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dollgxtz · 2 months ago

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His Watchful Eye Pt.8

Word Count: 23.4k

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, possession, mentions of pregnancy, forced pregnancy, mentions of breeding, attempted murder, mentions of murder, tw attempted car crash, manipulation, pet names like, kitten, sweetie, honey, Xavier appears, tw vomiting, mentions of blood, cramping, nausea, very plot heavy chapter wld recommend not skipping, its well worth the read!

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglmela @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @mysssticc, @babygirl-panda19, @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1, @honnylemontea, @altariasu, @the-slytherin-poet, @sorryimakira, @pearlymel, @emidpsandia , @angel-jupiter, @hwangintakswifey, @webmvie, @housesortinghat, @fading-twinkle, @shoruio, @gojos1ut, @solomonlover, @cheesenjam, @elegantnightblaze

AN: Hi all! This is of course on A03! I totally forgot about my wisdom teeth removal surgery and therefore added a LOT more words to make up for it for the late upload. Also, readers symptoms are based on what a friend told me it was like for her so please be aware of that going in if you've been pregnant and don't find readers timeline aligning with your own. Its a lot different for everyone! (Plus considering Sylus isn't even human in the first place I doubt the pregnancy would be normal anyways lol). Anyways, please enjoy this chapter! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

“No, I’m not pregnant,” you whimpered, shaking your head as tears started to spill down your cheeks. “I’m just sick…I'm just sick...” “Only one way to find out, honey,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. Like he was comforting a child. He could feel your fear, could see the way you were choking on the sobs that kept spilling from you. But there was no rush. He had all the time in the world.

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7 Pt.9

Sylus sat on the couch, fingers drumming absently against the wood of the arm rest as he packed away files and data chips for the upcoming trip. The low hum of the N109 Zone’s endless night buzzed through the small cracks of the window, a constant, oppressive reminder of where he lived. But his mind wasn’t on the trip, not really. His thoughts kept circling back to you—you sitting on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, probably confused at the coldness he’d been showing you for days.

He had expected this. Of course, you would try to leave him. That’s what all this distance had been about—your inevitable attempt at escape again. It was frustrating, yes, but not surprising. You had been stubborn from the very beginning, always resisting, always challenging him. And in truth, that was part of what drew him to you. Your defiance. But the fact that you had actually gone through with it that night, tried to walk out on him... that cut deeper than he was willing to admit.

He had said too much. Far more than he should have in his drunken state. Words spilled out of him, cracking through the cold, calculated exterior he usually maintained. He had shown you something raw, something he didn’t even think he was capable of—vulnerability. And for a brief moment, he had hoped—foolishly, he knew—that his words had reached you. That, despite everything, you would see what he was offering. That maybe, just maybe, it had tugged at your heart enough to make you stay. To choose him over the open door, to choose him over the freedom you so desperately craved.

But, just as he expected, you made your choice. And it wasn’t him.

The sting of it gnawed at him, the rejection simmering under his skin. He had allowed himself to feel something he had long considered a weakness, let down his guard for just a fleeting moment, and you had turned your back on him. He had given you the chance to see him as something more than the cold, possessive figure he had been. And yet, you had gotten out of bed, chasing the illusion of freedom.

It wasn’t just that you had tried to leave—it was that you had chosen to leave him. That, even after all the effort he had put into controlling, guiding, and shaping you, you had slipped away. He had thought he could bend you to his will, that with time, you would see there was no life for you beyond him. But clearly, you still hadn’t learned.

This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. You were his, even if you didn’t fully understand it yet. He saw something festering in your eyes. In your mind. You could run from your feelings, but Sylus knew better. You could try to escape, but in the end, you would come back. Either by choice or by force.

Either way, vulnerability was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat.

He told himself it was nothing, that your defiance was natural, a part of who you were. You just needed time. Time to understand, time to adjust. Time to realize that you were better off here, with him. You didn’t know it yet, but you needed him just as much as he needed you. Maybe more.

And forcing it? He had tried that. It didn’t work. The chain, the teasing, even the brief moments of affection, none of it had broken through yet. That was why he was ignoring you now, why he’d stopped giving you the attention he knew you craved, whether you admitted it or not. You had to come to him, and maybe a little distance would push you toward that realization. You just needed a little… push.

Sylus sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stood up, glancing toward the bed. He didn’t want to make things so cold between you two. It hurt him, too, to ignore you like this. Every time he saw you sitting there, doing something as simple as folding your clothes, his heart clenched. You didn’t even realize how cute you were, the way your face twisted in concentration as you neatly tucked each item away. The way you fumbled with the edge of your blanket, lost in thought, was enough to drive him mad.

Sometimes he’d catch himself watching you when you weren’t paying attention, your intricate fingers working on some small task, and he had to fight the urge to go over to you, to touch you, rip that nightgown off and hear those cute sounds you make as you squirm under him. There was something sweet, almost delicate, about the way you moved, unaware of how captivating you were.

But then, there was the chain. The damned chain.

His eyes darkened slightly as his gaze flickered toward the weight of that metal around your ankle. It bothered him more than it should have, seeing you restrained like that. It didn't suit you. It was large and imposing on your skin. He didn’t want you to feel trapped, at least not in a way that made you fear him. The chain was a necessity—for now. It was for your own good, to keep you safe, to keep you from running again. But the sight of it weighed on him, a small reminder of the lengths he had to go to keep you by his side. One day, you won’t need it, he promised himself.

One day, you’d stay because you wanted to. Right?

Sylus continued to gather the last of his belongings, his thoughts already on his impending return. The journey ahead was fraught with danger, much like the rest of his work. Business in the N109 Zone was never without risk, especially when it involved the kind of deals Sylus specialized in. The ones outside of it though...could be a little unpredictable. A new weapon had surfaced in the market, and with supply running low and demand soaring, things were bound to get chaotic. But Sylus had already secured his piece. Not because he needed it—no, it was merely bait. He had his eyes on a particular "fish," one that had been slipping through his fingers for weeks.

He had been keeping close tabs on your cycle, watching the days go by on the calendar. You had stopped bleeding while in captivity with Reese and now, it was just a matter of time. By the time he came back, he was sure his seed would take hold. That was why your recent "punishment" hadn't really been about discipline. It had simply been a means to ensure his seed was planted, without too much resistance. He knew you well enough by now. Had he hinted that you were ovulating, you would’ve fought, screamed, maybe even tried to hurt him—only to harm yourself in the process. Disguising it as punishment had been the simplest way to get you to comply.

He was well aware of your fear. He knew that if he pushed hard enough, you would obey. It wasn't what he truly wanted, but if playing mind games was what it took to reach the future he envisioned, so be it. Sylus was no stranger to playing the bad guy.

He would have everything he wanted by the time he got back—you by his side, in more ways than one. The thought of you swollen with his child, completely his, was enough to stir something dark and possessive inside him. He felt his cock slight stiffen at the thought, pooling almost desperate desires to have you under him one last time before he left. To ensure his seed would take.

Sylus moved quietly through the room, packing the last of his things into a sleek, black briefcase. His movements were slow, calculated, betraying nothing of the thoughts racing through his mind. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, now curled up in bed, your form tense beneath the blanket. He could sense your unease, feel the anxiety radiating off of you even though you hadn’t said a word.

Cute.

A silent chuckle echoed in his mind as he noted the way you stiffened the moment he began to approach. You gasped, almost imperceptibly, and tensed like a rabbit sensing a predator. He wanted to close the space between you, to cup your face, trace his fingers along your skin, and feel the heat of your breath against him before he left for the trip. But he held back. No, he had to maintain the cold distance he’d imposed. It was for your own good.

But damn, it was hard. He wanted to mark you, to remind you that you were his—no matter how far he went. Still, there was something delicious about your reaction, the way your eyes widened as he stopped beside the bed.

Why was everything you did so adorable?

You sat up slightly, your gaze locking onto him, every muscle in your body tense. You were clearly waiting for him to say something, to finally break the silence that had lingered like a heavy fog between you for days. Instead, he reached down, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair that was near your face. A piece of lint had gotten caught in it, likely from the laundry you’d folded earlier—one of the small, mundane tasks you’d taken to doing in your isolated state.

Sylus plucked the lint from your hair with an easy, almost gentle motion. It was such a simple, unassuming gesture, but it left you staring at him, taken aback. The look on your face was a mixture of confusion and something deeper, something Sylus could feel but couldn’t quite define. You were shocked by the touch, the sudden break in his cold routine. And then, before you could process it further, he turned his back on you, preparing to leave.

The silence was unbearable.

"Sylus..." Your voice broke through the quiet, trembling ever so slightly, and he felt something tighten in his chest. His back was still to you, but he could hear the frustration, the desperation lacing your words. "What's wrong with you?"

Your question hung in the air, and he felt his resolve waver for the briefest of moments. He wanted to turn around, to explain, to tell you that you hadn’t done anything wrong—that this distance, this coldness, was a game he hated just as much as you. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

"Stop playing your stupid games," you continued, your tone hardening as the frustration bled into anger. "You bring me back, chain me up again, just to ignore me? Asshole." There was venom in your voice, but it was laced with hurt, and Sylus could feel it.

A pang of guilt settled in his chest, but he pushed it down. You had tried to leave him, after all. He had expected it, even understood it, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt. Still, he had to maintain control. She just needs a little more time. He sighed softly, his back still turned to you as he gathered his thoughts.

You weren’t done, though. "You leave me alone for days, barely say a word, and now you’re going on some mysterious trip like nothing’s wrong?" Your voice cracked just slightly, betraying the emotion you were trying to hide. "Why do you even bother keeping me here if you’re just going to act like I don’t exist?"

Sylus swallowed, his jaw tightening. He wanted to answer you, to give you some reassurance, but the distance was necessary. For both of you. And besides, he had seen that look in your eyes before—confusion, anger, frustration. You were close. Close to realizing that he was the only constant in this world, the only one who cared enough to keep you safe, even if you didn’t understand that yet.

"This may be the last time we talk, kitten," he said, his voice colder than he felt. It pained him to keep up the facade, but he forced himself to continue. "Why not be nice in our potential final moments together?"

The words were a joke—he wasn’t planning on dying, not anytime soon—but the way your face contorted in shock, the hurt that flashed in your eyes, made something twist deep inside him. It was cruel, yes, but it was part of the game. You had to see what life would be like without him, even if only for two weeks.

He turned slightly, just enough to catch the look on your face. You were staring at him, wide-eyed, stunned by the cold indifference in his words. Your lips parted as if you were going to say something, but the words seemed to catch in your throat. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

What were you thinking? Were you hurt, confused, angry?

Sylus wanted to take it back. He wanted to tell you that he wasn’t going to die, that this was just another dangerous job, but it hurt him to say it. It hurt him to see you looking at him like that, but he couldn’t back down. He had to keep his distance. He had to let you come to him on your own terms.

But then, you broke the silence. "Well," you spat, your voice hardening again as the hurt morphed into anger, "at least if you die, it’ll be a lot easier getting away from this hellhole."

Sylus chuckled softly, though there was no real humor in it. He wasn’t surprised by your words—they were expected, even—but they stung nonetheless. He turned his back to you again, straightening his suit jacket as he prepared to leave.

"I’ve arranged for you to be fed three times a day," he said, his voice smooth and detached once more. "Mephisto will be keeping an eye on you while I’m gone. Any refusal to eat or bathe will be reported directly to me." He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle over you. "And I wouldn’t want to hear about any attempts to run again, kitten."

"I'll be sure to take apart that stupid bird while you're gone" you spat, laying back down again.

He walked toward the door, his hand resting on the handle, ignoring your tantrum. He didn’t turn around, didn’t give you the chance to say anything more. This was the hardest part—leaving you like this, with so much unsaid. He could feel the turmoil radiating from you, the confusion and anger clashing with something deeper, something he knew you weren’t ready to admit to yourself yet.

But he had to wait. Forcing it hadn’t worked, and now, with the distance between you growing, you’d have time to think, to realize that you needed him as much as he needed you. He would return, and when he did, he hoped that the time apart would have made you see things more clearly.

Without another word, Sylus stepped through the door and left, the weight of your gaze burning into his back the entire time.

Sylus descended the staircase of his mansion, his steps silent, but his thoughts anything but. His mind, which had been lingering on you, now shifted to something else that had been gnawing at him for some time.

The boy from Linkon.

He had recently received reports of a disturbance at the shoe store—one of his covert fronts for an illegal drug operation. It was nothing major, just another petty interruption. But the details? They were unmistakable. A man had walked in wielding a sword, babbling about protocores, asking questions about the twins and a missing girl before escaping in a ball of searing light. His associates had been nearly blinded in the chaos. They hadn’t managed to catch the culprit, but Sylus didn’t need confirmation. He knew exactly who it was.

Xavier.

The name burned in his mind like a festering wound. Sylus had always known that dealing with Xavier would be no easy feat. The boy was reckless, persistent, and—most infuriatingly of all—he still loved you. And worse, you loved him back. Sylus could feel it in every interaction, every fleeting look you gave when you thought he wasn’t watching. It was in the way you hesitated sometimes, the way you still held back, despite everything. You may not have spoken Xavier’s name since Sylus had threatened his life, but that hope—that dangerous, foolish hope—still flickered inside you. The hope that Xavier would come bursting in like some white knight to rescue you from his place.

Like hell Sylus would let that happen.

The mere thought of it stirred something violent inside him. He had worked too hard, done too much, to let some delusional hunter ruin his plans. You were his, and no one else had any claim to you. Not Xavier, not anyone. And if the boy thought he could just sweep in and steal you away, he would quickly learn how wrong he was.

Sylus’s grip on the banister tightened as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his jaw clenched in cold resolve. The game with Xavier was nearing its end. Sylus would not allow this boy to remain a thorn in his side much longer. Xavier’s love for you made him reckless, vulnerable. He would exploit that, get rid of Xavier once for all. Sylus would ensure he never got the chance to try a second time.

As Sylus stepped off the last stair, Luke appeared from the kitchen, casually munching on an apple with his mask tilted up just enough to expose his mouth. The moment he spotted Sylus, his demeanor shifted entirely. Panic flashed across his face as he hastily yanked the mask back down to cover himself, the half-eaten apple forgotten as he tossed it into a nearby trashcan. He quickly straightened his posture, standing rigidly at attention.

“Er-boss! Everything’s packed for you!” Luke stammered, his voice betraying his nervousness. “I can take your suitcase as well!”

His gaze flickered nervously toward Sylus, clearly unsettled. He had seen that energy in Luke's posture before—fear, the kind that made men trip over their words and scramble to stay in his good graces. Luke's hands fidgeted at his sides as if unsure whether to reach for the suitcase or wait for further orders.

Sylus didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch for a moment too long, just enough to make Luke sweat. His cold, calculating gaze swept over him, taking in every detail of the young man’s anxiety, before finally giving a subtle nod.

Sylus sighed, releasing the tight coil of tension that had built up in his body. There was no need for uncontrolled anger—at least, not yet. The pest would soon be dealt with, and once that distraction was removed, there would be nothing left to stand in the way of the future he envisioned. A future where everything fell perfectly into place.

“I have something to take care of first,” he said, his voice cool and deliberate, as if every word was a command in itself. “Make sure the chefs fully understand the strict instructions I gave about her meals while I’m away. Balanced nutrition. Have them repeat it back to you—every single detail.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze narrowing slightly as he fixed Luke with a look that could freeze blood. “I don’t want any mistakes.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sylus tossed the suitcase into Luke’s hands with casual indifference. Luke’s eyes widened as he scrambled to catch it, his fingers slipping momentarily on the leather handle. The weight of it nearly sent him teetering off balance, but he managed to steady himself, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Yes, boss! I’ll—uh—I’ll make sure of it!” Luke stammered, standing rigidly at attention, as if that might somehow erase his clumsy fumbling.

But Sylus had already turned away, his attention far beyond the room, far beyond Luke’s awkward attempts to regain his composure. His long strides took him toward the door with an air of certainty, as if the world itself bent to his will with every step.

Xavier. Xavier. Xavier.

The name echoed in his mind, an insistent drumbeat. He could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface again, but it was controlled—held in check by sheer force of will. Xavier. The boy had become more than a nuisance. He was a threat. A distraction that had lingered for too long. But that would soon change. Sylus had no intention of letting anything—or anyone—interfere with his plans.

Xavier had dared to love you, dared to think he could save you from the inevitable. The thought of it sent a dark thrill through Sylus’s chest. How naive. How foolish. Did Xavier truly believe he could stand between you and your rightful place at Sylus’s side?

Not a chance.

He would deal with Xavier swiftly, thoroughly. Once the boy was removed from the picture, there would be no more obstacles. No more fantasies of rescue. You would see things clearly, finally understand where you belonged. With him. Always with him.

As the door swung shut behind him, Sylus’s lips curled into a faint smile. Xavier had no idea what was coming. But Sylus did. He had planned for everything, anticipated every move. And soon, Xavier would be nothing more than a forgotten name. A foolish memory.

Nothing—absolutely nothing—would prevent Sylus from claiming the future he deserved. The future he would have with you.

Sylus had always been ten steps ahead. As soon as he had caught wind of Xavier’s desperate attempts to escape the N109 Zone, he had put his plan in motion. Word had spread quickly through the Zone's shadowy network—the kind of word that made people look over their shoulders and shut doors the moment they saw the boy approaching. No one dared to help him as the days passed. Not with the subtle but ever-present threat of Sylus looming over their heads. They knew what would happen if they defied him, and no one was foolish enough to test that.

Mephisto had been watching Xavier from the skies, tracking every move the boy made. It was almost pitiful, Sylus thought, how determined Xavier was, knocking on doors, pleading with anyone who would listen, trying to get someone—anyone—to process the SIM card he had found. The card that held all the damning evidence of what had happened in Reese’s basement. But it was futile. The boy had no idea why people turned him away with frightened eyes, why they avoided him as if he carried some curse.

Sylus felt a flicker of pity for him—how bewildering it must be for Xavier, seeing doors shut in his face, confusion mixing with anger as hope slowly bled out of him. But that pity was short-lived. Xavier had made his choice, and Sylus was about to make sure it was his last.

As Mephisto tracked Xavier’s latest movement, Sylus watched from the GPS feed in his jeep. The boy had finally given up on finding help within the N109 Zone. Likely desperate, he had chosen the hard way—going on foot, sword strapped to his chest, with nothing but determination keeping him moving. He was heading back to Linkon, likely hoping to catch some cell service once he left the Zone's signal-dead perimeter. It was a hopeless task, but Xavier didn’t know that. Not yet.

The boy was relentless, Sylus had to give him that. Mephisto’s feed showed Xavier’s ragged state—his clothes dusty, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. But he kept walking.

What a fool. Maybe he'd like some help.

Wasting no time, Sylus tracked him to his location and pulled up alongside the road in his sleek black jeep, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, his suit perfectly pressed despite the rough terrain. He brought the car to a slow roll as he neared Xavier, careful not to appear too eager.

He took in Xavier's disheveled appearance and stifled a laugh as he finally got a real life glimpse of the man you dared to call your lover. This was your knight in shining armor?

Xavier glanced over his shoulder at the approaching vehicle, his hand already gripping the hilt of his sword with wary blue eyes. Sylus could feel the boy's suspicion even through the tinted glass. He cracked the window, letting in the cold, arid air, and called out in an easy, practiced tone.

“Need a ride?” Sylus asked casually, his voice carrying the hint of a smile. “You look like you could use one.”

Xavier’s eyes narrowed, scanning the jeep and the man inside it. “And you are?” he asked, his voice rough, a mixture of caution and exhaustion. He didn’t let go of the sword, though it remained sheathed at his chest.

Sylus feigned mild surprise, raising an eyebrow as if the question had caught him off guard. “Just a passerby,” he said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his suit sleeve. “I just got back from my daughter’s birthday dinner and thought I’d offer a lift. Figured you’d be tired of walking by now.”

Xavier’s suspicion deepened. His gaze flicked over Sylus’s clean hair, the well-tailored suit that seemed out of place in the desolate outskirts of the Zone. His grip on the sword tightened slightly, though he didn’t draw it. “You’re wearing a suit,” Xavier said, his voice dripping with distrust. “Why would you be all the way out here, wearing that?”

Sylus had anticipated the boy’s suspicion, but it didn’t faze him in the slightest. In fact, it was almost amusing. He had expected Xavier to be cautious, to scrutinize every word, every detail, but in the end, none of it really mattered. The boy wouldn’t figure out who he was—how could he? Sylus was an enigma, a shadow in the dark corners of the N109 Zone. His reputation may have spread like wildfire, but few had ever laid eyes on him. Not even a glance.

The genius of it all was that Sylus had made himself a ghost, a figure of whispered warnings and vague threats. His power rested not in his appearance but in his influence, his ability to control from a distance. To orchestrate chaos while remaining completely invisible. As far as Xavier knew, the man sitting behind the wheel of this sleek, black jeep could be anyone—just another passerby, another face in the crowd. That anonymity was what made Sylus dangerous.

So when Xavier narrowed his eyes, suspicion etched into every line of his face, Sylus remained perfectly calm, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips. Let the boy wonder. Let him think. It wouldn’t change the outcome. Sylus always got what he wanted.

His fate was sealed.

Sylus smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He let the silence stretch just long enough to feel heavy between them. “Like I said,” Sylus replied, his voice smooth as silk. “I just came back from my daughter’s party. The restaurant was out of town, and this is the route I take back home.”

Xavier didn’t move. His eyes bored into Sylus, searching for cracks in the façade. Sylus could almost hear the boy’s thoughts, could feel the way Xavier was picking apart every word, every detail. But Sylus was calm, unbothered. He had done this dance too many times. He could see the exhaustion in Xavier’s posture, the way his legs trembled with fatigue, the faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this stranger could help him get out of the Zone.

But the distrust remained. The boy wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t be easy to trick.

“You look too calm,” Xavier said finally, the edge of accusation in his voice. “No one from around here is that calm...or helpful.”

Sylus chuckled softly, as if the remark amused him. “I’ve lived in the N109 Zone for a long time,” he said, shrugging lightly. “You get used to the chaos after a while.”

Xavier’s eyes flickered with indecision. His instincts were telling him something was off, but the exhaustion in his limbs and the desperation gnawing at his mind were wearing him down. Sylus watched, a faint smile tugging at his lips as the boy’s resolve wavered. It was only a matter of time.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” Sylus asked, leaning back in his seat. “The next town’s pretty far. It’s a long walk—especially on foot.”

For a moment, Xavier just stared at him, his brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. He knew something was wrong—Sylus could see it in his eyes. But fatigue was a powerful weapon, and Sylus knew just how to wield it.

The silence stretched on, thick with tension, as the two men sized each other up—one desperately looking for a way out, the other calmly calculating the exact moment to strike.

“No thanks,” Xavier muttered, his voice curt as he adjusted the strap of his sword and continued his walk past the car, not bothering to look back.

Sylus’s jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation flashing across his otherwise calm demeanor. The boy wasn’t just persistent—he wasn’t stupid either. It was becoming clear that Xavier’s survival instincts were sharper than he had anticipated. Fine, two could play at that game. Sylus needed the boy in the car, and he wasn’t about to let his plan slip through his fingers over something as trivial as Xavier’s mistrust.

Without a word, Sylus reached over, twisting the keys in the ignition until the engine went silent. The mechanical purr of the jeep ceased, leaving only the sound of the wind rustling through the desolate landscape. He opened the door and stepped out, calling after Xavier before the boy could get too far.

“Wait,” Sylus said, his voice carrying with a casual ease that belied his annoyance. Xavier slowed, turning halfway to glance back, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Sylus could sense the boy’s reluctance, the wariness etched in his every movement.

With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, Sylus tossed the car keys in Xavier’s direction. They spun in the air before landing in Xavier’s open palm, the boy catching them reflexively but frowning down at the unexpected gesture.

“How about this,” Sylus said smoothly, his tone relaxed, as though they were discussing something as simple as the weather. “You drive yourself to your destination, and I’ll drive myself back. No strings attached. Sound fair?”

Sylus knew Xavier couldn't refuse such an offer, and even if he wanted to, his love for you was more important to him than his own safety.

He would take the bait.

Xavier’s brow furrowed as he stared down at the keys, then back up at Sylus, who had already moved around the vehicle to the passenger side. The offer, on the surface, seemed absurd. What kind of stranger would be so willing to give up control of his own car to a random traveler on the side of the road? And yet, there Sylus stood, casually opening the passenger door as if they had made some mutual agreement. The ease with which Sylus handed over the keys was unnerving.

Xavier’s instincts screamed at him to keep walking, to leave this strange man and his too-kind offer behind. Something about this whole encounter was off—way off. But there was another part of him, the exhausted, desperate part, that couldn’t ignore the fact that his journey to Linkon was still painfully far from over. He had been walking for hours, pushing himself past the point of exhaustion, and the weight of the sword on his chest felt heavier with each step. He couldn’t shake the urgency pounding in his chest. He needed to get back to Linkon, and fast.

The SIM card tucked away in his pocket was his only lifeline. Without it, any hope of uncovering the truth of what happened in Reese’s basement would be lost. He needed to see it. But the odds of finding anyone out here who could process it? Slim to none. He was running out of time, and every step he took on foot made him feel like the distance between him and his goal was growing wider.

His eyes flicked back to the car keys in his hand, their weight oddly unsettling. Why was this man so eager to help? And why the hell was he offering the keys to his own car?

Xavier’s gaze darted back to Sylus, who had settled into the passenger seat without a trace of concern, leaning back as if this was the most normal thing in the world. His expression was calm, almost too calm, as though the outcome had already been decided in his favor. It unnerved Xavier. This man—this stranger—was too willing. Too casual. Too smooth.

But Xavier didn’t have time to figure it all out. His priority was clear: getting back to Linkon, getting the SIM card processed, and making sure the truth came to light of what happened to you. Without transportation, he could be walking for days, and every minute he spent out here increased the risk that he'd never find you.

The keys felt heavier now, the weight of the decision pressing on him. He didn’t trust this man, not by a long shot. But the idea of having control of the car, of being the one behind the wheel… it was tempting. Too tempting. If he was driving, there's no way this could be a trap right?

It would be fine. Yes. Anything for you. Even if it meant putting himself in danger.

With one last glance at the man, who was patiently waiting in the passenger seat, Xavier’s grip on the keys tightened. He didn’t say a word as he took a tentative step toward the driver’s side. Every instinct told him to keep walking, to leave this stranger behind and take his chances on foot. But exhaustion and desperation were powerful motivators, and right now, he needed to get back to Linkon more than he needed to figure out why this man was offering help.

Xavier climbed into the driver’s seat, the worn leather creaking beneath him as he adjusted to the unfamiliar space. His hand hovered over the ignition, eyes still darting toward Sylus, who sat quietly beside him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Take us wherever you need to go,” Sylus said softly, his voice like velvet, as though the game had already begun. “I’m just along for the ride.”

The tension between them was palpable, thick in the confined space of the car. Xavier could feel it in the air, in the way Sylus’s gaze lingered on him, calm but unrelenting. He knew this wasn’t right—none of it was. But he was too far in to back out now.

With a sharp turn of the key, the engine roared to life, and Xavier gripped the steering wheel, feeling the weight of every decision he had made in the last few minutes. The road ahead seemed endless, and as the car pulled away from the desolate stretch of highway, he couldn’t help but glance sideways at the man again.

This...this could end badly.

The two men sat in crushing silence as Xavier navigated the unfamiliar roads, the hum of the engine the only sound between them. Each mile passed with a suffocating weight, the tension in the car palpable, like a storm ready to break. Xavier kept his eyes locked on the road ahead, hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary, his knuckles pale under the strain. He hadn’t wanted this stranger to know where he lived, so he punched City Hall into the GPS instead. From there, he could make his way around Linkon without anyone trailing him. He needed to get the SIM card processed, and fast, before time ran out.

Every few minutes, he fiddled with the GPS, his body coiled with a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. He could feel the man's eyes on him, his name still unknown, even despite the sunglasses. He hadn’t said much since they set off, but his presence in the passenger seat was unnerving. His calm was unnatural, unsettling. He didn’t fidget, didn’t speak, didn’t even glance around the car. He just sat there, arms crossed, studying Xavier with a level of intensity that felt out of place for someone offering a simple ride.

Xavier tried to sneak glances at the man beside him, but every time he did, he found the mans gaze already on him, sharp and unblinking, as though he had anticipated Xavier’s every move. The man’s lips twitched with something like amusement, though he didn’t say a word.

What’s his deal? Xavier thought, forcing his eyes back to the road. The whole situation felt wrong. He had expected tension in the N109 Zone, but not this. This was different. The man beside him wasn’t just casually observing him—he was waiting for something. Every second that passed felt heavier than the last, like time itself was stretching, tightening the knot of anxiety building in Xavier’s chest.

Still, Xavier didn’t let any of it show. He had learned long ago how to hide his fear, how to stay calm when every nerve in his body screamed at him to run. He’d dealt with dangerous people before, people who could smell weakness like blood in the water. He wasn’t about to let this guy see that. But the silence between them was unbearable, thick with the weight of unspoken things.

Finally, Xavier broke it, his voice low and careful. “I didn’t get your name…” He asked, eyes darting between the GPS and the road, trying to sound casual, though he was anything but.

The man took a moment to respond, as though he were weighing the question, wondering if he should even answer it. His eyes flickered with a hint of something—amusement, perhaps. Or something darker.

“Skye,” he said eventually, his voice smooth, detached. He crossed his arms, leaning back in the passenger seat, as though the conversation were nothing more than a formality. “And you are…?”

Xavier’s heart kicked up a notch, but he kept his expression neutral. No way was he giving this guy his real name. “Anthony,” he lied easily, the false name slipping out without hesitation. His voice didn’t waver, his hands stayed steady on the wheel. But he could feel Skye watching him, a slight smirk pulling at his lips.

He knows I’m lying, Xavier thought, his gut twisting with unease. But Skye didn’t press. He didn’t even seem surprised. He just watched Xavier with that unnerving calm, as if the lie were nothing more than an expected move in a game they were both playing.

“Anthony,” Skye repeated softly, his tone almost mocking, though he didn’t push the issue. Instead, he let the silence fall between them again, a silence that felt even heavier now. He seemed content to let Xavier stew in it, the tension building with every second that passed.

Xavier’s eyes flicked back to the road, his mind racing. Something about this guy was all wrong. The way he moved, the way he spoke—it was all too calculated, too smooth. People didn’t act this calm in the N109 Zone, not unless they knew something everyone else didn’t. And Skye definitely knew something. The question was, what? And how much?

Xavier kept his gaze focused ahead, trying to ignore the weight of Skye’s eyes still on him. The man hadn’t looked away once. He could feel it, the silent scrutiny, the way Skye seemed to be measuring him. Assessing him.

“Where are you headed?” Skye asked casually, his voice cutting through the silence once more, though there was nothing casual about the way he said it.

Xavier didn’t miss a beat. “City Hall,” he answered, a little too quickly. He glanced at the GPS, as if confirming the destination would make the lie feel more real. He wasn’t taking this man to his home—no way. Not with the way things were already playing out.

Skye raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “City Hall,” he repeated, his tone light but laced with something that made Xavier’s skin crawl. “Not a bad place to end up, but pretty unusual for a first destination."

Xavier’s pulse kicked up, but he kept his face neutral, refusing to look over at Skye. Something in the man’s tone made his stomach tighten, like a hook had just been baited and dropped in front of him, waiting for him to take it.

Unusual? Why the hell would that be unusual? The thought ran through his mind, but he forced himself to stay calm. His plan had been simple—get to City Hall, lose this guy, and handle his business. But now, it felt like every move was being scrutinized, every choice questioned.

“City Hall's the easiest place to get a read on things in the city,” Xavier replied, his voice steady, though the defensiveness crept in at the edges. “I need to handle some things, and it’s central. Easier to move around from there.”

He could feel Skye’s eyes still on him, could almost hear the smirk in his voice when the man chuckled softly. It was the kind of laugh that got under your skin, not because it was loud, but because it carried a quiet, unsettling amusement.

“Smart,” Skye said slowly, nodding as if Xavier’s explanation made perfect sense. But something in his tone felt off, like he didn’t fully buy it. “But still… after some time in the N109 Zone, you’d think you’d want to rest somewhere less… official. Get off the radar. A nice bed, maybe.”

Xavier tightened his grip on the steering wheel, feeling the weight of Skye’s persistent questioning pressing down on him. Each word from Skye was like a carefully placed needle, poking at his decisions, making him second-guess everything. He hadn’t expected the guy to be so relentless, and the pressure was building with every exchange.

“I’ve got some stuff to take care of,” Xavier said, trying to keep his voice steady, casual, but the tension in his body betrayed him. “Time’s running out to save her, so I can’t waste a single second.”

The moment the words left his mouth, doubt flickered in his mind. Was that too much? Too rushed? The urgency in his voice—had it come across as desperate? Or worse, suspicious? His heart hammered in his chest as he mentally replayed what he had said, wondering if he had tipped his hand. Or had he been too vague? The ambiguity of his answer might have made Skye even more curious, pushing him to dig deeper, ask more questions.

Xavier kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look over at Skye, but he could feel the man watching him, studying him. The silence that followed his response was unnerving, stretching long enough for Xavier to feel like he’d made a mistake. He fought the urge to glance over, to see if Skye’s expression had changed, but his instincts screamed at him to stay composed. Any sign of weakness now, and Skye would pounce on it.

Too much, Xavier thought, cursing himself internally. I shouldn’t have let the urgency show.

Skye’s sudden shift in demeanor caught Xavier off guard. The icy coldness that had made the air feel suffocating was replaced with something else—something that felt even more dangerous. Concern. Pity. It dripped from Skye’s voice like honey, smooth and deliberate, but just artificial enough to send a ripple of unease through Xavier’s chest.

“Oh?” Skye said, his voice almost soft, a note of worry creeping in. “Seems serious.”

Xavier’s breath hitched slightly, his guard wavering for just a moment. He wasn’t prepared for this shift. The relentless scrutiny, the probing questions—he could handle that to a point. But this? This sudden turn toward sympathy, as fake as it felt, was a punch to the gut.

“It is,” Xavier muttered, his voice betraying the strain he was under. The words felt heavier than he intended, a sign of the cracks forming in his defenses.

Skye shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as if he sensed something in Xavier’s voice. “You know,” he began, his tone deceptively gentle, “I understand what it’s like. When you want something so bad. And its almost in reach, yet so far. You feel like you've failed already."

The words struck hard, like a knife twisting in Xavier’s gut. For a brief moment, his mind went blank, the weight of Skye’s words sinking into him. The man’s voice, though still edged with that unsettling calm, carried a truth Xavier couldn’t deny.

Skye had unknowingly—or perhaps very knowingly—touched a raw nerve.

Xavier’s fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. He tried to block it out, tried to keep his walls up, but he couldn’t stop the flood of emotion that came crashing through. His breaths quickened slightly, the tension in his body shifting from vigilance to something more raw, more vulnerable.

Skye was quiet, but Xavier could feel him waiting, giving him just enough space to fill the silence. His mind screamed at him to stay quiet, to shut it all down, but the pressure building inside him was too much to contain.

“I…” Xavier’s voice cracked, his throat dry. His hands trembled slightly as the words formed on his tongue. “I have someone waiting for me. She’s in danger. And I feel like I’m failing her with each passing second.”

The admission came out before he could stop it, the weight of his guilt and fear spilling into the space between them. He’d been holding it in for so long, running from one obstacle to the next, always trying to keep moving, to keep fighting. But now, in this moment, it all felt too heavy to carry alone. The pressure of failing you—of not getting back in time—had gnawed at him relentlessly, and now, it was too much to keep inside.

For a moment, the silence was deafening, his vulnerability hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

Xavier’s chest tightened, panic seeping in as the reality of what he’d just said hit him. He’d let his guard down—completely. He’d shown Skye more than he ever intended, more than anyone should know. He could feel the walls he’d carefully built crumbling around him.

And Skye was still watching, listening, absorbing every word.

He shifted slightly, his voice lowering, becoming softer, almost understanding. “You know,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve seen it before… that look in your eyes. Like you’re carrying something too heavy for one person. Trying to fix it all yourself. You can push as hard as you want, but…” He paused, letting the silence settle for just a beat before he continued, “the weight of failure starts to crush you, doesn’t it?”

Skye glanced out the window, his tone still calm, still smooth. “And the worst part? It’s when you realize that maybe, no matter how much you fight, you won’t get there in time. That you might be too late to save the people who need you.”

Xavier’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected much from this man—this stranger who seemed so out of place on these roads—but this? He had expected more questions, more veiled curiosity, maybe even some vague attempt at comfort. But what Skye had just said—those words, that insinuation—hit him like a punch to the gut.

The casual mention of failure. The suggestion that he was already too late. Was this guy trying to be an asshole?

Xavier’s chest tightened, his pulse quickening as the words churned in his mind, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. “No,” Xavier said, his voice shaking slightly, the denial rising like a defense against the weight of Skye’s statement. “That’s not true. It’s not too late. I can still find her. I just—” He cut himself off, his voice thick with desperation.

But before he could even finish the thought, Skye’s demeanor changed in an instant. The false pity drained from his face, replaced by something far colder, sharper. His voice dropped, his tone void of the faint warmth that had laced it earlier.

“People like you should know when to quit.” The words were flat, cutting like ice. Skye lowered his sunglasses, his eyes gleamed with a new cruelty, his expression as still as stone. “It’s a shame you even tried in the first place.”

Xavier, caught slightly off guard by the crimson color of the eyes now boring into him, opened his mouth to argue, the frustration boiling over. How dare this guy—

But then something hit him, something beyond words. A creeping cold, seeping into his skin. At first, it felt like a mist settling over him, faint and barely noticeable, but it spread quickly, a numbing chill that slithered through his body, wrapping around his limbs like an invisible fog. His chest tightened as panic started to rise.

The cold red mist crept up his neck, stretching outward, reaching his arms, his fingers. And then—nothing. No feeling. His hands. He couldn’t feel his hands.

Xavier’s heart raced, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts as he looked down at the steering wheel. His hands were still there, gripping the wheel tightly, but the sensation was gone. His fingers felt as though they no longer existed, and worse, he couldn’t move them. He tried to force his body to respond, to shake off the creeping cold, but it was as if his muscles had turned to stone.

The steering wheel suddenly turned under his grip, and the car began to drift. Panic surged through him. He tried to shout, tried to move, but his body refused to obey. The cold mist had taken control, and now it stretched through every inch of him, locking him in place, paralyzing him completely.

This wasn't him moving it.

What the hell is happening?!

He wanted to scream, to fight, but his limbs remained useless, his mind screaming in terror as the car veered off its course. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe properly, and then it hit him—this was him. Skye. Skye was doing this.

Skye hadn’t moved from the passenger seat, but the aura around him had darkened, the shift in his demeanor unmistakable. The cold that gripped Xavier’s body—this mist—was him. And this wasn’t some accident. This was planned.

Skye had been waiting for this moment.

Xavier’s mind raced as the reality sank in, dread curling in his gut like a beast ready to devour him whole. He could see it in the cold gleam of Skye’s eyes now, the man having removed his sunglasses completely. The man had never intended for this to end peacefully.

He tried one last time to move, to will his body to do anything, but the cold mist had stolen everything from him.

Skye leaned in slightly, his presence looming over Xavier like a shadow, cold and unrelenting. His tone dropped, devoid of any warmth or pretense. “Don't bother fighting. I’ve already decided how this ends.”

The car was fully off the road now, speeding, barreling toward a tall tree. Xavier’s mind screamed, the terror paralyzing his thoughts. He was about to be made into a casualty, another statistic—a crash that would look like an accident, neat and tidy. He couldn't even shut his eyes to brace for the inevitable impact.

Closer. And closer. And-

Xavier's phone ringing cut through the chaos, snapping both men's attention.

The sudden, shrill sound sliced through the thick tension in the car, jarring Xavier out of his rising panic. The ringtone echoed in the confined space, pulling his attention away from the tree, from the creeping red mist that had taken over his body. The sound was so out of place, so normal amidst the terror, that for a moment, it didn’t seem real.

It must've caught signal again.

Skye’s eyes flicked toward the phone, his expression unreadable, but Xavier saw the faintest twitch of something—something like interest or annoyance—cross his face. The car suddenly veered back on course as if it was not just about to plunge into a tree, dooming its driver.

The phone continued to ring, vibrating against the dash, relentless.

For a brief second, the pressure on Xavier’s hands loosened, the grip Sylus had on him flickering, just enough for Xavier to feel the tiniest bit of control return. It wasn’t much—he still couldn’t move fully—but it was enough to know that the phone had interrupted something, that it had momentarily disrupted Skye’s hold.

Skye’s gaze darkened, his calm demeanor slipping ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing at the sudden disruption. The mist that had coiled around Xavier’s body seemed to pause, just for a moment, as if Sylus was reconsidering. Calculating something.

The phone kept ringing.

Xavier’s heart pounded, a mix of hope and fear swirling inside him. He looked down at the contact name.

Captain Jenna

His phone had stopped the inevitable, if only for a moment. His eyes darted toward the screen, the bright contact photo lighting up the car. This was his lifeline, the only thing keeping Sylus from finishing what he had started.

Skye’s lips curved into a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Duty never stops for Linkon's best hunters hm?”

His voice was low, almost mocking, but there was something behind it, a flicker of curiosity, as though the phone call had shifted something in his mind. Sylus’s hold on Xavier wasn’t entirely broken, but the red mist began to recede ever so slightly, its grip loosening as Sylus seemed to consider his next move.

For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped, hanging on the precipice of whatever decision Skye was about to make. The phone rang again, insistent, demanding attention.

Skye leaned back slightly, his cold demeanor returning, but with a spark of something else. “Maybe,” he grinned, almost to himself, “I should let the other person on the line hear your screams before your imminent death?"

The mist, which had been suffocating Xavier moments before, suddenly retracted, slithering away like a serpent disappearing into the shadows. The sensation returned to his limbs, though weak and shaky. His hands were his own again, but Xavier couldn’t bring himself to move.

Skye eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched Xavier’s shock and confusion, the boy still frozen in the driver’s seat. “Answer it,” Skye said softly, a quiet command, but with an underlying threat. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

Xavier’s hand trembled as he reached for the phone, still feeling the lingering numbness from the mist that had wrapped around him moments before. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to answer, trying to regain control, trying to steady his breathing. His mind raced as he glanced nervously at Skye, whose amused smirk remained firmly in place.

“Hello?” Xavier managed to get out, his voice shaky but improving.

“Xavier?” Captain Jenna’s voice crackled through the speaker, filled with a mix of relief and frustration. “Where exactly have you been? No one’s been able to contact you! You can’t just go off and disappear like that for days and days on end!”

Xavier winced at the urgency in her tone. She had always been direct, never wasting time sugarcoating things. He could hear the worry layered underneath her sternness, and for a moment, a wave of guilt hit him. He had been so focused on his mission, on everything happening in the N109 Zone, that he hadn’t even thought about how it might look to his colleagues.

“I…I’m sorry,” Xavier said, shooting a quick glance at Skye, who raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Something came up that I had to take care of. I didn’t mean to disappear.” His eyes darted back to the road, the weight of Skye’s gaze still heavy on him. He kept his tone measured, trying to sound calm. “I’m on my way back now.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a deep sigh from Captain Jenna. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re safe. We need you for an operation in—”

Xavier’s heart raced. He couldn’t let Skye overhear anything about the association, about their secrets or what was going on back at headquarters. Whatever this man—this monster—was after, it wasn’t something he could afford to share.

Before Captain Jenna could continue, Xavier cut her off, his voice a bit too sharp in his haste. “You can explain everything when I get there,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual but failing to mask the underlying urgency. “I’m almost there.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, and for a moment, Xavier worried he might have raised her suspicion, but Captain Jenna eventually replied, her voice softer. “Alright. Just get back safe. We’ll talk soon. We also need to talk about your...partner”

Xavier gulped at the mention of you, but simply exhaled slowly as the call ended, his hand lowering the phone from his ear, feeling the intensity of the moment crashing down around him. He didn’t dare look at Skye just yet, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to figure out what his next move would be.

When he finally glanced over, Skye was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, his expression calm but with an unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Well,” Skye said, the smirk deepening, “it seems like you’ve been keeping busy.”

Xavier felt the weight of the man’s words, the way they lingered in the air like a challenge. Skye knew more than he was letting on, but he wasn’t pressing—for now. It was as if he were waiting, watching, enjoying the little puzzle Xavier presented.

But Xavier wasn’t about to give him any more pieces. He’d already said too much. This guy wanted something from him, something to do with the Hunter's Association. Why else would he target Xavier?

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Xavier began, forcing his voice to sound steadier than he felt, “but I can promise you I don't have it. If you're after the associations secrets, killing me wont get you any closer".

He forced himself to meet Skye’s gaze, trying to hold onto whatever composure he could muster. But the way Skye looked at him, with those unreadable eyes, made it impossible to know whether his words were even having an effect. His tone had been sharp, maybe too sharp, but he couldn’t afford to show weakness now. Not with someone like him.

For a moment, the air in the car grew even heavier. Skye’s expression barely shifted, but Xavier caught the brief flicker in his eyes—was it intrigue? Curiosity? Or was there something darker lurking just beneath the surface? Xavier couldn’t tell. It was like staring into the depths of an ocean (a very red one at that), unsure of what might lie beneath the calm.

Skye didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained steady, almost too calm, as if he were savoring the tension, letting it stretch between them like a taut string ready to snap. Xavier’s stomach twisted, his mind racing with possibilities—was Skye sizing him up, or just toying with him? It was impossible to know.

After what felt like an eternity, Skye tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Who said I wanted the association’s secrets?”

The words sent a chill through Xavier. The way Skye said it—so casually, as if the association wasn’t even part of the equation—left Xavier feeling more vulnerable than before. Skye had just dismissed his entire assumption without a second thought. If he wasn’t after the association’s secrets, then what was he really after?

Xavier’s pulse quickened, his mind scrambling to keep up. If Skye wasn’t interested in the association, what could he possibly want from him? And worse—why was he keeping him alive?

Skye leaned back in the passenger seat, his amusement clear now. “You think too small, Xavier,” he said, his voice smooth and unhurried, as though they were simply having a conversation. “I don’t need to kill you for information. That’s too… crude.”

Xavier’s heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm wild and erratic, but he kept his face neutral, refusing to let the panic show. His mind raced, trying to grasp what had just happened. Skye had called him by his real name. And Xavier was sure—positive—he had introduced himself as Anthony. But Skye hadn’t hesitated. He knew.

“How do you know my name?” Xavier asked, keeping his voice steady, though inside, the tension coiled tighter. His thoughts were a blur, his instincts screaming at him that something was very, very wrong.

Skye tilted his head slightly, a small smirk playing on his lips, as if Xavier had just said something amusing. “What do you mean?” Skye replied, his tone light, almost playful. He leaned back, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “Didn’t your captain just call you Xavier?”

Xavier blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. His mind scrambled, piecing together the conversation, and then it hit him. Of course. The phone call. His captain had said his name during the call. Skye had been listening the entire time. Idiot. He mentally slapped himself, feeling foolish for even asking the question.

He sighed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He was losing control of the situation, and the casual way Skye was toying with him only made it worse. But Xavier couldn’t afford to get rattled now—not when his life was hanging by a thread.

“What do you want?” Xavier asked, his voice quieter now, more measured. He could feel the weight of Skye’s gaze on him, sharp and calculating. “What do you want in return for my life if not information on the Hunter's Association?”

Skye chuckled softly, the sound light but dripping with malice. He looked out the window for a brief moment, as if pondering the question, then slowly turned back to Xavier, his smile deepening. “I don’t usually make deals where I don’t get more of a benefit.”

Xavier swallowed hard, his heart racing faster, though he kept his face expressionless. He didn’t respond—he was waiting, watching Skye carefully. The man’s words were a game, just like everything else he’d said. Xavier knew there had to be more, some twist, some condition that hadn’t been revealed yet.

Skye leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “However…” He paused, as if savoring the moment, watching Xavier closely. “I've realized you're much more useful to me alive than dead. If you stay away from the N109 Zone—and everyone in it—you’ll live.”

Xavier’s breath caught in his throat, the weight of the ultimatum settling over him. Stay away from the Zone. That meant cutting ties with everything he’d worked to find, abandoning the hope of finding you, abandoning you. Could he even afford to do that? Would agreeing with this deal mean he'd never get the chance to see you again?

Also how was he useful to Skye?

"And if not..."

Skye’s smirk widened, sensing the internal struggle playing out behind Xavier’s calm facade. He leaned in closer, invading Xavier’s personal space, his presence suffocating. Xavier instinctively tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go—the car’s cabin suddenly felt too small, too enclosed.

“Lets just say I don't really give second chances,” Sylus whispered, his voice low, dripping with menace.

Xavier swallowed hard, his body tensing, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact, even as the urge to run surged through him. Skye was too close, too calm, too dangerous. The warning wasn’t just a threat—it was a guarantee. Sylus had already proven what he was capable of, and Xavier knew that crossing him again would mean death, or worse.

The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating, as Skye leaned back again, his smile never fading, his eyes never leaving Xavier.

“So,” Skye said, his voice almost casual now, as if they were discussing something far less deadly. “What’s it going to be?”

Xavier’s heart pounded in his chest as Skye’s words echoed in his mind. Stay away from the N109 Zone—and everyone in it? The weight of the ultimatum pressed down on him, suffocating. He didn’t want to abandon the N109 Zone, and even more than that, he couldn’t abandon you. The thought of leaving you behind gnawed at him, the sharp pain of longing cutting through him like a blade.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining your face—how much he longed to see you again, to hold you, to feel your warmth. It had been too long since he’d last heard your voice, since he’d last felt any sense of peace. But now, this? This deal with a devil, this impossible choice?

Xavier wasn’t sure why Skye was so insistent on keeping him away from the N109 Zone. Maybe it had something to do with his work as a hunter—his job was to take down people like Skye, after all. But that didn’t matter. What mattered now was survival. Because if he didn’t agree, if he didn’t concede right here and now, Skye might just kill him on the spot.

And then who would save you?

The thought gripped him like a vice, twisting his insides. No. He couldn’t let that happen. If he died here, there would be no one left to protect you. No one left to pull you out of whatever darkness was festering over the N109 Zone. He had to live, for you.

Xavier took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing the words out, even as they weighed heavy on his soul. “Fine,” he said, his voice low, barely more than a whisper. “I agree. I’ll stay away from it.”

Skye’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, the faintest smile curling at the edges of his lips. He nodded, his demeanor cooling instantly, the menacing presence he’d exuded just moments ago receding into something more neutral. “Good,” Skye said, his voice soft but still holding that dangerous undertone. “I knew you’d see reason.”

The tension in the car seemed to shift, though the air was still thick with the unspoken threat that hung between them. Skye leaned back in his seat, his posture relaxed now, as if the deal had wiped away any lingering tension. Skye was certainly dangerous, but seemed to be a man of his word at least.

Xavier forced himself to nod, though the weight of the decision felt like it was crushing him. I’ll find a way, he told himself, his mind racing. Skye’s only one guy. He can’t keep me out of there forever, right? There had to be a way back in. A way to find you. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—abandon you.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the tension still hanging in the air but now subdued, like a coiled snake waiting for the right moment to strike. Xavier’s thoughts churned, his mind battling with itself as the distant lights of the city began to appear on the horizon. The rising sun painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Xavier saw the light breaking through the darkness.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun brush against his skin. How long has it been? Too long. He had missed the sun. He had missed the light, the feeling of something familiar, something safe. But most of all, he missed you.

But this wasn’t the end. Skye was only one man. He couldn’t keep Xavier away from the N109 Zone forever. Xavier would find a way back—he had to. He wouldn’t rest until he found you, until he knew you were safe. And once he did, Skye would regret ever making this deal.

As the city drew closer, the familiar skyline of Linkon coming into view, Xavier’s pulse quickened. The tall buildings glistened in the morning light, their architecture grand and imposing. But even with the comforting familiarity of home, his mind remained restless.

Finally, the car pulled to a stop in front of City Hall. The building stood tall and unyielding, its imposing columns and grand facade casting long shadows across the street. Without wasting a second, Xavier pushed the door open and stepped out hurriedly, the weight of his decision still heavy on his shoulders.

He stood for a moment, looking up at the structure, taking in its architecture. It felt strange, being back in the city after everything that had happened. But he wasn’t here for reflection. He was here for answers.

Xavier’s hand instinctively moved to the pocket on his chest, patting the place where the SIM card was safely tucked away. The key to everything. Whether Skye was after associations secrets didn't matter now, the information on that SIM card was everything Xavier needed right now. It could give him answers, maybe even lead him to you. It was his only chance to understand what had happened in Reese’s basement, and where you had possibly gone.

With a deep breath, he turned back toward the car—only to find that Skye had already sped off, leaving nothing but the faint smell of exhaust in the air. The man was gone, disappearing into the distance as if he’d never been there at all.

Xavier stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where the car had been, his mind still whirling with thoughts. This isn’t over, he told himself again. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Skye’s shadow would loom over him, no matter where he went.

But for now, he had work to do.

With one last glance at the distant city skyline, Xavier turned and made his way past city hall, heading straight for headquarters, the weight of the SIM card in his pocket a constant reminder of what was at stake.

And of what was still to come.

“Caw! Caw!”

Your eyes snapped open, the sound cutting through the suffocating darkness. For a moment, you couldn’t tell where you were—the inky blackness of the N109 Zone was so complete that it pressed in on you from all sides. There was no light here, not even the faintest glow filtering in through the windows. Just endless, crushing darkness.

You groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around your body as if it could shield you from the cold reality of your situation.

Not yet. You just wanted to get lost in your dreams for a little while longer.

Through the thick stillness of the room, you could hear the faint rustling of feathers, and even without seeing, you knew exactly what had disturbed your sleep.

“Go away, you stupid fucking bird…” you muttered into the blanket, your voice hoarse and tired. But the familiar flap of wings told you the crow wasn’t going anywhere.

There was a slight rustle at the head of the bed, and then you felt it—the sudden weight of the bird landing on the pillow next to you. Its presence was unmistakable, a cold, ominous shadow in the already oppressive darkness. You didn’t need to see the bird to feel its eyes on you, watching, waiting.

You sighed heavily, pulling the blanket away from your face just enough to squint into the darkness. Mephisto's shape was barely visible, a faint silhouette against the dim outline of the room. Even without light, you could sense the bird’s beady eyes, glowing with unnatural intelligence, watching your every move.

“Why are you always here?” you groaned, turning your head to the side but not making any real effort to shoo the bird away. It wasn’t the first time you’d woken to find the crow lurking in the shadows, unsettling and always too close for comfort.

The bird didn’t move, only cocked its head at you, its dark feathers rustling in the silence. A low, throaty caw escaped it, the sound strangely muffled by the thick blackness of the Zone. The air felt heavier here, like it was weighing down on you, draining what little energy you had left. Fatigue clung to you like a second skin, making it hard to even lift your head from the pillow.

“Go on, then…” you muttered, voice trailing off as exhaustion tugged at your body. You were too tired to fight, too tired to care. Whatever strange game the bird was playing, you didn’t have the strength to resist.

Mephisto's soft caw echoed in the suffocating stillness, the sound barely audible but enough to gnaw at your nerves. The scrape of his claws on the pillow sent an uncomfortable chill through you, his dark presence creeping closer, settling into the shadows like it belonged there. The oppressive darkness of the N109 Zone outside made it impossible to see him clearly, but you didn’t need to. You could feel him—watching, waiting, like he always was.

For a moment, the room was silent again. Then, without warning, Mephisto took flight, the sharp flutter of wings cutting through the air as he landed somewhere across the room. You didn’t bother to follow his movement, too tired to care. Not until his caw broke the silence once more. And again. And again.

The crow’s incessant cawing drilled into your already frayed nerves, each sound louder than the last. You groaned, pulling the blanket tighter over your head in a futile attempt to block him out. But the bird’s persistence didn’t stop. Caw. Caw. Caw.

“Are you serious?” you muttered into the pillow, your voice muffled. But Mephisto continued, relentless, as if mocking your exhaustion. The weight of the past few weeks pressed down on you—sleepless nights, endless fatigue, nausea creeping at the edges of your mind. The last thing you needed was this damn crow breaking what little peace you had.

Finally, you had enough. With a frustrated groan, you sat upright and turned the lamp on, ready to scream every obscenity you could think of at the annoying bird.

But before you could let the words fly, the sound of metal scraping against metal stopped you.

Your eyes darted to the door just as a small slit opened, and the tray was pushed through with a loud clank. On the tray sat a plate of buttered French toast, syrup drizzled generously on top, fried eggs glistening with oil, and three thick slices of bacon.

You blinked, staring at the meal as if it were the most absurd thing you’d ever seen.

Breakfast? All of that noise and irritation—for breakfast?

You glanced at Mephisto, who had now stopped cawing and perched himself smugly atop a shelf in the corner of the room. His beady eyes seemed to gleam in the darkness, and you could swear there was a mocking glint in them. As if he were proud of himself for his part in waking you.

“The hell, Mephisto?” you muttered, rubbing your temples in frustration. “You woke me up…for breakfast?”

The crow gave a final, low caw, as if satisfied with himself. You glared at him for a moment before your stomach growled, betraying your irritation. The rich smell of bacon and syrup filled the room, and despite your fatigue and frustration, your body responded.

“Unbelievable…” you sighed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “I guess I can’t be mad at you. But next time? A little less cawing, alright?”

Mephisto tilted his metal head, as if considering your request, then fluffed his feathers and settled into silence. For now.

You dragged the tray toward the couch, the familiar clank of metal chains following you with every step. The buttery smell of the French toast filled the room, a comforting contrast to the cold, oppressive dim darkness of the room. It was a simple pleasure, one you rarely allowed yourself to enjoy. Sitting down, you tucked your legs beneath you and began to eat, the warm toast melting on your tongue, the crisp bacon adding a much-needed crunch to the silence.

But as you chewed, your thoughts began to drift, slipping away from the meal in front of you. Unwillingly, they went back to him.

Sylus.

The room was empty now, and yes, you had often eaten breakfast alone—but more times than not, Sylus had been there. His presence had always loomed, a constant shadow in your confined world. Sometimes he was silent, simply watching you with those cold, unreadable eyes. Other times, he would speak, absently chatting about his ventures outside the N109 Zone, about deals made or enemies eliminated. You had never cared much for the details—most of it sounded like distant noise, some half-forgotten memory—but even then, it had been more entertaining than staring at these four black walls.

A scowl crept across your face as you took another bite. Why the hell are you thinking about that prick now?

You shook your head, frustrated. You were alone now. Sylus was gone, off somewhere dealing with whatever business had called him away, and you should be enjoying this time without him. You should be savoring the silence, the freedom from his looming presence. You should be grateful that he wasn’t here, filling the space with his mind games, his cold, possessive gaze always tracking your every movement.

Fuck him.

You stabbed at a piece of bacon, chewing aggressively as if it could help rid him from your thoughts. He was a manipulative bastard. And yet… despite your best efforts, his presence lingered in your mind, as persistent as ever.

Your gaze drifted to the empty space where he would normally sit, his absence both a relief and an unsettling reminder. You had despised him, hated every moment he had been there, the way he made you feel like a pawn in whatever twisted game he was playing. But now that he was gone, the space felt… strange.

Stop it. You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not now. Not when he was out of your life—if only for a while.

But even as you tried to push him from your mind, one of his last words echoed in your head, an unshakable whisper: “This may be the last time we talk, kitten.”

The way he had said it, that cold finality in his voice, had stuck with you, nagging at the back of your mind ever since. He had called you that damn pet name after days of ignoring you, his voice dripping with condescension, as if he were giving you a final warning. Or a promise.

You hated it. You hated how those words seemed to hang over you, even now, as if he had left part of himself behind in this room, even after he was gone.

“Kitten.”

You shook your head again, harder this time, trying to shove the memory aside. No, you told yourself. You wouldn’t let him get to you, not like this. He was gone. For now, you were alone. Enjoy it while it lasts, you thought bitterly, taking another bite of French toast, the syrup coating your tongue in sweetness.

But no matter how hard you tried, that final word—kitten—kept echoing in the back of your mind, a lingering reminder that Sylus might be gone for now, but he was far from finished with you.

You forced yourself to focus on the meal in front of you, determined to push any lingering thoughts of Sylus away. You chewed quickly, finishing the French toast, the syrup leaving a sticky sweetness on your lips. The bacon and eggs soon followed, and though the food was far from satisfying, it was enough to momentarily distract you. You let the warmth of the food settle in your stomach, willing the heaviness in your chest to dissipate with it.

"No drink to wash this down?" you muttered, annoyed that the chefs had seemingly forgotten yet again.

With the last bite taken, you placed the empty plate back on the tray and rose from the couch, the clink of metal cuffs reminding you of your ever-present situation. The chains dragged behind you as you moved toward the bathroom, passing Mephisto, who had settled back onto his perch in the corner. His black feathers were fluffed up, his head tucked beneath a wing, and for once, the bird seemed content to leave you in peace.

You shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. At least now, with breakfast behind you, you could take a moment for yourself.

The bright lights of the bathroom strained your eyes as you flicked them on. The chill of the tile beneath your feet made you shiver as you moved toward the shower, feeling the exhaustion settle deeper into your bones. The mirror reflected your tired eyes, the dark circles beneath them, the weight of sleepless nights etched into your face. You needed this—the chance to feel clean, to wash away the grime of the past few days. Maybe then you could feel a little more like yourself.

With a sigh, you began to undress, your fingers reaching for the clasps at the sides of your underwear. You couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of gratitude as you unclasped the sides with ease. Sylus had, at the very least, provided you with something that made life a little more bearable. You didn’t have to go bare for two weeks, which had been your fear the moment you realized the cuffs restricted you from putting on anything that required more movement.

At least he wasn’t completely cruel, you thought, though you hated giving him even that much credit.

The underwear unclasped easily, falling to the floor as you stepped into the shower. The hot water hit your skin like a wave of relief, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe, closing your eyes and letting the steam rise around you. The weight of the cuffs dragged slightly at your wrists, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the heat that loosened the tension in your muscles, if only temporarily.

As the water washed over you, you forced your mind to stay present, to focus on the warmth, the small comfort of being alone in this space. You scrubbed your skin, letting the soap and water cleanse the sweat, the fear, the exhaustion that had clung to you like a second skin.

You weren’t thinking about him. Not now.

The shower passed without incident, the warm water a brief respite in an otherwise unchanging routine. You let it wash over you, not bothering to rush. There was no need to hurry—nothing would be different when you stepped outside the bathroom. The four black walls of your confined world would still be waiting, the ever-present weight of captivity pressing down on you.

You dressed slowly, fingers lazily fastening the clasps on your new underwear and pulling on the rest of your clothes. It was a mundane task, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care much. What was the point? Nothing was going to change outside of this small space. Nothing ever did.

With a sigh, you stepped through the bathroom opening and stepped back into the main room. The dim light from the lamp did little to brighten the space, but something caught your eye near the door—a small bottle, sitting neatly on the floor.

You walked over, the clink of your chain echoing in the silence as you crouched down to pick it up. A small bottle of apple juice. You stared at it for a moment, turning it over in your hands. Ah. So the chefs finally remembered your drink.

You examined the label, noticing the word "organic" printed in bold letters across the front. A scoff escaped your lips as you raised an eyebrow. Organic? Really?

It wasn’t like you had asked for anything fancy. Just apple juice. Something simple, a small comfort in a world that was anything but. But the idea that the chefs had gone out of their way to make sure it was organic felt almost laughable. As if the quality of the juice would somehow make up for everything else. As if this one, carefully selected bottle could erase the chain around your ankle or the suffocating darkness that clung to every corner of the N109 Zone.

You shook your head with a faint smirk, unscrewing the cap. The liquid inside swirled lazily as you brought the bottle to your lips, the familiar taste of apples flooding your senses. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was probably the best thing you’d had in days.

Still, the absurdity of it lingered, and the small humor in the situation wasn’t lost on you. Organic apple juice, of all things, in a place like this. It almost made you laugh—almost.

You took another sip, walking back to the couch where your breakfast tray still sat, the weight of the cuffs dragging slightly as you moved. You sat down, staring at the empty plate, the apple juice bottle still in hand. For a moment, the silence stretched, and the thoughts you’d been pushing away started to creep back in.

But no. You wouldn’t let them take over. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, you focused on the small sweetness of the juice, the faint taste of apples grounding you in the present moment. A small comfort in an otherwise impossible world.

Time passed, though you weren’t sure how much. Minutes? Hours? The stagnant silence of the room made it impossible to tell. The dim light never changed, the walls never shifted. Everything felt stuck in place, leaving you floating in a haze of monotony, barely tethered to the reality outside your mind.

It wasn’t until you heard the familiar scrape of metal against metal that you realized lunch had been passed through the small opening in the door. You glanced toward the tray and sighed. Another meal, another reminder of how routine your captivity had become.

Grilled chicken sandwiches with a side salad, the tangy scent of vinegar dressing wafting up as you sat back down on the couch. For a drink, water. The sight of it barely registered. You gave the chef your dirty dish from earlier and took your new meal. You ate out of necessity, chewing mechanically as your thoughts drifted away from the plate in front of you.

Xavier.

His name filled your mind suddenly, unbidden, and a sharp pang of worry twisted in your chest. You tried to swallow it down with a bite of chicken, but it lingered, heavy and insistent.

Was he okay?

You hadn't allowed yourself to think about him much since you’d been taken here. The thought of him searching for you, desperately trying to figure out what had happened, was too much to bear. The last thing you wanted was to feel hope. Hope was dangerous, a slippery slope into despair. But now, as you sat alone in this suffocating room, your thoughts strayed to him without your permission.

Had he given up searching for you?

You forced yourself to take another bite, trying to ground yourself in the present. But the idea gnawed at you. Xavier was relentless. He wouldn’t stop—not unless… No. You shook your head. You knew him better than that. If there was even the slightest chance that you were alive, Xavier would be searching, tearing apart the world to find you. He wasn’t the type to give up. He couldn’t give up.

But still, even as you tried to cling to that thought, the darker possibility crept in. Slowly, insidiously, like a poison sinking into your veins.

What if… he couldn’t find you because Sylus wouldn’t let him?

A chill ran through you, cold and unsettling. Even if, by some miracle, Xavier had tracked your location, there was no way he’d get anywhere near this place without Sylus knowing. Sylus had eyes everywhere. He controlled everything in the N109 Zone. No one could move in or out without his permission. If Xavier had found you, Sylus would have stopped him.

Or worse.

Your stomach churned, the food on your plate suddenly unappetizing. A horrifying thought started to crawl its way into your mind, gripping you tightly. You tried to push it away, but it clawed its way to the surface.

Had Sylus… killed him?

You swallowed hard, the tang of vinegar burning your throat as you forced the food down. The thought stuck in your chest like a stone. Was that why you hadn’t felt any hope? Why everything had felt so bleak, so final? Because somewhere, out there, Xavier was—no. You couldn’t let yourself believe that. Not now. Not when the possibility of his death could unravel you completely.

But still, the idea sat there, festering, filling the silence with dread. Sylus wouldn’t have hesitated if he saw Xavier as a threat. The cold, calculated way he moved, the ease with which he eliminated obstacles in his path—it was entirely possible that Xavier had become just another casualty in Sylus’s game.

You set down the sandwich, your appetite gone. Your mind raced, heart hammering against your ribs as you sat there, staring at the black walls that had closed in around you for what felt like an eternity. If Xavier was dead, then what? What did that leave you with? Nothing but these four walls and Sylus’s twisted version of captivity.

No.

You couldn’t think like that. Not now. You couldn’t give up. Not yet.

Xavier had to be alive. He had to be out there, still fighting, still searching. He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t abandon you. You refused to believe anything else.

But no matter how hard you tried to push it away, the seed of doubt had already been planted. And it wasn’t going anywhere. You clutched your stomach as a surge of pain cramped in your lower abdomen. But just as quickly as it came, it was gone. Chalking it up to the food, you decide to lay down.

The fifth day. At least, you thought it might be. Time had blurred into a strange, formless thing, slipping through your fingers without any markers to distinguish one day from the next. You had no way of knowing how long it had been since Sylus left, or even what day it was. You were just staring at the ceiling now, your mind slowly unraveling from the sheer weight of boredom.

The darkness of the N109 Zone outside was relentless, pressing in from all sides, and the oppressive silence only seemed to make it worse. You had run out of things to think about, your mind turning over the same memories, the same thoughts—where was Xavier? Was Sylus really gone?—until they became noise. Background static.

You turned your head, your eyes landing on Mephisto, perched nearby. He was preening his feathers, utterly unconcerned with your slow descent into madness.

“Hey…” you muttered, breaking the silence. The bird paused, one red eye shifting toward you.

“You should’ve told your owner to leave me a clock,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your voice. “A calendar... books. Something. I’m going crazy here.”

Mephisto stilled, cocking his head slightly as if he were processing what you said. He blinked, staring at you with his unnervingly intelligent eyes. For a brief, absurd moment, you wondered if he understood you. You let out a soft, bitter laugh, turning your head away from him.

“Yeah, I figured.”

The silence settled in again, the darkness heavier now. Your body felt sluggish, your mind clouded with exhaustion. Sleep had become your only escape from the monotony, so you let it take you. You felt odd. Like something was wrong in your gut. Despite this, your eyelids fluttered shut, and soon you were drifting into a restless slumber, the weight of the world outside slipping away.

When you woke, the room was still dark—unchanged, like always. But something was different. Your eyes drifted to the door, and you blinked in surprise. A small bundle of items lay just inside the door. Food, probably. You were used to meals being passed through the metal slit in the door, arriving without ceremony.

But this wasn’t food.

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you stared at the items. Your pulse quickened, curiosity gnawing at you. You shuffled across the room, the clink of your chain barely registering as you crouched down in front of the bundle.

A calendar. And an old, slightly battered record. On the record a note reads:

Listen to this if you're bored. Should help.

-Sylus

You stared at the items in disbelief, your fingers hovering over the calendar as if touching it might cause it to disappear. A calendar? It was such a simple thing, but it felt monumental in this place, where time had become meaningless.

Mephisto let out a soft caw from his perch, but you ignored him, your thoughts spinning. You reached for the calendar, flipping it open to find a bookmarked page and a date circled in bright red ink.

February.

It was February now. The realization hit you like a wave, and you froze, staring at the circled date. How long had it been since you’d arrived here? Days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell. Time had slipped away from you, leaving nothing but this void of endless darkness. And now, suddenly, a date was staring you in the face, mocking your inability to track time.

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest. Sylus probably had the chef leave these things for you. A reminder. A subtle way to toy with you maybe? Reminding you that no matter what you did, he was always watching? Or was it really a nice gesture?

You glanced at Mephisto, who was once again preening his feathers, seemingly oblivious to your shock. The absurd thought crossed your mind—could this bird telepathically communicate with Sylus?

No. You shook your head, trying to push away the ridiculousness of it. There was probably a live feed in his eyes. Sylus had eyes everywhere. This was just his way of reinforcing the fact that you were never alone, no matter how much you wanted to be.

But even with that realization, a small, giddy excitement bubbled up inside you. A calendar. An actual date. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something real. Something you could hold onto, in a place where everything felt so distant, so out of reach.

You rushed to open the calendar fully, your fingers flipping through the pages, tracing the days you had lost. How long had you been here? You couldn’t tell anymore. The days blurred together, the passage of time meaningless in this dark, suffocating world.

February. You had been here for longer than you thought. But how much longer? Weeks? The time was slipping away from you, and even now, with the calendar in your hands, you weren’t sure what it meant.

Still, you clung to it, flipping through the pages again and again, as if the answers you sought were hidden somewhere in the numbers. You sighed, settling back against the couch, holding the calendar in your lap. The small victory of having something, anything, to mark the days felt like a lifeline.

You glanced at the record. Another piece of the puzzle. Was it just an old record, or was it something more? Maybe a way for Sylus to toy with you, another way to keep you under his thumb.

For now, it didn’t matter. You had a calendar, a way to tell time. February. It was something to hold onto.

But the unsettling thought still lingered in the back of your mind—how long had it really been?

Your gaze shifted to the record player in the corner of the room, one that had been there since you arrived but had remained untouched. Shelves lined the walls, filled with records you had never bothered to look at. They felt like relics of another time, useless in the darkness of your current world. Besides, you had never known how to use one, and even if you did, the thought of music felt distant, disconnected from the stark reality of your life here.

But now, with the record in your hand, the idea of playing it stirred something in you. The room was suffocatingly quiet—always had been. Maybe music, any music, could break the monotony, even if only for a little while.

It couldn’t be that hard to figure out.

You stood slowly, the weight of the chain dragging slightly as you crossed the room toward the record player. The shelves of records loomed next to it, untouched and collecting dust, but your focus was solely on the player now. You stared at it for a moment, feeling a small flicker of uncertainty. You’d seen record players in movies, but you’d never used one. Still, how complicated could it be?

Placing the record down carefully on the turntable, you fumbled with the needle, your fingers shaky as you tried to set it up the way you remembered from vague recollections of old movies. The needle slipped a few times, scratching lightly over the surface of the record, and you winced.

“Come on…” you muttered under your breath, frustration building as you fiddled with it, adjusting the speed and placement. For a brief moment, you considered giving up entirely. What was the point of this? It wasn’t like playing some music was going to change anything.

But just as you were about to pull the needle away, the record began to spin. You held your breath as the sound of soft crackling filled the room, and then—music.

A hauntingly beautiful tune drifted through the air, slow and melodic, the soft notes of an organ echoing in the stillness. The melody was deep, resonating with something inside you that had been silent for too long. The music wrapped around you, filling the empty space, pulling at emotions you had long since buried.

You stood there, frozen, as the music enveloped the room. It was strange, hearing something so beautiful in a place that had become nothing but a prison. The contrast made the music feel almost ghostly, like it didn’t belong here. Like it was an echo from another life, another time.

For a moment, you just listened. The sound washed over you, the haunting notes tugging at something deep inside. It was almost too much. The weight of the loneliness, the fear, the uncertainty—all of it seemed to rise to the surface with each note that played. You hadn’t realized how much you had been holding in, how much you had forced yourself to push down, until now.

The haunting tune was a reminder. A reminder of everything you had lost, everything that had been stolen from you. But it was also… comforting, in a strange way. It was the first thing in this place that had touched you—really touched you.

You closed your eyes, letting the music sink in, every note heavy with meaning, every chord reverberating through you. For a moment, it was as if the darkness of the N109 Zone didn’t matter. As if the four black walls that surrounded you had disappeared, leaving you in a space where only the music existed.

The tune swelled, filling every corner of the room, its melody bittersweet, carrying an unspoken sadness that felt far too familiar. It wrapped around you like a soft blanket, drawing you into its haunting embrace, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to feel. To let the music stir something inside you that you had locked away for too long.

As the song played on, you sat down on the edge of the couch, the record player spinning quietly in the corner. Your fingers absently traced the label of the calendar in your lap, your mind floating somewhere between the haunting melody and the strange sense of calm it brought.

It had now been two days since you first played the record, two days of trying to distract yourself from the endless monotony of your existence in the N109 Zone. You’d made it a habit now—when you woke up, you marked the calendar with a ballpoint pen you’d found in Sylus’s desk, scratching a line through the date as if it could somehow bring you closer to freedom. Or at least closer to understanding how long you had been trapped here.

Your circadian rhythm was the only other way to tell what time it was.

The haunting melody from the record still played in your mind sometimes, but you hadn’t touched it again. There was something about the music that unsettled you. Too emotional. Too revealing. So, for now, you kept your distance.

In an attempt to stave off the boredom clawing at your mind, you finally agreed to join Luke and Kieran for a game of Kitty Cards—something they had pestered you about for days. You figured it was better than staring at the walls, waiting for nothing to happen.

At first, the game was almost enjoyable. Luke’s awkward attempts at jokes and Kieran’s quiet intensity made for an interesting dynamic, and for a brief moment, you let yourself relax. It was a small respite, playing cards with these two in the dim light of the room, their presence a distraction from the oppressive weight of your thoughts.

But then, slowly, you started to feel it.

The familiar aches. A dull, persistent cramp settling in your lower half, tugging at your body like an unwelcome reminder. You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the discomfort, but the tiredness crept in next, sudden and heavy. The exhaustion weighed down on your eyelids, your muscles growing sluggish.

You sighed softly, knowing what was coming.

“Sorry, guys,” you said, trying to keep your voice light as you gathered the cards in front of you. “I think I’m done for now. Just… feeling off.”

Luke blinked, his mask tilting slightly as he looked at you. “You okay?”

Kieran’s eyes followed you as you rose from the table, his expression unreadable. You nodded quickly, not wanting to explain.

“Yeah, just tired. I’ll catch you both later.”

Without waiting for a response, you made your way back to the small bathroom. The cramping in your lower half was more noticeable now, pulsing with every step, but you welcomed it. At least it means something’s happening, you thought bitterly.

Once inside the bathroom, you heard the door close as the twins left, your body aching as you lowered yourself onto the toilet. You exhaled sharply, leaning forward slightly as the cramps continued to tug at your abdomen.

Then, as you glanced down at your underwear, you saw it—tiny specks of blood, dark against the fabric.

Relief washed over you, heavier than you expected. That time again? Already? You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, feeling the tension drain from your body. The blood meant your period had come. It meant everything was still functioning normally, despite the chaos of your life. And most importantly—it meant you weren’t tied to him.

You weren’t pregnant. You weren’t carrying his child.

Your stomach unclenched slightly at the thought, and you leaned back against the cool tile wall, closing your eyes. Sylus had tried to plant that seed in you, that much you knew. But your body had fought against it, and now, seeing the blood, you knew for sure—you weren’t tied to that monster in the way he had planned.

Relief mingled with anger. How dare he even try to bind you to him like that? As if forcing you to bear his child would somehow solidify the twisted power he had over you.

But now? Now you were free from that possibility. You pressed your hand against your lower abdomen, feeling the faint ache of cramps beneath your palm, and allowed yourself to feel grateful. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small victory in a place that gave you so little.

You dressed again slowly, wincing slightly as another cramp rolled through your body. You were exhausted—your body already begging for sleep—but you felt lighter. Freer, even. The blood meant you weren’t Sylus’s pawn, not in the way he had wanted.

And for now, that was enough.

Week one without Sylus had passed, but the moments that passed blurred together. You woke up feeling more drained than the last. No matter how many hours you spent in bed, you couldn’t shake the exhaustion that clung to you. It felt like a weight pressing down on your entire body, your limbs heavy and uncooperative, as though sleep was nothing more than a brief interruption in the long strain of fatigue.

You rubbed your eyes, the dull ache of sleepless nights pounding behind them. It’s just the insomnia, you told yourself, convincing yourself that the exhaustion was simply from the tossing and turning that plagued you every night. After all, how could anyone sleep well in this place?

But deep down, you knew this tiredness was different. It wasn’t the usual grogginess from a restless night—it was deeper, more persistent. No matter how long you tried to rest, you woke up feeling like you hadn’t slept at all.

With a groan, you forced yourself out of bed, each step slow and heavy as if your body had to drag itself from the sleep it never really got. You winced, pressing a hand to your stomach as you moved. The bloating was worse after every meal now. Every time you ate, your stomach would swell uncomfortably, tight and distended, like something inside was pushing against your skin. The discomfort was constant, and by the end of the day, you could barely stand it.

It’s the damn period, you thought, grimacing as you placed your hand over your abdomen. Has to be.

Periods always made you bloat. That wasn’t new. And with all the stress you’d been under lately, it made sense that things weren’t exactly running like clockwork. Still, the bloating felt different this time—more intense, more persistent, as though it was refusing to settle. Even after hours had passed, the discomfort clung to you, making you feel like your body was swelling from the inside out.

You shuffled to the bathroom, trying to focus on anything but the nagging fatigue and the bloating that made your movements stiff and awkward. A cramp twisted briefly in your abdomen, but it was dull, barely noticeable. You sighed, pulling down your underwear to change your pad, expecting to see the usual gushing blood.

But there was hardly any.

You blinked, staring at the emptiness on the pad. Yesterday, you had bled more—definitely. The first day had felt like a normal start to your period, but now, there was barely anything.

Huh?

You sat there for a moment, staring down at the pristine white of the pad. Your fingers traced the waistband of your underwear as confusion settled in. The cramping had mostly faded, too, just a slight ache now, nothing like the intensity of what you usually felt during your period.

Where is it?

You pressed a hand to your lower abdomen, the discomfort of bloating still lingering beneath your fingers. There should have been more blood. There should have been more something. But now, all that was left was a faint stain and a gnawing sense of unease.

It’s fine, you told yourself, standing up and trying to shake the feeling off. Periods can be irregular. It’s just stress.

That had to be it. The sleepless nights, the strain of living in the N109 Zone, the constant tension pulling at you—it was all catching up to you. Your body was just reacting to the emotional and physical stress. It made sense.

But still, the small voice of doubt in the back of your mind was growing louder. You’d always had unpredictable cycles, but this? This didn’t feel right. The bloating, the exhaustion, the lack of blood—it was all off. Yet, you forced yourself to ignore it. What else could it be?

You shook your head, forcing a laugh under your breath as you stared at the nearly empty pad. It’s fine. Just stress.

But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, the nagging discomfort remained. And as you changed your pad and moved to wash your hands, the question gnawed at you with every breath.

Where is it?

It didn't help that with every meal from that day forward you'd get a slight pang of sickness in your belly. Maybe the chefs weren't that great of cooks after all.

But as time passed, the nausea only become more unbearable. It was no longer just an inconvenience that popped up here and there—it was constant. It churned in your stomach from the moment you woke up, creeping up before you even thought about food, making the thought of eating feel like a battle. Each meal now brought a wave of queasiness that lingered long after you forced yourself to swallow a few bites. The food you once ate out of necessity now felt impossible to keep down.

It wasn’t just the nausea, either. The small comforts you’d relied on—like lying on your chest when you finally collapsed into bed—were gone, too. Your breasts had grown tender, so sensitive that even the thought of pressing them against the mattress made you wince. Rolling over had become a challenge, and any attempt to settle into your normal sleeping position left you frustrated and sore.

You sat on the edge of the bed, gingerly pulling on a loose shirt, hoping the fabric wouldn’t irritate your nipples any further. Every little thing seemed to be falling apart inside you. Between the nausea, the tenderness, and the bloating that hadn’t eased up, your body felt like it was turning against you.

It was the same with everything else, too. Even simple things—like playing another round of Kitty Cards with Luke and Kieran—had started to feel overwhelming. You had hoped the game might distract you from the constant discomfort, but it wasn’t working. Every time you sat down to play, your mind would drift, thoughts swirling around Sylus, his absence, and the creeping uncertainty that gnawed at you.

The twins were patient, at least. They sat across from you, dealing the cards and chatting casually, oblivious to the storm brewing in your mind. But today, the pressure felt different. Everything felt different.

You stared at your cards, barely processing the game as it unfolded in front of you. Your head was spinning, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. You had lost again—no surprise there. Normally, you’d shrug it off, crack a sarcastic joke about how the twins were impossible to beat. But this time, you felt something break inside you, something small but undeniable.

Before you could stop it, the tears welled up in your eyes.

“Damn it,” you muttered, your voice trembling. You quickly wiped at your eyes, trying to will the tears away, but it was too late. They fell fast and hard, streaming down your cheeks before you could control them.

Luke and Kieran exchanged a panicked glance at each other through their masks, their playful demeanor evaporating as they rushed to your side.

“Whoa, hey, it’s just a game!” Luke said, his voice soft and cautious as he reached out, clearly unsure how to handle your sudden outburst. “It’s not a big deal, we can play another round, yeah?”

Kieran didn’t say anything at first, just shifted closer, his presence more of a quiet comfort than anything. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder, his voice calm but concerned. “You okay?”

You shook your head quickly, choking back a sob as you tried to speak. “I’m fine. I’m fine, really. It’s just… I don’t know.” The words felt flimsy, hollow, even as you said them. You didn’t know what was happening—why the sudden flood of emotions, why you felt so completely out of control. It wasn’t like you.

“It’s just everything,” you whispered, more to yourself than to them.

The twins stayed close, Luke rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly while Kieran quietly handed you a tissue. You wiped your face, embarrassed by the sudden outburst. This wasn’t you. You weren’t the kind of person who broke down over losing a card game, and yet here you were, crying in front of two people who probably didn’t know what to do with you.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “I don’t know why… it’s just been—everything’s been so off lately.”

The twins exchanged another glance, but they didn’t push you. Instead, they nodded, offering small smiles of reassurance.

“We get it,” Luke said softly. “It’s a lot. You don’t have to explain.”

But as you sat there, sniffling and trying to regain control, the spinning in your head worsened. Your mind whirled with a thousand thoughts, none of them settling. What was happening to you? The nausea, the fatigue, the sensitivity, the tears. It didn’t make sense. You had blamed it all on stress and your period, but now the doubts were creeping in again.

And with those doubts came the nagging thought you’d been avoiding for days now: When is Sylus coming back?

The last time you’d seen him, he had left without giving you any real answers. His cold, detached demeanor had sent chills down your spine, and the memory of his final words replayed in your mind over and over again, like a taunt you couldn’t escape.

"This may be the last time we talk, kitten."

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the words away, but they echoed louder than ever. Was he dead? Had something happened to him? No… that wasn’t possible. Sylus wasn’t the kind of man who went down easily. He was always ten steps ahead, always in control. But then why did his words haunt you like a final goodbye?

Your chest tightened, your stomach churning as the weight of it all pressed down on you. You needed answers, but you had none. And without Sylus here—without knowing if he was ever coming back—there was nothing to do but sit with the spinning confusion, the unease, and the gnawing fear that something was very, very wrong.

Days pass in a blur and you were getting tired of feeling god awful. And thirsty? You couldn't stop drinking.

You kept finding yourself asking Mephisto, of all things, if he could somehow pass a note to the chef for more drinks. Water, juice, anything you could get your hands on. The constant thirst gnawed at you, as relentless as the rest of the changes you couldn’t understand. The more your body demanded, the more frustrated you became.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” you muttered under your breath, staring into the mirror after pushing away yet another meal you couldn't finish. Your reflection stared back at you, tired and drawn, with dark circles under your eyes that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago. Your body felt foreign—heavy, sluggish, like something you couldn’t control anymore. You weren’t even sure what was happening to you, but you hated it. You hated how powerless you felt inside your own skin.

It was as if your body was betraying you in slow, painful ways. And it was getting harder and harder to hold yourself together.

You stepped back from the mirror, and the weight of it all—everything you had been pushing down—suddenly crashed over you. A sob escaped your throat, and before you could stop it, you were breaking down. Again. You slid to the floor, pressing your hands to your face, trying to stifle the tears, but they came faster than you could handle. The frustration, the exhaustion, the endless confusion—it all bubbled over.

Your hands were shaking as you cried, your body feeling too weak to even hold yourself upright. You were falling apart, piece by piece, and there was nothing left to keep the walls up.

After what felt like an eternity of sitting there on the floor, tears streaming down your face, you glanced over at the calendar. Through tear-stained eyes, you caught a glimpse of the circled date—the day Sylus was supposed to come back.

Your heart sank, a hollow pit forming in your chest as the realization hit you like a blow.

Three days.

Three days had already passed since he was supposed to be back.

Your breath caught in your throat as the thought consumed you. Shit. He’s dead. That’s the only explanation that made sense. Sylus was dead, and now you were trapped here, in this miserable, suffocating prison, forever.

And what made it worse—what twisted the knife in deeper—was that you cared.

You shouldn’t. You knew that. Sylus had kidnapped you, manipulated you, left a scar on your arm and worse, scars in your mind. He had controlled you, twisted your life into something unrecognizable. And here you were, crying—actually crying—because he wasn’t coming back?

Fuck him, you thought, angrily wiping your tears away. Why do you even care?

But even as you tried to convince yourself, the tears kept falling. Why did you care? What was wrong with you? Why did the thought of Sylus being dead, of him never walking back through that door, tear you apart in ways you couldn’t explain?

Your head spun, the weight of your emotions crashing over you, dragging you under. You hated him. You hated everything he’d done to you. He’d stolen you from your life, cut into your skin, ripped away your freedom. You should be celebrating the thought of him being gone. You should want him to be dead.

But you didn’t.

You leaned your head against the wall, pressing your hands to your chest, trying to quiet the storm inside of you. The nausea was back again, swirling in your stomach, making it harder to breathe. Your body felt like it wasn’t yours anymore, like you had lost control in more ways than one.

Tears dripped down your cheeks as you shook your head, whispering to yourself. “What is wrong with me?”

There was no answer, only the suffocating silence of the N109 Zone, pressing in on you from all sides. And in that silence, one thought kept repeating itself, over and over again, haunting you with every breath:

"This may be the last time we talk, kitten."

“FUCK YOU!” The words ripped from your throat before you even realized it, raw and filled with a fury you didn’t know you still had in you.

You surged to your feet, your vision blurred with tears and rage as you grabbed the calendar from its place on the wall. The innocent object, the one thing that had grounded you to the passing of time, now felt like a mockery. Every marked date, every circled day—it was all a lie. He wasn’t coming back.

Without thinking, you hurled the calendar across the room with all the strength you could muster. It hit the opposite wall with a dull thud before falling to the floor, pages crumpling as it landed. The sound echoed in the room, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the roar inside your head.

You stood there, chest heaving, your heart pounding in your ears. The room felt too small, too suffocating, the darkness pressing in on you from every side. You wanted to scream again, to throw everything in the room, to tear it all apart until there was nothing left to remind you of him, of this place, of the horrible truth you couldn’t escape.

Sylus. His name was a bitter taste in your mouth. He had controlled you, twisted your life into this nightmare, and now he had the audacity to leave you here—alone. The anger burned in your chest, mixing with the sadness, the confusion, the overwhelming feeling of being lost.

You wanted to hate him. You did hate him. But in that same breath, the thought of him being gone forever, of him never walking through that door again, left you hollow. Why?

You felt an intense pain in your chest. In your heart. Physical, longing, brimming underneath all the hate when you thought of Sylus.

Tears streamed down your face as you stood there, fists clenched at your sides, staring at the crumpled calendar on the floor. The broken mess of it mirrored the way you felt inside—shattered, with no way to piece it back together.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, your voice breaking. It wasn’t just for Sylus anymore. It was for everything. For the N109 Zone, for your broken body, for the endless spiral of confusion and fear that had taken over your life. You didn’t know who to scream at anymore, who to blame, because everything felt like it was crumbling.

You wiped your tear-streaked face with the back of your hand, your breath shaky. The calendar sat motionless on the floor, a reminder of time slipping away, of promises not kept. And with it, a reminder of the haunting words Sylus had left you with, the ones that echoed in the hollow space inside your chest.

"This may be the last time we talk, kitten."

You sobbed, eyes turning toward the record player. You had been avoiding it. But now you longed for its song.

You sobbed, knees giving out as you slid to the floor, your body trembling with the weight of everything crashing down at once. The room spun around you, the tears blurring your vision, and for a moment, all you could do was sit there, letting the raw emotion pour out of you, your chest heaving with every breath.

Through the tears, your eyes drifted across the room, falling on the record player sitting in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust. It had been sitting there for days, untouched, and you had purposefully ignored it, trying to avoid the haunting melody that had stirred too much inside you the first time. You’d been afraid of it—afraid of what the music had made you feel. Too much.

But now, as you sat there in the suffocating silence, the world collapsing around you, you longed for it. You longed for the song.

There was something in that music, something that had connected with you in a way nothing else here had. The haunting melody had pierced through the walls you’d built, allowing you to feel, really feel, in a place where emotions were a dangerous luxury. And now, in the midst of your grief and anger, you craved that connection again, that strange, bittersweet comfort.

Wiping at your tear-streaked face, you slowly pushed yourself up, your legs shaky beneath you as you staggered toward the record player. You hesitated for a moment, standing before it, your fingers hovering over the record that sat waiting, as if it had known you would come back.

Your hand trembled as you placed the needle on the record, the familiar crackling sound filling the room as it began to spin. For a moment, there was nothing but static, a brief, fragile pause before the music began.

And then, the first notes hit.

That hauntingly beautiful melody. It drifted through the room, filling the empty space with its ghostly echo. The sound wrapped around you, soft and delicate, but heavy with meaning, with emotion. The organs slow, mournful tune carried through the air, each note pulling at your heart, drawing out the feelings you had tried to bury.

You sank to the floor again, leaning against the wall, your head resting back as you let the music envelop you. The tears didn’t stop, but the sobs quieted, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. The melody tugged at your soul, a reminder of everything you had lost, everything that had been taken from you.

But in that sadness, there was a strange comfort. The music understood. It mirrored your pain, your frustration, your confusion. Every note felt like it was speaking directly to you, like the song itself was mourning with you.

The organ swelled, and your chest tightened, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over as the emotions surged again. But you didn’t fight it this time. You let the music carry you, let it take you wherever it wanted to go. There was no point in resisting anymore. You were tired of fighting.

As the melody continued, you closed your eyes, the sound pulling you deeper into its embrace. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to truly feel everything. The sadness, the anger, the fear—it all poured out of you, spilling into the notes of the song.

Sylus’s absence still loomed over you, his words still echoed in your mind, but for now, the music dulled the edges of that pain. It was a small reprieve, a brief moment where the chaos of your mind quieted.

And even though the haunting melody was filled with sorrow, in this moment, it was exactly what you needed.

Sylus stepped into the room quietly, the soft click of the door unlocking barely audible over the faint hum of the record player. He exhaled slowly, exhaustion weighing heavy on him from days of endless travel, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, they landed on you, and the fatigue seemed to fade into the background.

There you were, curled up on the floor, fast asleep, your chest rising and falling in steady, peaceful breaths. The haunting melody from the record player filled the air, casting a strange, melancholic atmosphere over the room. Sylus’s gaze flickered to the spinning record and, with a small smirk, he turned the player off, cutting the music short. It pleased him to see you had actually played it.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching you sleep. There was something oddly vulnerable about the way you lay there, your body relaxed in sleep, your face free of the tension that so often creased it when you were awake. His eyes traced the faint tear tracks on your cheeks, the puffiness around your eyes, the clear evidence that you had been crying.

You’ve been sobbing, he realized, his smirk fading as he studied you more closely. Dried tears clung to your skin, and your face looked stressed and worn, as if you’d been fighting a losing battle with your emotions for far too long. He could see it now—the exhaustion, the way your body seemed to have given up.

His gaze softened, lingering on you for a moment longer. You stirred slightly in your sleep, your eyelids fluttering as if caught in some dream. Your chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, and for the briefest moment, he allowed himself to simply observe the small details—the way your breath hitched every now and then, the way your lips parted slightly, the faint twitch of your fingers.

It was strange, this feeling. Sylus had seen you broken before, had seen the moments when you were at your most vulnerable, but watching you like this—so peaceful, yet so fragile—something else stirred in him. A flicker of something softer, something he quickly brushed away.

He stepped closer, kneeling beside you as he reached out to gently shake your shoulder. “Wake up, honey” he murmured softly.

Your eyes flew open, wide and startled at first, darting around the room in confusion before finally settling on him. For a split second, something flashed in your gaze—relief? But it was quickly replaced by something else. Worry? Concern?

Before he could say anything, you grimaced, your face twisting in discomfort, and then you were dry heaving. Instinctively, Sylus moved quickly, slipping his arms under you to help guide you toward the bathroom. The sudden movement caught you off guard, but he held you steady, his grip firm but not rough.

“Easy,” he said, his voice low as he helped you to the bathroom. You could barely focus, your body convulsing with the effort of dry heaving, but Sylus kept you upright, guiding you with surprising gentleness.

Once inside, you collapsed near the toilet, and he crouched beside you, watching as your body struggled against the nausea. His hand rested lightly on your back, a quiet, stabilizing presence as you fought to regain control.

One dry heave. Your body convulsed, a sharp, painful spasm that left you gasping for breath. Sylus's grip tightened slightly, his hand steady on your back as he helped guide you to the edge of the toilet. The nausea had been building for days, and now it was finally pushing its way out, relentless and overwhelming.

Then came another heave, your stomach twisting violently, your muscles contracting as if your body was trying to wring itself dry. Your vision blurred, and the room spun as you tried to fight it, but it was no use.

The final heave hit hard, and this time, you couldn’t hold it back. The contents of your stomach surged up, and you vomited into the toilet, your whole body trembling from the effort. The acrid taste burned in your throat as you retched, your eyes squeezing shut as tears leaked from the corners.

Sylus remained silent, his hand still resting on your back, his presence a quiet anchor in the chaos of the moment. He didn’t speak, didn’t react—just stayed there, watching as you emptied yourself, each convulsion wracking your already exhausted body.

When the retching finally subsided, your shoulders sagged, and you leaned against the toilet, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The nausea still lingered, but the worst had passed, leaving you feeling weak, drained, and raw. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, still shaking, your entire body feeling like it might collapse at any moment.

Sylus knelt beside you, his gaze fixed on you, studying your every movement. There was no mocking smirk this time, no cruel amusement. Just a quiet, almost clinical focus as he watched you recover. His eyes flickered over your tear-streaked face, the sweat glistening on your skin, and the unmistakable exhaustion that had settled into every fiber of your being.

"Better?" he asked quietly, his voice softer than you expected.

You nodded weakly, though you weren’t sure if that was the truth. The nausea had faded, but your head was spinning, and your body felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to you anymore. You slumped back, resting against the cool tile floor, trying to steady your breath as the overwhelming fatigue took over.

“Were you so excited to see me that you threw up?” Sylus’s voice slipped out, laced with dark amusement as he eyed you laid on the bathroom floor. The corners of his lips tugged into a smirk as he watched your exhausted figure, trembling from the aftermath of your retching. The sight of you, so vulnerable yet still so defiant, stirred something in him. It was quite adorable.

Your head snapped up, eyes red and watery, and shot him a glare that would’ve been more effective if you weren’t barely holding yourself together. That was what he liked about you, though—you still had fire, even when everything else was crumbling.

“I hate you,” you muttered, barely audible, your voice weak and strained.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in the quiet room. Of course you did. You’d spat those words at him more times than he could count, but they never carried the weight you thought they did. “I'm hurt, kitten,” he said, letting the pet name slip out with just enough bite to remind you of your place.

He shifted, straightening up slightly but still crouched beside you, watching the way your body slumped against the cool tile. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand again, trying to recover, but he could see how drained you were. Your limbs looked heavy, like they’d given up on you, and the flush of your cheeks told him you were still fighting that lingering nausea.

But it wasn’t just the exhaustion that interested him—it was the way you looked up at him, the fire still burning behind your eyes despite the tears and the clear discomfort. Even now, as broken as you were, you fought. That was what intrigued him, what kept him coming back to you.

He couldn’t help but chuckle again, this time quieter, more to himself. The sight of you like this, caught between rage and weakness, pulled at something in him. You didn’t want him here, and yet, your body still leaned into his support, still let him guide you when you needed it most. Whether you hated him or not didn’t matter. You still needed him.

He watched you for a moment longer, his eyes scanning your face, the way your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. The tear tracks were still fresh on your cheeks, and he could see that you’d been crying long before he’d arrived.

The silence stretched between you, and Sylus felt it settle—heavy, weighted with something more than just your physical exhaustion. He could feel it in the way you looked at him, as though you were grappling with something you didn’t want to admit. And then there was that brief flicker in your eyes, something that looked almost like relief before it shifted to concern.

It intrigued him. What were you so worried about?

He could see your body still trembling, and before you could react, your face twisted again, and you dry heaved once more. His amusement faded as his hands instinctively moved to help you, his grip firm but not rough, guiding you back toward the toilet just in time as you retched and gagged again.

“Don't fight it,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something quieter. For once, the teasing tone was gone. You were still shaking, still fighting the nausea, and he kept his hand on your back, steadying you as you vomited again, your whole body convulsing with the effort.

He knelt beside you, watching the way your frame trembled, the way your body seemed to be betraying you. His eyes narrowed slightly. Something was different—off. This wasn’t just exhaustion or sickness. He’d seen you in pain before, seen you in worse states, but this… this felt heavier.

He kept his hand on your back, waiting until your body stopped shaking, until you slumped again, too weak to do anything but rest against the cold tile.

"You okay?" he asked, keeping his voice low, though he doubted you had the energy to do much more than nod.

And sure enough, you gave a weak nod, not even trying to speak. He watched as your chest rose and fell, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The fight hadn’t left your eyes, but the exhaustion had taken over now, and he could see it in the way you struggled to keep yourself upright.

Sylus stared at you for a moment longer, something cold and calculating behind his eyes. You were breaking, yes, but not in the way he had expected. Something else was happening—something deeper, beyond the physical symptoms. He could feel it, a shift in the air between you.

Sylus remained there for a moment longer, his eyes tracing over your trembling form. You looked so small, so fragile in this moment, slumped against the cold tile with tear-streaked cheeks and watery eyes. The sight of you like this stirred something inside him—a mix of satisfaction and curiosity, though he wasn’t entirely sure which feeling dominated. He could see how much this had taken a toll on you, how every day without answers had chipped away at your resolve. But this? This was different. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the moment where the walls finally came down.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, keeping his tone even and composed as he turned away, heading toward the bathroom drawer. He could feel your eyes on him, glaring into his back with what little strength you had left. You were trying to hold onto that defiance, trying to summon some kind of fight, but he knew better. You were unraveling, and the truth of what he was about to show you would tear down whatever was left.

He rifled through the drawer, his movements slow and methodical, savoring the quiet tension building in the room. His fingers brushed past a few irrelevant items before closing around the small box. It felt almost anticlimactic, the weight of it so light in his hand, yet what it represented was monumental. He straightened and turned back toward you, holding the box just high enough for you to see.

Your reaction was immediate—your mouth opened in shock, and your eyes widened in horror as realization dawned. There it is, he thought, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He watched the shift in your expression with a quiet, controlled satisfaction. It was like watching a puzzle piece snap into place, watching you connect the dots and realize just how deep in this you really were.

“No…” you whispered, your voice cracking, barely more than a breath. The desperation clung to your words, and for a fleeting moment, Sylus felt something akin to pity stir in his chest. But he quickly brushed it aside. This is how it has to be. He knew it. You were spiraling, trying to cling to the lie that everything was normal, that your body hadn’t betrayed you in the way you feared most.

“No, I’m not pregnant,” you whimpered, shaking your head as tears started to spill down your cheeks. “I’m just sick…I'm just sick...”

Why lie to yourself?, he thought, though there was no cruelty in those words. He didn’t enjoy seeing you like this—no, not quite. But there was something about your vulnerability, something about watching you come to terms with this new reality, that intrigued him. You were always so strong, so determined to fight him at every turn, and now, with this one tiny box in his hand, he had you crumbling.

Tears poured from your eyes now, and your voice wavered as you kept trying to convince yourself, to convince him, that this wasn’t real. That you were just sick, that this was something else, something manageable. He could see the panic rising in you, the way your hands trembled, the way your breath hitched between sobs.

But Sylus just watched, his eyes soft, yet calculating. He wasn’t surprised by your reaction—he’d anticipated it, even counted on it. You weren’t ready to accept the truth yet. That’s why he was here. To guide you into it. To show you that, whether you wanted it or not, you were his in ways you hadn’t even realized.

He stepped toward you, his movements slow, deliberate. Kneeling back down, he reached out and wiped the tears from your face, his touch unnervingly tender. The way he was looking at you displayed the same tenderness but also something else. Control, This was control—calm, steady control. He had been waiting for this moment for weeks, watching the signs, knowing where this was all leading.

“Only one way to find out, honey,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. Like he was comforting a child. He could feel your fear, could see the way you were choking on the sobs that kept spilling from you. But there was no rush. He had all the time in the world.

He watched the panic bloom in your eyes, the way the tears kept coming, your body shaking with the effort of holding back the reality you didn’t want to face. It fascinated him—the sheer desperation in your every movement. The fear of being tied to him in a way you couldn’t escape, in a way that would bind you together forever.

She’s terrified, he thought, his thumb brushing away more of your tears. But beneath that terror, there was something else—a kind of inevitability. You already knew. Deep down, you must have known. He could see it now, in the way your sobs became more frantic, the way your body shook as the weight of the truth crashed over you. You weren’t just crying from fear anymore. You were crying because this was real.

The satisfaction he felt wasn’t born of cruelty. It was born of the quiet control he had over you now, a control that went beyond the physical, beyond the chain that kept you tethered here. This was a different kind of control—one that reached into your mind, your soul. And it was deeper than anything he had ever seen in you before.

As you burst into sobs, your whole body trembling with the force of your breakdown, Sylus stayed right there, crouched beside you, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The box sat between you like a looming reminder of what was coming, and he knew there was no turning back from this.

Watching you crumble like this, completely undone by something as small as a pregnancy test, brought a strange sense of finality to the moment. You were his now. Not in the way you had been before—this was something more permanent, more inescapable.

All that was left was to confirm it. Show you its real.

And as your sobs wracked your body, Sylus watched with soft, patient eyes, knowing that no matter how much you cried, no matter how much you resisted, there was only one way out.

The truth.

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fanficapologist · 3 months ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Eight

“It is lodged quite deep into the muscle.”

The Queen sat on the edge of her bed, her posture tense as she gazed blankly at the wall. Her dragon rider’s outfit, once formidable in its protection and authority, now lay discarded on the floor, a heap of leather and scales stained with soot and blood. In its place, she wore a sleeveless tunic, its once pristine white fabric now marred by the deep crimson of her own blood, seeping from the wound just below her collarbone.

The room was filled with a tense, focused silence, broken only by the occasional murmurs of the junior Maesters who surrounded her. They worked with furrowed brows and anxious hands, taking turns attempting to remove the arrowhead embedded in her flesh. Each time one stepped forward, tools at the ready, the other would step back, watching closely as their colleague tried to extract the foreign object. But despite their best efforts, the arrowhead remained stubbornly lodged within her muscle

Aemond sat beside Maera on the bed, his arm wrapped tightly around her as if he could shield her from the agony that was tearing through her body. His presence was solid, grounding her as she endured the excruciating attempts of the Maesters.

Maera’s jaw clenched as she bit down on her leather glove, the thick material muffling the screams that threatened to rip from her throat. The pain was relentless, sharp and unyielding, each tug and twist of the Maesters’ tools sending fresh waves of agony through her. Her vision blurred, not only from the dizziness brought on by the milk of the poppy, but from the sheer intensity of the pain.

“How fucking hard is it to dig out an arrowhead?!”

The King’s grip on her tightened with each passing moment, his hand smoothing over her slick skin in a futile attempt to comfort her. His single violet eye, usually so composed and calculating, now burned with a mix of helplessness and fury. He could feel her body tensing against him, her muscles seizing up in response to the pain.

Each time a Maester failed in their attempt to remove the arrowhead, Aemond’s patience grew thinner, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscle ticking with the effort to keep his temper in check. The image of his wife, usually so strong, writhing in pain and stifling her screams was something he could scarcely endure. He felt as though a vice were closing around his heart, squeezing tighter with every pained cry that escaped her.

He glanced at the Maesters, his gaze hardening with each failure. The longer this went on, the more difficult it became for him to maintain his composure. As the Maesters exchanged worried glances, Aemond’s patience finally snapped. His hand shot out, gripping one of them by the arm as they prepared for another attempt. The look in his eye was a warning, his voice low and dangerous. The young Maester nodded quickly and withdrew, his face pale and drawn as he set his bloodied tools aside.

The bowl of water beside him was stained crimson as he washed his hands, the blood swirling away before he dried them with a piece of cloth. He let out a sigh, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders. “This will require more experienced hands,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with regret.

Maera knew what he was suggesting, but she was so exhausted from the relentless pain that she couldn’t muster the strength to argue. She lay back against the pillows, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, her skin slick with sweat. Every ounce of energy she had left was focused on enduring the searing pain in her shoulder. Her green eyes, dulled by fatigue, flicked to Aemond, who was watching her with fierce concern.

“No.” Seeing the state of his wife, Aemond acted on her behalf, his voice cold as ice as he addressed the Maesters. “My wife does not wish to have him attend her,” he reminded them, his tone brooking no argument.

Yet, as she lay there, blood still seeping from the wound, pride seemed a distant memory. “Aemond,” the Queen croaked, her voice barely above a whisper, but filled with a desperation that tore at her husband’s heart. “We just need to get it out. I don’t care how.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and in that moment, he saw the depth of her suffering.

Aemond nodded, his jaw clenched as he turned his gaze to the other junior Maester across the room. His expression hardened, and there was no mistaking the command in his voice as he barked, “Well?! Don’t just stand there! Fetch him!” The young Maester didn’t hesitate, quickly scurrying out of the room, leaving the tense atmosphere behind him.

As the door closed behind him, Aemond’s hand tightened around his wife’s, his concern for her evident in the way he held her as if he could keep her anchored to him through sheer will alone. Maera, despite the pain, felt a flicker of admiration for him. He was being cruel, perhaps, but it was only because he cared for her.

Not a moment after the young Maester had left, the door creaked open, and Grand Maester Vaegon stepped inside, almost as if he had been waiting just outside the door. The Queen couldn’t help but let out a soft, delirious laugh, the thought flickering in her mind that perhaps her estranged grandfather cared for her more than he let on. But she quickly shook away the notion, attributing it to the blood loss and the fog of pain clouding her mind.

His chains clinked as he approached the bedside, his movements more hurried than Maera had ever seen him. Vaegon quickly settled onto the stool where the junior Maester had been before him. With careful fingers, he placed his hand on Maera’s collarbone, his touch surprisingly gentle as he began to feel the bones and muscles around the arrow wound. Maera winced and hissed in pain, and Vaegon watched her face intently, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed her reaction.

In this close proximity, the Queen studied him through her pain-hazed vision, unable to shake the familiarity those violet eyes stirred within her. They were the same eyes that had once looked upon her with the love of a mother, a connection to the past that brought both comfort and a twinge of sorrow.

The old man then turned his attention to his students, his voice calm but commanding. “How much milk of the poppy has she been given?” he asked, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

One of the students immediately answered, “Four spoonfuls, Grand Maester, but she cannot have any more so soon.”

Vaegon nodded, his expression unreadable as he processed the information. He turned back to Maera, his fingers still resting lightly on her skin, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—whether it was concern or merely clinical focus, Maera couldn’t tell.

Her green eyes tracked the Grand Maester as he moved with a deliberate calmness, his old hands steady as he selected a slender, metal tool from the array laid out on the table beside her. His fingers curled around it with the practiced ease of a man who had done this countless times before. He turned slightly to the juniors hovering nearby and asked, his voice a low murmur, "When was the injury sustained?"

One of the younger Maesters quickly responded, "A few hours ago, Grand Maester."

Vaegon nodded, then without another word, he bent over Maera, his expression betraying no emotion as he muttered a brief, almost inaudible apology. The moment the tool entered her wound, Maera's body tensed, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as she instinctively clutched at Aemond’s hand. Her grip tightened, her knuckles white, as she fought against the discomfort that flared up anew. She could feel the tool probing within her, moving her flesh aside, and the sensation made her stomach churn with nausea.

Yet, there was a curious lack of the searing pain she had expected. Vaegon was not attempting to remove the arrowhead—not yet. His movements were methodical, almost delicate, as he studied how deeply the metal was lodged within her flesh. It was as though he was assessing the battlefield within her body, preparing for the final, precise method that would dislodge the foreign object.

When Vaegon finally withdrew the tool, Maera couldn’t stifle the yelp that burst from her lips, her body jolting with the sharp pain of the movement. She gasped for breath, her vision momentarily swimming, and when she looked up, she noticed a change in the Grand Maester’s demeanor. His face, usually as unreadable as stone, had softened ever so slightly. His thin lips pursed as if he were on the verge of saying something—something personal, something beyond his professional duty. But whatever it was, he held back, shaking his head lightly as though dismissing the thought, and the moment passed. He resumed his detached, clinical focus, the mask of professionalism firmly back in place.

Vaegon straightened up, wiping his hands clean before gesturing to one of his juniors. "Fetch the pincer tool from my bag," he instructed, his voice calm and measured. The young Maester quickly complied, moving with haste to retrieve the requested instrument. As he waited, Vaegon dipped his hands into the nearby bowl of water, scrubbing them thoroughly.

Turning to the other junior, Vaegon’s tone took on a slightly testing edge. "Tell me," he began, his voice steady but with an undertone that suggested this was more than just a casual query, "how might one prevent infection in a wound such as this?"

Maera, through her haze of pain and exhaustion, watched the junior Maester closely. The young man’s face flushed as he struggled to find the right words. She could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he fumbled for an answer, finally managing to stammer, "Bryonia and thyme... they could be applied to the wound site, Grand Maester."

Aemond, who remained sitting beside her, his hand tightly gripping hers, suddenly growled, his voice thick with barely contained rage. "This is not a fucking lecture in the Citadel," he spat, his frustration boiling over. "My wife is in pain and needs help immediately."

Maera's eyes flicked between her husband and the Grand Maester, feeling the tension rise as Aemond took a deep, steadying breath. "Can it be removed?" he asked, his voice strained, though more controlled now.

Vaegon, unfazed by Aemond’s outburst, accepted the pincer-like tool from his junior with a nod of thanks. "It can be removed," he confirmed calmly, his violet eyes meeting Aemond's with a steady gaze. "However," he added, with a slight, almost imperceptible smile, "I prefer my juniors to learn with live subjects. It is how they truly develop their own practice.”

Aemond's patience had worn thin. "Just get on with it," he snapped, his voice sharp and desperate. The tension in the room was palpable, a thick cloud of dread hanging over them all. Vaegon, unfazed, nodded curtly and turned his attention to the task at hand.

"Hold her down, Your Grace," the Grand Maester instructed, his tone taking on an ominous gravity. "This next part will hurt."

Maera's eyes widened in alarm, her breath catching in her throat. But she quickly steeled herself, accepting the harsh reality that a short burst of unbearable pain was the price to pay for relief. She reached once again for her leather glove, hands trembling slightly, and stuffed it into her mouth. The taste of sweat and leather filled her senses, grounding her in the moment. With a final, determined nod to Vaegon, she braced herself.

The pincer tool glinted ominously in the candlelight as Vaegon carefully inserted it into the wound. The moment the cold metal touched her flesh, Maera's body convulsed, a scream tearing from her throat, muffled by the glove. The sensation of her muscles and skin separating under the tool was indescribable, a horror that left her mind reeling.

Aemond, his face twisted with panic and helplessness, leaned over her, using his weight to hold her thrashing body down. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmured over and over again, his voice breaking with each word. His hands, normally so steady, were trembling as he fought to keep her still.

Time seemed to stretch into eternity, each second of pain lasting a lifetime. But then, with a sickening, wet sound, Vaegon finally extracted the arrowhead. Maera's scream turned into a choked sob as the pain began to ebb, leaving her shaking and drenched in sweat, her body utterly spent.

A palpable sense of relief washed over the room as the arrowhead was finally extracted. The oppressive tension that had gripped everyone during the ordeal began to lift, replaced by a collective exhalation. Aemond held her close, his face buried in her hair as he whispered soothing words, though his own voice was laced with pain.

The arrowhead lay in Vaegon's bloodied hands before he placed it on the nearby table, a small but vicious piece of metal that had caused so much suffering. Maera, still trembling from the pain, felt the sharp edges of agony dulling, leaving her with a deep, throbbing ache that was far more bearable. Despite her exhaustion, a flicker of delight sparked within her—she had made it through. It was over.

However, the reprieve was short-lived. Maera groaned as Grand Maester Vaegon applied pressure to her wound, his hand wrapped in blood-soaked fabric as he pressed down with practiced care. The pain flared up again, though not as sharply as before, and she gritted her teeth against it. Vaegon turned to his juniors, who were watching with rapt attention.

“Once the bleeding has stopped,” Vaegon instructed, his voice calm and authoritative, “the wound can be stitched. Apply a paste of bryonia and thyme afterward to prevent infection.” The young Maesters nodded eagerly, one immediately beginning to clean the surgical tools, while the other started preparing the herbal paste as directed.

As Vaegon turned back to the Queen, a gentle smile graced his aged face, a smile that was strikingly reminiscent of Maera’s mother. The warmth in his expression was unexpected, and it stirred something within her. “You did well, Your Grace,” he said softly, his tone carrying a hint of familial pride. For the first time, Maera felt a small but significant connection to the man who was her grandfather by blood.

A warmth filled her heart as she met his gaze, a bond forming where there had once been only distance. “Thank you,” she replied earnestly, her voice still shaky but filled with genuine gratitude. She returned his smile, a faint but sincere curve of her lips that spoke volumes.

Lying there on the bed, her thoughts drifted to her brother Cedric’s words, spoken long ago. Vaegon was indeed an exceptional Maester, far more than she had ever given him credit for. In that moment, she understood a little more about the man who had always seemed so distant, and she silently appreciated the care and skill he had shown her.

The one-eyed King hadn’t left the Queen’s side for the rest of the day. He was a constant, silent presence, hovering near her as if guarding her from any further harm. Yet despite his proximity, Maera found it impossible to draw more than a few words or grunts out of him. He was more brooding than usual, his expression locked in a stern, unreadable mask. Maera understood that it was probably the sight of her in such unbearable pain that weighed on him so heavily. She had seen that look in his eye before, a mixture of anger and helplessness.

Throughout the day, Maera attempted to speak with him, to offer him comfort, to ease the tension that gripped him so tightly. She wanted to talk through what had happened, to reassure him that she would be all right, that it was over now. But the stubborn King, ever proud and fierce, was not receptive. His responses were curt, his gaze distant, and Maera eventually resolved to let him sulk for the day. She knew him well enough to understand that forcing the issue would only make him retreat further into himself. They would discuss it that evening, when the rawness of the day had dulled and he was ready to listen.

That night, as the household settled into the calm that followed the chaos, the nursemaids had to assist Maera in feeding Aemara. With the wound above her collarbone newly stitched, any movement of her arm caused a sharp twinge of pain, making it impossible for her to hold her daughter on her own. The nursemaids worked with quiet efficiency, gently cradling the babe and positioning her to nurse at Maera’s chest, carefully placing the weight off the injured area.

Maera watched in silence as her daughter fed, her heart swelling with both love and frustration. The pain in her shoulder was a constant reminder of her vulnerability, of how close she had come to something far worse. Yet it was Aemond’s continued brooding that gnawed at her most. She could sense the storm brewing within him, feel the weight of his unspoken worries pressing down on them both.

Once Aemara was done feeding, Aemond gruffly dismissed the nursemaid, his tone leaving little room for argument. The young woman hurriedly nodded, bowing her head as she scurried out of the room. Aemond then reached down to take the child from Maera’s chest, cradling her with surprising gentleness despite his rough demeanor. He began to rock their daughter, his movements slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the stormy expression etched on his face.

Maera sighed softly, watching as her husband bounced their daughter in his arms, pacing the room with a careful rhythm. Aemara’s tiny breaths soon grew even and steady, her eyelids fluttering closed as she succumbed to sleep. Aemond continued to hold her for a moment longer, as if the act of rocking their child provided him some measure of peace. Once he was certain Aemara was fully asleep, he placed her tenderly into her crib, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face.

Sȳndor, the small black dragon that had been curled beneath the crib, chirped softly at Aemond’s approach. With a resigned sigh, Aemond reached across to the nearby table and tossed a piece of meat to the creature. Sȳndor snapped it up greedily, her sharp teeth making quick work of the morsel before she settled back down, her head resting on the stone floor, her eyes half-closed in contentment.

The King then moved to the edge of the bed, sitting down heavily with his back to Maera. He seemed lost in thought, his posture rigid, his gaze distant as if he were wrestling with something deep within. He stayed like that for a while, unmoving, and the silence began to grate on Maera's nerves. Her initial understanding and patience began to wear thin, frustration bubbling up within her. Finally, she could no longer hold back.

“I will not tolerate further silence,” she said, her voice firm, cutting through the stillness of the room.

Aemond looked over his shoulder at her, his eye narrowing as he snapped back, “I have not been silent.” His words were sharp, defensive, yet the Queen could see the strain in his expression, the turmoil that lingered behind his cool exterior. The quietness that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken emotions, as the two of them faced the inevitable confrontation that had been brewing all day.

Slowly, he began to disrobe, his hands moving with practiced ease as he unbuckled the black and green doublet he wore. The metal buckles clinked softly in the quiet room, the only sound besides their breathing. Once the doublet was undone, he slipped it off his shoulders, revealing the simple white cotton undershirt beneath. With a practiced motion, he pulled the shirt over his head, exposing the lean, muscular contours of his abdomen.

Rising to his feet, Aemond walked over to a nearby chair, placing his discarded clothing neatly on it. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if the act of disrobing offered him some form of control over the emotions swirling within him. Maera watched him intently, her eyes following every motion. When he bent down to unlace his boots, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid lines of his body betraying the anger he was holding back.

Once his boots were removed and set aside, Aemond stood up straight, his hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. With a final motion, he slipped out of them, leaving himself completely bare before her. No matter how many times she had seen him like this, the Queen felt her breath catch in her throat. His body, honed and strong from years of training, was a sight that never failed to stir something deep within her.

Softening her gaze, Maera decided to take a different approach. She offered him a gentle smile, trying to bridge the distance that had grown between them over the course of the day. “I know you well,” she said softly, her voice laced with understanding. Their eyes met as Aemond reached up to undo his hair, the straight silver locks cascading down as he freed them from their tie.

He then returned to the edge of the bed, sitting down once more with his back to her, as if he could hide from her the storm of emotions that brewed within him. Maera reached out to him, her fingers brushing delicately against the smooth skin of his back. The touch was tender, meant to soothe, as she spoke again. “You’re angry,” she said softly, her fingers tracing gentle patterns along his spine.

Aemond’s shoulders, tense and coiled with emotion, seemed to drop slightly at her words. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and removed his eyepatch, placing it on the bedside table before getting into bed beside her, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Feeling the tension between them, Maera began to unlace her nightgown at the front, her fingers deftly loosening the ties. Once undone, she slipped the garment off her shoulders carefully so to not further injure herself, letting it cascade down her body before tossing it to the far side of the room.

She turned back to Aemond, offering him a soft, reassuring smile as she spoke, “This is war, as you keep reminding me.” Her voice was gentle, but with a hint of resignation. “I was bound to run into one of the Blacks sooner or later.”

Aemond continued to stare up at the canopy of their bed, responding only with a short, indifferent hum, his eye refusing to meet hers. Undeterred, Maera lay back down beside him, shuffling closer until she was facing him. Her hand reached out to trace delicate patterns on his chest, her touch light and soothing. She sighed softly, her gaze locked on his face. “It was hardly the worst injury I’ve sustained,” she said, trying to downplay the severity of the day’s events.

But as the words left her mouth, Maera noticed Aemond visibly wince. The slight tightening of his jaw, the flicker of pain in his remaining eye as his eye darted to her left shoulder, covered in the deep scar, before staring back up at the ceiling.

After realising what she said, Maera quickly grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes, filled with both concern and affection, searched his. “I’m fine, Aemond. Truly,” she assured him, her smile warm and reassuring. But even as she said it, the frown on his face deepened, his expression stubbornly refusing to soften.

Letting go of his jaw, Maera furrowed her own brow, her mind working to understand the deeper meaning behind his silence. She studied his face, the lines of tension etched into his features, and slowly, a realization dawned on her. There was more to his unhappiness than just the harm that had come to her. She blinked, the truth settling into her mind, and softly spoke, “You’re angry that I let her go.”

At her words, Aemond’s gaze finally met hers, the anger and frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface now clearly visible in his eye. The Queen watched as his jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he grasped at the sheets with white-knuckled hands. The tension in his body was palpable, a barely contained storm of rage and frustration.

When he finally spoke, it was with a low growl, his voice rough with anger. “Baela attacked you on her dragon, shot you with an arrow, and you let her go.” The accusation hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of his disbelief.

Maera, feeling her own frustration rise, rubbed her face with her hands, trying to keep her voice steady as she responded. “Her dragon is dead, Aemond. She’s of no threat to us now.” She dropped her hands to the bed, meeting his gaze with determination, hoping he would understand her reasoning. But instead of softening, his expression only darkened further.

In one swift movement, the King turned to face her fully, their bodies now chest to chest, their breaths coming in heavy, angry bursts. The closeness between them did nothing to ease the tension; if anything, it made the confrontation more intense, their emotions clashing in the confined space between them.

“So many are dead because of Rhaenyra,” Aemond began, his voice tight with bitterness. But before he could continue, Maera cut him off, her voice sharp as she challenged him. “And should we kill another because of her sins?” Her words were a direct counter to his anger, forcing him to confront the cycle of violence they were trapped in. Their gazes locked, both refusing to back down. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken thoughts, the air between them charged with the weight of the choices they faced.

Maera’s eyes drifted across the dimly lit room, her gaze softening as it landed on Aemara’s crib. The steady, rhythmic sound of the baby’s breathing was a comforting presence in the tense atmosphere. A small smile tugged at her lips as she listened, a brief moment of peace amidst the storm. But as she looked back at Aemond, the smile faded, replaced by a serious expression. Her voice was gentle but firm as she asked, “If we apply your logic, should Aemara die because of all you have done?”

The words hit Aemond like a blow. He sat bolt upright, his eye wide with shock and anger. “Don’t you dare bring our daughter into this,” he snapped, his voice sharp with a mix of fear and fury.

Maera didn’t flinch. Instead, she sat up as well, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. Her fingers were firm but tender as they held his face, her thumbs brushing gently over his sharp cheekbones, trying to anchor him to the moment, to her. She stared into his lone eye for a long, silent moment, searching for the man she knew beneath the anger.

Aemond’s tense muscles gradually began to relax under her touch. His breath slowed, and the fire in his eye dimmed slightly. He reached up, placing his hand over one of hers, the contact a quiet acknowledgment of the bond they shared. The connection between them, fragile as it was in that moment, held steady.

“I want to protect our daughter,” Maera said quietly, her voice filled with a deep, earnest resolve. “That’s why I let Baela go. I did it for her—for us.”

Aemond’s grip on her hand tightened as he absorbed her words, the tension between them slowly giving way to a mutual understanding, though the unease still lingered. Eventually, the tension between them ebbed, and the pair lay back down, facing each other in the quiet room. The flickering candlelight cast soft shadows on their faces, highlighting the mix of emotions that lingered in their eyes.

Aemond gently pulled Maera into his chest, wrapping his arms around her protectively as he buried his nose in her brown and silver curls. The familiar scent of her hair soothed him, grounding him in the moment. Maera, in turn, pressed her face to his chest, inhaling his scent deeply, a comfort she had always found in his presence.

Breaking the silence, Maera whispered into the stillness, “It has to end with us.” Her voice was steady but laced with exhaustion. “We cannot keep killing, tit for tat.” She tilted her head up, her eyes meeting his. “We need to be better.”

Aemond’s expression softened as he reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her face with a tenderness that belied the storm of emotions within him. He pressed his lips firmly to her forehead, the kiss lingering as if to imprint his love and fears onto her skin. “I don’t want to give them the chance to take you both from me,” he whispered, his voice raw with vulnerability.

Maera sighed, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles on his back as she held him close to her.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

Two days before the turn of the moon, a raven arrived from King's Landing, carrying a letter which bore the seal of the three-headed dragon on black wax—the unmistakable mark of Rhaenyra Targaryen. It was late afternoon when the bird was spotted, its arrival causing a ripple of anticipation among the courtiers. The tension in Dragonstone was palpable, for they all knew what this message could mean. Rhaenyra had waited until the very last possible moment to send her reply, a calculated move to show her reluctance—or perhaps her defiance.

The raven’s message was quickly intercepted and brought directly to the Small Council. The room, usually filled with the murmur of discussions and the clatter of goblets, was eerily quiet as the sealed letter was placed before King Aemond. Every member of the council was present, their eyes fixed on the letter, waiting. The Queen and a few of the councilmen exchanged uneasy glances, their faces lined with the weariness of war, while a few openly displayed their impatience.

Aemond stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding as ever. The Conqueror’s Crown sat heavily upon his brow, a symbol of power that weighed on him both physically and metaphorically. His one remaining eye, sharp and intense, scanned the seal before he broke it with deliberate calm. The room, including Maera, collectively held their breath, the tension so thick it felt as if the air itself might shatter.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond unfurled the parchment, the rustle of paper the only sound in the room. His gaze moved across the lines of ink, taking in the words written by a woman who was supposed to be his eldest sister, but was now was his greatest enemy. He paused for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he began to read aloud.

Maera,

Your letter reaches me in a time where peace seems as elusive as the dawn after a long, unending night. I commend your optimism, but I fear your proposed terms are not only unachievable but a mockery of the oaths sworn to my House. My father, King Viserys, named me his heir, and the Realm bent the knee to me. Those who have since turned their backs on that solemn pledge are nothing less than traitors, and traitors will be met with fire and blood.

The Queen sat with her head cradled in her hands, the weight of her crown pulling it slightly askew. The Valyrian crown, set with sapphires and rubies, glittered faintly in the candlelight, a reminder of her high station that now felt more like a burden than a privilege. As the contents of the letter were laid bare, a groan of dismay escaped her lips, muffled by the shield of her hands.

There may have been a path to peace, once. Even after the brutal slaying of my beloved son Lucerys, I harbored some small hope that the conflict could end without further tragedy. But now Jacaerys is dead, felled by the arrows of your fleet, and my youngest, sweet Viserys, has been stolen from me—no doubt also claimed by death. You ask for peace, Maera, yet you have taken nearly all that I hold dear. I do not desire peace; I crave vengeance.

Maera’s head shot up, her green eyes narrowing with concern. Her brother Dermot had written to her frequently, detailing the boy’s health and well-being after he had taken him hostage for the Greens. Prince Viserys was safe and well, and had actually grown quite fond of his captor, but his guardian constantly moved him from one hidden location to another across the vast expanse of Essos.

Dermot’s letters were filled with a constant undercurrent of fear—that one misstep, one breach of secrecy, could see Viserys fall into the wrong hands, for not all in Essos were friendly. A silver-haired boy could fetch a handsome price.

The horror I felt at the state in which my stepdaughter was returned to me is beyond words. While she lives, the scars she bears, both on her flesh and in her soul, are grievous, and her dragon, who was born to her, is dead. Aemond, your husband, chose you well, it seems. You both share a streak of ruthlessness, though you wield mercy as if it were a blade, sharp and cutting.

Maera’s gaze flickered around the room, studying the faces of the councilmen. Most of them appeared unperturbed by the letter’s contents, as though Rhaenyra’s rejection of peace was a foregone conclusion. In fact, there was a glint in some of their eyes, a barely concealed satisfaction. They seemed almost eager, relishing the thought of resuming the war with full force. To them, the rejection was not a setback but an opportunity—a chance to finish what had been started and claim victory, no matter the cost.

Under different circumstances, she would have risen to chastise them for their lack of empathy, for their blind craving for brutality that would only prolong the cycle of violence. Her words would have been sharp, reminding them of the lives lost on both sides, of the families torn apart, of the children who would never know peace. But as Aemond continued reading, the next words from Rhaenyra stole the breath from her lungs.

If you are wise, good-sister, you will continue to ask the Mother for guidance, for the day is coming when you will need it more than ever. Pray for Aemond's soul, for his sins are many and grievous. And I urge you to hold your daughter close, for in these dark times, children can be ripped away as easily as a whisper in the wind.

Rhaenyra Targaryen,

First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

Her stomach dropped, the world around her blurring as the words echoed in her mind. She felt the blood drain from her face, her skin growing cold with the icy grip of fear. Her eyes instinctively sought out Aemond’s, desperate for some sign of reassurance, but all she saw was a fury that matched the fire of his dragon. His anger was palpable, radiating from him like heat from a forge, but Maera’s own fear was a different beast—raw, visceral, and utterly paralyzing.

Without a word, Maera stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor as she pushed it back. She took a few unsteady steps away from the table, her breaths shallow and rapid as she fought to maintain her composure. The walls of the council chamber felt as though they were closing in on her, the room suddenly stifling and suffocating. She knew she could not let the council see her like this, could not afford to show any weakness, but the tears threatened to overflow, her hands trembling as she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

Disgust churned in her stomach, a bitter taste in her mouth as she thought of Rhaenyra—the mother who had lost a daughter, who had known the pain of such a loss, and yet would threaten the life of another’s child. It was beyond cruel; it was evil. Maera could hardly believe it, yet the words were there, in black ink on parchment. Even if Rhaenyra had not penned the words herself, she had approved them, allowed them to be sent.

Across the room, she heard the smug, rasping voice of the Master of Whispers, Larys Strong. “I trust,” he began, his tone dripping with false civility, “that all present can now see Rhaenyra the Cruel cannot be reasoned with.” His words were calculated, designed to stoke the fires of war, and Maera’s heart burned with anger. She shot him a glare so fierce that it could have cut through steel. Her eyes locked onto his, brimming with contempt. But Larys merely lowered his gaze, seemingly in deference, yet Maera caught the briefest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, low and edged with warning. “Larys,” he said, his tone enough to make anyone else in the room flinch. The Master of Whispers quickly dropped his gaze further, the smirk fading as he adopted a mask of humility, but Maera could still feel the air of satisfaction around him.

Before she could gather her thoughts, the Hand of the King, Criston Cole, pushed back his chair and stood. His armor-clad form was a pillar of unyielding resolve as he addressed the council. “It is crucial, that we move forward with our plans immediately,” he said, his voice firm. “Too much time has already been wasted in these fruitless attempts to placate Rhaenyra.” His words were blunt, a rallying cry for the war hawks at the table, and Maera felt her heart sink further.

Maera’s eyes swept across the room as she returned to her seat, taking in the faces of those who surrounded her. The small council had become a gathering of soldiers rather than strategists. Lord Unwin Peake, her previous ally, had already departed for Tumbleton, intent on bringing the Dragonseeds to heel, and now it was clear from the letter that all remaining hopes for a peaceful resolution had been extinguished. Aemond, with his crown of Valyrian steel and intent to secure his claim, was ready to do whatever it took, and the lords present—each one hungry for power, for glory, for blood—were eager to follow him into battle.

She realized with a pang of sorrow that her own efforts had been for nothing. The letter she had sent, the mercy she had shown to Baela—all of it was dismissed, seen not as a last, desperate grasp at peace but as a weakness, a hindrance to the inevitable march toward war. The men in this room were too far gone, too consumed by their own ambitions and thirst for vengeance to see the value in what she had tried to achieve. Maera stood there, surrounded by powerful men, and yet she had never felt so alone. Then, a voice broke through the clamor of her thoughts, cutting through the fog of her despair.

“Rhaenyra believes another of her sons is dead,” the voice stated, calm and measured, yet laced with the kind of calculated thought that sent a chill down Maera’s spine. “Perhaps this could be used to our advantage.”

Maera blinked, her gaze snapping upward in surprise. The voice belonged to none other than the Grand Maester. He stood with an air of calmness that contrasted sharply with the urgency of the situation, his violet eyes scanning the faces of the other council members with the detachment of a man used to navigating the treacherous waters of power and politics.

For a moment, Maera was stunned. This man, her estranged grandfather, felt like a myth mere months ago, his appearance at court feeling like a rejection of her family through his abandonment of her late mother. But there Vaegon was, speaking up at a time when she had felt most alone, offering a perspective that acknowledged the significance of Rhaenyra’s letter in a way that no one else had. The older man also offered an alternative path, whilst ruthless in nature, could also be seen as brilliant. In Vaegon’s words, she heard a validation of her efforts, even if they had taken a dark and unexpected turn.

For the first time in what felt like hours, she allowed herself to breathe. The feeling of isolation began to recede, replaced by a new resolve. Maera straightened in her seat, her gaze meeting Vaegon’s across the table. He gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible, but to Maera, it spoke volumes.

The chamber, already thick with tension, grew colder as the council members reacted to the Grand Maester’s viewpoint. The older Lord Bryndemere, Master of Ships, sat back in his chair, his expression a mixture of weariness and impatience. He tutted loudly, shaking his head as if the entire discussion had been a waste of precious time. "It does not matter now. Rhaenyra has refused the terms."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Alfred Broome, cleared his throat, his armored figure imposing as he addressed the room. He was a man of action, one who measured the weight of a threat by the steel he carried at his side.

"Grand Maester," he began, his voice steady but laced with an underlying fury, “Rhaenyra has done more than simply reject our terms. She has replied with a threat against the infant Princess. This cannot be tolerated."

His words hung in the air like a sword poised to strike. The room fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of the situation pressing down on them all. Maera, who had been silently absorbing the exchange, felt a sigh escape her lips. Only a few weeks ago, the part of her that believed in empathy and understanding might have pushed for Vaegon’s suggestion, clinging to the hope that some resolution could be found without further bloodshed.

But that was long gone. The Mother’s Mercy that had once guided her decisions had dried up the moment Rhaenyra’s cruel words had threatened her daughter. Maera was not just a queen; she was a mother, and no title in the world could overshadow that instinct. The thought of harm coming to Aemara awakened a fierce protectiveness within her, one that blazed hotter than any dragon’s fire. If even a single silver hair on Aemara’s head was harmed, Maera knew with a terrifying clarity that she would gladly burn the Realm to ashes, consequences be damned.

As these dark thoughts swirled within her, she felt the warmth of a hand gently resting on hers. Startled from her reverie, she turned to see her husband, Aemond, the King, standing beside her. His gaze, usually so fierce and commanding, was softened as he looked at her, a rare tenderness in his eye.

For a moment, the room and all its tensions faded away, leaving only the two of them. She was searching for reassurance, for something solid to anchor herself to in this storm of uncertainty. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Aemond..."

Her husband’s gaze never wavered, his grip on her hand firm and steady. "Rhaenyra has made her choice," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "Now it is time to make ours."

There was no hesitation in his words, only the clear, unyielding determination that had always drawn her to him. In his single violet eye, she saw the reflection of her own resolve. After a long, steadying breath, Maera nodded. The softness in her expression hardened into something more resolute. It was time to prepare for the invasion.

Notes: right, let’s see how this goes then 👀 is anything ever straightforward?

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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dancingtotuyo · 7 months ago

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drabble. what's that i see?

Woman | Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: a unexpected discovery brings Joel acceptance.

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy related things, grief, acceptance, fluff?

Notes: no beta, we die like Gabe, Chris, and Paul.

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader! The final part is out now!

Words: 865

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

The sun still sits below the horizon when a hand roams over your middle and the scruff of Joel’s beard scratches your neck. You don’t bother opening your eyes, a half-assed whine leaving your lips. He chuckles softly. “Just obeyin the rules, Sweetheart. About to head out.” He kisses your cheek.

You crane your head back, eyes opening to small slits. He smiles at you. “Be safe,” you barely manage to say.

Joel nods, minty breath hitting your lips as he kisses you. It’s soft and gentle. It feels like a lazy morning spent in bed, meant to lull you back asleep. “Always.” He kisses your head. “See you at dinner.”

He stops in the doorway, looking back at your sleeping form. You're seven months along now, well rounded in your middle. Your ankles and fingers are swollen. He’s noticed the slight waddle develop in your gait as well. It all makes him smile.

You’ve been taking things one day at a time, but neither have you made any preparations for when the baby gets here. No crib. No clothes. No discussions of a name. You still need time, even though the window rapidly is closing.

Joel thinks about it silently sometimes, especially when he can feel them moving about, the small grunts that leave you when you get a fist to the bladder or a foot in your lungs. What will the baby look like? Will they have your eyes? His smile? Will it be a boy or a girl?

You’re unconscious before the bedroom door clicks behind him.

Patrol has picked this neighborhood over a hundred times in the last decade, but Joel and Tommy still stop. They still rummage through a couple houses. As time goes on, people have had to get more creative. Things that once seemed useless have renewed purpose.

Joel hasn’t been in this house before. It’s a single story. Three bedrooms by his calculation. He rummages through linen closets and dresser drawers while Tommy goes through the kitchen. He finds a couple towels. They have a few holes, presumably from moths, but they can be cut down for rags. He finds a couple bars of soap still in boxes shoved to the back of one.

The last door is stuck. He puts his shoulder into it twice before it gives way. His breath catches the moment he takes in the space. Dust floats around, flickering in the sunlight from the intact window. A crib sits in the corner, covered in dust. The sheets are faded with tiny pink flowers and the walls painted in pastel pink.

He takes in a deep breath, blinking back tears. It’s eerily similar to the pink he’d painted Sarah’s walls right after her birth. He’d painted it over with purple a few years later once she expressed her preference. It brings forward a whole slew of emotions that he hadn’t realized were bubbling under the surface.

What if you were carrying a girl? Would it feel like he was replacing her? Rationally, he knew that wasn’t the case. Ellie had carved her own spot in his heart. So had Carter. Would this be different? Would biology make a difference?

Joel clears his throat, pushing away the moisture from his eyes. It’s extra dusty in here, he reasons.

There’s no closet in the room. He opens up the dresser. Once again, Joel freezes. Light muslin swaddles miraculously untouched by time. One has little yellow flowers against white, and the other has bouquets of pink flowers that match the sheets. They each have a solid color pair to match. He picks them up, expecting them to disintegrate in his hands, but they don’t. They only release little puffs of dust into the air as he shakes them out.

The last one catches his eye, purple butterflies. Tears gather in his eyes again. There’s a tugging in his heart. Joel has never thought much about what comes after this life even before the outbreak when there was time to do so. So much of his life has been spent focusing on survival. Wherever Sarah might be, he knows she led him here. He turns around half expecting to see her smiling at him from the corner.

It’s empty, but he still imagines her there. There’s no doubt in his mind you’re carrying his daughter. It’s a surety in his brain, and for the first time, he’s okay with the idea of a girl. Hell, it might be the first time that he’s truly at peace with this pregnancy. She won’t be a replacement or a placeholder for Sarah, but the little sister she spent years begging for. His heart will grow, create a new space just as it did for Ellie and Carter. He knows that because he can feel her telling him that.

Joel nods to the empty corner clearing his throat. He wipes the moisture from his eyes, shoving the swaddles into his backpack. The drawer of clothes isn't as preserved but he manages to find a few options untouched by two decades of moths and other insects.

He carefully tucks the items into his pack. He’ll give them to you when you’re ready.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou #woman (joel’s version)#woman (joel miller)#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #em's fics #pedrostories #pedro stories #ppcu fanfiction

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feathered-serpents · 9 months ago

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Okay so the new adult Gaang movie is coming out next year. I’ve talked on TikTok (and might make a video on this too) about how from the LoK photo it looks like Bumi might be significantly older than their other two kids

He looks ten here, at least, and if we can calculate how old Aang and Katara were when Tenzin was born (Tenzin is 51 in LoK, LoK is 70 years after Avatar, 70-51 is 19, Tenzin was born 19 years after the events of Avatar. Aang and Katara were 31 and 33 when Tenzin was born, if Bumi is ten years older, they were 21 and 23) we can guess they were in their early 20s when Bumi was born. We know they’re supposed to be in their early 20s in the movie

By this timeline, some people were concerned Katara might be pregnant during the movie. But by some rumors I saw, Aang and Katara are meant to be around 24 and 26, so Bumi would have already been born and maybe be feature in the movie as a toddler. Based on Kya and Tenzin’s ages in this photo, it looks like they wouldn’t be born for a few more years, and unless there was a time skip Katara wouldn’t be pregnant in the movie.

But… then I found the leaked concept images

I keep staring at Katara

And I can’t decide. If she looks pregnant here. Her stomach looks slightly rounder, but it’s hard to say if it’s not a trick of the eye from her clothes and shading. I can see it and not see it depending on how I look at the picture.

For the record, I really really don’t want Katara to be pregnant in the movie. I do not want her to be treated as “fragile” or have her entire arc centered around her pregnancy. If she is pregnant, then either the movie age rumors are wrong, they’re retconning the timeline, or that’s not Bumi, but Kya, which is not as direct of a retcon.

I’m hoping to god I’m just seeing this because it’s been commented on my videos a LOT and it’s on my mind. I wouldn’t mind a time skip or a flashback, but please, not the whole movie

#atla #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last airbender #kataang #Aang #katara

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fountainpenguin · 4 months ago

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🌆 Heroes' Journey 🌆

WordGirl

Pulling back the curtain on a world where mere mortals possess wild superpowers, with a focus on WordGirl and Kid Math's mentor-apprentice-equals relationship. Heavy consideration on how superpowers affect society, with emphasis on found families, secrets, and the mortifying ordeal of being known.

#ridwork guides

What Is This AU?

A slice-of-life WordGirl period piece that expands on the worldbuilding and character relationships seen in the show. Worldbuilding is thoughtful, lightly angsty, but mostly lighthearted with a goal to avoid infodumping and serious angst.

Give it up for Rex trying to hide his powers while more and more people grow convinced he's only hiding them due to abusive upbringing. Shout-out to Becky juggling his superhero training with her fractured social life.

AO3 Series - Heroes' Journey

WG Character Study Series - 28 Million Degrees

All WordGirl 'fics - Any series

WordGirl blog tag - #Satirical vocab alien child show

Posts about Rex and Becky as a comedic duo - #LexiHexa duo

Tone

Serious, but sprinkled with fluff and general tomfoolery. Cute and goofy moments interspersed with light relationship drama. Blends cartoony vibes and a thoughtful take on the worldbuilding.

Ex: Chuck has a broken foot that takes him out of the villain game while he recovers. Becky has to do homework. Yet we still have the Narrator and featured words :)

Characters

Heroes' Journey is a relationship study focusing mostly on Becky, Rex, and Huggy. Parents, friend groups, and neighbors play supporting roles.

Factor It In spotlights Rose Franklin, Victor Best, Eileen, and Granny May, as I figured they could use some extra love. Most villains show up at some point in the Heroes' Journey timeline.

Ships

Canon-compliant within the show's timeline. For me, this means Tobey has a crush on WordGirl, who doesn't reciprocate. Becky has a crush on Scoops, and Scoops/Violet is mutual. Also, Brent/Miss Question, who I definitely don't call [‽] in my head.

Romantic ships are not a big focus in the series as I prefer emphasis on friendships and rivalries, but you'll see romance in the background. Exposition Guy/Exposition Guy's Wife OTP SWEEP! ... Tim and Sally are there too, I guess.

- I write Becky as asexual with no interest in sex, pregnancy, or kids. She loves romance books and would like a fairytale romance, but... her true love is unlearning guilt, taking breaks, and finding peace with herself, I think :)

- Rex sort of has a crush on her, by which I mean he's convinced it's "obvious" the two alien superheroes will end up together. I see them growing up to have a pretty queerplatonic relationship. As he grows, he also develops a crush on Violet (She's kind to him) and Tobey (He uses calculations to build robots; idk what you expected).

- It's important to me that you know Rex is bisexual and when he's an adult, he will tell you this and giggle because "bisect" is a math term and he thinks it's funny every time he says it.

Setting

Fair City, which I've set in the state of Washington (Spotted owls and sasquatches represent!)

"AlgoRhythm" takes place December 1997 and the main 'fic - Factor It In - opens January 1998. This series may range from as early as Huggy's pilot years and Becky's infancy to as late as their adulthood.

Is It For Me?

If you like Becky, Huggy, Rex, the Narrator, thoughtful character relationships, and deeper worldbuilding about life in a world of superpowers, this series may be up your alley! I strive for canon-compliancy for pieces set during show canon.

I try to spotlight less popular characters in the show. Popular villains like Dr. Two-Brains are definitely there, but I try to give folks like Hal Hardbargain, Timmy Timbo, and the Coach their chance to shine as well (both as villains and civilians).

I have no "Becky's family finds out she's WordGirl reveal planned for this story," at least not in Becky's youth.

Major Themes

Expectations, pressure, stability, control, culture, conforming vs. self-expression, envy, trust, pride, guilt, secret-keeping, growth, self-reflection, moving on, and found family

Plot Highlights

- "AlgoRhythm" follows Kid Math as WordGirl introduces him to the Evil Villains Association at an overstimulating party.

- Factor It In bridges the gap between Rex's arrival in "Kid Math" and his cameos in both his Rex and Kid Math clothes in later episodes.

Other works in this series further develop the relationship between straightforward Rex and wishy-washy Becky, with plots ranging from teaching Rex about life on Earth to teaching Becky about the culture of Lexicon and Hexagon.

- Generally, the vibe is that Kid Math is inexperienced and therefore falls for tricks that don't feel WordGirl, so people try to take advantage of him. He gets frustrated when he doesn't understand why he has to follow certain rules and she gets frustrated by his stubborn pride. Shenanigans occur and require problem solving.

- "Flypaper" depicts The Gang in their late teens and young adulthood. Becky is now in college and left Huggy with Rex, who's Fair City's main hero until she returns. She feels detached and uncertain about where she is in life. Also, WordGirl and Super Why speak on a panel together and I badly need you to know.

Ongoing?

I wrote a one-shot in 2018. In 2023, I posted more content. This series is ongoing with infrequent updates at the time of posting.

- On hiatus & in need of buffer building. Intent to finish.

Warnings, notes, and explanations below so readers can learn more about this AU.

👀 Take a Peek

New here? You might like to start with these:

These character studies take place within this universe, though they're not listed as Heroes' Journey content since they focus on side characters:

- "Your family is doing okay" (G - 4400 words) - First meeting of Exposition Guy (Milo) and his to-be wife (Miah)

- "A penny for your thoughts (Oh no)" (G - 7000 words) - A zero-dialogue challenge with Captain Tangent

- "28 Cities" (G - 25k words) - A one-shot series focused on queerplatonic Rhyme and Reason. A taste of childhood with powers vs. without powers. Ongoing, but on hiatus.

Start Reading

Recommended ways to get into the full AU

"AlgoRhythm"

- Get started with a fluffy piece about Kid Math training under WordGirl, then attending a party so she can introduce him to different villains.

- Intro to basics like character dynamics, superpowers, and how Rex thinks

- Fluff, humor, & found family vibes

- Large cast of characters

🗺️ Worldbuilding

- It's rare to be born with powers, but not unheard of. The determining factor is genetics, as is the case with Kid Potato and the Butcher, or the Bests.

-> In-story, there's a character called the Nightmare King: father of Exposition Guy, the Narrator [and his twin], and Invisi-Bill. Their abilities range from semi-omniscience to invisibility, with the Narrator having both.

- Those who have powers are charmed. Doctor Two-Brains is not charmed as he relies on tech, and neither is Captain Tangent, who replies on a curse and his hook.

- Miss Question is not technically classified as charmed due to receiving her powers from lightning. However, she's found acceptance in the charmed community and she can use the label if she wants to. Chuck IS technically charmed, but doesn't identify with the label because he doesn't consider himself to have powers; it's just part of his family history.

-> Chuck would register as charmed on a blood test while Miss Question would not.

- It can take years for powers to show themselves. Most people show theirs as a toddler or during puberty. It's very rare for someone to spontaneously discover powers as an adult. There is seemingly no limit to the types of powers people can have. 1 power is the standard, but some people have as many as 3. It's very, very rare to have more than 3.

-> Rhyme has about 4 powers depending on how you classify things like super strength and durability alongside her super speed and freeze breath. Her dad has wind powers and her mom had water powers. Her family has a long history of charmed genes while Reason's has a long history of none.

- Charmed individuals may study in public school or in specialized charm schools that tailor teaching and accommodations to better suit them. Becky fears that if her parents learn about her flight and super strength, they'll send her to charm school (away from her friends).

-> Becky and Rex are not charmed because they're aliens; their powers follow special rules. However, Becky is "out" as a charmed individual who can speak with monkeys.

- All Lexiconians and Hexagonians have the potential for superhuman abilities. However, these abilities are nullified when they're on their planets, which contain trace amounts of Lexonite / Hexanite in the soil and ground them like average people.

-> Rex was raised with the intention of leaving Hexagon to pursue life as a hero somewhere else. He has the book knowledge for his powers, but no practical experience until coming to Earth.

- During Factor It In, Rex tries to conceal his powers while moving between foster homes, unaware that his caseworker found out about his quick healing and flight. Miah hints to him several times that she and Milo [Exposition Guy] are "a very charm-friendly household."

-> Flight is a rare ability. Miah suspects Rex may be lying low to avoid being traced by an abusive supervillain relative. Beyond that, she's surprised he would hide his powers, as it's not like they're unheard of in this world.

- There's a lot of depth to my takes on Lexiconian and Hexagonian culture, such as Lexicon being more into exploring nature and hunting or gathering food while Hexagon is more into mechanical things and agriculture. Rex is scared of storms because he grew up on a planet that had weather under control, and it's overstimulating for him.

- Both Rex and Becky have synesthesia. Rex can't read because "that's a Lexiconian's job." Also, Hexagon apparently had unicorns and Becky is jealous. My 'fics trickle details like this in over time.

- Last thing worth mentioning is that Huggy grew up with a lot of simians. Some he's on good terms with, others he has rocky history with, but it's generally accepted that Lexiconian monkeys are very intelligent and make great pilots.

- You can also send an Ask if you want to hear me talk about this world. I tag WordGirl content as #Satirical vocab alien child show

📋 Notes & Warnings

- Canon-typical violence (It's taken seriously and people do get injured, but the vibe is what you'd expect for goofy superhero content).

-> Cuts, scrapes, and wooziness are fair game, but no blood or gore. The most serious injury is probably Chuck's broken foot.

-> You should assume all robots are fair game to be destroyed.

-> No serious injuries or character death. Death mentions are backstory only

- Abuse mentions (Adults suspect Rex ran from an abusive home). However, no on-screen abuse besides the basics like family pressure from the Bests and Doctor Two-Brains having a rough go of it.

-> In "28 Cities," it's implied that Rhyme's dad pushed her superhero training pretty far and that she was emotionally and/or physically abused in the process. Reason only hears about this later.

- Rex has canon-typical morbid commentary (which is funny if you take it as "ha ha logic boy" but you could also read it as "Oh that's super dark Rex wtf?")

-> Ex: wanting to tear down the city

- Rare mentions of death (Ex: Rhyme's backstory ("28 Cities") where it's said her dad is a hero turned villain since his hero work didn't pay well enough to provide for Rhyme after his wife died.

More details about Rex's crush on Becky:

Rex sees himself as "Becky's obvious choice in partner someday" and is repeatedly flummoxed when she rejects his elaborate plans to court her 15 years from now.

Becky's asexual with no desire for pregnancy, but as they get older, people definitely try shipping her with Kid Math. She does go out with him in their teens/young adulthood in "A Little Ambiguity," which is a lovely date where no one has childhood baggage weighing them down.

As years pass, a young adult Becky starts seriously debating if she should "settle" with him because there are just so many parts of marrying Rex that are easier than trying to date other people, like the fact that he knows her superhero identity, doesn't think she's fragile, and he can take care of himself in the event that he's targeted.

-> It's the inherent angst of "I don't want kids anyway and I would really like a companion and he knows me so well, but WOW is he going to be so smug about it and I hate that."

It's this weird QPR where Becky's not sure if she feels "love" in the ways it's commonly defined and she's upset and burned out and lonely. Meanwhile Rex has gone on lots of dates, but always felt like she was the clearly logical option. Ah yes, Lexiconian definition crisis meets Hexagonian practicality.

-> I can't even say that I ship them because I Don't Romantically, but I need to study her chronic wishy-washiness & his refusal to look beyond surface-level understanding of things. Do u see my vision?

- All my WordGirl 'fics

- Want more info? Send an Ask!

You can create works based on this AU. Please cite me and/or the AU as appropriate (i.e. for things very specific to this AU). You are free to expand on ideas you've thought of thanks to my AU as a jumping off point. I'd love to reblog or link things to my AO3 works if I see them!

I write content with morally gray characters. Please don't portray my story events or worldbuilding out of context with intentional malice. As in, I request you do not post things created for the specific intention of bashing me or the AU

#WordGirl #Kid Math #ridwork guides #ridwriting #apparently art #Grammar queen #Arithmetic Lad #AlgoRhythm #Factor It In #Satirical vocab alien child show #LexiHexa duo #Long post #Rhyme and Reason

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tsukisnapey · 2 months ago

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Be My Lady Chapter 11

In a scandal that has rocked the wizarding world, The Oracle has obtained shocking new evidence that Draco Malfoy, once considered a reformed pure-blood elitist, has been carrying on a sordid affair with none other than Pansy Parkinson – and the scandal doesn't stop there. We can confirm that Parkinson is seven months pregnant, despite Malfoy's "amicable" divorce from his wife Hermione Granger being finalized only three months ago.

What was once believed to be a respectful, mutual separation between Malfoy and Granger, now appears to be nothing more than a charade hiding a betrayal of the worst kind. Sources close to the Malfoy family tell us that tensions have been running high for months, but nothing prepared us for the truth that would soon come to light.

The high-society couple, often regarded as a symbol of unity between former rivals in the post-War era, announced their separation earlier this year. Both Malfoy and Granger issued statements suggesting the split was mutual and civil, wishing each other "the best in future endeavors." However, behind the well-manicured facades, it appears Draco had other "future endeavors" in mind much earlier than the public knew.

In an explosive revelation, The Oracle has uncovered Ministry records confirming that Pansy Parkinson is in her third trimester, with her due date rapidly approaching. This timeline directly conflicts with the official divorce documents, which were signed just three months ago. Simple math raises unsettling questions – was Draco Malfoy entangled with his former Slytherin flame while still married to Hermione? The answer, it seems, is a resounding yes.

The Malfoy family, long known for its wealth, influence, and supposed rehabilitation, has now found itself drowning in disgrace. Draco's father, Lucius Malfoy, is said to be livid behind the closed doors of Malfoy Manor, and was said to support his former daughter-in-law by giving a massive settlement from Draco's inheritance.

Sources close to the family allege that Hermione Granger, who has remained silent in the face of the growing controversy, was blindsided by the affair. Insiders suggest that while Hermione had agreed to an amicable separation, it was Pansy Parkinson's pregnancy that ultimately forced her hand, leaving no room for reconciliation.

But what of Pansy Parkinson? The once-vicious, pure-blood supremacist who bullied Hermione during their Hogwarts years has wormed her way into Draco's life, reestablishing old connections, and now carrying his child. Her reappearance has cast a shadow of suspicion over her motives, with many wondering if this pregnancy was a calculated move to secure a place in the Malfoy fortune.

For Draco Malfoy, this scandal threatens to dismantle the carefully crafted image he has worked so hard to build post-Hogwarts. Once aligned with Voldemort's Death Eaters, Draco attempted to turn over a new leaf after the Dark Lord's defeat. Marrying Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born and war hero, was a significant part of that redemption arc. But it appears old habits die hard, as Malfoy has returned to the company of pure-blood supremacists like Parkinson.

"The Malfoys have always been concerned about legacy, but now all they're leaving behind is disgrace," said one insider. "This isn't just a family drama; this is a full-blown catastrophe for the Malfoy name."

"Whatever public face they're putting on this divorce, it's a war behind the scenes," said a legal insider. "Hermione's done playing nice."

As for Pansy Parkinson, she has not yet made any public statement regarding her pregnancy or her role in the affair. However, it's undeniable that her silence speaks volumes. Is she biding her time, preparing to make her move once the Malfoy divorce is finalized? With Draco by her side and a baby on the way, Parkinson's reentry into high society appears to be imminent.

The revelation of Parkinson's pregnancy only adds fuel to the speculation that this affair has been going on far longer than anyone realized, possibly since before the cracks in Malfoy and Granger's marriage became public knowledge.

One thing is for certain – the Malfoy name may never recover from this scandal.

#ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #hermione granger #lucius malfoy #dramione

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getvalentined · 1 year ago

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Content warnings on this post: Pregnancy and its associated biological weirdness, premature birth, seizures, fleeting mention of suicide, and my favorite character in the entire world getting shot. Discretion is advised.

So I've been trying to figure out a way to calculate roughly what point in Lucrecia's pregnancy her big seizure occurred, leading to Vincent confronting Hojo and getting shot. We know it was in 1977, and I've always assumed it was fairly late (because Sephiroth was probably born on Christmas, see link above for justification), but there's not actually much of anything in canon to confirm or refute this assumption.

Only, actually, it turns out that there is. It's so far off the path of things that are common knowledge that it's fallen off the edge of the continent, but it's there.

This is...very long, but please bear with me, because this is the best example of the timeline of this series being staggeringly internally consistent that I've ever seen.

Lucrecia's seizure was caused by Jenova, because it's super similar to the seizures Cloud has in Advent Children. This is weird, because while not stated in the games, there is a very specifically phrased blurb in the Crisis Core Complete Guide stating that Lucrecia was never personally exposed to Jenova cells while carrying Sephiroth:

[Description in alt text. Credit to jeange1231 and Shinra Archaeology on the bird app.]

Given that we don't have in-series canon that contradicts this, I have no issue with accepting it's canonicity. (This is what meta is for. Filling in gaps. Not contradicting the actual games.)

So the zygote/fetus that eventually became Sephiroth was treated in utero, with the assumption that it wouldn't spread to Lucrecia. I won't go into detail on the science here, but it makes sense that Gast and Co. made this assumption, given the existence of the placental barrier and the fact that Project S took place in the late 1970s, when we didn't understand these things as well as we do now. (We still do not understand them very well but that's neither here nor there.)

Cell migration between mother and child is a known phenomenon that isn't well understood, but occurs in a staggering number of pregnancies—it may occur in all pregnancies and simply not persist, but in humans it's been shown to persist for decades. (Basically everything I say about this is going to come from the paper linked above.) In humans it's known to occur no earlier than 10 weeks into a pregnancy. The paper doesn't seem to indicate the latest point it's known to occur in humans, which is interesting, but even if it only takes place for a very limited amount of time, that doesn't throw this off in the slightest.

According to the blurb above, Lucrecia canonically experienced cell migration, essentially being infected with Jenova by the unborn Sephiroth, but not in such a way that anyone caught it—or at least not until it was too late. If the cell migration itself was the event responsible for the seizure that pushed Vincent to confronting Hojo, that means that Sephiroth absolutely couldn't have been born in 1977, much less on Christmas. Vincent was shot no earlier than October 13th, and cell migration occurs around 10-12 weeks.

But the seizure didn't happen at 10-12 weeks. It couldn't have—Sephiroth's strain of Jenova is unique in that it responds to his will specifically. Without his will, it's not really active, which we see all throughout the Compilation. Cloud only wakes up at the end of Crisis Core around the time that Sephiroth starts calling for Reunion, and he's not cognizant until that call is loud enough to start drawing other Clones out of hiding; likewise, he appears to be in remission between Meteorfall and the events of Advent Children, at which point he starts having seizures of his own in response to Sephiroth gathering enough power to pull at his strings for the first time in years.

Fetal brain development kicks into high gear at the onset of the third trimester, roughly 28 weeks into a traditional 40 week pregnancy. (Interestingly, in mice, cell migration only seems to occur 2 weeks into a pregnancy, which is the equivalent of the onset of the third trimester because lab mice have a total gestational period of about 3 weeks.)

The third trimester is the point when Sephiroth began to have a will with which to pull at the unique strain of Jenova cells that had migrated from him to Lucrecia. With that in mind, we can say with a decent level of confidence that Lucrecia's seizure took place in the third trimester, around 26-28 weeks in.

And here's where it all comes together.

Assuming that Sephiroth was born on Christmas of 1977, at or close to full term (38-40 weeks), this would put his conception around the end of March. If he was conceived at the end of March, do you know when the third trimester starts?

The first or second week of October.

The earliest date that Vincent could have been shot is October 13th, 1977, because he was 27 years old at the time, and he was born in 1950. Hojo shot Vincent when he confronted him about Lucrecia's seizure.

I'd always had the headcanon that Sephiroth was premature, but taking actual human gestation into account—combined with the nature of Lucrecia's seizure and the confirmation that her strain of Jenova comes from Sephiroth specifically via cell migration—makes this line up so perfectly that I have to admit that this headcanon is directly refuted by actual canon. Sephiroth may have been a week or two early, but not enough to worry. He was a perfectly healthy baby, born at a perfectly acceptable term.

And he was born on Christmas, because he was conceived in late March, because Lucrecia's seizure happened around the onset of the third trimester, which occurred in early to mid-October, which is the earliest possible timeframe that Vincent could have been shot for confronting Hojo about it.

This is so internally consistent that the real world facts and features of human gestation line up without causing a single wave. I'm losing my fucking mind.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

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orcelito · 2 months ago

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Ok I'm putting this here under a cut bc it's kind of long but here's my dad vash au ramblings copy pasted from discord specifically regarding Timings

so they calculate pregnancies start day by the first day of your last period. But if you don't know it (or don't have one, like if ur on T), ovulation happens Approximately 2 weeks after the start of the last period. And ovulation is approximately when conception would happen. Aka the "start" day is actually 2 weeks before the occasion where he gets pregnant. Which Matters, bc I decided baby birthday is April 19th. And the fic starts around vash's birthday. 40 weeks out (average pregnancy duration) from July 21st is April 27th. This means to hit April 19th from 40 weeks earlier, it'd be Approximately a week before his birthday when it'd start, which means it's Approximately a week *after* his birthday when conception would happen.

And going from There. Morning sickness starts at 4-6 weeks (or later), though it's most commonly at 6 weeks. Common pregnancy tests won't even detect it until week 4 or so. SO if I'm going by the "vash has been feeling morning sickness for like a week before he tests", that'd put him at week 5 or 6 ish. Which would be 3 or 4 weeks after conception, 4 or 5 weeks after his birthday.

For. A general timeline hfskfhskfhs

#speculation nation #dad vash au #pregnancy ment/#i have been putting in TOO MUCH EFFORT for every part of this research #but if i state two exact dates then i Have to make them line up or i will Die #this is kind of spoilers for the fic but also not really?? not big spoilers at least.#like idk theres baby and he fucked around his birthday. you know.#im learning a lot tho i will admit. im going to be a mini expert on pregnancy and childrearing (for someone who has experienced Neither) lol

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lix88888 · 1 year ago

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I would like to hear about eldritch family relationships, yes!

Also I mostly asked that because I was wondering if at any point ink nearly broke errors hand and cursed his name while he was delivering the twins. It sounds like it wasn’t that bad for him tho.

So the twins were born into the multiverse, and at the same time their eldritch forms were off chilling in eldritch land?

What was error and ink’s introduction to the concept of ‘the deed’? Did ink just see some AUs where people did it and thought he’d give it a try?

You don't know how much you made my day! Okay, I'll leave the ramble about the Errorink family for last, under a read more

As for the rest, I think Error's hand is fine lol. I recently read how @askfriskandcompany thinks about skeleton pregnancy on the side stories, and I think it's something I will start incorporating in my own headcanons: basically, after the deed, skeletons don't form ectobodies, but they have something that is described as a "bubble", floating stomach-height thanks to magic, in which the little skeleton grows and grows until it pops and here's the baby (almost all other monsters are super jealous, they have to go into labour). So, it's kinda like an egg? Super cool worldbuilding and makes sense (why go through all the trouble of making a body for 9 months? Nature is energy efficient).

And yeah, that's basically it: as already stated, Ink, Error and the kids have bodies, but they're more like avatars (actually, kinda like in the Avatar Movie, where the body is there, but if it breaks the soldiers wakes up in a pod).

Ink already knew about sex from when he first examined Gaster's mind before creating the Multiverse: basically, everything that Gaster knew, consciously or subconsciously, Ink also knows, and then he used Gaster's presence to peek inside the Original Undertale and get all kinds of details Gaster couldn't possibly know.

And now, Errorink family!

I and @stargazeraldroth have quite a few headcanons regarding Errorink, PJ and Gradient in general, and those tend to transfer in most works, so this is valid for Eldritchtale, but also usually for any of my other works.

The first thing is PJ and Gradient's personality and powers: PJ and Gradient are both similar and opposites in a lot of ways. Physically, PJ looks more like Ink, while Gradient looks more like Error, but this doesn't reflect exactly in their personality.

PJ is surly, rude and sarcastic, so personality-wise they're a lot more similar to Error than they are to Ink, and this includes their propension to destruction and violence rather than creation and art; Gradient, meanwhile, is soft-spoken, shy, socially awkward, a rather talented artist and a bit of a people-pleaser, so he got Ink's personality more than Error's.

(In many other AUs, I always headcanon that, if Error and Ink were to die/retire, PJ would become the next Destroyer and Gradient the next Protector for this reason).

However, if we go deeper, we can see that PJ cares a lot about things, that they're very loyal and driven, even if they can be impulsive (this is Ink's side coming through); following the same reasoning, Gradient is nice, but he can be calculating and obsessive, and even cruel if push comes to shove (this is all Error).

To explain with an example, if PJ wants revenge on you, they'd probably just shout at you or beat you up if you deserved it, but then they'd let it go; Gradient, on the other hand, would probably act nice to your face and then hit you were it hurts when you least expect it.

Basically, PJ is the brawns and Gradient is the brains.

In terms of powers, both kids can use either creative or destructive powers, though they each prefer one side (Gradient creation, and PJ destruction), but they also have another type of power: PJ has power over time, while Gradient has power over space. So, PJ can create time loops, go forward and bacwards in time a bit, see different branches in timelines, while Gradient can teleport effortlessly through the Multiverse better than anyone else, create portals linking places together, make pocket dimensions.

(@stargazeraldroth wrote a throwaway line in a story about PJ and Gradient working together to create a never ending corridor as a prank by combining their powers, and I think this sums up their relationship perfectly).

All of this to kinda contextualize, what is their relationship with each other and their parents?

The twins are very close, best friends, and together they're an unstoppable tag-team (if they decide you're dead, you're dead); whevener they fight, it's always resolved quickly, and there's no hard feelings.

Regarding Ink, both kids are mama's boys: very affectionate with Ink, just as protective as their dad. PJ is a bit louder about it ("What did you say to my mom?!") but Gradient is a bit more proactive ("Oh my, you tripped? How unlucky..."). Ink the one that also disciplines them more often, because Error doesn't care about the mess they make inside the Multiverse as long as it doesn't affect him lol. Gradient is a bit closer with Ink, because he shares similar interests, while PJ will willingly spend time with Ink painting, but doesn't enjoy it themselves.

Error is a bit more hands off, but it doesn't mean he loves the kids any less: he rarely tells them he loves them or that he's proud, but he knows and remembers everything they tell him/talk about, and gives them thoughtful gifts taking those things into account. When he spends time with Gradient, it's them together in silence doing things they both enjoy, while with PJ it's a bit meaner, but the fun kind ("You ready, brat?" "bring it on, old man!").

One last thing that Error and PJ both share? Their dislike of Dream lmao, because given his upbringing, he developed some confusing feelings for Ink: the poor guy idolized Ink from a young age, so he's in-between wanting a parental bond with him and having a crush, and neither option is something Error or PJ like, despite the fact that Ink would never replace either of them with Dream. Ah, they're jealous, what can you do?

All in all, they're very close and happy together.

#undertale #ink sans #error sans #errorink #lix writes #writing #paperjam #gradient sans #errorink family #eldritchtale

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melishade · 1 year ago

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Optimus, after finding out Ymir is pregnant

"Okay, here's the plan..."

Megatron, after finding out about the pregnancy

*deactivates his holoform, followed by the sound of a jet engine in the distance*

Previous Episode of the Peaceful Timeline

Glad we're on the same page with the pregnancy process.

Also I just talked about it with @justawannabearchaeologist @echoblaze5 and @badgerdigsbones

But Megatron wouldn't ditch. But he would be visibly panicking, and Optimus has to call them all into the meeting where he's showing everyone all the notes he calculated on the wall regarding Ymir's pregnancy the first time around. And even though Optimus is more prepared than he was last time, he's pretty much acting like a mother hen and its stressing everyone out. He's making sure Ymir has a good diet, albeit restricting at a few points. He's making sure she's not pushing herself. However, he's had quite a few arguments with Oshern over what he's baking. Optimus is still trying to figure out which ingredients are harmful to her. Oshern has served his food to pregnant women, and they and their babies have turned out completely fine! Don't insult his work! Megatron is greatly amused at the sight. It's the first time they've seen real visible anger out of the Baker. He's quite patient.

Initially, Ymir gets it. Hell, she's very worried about the pregnancy with Rose because of what she and them had to go through. On top of Ymir learning to heal from her mental and emotional trauma, being a teen mother didn't help her body at all. Optimus does reassure her that things are different from before. They weren't on the run, they had a family, all that stuff. But when Ymir sees Optimus kind slip into this controlling nature it worries her. Because before, Optimus didn't really have anyone to talk to during the process and he had to figure it out without worrying Ymir. And when Megatron showed up in the last two months, there was a lot of tension and hostility.

She gets it. Optimus had to burden so much alone the first time around, but its affecting everyone the way he's been acting. She does sit him down and they do have a private conversation about it. Ymir ultimately reminds him of what he told her: that they weren't alone. That he wasn't alone. That things were different and they had support and stability. It was going to be okay and he needed to share his burdens. This wasn't healthy for him. Optimus apologizes and promises he'll try to do better. His vow is just coming into play and he wants her safe. Ymir hugs him and rubs his back in comfort. However now, if Optimus steps out of line and doesn't listen to others, Megatron benches him by putting him in a literal timeout corner. Literally hauls his ass there and he's swearing in Cybertronian along the way. Optimus channels his feral mode for a bit.

Maria:…Papa’s acting weird.

Megatron hauling Optimus over his shoulder: Believe me Firelight. This is not the weirdest Optimus has ever acted.

Optimus, in Cybertronian: Put me down Megatron or I will rip your spark from your chest and take the dark energon from your spark and stab you in the face with it!

Megatron: Time out time is extended to an hour.

Optimus hisses like a cat in response.

And even though Megatron is calmer than Optimus in this scenario, he’s still fairly doting. He’ll take on tasks for Ymir, even though she might be completely capable of doing it herself in that period of the pregnancy. Ymir’s annoyed and asks why Megatron is doing that, and Megatron is explaining that it’s him making up for the shit way he acted the first time she was pregnant. He was only there for the last few months of the pregnancy. He didn’t really understand it and he didn’t have a high opinion on humans at the time. So he didn't treat Ymir fairly. He has a better understanding now and this is his way of saying sorry to her.

However, Megatron is not going to be on hand holding duty again! He's making Oshern do that and commits to helping him build his arm strength while he's at it. Sometimes through arm wrestling, sometimes through other stuff.

Oshern: This is an attempt to kill me, isn't it?

Megatron positioning his arm on the table: First of all, if I kill you, it's not going to be as simple as breaking your arm. Second, this is my attempt at being nice to you, so I suggest you take it. Third, your conjunx shattered the holoform arm when Firelight was born, so what exactly do you think she's going to do to yours?

Oshern:...okay fine. Let's get this over with.

Oshern is on the floor the first day, but he is prepared when the delivery day comes. And his increase in arm strength helps with his job, so there was an underlying benefit.

After Rose is born, there is a huge sigh of relief from all parties that the delivery turned out safely. Once Ymir feels better to move around, she does hug Optimus and thanks him for all of his help. She also says thank you to Megatron for being kinder to her this time around.

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onlycosmere · 2 years ago

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Potential timeline discrepancies and their resolutions

jofwu: Someone in the last spoiler stream pointed out that there's an OB flashback where Evi is pregnant, and it reads like it's referring to Adolin. But the timing doesn't work out. They supposed she could have had a miscarriage, and it's just never mentioned in the books. The explanation technically fits... But I doubt it was the intent.

The timeline of the group traveling in Shadesmar in Oathbringer is kind of wacky. The time from Kholinar to Celebrant is extremely asymmetrical with the travel time from there to Thaylen City. I'll be curious to see if they tweak a mention or two of time passing in the OB leatherbound down the road...

In TWoK it reads like Kaladin spends MANY weeks in Bridge Four before he goes to the Honor Chasm. But when you do the math it's something like two weeks? (ten Rosharan days) One of those things where there's nothing technically wrong, but doesn't seem to have been the intent.

Another goofy one is that Shallan spent 6 months chasing Jasnah around by ship to petition to be her ward. Which, when you look at travel times elsewhere in the books, is pretty ridiculous. Did they like, sail around the whole continent once or twice?

The single biggest issue, in my opinion, is that the whole Veden civil war happens in about a month. Navani shares the news about the Assassin in White murdering King Hanavanar at the end of TWoK. That's what sparks the war. Then you have Taravangian showing up in Vedenar in Words of Radiance, prior to the Everstorm, at the end of the war. The Thrill was involved, and tensions were building for a long while... But I'm not sure how they fought a whole war (with their level of technology) in a single month in a country that large.

Peter Ahlstrom:

I asked Karen about these. She says:

Evi's pregnancy

OB CH 36, where Evi is pregnant, is timestamped 24 years ago.OB CH 49, where Adolin is born, is timestamped 23 years ago.A pregnancy on Roshar takes seven of their months. We give the timestamps half a year of leeway.

Shadesmar travel time

I don't have the calculations handy, but we certainly did them. The ship they got from Celebrant was faster than the one they took getting there, and it took them far enough that they could do a forced march to Thaylen City at a specific number of miles per day and arrive on time. We REALLY spent a lot of time getting this right.

Honor Chasm timing

Kaladin is in Bridge Four 18 days before going to the Honor Chasm. He was already close to suicidal before joining.

Shallan chasing Jasnah

It really depends on how directly they traveled and how long they stay in port. The Wind's Pleasure could have gone back and forth to smaller ports with shipments before they could find one going to the city she wanted to go to.

Veden Civil War

I see it as having been a few small battles in each princedom, but then everyone saw a chance to be king and they converged on Vedenar. That left power vacuums in the princedoms and smaller landlords fought there. I don't think that most of the country was in as bad shape as Vedenar.

#the stormlight archive #oathbringer #cfsbf #brandon sanderson #word of peter #root #long post

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fanficapologist · 3 months ago

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

The plan was bold, a coordinated strike meant to take the Capital by surprise from every direction, with fire and steel raining down from the sky and the sea. Word had already been dispatched to Lord Unwin, commanding him to call the Dragonseeds to heel and launch an attack from the west. They would unleash their dragons upon the western border of the Crownlands, forcing Rhaenyra’s supporters to divide their forces. From the south, Prince Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother, would lead an assault from the south, rallying the houses in the Stormlands before making his push toward the Capital.

Both Aemond and his Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had a critical role to play. The King and his most trusted advisor were to make their way north to the Riverlands, from where they would descend upon King’s Landing with a force that no one could ignore. Ser Criston would begin by taking Harrenhal, using it as a staging ground to gather their troops. Aemond, riding his mighty dragon Vhagar, would lead the charge on the Capital from the north, burning through any resistance with a fury no force could withstand.

And Maera, though injured and nursing a wounded collarbone, was not to be left behind. Once her body had healed enough to take to the skies again, she would launch her own attack. She would lead the eastern assault on the Capital, riding her powerful blue and black dragon, Ēbrion. Her task was to strike from the east while the fleet of Morne, which she had inherited, sailed into Blackwater Bay below, cutting off King’s Landing from the sea.

The coordinated attack was set to take place in three weeks, once Criston Cole had reached Harrenhal and the ground troops were ready to move. It was a plausible plan, one designed to overwhelm their enemy from all directions. Every piece was carefully placed, every move calculated. Victory seemed certain. Right?

Late one evening, the Queen had gone in search of her husband. Her collarbone still ached, though the maesters assured her it was healing well. She was eager to discuss the final details of the attack, but when she entered the grand hall, she found him sitting upon the throne of Dragonstone. The throne was carved from blackened volcanic stone, its jagged edges sharp and foreboding, much like the man who now sat upon it.

Aemond’s usual poise and control were absent, replaced by a seething fury that rippled through the room like a living thing. His one eye, cold and piercing, was fixed on a letter gripped tightly in his hand, the parchment crumpled from the force of his grip. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched so tightly that Maera could see the muscles twitching beneath his pale skin.

She hesitated at the base of the steps leading up to the ancient chair, her breath catching in her throat. The Kings rigid posture, his stormy expression, told her that something had gone terribly wrong. Steeling herself, she began to climb the steps. Each footstep echoed through the cold, stony chamber, the soft swish of her black and green skirts brushing against her legs as she ascended. The sound of her approach filled the room, but Aemond remained still, his gaze fixed on the far wall, his anger simmering beneath a surface of quiet restraint.

As she reached the top of the steps and stood before him, he didn’t look at her. Instead, he roughly extended a crumpled piece of parchment towards her, his fingers trembling slightly as he released it into her hands. The Queen accepted the letter with careful hands, her heart sinking with each passing second.

She slowly unfurled it, her green eyes darting across the page as the words leapt out at her. It was from Lord Unwin, detailing the progress—or lack thereof—with the Dragonseeds, Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. The news was not good.

She closed her eyes and cast her head back, gazing up at the ceiling as though seeking guidance from the heavens. Silently, she prayed for strength, willing herself to remain composed, though every part of her wanted to scream. The gods, it seemed, were testing her patience, her resolve, her very will to fight.

Aemond’s muttered curse broke the silence. “Fuck.” The word was low, barely above a whisper, but the frustration in his voice was unmistakable. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his anger giving way to the weight of what they had just lost.

"Damn her for her stupidity," he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Rhaenyra's reckless arrogance has loosed this chaos upon the world. Mere men should never have been given the power of a dragon. They think themselves higher than they are. Fools."

Maera remained silent, her eyes fixed on the crumpled letter in her hand. Lord Unwin's detailed account filled her with a rising dread. He had tried to reason with the two Dragonseeds, tried to remind them of the promises made to secure their loyalty—Harrenhal for Hugh Hammer, and Horn Hill for Ulf the White. But those promises no longer held sway. Ulf had become bold, demanding Highgarden instead, his ambition reaching far beyond what was originally offered. It was outrageous, but it was the attitude of Hugh Hammer that stoked Aemond's rage to a near-blinding degree.

Hugh had claimed that none of the Targaryens—neither Rhaenyra nor Aemond—were fit to lead. He mocked them all, proclaiming that they were not gods as they so believed, for even a bastard could claim a dragon. His words dripped with contempt. And then came the final insult: Hugh Hammer had crowned himself, donning a crude black iron circlet and declaring his own claim to the Iron Throne. The audacity of the man was staggering.

As the words sunk in, Maera’s vision blurred with fury. The Dragonseeds were supposed to be pawns in this war—tools to be used and discarded when the time came. Yet, now, they fancied themselves kings and conquerors. The paper crumpled in her hand, the anger building until she could no longer hold it. With a sharp exhale, she hurled the letter across the room, the parchment hitting the stone wall with a soft thud before fluttering uselessly to the floor.

Her voice cut through the tense silence of the chamber, her tone laced with urgency. “What is to be done about it?”

Aemond straightened up on the stony throne, his sharp features shadowed in the dim light. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening as he considered the question. “Lord Unwin is planning a coup,” he replied, his voice gruff with restrained anger. “He intends to kill both cunts before their delusions can spread any further.” His tone was cold, ruthless, but Maera knew it was the only choice. There was no room for mercy with traitors like them.

Crossing his arms, Aemond shifted, his silver hair falling over his shoulder, catching the glint of the low candlelight. His crown sat heavily on his brow, a reminder of the weight they both bore in this war. “As for Vermithor and Silverwing…”he continued, his voice thoughtful now. “We may just have to cut our losses.”

The Queen nodded, her mind turning over the plan. Hugh and Ulf were beyond reasoning, that much was clear. More importantly, they had become dangerous threats to the Greens. With the war pressing in from all sides, they couldn’t afford to fight multiple enemies at once. The Dragonseeds needed to go. As for the dragons, the likelihood of anyone else successfully claiming them was slim. Most who had tried, thanks to Rhaenyra’s reckless decision to arm bastards with dragons, had died in the process. Yet, as much as the betrayers needed to die, the loss of the beasts could severely impact the Green’s power in the Dance of the Dragons.

Still, her thoughts drifted to other methods that could be used to win the battle. “And Daeron?” she asked, her voice softening. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy, who was reportedly very different from his older brothers. Aegon and Aemond became ruthless Targaryen Princes, raised in Kings Landing. Whereas Daeron, raised in Oldtown, was gentler, more placid, adept with a lute as he was with his sword.

Lord Unwin had made it clear that the youngest Prince was being pushed around by Hugh and Ulf, disrespected and mocked at every turn when he attempted to regain control in Tumbleton with Lord Hobert Hightower, a spectacular failure.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, though his voice was calmer when he spoke of his brother. “Daeron will continue to the Stormlands as planned. He’ll remain at Storm’s End until we give the signal for the attack.”

Maera nodded again, though her heart ached for her brother-in-law. He would face the storm in his own time, just as they all would. The game of thrones was unforgiving, even to the young.

A chuckle broke the tension in the room. She turned her head and saw Aemond shaking his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Daeron hasn’t seen his lady wife in some time,” he remarked with an amused glint in his eye. “It’ll do him good to spend some time at Storm’s End. Perhaps he’ll even try to conceive an heir while he’s there.”

The Queen breathed out a soft laugh, raising her brows in surprise. It had nearly slipped her mind that Daeron was wed to Lady Ellyn Baratheon. The marriage had been an arrangement made after Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Floris Baratheon had been broken off so that he could marry Maera instead. That deal had reshuffled the pieces in the game, requiring another Targaryen prince to strengthen the Baratheon alliance. Daeron had been forced to take up that mantle, his union to Lady Ellyn smoothing over any lingering tensions between the houses.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maera noticed Aemond gesturing subtly with his hand, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. She stepped closer, her heart softening as she placed her hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, as he ran his thumb over her knuckles in a familiar gesture of affection. His touch paused over the golden and sapphire ring that gleamed on her finger—the one he had given her before their wedding. A rare, gentle smile curved his lips as he admired the ring, the stone reflecting the same rich blue as his sapphire eye that lay beneath his leather patch.

Yet his wife’s thoughts turned dark as the weight of the future pressed on her mind. War was uncertain; its outcome impossible to predict. Between the Blacks and the Greens, only one side could emerge victorious, and if it was to be Aemond, the succession needed to be secured. With every battle, the stakes grew higher, and Maera knew that a kingdom needed more than a victorious king—it needed a clear line of inheritance.

She tilted her head slightly, looking at her husband. “Once the invasion is done, Daeron should be named Prince of Dragonstone.” Her voice was measured but firm, the thought fully formed in her mind. Aemond raised a brow at her suggestion, his expression one of slight surprise. Before he could question her, Maera continued, “He is your heir, after all.”

Aemond’s lips quirked into a smirk, his gaze sharpening. “For now,” he purred, a playful yet serious tone beneath his words. Then, without warning, he yanked Maera forward until she was perched on his lap, her body pressed against his. His sharp nose brushed against the length of her neck, his breath warm as he inhaled the familiar scent of her hair. His voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. “Until we conceive a son,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear.

A giggle escaped Maera’s lips as she pressed her hands against his chest, feigning an attempt to push him away. “Issa darys,” my King, she said, a note of laughter in her voice, “as much as I admire your enthusiasm…” Her cheeks flushed slightly as she added, “My moonsblood hasn’t returned since Aemara was born.” But despite her playful resistance, Aemond only tightened his arms around her, his hold possessive and unyielding.

The Queen felt her husband’s lips peppering kisses upon her skin, his touch sending a shiver through her body. She squirmed slightly in his lap, her skin prickling at the warmth of his mouth against her. A gasp escaped her when he bit down harshly, her breath catching as she heard him chuckle against her skin. She pulled back, cupping his cheek with one hand, determined to steady herself and not get distracted.

"It may be some time before we conceive another child." She searched his eye, wanting to know that he understood the gravity of her next words. "To secure the succession, Daeron should be formally recognized. It would strengthen our position."

Aemond sighed, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, reassuring circles. With his other hand, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with a tenderness that contrasted with his earlier roughness. His gaze softened as he looked at her. "Once again, you show your wisdom, issa daria,” my Queen, he murmured, his tone a mix of admiration and resignation. "A ceremony for Daeron will be prepared. But only once the invasion is done."

Maera smiled, her tension easing as she nodded in agreement. The future still held uncertainty, but she was satisfied they had set the right course for now. Aemond, ever pragmatic, glanced at her with a wry smirk. "Perhaps your Ladies could help plan the ceremony?"

His wife chuckled softly, her fingers brushing through the loose strands of his silver hair. "I will put them to work," she replied with a smile, already imagining how she could enlist them in the preparations. The weight of the world had not left their shoulders, but for a brief moment, Maera allowed herself to feel the smallest sense of hope, their plans slowly falling into place.

The King tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze softening as his hand hovered just above Maera’s collarbone. His fingers reached out, lightly stroking the green and black fabric of her dress, the silk smooth under his touch. "And how is your wound healing?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with genuine concern.

Maera grinned, rolling her shoulder back with a confident ease. "It’s healing well," she replied, feeling a warmth in her chest at his attentiveness. She moved her arm slightly to show him, the motion fluid. "I hardly feel it now," she added, her tone light and proud of her recovery.

Her husband hummed softly in response, his hand lingering near her skin before dropping back to his lap. Maera caught the way his single violet eye raked over her, taking in the curve of her body, lingering a little longer than usual. His gaze settled on her chest, and she saw the subtle shift in his posture, his interest plain despite his calm demeanor.

A slow smirk tugged at the corners of the Queen’s lips as she met his gaze. "Is there anything else I could do to assist you this evening, my King?" she asked, her voice playful, laced with suggestion. The tension between them shifted, thickening as her question hung in the air.

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk of his own, his eye flickering with amusement and desire, as if silently weighing her offer with all the seriousness of a council decision. His finger trailed lightly along her jaw, sending shivers down her spine as her heart thumped loudly in her chest. His touch was soft but deliberate, and she could see the devilish grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "I wish for my Queen to get on her knees and ease my troubles," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire.

Maera gasped softly at his lewd command, her breath catching in her throat. But before she could react further, his other hand moved roughly to squeeze her upper thigh, his grip firm and possessive. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "And since my wife is such a skilled dragon rider, perhaps she can demonstrate her mastery by riding me upon the throne of our ancestors."

A wicked smile spread across Maera's lips, her eyes gleaming with amusement and anticipation. "I couldn't very well refuse my King, now could I?" she replied softly, her voice thick with playful submission.

Without a word, Aemond pulled her closer, his lips crashing against hers with an urgency that took her breath away. His kiss was fierce, filled with hunger as he claimed her mouth. The heat between them ignited instantly, her body responding to the raw need in his touch. His lips moved with hers, demanding and insistent, his grip on her thigh tightening as he deepened the kiss.

Aemond's tongue traced her bottom lip, teasing her, silently demanding more. She parted her lips for him without hesitation, inviting him in. Their tongues met in a feverish dance, his rough and commanding while hers answered with equal intensity. Each movement was deliberate, every stroke a testament to the passion that simmered just beneath the surface.

Maera's hands explored her husband’s broad chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fine leather of his doublet. Her fingers traced the intricate stitching as they moved across his torso, lingering at the contours of his chest before sliding lower. His body was strong, hardened from years of intense training, and the power he exuded only deepened her desire for him.

As her lips left his and found the warm skin of his neck, Maera nipped lightly, teasing his pulse point with the tip of her tongue before licking along the line of his jaw. Aemond hissed at the sensation, his breath catching in his throat as her lips left a trail of heat in their wake. His hands roamed eagerly over her body, squeezing and caressing the curves hidden beneath the layers of her green and black dress.

The one-eyed King’s touch grew more urgent, and his hands found her breasts, feeling the peaks of her nipples harden beneath the fabric at his touch. The warmth of her body and the soft moan she let slip fueled his growing need, and a low growl of desire escaped him, vibrating in the space between them.

Her body responded instinctively, her hips rocking against Aemond as she felt the familiar hardness of his length pressing beneath her. The heat between them intensified, and with every subtle movement, her breath hitched, her own need growing alongside his.

Unable to contain his hunger any longer, his fingers tugged eagerly at the ribbons at the front of her dress, fumbling in his desperation to untie them. He wanted to feel her bare skin against him, to rid her of the barrier between them. Each pull at the ribbons came faster, his impatience growing with every second as he sought the softness of her flesh beneath the fabric.

Just as Aemond's fingers worked eagerly at the last ribbon of her dress, desperate to pull it free, Maera grinned, a teasing glint in her eyes. Without warning, she hopped off his lap, leaving him momentarily stunned. She flashed him a sultry smile, biting her lower lip as she took a step back, her movements slow and deliberate.

Aemond's gaze darkened, his single violet eye following her every move, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Maera, ever graceful, sank slowly to her knees before him, elegantly adjusting her skirts so they fanned around her like a pool of fabric. Her hands smoothed over the green and black silk, her posture poised and deliberate. When she looked up at him, her gaze was smoldering with intent, full of confidence and allure.

She reached for the ties of his breeches, her fingers deftly undoing the knot that held them together. With practiced ease, she freed him from the confines of the fabric, her hand wrapping around his cock, warm and firm. Aemond's breath hitched, his chest rising sharply as her delicate fingers closed around him, stroking slowly at first, tracing the length of his shaft with the lightest of touches.

He groaned deeply, the sound guttural and raw, his head tilting back as the sensation overwhelmed him. Her fingers moved with deliberate care, teasing him, exploring him, her touch gentle yet purposeful. Maera watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his muscles tightened beneath her ministrations.

His breaths came ragged as he looked down at Maera, her delicate hand still wrapped around him. "Do you intend to spend the whole evening teasing me, wife?" Aemond asked, his voice strained, a mixture of impatience and desire lacing his words.

The Queen’s lips curled into a wicked smile. She leaned forward, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip of his length, causing him to hiss sharply at the sensation. "I just might," she purred, her green eyes flashing with mischief.

Before he could respond, she took him fully into her mouth in one swift motion, silencing any retort. Aemond's hand flew to her brown and silver curls, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her in place, groaning deeply as the warmth of her mouth enveloped him. Her lips wrapped tightly around him, and she sucked harshly on the tip, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his veins.

Her tongue moved expertly, swirling around the head before she began to take him deeper, inch by inch, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him whole. Aemond's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped her hair tighter, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that threatened to undo him. Maera's mouth was relentless, her rhythm deliberate, and she could feel his legs tremble beneath her as a loud, guttural groan echoed through the grand hall.

“Gods be good.” With a low growl, he tightened his grip on her hair, guiding her movements as he took control. He brought her up slowly before lowering her mouth back down onto him, over and over again, his body shuddering with every pass of her lips. She whined softly against him, the vibrations of her voice sending shocks of pleasure through his already overstimulated body, intensifying the experience.

Her knees ached against the cold, hard stone floor, the discomfort biting into her skin, but she paid it no mind. To please her King, to show him the depth of her love and devotion, she would endure far more than this. Aemond's temper, his rage-he needed this, needed her, and she would gladly serve him in this way.

Maera's thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Aemond yanked her head off his throbbing length, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. His face was flushed, his violet eye dark with desire and need. Without a word, he pulled her forward, making her climb onto his lap once more.

In a swift, almost desperate motion, he hiked her skirts high above her hips, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs to the cool air of the room. His rough hands gripped her bare flesh, fingers tracing the soft, rounded curves with a possessive touch. Maera's breath hitched, her heart racing as Aemond's hands moved with purpose.

Without warning, he tugged her smallclothes aside, and before she could catch her breath, his fingers plunged deep inside her. A sharp gasp escaped her throat, her body instinctively arching against him. His thumb found the bundle of nerves at her center, pressing down firmly, sending waves of ecstasy through her core. Her hips rocked against his hand, her body moving of its own accord as he expertly teased and tormented her.

"Aemond," she whined, her voice breathless as her fingers clutched his shoulders for support. He chuckled darkly at her reaction, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"Not so nice to be teased, is it?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words sent a shiver down her spine as his thumb pressed harder against her, circling with maddening precision. Maera gasped again, her grip tightening on him as the familiar sensation began to build low in her stomach, her body responding to his every touch. The pressure grew and grew with each deliberate stroke of his fingers, the coil inside her winding tighter and tighter, leaving her at his mercy.

Her nails dug into Aemond's shoulders, her body squirming in his lap as she rocked her hips against his hand. Each movement sent another jolt through her, her breath coming out in ragged pants. Desperation clawed at her, the tension in her body building to an unbearable peak as his fingers thrust in and out of her, each stroke more agonizing than the last. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, her mind clouded with the need for release.

"Please..." she gasped, her voice shaky and broken, pleading for mercy as the coil within her tightened to a breaking point. He responded with a dark, satisfied smirk, his single violet eye glinting with control.

"Peak for me," he growled, his fingers curling inside her just right, his thumb pressing firmly against her sensitive bundle of nerves. "Then, I'll give you what you want."

With a choked gasp, the tension inside her snapped. A wave of euphoria crashed over her, and she came undone on his fingers. Maera's hips bucked, grinding down against his hand as she rode out her high, her entire body trembling with the intensity of her release. She moaned loudly, her grip on his shoulders tightening as her vision blurred, her mind lost in the overwhelming sensation.

When her climax finally subsided, Aemond slowly withdrew his fingers, his gaze locked on her flushed face as she tried to steady her breathing. He wasted no time, grabbing his length and running the flushed tip teasingly through her slick folds. Maera whimpered softly, her body still sensitive from the peak he had just given her.

Aemond's other hand found her hip, his grip firm as he held her in place. Without warning, he began to slowly lower her onto him, inch by agonizing inch. Maera gasped, her mouth falling open as he filled her completely, the stretch of him almost too much to handle all at once. She felt every inch of him as he sank deeper inside her, her body trembling as she adjusted to his size.

The pressure was exquisite, and as he bottomed out inside her, Maera bit her lip, her body molding perfectly to his. Aemond groaned lowly, his hand gripping her hip tighter, his restraint palpable as he held her still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside her.

Maera began to rock against him with fervor, her movements fluid and desperate. With each roll of her hips, his length brushed that perfect, spongey spot within her, sending pleasure through her body like lightning. A moan escaped her lips, breathy and uncontrolled, as she rode him with determination.

Her green eyes never left his, locked in an intense gaze that mirrored the hunger they both felt. Their mouths hung open, panting and gasping for breath as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Each thrust seemed to pull them deeper into the shared bliss, their connection unbreakable upon the throne of Dragonstone.

Aemond gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Planting his feet firmly on the stone floor, he seized control, bucking his hips upward to meet hers with a force that made her cry out. His hands gripped her hips tightly, guiding her down onto him with each powerful thrust. The rhythm they created together was frantic, filled with heat and a desperation that consumed them.

Aemond's voice was thick with lust as he murmured, "You’re perfect. Fuck, my perfect Queen," his words shooting straight to Maera's core, adding fuel to the fire already burning deep within her. His praise sent a wave of heat through her body, tightening the coil of pleasure that wound tighter with every thrust.

He began to pound into her with an almost brutal pace, chasing his own release. Each rough movement caused her to gasp, her body trembling under the force of his desire. As he thrust into her, Maera reached out with a trembling hand, carefully straightening the Conqueror's crown upon his head with a small, playful smile. The sight of him wearing it, regal and powerful, only spurred her on, reminding her of the kingly man beneath her.

Aemond's grip on her hips tightened, and he groaned as he sped up, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate. Maera could feel him swelling inside her, her own pleasure building to an unbearable peak once more. With a guttural moan, she leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, "Please, my King. Cum deep inside of me," she commanded, her voice low and full of desire.

Her words were his undoing. Aemond's hips jerked up into her one final time as he groaned loudly, the sound vibrating against her skin. His release came in a hot wave, filling her completely as his body trembled beneath his wife, her second orgasm following moments after. He buried his face in her neck, their breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat as they clung to one another, the intensity of their shared pleasure leaving them both breathless.

For now, the war seemed distant and unimportant, its looming shadow momentarily forgotten in the intimacy of their shared embrace. The tension and bloodshed that had consumed their days and nights melted away, leaving only the warmth of their bodies pressed together, hearts still racing in the aftermath of their passion.

As their breaths began to settle, the frantic energy that had fueled them ebbed, replaced by a soft calm. Maera and Aemond remained tangled together upon the stony throne, her fingers lazily tracing the lines of his jaw as his arms tightened around her, unwilling to let go. The flicker of candlelight cast soft, flickering shadows over their entwined forms, the grand hall silent but for the occasional crackle of the flames.

They sat in the darkness, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring this fleeting moment of peace, knowing the chaos of war still awaited them. Yet, for now, they allowed themselves to simply be.

Notes: little smutty diversion 😍 and an interesting development next week 🖤 (also I hate writing smut! I’m an over perfectionist and it stresses me out 🤣 I hope y’all enjoy it at least, been a while since she sucked his dick)

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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