#you cannot die. you cannot be chained. not permanently

[unnamed-proxy]

My Noli obsession has grown past Forsaken, it doesn’t have to be related to forsaken in the slightest anymore I just like thinking about that guy and his myth

[mourning-sapphire]

Little Flame | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond’s life was incredibly dim after the war, a bottomless carven he’d sunk himself into with his own actions, until one by one, little flames came into his life.

Pairing: king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader (AU)

Fic warnings: nothing, just FLUFF, there’s mentions of past angst and trauma, but... GIRL DAD AEMOND!!!

Word count: 8.2k

authors note: happy fathers day to girl dad aemond <3

masterlist

If someone had told Aemond during the war that he’d even live to see past that fateful day at the Gods Eye, he would snarl and tell them that he’d rather die gloriously than whatever else fate had from him. But as the war ended, and the ashes from his discretions dimmed, he was left with a hole in his life so vast that he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to fill it.

But the war had eventually ended.

The fires died down, the roar of familiar dragons faded into bitter memory, and the ashes of his many discretions settled into quiet ruin, not forgotten by anyone but not brought up. What remained for him was not peace, but a yawning emptiness that he could almost feel cramping at his own jaw. An empty abyss so vast that he doubted it could ever be filled. War had changed Aemond, irreversibly, and in ways he hadn’t expected.

His mind, had been twisted by the whispers of a woodswitch, and now he bore the scars of unnatural influence on his mind, and traumatised by the things he’d seen within the damp walls of that cursed land. He had watched those who wronged him meet their end—some by his own hand, others by the hands of chaos during—but he had also lost more than any amount of revenge could ever restore.

His family, his blood, his brothers and sister were gone—burned out as swiftly as it had been forged. And what remained was hardly anything to sing about, his mother, was now so entangled in her own delusions that speaking to her felt like reaching through smoke.

His reign as Prince Regent had never been meant to last, although he begged he knew that it was a borrowed title, a duty taken up in the name of his fallen kin, something of his own doing to some degree. But when the last of his brother's children succumbed to the cruel winter fever that swept through the city, everything changed.

The Targaryen line of succession thinned from a rope to a thread, and suddenly, the burden of kingship shifted squarely onto his shoulders permanently. While Aemond has prepped himself for being King all his life, his short time leading during the war, and the task he was to take on after were two completely different monsters to fight.

The war had been a monster he understood: it roared, and he roared back ready to fight, it was two sides; Green and Black, family and hate. But peace? Peace was a stranger in fine robes to him, a subtle, insidious thing that demanded he be whole when all he felt was broken and alone.

Aemond sat the throne not as a conqueror, not like his ancestors, but as a ghost wearing a crown feeling as dead as the people who created it.

Aemond truly had little to enjoy in life, getting everything that he wanted and longed for, was a double-edged sword that left him wounded more than losing his eye ever had. He had to navigate his grief along with taking on a new task, a realm, something his small council had wasted no time in reminding him about.

“You cannot rule alone, Your Grace.” He could still remember the pain behind his eye as he heard from one of his small council members during one of his first permanent meetings as King, “The Realm needs unity and you need a wife.”

That much, he could not deny. He needed a queen—whether he wanted one or not.

But where others might have seen an opportunity for alliance, for legacy, for strength, Aemond saw only chains.

His cousins Rhaena and Baela were the obvious suggestions from everyone, names whispered in the corridors of the Keep like half-formed prayers that he could salvage the Targaryen line that way. But he dismissed the thought outright. No number of empty words or desperate pleas could convince him—or them—to pretend they could mend what had been broken, that he hadn’t killed their father.

The blood spilt between them was too deep, too fresh, and even if it hadn’t been, he would never entertain such a farce. He would rather have perished that day at the Gods Eye than bind himself to a woman he deemed a pretender.

That decision, however, left few other paths.

The great houses of Westeros wanted little to do with the remnants of House Targaryen. The Baratheon’s, once staunch supporters of his cause, had turned their backs in bitter silence, scorning the memory of oaths made before the war. The Lannister’s were quiet, too busy rebuilding their own strength to entangle themselves in dragonfire politics. The Riverlands still wept for their fallen. And the Reach had closed its gates.

As for the witch—the strange, beguiling witch—she was long gone. Dead and buried beneath marshlands and silence, leaving behind nothing but half-remembered whispers and a ghost of betrayal that stung a little more than others.

There was no one left to marry.

No one suitable. No one willing. No one alive.

He often stared at the list the council had delivered—daughters of lesser lords who still had weight to their name, some barely past their maiden years, others hardened by politics and ambition. But they were all names with no meaning, no faces to haunt his thoughts. It felt like choosing a sword from a room full of dull blades—serviceable, but uninspired.

Still, he knew he would have to choose eventually.

The realm would not wait forever, winter was creeping further south, and with it, uncertainty. If the Targaryen line was to endure, it would need more than one scarred prince with a dragon and a crown. It would need heirs. It would need strength.

And he… he would need to become something more than the broken man left behind by war.

 For a while, all hope had truly been lost that Aemond would find someone to sit beside him for the rest of his life, that was until he met you.

You arrived at court in the quiet aftermath of war, the daughter of a minor Reach house—one that had bent the knee late, but wisely, avoiding the full wrath of dragons. Your family name was known only in passing, and your presence at the Red Keep was unremarkable by court standards: part diplomacy, part observance, part subtle reminder of House Targaryen’s waning influence over the once-loyal South.

And yet, to him? You were unforgettable.

You did not shimmer like the daughters of the Great Houses, nor had a presence that filled rooms with pointed laughter or political ambition. You moved like a whisper through the Red Keep—gentle, observant, seemingly delicate. But Aemond, trained to read silence as keenly as sound, sensed something else beneath that soft exterior. You were not weak, just quiet. Tempered, and in that calm restraint, there was strength.

At first, he ignored you—or tried to. You were one more face at a banquet, another name offered with a bow too low. But there was a steadiness to you that made him linger. When you spoke, it was never to impress. When you listened, you truly heard everyone around you. And when you met his eye for the first time—you did not flinch.

That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He began to notice things. The way your hands folded in your lap with practised grace at the sept on the 7th day. The way you walked alone in the gardens rather than crowding into courtly gossip that the ladies often held during afternoon tea. The way your voice never rose to chase attention, and yet somehow always carried when you did decide to speak. You were not like the others, not moulded for power in the way the council would prefer, but neither were you afraid of it.

There wasn’t steel in you, but bone, something raw and natural, hidden beneath linen and courtesy. And gods help him, Aemond found he preferred it to the glittering blades the lords kept offering him.

He first spoke to you in passing, a cool exchange in the library over some half-forgotten history that Aemond knew by hand, but for you, he’d pretend he just learned. You had corrected him on a minor detail—a date, a name, he couldn’t recall and he didn’t care—and while his brow had creased in irritation, you had not withdrawn from talking to him. You had looked up at him, unwavering, and said: “Even dragons can be mistaken, my King.”

He should have been offended, usually, people often sought to offend him when correcting him. But instead, for the first time in what felt like years, he’d laughed—just once, just enough to startle himself. Just enough to remind himself that he wasn’t made of dragon glass inside.

He found excuses to see you after that.

A letter asking for a stroll through the Queen’s gardens, a conversation in the sunroom where you sat reading in the warmth. A dinner were seating was rearranged at his subtle command. He never confessed to it, not even to himself, but every encounter seemed to leave behind something he hadn’t felt in years: quiet, peace, possibility, and warmth.

And yet, he knew it could not last—not easily at least.

Aemond knew that while he was king, the council still had expectations. A wife from a lesser house was not the alliance they envisioned for him and his reign, hence why your name was never uttered on any list he was ever given. Even those loyal to him would question it if he was to indulge, you had no great army behind you, no sprawling coffers of gold to offer the fading riches of the crown. You offered no guarantee of peace beyond the boundaries of your small domain.

But what you did offer was something Aemond had never expected to find: someone who did not look at him with fear, worship, or loathing—but with a tender understanding that he hadn’t seen since he was just a boy. Eyes damped with calmness, with a softness that neither threatened him but instead, welcomed him as he was—the scarred, bitter, dangerous man he had become.

That terrified him more than he could say.

He still hadn’t told the council. Not yet. The list of eligible brides remained untouched on his desk, curling at the edges and gathering dust on the ink. He stared at it some mornings, all while he felt the weight of the crown settle like a shackle around his throat.

But then, by some play of his hand he would see you in his mind, see you wrapped in your soft pink shawl as you walked the paths of the godswood, your breath misting in the cold morning air, your eyes soft and watchful as you mumbled to yourself in the heart of the Keep. Walking towards something, walking towards him.

And for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder—not about duty or strategy, but about what it might feel like to choose something not out of obligation, but desire, to have you walk towards him and never stray.

He didn’t want a political bride, he didn’t want an allegiance, his days of mindless duty were gone.

He wanted you.

But Aemond was not a man who made decisions lightly, even at the notion of wanting you left him at war with himself for weeks. His mind trapped in a web of what-ifs and imagined consequences if he proceeded.

Every quiet moment was filled with them.

What if the realm turned against his family once more? What if his choice fractured already tenuous alliances? What if he proved, in the end, no better than the fools who had once ruled with their hearts instead of their minds?

And yet, the louder those doubts became, the more persistent his thoughts of you grew. Through your time together, you had taken no action to sway him, offered no subtle seduction or plea for affection from him, or even want to be Queen. You had merely remained—as you were—calm, honest, composed while he stewed in his turmoil. He admired that.

Gods help him, he needed that.

The war had left him surrounded by ghosts and obligations. His own mother wandered the halls, half lost in her own memories and mumblings, more in common with his late sister than he ever thought. His council muttered constantly about names and lineages, numbers and heirs. Every path he was offered felt like a negotiation with fate—a stupid compromise wrapped in silk and laced with poison.

Except you.

You were the only path that didn’t feel like a betrayal of himself.

He wore himself down with the weight of it.

He never was one for sleeping well but it got worse. He grew short with his council, his temper fraying. He stopped attending the hunt for a bride altogether, letting names pile up like snowdrifts in the throne room. And when he finally made his decision, he did not announce it with any bite or snarl like he would have a year ago. He simply rose from his chair in the council chamber one bitter cold evening, the candlelight catching on the silver of his hair, and said, flatly:

“I will not marry for the crown, I will marry for the future, and I have chosen my queen.”

The chamber had gone silent as soon as the words had passed his lips.

There were objections, of course. Predictable ones. His master of coin was the first to speak—pale with shocked fury, citing precedent and strength and alliances to fill the pockets of the crown. Others followed, half in shock, half in fear of what it meant that Aemond Targaryen—scarred, cold-eyed, terrifying Aemond—had done something unexpected.

But it didn’t matter.

He had made his decision, and for once, it was not for war, not for vengeance, not even for power. It was for something simpler, something that had somehow become more terrifying than all three.

It was for you, the woman who accepted him and his hasty proposal that same night.

The wedding ceremony was small by Targaryen standards, the crown too depleted for anything extravagant but neither of you wanted that. It modest, almost private, exactly what the two of you were. There had been a intimate ceremony with just the two of you on Dragonstone as well, a small Valyrian ceremony that Aemond had wished to honour himself and his family.

But as soon as it was announced there would even be a wedding whispers flitted through the court like restless birds. Some called it a disgrace, others a political blunder. But none dared say it to his face. And as you stood beside him in the Great Hall that day, draped in the soft colours of your house, your hand small but steady in his, Aemond felt the world fall quiet for the first time in years.

No gold-braided noblewoman could have steadied him like you did. No courtly-trained bride could have met his gaze the way you did, unflinching, calm, knowing. You had not been born to be queen—but somehow, you became one the moment you chose him in return.

And at that moment, with your fingers intertwined in his, and you shared your first kiss, Aemond finally understood. The realm could hate him, the council could doubt him, the histories could question him.

But for once, he had chosen something not for House Targaryen, not for the throne, not even for the realm.

He had chosen peace.

And he had found it—in you.

Marriage did not make Aemond easier to love.

He was not cruel—not in the way many feared he would be—but he was still distant. Guarded. Silent in ways that words could not mend. He had spent so long surviving by himself—gripping tightly to his rage, grief, and discipline—that the new peace felt unnatural. Softness felt dangerous. Love… even more so.

He knew bedding you was never going to be an issue, the two of you clicked in ways he wasn’t sure was possible with someone, but loving you was a beast he did not know how to tame.

Aemond still carried the war inside him like it was bound to his soul, and even now it clung to him in the darkest hours of the night. It lingered in the shadow under his eye, in the way he sometimes flinched from your kindness as if it were a trap. And though the crown was now firmly upon his head, and the halls of the Red Keep no longer echoed with the cries grief.

He still remained ever vigilant—watchful, restrained, cold.

You had not walked into the union with rose-tinted hope. You had seen him before the vows were ever exchanged, truly seen him. The way he moved like he bore chains only he could feel. The way his eye, so sharp and calculating in court, would sometimes lose focus—drawn back into memory or regret. You had not been chosen to heal him. You had not expected to.

But even so… you hoped.

The early months of marriage were difficult.

You learned the limits of his affection by accident—what could be touched, what should be left alone, what you shouldn’t ask about. He rarely offered compliments, he never asked for comfort. And in truth, he seemed unsure of what to do with your presence at all.

Some days, he left before sunrise and returned after dusk without a word. Others, he sat beside you in silence during meals, eating little, his thoughts miles away as you mindlessly tried to fill that silence. You tried not to take his attitude to heart, you told yourself it was not you, but the war, the ghosts, the boy he had been and the man that had been shaped in his place.

Still, there were cracks in the armour.

He would watch you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was subtle glances over books, across the courtyard when he was walking, from the balcony as you walked in the garden. And sometimes at night, when sleep came extra uneasily, he would rest his hand just close enough to brush yours between the sheets, not holding it, not quite that.

Simply close.

And then, there were the words. Sparse, but honest. When he spoke to you, it was never idle. No flattery, no pretty courtly lies. But when he told you something, he meant it. A memory of his brothers, a thought he had while flying, a single low-voiced admission after one of his many sleepless nights: “I do not know how to be what you deserve. But I will try.”

That was the first time he looked at you not as his wife, but as something more. Someone real. Someone he could not pretend to keep at a distance forever.

And then came the change.

It was not sudden—not the sort of shift that others noticed straight away—but you did. The way he lingered longer at your side. The way his hand found yours without hesitation, the way he began to listen when you spoke of your family, your home in the Reach, your childhood. He asked questions—not out of obligation, but interest as though he was trying, in his own quiet way, to build something with you.

Then one morning, not long after the first thaw of spring, you told him you were expecting.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just stared at you with something unreadable in his lone violet eye. You wondered if you’d done something wrong—if the news had stirred the wrong ghosts, if he truly regreted you in that moment. But then he stepped forward, hands unsure as they hovered just above your waist.

“Truly?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

You could only nod, and something in him broke.

Not in grief, but in wonder.

He sank to his knees before you—Aemond, Prince Regent, second son of Viserys the Peaceful, kinslayer, oathbreaker, dragonrider—and rested his forehead against the swell of your stomach that barely existed yet.

For the first time in your marriage, he wept. Not like a king. Not like a warrior. But like a man who had never believed he would feel anything again but cold.

After that, things began to change—not all at once, and not without effort. He still had sharpness in him, still vanished at times into thought or memory. But he returned to you quicker now. He sought you out without excuse, he placed a hand to your belly every night before sleep, and when he dreamed, he dreamed aloud to you—of flying, not for war, but for the sake of showing his child the sky.

He began to show up, not just as a ruler, or a husband, but as a man trying to build a life.

He spoke to you more freely, asked after your health, dotted on you in ways you didn’t think you needed, and read over the old Valyrian texts on childbirth and naming customs to better understand as your belly swelled. He took to escorting you through the Keep himself, one hand hovering protectively at your back, untrusting of the new guards. When you sat, he sat beside you. When you stood, he offered his arm to take the weight off. And when you smiled—when you truly smiled with teeth—he watched as if trying to memorise it.

At night, he would lie with his hand spread over your belly, his eye half-lidded with thought, whispering things he couldn’t say in daylight to anyone else but you.

“They will know your strength,” he murmured once. “Not just my blood, but yours too.”

He began to speak to the babe as if it could hear him—sometimes in High Valyrian, sometimes just in soft, uncertain words. He told stories he thought they’d like, he made promises. And when the council dared ask again about heirs and alliances, he answered with a calm finality that allowed no argument: “My queen carries the future, that is enough.”

Even the court—always gossiping, always watching—grew quieter in regards to the two of you. There was something different about him now. Aemond still walked like a sword unsheathed, but there was purpose behind it. Peace in the tension. He smiled more in the privacy of your quarters—not often, not wide, but real. And when he looked at you, it was with something unmistakable.

Not possession.

But sheer devotion.

And so, the man who had once been war incarnate now sat with a hand on your swelling belly, speaking softly of futures he had once believed would never come. And you—who had never expected to hold a broken dragon’s heart—held it nonetheless, steady and true.

For the first time in a long, blood-soaked history, Aemond’s life was no longer rooted only in violence, but in love. In life. In the quiet strength of a woman who had refused to flinch from him.

The day your daughter came into the world, the Red Keep was cloaked in storm clouds and the threat of rain. The wind howled over the walls, and thunder rumbled over Blackwater Bay, echoing off the water and straight to the Keep.

You had been in labour since the early hours, having woken up that same morning with a gush of wetness down your leg and a cramping that had you yelling for your husband instantly.

At first, customarily, Aemond had remained outside the birthing room. Left to pace the corridor like a barely contained dragon. But as the day dragged on, every scream that escaped the chamber sent a jolt through him—each one more violent than a sword to the gut.

He stood motionless at times, staring down the corridor with his jaw clenched so tightly that blood rose in his mouth and teeth threated to crack. The servants and maesters that would update him gave him a wide berth, and no one dared speak to him beyond that. Not even his mother, who watched him from a shadowed alcove, whispering prayers to the Mother and nonsense he couldn’t even listen to properly.

He tried to reason with himself, that this is nature, this is what women were expected endure. That his wife was strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever known.

“She will be fine, they said she would be fine.” He could hear rattling around his head.

But reason meant nothing when it was you crying out in pain behind that door.

And when the fourth hour passed—and then the fifth—and when he heard your voice break on a scream that sounded like it had been torn from your very soul, Aemond finally snapped.

Without a word or a care, he shoved open the heavy wooden doors that locked him from you, and stepped into the room.

The midwives gasped instantly, panicked on what to do as one of the maesters stumbled backwards. The heat of the room hit him like a wave—thick and metallic with blood, with sweat, with the scent of pain and your tears.

You lay on the birthing bed, hair damp and curling, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, your body bent in the throes of another contraction as your hands grasped at the bedding. You didn’t see him at first, you were too far gone in the storm of labour to see him or hear his entrance.

He had never seen you like this, never seen anyone like this.

You looked like a goddess at war.

“Your Grace, you must wait outside,” one of the Maesters protested.

But Aemond didn’t hear him. He had gone utterly still by the door, frozen as he took you in.

You turned your head then—eyes meeting his—and in your gaze was something he’d never known how to name. Pain, yes, but also defiance. Love. Trust. Help.

“My love,” you rasped. Just one word, one breath. That was all he needed to know you needed him by your side, to stay.

And he did.

He crossed the room slowly as if the floor itself might collapse beneath his boots and knelt at your side. He was careful in taking your hand, unfurling it from the soaked cotton bedding, as it trembled with exertion. You gripped his fingers so tightly it hurt, but he didn’t flinch.

His pain, he could take. Yours, he could not.

“I’m here,” he said gently, voice cracking as he spoke only to you. “I’m here, my flame, I’m here...”

The next hour blurred into one, as you screamed, as you pushed, as you wept.

And Aemond—Aemond shook beside you like a boy who was trying to keep it together. He wiped the sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, he cursed the gods under his breath which each pushed. He pressed his forehead to your temple and whispered in High Valyrian a promise that no harm would come to you or the child.

And when, at last, the child emerged into the world—small and wailing, pink and perfect—Aemond was the first to move.

The maester, pale with exhaustion, offered a nod as he looked over the child. “A daughter, Your Grace.”

He watched, stunned, as the midwife cut the cord and wrapped the bloodied child in linens. His legs unsteady as a doe beneath him as he reached out for her.

She had barely opened her eyes, but he could see that they were as violet as starlight, and she cried.

Aemond Targaryen had never known such feelings.

He turned to you—your face radiant with exhaustion as the maid attended and cleaned you up, your smile fragile but victorious—and said the only thing he could.

“She’s perfect.”

You let out a weak laugh. “She’s ours.”

He stepped toward you then, laying the child against your chest, his hand still cradling her tiny back as she nuzzled your bare skin; her mother and her kin. Tiny fists scratching against your skin as she finally settled down at your touch.

“Her name is Vaella,” You whispered looking down at her, and he nodded once, reverently.

“Vaella,” he echoed, like a vow.

And as he knelt beside the bed, one arm wrapped around you, the other holding your daughter to your heart, the storm outside finally started. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howled across the stones.

But within the chamber, all was quiet.

Aemond had faced every horror the world had to offer, but nothing had brought him to his knees before quite like watching you bring life into it.

And from that moment forward, he was no longer just a kinslayer, or even a king.

He was a husband.

He was a father.

He was hers.

But, Aemond was not prepared for how small Vaella would be.

He had held her once in the birthing chamber—his body shaking, reverent—but in the days that followed, he found himself returning to that feeling again and again: awe, laced with something deeper. Something almost like fear. She was no larger than a bundled loaf of bread, with curled fists and rosebud lips, and yet she held more power over him than any blade ever had.

He had faced dragons and battlefields and traitors in the dark. But holding Vaella? That required a different kind of courage.

Now he woke each morning before the servants, before the sun itself kissed the sky. Not to train, not to talke with his council, but to sit in the chair by the window where the light fell soft and golden.

Sitting with Vaella cradled in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. Listening silently as she would grunt softly, stretching and kneeding like a kitten. Her fingers finding the edge of his tunic, touching and feeling the leather, her tiny breaths warming the skin at his throat.

He had never known peace could come in such small, perfect packages.

You watched him quietly in those first days, your body still aching from birth but your heart full and close to bursting. There had been a time—not long ago—when he would barely meet your gaze in the morning, when his grief still made a fortress of him and turned him into a hallow man who was still learning to be a husband. But now he stood barefoot by the cradle, his long silver hair unbound, softly whispering High Valyrian lullabies to your daughter as she blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Is she not the most beautiful thing in the world?” he asked you once, voice hoarse from wonder.

You smiled from the bed, your own arms aching from the days of holding her, feeding her from your breast, soothing her while he attended his kingly duty. “She is, and she has your temper.”

“She does,” he murmured, looking down at her with what might have once been a smirk, but was now something gentler. “She screams like a dragon, so I’ve heard.”

He began to learn her sounds—what each soft noise meant. Hunger. Discomfort. Sleepiness. He insisted on watching her himself more often than not when his duty didn’t call, despite the protests of nursemaid who were too terrified to object aloud. More than once, you caught him swearing softly under his breath as he fumbled with trying to do something with her in his arms, only to go quiet when she stared up at him, calm as the moon.

He was different with her, his daughter, his little flame, not softer, exactly—Aemond would never be completely soft—but he was present. More present than his own father had ever been. Intentional too, his sharpness, once honed for war, was now turned inward, focused entirely on keeping her world safe.

When she cried in the night, it was he who woke first.

You would wake and turn to find him already halfway to the cradle, arms reaching for her instantly. He would scoop her up like she weighed nothing and pace the room with to calm her. A far cry from his regality with his night shirt wrinkled, his eye heavy with sleep, whispering low comforts that made no sense to you and yet always calmed her.

And sometimes, when she finally drifted back to sleep against his shoulder, he would wait before putting her down. Choosing to sit at the edge on your side of your shared bed, just watching her, watching you, eye bright and thankful.

“You are... everything I did not know I needed,” He had said once, voice barely audible in the quiet night, watching intently as you fed your little Vaella from your breast. “Both of you.”

Those words echoed in your chest long after he spoke them.

You had not expected him to take to fatherhood so completely. He had never been raised with much gentleness, never been shown what it meant to be loved without condition. But somehow, with Vaella, he had figured it out all on his own, something in him that would never make the same mistakes that had been made to him.

Still, not everything was perfect.

There were nights when the weight of it all seemed to press too heavily on him—when Vaella’s cries stirred something deeper in him, something wounded and scared. You would find him staring out the window on those nights, unmoving, with her in his arms. Her little fists beating on his chest as he tried to keep calm, his jaw clenched tight as if holding back some ghost he couldn’t name. You knew not to speak then, you wouldn’t ask, you knew he would tell you in time, instead, you would only press your hand gently to his back, and after a moment, he would breathe again.

You never pushed him, for your dragon always came back to you.

One evening, you found him asleep by the fire, slumped in the armchair with Vaella curled against his chest like a dragon hatchling. His silver hair had fallen over his face. Her tiny hand was tangled in it, holding tight even in sleep.

You stood there a long time, watching them not keen to wake either dragon from their slumber—father and daughter, fire and breath—and felt the world settle.

Aemond had once believed he would die with nothing but rage and honour to his name. But now, in the quiet of this new life, he had something far greater: A child who trusted him completely, and a wife who had never flinched from him.

And a future—fragile, yes, but finally his to hold, some tangible prize that somehow made the last few years’ worth all the pain and grief.

By the time Vaella reached nine months, she had mastered the art of wrapping Aemond Targaryen around her tiny, chubby fingers.

She was crawling now—fast, determined, always after something, or trying to look for someone.

Usually waiting her father. It to the point that she so much as heard the distant sound of his boots in the corridor, her little hands would slap against the stone floor as she scrambled toward the door. Little body shuffling and bubbling out excited noises that only grew louder when her father finally appeared in the doorway.

And even after a long day of meetings and holding court, he still had the energy to share his daughter's excitement with a smile that he'd never share anywhere else.

Aemond was as soft as melted butter in the sun when it came to her.

He made never let her cry or wait for long, not if he could help it. The moment her lip wobbled or her hands reached for him, he was there—scooping her up with a tenderness so at odds with his reputation that even the most hard-hearted of courtiers would be shocked to see him.

But peace in your home, as always, was temporary.

The Riverlands were stirring again.

It wasn’t war—at least, not yet, not if he could help it—but there were disputes between old houses, tension still thick in the air from the burning at Aemond’s hand barely buried. And the lords had requested the presence of the crown itself to remind them who ruled, to build amends with them for everything he had done. Aemond had resisted at first, he had trained stewards and sent emissaries in his place, even some of his small council. But in the end, it had to be him.

Him, with his dragon’s shadow again covering the Riverlands.

Him, as a symbol of the realm’s new stability, despite terrorising the Riverlands just years previously. He had lamented to you in the dark of the nights, the both of you curled in bed as he whispered that I didn’t feel like he could ever go back, for as fearsome as your husband was, then the crown was off and the court was away, he was just as scared at the young boy he had hoped he had grown out of.

You knew he had to go, and he knew it too, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“She won’t understand,” he murmured to you the night before his departure, holding Vaella tightly against his chest as she babbled sleepily, her fist clutching strands of his hair. “She’ll think I left.”

You reached for him, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you sat beside him on your shared bed, curled affectionately towards him. “She’ll know you’re coming back, my dragon.”

His eye flicked to yours. “Will she? She’s just a babe.”

“She’s your daughter,” you said gently. “And your daughter is brighter than all the men on your council combined, she’ll know you won’t be gone for long.”

That earned you a quiet smile, a tired one, a grateful one.

“She tried to say dada today,” you added softly, your hand smoothing over her little back, feeling the breaths under your palm.

“She did not.” He tutted softly, amused at you.

“She said ‘Dahhh’ and pointed at the sky. I’m counting it.”

He laughed, truly laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest.

The morning he left, Vaella was still drowsy when he pressed a kiss to her downy hair and another to your lips. She clung to his tunic as if she knew something was different, that something wasn’t right, letting out a soft protest when he tried to pass her back to you, her tiny legs kicking instantly, anxiously.

“I’ll return before the next moon, but hopefully sooner,” he promised, resting his forehead gently against yours. “And I’ll bring her something—perhaps a river pearl, or a little sword she can’t use yet.”

“She’ll want your boots and your rings and nothing else,” you said, smiling despite the ache in your heart, bouncing the babe who looked confused as to why her father was so sad.

“I’ll give her all of it.” He murmured softly, promsing.

And then he was gone—Aemond, King, Protector of the Realm, husband, father—swept away by duty once more.

The Keep was quieter without him.

Vaella adjusted better than you had feared, though she grew restless in the evenings without her father to sing to her. Her eyes would always flick to the door, and she’d crawl toward it whenever heavy footsteps of a guard passed, as if expecting to find her father there again, arms open, waiting.

Only to be saddened when the door never opened, her tiny bottom on the floor in waiting.

At night, you held her a little tighter than usual, cuddling her as tight as Aemond did, trying to sing the songs that only his tongue could muster. And when she said "Dada" for the first time—clear, strong, insistent as she looked at the door—you wept.

You wrote to him every day, though you knew the ravens could not always keep pace with his travels. Still, you did it anyway. You told him of Vaella’s teeth beginning to finally push through her gums, how she began to bite at everything and anything to numb the pain of it growing.

How she tried to mimic your laugh and clap when she’d sit with you, or copy the words you’d say in tiny babbles. How she discovered her reflection and seemed convinced it was another babe, a friend, a sibling.

And Aemond, despite his busyness, wrote back when he could, his letters were short but warm. You could tell he wasn’t indulging the stress of being in the Riverlands and dealing with them, trying to make amends and put out fires that had long continued to burn over the years, he never wished to stress you, but he always left ending with a line for his darling girl:

Tell Vaella her father dreams of her laugh every night.

It was three long weeks later when he returned.

It was not a grand return, not heralded by trumpets or banners. Just the soft thunder of Vhagar’s wings against the clouds, circling once above the Keep before landing outside the gates as the sun began to set. Closer than he would usually land, but he was anxious to return to you, to his family.

You were already waiting with Vaella in your arms, wrapped tightly your soft pink cloak, her little eyes squinting against the fading light as the two of you stood just outside the city gates, surrounded by modest amounts of guards.

The moment Aemond dismounted Vhagar, Vaella let out a loud, delighted shriek, her legs kicking in your hold as her tiny fists flapped about, eager to get out of your arms and to him.

“Dada!” She shrieked into the early evening.

Aemond froze at the sound, and for the briefest second, his composure cracked where he stood—lips parted, chest heaving, eye glassy with stunned emotion. And then he was pacing towards you, his hand and his councilmen forgotten as he b-lined for his flames, his girls.

He reached you without hesitation, arms wrapping around both of you at once. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your lips, and finally, carefully, he took Vaella from your arms and held her as if she were something sacred.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, cupping the back of her head with one long-fingered hand. “Gods, let me look at you.”

She babbled at him, delighted, hands tugging at his collar, and he just laughed—low and hoarse and full of something ancient and overwhelming.

“She’s heavier,” he murmured. “Has she grown this much in just three weeks?”

“She never stops moving,” you said, smiling, fingers brushing her soft cheek. “And she said ‘Dada’ for the first time this week.”

Aemond pressed his forehead gently to hers. “She saved it for me.”

“She did.”

He didn’t let go of her as he walked with you back through the Keep.

The servants bowed deeply as he passed, he was still their king, but he scarcely noticed them. His world had narrowed to just two: the child in his arms and his wife at his side. And for all his grace and poise, there was something nearly boyish in the way he kept glancing down at Vaella, as though afraid she might disappear if he blinked.

That night, you did not dine in the Great Hall.

You stayed in your private chambers, just the three of you, with a fire that burned low in the hearth, casting golden light across the stone walls, and the air was filled with the scent of violets and cinnamon from the oils your maids had used earlier in your bath.

The room was made ready with dinner upon your arrival; plates of meats, fruits, and cheese, and a small bowl prepared just for the baby. The servants slipping away quietly as you entered, leaving the three of you in peace.

Aemond wasted no time as he sank down into the chair with a weary exhale, pulling Vaella into his chest again and watching her explore his face again with tiny, curious fingers, poking and prodding.

“She has two teeth now,” you said, handing him the tiny silver spoon to feed her with. “But don’t let her bite you, she keeps trying to take fingers and nip at them.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, amused, letting her gum at the spoon before attempting to feed her.

It was clumsy, but he was out of practice. She spit half the food onto his sleeve and herself, but he laughed, there was no anger to be had in a happy baby.

“She’s perfect.” He mumbled again, neglecting his own food while his girls ate.

You sat across from him, watching the two of them like a dream made real. The fire crackled. The Keep was quiet. And the King who once spoke only of war and vengeance now gently wiped mashed pear from his daughter’s chin, letting her smear a sticky mess on him as she found a way to nibble at his knuckles too, all without flinching.

When she was finally full and drowsy from food and milk, Aemond pulled her close against his chest, rocking her slowly. He had refused to let the nursemaids take Vaella for the night and denied entry to every servant who came to the door.

Tonight was not for the crown. Tonight was for him and his family. In that quiet moment, Aemond was not a king, not a ruler—he was simply a father and a husband.

“I hated being away,” he admitted quietly. “Even when I was doing what had to be done. It felt… wrong. Empty, without the two of you by my side.”

Your heart thumped a little harder at that, your footsteps quiet as you rose and knelt beside his chair, your hand resting on his leg.

“You came back in one piece,” you said. “That’s what matters, to both me and her.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your brow, and then another to your lips—slow, lingering, grateful.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve either of you,” he said against your skin, “but I swear to the gods I’ll never take this for granted.”

Eventually, it was time for bed, and he undressed slowly, carefully, comfortably for the first time in weeks. He wore a simple black tunic and breeches as he took Vaella from her cradle once last time, settling into the large chair near the fire to sing to her like he did before he left, his long legs stretched out, her tiny form curled on his chest.

You sat nearby, dressed softly in your own nightwear, hands carefully undoing your hair as you sat and watched him. He was staring at the child like she had become his religion.

“She crawls faster now,” You said softly, brushing out your hair from the day. “Sometimes I swear she’s trying to find speed and fly.”

“She’ll ride before she walks if I have anything to say about it,” he replied, his voice low. “She’ll have Vhagar, one day.”

“She might not want Vhagar.” You smile softly.

“She’ll have any dragon on Dragonstone that she pleases when she’s older,” He hummed softly, lips pressing to her hair.

“But for now, I’ll build her a saddle for your lap, and we’ll fly together on Vhagar,” he said with a faint, wistful smile. “I will never leave her or you again—not like that, not for that long.”

“She understood,” you said gently. “She missed you, but she never doubted you’d return. I think… in her own way, she knows who you are.”

“Who I was,” he corrected quietly. “But she changes everything.”

You watched as Vaella’s fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic. Her lashes fluttered, already falling into sleep. Aemond looked down at her, as if in awe that something so perfect could find rest against him.

“She is the best of us,” he whispered. “Because of you, I look at her, and I see the man I left behind… and the peace that I took and almost didn’t believe I deserved.”

He looked at you then, eye soft in a way only you had ever seen.

“Thank you,” he said. “For waiting. For keeping her whole, for keeping me whole.”

You rose from your vanity seat and came to his side, sitting on the arm of the chair, your hand resting lightly over his on her back, and the other on his neck as you kissed his hair. Vaella slept between you, her warmth binding you both tighter than any crown or vow ever could.

And in that firelit room, for the first time in years, Aemond did not feel like a prince returning from war. Or a King out of his element.

He felt like a man who had finally come home.

[cheralith]

ON MY KNEES BEGGING PLEASE MORE KAISER X HOGWARTS AU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🫡

characters ; slytherin!kaiser, professor!kaiser | wc ; 1.9k contains ; hogwarts au, aged-up characters, kind of major character death (?), gn!reader, no pronouns used, not edited as of 02/17

i'm gonna come back to the present with this one, where you and kaiser are years older, both respectable professors with a rivalry that just cannot die down for the life of itself. he's preparing a boggart for tomorrow's class period for his defense against the dark arts class, watching as some of the academy's attendants roll in an antiqe grandfather clock, where it shakes violently on the cart despite all the chains its confined in.

it had been awhile since he had faced a boggart, he thinks to himself as the attendants settle the clock down with a loud thud. he figures he has to tame it it for a bit to be suitable for the children—apparent enough so that the lesson can be taught properly, but not so much so that it'd harm them (though, he does supposes that one bratty gryffindor third year could do with some discipline).

he mutters an appreciation of thanks to the attendants that leave, giving them their respects to one of hogwarts acclaimed professors of the decade. kaiser eyes the chains on the clock and casts a spell that retracts them from the clock. the shaking eventually settles itself down, now with less restrictions to confine the creature it holds. kaiser sighs and cracks his necks free of tension, removing his reading glasses and wanting to get this over with so he can hurry up and attend his final duties for tonight.

he was fourteen when he confronted a boggart for the first time. it was in front of anyone that he revealed his worst fear was his very own father, and the boggart stood before him in the shape of his old man the last time he saw him before he was taken away and left kaiser to fend for himself as an orphan. there he stood in front of kaiser—in a greasy wifebeater stained with beer and striped underpants that just barely covered himself. a large scowl appeared on his face, the last emotion kaiser saw on him before a couple of aurors took him away from that wretched home.

now in his late twenties, kaiser can't imagine that much has changed. he's seen and dealt with things much more horrifying than a drunken father, but his courage withstood all, and the fear was short-lived. the image of his father, however, still managed to stain his head even after all these years.

as he circles his desk, he stares at the grandfather clock, cocking a brow when it begins to shudder again the closer he comes to it; as though it can sense his presence. he waits patiently, his wand at the ready in his hand as the pendulum door slowly opens with a familiar hand creeping out. kaiser's eyes narrow, recognizing the wedding band that wounds itself around a swollen finger.

eventually, the figure of his father steps out of the case, deep blue eyes that match kaiser's own staring directly up at him. kaiser was only barely four feet tall when his father was permanently severed from his life. he towers over him now, at six foot two, but despite it, he still feels a slight falter in his knees.

the father/boggart smirks evilly, the beer bottle fisted in his right hand going to point at him accusingly.

"sub-human trash," the father/boggart spits at him, saliva speckling onto kaiser's cheek. "useless. a creature that's lower than animals, than filth itself!"

kaiser huffs a spare lock of hair out of his face, feeling slightly unfazed when the father/boggart approaches him eerily slow. he yawns tiredly, preparing his wand to conduct a spell.

"you're a piece of sh—"

the boggart/father suddenly stopped in its tracks, stuttering. it attempted to sound the word "shit" out, but was stuck on the "sh" syllable, repeating it over and over again as its form wobbled and shook. kaiser stiffens suddenly, a crease in his forehead forming from the furrow of his brows when the boggart stays paralyzed in its spot.

this was odd. this had never happened before. he hadn't even casted the charm yet, so he was perplexed as to why it was already beginning to change when he hadn't done anything yet.

the boggart/father groans out suddenly, as if it was in pain, then suddenly its current form vanished into black smoke, before it quickly resembled a new form that made kaiser's blood run cold.

confounded, he was no longer staring at the image of his father, but rather...

you.

you stand still in front of him ever so patiently, a soft smile that you rarely ever gave to him upon your lips. your hair still as elegant as ever, falling and framing your face in a portrait-like fashion. you had your everyday cloak on, looking nothing less of lovely despite the plain-looking clothes. your eyes, warm and inviting, as they soften at him.

kaiser saw you everyday since you and him started working together, whether it be in passing or in the same meeting room. but in this form, you looked more radiant than usual, almost hypnotizingly so.

something switched in kaiser's brain. you were normally untouchable to him, some sort of forcefield around you that constantly kept him at bay away from you. you always seemed to constantly keep him at arm's distance, just close enough for him to look at you clearly but never touch you. yet, somehow, this form of you seems to have gotten rid of that shield around you and you're looking at him with a placidity that you only granted to those that were deserving of it.

so kaiser's breath hitched accordingly so when your voice had whispered out a gentle sound to him that made his head spin.

"michael," you greet so tenderly to him, the smile still settled on your lips.

michael...

right, his name. his... his first name. his given name. it felt odd hearing it sometimes, considering that the name never came out of his own father's lips because he thought of saying his own son's name felt like a sin as it was one of the last things his ex-lover had left him sparingly. he was used to being referred to as his last name, so whenever he heard "michael", even if it wasn't directed towards him, it made kaiser's heart clutch with a longing.

but hearing it from your own lips made a familiar weakening in his knees spread throughout the course of his body. it felt... melodious to him, when it came out of your voice. you beckon him so fondly with it, and kaiser can't help but take a step forward with a hand out towards you.

the moment his entire foot sets itself on the ground, however, granting him one step closer to you, a horrid spark of green light suddenly shoots out from behind you, striking you directly from the back and webbing you with green lightening. you let out an excruciatingly painful shriek that echoes hauntingly through the classroom before you go limp and crumple to the ground, lying face up.

kaiser's jaw unhinges from itself, a strangled sound coming out of his throat when he stares what was in front of him.

he automatically takes his step back, creating a space between you and him as your face falls toward him, your eyes visibly having no life and warmth left in them. his chest tightens and hands shake as his body continues to force him to stare at your lifeless body in front of him.

his mouth goes dry, body frozen in place. kaiser suddenly feels his fingers twitch and uses that singular act of rebellion in his body to cast the charm before the shock fully settled into place inside his body.

"RIDDIKULUS!" he hollers, his wand pointing at your lifeless body before the charm protrudes out of his wand and transforms the boggart into a figure of yoichi isagi getting tomatoes thrown at him from an invisible crowd. normally such a sight would make kaiser laugh hysterically, but the shock from before instills some remnants in his nerves, so he casts the boggart back into its rightful place and unsheathes the chains back to it, the grandfather clock thrashing against them once again.

kaiser staggers to a nearby desk to steady himself, his vision blurring from the adrenaline rush. the boggart, though confined back into the case of the clock, ghosts the figure of your lifeless body on the floor as kaiser attempts to examine his surroundings. a hand goes to his neck and gives it a firm squeeze, spurring reality back to himself.

deep breaths and gasps inhale and exhale out of his lungs, as though to pump out the leftover daze from himself. he falls into the desk chair, holding his pounding forehead in his hand.

he knew that people could have multiple fears that the boggart could possess the form of, but he thought his only one true fear was his father spatting insults left and right to him. he's had to rid of boggarts before and they've always had the same form of that good-for-nothing father, so kaiser's head rushes with questions of what changed.

but more importantly, why did it change into you? into an image where kaiser witnessed your death?

he earns more questions than answers as he tries to regulate himself. the throbbing in his forehead doesn't seem to be stopping soon, so kaiser drags a hand down his face as he stares miserably at the shaking grandfather clock.

he jolts suddenly, hearing the unclicking of the classroom door. his head snaps towards it and he stands up too quick for his own good, feeling his head rush from the lack of blood that makes him stumble a bit.

you poke your head into the defense against the dark arts classroom, your eyes wandering for a specific blonde before you find him standing dumbly in the middle of it.

kaiser's eyes widen at your sudden appearance, fighting the urge to look back at the grandfather clock to make sure it was actually you, the true you. the you that still has a pulse.

"hey, the meeting is about to start in a few," you mention as you open the door wider. "don't be late. the headmaster might give you another lecture again."

kaiser doesn't respond, but instead stares at you silently with an unreadable expression, as though he was petrified.

you snap your fingers, breaking him out of his trance. "you good?"

kaiser suddenly finds the stiffness in his spine suddenly disappear when the sound of your snapping fingers rings in his ears, making the fuzziness in them tune out. he blinks rapidly, rubbing his eyes.

the figure of you leaning on the doorframe clears itself in his field of vision. you raise a brow.

"huh? oh. yeah, the meeting," kaiser mutters through a dry throat.

you roll your eyes and kaiser can see that familiar glaze of life in them that manages to expel the shock for good from his mind. you were alive. you always have been. you're standing right in front of him, arms crossed with a disapproving look on your perfect face, a frown adorned on your perfect lips.

"they figured you'd forget, so they asked me to come fetch you," you sigh, examining your fingernails. you begin to shut the door behind you, ignorant to the spell you've casted on him.

"starts in ten. do not be late!" you call out just before you slam the door on him and leave kaiser all alone with his thoughts in the classroom.

[qweerhet]

so much criticism of anarchist mutual aid frameworks rests on the idea that we're actively arguing for a switch. that we're saying we should, right now, tear down the global supply chain ourselves, that we're arguing for a morally-obligated societal shift motivated by revolutionary forces. i won't deny that there are those out there who have that framework, but to be entirely honest, that's much more common as a framework in state-communist and liberal povs than it is anarchist ones.

most anarchists heavily involved in establishing mutual aid networks are saying society as we know it will fail. not that it should, not that it's our ethical responsibility to force it to fail, but that it simply will.

we cannot rely on the global supply chain forever. we in the imperial core cannot rely on extracting resources from impoverished and colonized nations forever. pandemics will happen, natural disasters will happen, violent uprisings will happen; the way we extract and distribute resources is dangerously precarious, it's resting on horrific amounts of oppression and violence and a lot of carefully-stacked factors any one of which could go catastrophically wrong at any moment, and it will fail eventually.

the global supply chain will be disrupted. mining operations will fail, disease will throw wrenches in the cogs of industry, workers will organize, slaves will violently revolt, waterways will be blocked, climate change will change when and how it's even possible to do physical labor. eventually, the supply chain will be disrupted permanently, or in ways that we cannot come back from. it is an inevitability.

anarchists in the imperial core want real, on-the-ground, local solutions to resource production and distribution because we need those if we don't want our neighbors to die when this happens. we want to make insulin and distribute it in the same twenty-mile radius because we don't want diabetics to die when the global supply chain collapses. we want to sew and distribute clothing locally because we don't want children to freeze without winter coats when the global supply chain collapses. whether it happens in 10 years or in 200 years, we want to protect as many people as possible.

don't you see? don't you see? when you mock "bathtub insulin," you're mocking the only way the diabetics of the future have a chance of surviving. i'm disabled, i rely on daily medication, i know the thought is terrifying, but if our way of life breaks down in my lifetime, i will be lost without local under-the-table medication manufacturing. don't you see? we love you. we want to you live. we're begging you, help each other live.

[kiame-sama]

Would you possibly draw Mor’du sometime in the future if the mood strikes you?

I love your drawings, they help me visualize the monster appearances much better

Warnings; wounded bear, weaponry, injuries, hae au Mor'du

Mor'du is a old and battle-scarred beast. His mouth is about where the top of the Human's head would be when standing.

Many have tried to kill him, only Hades managed to temporarily chain him, and he is in constant pain. The weapons hurt him, the injuries hurt him, existence hurts him, but he cannot die. Mor'du can only be slain by Human hands and by weapons untouched by magic. Very few survive the beast when he wakes and facing him is akin to a death sentence. Trein is exceedingly lucky that he got away with nothing more than scars and a permanent limp.

Trein's weapon is lodged in Mor'du's throat and was used to pry the bear's mouth open from the inside which is how Trein managed to escape after getting caught.

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[raayllum]

like Callum made the right choice in 5x08 for his character and the thematic narrative. Thematically, Rayla cannot permanently die (she's too sacrificial) nor can she have a partner, honestly, who'd be willing to sacrifice her like that. Callum also cannot be willing to sacrifice her like that for the life of a stranger dragon he's never met, or not take the dark magic risk; not only is this how he's always clearly been ever since S1 ("But not everything [has changed]: I would do anything for you") but doing so would make him exactly like the worst of Viren: "If you have to choose between [the world] or your brother, pick the egg." Callum is having a dark path arc, but he's not having an antagonist or villain arc.

That said, there's a reason Callum is Chained Up when he gives the spell and locked in a damp dark brig and has to use the snake-chain spell specifically, because TDP loves its irony: what gets more ironic than freeing yourself from chains in order to free and save your girlfriend, when you know in doing so you're chaining yourself further and further to the main villain and his will in doing so? When you know that you would?

There's a reason 5x08 ends with Callum looking scared and sad and the shot of the snakes, because those aren't fun things (hi Ocean arcanum epiphany) to learn or fully accept about yourself. There's a reason that what characters justify with "I had no choice" or "this is the right thing to do" isn't always the literal case. "I had to, to save my friends" or you could've left it. You could've tried something else than dark magic. But you didn't, because you thought that was the one thing you could do in order to not lose your friend, so you did it; You Made Your Choice.

For example, if we're talking what happened in 5x08 in a "this would keep The World 100% safe" type of deal? Callum fucked up twice. He gave the spell and he didn't know Finnegrin would be dead or unable to use it by episode's end. He did dark magic — with no idea that it wouldn't let Aaravos automatically possess him in that moment — because a world where he didn't even try and save her was worse to him. But it was a risk! Both of those things were massive risks!

Just because they didn't amount to the extreme consequences they could have had, yet, doesn't mean that they won't, since soo much of TDP is just "this thing had unforeseen/unwanted consequences as a result of the choices you made" (the loss of Rayla's team, Harrow's death, Sarai's death, the possession at all, Karim's banishment, Zubeia's corruption, Claudia's 5 season long descent, and I'm sure going to the Starscraper next season, just to name a few quick examples off the top of my head). As Harrow says:

H: But I do know I will pay the price for the choices I've made. I've done terrible things. I thought they were necessary. Now I don't know.

Rayla thought she had to leave; she didn't. Rayla thought she had to find Viren, twice; that wasn't true. She chose to leave both times. She also chose to come back both times. She could've doubled down, but she didn't. Viren, finally, didn't.

Every step forward is a choice.

That's true for Every Single Character in the show.

To deny them that is to deny the agency they do have in the circumstances they find themselves in; Soren could've not stabbed his father, Terry could've chosen to tackle rather than stab Ibis, Viren could've chosen to grieve his son. That doesn't mean they didn't have good reasons to do the things they were doing, that doesn't mean their justifications weren't strong, that doesn't mean they were necessarily wrong to do so. But they made Choices.

So did Callum. And he chose what regrets, sacrifices, and losses he could live with, in order to save the person he decided he couldn't live without.

It's that simple, and that complicated.

[cosmermaid]

We aren't going to Mars. If I'm wrong and current administration gets somebody to Mars, those people are going to die. Either en route or a very short while after arriving on the planet.

-Mars has no electromagnetic field to protect anybody from the sun's radiation. If they survive long enough, cancer will kill them. There's no hospitals on Mars.

-The trip takes years. And THAT is in a limited window of time while our orbits are lined up to make the trip easier. That window only exists every four years or so. (I'd have to look up the exact numbers but it's somewhere around there.) That is going to make the logistics about supply chains to any potential Mars colonists a nightmare to manage and easy to fuck up. And it will be run by a man who can't make a pickup truck and who's vehicles have long waiting lists for repair parts. Elon Musk can't even handle logistical planning on Earth.

-Poor mental health is going to contribute to the deaths of any Mars colonists. I don't care if they had no mental health issues before going. Mentally sound people struggle to handle Antarctica, a place with animals, oceans and a breathable atmosphere. Mars is a hostile brown landscape with nothing conducive to a healthy human life on its surface. These people will never see an ocean, a forest, the moon or even a beautiful sunset again in their lives. There will be NOTHING to take the edge off the fact that they are trapped inside a life support system and never coming home. Mix the fact that whether they live or starve to death depends on six+ year supply chain cycles owned by a mad con artist playing scientist with his daddy's money, and they are going to lose their minds.

-These people are going to be trapped in a life support system that they most likely cannot repair. There's no hardware stores on Mars. Theres no FEMA or construction companies. There ARE natural disasters, including meteor strikes because Mars's atmosphere is too thin to burn most of them up like ours, and it is a lot closer to the astroid belt than we are. One bad day and a rock is going to play cannonball with the Mars base and everyone inside will die.

-These people aren't going to be able to effectively communicate with Earth. Communications can only go at the speed of light, which can take about 30 minutes between Earth and Mars. They can't rely on contacting Earth in emergencies for time sensitive problems. They will receive no instruction from us in such an event, because by the time we're even aware they're calling it will be too late.

-Terraforming is theoretical science fiction. We've never even done this in an intentional or beneficial way on earth. The technology doesn't even exist for terraforming Mars and it's not even in development. And even then, we have no way to force a planets core to start generating an electromagnetic field. We can't even get to a planets core, let alone do anything to it. Space radiation is a permanent Mars problem that would make it a giant space Chernobyl even if we managed to give it trees and breathable air. Mars WILL give you cancer no matter what.

Yeah. Sorry. No Mars. Even if he somehow grew a heart and a brain, Elon Musk is not rich enough to make that feesible or worthwhile. Just really consider the fact that he is not trying to get there himself. I don't even think it's going to happen but in the off chance that anyone does it's going to end in tragedy.

[zeynepalreadytaken]

My Life Series Concept List

I made a List of fan concepts that I'm gonna write and upload as a series on Ao3 (hopefully all of them but definitely eventually) If you got any ideas for a Life Series Concept, lmk I'm def gonna put it on the list! ^^ (you'll get credited) Also if you have any ideas for a pairing or alliance, pls tell me as well I’d like to hear about them >.<

SEASON 7 ∞ CHAINED LIFE ∞ (Original Concept by: Ice_ari over Discord)

Double Life but make it physical.

RULES: Players are tethered in pairs with an unbreakable, invisible chain. (Only visible to the paired players) Max distance: 15 blocks. Going past this results in slow movement and damage until they return to range. Everyone is randomly teleported and chained to a partner. (5 minute buffer zone after the introduction) No player chooses their teammate. Partners don’t share hearts. If one partner dies, the other is left alive… but weakened for 24 hours (slowness and weakness.) This excludes any other way that you can be killed and kill your partner as well. (TNT, fall damage etc.) Once per game, a “Chain Surge” randomly re-pairs two active teams. This only happens twice in total in the entire series. PVP Begins on Episode 3. Before then, building/trading is allowed, but sabotage is still heavily implied. Last team standing or solo player (if all partners die) wins.

Pairs for Chained Life are as follows: Grian - Mumbo Jimmy - Joel Scar - Martyn Gem - Pearl Impulse - Skizz Scott - Tango Bdubs - Cleo Etho - BigB Lizzie - Ren

–

SEASON 8 SNAIL LIFE: Grian: “Welcome back, everyone… to Snail Life! The snails are back! They are immortal and getting too close to your snail kills you—just like in Wild Life. Oh—and the Boogeyman curse is back! So have fun trying to murder someone while your death snail is breathing down your neck!” Grian: “Seriously. Have fun. I won’t. Mine’s already here.”

BOOGEYMAN CURSE: 3 people are chosen as boogey snails. They can morph into said snail. They have a designated target, they can't kill just anyone they want.

RULES: The Snails Are Immortal Every player is followed by an immortal snail. The snail moves slowly, but never stops and never despawns. If it gets within 1.5 blocks of you, you die instantly. No exceptions. You cannot kill or trap your snail. It always finds a way around. You are allowed to slow it down (via terrain, obstacles, or bait), but you must stay on the move.

Proximity Alert The snail will emit a distinct sound when it’s within 10 blocks (e.g. slimy squelching or bell chimes). When it’s within 5 blocks, chat displays: [Warning: Your Snail is Close] When you die to your snail: [[Player] got too cozy with their Snail]

Boogey-Snail Curse At the start of each session, 3 players are chosen as Boogey-Snails. They are assigned specific targets—only that player can be killed. If a Boogey-Snail fails to eliminate their target by the end of the session, they: •Lose a life •Become a Red Life permanently

Boogey-Snails can morph into their snail form for 3 minutes. In snail form, they can phase through blocks slowly. They can only move at walking speed. They can't speak, but get a unique death aura that warns others. Their target can still fight back if they figure it out. Boogey-Snails can die since they are considered Players, so watch out for that.

Lives System Everyone starts on Green Life (3 lives) Dying to your snail, a Boogey, or normal causes drops you down a tier: Green → Yellow → Red → Out On Red Life, you become hostile and can kill anyone, anytime

The Snail Swap Mechanic Once per session, there's a Snail Swap Event: All players' snails are randomly swapped to someone else for 5 minutes. No one is informed whose snail is whose. Getting close to someone else’s snail also kills you. Message appears: [Snails have temporarily swapped hosts.]

Base Building & Snail Traps: Bases must have at least two exits—no snail cheesing. Players can build snail deterrents (walls, ditches, traps) but: No trapping another player’s snail permanently No blocking a snail in bedrock boxes You may try to lure someone into their own snail, but it’s risky.

PvP Normal PvP rules apply based on Life Color: Green & Yellow: no killing unless Boogey Red: free-for-all When only 3 players remain all snails double in speed and the Boogeysnail Curse is lifted.

—

SEASON 9 ROULETTE LIFE: Every player's death triggers a Roulette Spin, spinning the “Wheel of Chaos.” It's a completely random twist that shakes up the game. There’s no natural health regeneration. The only way to heal? Kill someone. Each kill gives you +10 hearts. You start with 20.

RULES: Everyone starts with 6 lives. No regen: Eating food won’t heal. Healing potions don’t exist. Only kills restore health—10 full hearts per kill. PVP only allowed once red names appear. Hearts can go beyond the normal cap—become a tank, if you dare. Lost hearts are permanent unless earned back through bloodshed.

EFFECTS INCLUDE: Color Swap – Two players randomly swap life colors. Inventory Swap – Two players’ entire inventories switch. Location Swap – Players instantly teleport to each other’s locations. Soulbind – Two players take shared damage for the next 5 minutes. Name Swap – Players appear as each other (name, skin, voice) Replay the Death – A random player is teleported to the exact block where they last died. Heart Theft – A random player loses 5 hearts. Another gains them. Shadow Chain – Two players are invisible to each other for 10 minutes. Reverse Kill Bonus – Next player to die gains 10 hearts instead. Backstab Mode – Everyone’s next hit does double damage.

—

SEASON 10 NULL LIFE: A Life Series where there is literally no twist, just green, yellow and red lifers but Grian tells them they have to find out what the plot twist is themselves, only that there is absolutely none. Which means everyone's gonna be paranoid as hell for no reason.

RULES: Classic 3-life system (Green → Yellow → Red). No mechanics. No surprises. No external modifiers. PvP is allowed at red names, like normal. That’s it.

—

SEASON 11 ENEMY LIFE: (Original Concept by: Evil Air on Discord) Grian: "Welcome… to Enemy Life. A series where we return to the heart of the Life Series— except now, your heart? It's not yours anymore. You’ve each been… tethered. Not to a friend. Not to a lover. Not to a soulmate. But to someone you might just want to push off a cliff. Though now, you can't anymore. When they take fall damage—you feel the pain. When you walk into lava—they go down screaming. If they die… you die. If you survive… it’s because they haven’t killed you first. You have 30 hearts between you. No regeneration. No safety. No choice. Only pain. So go ahead. Build a base. Start a farm. Punch a tree. And try not to get murdered by your mortal enemy. Or do. I don’t care.”

GOALS: Survive. Sabotage. Outlast. You want to stay alive—but so does your worst enemy. And the only way to win… is to make sure they don’t. Martyr Play: "If I take fall damage… it’ll wreck them more." Assisted Suicide Trolling: “If I die, they die. Let’s go!” Sympathetic Sabotage: “Wait, I actually like them now I have to protect them?” Cruel Kindness: “Healing myself means healing them. And I hate that.” Rage Bonds: Players might literally scream at each other across the map: “Stop jumping off cliffs, you maniac—I have TWO HEARTS LEFT!”

RULES: 2 players are randomly linked as enemies. You cannot choose or change who you’re linked with. You share a life bar like Double Life: if one of you dies, the other dies too. BUT damage is magnified: If Player A takes one heart of damage, Player B takes two hearts. If Player B takes three hearts, Player A takes six. Each pair starts with a shared pool of 30 hearts (15 each). No natural regeneration. Healing can only happen through potions, golden apples, suspicious stew, etc. You cannot directly see your enemy's location or health, but you feel the pain they inflict on themselves.

Boogeyman Curse Optional: If added, only one per duo may be infected at a time. Sound/visual cues when your enemy takes or heals damage. (When not nearby)

—

SEASON 12: PET LIFE (Original concept by Evil Air over Discord) Each Player gets a random assigned mob to them upon spawning, that is now their “pet” which they have to keep alive at all costs. (Akin to Grian’s Task in SL with “Etho’s Dishwasher”) Because in this concept, you die if your animal dies. The only problem? They behave like regular mobs. That’s gotta be fun, right?

RULES: You die instantly if your pet dies regardless of health or armor.On respawn, you get a new random pet (it can be worse or better). Only Red Lives can kill pets. Players must physically protect their pet. Pets behave naturally, so Bats fly off, Slimes bounce around and Rabbits sprint away from the player. Naming happens randomly upon spawn/respawn.

[heliads]

'from you i'd buy anything ' - jack kelly x crutchie morris

Jack Kelly is thinking about leaving. Crutchie is thinking about staying. Neither of them like that very much.

a/n: who was expecting me to briefly come back from exam hiatus with a jackcrutchie drabble? not me for sure

masterlist

Imagine, for a moment, that there is a boy on a fire escape, and he is listening to his best friend talk about leaving, and that boy is you. And your best friend is your best friend. And he matters more than anything.

Imagine that you have lived your entire recorded life in one city in one country in one world selling newspapers. Your birth was announced in a newspaper, probably, a newspaper that was sold by a newsboy quite like you in many ways but vastly different in the ones that matter, and when you die, your obituary will be placed in a newspaper sold by a different newsboy who is, again, both similar and dissimilar to you, a newsboy whose birth announcement you sold in a newspaper. You will sell the paper announcing the death of the boy who sold the news of your birth, and you will sell the paper announcing the birth of the boy who will sell your death. And so the chain goes on. You will sell many papers of many boys, and you will not even know it, or maybe you will. It does not matter if you read the newspaper. It only matters that you sell it.

Imagine that you have been selling newspapers with your best friend. He is your best friend because you sell newspapers with him, or perhaps in spite of it. You love him completely; you adore him like a devotee gazing upon a god. If you were one of the well-suited men writing up the articles that get to be in print, you would put your best friend in the newspaper. Not because he was born or died, but because he lived, and he lived extraordinarily.

Imagine that your best friend is telling you how much he cannot wait to leave this place, the only place that both of you have ever known. He could do it, you know. Leave. He would be good at it like he is good at every other thing except staying. Although you are his best friend, there is nothing you could say to make him stick around, so instead of saying anything, you listen. You do not like what you are hearing, although you pretend otherwise.

Imagine that your best friend could have left town a thousand times before now, but he waited for this early morning, this stolen breath before dawn, so that he could tell you he was going and judge your face to see how you would take the news. Imagine that he has already spent hours and days and weeks coming up with every possible argument you could make to keep him in New York City, Gotham, the City That Never Sleeps, so that you would think him clever, and laugh, maybe, and want him here. Imagine that he does not know that you already think him clever. Imagine that he thinks he has to prove it somehow, as if years of friendship and ill-concealed longing were not enough to cement that belief in your mind already. It is printed on your brain with permanent ink. Like in a newspaper.

Imagine that you are on the fire escape and listening to your best friend talk, and imagining what will happen one day when you wake up and are alone. You have been lonely before, but this would be worse. He would be fine at it, you think, your best friend. He is good at making friends. Even best friends. You think about them now, someone taking your place in sunny Santa Fe, where the city is not gray and lifeless, where the children do not starve in the streets. It does not matter if your replacement is a girl or boy, if Jack Kelly loves them as much as he loves you, they are not you and therefore they are an enemy.

Imagine that your best friend does not want to swap you out for anybody. You are the crucial part in his plans, the piece that completes the puzzle, but he does not know how to say it and you do not know how to say it, either, so it goes unsaid completely. The bell rings and the two of you hurry to the place where they give you the newspapers that you will sell together, and neither of you get rid of the words hanging leaden on the tips of your tongues. Tomorrow, he will repeat this conversation, and it will go the same way. Imagine that you might know what to do tomorrow. You won’t, but there is no loss in trying. Imagine that it might work out in the end. Imagining is easier. It always is.

newsies tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @misguidedswagger, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @faerieroyal

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[keo-k]

sometimes i think i wasnt an injury-prone child and then i realise im gaslighting myself

tw: fair descriptions of injury?? if you dont like blood uhh dont read <3 this is just me reminiscing on being a child who thinks they cannot feel. pain. sorry if its incoherent im very sick and life feels like a fever dream and i did not sleep last night! this is so diary-entry-core TLDR i had a lot of random injuries and a few medical mysteries.

i keep looking at the middle of my chest like "man where the fuck did i get this scar from" and then i remember this one childhood day where i was filled with hubris and slid down a chain in a playground and my skin tore from under my shirt and i started bleeding terribly ill also occasionally look at the permanent callouses on my hands and remember running down a hill at full speed, followed by rolling down a hill at full speed, crashing into rocky concrete, looking down at my hands and being utterly terrified because they're entirely covered in blood???? its all red??????? also spinning on the biggest rock in the rock garden in front of my house after a friend's birthday party blowing bubbles when i lose my footing and land chin-first into the sharpest rock there, getting blood all over my favourite party dress and having to go to the ER for 6 hours and getting, not stitches, but glue. yeowie. i scratched most of the scar off somehow, just tearing the skin off my face because i didnt like the texture. its still kind of there if you look at the right angle. being in gymnastics class, doing beat swings on the high bars, thinking "whey my hands hurt im gonna drop and get some chalk (for some reason. its not like i was slipping i was just yeowch)", dropping down, looking at my hands and LO AND BEHOLD three inches of the skin beneath my ring finger on both hands is sticking up stupid vertical ! i couldnt use my hands too good for the next two weeks, also the skin sticking up WAS NOT DEAD so i couldnt trim it without feeling excruciating pain. like cutting your ear off :( not really a "when i was younger" thing, still valid now, but i have hyper mobility so im stupid flexible. especially in my ankles! like i cant do sports without wearing ankle braces on both legs. even that cannot save me sometimes, i still die. anyway my mum thought i was a piece of shit and was faking my ankle injuries bc the limping would last like. a whole month wowie! then we realised i just have bad joint. also i can hit the splits anywhere without stretching, i can walk on the literal sides of my ankles (not like. the sides of my feet no no no. go even further beyond.), i can fold my fingers backwards into silly lookin curls without any pain and keep them there no issue, and i have gotten many MANY greenstick fractures even after my bones developed a lot because my bones soft and refuse to break like a normal persons. like my basketball coach will bend my leg back to test how far it goes and i wont feel any pain and he'll say like. "oh thats waaaay too far back to be safe." and ill laugh because it can go WAY further back! and i hate it !

BONUS: ME BEING A MEDICAL MYSTERY WOOOOO up to age 8 i would have these ... seizures? all throughout the night. i would shake super aggressively and it wouldnt wake me up. my mum filmed it one night when she finally caught it on video (she would stay up HOURS ON END trying to catch it. wild). the shaking would start like a twitching at my fingers and would travel to my hand, to my arm, to the rest of my body and youd think i got fucking electrocuted. anyway she showed it to doctors and they brought me in immediately to scan my brain for fuck knows what and they didnt. find anything? like my brain activity was completely normal. they didnt let me out of hopital for a week cus theyre like "THIS ISNT NORMAL SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THIS KID" but. womp womp. we never found out. i dont shake anymore but i do shmove a lot. like, a lot a lot. and im always tired and im capable of falling asleep standing up. and have minor chronic fatigue. also i had a bullseye-type thingy on my thigh that really, REALLY looked like a tick bite! i was in immense amounts of pain and couldnt properly walk. there was a dot in the middle, and this surrounding ring of red would expand and shrink overtime. very reasonable to think of it as a tick bite. anyway my parents carried me out to the car in the middle of the night so we could go to sick kids. they measured how much the ring would expand by (i dont remeber number. it was beeg.) and then they sent me to the ER out of the concern that i would get lyme disease. they tested me or something idk i was unconcious and. IT WASNT A TICK BITE! you may be asking "so what was it, mr gorgeous fish?" um. well heres why this is in the 'medical mystery' section. they never found out. it went away a day later and we were just like "ah. okay." so. whoops. when i was a toddler they put me in an mri thing where they uh. strapped me down because toddlers usually freak out and damage the mri thingy? anyway. was in there for two hours. and i did not freak out. at all. i was asleep for one of the hours, but the second one i just laid there very awake and very still and the doctors thought i had brain. damage. i didnt! yay ! i also have many chronic illness now. weeeee i probably missed a lot of my stories here but anyway. heres me being silly

[vilonnie]

I’m just sort of living in an annshiho and sumiren and makoharu world with hearts floating out of my eyes like oh my god I love violently furious screaming criminal girls with sharp weapons in black or leather who are villainesses and gentlemen and bikers and samurai and knights and monarchs and geniuses and dumbasses, whose love is barely touched upon relative to the cruelty and the coldness and the injustice of the world around them and yet shines so brightly somehow more intimate and more true than the bonds between characters with hundreds of hours of screentime because games of fate and gods and betrayal have nothing on the realness that is the small embrace of two vulnerable high school girls on a roof somewhere perhaps irrelevant in the grand scheme of things and yet so painfully stuffed with meaning and warmth and the most honest form of love it leaves you breathless, who the whole world is trying to force into a horrible pantomime of savior and damsel and yet unmask each other anyways and care less for the terrible kindness of authority that tries to victimize them than they care for the silly little games they get to play with each other in a tiny corner of the world where just for a moment they get to be dumb kids, who see each other for their sharpness or their softness and their rage or their weakness and rather than find each other monstrous adore each other instantly and what’s more respect each other instantly and cannot go a minute suffering without the other’s concern and quiet gentle care and who have seen insurmountable forces of respectability politics and economics twist the people they loved into unrecognizable limping things but rather than give up chose to cling to one another all the more and rely on love and friendship and move forward with more affection and significantly more strength than those who scorn them could ever understand.

DANCE HECATE RAOUL ANAT ANAT COME. ON YOUR KNEES FEEL MY RAGE MOOORE MOOOOOOORE. I’LL FILL YOU WITH LEAD YOU OPPOSE US YOU NEED PROPER PUNISHMENT. I just think there are worse fates than death will you jump or would you rather die here I’m not some cheap girl you can toy with asking for help is the hardest thing to do I won’t lose anyone else never again I’d never elect someone who made a teenager kill people I can feel the artist’s anger that seems like a lie to me I’m going to get stronger I want to be a ray of light for people who are suffering. I’ll go full speed nonstop shut your mouth you moneygrubbing bastard makoto the sycophant dies and the corrupt adults along with her YOU HAVE AMNESIA I think I’ve learned something about how people have fun I just wanted to prove I was useful in some way to someone this is gonna hurt leave room for dinner so the phantom thieves are evil and you are just think about your justice sis I’ve finally found my place to belong. I NEED MORE POWER MWAHAHAHAHAHA STAY DOWN though thou be chained to hell itself BEGONE CHECKMATE where are my teammates it’s showtime see ya it’s a deal sumire is one strong lady are you familiar with gunplay detective they do more than the cops I want to help people when he helps other people he’s really helping himself on that night it wasn’t a mistake there’s a truly despicable inmate in the quarantine cell if I don’t do this takemi won’t sell me her drugs I thought I deleted this app if they stick to their principles and make the world a better place then without a doubt that is justice. does this make any sense to the people who are not infected with permanent brain rot or like does god need to make a special prison cell just for me

[rotationalsymmetry]

Sharing the last one without comment because I’m not sure I can add anything that won’t make the reblog chain strictly worse.

But. There is also a thing. About death. About disability. About inevitability.

Sometimes a thing is going to happen and you cannot stop it. Sometimes you have a terminal illness. Sometimes you have a permanent disability (or a disability where you don’t know how long it’s going to last, which is its own sort of agonizing.) Sometimes someone you love wants nothing more to do with you. Sometimes one nation invades another and you can’t stop it. Sometimes a species goes extinct forever and you can’t stop it. Sometimes your own fucking government does something that you know is incredibly harmful and you did everything you could to stop it and it wasn’t enough.

And one day the world will end, for any given definition of the world, and this is — tumblr, please, don’t make it possible for me to prematurely post things by sticking my thumb in the wrong spot once. I swear this didn’t used to happen what the fuck — not a thing people can ultimately stop. We may have some control over when or how. But not whether it happens.

And then again we may not control when and how, it may be like a wildfire that just burns until it’s done, it may be like cancer when the last treatment is no longer working, it may be like, well. Bad things happen. Things we don’t want to happen, happen, sometimes even when we are doing everything in our power to get a different outcome.

And for some reason people tend to read this sort of thing as “don’t try. feel sad and overwhelmed. curl up into a ball and despair and never move again.”

And how do you live your life that way? You are going to die one day. That’s not pessimism, that is a fact about reality. If “we may not be able to stop catastrophic ecosystems failure” means “curl in a ball and cry and do nothing”, surely also “I will die some day and I cannot prevent it” also means “curl up in a ball and cry and do nothing”, but you do things, right? You find meaning in transience and in tragedy, right?

And the idea that the end of the world hasn’t happened yet is very Western-centric because hey a lot of societies are in their post-apocalyptic period for some time now, and it’s traumatizing sure but “this sucks and is horrifying and many people in my family and community died younger than they should have had to” isn’t actually the same as “curl up in a ball and cry and never do anything ever again.”

I speak truth and you say despair. I am not saying despair. I am saying acceptance.

Sometimes you lose. That is truth. Do you need to be guaranteed a victory — or allow your mind to perceive no other possibility than victory — to be in the fight?

There is a place for finding meaning in what you do even when you do not expect your preferred outcome.

[stupid-elf]

Just going to take a second to brag about some stuff I like in my various WIPs to remind folks that technically this was meant to be a writblr before I decided that I couldn’t be bothered to have a “consistent posting schedule” or a “predominant theme” in my silly little social media hobby

1. In the Trade Lands, being clean-shaven signifies being the head of a household. For folks who cannot naturally sport beards, it is customary to shave the sides of the head as well.

2. The Land of a Thousand Kingdoms (also known as the Loched Lands, from a phoneticization and reinscription of LoTK->Loched) uses, predictably, a lot of different currencies. Because each is only accepted in a very limited range, dragon teeth are much more valuable, with worth largely dependent on weight. There are, of course, attempts to counterfeit teeth, but real dragon teeth don’t burn, they melt, and only under sustained heat, so it’s customary to torch the tips at banking operations as proof of authenticity.

3. Planets with unified governments who are also established enough to support a planetary shield typically have green or red skies, depending on the color of their native atmosphere and the strength of the shield. It also induces a sort of permanent twilight at night.

4. The calendar in Trawler is 400 days, because orbiting the central star has no meaning, and corporate likes having four 100-day quarters, divided into 10 tendays, which are respectively divided into five onoffs, indicating the work schedule.

5. Also on Trawler, they do chain marriage. Why have next of kin when you can have next marital? Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, after all. It’s a more likely guarantee that the person you’re notifying cares, after all, anyway. It started as a protest but then the Syndies realized they could exploit it to keep people in line.

5,b. This makes marriage names tricky; people generally don’t do them, and instead stick to last names being their parents’ index numbers and play around with hyphenating their partners’ names for their middle name(s).

6. Dwarves in Helincore have soul stones that persist after they die and serve as a living record of their memories and feelings. To destroy one is the utmost taboo and tantamount to a declaration of war against the dwarven nation or tribe. These soul stones are often read as books for the young to learn their heritage

7. Ador-lovi, the god of secrets and knowledge, often appears as a shape-shifting humanoid for ease of understanding, but their truer form is as an ever-shifting labyrinthine library guiding you to the knowledge you truly need.

8. Space Pirates (WIP name under revision) the robotic ship cleaners/maintainers are loved and treated as pets. This includes all sizes, from the mouse-sized cranny sweeps to the whale-sized shielding swappers

That’s all for now, but I will produce more if asked :)

Small fantasy worldbuilding elements you might want to think about:

A currency that isn’t gold-standard/having gold be as valuable as tin

A currency that runs entirely on a perishable resource, like cocoa beans

A clock that isn’t 24-hours

More or less than four seasons/seasons other than the ones we know

Fantastical weather patterns like irregular cloud formations, iridescent rain

Multiple moons/no moon

Planetary rings

A northern lights effect, but near the equator

Roads that aren’t brown or grey/black, like San Juan’s blue bricks

Jewelry beyond precious gems and metals

Marriage signifiers other than wedding bands

The husband taking the wife's name / newlyweds inventing a new surname upon marriage

No concept of virginity or bastardry

More than 2 genders/no concept of gender

Monotheism, but not creationism

Gods that don’t look like people

Domesticated pets that aren’t re-skinned dogs and cats

Some normalized supernatural element that has nothing to do with the plot

Magical communication that isn’t Fantasy Zoom

“Books” that aren’t bound or scrolls

A nonverbal means of communicating, like sign language

A race of people who are obligate carnivores/ vegetarians/ vegans/ pescatarians (not religious, biological imperative)

I’ve done about half of these myself in one WIP or another and a little detail here or there goes a long way in reminding the audience that this isn’t Kansas anymore.

[5judgements]

"Sometimes death is a mercy." / taron to zargabaath

A mercy. He says nothing in return, eyes beneath the ornately horned helm watching this chained man with quiet concern. There is truth in this notion and one that Zargabaath cannot deny. To die was a release from the plague of a worldly body; no burden upon ones bone shoulders, not a worrisome thought within the rotting mind, death can be an exceptionally freeing action. To desire it, however, unveiled something festering beneath the statement.

Motioning without a sound towards the lone sentry at the door, the action leaves the two of them alone within the cold, featureless, room.

"Perhaps," the Judge finally replies. "However, death is also a very hastily enacted and permanent solution to a problem that has not yet been worked to another resolution."

He knows nothing of this man, what ails him, both mind and body. It may very well be the wisest choice, to end a life here and now, but until a valid reason can be procured there is no rush to administer such a violent thing upon another individual.

"Do you wish to die? Or are you speaking in general terms."

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Twenty

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross posted on my Wattpad and AO3, if you prefer those formats. Here is a link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted.

Thoughts of Joel's smell, his soft eyes, and his chocolate curls filling my mind for once instead of death.

After three days of sleeping almost around the clock, Joel is finally awake for more than twenty minutes. There are bags under his eyes from exhaustion, his body has been working overtime to heal himself. I've been doing my best at keeping the wound clean and ensuring it doesn't get infected. Luckily, the amateur sutures I did are holding up fairly well. If I had to guess, I'd say we can probably get back on the road in about two days.

With the excessive amount of free time I've had, I've dedicated myself to making sure our security measures are as air-tight as they can be. Though during this time my mind has liked to drift into thoughts about the T group, trying to come up with any new revelations about these people. The same information circulates my mind, and unfortunately nothing new is coming to me. I know Joel needs to heal, but there's a part of me that's itching to find these people. Bloodlust has never really been my thing, that is until very recently, where I find myself wanting to slit every last throat that's branded with a T.

My nightmares have not ceased, if anything, they've only gotten worse. The dead children are no longer just dead, but my mind has conjured twisted, gruesome images of decomposing flesh. Their bodies are being returned to nature, and people's memories of them are beginning to fade. Just as I had feared. But I will not, and cannot, begin to forget these children.

"What are you thinking about?" Joel's gravelly voice breaks my train of thought. I blink a few times to process his question, caught off guard by his voice.

"Oh, um. Nothing." I keep my answer atypically short, but as a man of few words himself, I hope he understands. He nods his head once, his eyes still trained on my face.

"That scowl says otherwise." He points out the deep crease between my eyebrows. My fingers come up to smooth out the dent. My eyes meet his across the room, and I'm not sure what to say. I sure don't want to admit I was daydreaming about homicide.

"Just got a little lost I guess." I try to crack a small smile, to keep things lighthearted.

"Easy to do with all this time on our hands. We can get goin'." He goes to stand, but I shake my head and he sinks back to the ground.

"No, I want to give that cut two more good days." I tell him, eyes trailing down to where the cut is being concealed by his flannel.

Redirecting my gaze, my mind turns from bloody homicidal visions to thoughts about Joel's family. I know he's got a pseudo-daughter, but I can't help but wonder if there's anyone else. Not that it's really any of my business, but like Joel said, it's easy to get trailing thoughts with all this free time.

"You keep scowlin' like that, your face is gonna get stuck." Joel's voice sounds almost like he's teasing me. My hand reaches back up to smooth out the crease, and I wonder if I'm going to give myself a permanent scowl. The corners of my mouth turn up a little, finding the irony in his statement.

"Says the man whose only expression is a scowl." I joke back with him, standing up from my spot against the wall. My legs have started to go numb, and it's time to check Joel's cut anyways. His eyes remain on me as I make the few steps across the room. As usual, I lean down and check the cut, seeing nothing alarming.

"What's that chain for?" He asks, and I look down to see his eyes trained on the golden necklace that adorns my neck. I drop his flannel from my hands and lean back from him, giving us some more space. My fingertips dance across the cold chain and I look down at it myself. The glint from the diamond stares back at me, and the charm hanging next to it bluntly shines from the years of wear.

"Um, this is, or was, my wedding ring. A few of the side diamonds have fallen out over the years. And this," My fingers undo the locket charm next to the ring and open it, revealing a small scrap of soft material, "this is the only part of my son I have left." My throat feels like it's constricting as I play with the plush material, not having taken it out in years.

I take a shaky breath as I stare back at the ring and material in my hand. A thousand different memories flood my mind. The evening Ryan proposed to me on a lakeside, the day we bought the dinosaur plush for our soon-to-come baby.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-" Joel tries to apologize, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

"There's no need to be sorry. This was from Lucas' favorite toy, it was a little dinosaur stuffed animal. We bought it the day we found out we were having a boy. Turned out to be his favorite toy ever. The night everything happened, it was the only thing I could keep a hold of." I put the small scrap back into the locket for safekeeping. When I look back at Joel, I see a certain sadness in his eye.

"That first night, my brother and I were tryin' to get out of Austin. We got T-boned by a truck and hurt my daughter Sarah's ankle, so I carried her. My brother got separated from us, and I ended up running right into a soldier who had orders to shoot on sight." His voice sounds disconnected and stony, like he's taken meticulous care to set his emotions apart from the words falling from his lips. I don't miss the way his eyes flicker to his hands.

My gaze turns towards the floor, understanding Joel's pain all too well. There is no pain quite like losing a child, it's a special kind of pain, reserved for the most unlucky of people. Our hands have both been washed in the blood of our children.

Instead of putting more space between us like I usually do, I go to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Neither of us say anything, there's too much being said in the silence already. Hesitantly, I rest my head on Joel's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin heat up my cheek.

"They were spared from the horrors of this world. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want this world for him. For any kid." My voice comes out weak as I picture having to raise Lucas in this twisted, cruel world.

"No, she wasn't made for this world. She was too kind." Joel's voice sounds thick and he starts picking at the edges of his nails. The air in the building feels thick and heavy, our sorrows infiltrating the open air around us. My eyes close for a moment's peace and reflection, and the familiar scent of Joel overcomes me. Much like back at the camping grounds, the smell makes me feel safe and secure.

Not wanting him to feel uncomfortable, I raise my head from his shoulder and give it a reassuring pat. The nagging voice in the back of my head screams at me, tells me I need to keep my distance. Not only could this man have a wife, but our time together is limited. After Omaha I'll probably never see him again. My head shakes the voice from my mind, and I try to change the subject.

"So your brother, is he still around?" I try my best to keep my tone even and light, not wanting us to suffocate on our own brokenness and sadness. Joel turns his head to look at me, dark chocolate eyes studying my face. He nods his head eventually,

"Yeah, Tommy, he's still around." A ghost of a smile passes over Joel's face.

"That's good. He out in Wyoming?" I ask, piecing together that if the rest of his family is there, his brother probably is too.

"Sure is. He's got his own wife, which I never thought would happen." The faint smile returns to his face, and my curiosity gets the best of me once more.

"Why not?" The crease between my eyebrows returns as I try to decode what he means. The sadness from Joel's eyes has dissipated, replaced with what I can only describe as humor.

"Tommy? Oh back in the day it was a different girl every weekend." He shakes his head and the dent between my eyebrows smooths over.

"Oh, yeah. I hear you there. Ryan had a brother who was the same way. He'd always bring someone new to the family Thanksgiving. I think after year three I quit trying to remember their names." A smile finds its way back on my face.

The Thanksgiving before the world crumbled, I can still vividly remember Ryan's parents staring at this year's choice with a disapproving frown. Ryan's brother decided he would bring a college freshman to our dinner, one who obviously had not been taught manners or proper etiquette. As if the age gap hadn't been enough of an issue. But I can't say I was totally angry about Ryan's brother, because his antics drew the attention off of myself and Ryan, and the age gap we shared.

Both Ryan's parents and my parents had never been particularly fond of our age difference. My parents thought I was too young, and his parents agreed. But, once the news of Lucas came along, their anger disappeared overnight. They were all overjoyed by the news of a grandchild.

"So how did you and your husband meet?" Joel's voice shakes the memory from my mind. My eyes grow wider as I recall our early days, and how much of a mess they were.

"It was no fairytale, let me tell you that much." I can't help but laugh a little. Joel's head tilts and he urges me to keep going.

"Well, Ryan and I met when I was eighteen. He was twenty five, and was a fresh out of college lawyer. I was working in the town's florist shop straight out of high school. He comes in one day to order an arrangement for his girlfriend of the time, and I told him that we could get that arrangement to him in three days. Well, I guess in that time he broke up with his girlfriend or whatever, but he still came for the flowers." I stop for a breath and see that Joel is still locked onto every word,

"And so he picks up the flowers, and takes the love note out of the center. I tell him to have a nice day and he smiles, tells me he's going to give these flowers to the most beautiful girl. He walks out of the store and not a minute later he comes back in. I think there's an issue with the flowers or something, but no, he gave me the flowers and asked me out on a date. Looking back, I can see the red flags. But as an eighteen year old, I couldn't believe it. And so I went on that date and we actually related to each other more than I anticipated. One thing lead to another, he proposed, and then we had Lucas." I keep the story as short as possible, not wanting to bore Joel with all the tiny details. Plus, I've already told him the rest back at the farmhouse.

"Hey, y'all made it work. That's more than a lot of people can say." He says with a huff, and I want to pry into his life. If he asked me about mine, surely I can ask about his, right?

"Well what about you? You have a wife in Wyoming waiting on you?" I ask him, careful to keep from sounding too curious. A smile does break out on his face this time, but he's quick to control it.

"Oh no, not me. Got married to Sarah's mom when she was pregnant, but that didn't last long." He shakes his head and stretches, cracking his knuckles. The answer is not what I had anticipated, and I struggle to keep the surprise off my face.

"Well, I'm sorry that didn't work out." I offer, not knowing what else to say. Joel just grunts and shrugs his shoulders,

"Probably was for the best." He leaves things, not wanting to divulge anything more. He's satisfied my questions, being unusually talkative, but I take it for what it is.

I stand from my spot next to him, his warmth becoming all too inviting for me. And now that there's not the looming threat of a wife, I know I'll let myself indulge in little things here and there. Resting my head on his shoulder, brushing his curls off his forehead. I cannot let myself become too attached to him. To further my point, the cold chain around my neck floods me with a feeling of guilt. I shouldn't even be having these thoughts about him, it's wrong of me to do.

"I'm gonna make a food run, want anything in particular?" I ask, lacing my boots up and forcing myself to think of anything else except where my mind was wanting to take me.

"Nah, just whatever you find is good." He answers, shifting around on his makeshift mattress. With a quick nod of acknowledgement I make the short trip over to the food stockpile and pick out two cans of whatever for dinner. I take my time getting back, giving myself some extra minutes to get my mind back on track.

"On tonight's gourmet menu we have a fine selection of canned black beans or dried lentils." The door squeaks as I open it and I hold the two cans out in front of me. While the people here had a stockpile, they didn't necessarily have the most tasty options.

"What amazing choices. Surprise me." Joel answers and I hand him the black beans. Even after the world has ended, I almost refuse to eat beans. But thankfully Joel doesn't seem to mind them. He didn't say anything about the pinto beans when we first started out from Boston either.

The two of us choke down the flavorless food in silence, and I wonder if he's focusing on finishing as quickly as possible too. Even a pinch of salt would make this more bearable. What I wouldn't do for a FEDRA ration right now, I never thought I'd miss them.

Joel places the empty can next to him and rubs his hand together as I toss the package of dried lentils to the side.

"Looked like it was gonna rain." I state, breaking the silence. Joel's hand rubs over his beard as he nods, fighting off a yawn.

"Maybe it'll cool things down out there." He optimistically thinks. Rain in the summer can go one of two ways. It can either cool things down, or it can make the air ten times more humid. With our luck, the air will be very thick.

"You ever watch the summer storms?" I ask, remembering how I always sat on my front porch to watch the vibrant lighting, breathe in the rain-filled air, and soak in the rumbling thunder.

"Many times, loved 'em, especially in the night." I nod, agreeing with him.

"There's nothing quite like it. You run into many storms when you and the girl came through?" I inquire, curious about the girl he crossed the country for. She's always been a sensitive topic, for good reason, but I feel like Joel's connection with me has become more trustworthy.

"We ran into a few, yeah. Got caught in more snow storms than rain." He puffs out air as if recalling those memories.

"Well hopefully you get back before winter. Should be fall time if I had to guess. I'll probably get stuck with the snow on the way back to Boston." I realize that even if we get to Omaha by fall, I'll be traveling back to Boston in the middle of winter. Alone. Joel's mouth opens and then closes, like he was about to say something but decided against it.

"Maybe it'll be a mild winter." He offers up, but I know it's wishful thinking. The winters are harsh every year. But instead of unloading my burdens on him, I take the easy way out.

"Yeah, maybe. How did you guys get through it?" If I'm going to be battling the blizzards alone, I might as well get all the pointers I can. Joel's eyebrows scrunch together.

"Well I was unconscious for some of it, but, we took it one day at a time. Built fires, found places to hole up. Layered as much as possible." His answers are generic, common sense, but I guess that's really all that can be done. It's not like space heaters are around anymore.

"What do you mean you were unconscious for some of it?" His words catch my attention. Joel lifts the hem of his flannel, and points to the white scar next to the sutures.

"I got impaled on a pipe. Nasty stuff. I'm just lucky I didn't die of tetanus or something. But the girl, she saved me." He says, lowering his shirt. A rumble of thunder sounds off in the distance.

"You were impaled by a pipe? And she was able to save you from that? That's a serious injury." I'm almost in disbelief a young girl could be so strong and smart. He nods his head.

"She sure did. She's one of the toughest people I've met." The corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile.

"What's she like?" I ask, knowing very well he can put his walls back up at a moment's notice. Instead of shutting me down, he stares at me and licks his lips before speaking, like he's choosing his words carefully.

"She's smart, she's strong. Got good instincts. But she's got a fuckin' mouth on her." His smile grows.

I'm grateful that Joel is allowing himself to open up more, I was worried that this may never happen. Back when we first started this journey, his silence and standoff attitude made me want to avoid him. As he reveals more and more over time, I come to understand that's he's just a well-guarded person, he's very particular about who knows what. And I get it. In this world people cannot be trusted with valuable information such as who your family is, where you're from.

"Sounds like she keeps things interesting then." I smile back and Joel nods, another roll of thunder in the distance. It sounds closer than the last and I anticipate the sprinkles to start soon.

Before all light is lost, I go about securing the building we're in. The doors get double checked, and I look around for anything that might be lingering outside. All looks clear. I know that I'll barely sleep tonight, for the nightmares have become too horrific and that means I'll be able to stay up and listen for anything lurking about. I hope Joel doesn't notice that dark circles under my eyes, or the way my feet shuffle against the floor in an exhausted saunter.

As I take my place on my own makeshift mattress I hear the arrhythmic pitter patter of raindrops on the rooftop. If I close my eyes, it's almost like I can force myself to imagine I'm back home, cuddled underneath warm blankets in a chilled room listening to the rain as it lulls me to sleep. But the uncomfortable lumps in my backpack that I rest my head upon keep me from getting sucked into the thought. And instead of being on a cloud-like mattress, I'm on three sleeping bags stacked on top of one another on top of a concrete floor. My aging body is most definitely noticing the difference.

The raindrops begin increasing in number, the thunder cracks overhead followed by bright strikes of lightning. Though the room we're in has no windows, I can see the light coming from the front, where there are storefront windows.

"Wanna go watch?" Joel's soft, yet gruff, voice speaks up.

"Sure, that would be nice." I say and go to help him stand, making sure he's not straining the sutures too much. Luckily, the wound is doing remarkably well and he's able to get up and walk to the front with only a little bit of difficulty.

We get to the window in time to see a fantastic streak of lighting that illuminates the sky. Joel and I stand shoulder to shoulder, his warmth once again making me feel warm and safe. My teeth bite the inside of my cheeks as I try to ward off thoughts of us grabbing a blanket and watching the storm together like that, sharing each other's warmth and comfort. While deep down I know my heart yearns for a connection, I know that things with Joel just can't work. He's going to Wyoming with his family, and I'm destined to return to the QZ. Plus, the lingering feeling of guilt eats at my mind little by little, each little indulgence with Joel makes me feel like a bad partner to Ryan, even if he's not still here. I feel like I still have a duty to be faithful to him, for I never stopped loving him.

One of Joel's hands rests lightly on his wound, the other stays loosely by his side. My gaze averts from him back out the window, where water streaks down the glass in haphazard lines. Another strike of lighting hits, and with the limited light it provides, I can almost swear I see Joel looking at me from the corner of his eye. But it was probably just my imagination.

The two of us remain like that, motionless, side by side. Our arms brush up against each other every so often, and it takes an immense amount of self restraint to keep from reaching out and taking his arm, leaning into his side while the storm carries on. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets to save myself from temptation and after a while, my eyes start becoming heavy.

"I'm gonna go lay down." I whisper, so as to not entirely disturb the tranquility. This time Joel for sure looks down at me and nods his head. As I turn back, I feel the material of his flannel brush against my back and I swallow hard.

The two of us return to our prospective places, and I get underneath the top sleeping bag and pull it tight against me, the air having been chilled from the rain. Maybe Joel was right about this one, and maybe, just maybe, it means our luck might start looking up.

Pitch black surrounds us, save for the occasional flash of lightning, and when the brief second of light shows up, I'm met with Joel's eyes staring back at me from across the room. His eyes are soft, unlike the guardedness I'm used to seeing so often.

Without me even realizing what's happening, I find myself being pulled off to sleep. Thoughts of Joel's smell, his soft eyes, and his chocolate curls filling my mind for once instead of death.

Part Twenty One