My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines

Her fingers moved first.

Slid across the sheet in a lazy stretch, reaching for the warmth she remembered — his chest, his arms, the weight of him still buried in her from the night before.

But they touched nothing.

Only cold linen.

No rise and fall of breath beside her.

No heat.

No heartbeat.

Ytrisia's brows twitched. Her hand searched again, slower this time, creeping across the mattress like maybe she'd just missed him by an inch.

Still… nothing.

Her eyes blinked open.

Light spilled into the room in soft shafts through the curtains, the golden kind that should feel warm, safe, tender — but her chest tightened the moment she took in the empty space beside her.

Cruxius… was gone.

The sheets on his side were already cooling. No dent. No rumple. No trace of arms that had held her through her trembling, breaking gasps. It was as if he'd never been there.

No.

No. No.

Her throat dried, and she sat up too fast — the soreness between her legs flaring sharp, making her gasp.

Her body remembered everything.

The way he bent her, broke her. The way her voice had shattered against the walls — begging, moaning, sobbing into his shoulder, her legs wrapped around him like he was the only thing that could hold her together.

He was the only thing.

And now he wasn't even here.

A tremble moved through her hand as she pulled the sheet over her chest, suddenly bare, suddenly wrong. The wet stickiness between her thighs made her sick with heat — not arousal.

Shame.

Her lips quivered. Her gaze dropped to her stomach. Red marks, faint bruises on her thighs, his teeth on her collarbone. All of it screamed what they'd done. All of it whispered things she wanted to believe had meant something.

But Cruxius was gone.

And wasn't this just like him?

She stared at the door, half-expecting it to creak open. For him to walk in like none of this was new. With that lazy grin, those careless eyes. Maybe he'd act surprised to see her awake, toss her a compliment and a joke while brushing his hand through her hair like a lover.

But she knew better.

Didn't she?

He had always smiled at other girls.

Touched arms. Shared drinks. Held gazes longer than he should've.

She saw it. Every time.

Even after he promised he wasn't that man anymore. Even when she let him back in.

Even when she gave him the last thing she'd never given anyone else — her first time.

Ytrisia pressed her hand to her chest, as if she could press back the rising ache. Her heartbeat thudded like betrayal, raw and echoing.

He said he loved her.

But maybe she had been just another body.

No. No, stop.

Her head shook, but the thoughts wouldn't still.

He looked at her like she was different. Held her like she was his. Fucked her like he was starving.

But then why wasn't he here?

Why did he leave her lying in the sheets of what should've been a morning built on soft words and half-asleep kisses?

Why… did it hurt this much?

Her breath caught. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, sliding past her temple into the pillow.

"Don't do this," she whispered, voice cracking. "Don't turn this into another lie."

But the silence answered her.

And the silence sounded like every woman she'd ever seen him flirt with.

Ytrisia curled her legs up, the sheet twisted tight around her body now, as if it could protect her from her own thoughts. From the truth, or the possibility that this — last night, everything — was nothing more than a beautiful illusion to him.

And for her?

It was the night she finally gave in. Finally trusted again. Finally belonged to someone.

Her throat burned.

She wasn't angry.

Anger would have been easier.

But this? This hollow ache, this quiet between heartbeats, this sinking realization that maybe she had fallen in love with a ghost who only wore the shape of the man she needed…

That was crueler.

Her hand slipped down to her belly, resting gently above the place he'd filled her, again and again, as if he couldn't get enough.

But apparently, he'd had enough.

"Did you really left—"

Her voice barely left her lips, a whisper half-formed, the question crushed before it could land. Her throat locked, breath catching—

—and then the door creaked.

She flinched, the sound stabbing through the silence like a blade. Her body instinctively curled tighter beneath the sheets, unsure if she was relieved or afraid.

Then his voice followed, smooth and low.

"Morning," Cruxius called out casually, as if he hadn't just shattered her heart and stitched it back together in a single breath.

Ytrisia blinked, her body frozen in place.

He walked in without looking at her at first — his hands occupied with a tray, a faint clink of metal and ceramic announcing his presence further. His stride was calm, confident, the kind of careless comfort only someone like him could carry after wrecking a woman through the night.

She could barely breathe.

He set the tray down on the small table beside the bed, brushing a thumb along the edge of the cup before glancing up at her.

"I figured you'd be sore," he said, his tone light, eyes unreadable. "So I grabbed something easy on the stomach. Eggs, toast, some soup. I mean—technically, I cooked, but you're not allowed to complain unless you want to try my burnt version."

Her lips trembled.

He didn't notice at first. He was already sitting down beside her, casually picking up the spoon, stirring it once like it mattered.

"Should've let you sleep more, but... you looked like you were having weird dreams," he murmured, half a smile tugging at his lips as he lifted the spoon to her mouth. "Come on. Open up."

She didn't.

Her lips parted slightly—but not for the food. Just… in disbelief.

Her eyes shimmered now, glassy and heavy as they met his.

He blinked, his smile faltering for a moment. "Ytrisia?"

She didn't answer right away.

Then—barely audible—her voice broke through the rising weight in her chest.

"I thought you'd left."

His hand stilled.

For the first time, he looked like he'd been caught off guard.

"What?" he asked, his voice dropping a note.

"I woke up and you weren't here," she said, her gaze finally slipping away from him, "and the bed was cold, and… I thought… I thought you had gotten what you wanted."

Cruxius set the spoon down gently.

Her words hung between them, raw, quivering.

He turned toward her, his brows furrowed, but not in anger. It was something softer. Something that looked like disbelief.

"I thought you'd leave," she continued, her voice trembling now. "Because I thought you were done. That you were bored of me. That you finally got what you were chasing, and now…"

She couldn't finish.

Her words folded into silence.

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair — not out of guilt, but like he didn't know how to start untangling the knot in her chest.

Then he laughed—soft, crooked, without mockery.

"Gods, Ytri…" he muttered. His voice lowered again, husky with something that might've been regret. "Do you really think I'd ever get enough of you?"

He leaned in.

His hand moved with surprising gentleness, brushing her hair back from her face, tucking the strands of purple behind her ear like they were sacred.

Her eyes lifted, wide, trembling.

And there it was—that smile. That insufferable, lopsided, flirtatious smirk that had stolen her breath and sanity more times than she could count.

"I might be a little loose here—" he said, pointing towards his crouch with one finger, "—but I'm not loose in here."

His hand dropped, pressing lightly over his chest, right above his heart.

"I'm messy. I flirt too much. I get distracted. I make terrible decisions. But when it comes to you…" he paused, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, lifting her gaze again, "...I hope you can love me even if it hurts every time."

Cruxius didn't press her for a response. He just picked up the spoon again, scooping a bit of soup and bringing it to her lips. His other hand rested lightly against the sheets over her thigh, grounding her — reminding her he was here.

Ytrisia hesitated, lips parted but unmoving, eyes locked onto his face like she was still afraid he'd disappear the moment she blinked.

"Easy, alright?" he murmured. "No talking. Just eat."

She blinked slowly, then leaned in, letting the spoon slip past her lips. Warm broth rolled across her tongue — light, a little bland, but comforting in a way she didn't expect.

He gave her another spoonful. Then another.

The silence was strange now. Not tense… just heavy. Charged.

And he didn't look away from her.

Not once.

Ytrisia stared at him — at the faint shadows under his eyes, the lazy smirk playing along his lips as if nothing had cracked the world inside her just an hour ago. She hated that he could still look so calm while her chest felt like a storm was curling beneath it.

But she kept eating.

Halfway through, he reached for the glass of water and gently brought it to her lips.

She drank slowly.

And as she tilted the glass back, the edge of the sheet slipped.

Her hands didn't react in time. The cloth fell just enough to expose the swell of her chest — flushed, bruised, tender, the marks of last night still vivid on her skin.

Her breasts, round and full, rose and fell with every breath — one nipple already half-exposed, the faintest bite mark along the curve of her left breast.

She froze.

So did he.

His gaze lowered instinctively, trailing over her skin like gravity itself had dragged it down. And then it stayed there, fixed — intense, slow-burning, not hungry, but aching.

Her breath caught.

"…Don't look," she murmured, voice hushed, almost shy.

His eyes lifted to hers. And then, in one smooth motion, he leaned in and brushed a soft, playful peck against her lips.

"I just want a few sucks," he whispered against her mouth, the warmth of his breath trailing down her jaw. "I missed them."

Ytrisia's lashes fluttered.

She should have stopped him.

Should have pulled the sheet back up.

But her body leaned back instead — slowly — until her spine touched the pillows behind her. Her head turned slightly, cheek brushing the cushion, eyes looking away even as her chest lifted subtly with the motion.

She was… giving in.

Again.

Cruxius didn't waste the invitation.

His hand slid up, firm yet careful, cupping the weight of one breast — his thumb brushing over the marked skin with a reverence that made her shiver.

"You're so soft," he murmured.

Then he leaned down.

His mouth opened.

And he took her nipple in — hot, wet, possessive.

"Anh~"