a lack of understanding of limits.

A typical mistake made by people from a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Their traditions and customs will overwhelm you.

Nothing unusual.

Right?

You'd solve it?

Of course you would...?

"Oh my girl, come, come sit down, it's time for our family dinner."

"___, ___, sit next to me."

"You promise never to leave ___, it's a pinky promise."

"Best brothers, forever."

"Honey, how about this dress and this outfit? They're cute."

"They'll look great on you. Oh, but what am I saying? They'll all look great on you."

"My little girl, it's best if you stay home; the world is too dangerous for you."

"I'll take care of everything."

"What are you saying? Hide what's between us, love... the family will love to hear it, they'll burst with happiness."

"Don't think about it too much, no one will be able to separate us in the end."

[sleekervae]

Wicked Games ❅ 31

Masterlist

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x socialite!fem!reader

Summary: Coriolanus' Reckoning

Warnings: machine violence, some slight gore, guns, poison, angst

Word Count: 5,955

Sable's heart raced, her mind churning with desperate thoughts as she sat bound to the old wooden chair. Ropes were fastened tightly around her shins and her wrists, scratching cruelly against her soft skin. The dim light flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows on the walls, which seemed to close in on her, suffocating her with their oppressive presence. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, remnants of a life long forgotten. Each creak of the floorboards sent a jolt of anxiety through her, heightening her senses, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, methodically, as she waited for her captors to make their move.

Volumnia entered with an air of confidence, her presence both commanding and unnerving. She exuded an unsettling calm that sent a shiver down Sable’s spine. In one hand, she carried a bottle of wine, the other held two delicate glasses that glinted ominously in the low light, as if mocking Sable’s dire situation. The soft clink of glass against glass echoed in the room, filling the silence with an unsettling rhythm.

“Oh,” Sable noted, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “Are we having dinner? Or is this just a nice way to kill time before my execution?” Her words hung in the air, defiance woven into every syllable, a thin veil over the rising panic inside her.

Volumnia raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Aren’t you clever?” she purred, gliding to the table with an effortless grace. “I must admit, it’s rather entertaining to see you trying to hold onto your bravado in such a precarious position. But you should know, darling, that humor will not save you today.” She poured the wine into the glasses, the dark liquid swirling like the chaos that surrounded them.

“I appreciate your whims to entertain me while you plot my death.” Sable shot back, her voice steady despite the tremor of fear beneath.

Volumnia chuckled softly, the sound chilling in the otherwise silent room. “Oh, Sable. It’s not your death that I’m plotting—it’s your usefulness." with that, Volumnia came around and began to cut the ropes holding Sable's wrists, "You see, you hold a certain… value that I find hard to dismiss. The real question is, do you understand your worth?”

Sable narrowed her eyes, the weight of Volumnia’s words settling heavily in her gut. “You’re wasting your time if you think I’m just going to roll over and play nice. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yes you are. You always have been.” Volumnia mused, the last of the bindings falling to the floor. “Fear is an interesting emotion, isn’t it? It can drive people to desperate actions. But you—” she leaned closer, her gaze piercing, “—you seem to be underestimating the gravity of your situation. You’re not in a position to negotiate. You’re a pawn, Sable, and pawns have their limits.”

“Maybe,” Sable replied, forcing herself to meet Volumnia’s gaze, her pulse quickening. “But even pawns can become queens if played right. You think I’m just a tool for you to use, but I have my own strengths. Coriolanus trusts me, and that trust can be a weapon in your hands.”

Volumnia's smile widened, cold and calculating. “Ah, so now we’re getting somewhere. You’re trying to bargain with me, offering me something that might interest me in return for your life. But let’s be honest, Sable—trust is a fickle thing, easily broken, and your precious Coriolanus would turn on you in a heartbeat if he thought it would save his skin.”

“Maybe,” Sable shot back, her determination flaring. “But I know how he thinks, how he feels. If you really want to get under his skin, you should consider keeping me alive. I can help you manipulate him, bend him to your will. Think about it—I could be your secret weapon.”

Volumnia studied her, her eyes narrowing with intrigue. “You’re quite bold, aren’t you? Most would beg for mercy in your situation. But here you are, offering me a partnership. What makes you think I’d ever trust you to follow through?”

“Because I’m not looking to die,” Sable replied, her voice steady as she felt a flicker of hope ignite within her. “You know how valuable I am, and you wouldn’t want to lose that potential. I can give you insights that even your spies can’t. I can help you stay one step ahead of him.”

Volumnia’s expression shifted, amusement mingling with skepticism. “And if you fail? If you decide to play a different game, one that doesn’t involve me?”

“Then you can do whatever you want with me,” Sable shot back, a spark of defiance igniting in her chest. “But if I succeed, you gain the upper hand. You’ll have Coriolanus at your mercy, and you won’t have to lift a finger.”

Volumnia leaned back, contemplating the offer. “You’re a dangerous girl, Sable. A risk I’m willing to consider. But remember this: loyalty is fragile, and betrayal carries a price.”

Sable felt a rush of adrenaline, the stakes climbing higher. “Then let’s make this work. Just remember, I’m not here to be your victim. I’m here to survive. And together, we can achieve far more than you could on your own.”

As they clinked their glasses, Sable felt the weight of the situation crash over her. She was walking a tightrope, and one misstep could send her plunging into the abyss. But she had to believe in her own cunning. She had to outmaneuver Volumnia, not just for her own sake but for Coriolanus and everyone she cared about. The game was on, and Sable was determined to play to win.

Sable’s gaze drifted to a curious metal contraption on the table nearby, wires twisting and looping from a glass cylinder filled with a dark, viscous liquid.

“What does that do?” Sable asked, her voice laced with feigned interest. She cocked her head, as if assessing its significance.

Volumnia’s attention flicked toward the device, a glint of pride crossing her face. She took a step toward it, reaching out to tap the glass. “This,” she began, her voice shifting into a more instructive tone, “is one of my more... early experiments..."

As she spoke, her back turned to Sable, the arrogance in her tone unwavering. Sable glanced at Gaul's untouched wine glass, an eerie sense of deja vu overwhelming her.

The convoy rolled to a stop in front of the old laboratory, the rusted exterior barely visible in the fading light of dusk. Coriolanus could feel the tension thrumming through the air as he stepped out, his heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of his thoughts. The building loomed before him, a grim reminder of everything he had fought against and the person he was desperate to save.

As he glanced at Phillip, who emerged from the vehicle with a furrowed brow, the weight of their shared history hung heavy between them. Phillip had grown up here, in the shadows of the very lab that now echoed with memories of despair and deception.

The Peacekeeper General, a tall figure clad in dark armor, stepped forward, his expression stern and unyielding. “Stay put,” he ordered, his voice commanding. “We can’t guarantee your safety inside. We need to assess the situation first.”

Coriolanus’s resolve hardened. “I’m not waiting here while Sable is in there. She could be in danger, and I’m not going to sit idly by and hope for the best.”

The General’s gaze narrowed, weighing Coriolanus’s words. “You don’t understand the risks involved. This is not just about you, sir; it’s about the mission. We need to secure the area first, then we can—”

Coriolanus interrupted, his voice rising with frustration. “Sable is in there, and I won’t let her face whatever Gaul has planned for her without me. I’m going in.”

“Coriolanus, think about what you’re saying,” Phillip cautioned, concern etched on his features. “We need a plan. Charging in recklessly won’t do her any good.”

The General stepped forward, his expression hardening. “I can’t allow you to put yourself at risk. We have orders—���

“I gave the orders!” Coriolanus shot back, his anger igniting. “I'm the leader of this mission, I refuse to be sidelined while someone I care about is in danger. You can’t keep me out.”

The air was thick with tension as the General’s eyes flicked between Coriolanus and Phillip, searching for some sign of reason. “This isn’t a personal mission, Coriolanus. It’s bigger than you. If you go in there, you’re not just risking your own life, but the entire operation.”

“Then let's be a part of that operation!” Coriolanus countered, determination blazing in his eyes as he turned to Phillip. “You know this place better than any of us. I’ve faced Gaul before, and I can handle myself. We have to work together.”

Phillip sighed, shaking his head, but Coriolanus could see the flicker of understanding in his gaze. He wasn’t alone in this fight, and he wouldn’t back down without a struggle.

The General studied him, weighing the gravity of the situation against the stubborn resolve in Coriolanus’s eyes. Finally, he relented, albeit reluctantly. “Fine. But if you’re going in, you’ll do it under my supervision. We’ll move in as a unit. No heroics, understood?”

Coriolanus nodded, relief flooding through him. “Understood.” He turned to Phillip, who wore an expression of both pride and worry. “Let’s do this.”

As they moved towards the entrance, the General signaled to the rest of the team, preparing for whatever lay ahead. The air buzzed with tension, a charged atmosphere that mirrored Coriolanus’s racing heart. He pushed through the heavy door, the creak of metal echoing like a warning as they stepped into the darkness of the laboratory, ready to face whatever awaited them in the shadows.

Sable kept her eyes fixed on Volumnia, her mind racing to stay a step ahead. She held the wine glass lightly between her fingers, careful not to drink, using the glass more as a prop—a way to mask her trembling hands and the anxiety threatening to crack through her calm façade.

“Coriolanus has his secrets,” she said, her voice as smooth as she could make it. She leaned in, hoping to draw Volumnia closer, to make her listen. “He’s more vulnerable than you realize. He’s had doubts about the Capitol, about the people you surround yourself with.” She raised a brow, feigning a conspiratorial air. “Let’s just say he’s not as… loyal as he claims.”

Volumnia tilted her head, studying Sable with that cold, calculating gaze. “Oh?” Her lips curled in a smile, but her eyes stayed sharp. “And you think I’ll simply take your word for it? Coriolanus is a master manipulator himself; anything he hides, he hides well. What makes you think I’d believe a turncoat like you?”

Sable forced herself to laugh, an edge of bitterness in it. “Believe what you want,” she replied, shrugging slightly, “but he told me himself that he’s been making connections with influential families outside your inner circle. Quiet alliances. If he’s planning to abandon you, wouldn’t it be wise to know… before he strikes?”

Volumnia watched her, assessing, an amused smile lingering at the edge of her lips. “And you would betray him so easily, with such convincing detail. Quite the actress, aren’t you?” She swirled her wine, her eyes glinting with the suspicion that never seemed to leave her face. “Clever. But loyalty isn’t bought with desperation, Sable. If I wanted to take Coriolanus down, I’d hardly need the help of someone so… compromised.”

Sable tilted her head, her expression calm yet calculating, as she saw Volumnia’s intrigue flicker in her eyes. “You’re looking for leverage,” she repeated, letting the words settle. “But isn’t it ironic? The same leverage you seek could be the very thing that destroys him.”

Volumnia’s lips quirked in amusement. “And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?”

Sable’s gaze grew colder, piercing. “I mean Lucy Gray Baird. The girl he once claimed to love so ardently—have you ever wondered what became of her? Because I have.” She leaned in, a sliver of venom in her voice. “If Coriolanus could discard her like that—someone he swore he cared for—how could anyone believe they could truly trust him?”

For a brief moment, Volumnia’s façade slipped, and something akin to genuine interest flickered behind her eyes. Sable saw it, seized on it, knowing that this was a rare glimpse into Volumnia’s doubts—perhaps even her own desire for dominance over the one person in the Capitol who had managed to maneuver so close to her throne.

“Ah, yes,” Volumnia replied slowly, drawing out each syllable as if savoring the revelation. “Lucy Gray Baird. A rather… tragic mystery, wasn’t it?” Her fingers tapped against the glass, thoughtful, before her gaze fixed back on Sable with renewed intensity. “But you, Sable, you aren’t exactly innocent, either. You’re as ruthless as he is, and far more subtle.” Her voice dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly grown a conscience.”

Sable’s jaw clenched, though she forced herself to give an indifferent shrug. “I’m not claiming to be a saint, Volumnia. I only mean that it’s a dangerous thing to let someone so… unpredictable sit beside you. Sooner or later, he’ll turn.”

Volumnia gave a slow, mocking smile. “I see what you’re doing, dear. You think sowing doubt about Coriolanus will spare you. And I admit, it’s a rather entertaining strategy. But consider this—” she leaned closer, voice dropping to a hiss, “if Coriolanus will betray someone like her, he won’t hesitate to betray you.” Her laugh was sharp, echoing off the walls. “Your loyalty will only get you so far. After all, every dog is loyal until they feel threatened. That's when they turn and rip off their master's hands.”

Sable kept her expression neutral, but her thoughts churned. The truth was, Volumnia had laid bare a reality Sable had avoided facing until now. There was no telling how far Coriolanus would go, no line he wouldn’t cross. For all her talk, for all her efforts to manipulate, perhaps she was the one truly caught—caught between the ruthless woman in front of her and the man she feared might someday discard her as easily as he’d done before.

Sable tilted her head with a wry smile, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Funny thing about loyalty, Volumnia—it’s a leash that only works if the dog doesn’t realize who’s holding it.”

For a fleeting moment, Volumnia’s mouth twitched, a glimmer of reluctant respect crossing her eyes before she swiftly masked it. She opened her mouth to reply—then paused as a dull thud echoed through the room. They both froze, and Sable’s heart leaped, blood pounding in her ears.

The thuds grew louder, accompanied by hurried footsteps, each one sending a jolt of hope and fear through her chest.

A sly, almost delighted smile crossed Volumnia’s face. “Ah,” she purred, setting her glass down with a delicate clink, “it appears our guests of honor have arrived.”

Sable felt her pulse quicken as Volumnia stood, her gaze drifting toward the door. Her heart hammered, a mix of dread and relief washing over her. The sounds from outside were unmistakable now—voices, footsteps, the sharp bark of orders being given. Coriolanus, she thought, desperation clawing at her chest. She had to be ready, whatever happened next.

“So,” Volumnia said, casting one last glance down at Sable, “if your precious dog has come for you, let’s find out just how far his loyalty extends.”

The decayed laboratory was a relic, the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and dampness. Cracks splintered the walls like veins, and the faint drip of water echoed ominously. Every corner seemed to shift in the dim light, shadows coiling and uncoiling as if alive. The general moved with sharp precision, signaling for silence with a raised hand. Coriolanus followed closely, his every nerve on edge.

“Keep your wits about you,” Coriolanus murmured, his voice low but deliberate, “Gaul never leaves an escape unguarded. She’d rather the walls cave in than let someone corner her.”

The words had barely left his mouth when the ground under a Peacekeeper’s boots let out a sickening groan. A second later, the tiles shattered, and he plummeted into a pit. His panicked scream was abruptly silenced by the crunch of unseen mechanisms below. Coriolanus caught the faint glint of jagged spikes jutting from the darkness, slick with oil—or worse.

“Hold!” the general barked, his voice cutting through the tense air. He glanced at Coriolanus, who was pale faced yet seemingly unmoved by the spectacle.

“She favors cruelty over spectacle,” he said, his gaze scanning the floor. “One misstep, and you won’t get the chance to see the next one. We have to keep moving.”

The group advanced cautiously, their steps cautious. The next corridor appeared unassuming, its dust-laden floor undisturbed. But as they ventured deeper, a low hissing noise filled the air. One Peacekeeper froze mid-step, his eyes darting wildly. Thin, razor-sharp wires coiled out from concealed grooves in the walls, lashing out like metallic vipers.

“Cut it off!” someone shouted, but the wires were relentless, wrapping around the man’s limbs and throat with mechanical precision. He struggled, his screams turning to a wet gurgle as the wires tightened, drawing blood, and hauled him back into a hidden alcove. The faint grinding of gears echoed as the machinery reset, leaving nothing but blood-spattered walls and a suffocating silence.

“Keep moving!” the general snapped, urgency overtaking grief as the surviving Peacekeepers pressed on.

A few steps later, a faint, almost imperceptible clicking sound triggered a sudden burst of fire from hidden nozzles in the walls. The flames roared in a narrow arc, catching another soldier who screamed as his uniform ignited. He collapsed, thrashing until one of his comrades put him out of his misery.

“That's the original torch from the 6th games,” Coriolanus muttered under his breath, his brow furrowed. “She was the head gamemnaker that year.” He crouched near the wall, tracing his fingers along a faint seam in the paneling. “Pressure sensors. Stay light on your feet, and don’t follow in a straight line.”

The next hallway stretched in oppressive silence, the air heavy with tension. The Peacekeepers hesitated, their eyes darting to every flicker of movement and unnatural groove in the architecture. One soldier ventured forward, only to trigger a mechanism overhead. A steel blade, thin and impossibly sharp, dropped in a perfect arc, slicing through him like paper. Blood spattered the walls as the body crumpled, the blade retracting seamlessly into the ceiling.

"God dammit!" The general roared in horror, "We're like flies she's nailing with darts!"

"We should turn back!" another soldier called.

“No!” Coriolanus said through gritted teeth, his face pale but resolute, "We keep going. We've come too far."

The Peacekeepers’ numbers dwindled as they pushed forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. A burst of acrid gas erupted from hidden vents at one point, catching two soldiers who staggered and clawed at their throats, their faces blistering within moments. The survivors pressed cloth to their mouths, trying to stifle their coughing.

Finally, they reached the lab door. It was deceptively plain, blending into the decay of the surroundings. But Coriolanus recognized it from Volumnia’s stories—a deliberately understated entrance meant to lure intruders into a false sense of security.

“She’ll have a failsafe,” Coriolanus whispered, his voice taut. He crouched low, his hands steady as he inspected the frame. Sure enough, a tripwire glinted faintly in the dim light. “Trigger here. Likely connected to an incendiary device or a gas trap. Step back.”

Working with surgical precision, he severed the wire, exhaling sharply as the mechanism deactivated with a faint click.

The general motioned for the team to flank the door. “This ends here,” he said grimly, his hand signaling for them to advance.

As the door creaked open, the room beyond was stark and chilling. Volumnia lounged in the center, her smirk sharp and unbothered, as though she had been waiting for them.

“Ah,” she drawled, her eyes locking onto Coriolanus with a predatory gleam. “I was wondering how many of your men would survive my little... warm-up.”

Coriolanus’s gaze flicked to Sable, seated across from Volumnia, her wrists bound. Her face was pale, but her eyes met his with a glimmer of resolve. Relief warred with fury in his chest as he stepped forward, his gun steady in his grip.

As he took another step forward, Volumnia raised her hand, gesturing for him to stop. “Careful, Coriolanus,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery. “One wrong move, and our dear Sable here might suffer… prematurely.”

Coriolanus’s gaze flicked to Sable, whose face betrayed only the faintest shadow of pain. He stilled, his jaw tight as the room crackled with tension. The general raised his own weapon, flanking Coriolanus with grim determination.

“Your games are over, Gaul,” the general growled.

Volumnia leaned back, her smirk widening. “Oh, General,” she murmured, “the games have only just begun.”

Her gaze remained fixed to the president, her expression almost affectionate as she lifted the wine bottle. “You see, the wine glass she drank from was soaked in a… unique version of her father's work. Slower-acting, but just as deadly. Fortunately for her, I have the antidote tucked away somewhere safe. Whether or not she gets it depends entirely on you.” She tilted her head, her eyes alight with amusement. “All you need to do is listen, comply with my wishes, and I may just be inclined to keep her alive.”

Coriolanus forced his jaw to unclench. “And what exactly do you want, Volumnia?”

“Oh, only a simple pledge of allegiance. You and Phillip are going to work with me. There’s an empire at stake here—one I intend to see under my control. And who better to front it with than a Snow?” She paused, savoring the moment.

Coriolanus clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him like a vice. He turned to the Peacekeepers stationed at the doorway, his voice cold and commanding.

“Leave us,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.

The Peacekeepers exchanged uneasy glances but didn’t dare disobey. They filed out in silence, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving only Coriolanus, Volumnia, and Sable in the dimly lit laboratory.

As soon as they were alone, Volumnia’s grin widened. She leaned back, crossing her legs with a satisfied air. “Finally. Just the three of us.” She looked over at Sable, her gaze sharp and calculated before turning to Coriolanus again.

Sable glared at Gaul, defiance etched into every line of her face, though her hands trembled slightly. “She's using us, because she knows she has nothing if she can't control us.” she said.

“Careful, Sable,” Gaul hissed, her smile fading. She shifted her focus to Coriolanus. “You think this girl loves you, young man? When she was cornered, she revealed just how easily she’d turn on you. Shall I share with you the things she said—about your precious songbird?”

Coriolanus’s eyes hardened, though a glimmer of doubt crept in. Sable swallowed, her gaze locked on him, pleading, yet proud. Gaul took her opportunity, her words dripping like poison. “She called you ruthless. She said if you could betray someone you loved once, what’s to stop you from betraying her? And honestly… what’s stopping her from doing the same?”

Sable’s expression hardened, and Coriolanus caught the flicker of resentment in her eyes. She looked at him, voice low and strained. “Would you really throw me to the wolves if you had to?”

“Absolutely not,” he growled out, but Volumnia let out a delighted laugh.

“Oh, come now, Coriolanus. You don’t really expect her to believe that, do you? We all know where your priorities lie.” Volumnia leaned back, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the table. “After all, Sable, who was it that betrayed Sejanus Plinth? Left him to dangle as his scapegoat? And who did he align himself with the moment he saw a chance to seize power?”

Coriolanus’ hands tightened around the rifle as Volumnia’s words sank in, her taunts clawing at his resolve. He looked to Sable, who now wore a guarded, almost resigned expression. He forced himself to stay steady, even as a pang of guilt twisted in his gut.

But Volumnia wasn’t finished. She poured herself another glass, watching them both with an almost maternal fondness. “So, my dear Coriolanus, do you care enough to play by my rules? Will you forsake your ambition just this once, for her sake?” She gestured to Sable, her eyes gleaming. “Because if not, I suppose we’ll see just how long she lasts without that antidote.”

Silence fell, thick and tense, and he looked between Volumnia and Sable, every nerve on edge.

Coriolanus forced himself to steady his voice, meeting Volumnia’s gaze with icy resolve. “Give her the antidote, and we’ll talk. You have my word.”

“Oh, but I’ve already had your word before, haven’t I?” Volumnia’s smile didn’t waver. “This time, I want proof. You will stay here, as my guest, and lend your expertise to a new project. In exchange, I’ll keep her breathing.” Her eyes glinted with malice as she added, “But make no mistake: the moment I sense betrayal, she’ll be finished.”

Coriolanus caught the subtle wink Sable sent his way, a flicker of confidence that hinted at a hidden card up her sleeve. He forced a slight smirk, tilting his head as if considering Gaul's demands in earnest. "All right, Volumnia," he said smoothly, his voice tinged with reluctant resignation. "Let’s hear it. What exactly are you proposing?"

Gaul leaned back, satisfaction lighting her face. “First, you’ll make me your chief advisor,” she began, her voice dripping with self-assurance. “It’s only natural for someone with my vision to guide you, don’t you think? We’ll set Garrison aside—he’s only ever had the political savvy of a guinea pigs, and, quite frankly, he’s better suited to fetching coffee with his gopher-like tendencies.”

Coriolanus barely suppressed a chuckle, trading a quick glance with Sable, who raised an eyebrow at Gaul’s audacity.

“Also,” Gaul continued, eyes gleaming with twisted delight, “you’ll make a public announcement confessing to your involvement in the… disappearance of Lucy Gray Baird.” She watched him closely, eager for his reaction. “An act of accountability. It would do wonders for public sentiment, I think—a sign of humility, and a well-timed shift in the narrative.”

Coriolanus’s jaw tightened, but he forced his shoulders to relax, feigning reluctant agreement. “Fine,” he said, his tone colder. “If it’ll get Sable the antidote.”

Gaul’s smirk widened, and she opened her mouth to respond—but then, her smile faltered. She blinked, her brows knitting together as she brought a hand to her stomach. She glanced at her wine glass and then back at Sable, suspicion flickering in her gaze.

Sable’s expression didn’t change, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She leaned back casually, crossing her arms as Gaul’s discomfort deepened. “Is something the matter, Volumnia?” she asked innocently.

Gaul’s face grew taut as she swallowed, her hand gripping the edge of the table as if to steady herself. “What… what did you do?” she demanded, her voice unsteady.

Sable raised her chin defiantly. “I don't know what you mean, Volumnia,” She tilted her head, a half-smile playing on her lips. “But you ought to know better than to turn your back on your hostage.”

Gaul’s eyes widened, her face twisting with shock and fury as she looked down at her half-drained glass. Realization hit like a slap, and her eyes snapped to Sable, blazing with outrage.

“You… little…” she snarled, her voice laced with venom, the hand holding the glass trembling. She steadied herself, gripping the edge of the table as the room seemed to close in around her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Sable met her gaze, her own expression unyielding despite the tension in her body. “I just leveled the playing field,” she replied, her voice calm but sharp as steel. “All that talk of loyalty and trust—but you're still wearing the dog's collar.”

Coriolanus’s gaze flickered as he watched Volumnia’s composure crumble, her usual icy mask giving way to raw, simmering rage. He lowered his weapon just slightly, almost mesmerized by her rare moment of vulnerability.

But Gaul moved in a flash, her hand seizing the wine glass. With a fierce, almost primal snarl, she smashed it against the edge of the table, fragments of glass scattering and crimson wine splattering across the floor. Before either of them could react, she pressed the jagged, broken edge to Sable’s neck, her grip iron-strong as the sharp tip bit into Sable’s skin.

“Enough games!” Gaul spat, her eyes blazing with unrestrained malice. “You thought you could turn the tables on me? On me?” she shouted at her captive.

"I didn't have to; you turned around yourself," Sable chuckled mockingly.

Coriolanus took a cautious step forward, his heart racing as he weighed his options. “Gaul, listen to me. The antidote can save you. You’re not strong enough to fight this. Don’t let your pride blind you.”

“Pride?” Gaul sneered, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, a weakness creeping into her resolve as the poison coursed through her veins. “You think I need your pity? I’ll take you both down before I—”

“Before you what? Succumb to the very poison you wielded like a weapon?” Coriolanus interrupted, his voice rising with urgency. “You can still change the narrative. You can still walk away from this.”

“Change the narrative?” Gaul laughed, but it was a hollow sound, the laughter of a cornered animal. “You think you can save her? You’re just as weak as they say, Coriolanus. Always trying to play the hero. But heroes don’t win; they die slow, painful deaths. Just like your precious Sable here.”

“Gaul!” He shouted out, his voice breaking through the tension. “You’re losing control!”

For a brief moment, Coriolanus saw hesitation cross Gaul’s face, her grip on the glass wavering as the effects of the poison took hold. “You think I’m losing control?” she spat, her bravado slipping slightly. “I am in control! I have always been in control!”

But as she spoke, her hand trembled, the glass beginning to slip from her fingers. Sable seized the moment, twisting in her chair. “Then why are you shaking?”

Fury flared in Gaul’s eyes, but the poison was beginning to cloud her judgment. “I've had enough of you --”

In a fit of rage, Gaul raised the glass, intending to drive it into Sable’s throat. But Coriolanus reacted in an instant. With a steady hand, he drew his weapon and aimed true.

The shot rang out, echoing in the silence like thunder, and Gaul’s body jerked back, a look of shock frozen on her face as the bullet struck true. She crumpled to the floor, her grip on the glass released, sending it tumbling through the air.

Time slowed as the glass fell, shattering on the ground with a quiet finality. Sable’s breath caught in her throat as the cold reality of the moment washed over her. A trickle of blood oozed from her neck, a reminder of how close she had come to death.

As the room fell silent, Sable looked up at Coriolanus, her heart racing, a mix of adrenaline and fear coursing through her veins. “Coriolanus...” she breathed, her voice trembling as she felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

In an instant, Coriolanus was at her side, his hands reaching for the ropes binding her to the chair. “I’m getting you out of here,” he said urgently, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes igniting a flicker of hope within her.

But before he could loosen the last strap, she surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him, burying her face against his chest.

Coriolanus froze, his heart pounding as he instinctively returned the embrace, feeling her warmth and the tremors of fear still coursing through her. “Sable,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper, “everything is going to be okay.”

She pulled back slightly, searching his eyes with a mix of desperation and determination. “I need you to know… everything I told Gaul was straight lies. I never meant to betray you. I was just trying to buy time. I knew you'd find us.

He cupped her face gently, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. “I believe you,” he said earnestly, feeling the pulse of connection between them. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Sable took a shaky breath, glancing down at the blood seeping from her neck. “I was terrified. I thought…” Her voice faltered, but she steeled herself, forcing the words out. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Coriolanus insisted, his grip tightening around her waist as he began to unfasten the final rope. “Not while I’m here.”

As the last strap fell away, she could feel the freedom of movement returning to her limbs, but her heart still raced, "Did my dad...?"

"He's outside," Coriolanus said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “He’s with the peacekeepers,. You’re safe now, I promise.”

He finally pulled her to her feet, and as she stood there, trembling, he took in the sight of her: her once beautiful dress tattered and dirty, her hair disheveled, and the stark contrast of her pale skin against the blood trickling down her neck. The sight twisted something deep within him, a mixture of anger and helplessness.

The peacekeepers moved with practiced efficiency, their heavy boots thudding against the cold concrete floor as they swept through the space, securing every corner. Sable and Coriolanus were quickly guided to the exit, their steps ushered by the guards flanking them. Outside, the biting night air hit them, and for a moment, the world felt vast and quiet, the oppressive walls of the laboratory now behind them.

As they emerged into the dark expanse, Sable’s gaze fell on a familiar figure standing near one of the waiting vehicles, his posture tense, scanning every face until his eyes found hers. Without a second thought, she broke into a run, her feet barely touching the ground as she closed the distance between them. Phillip pulled her into a fierce embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if he could shield her from everything she’d endured.

Sable buried her face in his shoulder, the world around them blurring as she held on, feeling the strength in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Phillip’s hand moved gently over her hair, his relief palpable in the way he held her, both fierce and gentle, as though he were grounding them both in the reality that she was safe, alive. For that moment, nothing else existed—just a father and daughter, reunited under the vast, starless sky.

Phillip’s gaze drifted over Sable’s shoulder, meeting Coriolanus’s steady stare from across the dimly lit stretch of pavement. In the darkness, Coriolanus's expression was unreadable, but the flicker of raw concern in his eyes was unmistakable, echoing the same fears and hopes that Phillip himself held. In that moment, Phillip felt a strange kinship—a silent acknowledgment that, for all their differences, they shared a powerful, unyielding devotion to the same person. They had both been willing to walk through fire, to abandon all sense of self-preservation, for her sake. Perhaps, Phillip thought, watching Coriolanus with a solemn respect, they were not so different after all. And perhaps, in the end, that was enough.

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Legendary Black Cat

Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Chapter Five

The river’s icy water clung to Selena’s skin as she emerged on the opposite bank, her breath coming in shallow, controlled gasps. The moonlight glinted off her damp curls, and her caramel skin gleamed faintly under the silver light. She glanced over her shoulder, her poison-green eyes scanning the darkness behind her. No sound of pursuit reached her ears. The scouts were too far behind and too injured to follow her.

She allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. For the second time that night, she had slipped through the grasp of Levi Ackerman. The thrill of outmaneuvering Humanity’s Strongest Soldier sent a rush of satisfaction through her, but it was tempered by the sharp sting of her wounds.

Selena winced as she pressed a hand to her side, where a shallow cut from Levi’s blade had sliced through her makeshift dress. Blood stained the fabric, though the wound wasn’t deep enough to slow her down. Still, she needed to stop the bleeding before it became a problem. She glanced around, her sharp eyes spotting a sturdy tree with thick branches. With the grace of her namesake, she scaled it effortlessly, settling into a high perch where she could remain hidden and tend to her injuries.

She ripped a part of her dress and used the fabric to bind the cut on her side. Her fingers worked quickly, the movements precise despite the tremor in her hands from the cold. She tore another strip from her -tattered dress to wrap around a smaller gash on her arm. The adrenaline from the fight was fading, and the full weight of her exhaustion began to settle over her.

Her mind wandered to Levi. His gray eyes had burned with an intensity she rarely saw in opponents, a fire that matched her own. Selena couldn’t help but grin despite her pain. He was every bit as formidable as the stories suggested, and fighting him had been exhilarating. No one had ever pushed her like that before.

“He must be furious right now,” she murmured to herself, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Twice in one night… it’s eating him alive.”

The thought of Levi pacing angrily, his usually composed demeanor shattered by her defiance, sent a wave of satisfaction through her. But satisfaction wasn’t enough. Selena knew better than anyone that underestimating an opponent was a mistake she couldn’t afford to make.

As she tightened the makeshift bandage on her arm, a wave of memories surged unbidden to the surface of her mind. The cold of the river clinging to her skin was nothing compared to the icy grip of the training pools in Marley’s assassination program.

She had been small—too small, the instructors had said. The runt of the group. The other children had towered over her, their strength and size making her an easy target. One memory in particular surfaced, sharp and vivid as though it had happened yesterday.

The pool had been deep, the water murky and cold. Selena had barely been able to keep her head above the surface when the other children descended on her like a pack of wolves. She had been chosen as the target of the exercise—a test of survival.

“Stay down, runt!” one of them had shouted, a boy twice her size with a sneer that still haunted her dreams.

Hands pushed her under, and for a terrifying moment, the world had gone dark. Selena had thrashed, her limbs flailing as she struggled for air, but their grip had been unrelenting. Water filled her lungs, her chest burning as panic clawed at her.

But then something had shifted. A calmness overtook her—a razor-sharp focus that cut through the fear. Selena had stopped struggling. Instead, she had waited, conserving her energy until the right moment. When the grip on her head faltered for a fraction of a second, she moved. Her small body twisted like a snake, her legs kicking out with precision. She had broken the surface, gasping for air, and before the boy could grab her again, she was already out of his reach, her speed and agility leaving him floundering.

“You’re weak,” one of the instructors had said later, watching as Selena lay on the edge of the pool, her chest heaving. “But you’re fast. If you survive, it won’t be because of brute strength. It’ll be because you learn to exploit your advantages.”

And she had. Selena had spent every waking moment perfecting her speed, her agility, her precision. She knew she could never match her peers in strength, so she didn’t try. Instead, she became something they couldn’t touch—something faster, smarter, deadlier.

She leaned back against the trunk of the tree, her eyes half-closed as the memories faded. Her breathing had steadied, and the warmth of her own body had begun to push back the chill of the night. She flexed her fingers, feeling the sting of her cuts, and smiled faintly.

“Runt,” she murmured, the word a bitter echo of her past. “They thought I was weak. They thought I wouldn’t survive.” Her green eyes gleamed with defiance. “And look at me now.”

She thought of Levi again, the intensity of his strikes, the way he had read her movements with uncanny precision. He was strong—stronger than anyone she had faced before. But strength wasn’t everything. Selena had learned that lesson long ago, and it was one she intended to teach him.

“Next time, Capitán,” she whispered, her lips curling into a smirk. “You won’t even touch me.”

With that, Selena adjusted her position, settling in for a brief rest. She needed to recover, to plan her next move. The night was far from over, and the Black Cat wasn’t finished playing her game.

…

Meanwhile, the sun was creeping over the horizon, casting a pale golden light across the dense forest as Levi and the scouts trudged back toward their camp. The group moved slowly, their movements weighed down by exhaustion and injury. The once-quiet forest now seemed alive with the sounds of morning birdsong, but the cheerful melody only served to deepen the frustration simmering among the group.

Levi led the way, his steps deliberate and sharp. The tension radiating off him was almost palpable, and no one dared to speak as they followed in his wake. His face was set in a scowl, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the path ahead. But inside, his mind was racing, replaying every moment of his encounters with Selena de la Rosa.

Twice. She had gotten away from him twice.

The memory of her smirk—the way she had taunted him, flirted with him—fueled the quiet storm of rage brewing within him. Levi didn’t lose. He didn’t let enemies slip through his fingers. Yet Selena had done so with an almost infuriating ease. She had embarrassed him, humiliated his squad, and nearly killed his comrades. And what was worse, she had done it all while treating the fight like a game.

Behind Levi, the younger Scouts limped along in silence, their expressions a mixture of frustration and disbelief. Mikasa held her injured arm close to her chest, her lips pressed into a tight line. Eren’s fists clenched at his sides, his anger evident in the tension of his jaw. Armin limped slightly, leaning on Jean for support, while Connie and Sasha brought up the rear, their faces pale and drawn.

“I can’t believe she got away again,” Jean muttered, breaking the silence. “How does someone even do that? She’s not a Titan. She’s just… a person.”

“Does she even count as a person?” Connie asked, his voice tinged with unease. “Because that was… something else.”

“She’s human,” Mikasa said quietly, her voice firm. “She’s just better than us.”

Eren bristled at the words, his frustration bubbling over. “We can’t just accept that! We’re supposed to be soldiers—Titans are supposed to be the biggest threat we face, not some assassin with a fancy nickname!”

“She didn’t kill us,” Sasha said softly, her voice laced with both confusion and gratitude. “She could have, but she didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make her any less dangerous,” Armin said, his tone thoughtful. “She knew exactly how to hurt us without killing us. That takes skill.”

“And Captain Levi,” Jean added, his voice dropping to a whisper, “he’s… never lost before.”

The group fell silent again, the weight of their collective failure hanging heavy in the air.

By the time they reached the camp, the sun was fully up, its warm rays cutting through the morning chill. The scouts they had left behind greeted them with a mixture of relief and concern, their expressions shifting to alarm when they noticed the fresh cuts and bruises marring their comrades.

Erwin and Hange, both visibly injured from their encounters with Selena, were immediately directed to the medical tent. Levi hovered nearby, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group as they settled in. Despite his own injuries, he made no move to seek help, his focus entirely on the task of regrouping.

His mind, however, was a storm of thoughts.

Selena’s movements. Her techniques. The way she had read him, countered him, evaded him. It all replayed in vivid detail, and Levi couldn’t stop himself from analyzing every second of their fights. He hated to admit it, but she was unlike any opponent he had ever faced. And yet, there was something else nagging at him—something he had noticed before.

Levi’s gaze flicked to the younger Scouts—Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Connie, Sasha—who were settling down around the camp, their expressions tired but determined. His sharp eyes lingered on their injuries, or rather, the lack thereof. Selena had struck them down, disarmed them, and humiliated them, but her strikes had been measured, deliberate. None of their injuries were severe.

It was a stark contrast to the wounds she had inflicted on him, Erwin, and Hange. Levi flexed his fingers, his arm aching from the shallow but painful cut she had left behind. She had drawn blood from all three of them, her strikes precise and brutal. But with the younger Scouts, she had held back.

“She sees them as kids,” Levi muttered under his breath, his voice low enough that no one heard him.

The realization grated against him. Selena had made a choice. She could have cut down Eren, Mikasa, and the others with ease. She could have killed them, but she hadn’t. Instead, she had gone after the ones she considered a threat—the leaders. Levi, Erwin, Hange.

He clenched his teeth, his frustration mounting. She wasn’t just a fighter; she was calculating. Strategic. Everything she did was deliberate, from the traps she set to the way she toyed with him in battle. She had read them, analyzed them, and decided who mattered most. And that choice made her even more dangerous.

Erwin emerged from the medical tent, his leg freshly bandaged but his expression calm. He limped over to Levi, his piercing blue eyes assessing the camp.

“She didn’t kill anyone,” Erwin said quietly, breaking the silence. “She could have, but she didn’t.”

Levi grunted in response, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “She’s playing with us.”

“Perhaps,” Erwin said, his tone thoughtful. “But there’s something more to it. She doesn’t kill indiscriminately. She has a code.”

Levi’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t make her any less dangerous.”

“No,” Erwin agreed, his gaze shifting to the younger Scouts. “But it gives us an advantage. Codes can be exploited.”

Levi didn’t respond, though his mind churned with possibilities. Selena’s refusal to harm children—or those she perceived as children—wasn’t a weakness, but it was a pattern. And patterns could be broken.

Hange joined them, wincing slightly as she adjusted the bandage on her shoulder. Despite her injury, her eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

“She’s fascinating, isn’t she?” Hange said, earning a sharp glare from Levi.

“She’s a pain in the ass,” Levi snapped, his tone icy. “And next time, she’s dead.”

Hange grinned, undeterred. “Oh, come on, Levi. You have to admit, she’s unlike anyone we’ve ever faced. Her fighting style, her agility, the way she outsmarted us—it’s incredible.”

“It’s irritating,” Levi corrected, his grip tightening on his blade. “She’s not untouchable.”

Hange raised an eyebrow. “Maybe not, but she’s close.”

Levi turned away from the group, his expression unreadable as he stared out at the forest beyond the camp. The anger simmering inside him hadn’t diminished—it had only sharpened. Selena de la Rosa was a problem, and Levi didn’t like leaving problems unsolved. He replayed every detail of their fights in his mind, searching for weaknesses, patterns, anything he could use against her.

“She won’t get away next time,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and filled with quiet fury. “Not again.”

As the camp slowly settled into a tense rhythm, Commander Erwin Smith stood near the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixed on the forest beyond. His leg still ached from the deep gash Selena had inflicted, but he barely noticed the pain. His mind was too preoccupied with possibilities.

Selena de la Rosa was unlike anyone they had ever faced. Her skill, her precision, her speed—it was all extraordinary. He could see it plainly: she was as formidable as Levi Ackerman, if not in raw strength, then in sheer cunning. It wasn’t just her physical prowess that intrigued him—it was her strategy, her control of the battlefield, the way she could disarm an entire squad without killing them. Selena was a weapon, honed to perfection by Marley’s brutal training program.

And Erwin couldn’t help but wonder: what if they could turn that weapon against Marley?

Levi approached Erwin with his usual brisk stride, his expression as cold as the morning air. He had been pacing the camp like a restless predator, his frustration evident in every clipped movement. When he reached Erwin, his voice was low but filled with fury.

“We need to find her,” Levi said flatly. “She’s out there, licking her wounds, probably setting more traps. If we don’t take her out now, she’ll hit us again.”

Erwin turned to face him, his calm blue eyes meeting Levi’s stormy gray ones. “I don’t disagree,” he said. “She’s dangerous. But she’s also valuable.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. “What are you getting at, Erwin?”

Erwin crossed his arms, his tone measured. “Selena de la Rosa is a skilled fighter. More than that—she’s a tactician, a strategist. She doesn’t kill indiscriminately. She has a code, one we can exploit. If we could flip her to our side, she could be an asset to the Survey Corps.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Levi’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

His voice rose slightly, his anger boiling to the surface. “She’s not some stray cat we can tame, Erwin. She’s a killer. She’s been trained to manipulate, to lie, to betray. You think she’ll just roll over and fight for us because you ask nicely?”

Erwin’s expression remained calm, though there was a spark of determination in his eyes. “I think she’s capable of making choices, just like anyone else. And I think we owe it to ourselves to at least consider the possibility.”

“She nearly killed you,” Levi snapped, his voice cutting through the morning air. “You, Hange, me—she didn’t hold back. She was toying with us, playing her little games. And you want to invite her into the fold?”

“I want to win this war,” Erwin said firmly. “Selena’s skills are wasted on Marley. If we could show her the truth about what Marley is doing, convince her that our fight is just—”

Levi cut him off, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s a gamble. And a stupid one. She’s not like us, Erwin. She’s not a soldier. She’s an assassin. She’s loyal to no one but herself.”

Erwin regarded Levi with a steady gaze. “Do you remember what people said about you when I brought you into the Survey Corps?”

Levi stiffened slightly, his expression darkening. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Erwin challenged. “You were a criminal, Levi. A killer. You had no loyalty to anyone but your own crew. When I recruited you, there were plenty of people who thought it was a mistake. They said you were dangerous, untrustworthy, uncontrollable.”

Levi’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I wasn’t like her.”

“No,” Erwin agreed. “But you were an unknown. And I took a gamble on you because I saw potential. Just like I see potential in her.”

Levi shook his head, his frustration mounting. “She’s not me, Erwin. She’s not fighting for survival, or for her friends. She’s fighting because she was trained to kill. That’s all she knows.”

“Maybe,” Erwin said. “But people can change. You did.”

Levi’s glare could have cut through steel. “You’re making a mistake. She’s not some lost soul looking for redemption. She’s a weapon, and Marley forged her to be one. If we try to recruit her, she’ll turn on us the moment it suits her.”

“And if we don’t,” Erwin countered, “she’ll remain a weapon in Marley’s hands. A weapon they’ll use against us. Either way, she’s a threat. The question is whether we can turn that threat into an advantage.”

Levi scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And you think you can just talk her into switching sides? Give her some speech about freedom and justice, and she’ll suddenly want to fight for us?”

“I think we can offer her something Marley never could,” Erwin said, his voice steady. “A choice.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his frustration giving way to cold resolve. “You’re betting on a cat that doesn’t want to be tamed. And when she claws us to death, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hange approached them, her bandaged shoulder a testament to Selena’s precision. She adjusted her glasses, her expression thoughtful. “I think Erwin’s got a point,” she said, earning a sharp look from Levi. “She’s dangerous, sure, but so are we. And you have to admit, Levi, she’s impressive. If we could get her to work with us…”

Levi’s voice was ice. “She won’t. She’s already shown us what she’s capable of. We’re just toys to her.”

Hange tilted her head, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s waiting for someone to show her another way. People don’t become assassins because they’re happy, Levi.”

“She’s not our problem,” Levi snapped. “And I’m not risking my squad on some half-baked idea.”

Erwin raised a hand, silencing the argument. His voice was calm but commanding. “Enough. We’ll discuss this further once we’ve regrouped and healed. For now, focus on the task at hand. Selena is still out there, and she’s still a threat.”

Levi turned away, his shoulders tense, his frustration rolling off him in waves. He didn’t agree with Erwin’s plan, but he knew better than to argue further. Still, as he stalked toward the edge of the camp, his mind churned with thoughts of the Black Cat. She was a problem—a dangerous, unpredictable problem. And Levi wasn’t about to let her outsmart him again.

“I’ll kill her before she gets the chance to betray us,” Levi muttered under his breath, his gray eyes glinting with cold determination.

Erwin’s expression was unreadable. He knew Levi wouldn’t trust Selena easily—if at all. But Erwin wasn’t one to shy away from risk. The Black Cat was a gamble, and he intended to play the hand he had been dealt.

But their conversation about Selena was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. A trio of scouts stumbled toward them, their faces pale and their expressions frantic. One of them, clutching his side where a crude bandage covered a wound, was the first to speak.

“Commander Erwin! Captain Levi! You need to come quickly!” the scout blurted, his voice cracking from urgency.

“What now?” Levi asked sharply, his tone clipped. The anger from Selena’s escape still simmered beneath his calm exterior.

The scout swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between the three leaders. “Some of the Marleyan prisoners—they slipped away while we were regrouping. We found them running toward the ship.”

Hange’s eyes narrowed, her usual playful demeanor replaced with sharp focus. “The ship? Why? There’s nothing left for them there.”

“They—they used the radio,” another scout interjected, his voice trembling. “We caught them just as they finished. They’re scared, sir. Terrified. They kept saying something about… about her.”

Levi’s jaw tightened, and his cold gray eyes burned with intensity. “Selena.”

Erwin frowned, his mind already racing. “Did they say who they contacted?”

The first scout shook his head. “No, sir. But they were panicking. They were saying things like, ‘She’s going to come back,’ and, ‘We need help before it’s too late.’ They’re scared out of their minds.”

Hange tilted her head, her lips curling into a thoughtful frown. “Well, that’s interesting. The Black Cat has a reputation, it seems. Even her own people are afraid of her.”

“Not her people,” Levi corrected sharply. “Her former captors.”

Erwin’s frown deepened. “Where are they now?”

“In the holding area,” the scout replied. “They’re tied up, but we thought you’d want to interrogate them yourselves.”

Levi didn’t need to be told twice. He was already moving, his boots crunching against the forest floor as he strode toward the makeshift prisoner camp. Hange followed close behind, her curiosity piqued, while Erwin limped after them with measured determination.

The Marleyan prisoners were huddled together near the remnants of their ship, their faces pale and their hands bound. They flinched as Levi approached, his cold stare sweeping over them like a blade. Hange and Erwin flanked him, their presences no less intimidating despite their injuries.

“Which one of you ran to the ship?” Levi asked, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t bother lying. I don’t have the patience.”

Two of the Marleyans immediately pointed to a wiry man near the edge of the group. He looked utterly terrified, his hands trembling as he raised them defensively. “I—I only went because they made me!” he stammered. “They—they told me to use the radio!”

Levi stepped closer, his gray eyes narrowing. “Who did you contact?”

The man’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his fear rendering him speechless. Levi’s patience snapped, and he grabbed the front of the man’s shirt, pulling him forward. “I asked you a question.”

“M-Marley!” the man squeaked, his voice cracking. “We—we called Marley!”

Hange leaned in, her expression sharp. “And what did you tell them?”

“That the Black Cat got loose!” another prisoner blurted, his voice shaking. “We told them she escaped and that we need reinforcements before she comes back!”

Levi’s grip on the wiry man tightened. “Reinforcements for what?”

“To—to protect us!” the man stammered, his voice rising in pitch. “She’s going to kill us! You don’t understand what she’s capable of—she’ll come back and finish us off!”

Hange raised an eyebrow, her curiosity growing. “Finish you off? She hasn’t killed you yet.”

The prisoner’s face twisted in fear. “Not yet. But she will. She’s… she’s not like anyone else. She’s a monster.”

“A monster you created,” Erwin said coldly, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the group. “You trained her. You used her. And now you’re afraid of her.”

The wiry man’s eyes darted between them, desperation written across his face. “You don’t get it! We didn’t make her—she made herself! The training program… it wasn’t supposed to create someone like her. The others—they were good, but she’s… she’s something else.”

Erwin stepped forward, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the prisoners. “Why didn’t your superiors kill her when they had the chance?” he asked, his tone cool and commanding. “They had her subdued. Why send her here?”

The wiry man hesitated, his gaze darting to his comrades. Finally, another prisoner spoke, his voice low and bitter. “We don’t know why. The top brass decided it was better to let her die here, on this cursed island. We already told you before, they wanted either the Titans to eat her, or she’d raise hell on this island before your people would kill her. Either way, she’d be out of their hands.”

Levi turned away, his jaw tight with frustration. Selena wasn’t just a threat—she was a calculated move by Marley, a weapon they had unleashed on Paradis with the sole purpose of creating chaos. And it was working.

“We need to be ready,” Erwin said, his voice breaking the tense silence. “Marley will send reinforcements, and when they arrive, they won’t just be looking for Selena. They’ll be looking for us.”

Hange adjusted her glasses, a thoughtful smile tugging at her lips despite the tension. “You have to admire their strategy. Selena takes out half of us, and their soldiers take out the rest.”

“Enough,” Levi snapped, his voice sharp. “This isn’t over. We find her. We stop her. And the next time I see that damn cat, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get away.”

The tension hung heavy in the air as the three commanding officers turned their focus back to the forest. Somewhere out there, Selena de la Rosa was plotting her next move. And Levi Ackerman intended to be ready.

…

Meanwhile in Marley…

General Calvi sat at the head of the war room, surrounded by the highest-ranking officers and generals in Marley. Maps of the world were splayed across the massive table, with red pins marking territories under Marleyan control and blue pins highlighting areas of interest. The dim lighting cast shadows across the faces of the assembled generals, who discussed troop movements and battle plans with mechanical efficiency.

Calvi leaned back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the table’s edge as he listened. His mind, however, was not entirely focused on the strategy at hand. It drifted, as it often did, to her. Selena de la Rosa—the Black Cat. The assassin who had once been his greatest asset and, ultimately, his greatest embarrassment.

She had been perfect in every way: ruthless, cunning, and impossibly skilled. He had molded her, overseen her training personally, and ensured she was sharpened into a lethal weapon. But Selena was more than a weapon to Calvi. She was… something else. Something he had wanted to possess. And every time she had defied him, every time she spat in his face—figuratively and literally—it had driven him mad.

The memory was vivid, as if it had happened yesterday. Selena, bloody but unbroken, had stood surrounded by soldiers in the training compound. Her black curls were matted with sweat and dirt, her caramel skin bruised from the relentless battle. Around her lay the bodies of 35 Marleyan soldiers, their blood pooling on the concrete floor. The bodies of Nightshade, Viper, and Power—her fellow assassins—lay among them, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

Calvi had stood on the observation balcony, his face red with fury as he barked orders to subdue her. Even with the combined efforts of the Cart and Jaw Titans, it had taken everything to bring Selena down. When she was finally restrained, her hands and feet bound in heavy chains, Calvi descended to the floor, his polished boots echoing in the silence.

“You’ve killed my soldiers,” he said, his voice cold and measured. “You’ve killed three of your own. And for what? Pride? Defiance?”

Selena, on her knees and breathing heavily, raised her poison-green eyes to meet his. “Por qué no me matas de una vez, bastardo asqueroso? Tienes miedo de mí?” (Why don’t you just kill me already, you disgusting bastard? Are you afraid of me?)

Calvi’s expression darkened. He stepped closer, gripping her chin tightly in his gloved hand. “Beg me for your life,” he hissed. “Swear yourself to me, and I’ll let you live. Be mine, Selena, and I’ll forgive all of this.”

Selena’s lips curled into a venomous smile. Her voice was laced with contempt as she spat directly into his face. “Nunca me inclinaré ante un cerdo como tú.” (I will never bow to a pig like you.)

Calvi’s hand struck her across the face with a sharp crack. His breathing was labored, his anger barely contained. “Send her to Paradis,” he ordered, wiping her spit from his cheek with disgust. “Let the Titans devour her.”

Calvi was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the war room doors bursting open. A group of officers entered, their faces pale and their movements hurried. One of them stepped forward, his voice trembling as he addressed the room.

“Generals, we’ve received a message from the ship sent to Paradis.”

The room fell silent. Every eye turned to the officer, who hesitated under their intense gazes.

“Well?” Calvi demanded, his voice sharp. “What is it?”

The officer swallowed hard. “The ship was intercepted by the Attack Titan. It… it was picked up and thrown onto the shore. And worse… the Black Cat is free.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. The generals exchanged uneasy glances, their previous confidence shaken. Calvi’s blood ran cold, though he kept his expression neutral. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he spoke.

“This was always a possibility,” he said calmly. “Even if she escaped, she’s likely causing chaos among our enemies. Paradis is hardly a paradise for someone like Selena. She’ll tear them apart before they can even think of using her.”

The officer hesitated, his face pale. “That’s not all, sir. The message also said that the Marleyan soldiers on the ship… they’ve been captured by the Scout Regiment. They’re being held prisoner.”

Calvi frowned. “So what? They’re replaceable.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer said quickly. “But… the prisoners are terrified. They believe Selena will return to kill them for betraying her. And they overheard the enemy commander—Commander Erwin—discussing the possibility of recruiting her.”

The room erupted into chaos. The generals spoke over one another, their voices a mixture of disbelief and anger. The idea of the Black Cat—Marley’s deadliest assassin—joining the Scouts was unthinkable. Unacceptable.

Magath slammed his fist onto the table, silencing the room. His face was red with anger as he turned to Calvi. “I told you we should have killed her when we had the chance! She was too dangerous to keep alive, and now look what’s happened. If she sides with Paradis—if she joins the Scouts—she’ll be unstoppable!”

Calvi’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t respond immediately. The fear gnawing at the edge of his mind was undeniable. If Selena aligned herself with Paradis, she wouldn’t just be a weapon against Marley. She would be a weapon aimed directly at him. He could already see her poison-green eyes in his mind, could hear her venomous voice calling him a coward, a perverted old bastard.

“She won’t join them,” Calvi said finally, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. “Selena’s too proud to fight for anyone but herself.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Magath pressed, his tone cold and biting. “If Commander Erwin manages to convince her? What then?”

Calvi hesitated. The room was silent, every pair of eyes fixed on him. Finally, he straightened in his chair, his voice regaining its edge. “Send reinforcements. A squad of soldiers and whatever assassins we can spare. We cannot allow Selena de la Rosa to join forces with our enemies.”

An officer stepped forward hesitantly. “Sir, our best assassins—Salamander and Hummingbird—are both on missions. The only ones available are Shadow and Showtime.”

Calvi’s expression tightened, but he nodded. “Then send them. They’re not as skilled as the rest, but they’ll have to do. Pair them with a squad of soldiers and send them to Paradis immediately.”

The officers saluted and hurried from the room, leaving Calvi and the generals in tense silence. Magath leaned back in his chair, his expression grim.

“You’d better hope they succeed,” Magath said quietly. “Because if they don’t, and Selena sides with Paradis… we’ll all be her targets.”

Calvi didn’t respond. His mind was racing, his fear carefully hidden beneath his composed exterior. He knew better than anyone what Selena de la Rosa was capable of. If Commander Erwin managed to flip her, it wouldn’t just be Marley that suffered.

It would be him.

And Selena wouldn’t stop until she made him pay.

~

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[jinbrook]

Komodo's ref finished! He is Hatchan's father, and presently alive.

Komodo is a serious, cold, calculating man who's only emotions range from angry to vitriolic. He is toxic, quite literally. The lethal venom of a large sea serpent flows through his veins. He is usually quiet, but unrelentingly brutal in his nature. A one man Buster Call, Komodo's biggest trick is the ability to sink whole islands in flame in just a few days. He is a high bounty pirate, epithet "Leviathan", with high level armament and observation haki, able to withstand low to medium levels of conquerors. Komodo has five weapons; two swords (Charbydis, Ferdinand (with the bull zoan fruit)), two guns (La Ve en Rose, Caoihme's gun after her death, Nettlebrand), and seastone carved knuckles (Skullcrush). He also weaponizes his blood, which has become corrosive and poisonous, when needed.

Komodo wasn't always a brutal, murderous tyrant. In his youth, he was a fisher, making ends meet with his girlfriend Caoihme. After their marriage, Komodo began taking riskier jobs further out at sea, saving to move with Caoihme somewhere bigger to start a family. It was on one of those jobs he was attacked, mauled by a highly venomous serpent that should have killed him. Instead, he managed to make his way to shore, losing an arm and the sight in one eye. He also began to grow colder, heart an mind deeply affected by the poison coursing through him, he uprooted his and his wife's lives, heading for the sea as a pirate. He quickly amassed a large crew, and became less and less warm as the days went.

Not long after the birth of his son, Hatchan, Komodo grew resentful of Caoihme. He resented her inability to reach his levels of brutality, her inability to do more than rob merchant ships with a single, unloaded gun. And he felt she would not be able to raise their son with such savagery. So he murdered her in the night, swearing to raise the boy proper in her "failure". 3 years after her death, and a mutiny that left all but 3 of his 500 man crew dead at his hands, he realized that Hatchan too would be too soft. Too weak to carry the same bloodthirst as he, so he tossed the boy to the sea, in a nest of sea kings.

He believes Hatchan to be dead, and should he discover he's not, he would finish the job.