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You'd been on his team for some years now, integrated so much so that you hardly remember a time you weren't part of his team.

You followed him faithfully, and Laswell had commented that you followed him almost blindly. You were a good solider, and Price doted on you. Sometimes more than professional courtesy allowed.

Until Graves arrived.

The Commander came on a blistering Las Almas afternoon, a man wrapped up in confidence and American exceptionallism. He flashed a grin as he shook Price's outstretched hand, eyes quickly taking in the Task Force, and zeroing in on you.

They are shown into his study, the space all dark oak and scented with lavender diffusers, lined with cases of books that are probably thought lost to the world. And right there in the middle, basking in the afternoon sun peeking from the window, curled on your side with a body pillow and sleeping away like a cat, is you.

Sylus's woman. His wife.

His very pregnant wife.

The one who had retreated from public events a few months ago for 'unknown' reasons.

Your one hand is tucked beneath your cheek, fingers loosely curled against the plush cushion. The other hand rests protectively over the full, taut curve of your belly, palm splayed wide as if protecting the life within even in the depths of sleep. Every now and then, your fingers twitch slightly- a subconscious, maternal reflex- pressing just a little firmer against the stretched fabric of your nightgown now visible thanks to the cashmere throw having slipped and pooled at your waist.

A trolley of assorted beverages- a sweating pitcher of lemon-infused water, a porcelain teapot still holding a faint curl of steam, a small glass of chilled milk- sits beside you alongside a haphazard stack of well-worn books, their spines cracked from repeated readings. Your hair spills over the arm of the couch in glossy waves, catching the afternoon light until it glints like spun silk. A few rebellious strands cling to the corner of your parted lips, stirring faintly with each slow, languid exhale.

A faint sheen of warmth glistens at your temples and the delicate column of your neck, the natural heat of pregnancy lending you an ethereal, almost otherworldly glow. The sunlight pools in the hollow of your throat, traces the delicate curve of your collarbone, and illuminates the fine, nearly invisible veins beneath your delicate skin.

Amidst the soft, sultry jazz wafting through the air, you look nothing short of an art piece- a Renaissance painting brought to life, depicting the very epitome of domestic bliss. Your breathing is slow, even, the gentle rise and fall of your chest a hypnotic rhythm beneath the thin silk, your heart beating peacefully and soft snores leaving your lips.

You are luminous. Radiant. Almost unfairly beautiful in a way that feels private and forbidden- as if the men in this room have stumbled upon a goddess in her sacred bower, never meant for their mortal eyes.

Even in stillness, there is a weight to your presence- a quiet, gravitational pull that makes the room feel smaller, more sacred.

And they make the mistake of staring a beat too long.

“Stare any longer and I’ll have to take your eyes out.”

They jump and turn as Sylus steps in, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up and a scowl plastered on his face.

"Our apologies-"

"I do not require them. Take a seat."

He pays them no mind as he makes his way to you, stopping beside the couch and adjusting your throw to cover you properly. Long fingers brush a strand of hair from your cheek with unexpected gentleness, then smooth it back over the curve of your shoulder. You make a soft, sleepy hum, nuzzling into his touch without fully waking, recognising his familiar touch even in your deep sleep. A small, private smirk touches the corner of his mouth- possessive, almost tender- before it vanishes.

You were already having trouble sleeping, and now these idiots had to come and disturb you in your home, Sylus thinks bitterly before straightening up and walking to the wide desk that faces the couch, dropping into the high-backed chair with the casual authority and irritation of a dragon provoked and at the brink of his patience. But at least from here, he has a perfect view of your sleeping form.

Exactly how he wants it.

His red eyes fix on the very unwelcome guests. "Let us begin then."

But they are too distracted by your presence, and one of them is foolish enough to open his mouth. "Mr. Sylus, don't you think we should move the Mrs-"

"May I remind you," his eyes narrow "that you have barged into my home unannounced, like an ill-mannered heathen, and now have the nerve to order my wife around in her own house?"

"I simply meant-"

"You perceive my wife way too much for my liking. Perhaps you are unaware of what happens to the ones who set their eyes on a Qin woman."

The room goes still. The kind of stillness that precedes a storm- the air thick and heavy, charged with something dangerous that makes them shift uncomfortably in their twenty-thousand-dollar suits.

You would have to be living under rock to not know the reputation the men of Qin family carried of being dangerously unhinged when it came to their wives.

The other person- a silver-haired man with the sort of face that's used to being listened to- has the good sense to look down apologetic. “He meant no offense, Mr. Sylus. We are merely... concerned. The project requires your immediate attention and-"

"Get on with what you wished to discuss." Sylus interrupts his rambling. "I would rather have you all out as soon as possible."

The men, knowing better than to test his patience and end up with his pistol in their mouths, begin the meeting, with you sleeping away peacefully on the antique couch being the sole presence keeping the Onychinus head from losing his cool.

There, in the next table over at the brunch place terrace, were was another young woman while her friends giggled with each other, eyeing her and shooting quick glances at him.

"I'm so sorry, but I overheard the whole thing," she said pouting her pink, filled lips, and pressing her arms together at her front. He was pissing you off, intentionally ragebating, so of course you mouthed off and chewed him out, even if it was in the middle of the restaurant. You kept your voice contained, but it was inevitable with the close tables that it would slip out.

He didn't even need his eye to see her desires.

"Not a girl's girl," you would say, especially in your conversations with Tara, and while he was a "stupid man who would never understand," he was inclined to agree. After all, you were decked out in clothes that matched his and wearing his ring on your little left hand.

Everything about you two screamed that you were bound together, yet the young woman only got closer to him, scooting her chair toward the man.

"You know," she continued, oblivious to how he grew still. Not from nerves or fear, but he paused in the way he did when people were serving him: waiting for them to move around him and do their job impeccably, then pass by as fast as possible.

"I really hate it when girls are so mean to their boyfriends like that," she said with a little pout, almost cooing at him. "I mean, if it was me, I'd never talk to my boyfie—"

"I like my woman mean." This was boring him. He needed to stop humoring her with his silence.

"I—" That seemed to short-circuit her. Blinking her large eyes, she said, "What?"

Your husband chuckled to himself and looked at her with amused, narrowed eyes, as if he made a joke she wasn't in on.

"I like my woman mean as hell."

She nearly jolted in her seat when it finally hit her, pressing her lips together in a fake smile to try and save face in front of her friends and this restaurant. From his cold, blunt tone to the look he was giving her, it was a clear rejection. Even with other men she's tried this with, they would turn her down nicely, saying "Aw, sorry, but I have a girlfriend," but give her lingering, second glances.

It seemed like the husband could just be as mean as his wife.

Damian was a good brother. That’s what he always told himself. He was a good brother, a good son. He was cold, rude, and erudite, but he was able and willing to help anyone who needed it.

When he arrived at Wayne manor, Bruce told him the general run down of why you were to be avoided when it came to anything vigilante related. You were still pure, a year younger than Damian but without any of the pain. The only one in the Wayne manor that could have a shot at becoming a normal person. Damian envied that, but kept it to himself. His anger often boiled to the top, drops of green venom dripping from his mouth when you tried to annoy him into spending time with you.

Your complaints of him ignoring you was scalding water on his already raw nerves. Why would you complain about not being the center of attention for five damn seconds? He would trade anything for the life you had. A life where you could lay around after school and never worry about a rogue bullet lodging itself in your arm, or a poisonous plant releasing psychedelic spores into an open wound.

You could and would never join the Robins. You were weak; it was in your blood. Always sickly, always the pacifist. You wouldn't survive a day in his life. And you weren't living his life; you were living his dream.

But apparently the effort the family was putting in wasn’t enough.

This courtesy DOES NOT apply to the rest of the Gaang. Katara, Zuko, Sokka, Toph AND Suki will kill. They will kill depending on circumstances.

Katara will kill if she sees no other way. She will try to look for another way, but if someone she loves is in danger, she is going for the throat. Sokka and Suki both have warrior mentality and will kill if they deem it necessary, it isnt their first option but it isnt the last resort either.

I thank you all for all the votes over the last many weeks.

And now we are at the pinnacle of it all.

Whoever wins this will be the official sexiest cube of Aphblr.

So, without further ado:

This is 100% self-indulgent, but I really needed to see my couples in ABBA costumes, so I had to draw it. Maybe they’re performing ABBA songs at a university festival or charity night in a Modern AU… something like that.🙈