Omake: 18+ (While I work on finishing the actual chapters)(Sophia, Bakuda, & Aisha)

I am still a few hours away from finishing the next chain of chapters, but it feels weird not posting anything. So, I decided to polish up a few old drafts and upload them here to tide you guys over until I am done with the next chapters.

P.S.: None of this is canon, just me experimenting with certain scenes to test the workability of a few ships. I have a bunch more, but they are far too rough and unfinished to be worth posting.

Either way, I'll get back to you guys soon on the actual chapters for Refrain(Arc 3) and TGW.

Sophia

Sophia Hess didn’t do weakness.

That was the mantra she repeated to herself as she stalked through the dimly lit streets of the Docks, the night air thick with the scent of rain on pavement. She was a predator, a hunter—someone who thrived in the dark, who took what she wanted and left the rest to rot.

But Greg—Omen, or whatever the hell they called him now—was different.

He had changed.

It wasn’t just the way he carried himself, the way his once-slouched shoulders now stood straight, his movements calm, deliberate. It wasn’t just the way his voice had deepened, his words measured, his gaze sharp enough to cut. It was the way he looked at her—like he saw through her, past the armor, past the sneer, past the carefully constructed persona of Sophia Hess, Ward, survivor, killer.

It pissed her off.

And it made her want him.

She found him on the rooftop of an abandoned building, silhouetted against the city’s glow. He didn’t turn when she phased through the wall behind him, didn’t flinch when she stepped closer, the gravel crunching under her boots.

“You came,” he said, voice low.

Sophia sniffed. “Maybe I just like the view up here.”

Finally, he turned. His eyes—baby blue, but cold like ice—locked onto hers. There was something ancient in them, something that made her breath catch despite herself.

“You don’t lie well,” he said.

She bristled. “Fuck you.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Is that an invitation?”

Her pulse spiked. She should have hit him. Should have phased through him, left him stumbling, humiliated. Instead, her feet stayed rooted as he stepped forward, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to smell the faint musk of sweat and masculine emanations.

“Fuck you,” she breathed.

His hand snapped up, fingers tangling in her braids, pulling her head back just enough to make her gasp. She imagined she could break his grip if she wanted to. She didn’t. He was too close, too real, and the heat radiating off him made her dizzy. She wanted to hate him, to shove him back into the box labeled “pathetic loser” where he belonged. But her body betrayed her, her skin tingling where his gaze lingered—her lips, her throat, the curve of her hips under her track pants. She’d spent years building walls, sharpening herself into a blade, but he was cutting through without even trying.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, his breath hot against her throat. She felt his fingers brush her jaw, calloused and warm, and her breath shuddered out. Her crossbow clattered to the floor, and she didn’t care. His touch was a live wire, sparking something she’d buried deep—need, raw and reckless, that she’d never let herself feel. Not with Emma, not with anyone. 

Sophia grinned, sharp and feral. “So? What are you going to—”

His mouth crashed into hers, shutting her up, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, neither willing to yield. She bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, her hands fisting in his shirt—his stupid graphic tee, but it didn’t matter. He tasted like salt and certainty, and she hated how much she wanted it. He growled, gripping her waist and slamming her back against the rooftop’s ventilation unit. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, but she barely had time to recover before his hands were on her, rough and demanding. She pulled him closer, needing the pressure, the friction, to drown out the voice screaming that this was a mistake.

His hands slid under her tank top, fingers tracing the taut lines of her stomach, and she gasped into his mouth. Every touch was deliberate, like he’d mapped her out in his mind long before this moment. She arched against him, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he didn’t flinch—didn’t break, didn’t falter. “Sophia,” he murmured against her throat, and the way he said it, like a prayer and a challenge, made her knees weak.

She shoved him back, just enough to yank her jacket off, letting it fall into the dust. Her tank top followed, and the cold air hit her skin, sharpening her senses. His eyes darkened, not with lust but with something deeper, like he was seeing every scar, every flaw, and still wanted her. “Don’t stop,” she said, voice rough, and it was as much for her as for him.

He didn’t. His fingers made quick work of her belt, her pants shoved down just enough for his hand to slip between her legs. She was already wet, embarrassingly so, and when his fingers slid inside her, she snarled, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck—fuck—”

He didn’t slow down, didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath. His thumb circled her clit, his fingers curling just right, and she came with a choked gasp, her vision whiting out for a second.

Before she could recover, he spun her around, bending her over the metal unit, fingers tangling in her braids as her cheek was pressed against the cold surface. She heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of his zipper, and then he was pushing inside her, thick and unrelenting.

Sophia hated feeling small.

But like this, pinned beneath him, his body covering hers, his hips driving into her with brutal intent—she loved it.

He fucked her harder, his grip on her hips tight enough to bruise. The world narrowed to this: his teeth biting into her neck, her fingers in his hair, the heat of him pressed against her. She moved with him, urgent, desperate, chasing the feeling that was building inside her—a tide she couldn’t outrun. His breath was ragged now, but his control never wavered, every touch delibrate, every thrust a step in a dance only he knew.

When she tipped over the edge, it wasn’t soft or sweet. It was sharp, shattering, like breaking through a wall she’d built around herself. She arched as she reach back to cling to him, his face buried in her shoulder as he held her through it, steady as stone. For a moment, she let herself feel it—the warmth of his skin, the thud of his heart, the way he didn’t let go.

Then he pulled out, and reality came crashing down. Sophia turned, shoving him back, her chest heaving. Her clothes were scattered, her hair a mess, her muscles sore from exertion.

His brow was arched in askance.

“Don’t get smug about it,” she snapped, pulling her jeans back up, her hands shaking. She wanted to hate him for making her feel this, for cracking her open when she’d spent years staying whole.

“Of course not,” he said, straightening his clothes.

She glared before turning away as she bent to pull her jacket on. The next moment, her shadow form flickering as she stalked through the wall. She didn’t look back. But her skin still burned where he’d touched her, and deep down, she wanted nothing more than to turn back and have him take her again. But she didn’t do that; that meant admitting she wanted him more than he did her. That meant admitting a vulnerability. That meant admitting weakness.

Sophia Hess didn’t do weakness.

Bakuda

She told herself she hated him.

That was the lie she clung to, even as her pulse quickened when he reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. Even as her fingers twitched with the urge to reach for him instead of a gun on the table beside her. His thumb brushed over the edge of her lips, and she felt it, like a spark traveling straight to her core. She wanted to pull away. She wanted to lean in.

She did neither.

Greg studied her face, his gaze tracing the tension in her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned down.

Keiko told herself she’d shove him off. Told herself she’d knee him in the groin and laugh as he crumpled.

But when his mouth met hers, she melted.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was hungry, possessive, like he’d been waiting just as long as she had—and maybe he had. His free hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and she let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan.

She hated him.

She ached for him.

Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She meant to push him away. Instead, she dragged him closer.

Greg made a low noise against her lips, something between approval and content, and then his hands were on her waist, lifting her onto the workbench with effortless strength. Tools clattered to the floor, forgotten. His mouth was on her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse, and Bakuda’s thoughts scattered.

She hated how easily he unraveled her. Hated how good his hands felt as they slid under her shirt, calloused fingers tracing the lines of her ribs, her stomach, then higher, until—

She gasped as he palmed her breast, thumb circling her nipple through the fabric.

"Fuck you," she breathed.

"Later," he said, and then his mouth was on hers again, swallowing her curses.

She clawed at his clothes, desperate to get them off, to feel skin instead of fabric. He obliged, shrugging out of his shirt, and Bakuda’s breath caught at the sight of him—all lean, whipcord muscle. His skin was warm, scarred in places she didn’t have time to question, and when he kissed her again, deeper, slower, she felt like she was drowning.

She reached for him, but he caught her wrists, pinning them behind her back with one hand while the other yanked her shirt over her head.

"Bastard," she muttered, but there was no heat in it.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she arched against him, her body betraying her with every shuddering breath. His free hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her pants, and—

"Oh, god—"

His fingers found her, already wet, and Bakuda bit down on a moan.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her lips.

She should. She should.

Instead, she rocked against his hand, chasing the friction, the pleasure that coiled tighter with every stroke.

"Don’t you dare," she gasped.

Greg’s laugh was dark, satisfied. Then his mouth was on her collarbone, her breasts, his tongue flicking over her nipple as his fingers worked her with ruthless precision.

She was unraveling, coming apart under his touch, and the worst part was—she wanted to.

When she came, it was with his name on her lips, half a curse, half a plea.

He didn’t give her time to recover. Before she could catch her breath, he had her pants off, his hands spreading her thighs as he knelt between them.

"Greg—"

His mouth was on her before she could finish, and Bakuda’s head slammed back against the workbench.  She gasped when his lips found her collarbone, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, a low sound that sent sparks down her spine.

She hated him.

She needed him.

And when he finally pushed inside her, filling her in one smooth thrust, she couldn’t remember why she’d ever fought this at all.

It was messy, urgent, a collision of want and defiance. She moved with him, chasing the feeling building inside her, a pressure she couldn’t outrun. His breath was ragged, but his control never wavered, every thrust deliberate, every kiss a question she didn’t know how to answer. she hated how much she needed it, hated how he made her feel alive when she’d been running on fumes for years. His pace was relentless, each stroke driving her higher, until she was clawing at his back, her legs wrapped tight around his hips.

"Look at me," he growled.

She did.

His eyes were dark, intense, and Bakuda realized, with a jolt, that she was utterly, hopelessly his.

She came again with a cry, her body shuddering around him, and he followed moments after, his forehead pressed to hers as he spilled inside her. 

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.

Then Bakuda shoved him away.

"Fuck you," she snapped, even as her body still hummed with the aftershocks.

Paul just smiled, that infuriating, knowing smile, and pressed a kiss to her temple.

"Rest a bit first, then I’ll consider indulging you again if you promise to behave later tonight."

Aisha

Greg sat at the edge of the couch, fingers steepled, eyes half-lidded as he typed furiously on his laptop. The dim light from the single lamp cut shadows across his face, sharpening his jaw, making him look older than he should. He felt older. Ancient, almost.

Aisha swallowed.

She’d been trying to sneak up on him for weeks. Just to see if she could. Just to prove to herself that he wasn’t as good as everyone kept trying to make him out to be. But no matter how quiet she was, no matter how much she dialed up her power until the world forgot she existed, he always knew. Somehow.

His head tilted slightly, just enough to let her know he’d caught her again.

“You’re predictable,” he said, voice low. Not mocking. Just… stating a fact.

Aisha dropped her power with a huff,  letting herself snap back into focus. “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole.”

That got a flicker of amusement. Not a smile. Omen didn’t do smiles that often. But something in his eyes warmed, just for a second.

She flopped onto the couch next to him, close enough that their legs brushed. He didn’t pull away. Brain’s warning echoed in her mind then, “Stay away from him, Aisha. He’s dangerous.” Like she didn’t know. Like she couldn’t from just looking at him. But her brother’s warnings just made her want to get closer, to see how close she could get before getting burned. 

He didn’t seem bothered by her presence, and all treated her like she was harmless.

The thought pissed her off.

It turned her on.

Aisha shifted, pressing her knee against his thigh, her braids brushing his shoulders. “So. Whatcha writing, big shot?” she asked peering at the lines of code racing across his display.

“Work,” he said simply.

“Sounds boring,” she lied, her fingers drumming on her knees and tapping on the edge of his. “You ever take a break, Omen? Or is screwing with the PRT your idea of fun?”

His lips twitched again, not quite a smile, but close enough to make her stomach flip. “What do you want this time, Imp?” he asked, not looking away from his screen. “I know I am interesting, but even for you, this is starting to get excessive.”

Aisha laughed, sharp and loud, but it felt like a front. “Cocky much,” she said? “Maybe I’m just bored.” But Greg was right, and they both knew it. She’d been circling him for weeks, dropping by his office when she knew he’d be here, tossing flirty jabs to see if he’d bite. He was dangerous, yeah—Brian wasn’t wrong. Omen was a terrifying cape whenever he chose to be. But that danger was a magnet, and she was metal, drawn to the way he made her feel alive, like she wasn’t just Brian’s annoying kid sister or the Undersiders’ wildcard.

He turned to face her then, his gaze heavy. Dark. The kind of look that should’ve made her squirm. Instead, her breath hitched.

Fuck it.

She leaned in, fast, catching his mouth with hers.

For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t react. Then—

His hand curled around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, kissing her back with a hunger that made her toes curl. It wasn’t messy, wasn’t sloppy like the guys she’d messed around with before. It was controlled. Like he knew exactly how to unravel her. She could taste him—salt, a hint of coffee—and it made her head spin.

Aisha gasped as his teeth grazed her bottom lip, fingers tangling in his shirt. “Asshole,” she muttered again, but there was no heat in it.

Greg hummed, thumb brushing her jaw. “You knew what I was.”

Yeah. She did.

And she didn’t care.

With a clasp, his laptop closed shut and was tossed aside. Aisha felt his other hand settle on her hips, her back pressing into the couch as he enveloped her.  The room was a blur, the city’s drone fading in the background as he undressed her. Aisah’s boots came off, then her jeans, and Greg matched her, shedding his own, until there was nothing but skin and heat. 

Skin against skin, his body pressed over hers, Aisha arched into him, nails digging into his back. The loft was quiet, but now it was filled with the sound of their breathing, the creak of the mattress, the slick heat between her thighs as he moved inside her.

He fucked like he did everything else—methodical, deliberate, like he was mapping out every gasp, every shiver. But there was something feral underneath it.

“Fuck—fuck—” Her voice broke as he hit just right, pleasure sparking up her spine.

Greg’s breath was hot against her ear. “You’re loud.”

“Yeah, well—” She choked on a moan as he thrust deeper. “—maybe don’t—shit—don’t fuck me so good, then—”

When she tipped over the edge, it was like a circuit blowing—sharp, electric, tearing through her body. She clung to him, her face buried in his neck, and he followed, his release a quiet shudder that grounded her. For a moment, they just lay there, panting, Greg’s arms around her, her heart hammering against his. She felt… safe, which was stupid, because nothing about Greg was safe. He was a storm, and she was dancing in the rain, knowing she’d get struck.

Reality hit like a slap. She sat up, grabbing my clothes, her hands shaking as she yanked them on. Brian’s voice echoed in her head again—Stay away from him—and she felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unfamiliar. 

“This was a mistake,” She said, her voice rough, because her needed to say it, needed to believe it. She couldn’t let him in, not when he could break her without trying.