#maintaining milk supply

[successfulblackparenting]

How Often Should I Pump And Breastfeed? A Quick Guide For New Moms 

This guide is here to be your breastfeeding support system, empowering you to understand your baby’s cues and establish a feeding routine that works for both of you. Whether you decide to breastfeed or pump, this guide is here to be your breastfeeding support system, empowering you to understand your baby’s cues and establish a feeding routine that works for both of you. Understanding Your…

[fox-bright]

Hopeful: only fragments of virus being found means the pasteurization is effectively deactivating H5N1 at the temperatures and times currently used commercially. Dismaying: There shouldn't be any virus in there, because the sick cows should be caught and diverted before their milk makes it into further parts of the process, but since people aren't goddamn testing their cows they're not getting diagnosed.

[charmercharm3r]

In Phases, imagine that Reader gets fucked so good and so well by both that she falls into sub-space, pretty much like Minho does sometimes. No thoughts, mind blank, half-unconscious and she loses awareness of her surroundings for seconds, body only searching for the high. You know what I mean.

How would that happen and how would the bbies react after bringing her to that point??👀

I'm desesperatly in love with your blog btw❤❤

this, I simply couldn't ignore and had to turn it into a whole drabble

Masterlist, Phases Masterlist

☆ﾟ

Sweaty, tired, numb yet somehow on fire, "moaning like a pornstar," was how Jisung put it.

Except porn is fake. This, this feeling, the way they made you feel is entirely real.

Jisung had his back against the headboard, hands behind his head with his mouth agape while he watched you work yourself into a frenzy in his lap. He could hear the wooden headboard banging agains the wall, could feel your skin rubbing uncomfortably against one another because you'd been going at it for so long, but he didn't care, as long as you didn't either. And you clearly didn't.

Because now you were calling Minho over, who was still trying to catch his breath at the foot of the bed from when you milked him just a few minutes ago. "C'mon now kitty, don't keep our cock hungry princess waiting."

You couldn't stop moving, swiveling forward and back to feel Jisung's tip nudge the soft spot within you, mindlessly beckoning your other boyfriend over because you missed his presence. As if he wasn't in you less than five minutes ago, Minho took your hand like a champ and stood by your side, only to be pulled down into a sloppy kiss by the back of the neck, all the while you didn't slow down.

Your hand glided down his wet chest to find his dick raising again, somehow hardening under your touch. You liked the feeling of his tongue in your mouth, but craved something bigger, heavier.

Minho winced against your lips as you tugged at his cock, "can't- hurts-"

"You can, and you will," Jisung instructed before the other could protest.

All three of you knew Minho could take it, if he truly didn't want to, he would've tried hard to fight it or used the safe word. Instead, Minho kissed you deeper and slightly rutted into your hand before pulling away. He moved to stand on the bed, beside where you and Jisung stayed connected. As soon as he was close enough, you reached to take his cock in your mouth, barely trying to suck.

Jisung had the biggest shit-eating smirk on his face, enthralled by the sight before him. Minho held onto the headboard for balance, the feeling of your warm mouth already making him want to crumble from overstimulation. He was already amazed by how much you were still able to take, thinking in the back of his mind that he needed to do more cardio to catch up to you.

The weight of one dick on your tongue, the other filling you so nicely, you didn't think it could get any better-

Correction; you didn't think. You couldn't think.

Every thought in your head drifted away the second your first orgasm passed, you didn't even know what number you were on now. Maybe Jisung knew- you'll find out eventually.

But his hand was wrapping around your throat now, squeezing softly and feeling the air supply slowly dwindling little by little. Slack jawed, Minho took advantage and threaded his fingers in your hair to rut in quick jabs, the drool dripping down your chin and onto Jisung's hand.

Your thighs burned, trying so hard to maintain a rhythm and failing. Jisung could tell, to Minho it was obvious, they were both just proud you were still going. In an attempt to get him to squeeze harder, you placed your hand around Jisung's. Instead of constricting, he lifted you up by the neck to get you to sit high on your knees.

Even with a mouth full of cock, you couldn't contain your moans. The vibrations of your whining made Minho squirm and rut faster, sloppier. Elevated in more ways than just in his lap, Jisung pulled out to the tip only to slam back into you, thrusting from below at a more than leisure pace. His thumb found its way to your clit, rubbing harshly back and forth perfectly to make you grab at Minho's thigh and harder at Jisung's hand around your neck.

Your eyes rolled back, taking Minho in his full stride and the pummeling you were receiving from below. All senses flushed stupid, feeling nothing and everything all at once and in fact, moaning like a pornstar.

It was so good to the point you didn't realize you'd stopped breathing even when Jisung loosened his grip on your windpipe. You were suddenly being lowered into someone's arms and placed with your head against their chest. It felt as though you had just woken up from a deep slumber, but was sweaty and smelled like bodies on bodies.

"Baby, hey hey, come back to us," Jisung cooed sweetly, brushing away the matted hair on your forehead.

Another set of hands was caressing your back, cooled off by a damp towel being wiped up and down the exposed skin.

Your eyes fluttered open, seeing Minho's big browns glossy with concern, "there she is."

"Hm..?" The dryness of your throat hurt a little, as did the joints in your jaw.

Jisung carefully laid you on your back with your head at the foot of the bed. You could hear him distantly chuckle about the pillows being too icky to lay on.

Towering over you, Minho used the same hand cloth to wipe your face, down your neck and body. He gently kissed your belly as he continued to traverse your lower half and legs. Drowsily looking around the room, you almost rolled your eyes behind your head to find Jisung, who popped in upside down into your field of vision.

"You okay, sweetheart? You blacked out on us," before you could answer, he Spiderman kissed you chastely.

"Dicks too good, apparently." Minho and Jisung high fived each other over your limp body.

"Thirsty," you groaned, trying to regain moisture back into your mouth.

"Yeah, you were. I swear my dick was about to fall off." The older chuckled as he sauntered off to the bathroom for a moment once you were clean. Jisung took his place and sat you up to bring a water bottle to your lips.

"Don't complain. Just means we gotta step up our game, right? Hit the gym more often. You got us both beat, pretty princess." Soft and sweet, the blonde leaned forward to kiss your forehead and tip you back again. "But seriously," he said with your cheeks in his hands, "don't ever scare us like that again. It's okay to stop."

You couldn't help the slightly embarrassed giggle, "I would've if I could."

"Look!" Minho came running back into the room, still completely naked. "Lipstick!" Your lipstick. Printed in a ring around the base of his flaccid cock.

Jisung's mouth dropped, "that's so hot. I want one, too."

"You just told me I should sto-"

"Next time, next time. Can't have you breaking in two." Jisung grabbed the blanket from the side chair and draped it over your body.

As Minho tossed the soiled pillows to the ground and got into bed beside you, he murmured, "yet."

-

tags: @sensitiveandhungry @babebatter @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @dazzlingligth @lvrhyuka @alexis-reads-fics @linaliskz @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44 @yeetmehome @in2heartz @astroodledream @the-sweetest-rose @goblinracha @lilbugs-things @viviennenstan @staurdvst @alex--awesome--22 @imzenning @jeyelleohe @kaitchan @iadorethemskz @skyvastbunny @mamabymychem @katsukis1wife @woozarts @noellllslut

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Seven yoghurt balls on a plate drizzled with olive oil. The one in the center is plain; the others are covered in mint, toasted sesame seeds, ground sumac, za'tar, crushed red chili pepper, and nigella seeds. End ID]

لبنة نباتية / Labna nabatia (Vegan labna)

Labna (with diacritics: "لَبْنَة"; in Levantine pronunciation sometimes "لَبَنَة" "labanay") is a Levantine cow's, sheep's, or goat's milk yoghurt that has been strained to remove the whey and leave the curd, giving it a taste and texture in between those of a thick, tart sour cream and a soft cheese. The removal of whey, in addition to increasing the yoghurt's tanginess and pungency, makes it easier to preserve: it will keep in burlap or cheesecloth for some time without refrigeration, and may be preserved for even longer by rolling it into balls and submerging the balls in olive oil. Labna stored in this way is called "لبنة كُرَات" ("labna kurāt") or "لبنة طابات" ("labna ṭābāt"), "labna balls." Labna may be spread on a plate, topped with olive oil and herbs, and eaten as a dip for breakfast or an appetizer; or spread on kmaj bread alongside herbs, olives, and dates to make sandwiches.

The word "labna" comes from the Arabic root ل ب ن (l b n), which derives from a Proto-West-Semitic term meaning "white," and produces words relating to milk, yoghurt, nursing, and chewing. The related term "لَبَن" ("laban"; also transliterated "leban") refers to milk in Standard Arabic, but in Levantine Arabic is more likely to refer to yoghurt; a speaker may specify "لَبَن رَائِب‎" (laban rā'ib), "curdled milk," to avoid confusion.

Labna is a much-beloved food in Palestine, with some people asserting that no Palestinian home is without a jar. Making labna tabat is, for many, a necessary preparation for the winter season. However, by the mid-2010s, the continuation of Israel's blockade of the Gaza strip, as well as Israeli military violence, had severely weakened Gaza's dairy industry to the point where almost no labna was being produced. Most of the 11 dairy processors active in Gaza in 2017 (down from 15 in 2016) only produced white cheese—though Mustafa Eid's company Khalij had recently expanded production to other forms of dairy that could be made locally with limited equipment, such as labna, yoghurt, and buttermilk.

Dairy farmers and processors pushed for this kind of innovation and self-sufficiency against deep economic disadvantage. With large swathes of Gaza's arable land rendered unusable by Israeli border policing and land mines, about 90% of farmers were forced by scarce pasture land and low fodder production to feed their herds with increasingly expensive fodder imported from Israel—dairy farmers surveyed in 2017 spent an estimated 87% of their income on fodder, which had doubled in price since 2007. Cattle were thus fed with low quantities of, or low-quality, fodder, resulting in lower milk production and lower-quality milk.

Most dairy processors were also unable to access or afford the equipment necessary to maintain, upgrade, or diversify their factories. Since 2007, Israel has tightly restricted entry into Gaza of items which they consider to have a "dual use": i.e., a potential civilian and military function. This includes medical equipment, construction materials, and agricultural equipment and machinery, and impacts everything from laboratory equipment to ensure safe food supplies to packaging and labelling equipment. Of the dairy products that Gazan farmers and processors do manage to produce, Israel's control over their export can cause huge financial losses—as when Israel prohibited the export of Palestinian dairy and meat to East Jerusalem without warning in March of 2020, costing estimated annual losses of 300 million USD.

In addition to this kind of economic manipulation, direct military violence threatens Gaza's dairy industry. Mamoun Dalloul says that his factory was accused of holding rockets and subsequently bombed in 2008, 2010, 2012, and again in 2014, resulting in repeated moves and the loss of the capability to produce yellow cheese. The Israeli military partially or totally destroyed 10 dairy processing factories, and killed almost 2,000 cows, during its 2014 invasion of Gaza, resulting in an estimated 43 million USD of damage to the dairy sector alone. Damage to cow-breeding farms in 2014 reduced the number of dairy cows to 2,600, just over half their previous number. Damage to, or destruction of, wells, water reservoirs, water tanks, and the Gaza Power Plant's fuel tank exacerbated pre-existing problems with producing cattle feed and with the transportation, processing, and refrigeration of dairy products, leading to spoiled milk that had to be disposed of. Repeated offensives made dairy processors reluctant to re-invest in equipment that could be destroyed at any time.

Israeli industry profits by making Gazan self-sufficiency untenable. Israeli goods entering Palestine are not subject to import taxes, and Israeli dairy companies are not dealing with the contaminated water, limited electricity, high costs of feed, out-of-date and expensive-to-repair equipment, and scarce land (some companies, such as Tnuva, purchase milk from farms on illegal settlements in the West Bank) with which Gazan producers must contend. The result is that the local market in Gaza is flooded with imports that are cheaper, more diverse, and of higher quality than anything that local producers can offer. Many consumers believe that Israeli products are safer to eat.

Nevertheless, Gazans continue building and rebuilding. Despite significant decreases in ice cream factories' production after the imposition of Israel's blockade in 2007, Abu Mohammad noted in 2015 that locally produced ice cream was cheaper and more varied than Israeli imports. In 2017, the amount of dairy sold in 74 shops in Gaza that was sourced locally, rather than from Israel, had increased from 10% to 60%. Ayadi Tayyiba, the region's first factory with an all-woman staff, opened in 2022; it produced cheese, yoghurt, and labna with sheep's milk from affiliated farms. However, demand for sheep's milk products has decreased in Gaza due to its higher production costs, leading the factory to supplement its supply with purchased cow's milk.

The current Israeli genocidal offensive on Gaza has caused damage of the same kind as—though to a greater extent than—previous shellings and invasions. Lack of ability to sell milk that had already been produced to factories, as well as lack of access to electricity, caused an estimated 35,000 liters of milk to spoil daily in October of 2023.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System’s (Israel’s primary weapons manufacturer) landlord, donating to Palestine Legal's activist defense fund, and donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund.

Equipment:

A blender

A kettle or pot, to boil water

A cheesecloth or tea towel

Ingredients:

1 cup (130g) cashews (soaked, if your blender is not high-speed)

3/4 cup filtered or distilled water, boiled

1-3 vegetarian probiotic capsules (containing at least 10 billion cultures total)

A few pinches sea salt

More water, to boil

Arabic-language recipes for vegan labna use bulghur, almonds, or cashews as their base. This recipe uses cashew to achieve a smooth, creamy, non-crumbly texture, and a mild taste like that of cow's milk labna. You might try replacing half the cashews with blanched almonds for a flavor more similar to that of sheep's or goat's cheese.

Make sure your probiotic capsules contain no prebiotics, as they can interfere with the culture. The probiotic may be multi-strain, but should contain some of: Lactobacillus casei, Lactobacillus rhamnosus, Bifidobacterium bifidus, Lactobacillus acidophilus. The number of capsules you need will depend on how many cultures each capsule is guaranteed to contain.

Instead of probiotic capsules, you can use a speciality starter culture pack intended for use in culturing vegan dairy, many of which are available online. Note that starter cultures may be packaged with small amounts of powdered milk for the bacteria to feed on, and may not be truly vegan.

If you want a mustier, goat-ier taste to your labna, try replacing the water with rejuvelac made with wheat berries.

You can also start a culture by using any other product with active cultures, such as a spoonful of vegan cultured yoghurt. If you have a lot of cultured yoghurt, you can just skip to straining that directly (step 5) to make your labna—though you won't be able to control how tangy the labna is that way.

Instructions:

This recipe works by blending together cashews and water into a smooth, creamy spread, then culturing it into yoghurt, and then straining it (the way yoghurt is strained to make labna). It's possible that you could skip the straining step by adding more cashews, or less water, to the yoghurt to obtain a thicker texture, but I have not tested the recipe this way.

1. If your blender is not high-speed, you will need to soak your cashews to soften them. Soak in filtered or distilled water for 2-4 hours at room temperature, or overnight in the fridge. Rinse them off with just-boiled water.

2. Boil several cups of water and use the just-boiled water to rinse your blender, tamper, measuring cups, the bowl you will ferment your yoghurt in, and a wooden spoon or rubber spatula to stir. Your bowl and stirring implement should be in a non-reactive material such as wood, clay, glass, or silicone.

3. Make the yoghurt. Blend cashews with 3/4 cup just-boiled water for a couple of minutes until very smooth. Transfer to your bowl and allow to cool to about skin temperature (it should feel slightly warm if dabbed on the inside of your wrist). If the mixture is too hot, it may kill the bacteria.

4. Culture the yoghurt. Open the probiotic capsules and stir the powder into the cashew paste. Cover the bowl with a cheesecloth or tea towel. Ferment for 24 hours: on the countertop in summer, or in an oven with the light on in winter.

Taste the yoghurt with a clean implement (avoid double-dipping!). Continue fermenting for another 12-24 hours, depending on how tangy you want your labna to be. A skin forming on top of the yoghurt is no problem and can be mixed back in. Discard any yoghurt that grows mold of any kind.

5. Strain the yoghurt to make labna. Place a mesh strainer in a bowl, making sure there's enough room beneath the strainer for liquid to collect at the bottom of the bowl; line the strainer with cheesecloth or a tea towel, and scoop the cultured yoghurt in. Sprinkle salt over top of the yoghurt. Fold the towel or cheesecloth back over the yoghurt, and add a small weight, such as a ceramic plate or a can of beans, on top.

You can also tie the cheesecloth into a bag around a wooden spoon and place the wooden spoon across the rim of a pitcher or other tall container to collect the whey. The draining may occur less quickly without the weight, though.

Strain in the refrigerator for 24-48 hours, depending on the desired texture. I ended up draining about 2 Tbsp of whey.

6. If not making labna balls: Put in an airtight jar, and add just enough olive oil to cover the surface of the labna. Store in the fridge for up to two months.

7. To form balls (optional): Oil your hands to form the labna into small balls and place them on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. They may still be quite soft.

Optionally sprinkle with, or roll in, dried mint, za'tar, sesame seeds, nigella seeds (القزحة), ground sumac, or crushed red chili pepper, as desired.

Optionally, for firmer balls, lightly cover with another layer of parchment paper and then a kitchen towel, and leave in the refrigerator to dry for about a day.

Place labna balls in a clean glass jar and add olive oil to cover. Retrieve labna from the jar with a clean implement. They will last in the fridge for about a year.

[turbulentscrawl]

Since the topic of body hcs and body hair hcs overall...may I ask what do you think survivors smell like? I've seen some people differ and I just wanna know your thoughts ;w;

Also, we've gotta be honest. They *will* stink at times, specially after matches. But hey that's only but natural so *shrugs*.

They definitely smell more distinct than I think we'd be used to in general, yeah. And I DON'T think most of them smell unique enough to say how they're different from others, specifically, but there are a few things to consider, if we're looking at it a little more realistically:

More regular cleanliness was becoming normal in the 1800s, when most of the survivors were from, but the actual frequency of bathing varied by class and career. Showering daily still was not common until the 1900s, though. Even without any concerns about water supply in the manor, I would imagine most of them average a full clean-up maybe twice a week? A little more for those who get into actual filth on their days off. (looking at Emma, since she digs in the dirt and spend a lot of time outside.)

Deodorent was not invented until 1888, and didn't become popular until the 1930s or so. And most early deodorents didn't come with much in the way of additional scents, rather they just killed bacteria that caused excess body odors. Most of the people in the manor would not have used this, except perhaps the latest arrivals like Frederick and Alice. Instead, before deodorant, people took steps like shaving their underarms to prevent more sweat and bad scents, and used products like perfume and talcum powder to freshen up and get rid of odors.

Fancier soaps were around in the 1800s, but were used sparingly and economically. The lower class especially would have made their own ashen lye soap to bathe and wash their clothes. (Which, if you've never smelled unscented lye soap, is not pleasant to the nose imo. It's a bit of a pungent chemical smell, mixed with the scent of whatever the soap base was, which was usually lard and olive oil.) More expensive soaps could have been made from things like almond oil, coconut oil, or goat's milk, plus herbs or extracts for something much better smelling.

There's not a ton of hard labor to do in the manor, which would keep some people from working up so much of a sweat, but there's not likely an AC there. On the plus side, I don't imagine there's too much weather fluctuation in the manor for the sake of keeping the passage of time as confusing as possible, which also means it's not getting too hot. Most of the temperature changes you experience would be on the maps. I also don't think a lot of the Hunters would sweat! Any of those who have been dead and were brought back probably don't perspire anymore, though they may have the slightest hint of something off about them.

In short...yeah there's definitely more BO than we're used to in most modern settings. Most of the people in the manor are going to smell pretty natural--which won't always be offensive to the nose, mind you, since they say the smell of someone who's right for you will smell GOOD--plus some talcum/baby power or perfume scents to 'soften the blow' a bit. (Though it wasn't really in fashion to DROWN yourself in perfume by most of these peoples' time, so I think only a few people might lay it on too thick. Mary or Vera, for instance.)

And some people probably maintain very small scent hints about their professions or lives before the manor, just to distinguish them up close. Luchino has a touch of carbolic acid on his clothes, from sterilizing tools in the lab. Norton still smells of coal and minerals, just a touch. Victor smells a bit like sun-heated dog due to walking around outside all day with Wick, and Ithaqua like snowy pine trees from his years wandering and guarding winter woods. You get the idea.

I won't say who I think smells the worst or the best because that;s just too subjective--especially since I've revealed I don't like the smell of lye which is probably what most of them would have used LOL. But I'm definitely not one to say 'let's fully suspend our disbelief and say Naib smells freshly showered and uses Old Spice 😜'.

[casuallyanidiot]

Imagine... Tw. yandere, death, isolation

It had just been your girlfriend and you for as long as you could remember at this point. The world had collapsed in on itself years ago, and yet the two of you had managed to forge a life together despite the fact that all other people seemed to vanish off the face of the earth.

She had found you injured and dying on the floor of an abandoned house. You were like a broken bird, your wings crushed, mangled and spread out nonetheless. She had taken you back to her well maintained property, nursed you back to health, and stolen your heart in the process. More than that, she had given you purpose to continue on even when everything else had crumbled. She was your family. Your everything.

There's no one else alive here but us.

Her claims made sense. After all, you hadn't actually seen anyone other than her in years. Yet, in your idyllic, isolated farmhouse, you would find things that would weigh at the back of your brain. A large fence around the perimeter was put up. She claimed it was for wildlife, but you didn't think that barbed wire and signs were really meant for animals. Not to mention, there was milk in your icebox when you didn't have any cows. Or the fact that she would refuse to let you join her when she would go out to gather more supplies. It was even more suspicious that she would come by with supplies that you really couldn't believe she found just lying around.

But you loved your girlfriend. And even with the stomach churning thought that she might be lying to you, you didn't want to believe it. Because if it was true, then it meant that you couldn't trust the one thing that you had left in this world.

So when a man turned up on the edge of your property while your girlfriend was out, heavily injured, bleeding and begging for help, you said nothing, walked away, and ignored his cries until he finally died. You felt sick all the while, but you couldn't bring yourself to help him. Because you'd rather be a terrible person than to ever make it so your girlfriend was a liar.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 89

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 89: Byka Ābrazȳrys

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond lingered at the edge of the Council Chamber, enveloped in the dim light that barely touched the far corners of the room. He stood over a broad side table where various maps were spread out, his focus drawn to one depicting the turbulent waters between Dragonstone and Driftmark. With a thoughtful expression, his fingers carefully followed the marked line representing the blockade stretching from the mainland after Rook’s Rest to Driftmark and from then on to Sharp Point. He scrutinized the strategic points along the coast, his gaze intense as he contemplated naval positions and their potential impact on the ongoing Blockade. 

The Council had convened in the early hours after dawn, though the King was notably absent. The previous night, after indulging excessively in wine at the grand feast, he had ventured off to one of the more opulent establishments on the Street of Silk, a troupe of lickspittles in tow, spurring him on. Aemond, obliged to follow at the king’s command, had watched as Aegon lavishly purchased rounds of the finest wine with the crown’s coin, swiftly diverting his attention away from his presence. Once the king had immersed himself in the revelry, Aemond had slipped away, returning to the Keep shrouded in a haze of pungent perfumes that clung to his clothes, a cloying scent that lingered unpleasantly in his throat. 

Had he been on better terms with Daenera, Aemond might have sought solace in her company. He would have slipped into bed with her, burying his face in the crook of her neck to inhale the delicate floral scent that clung to her skin, and that scent that was specifically hers. His arm would have encircled her, his hand resting gently on her lower abdomen, drawing her closer against him.

But there was no such comfort to be found. Aemond had returned to the cold solitude of his own chambers, burdened by a profound heaviness in his chest–heart like a stone. The scar that split across his face had throbbed painfully, sending sharp, splitting aches through his head as if trying to cleave it in two. To dull the pain and chase sleep, he had poured himself a glass of wine, into which he mixed a dose of milk-of-the-poppy, hoping it would ease the discomfort and bring him some much-needed rest. It hardly did. 

Ser Arryk Cargyll, it seemed, had later been tasked with escorting the king back. Using a litter in the predawn hours to move the inebriated monarch through the streets, he had presumably left Aegon to sleep off the night’s excesses. With the king indisposed, the weight of the Council’s decisions had fallen onto the Lord Hand, who had presided over the morning’s proceedings in Aegon’s stead.

The Council’s discussions had primarily centered on the blockade and its burgeoning impact on the city. The squeeze on resources had made food prices rise, with the affluent hoarding supplies, leaving the less fortunate to scramble for the meager remnants. 

While Aemond cared little and less of the smallfolk and their lot in life, he had nevertheless urged for action. He had once again suggested taking Vhagar and destroying the blockade, a move that would swiftly resolve the issue at hand. However, both his mother and the Hand had swiftly rejected this idea, maintaining that Vhagar was essential for defending the city against any potential retaliation for Storm’s End. 

Aemond thought it foolish to limit Vhagar to defense only. She was their most formidable weapon, a dragon that had seen a hundred battles and survived, ridden by Visenya herself. While her presence might prevent the Blacks from retaliating against the city, it did nothing to deter their broader war efforts, such as maintaining the blockade. 

This enforced passivity left Aemond feeling stifled and restless. He itched for a role that allowed him to demonstrate his capabilities–to prove himself. As he engaged in the discussions of war, his proposals for proactive measures were met with calls for ‘patience.’ This recurring admonition did nothing to quell his growing frustrations. 

Additionally, the Council addressed the matter of the Scorpions. The city’s myths were diligently constructing these massive defensive weapons, and it sounded as though they would soon be installed on the turrets of the Red Keep. This progress, at least, was a tangible step towards strengthening the city’s defenses, a development that Aemond followed with keen interest. 

That interest waned as the council’s discussions shifted to the burdensome matters of financial matters–though he had still listened intently. Ser Tyland had raised alarm about the extravagant spending on the recent feast and the impending wedding, especially given the escalating expenses of war. It seemed strange for a Lannister to fret over expenses, yet here was Ser Tyland, voicing his apprehensions of such lavish celebrations during wartime. 

The only moment that had truly recaptured Aemond’s attention was when the conversation touched upon Rhaenyra’s continued search for her dead son, days after his demise–an endeavor Aemond viewed as fruitless. There was nothing for her to find. The mention of it had made him grit his teeth as he thought back to Daenera’s pained expression when Aegon had taunted her about her loss and her mother’s futile search. 

As the council meeting progressed, the agenda shifted to administrative concerns that were crucial yet less dramatic. The discussions grew particularly intense when the topic shifted to appointing a new Commander of the City watch. This became necessary after Ser Gregor Selter had been stripped of his role as Lord Commander and imprisoned in the dungeons for refusing to swear fealty to the King–proclaiming Rhaenyra Targaryen the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There were still many within the ranks of the City Watch that remained loyal to Daemon Targaryen–even those who had sworn to Aegon as their King. 

After much debate and consideration, the council reached a consensus. They decided to promote Ser Luthor Largent to the position of Lord Commander. Additionally, Ser Gwayne Hightower was chosen as his second in command, a move that reinforced the Hightowers influence within the city’s defenses and ensured a strategic alignment with the crown’s interests. 

At the heel of this discussion, the issue of vacancies within the Kingsguard was brought up–positions needed to be filled after the loss of Ser Erryk Cargyll, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Lorent Marbrand and the position which Ser Criston Cole had previously filled. 

The council meeting eventually wound down without a resolution on that particular issue–the selection of new members for the Kingsguard. This matter was tabled for future discussions, with instructions given to Lord Commander Criston Cole to identify and vet competent candidates worthy of consideration. 

Aemond had stood up from his seat then as the room began to empty, moving to the splayed maps at the periphery of the room. The clamor of departing council members slowly subsided, leaving the space increasingly silent. Only a few figures remained: the Lord Hand was methodically gathering his scattered parchments, and the Queen Mother stood by the balcony, her gaze lost in the sprawling view of the city. 

As Aemond stood at the periphery of the room, his mind was entrenched in thoughts of strategy and unresolved matters of war, and in the silence of the Council Chamber, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed distinctly across the stone floor. Abruptly, a resolute voice cut through the quiet. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This Council meeting has adjourned,” Otto replied curtly, his tone definitive, suggesting that further discussion was unwelcome. 

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her gaze unwavering as she fixed her eyes on the Lord Hand, challenging the dismissal and pressing her issue with determined clarity. 

A heavy weight settled on Aemond’s heart as he turned his head slightly, catching her movement at the edge of his vision. From his position at the room’s edge, he observed her quietly, a frown etching his features. His gaze, discreet but intense, remained on her as she stood at the threshold of the Council Chambers. The determination etched on her face was unmistakable, reflecting the sharp blue of her eyes and the firm line of her lips. His attention drifted down the column of her neck to the green fabric that clung to her form. This green, vibrant yet somber, stood in stark contrast to the red dress she had donned the day before–a dress as red as blood, an act of rebellion as much as it was an indictment. 

“What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set,” Otto stated, his drawl weary with exasperation. He stood poised between his seat and the council table, clearly interrupted in his intent to depart by her sudden entrance. 

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not.” Daenera stepped across the threshold and rose up the steps to the Council Chambers. She positioned herself firmly above the steps, her stance defiant, challenging the finality of Otto’s words with her presence and reply.

As Aemond turned fully towards Daenera, the maps and plans he had been studying forgotten in her presence, his mother spoke up decisively, “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

He moved from the dim periphery of the room, weaving between the shadow-cast columns towards the table at the center of the room. Pausing just shy of the columns, he tilted his head, observing her with increasing restlessness itching beneath his skin. His expression hardened into a fierce glower, irritation kindling within his chest at Daenera’s resistance to the marriage–as though they haven’t already tied their souls together. 

Daenera turned her gaze firmly towards his mother, pointedly ignoring his presence–the deliberate dismissal only fueled the irritation burning within him, his agitation prickling at his fingertips. 

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera spoke with a calm but piercing clarity, her eyes locked on the Lord Hand. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer.”

As Daenera’s words resonated in the air around him, a chilling sensation seemed to grip his heart. He clenched his teeth, struggling against the surge of emotion that threatened to break through his composure–that mask of steel and ice he had created for himself, it always seemed to chafe in her presence, making him want to grip it all the tighter. The word ‘kinslayer,’ as it fell from Daenera's lips, was like an arrowhead embedding itself in his flesh, lodged in a place he could not reach to extract. It seemed to burrow deeper with every word, exacerbated by her refusal to acknowledge him, which only intensified the grievance of the wound she inflicted. The wound seemed to fester with a mix of guilt and resentment. As he watched her speak, the accusation echoed in his mind, amplifying the discomfort and anger beneath his composure.

He kept his gaze fixed on her, noting the subtle shift in her stance under his scrutiny. Even this slight recognition of his presence did little to alleviate the sting of being ignored. Daenera clasped her hands in front of her, both wrapped in pale silken bandages. The rough edges of scrapes and cuts were just visible, hinting at the deeper wounds concealed beneath the fabric–wounds that mirrored his own. 

She pressed on, “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts.”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly, her gaze sharpening with a deliberate intensity as she concluded in a tone of measured softness, “The realm will think you cruel.”

“You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday,” his mother retorted sharply, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she moved away from the balcony. 

“You cannot. It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave,” Daenera responded, her eyebrows arching slightly, her demeanor unperturbed by the threat. Her gaze was defiant, challenging them to call in the guards and have her dragged–presumedly kicking and screaming–to the dungeons. It was a challenge she knew would go unanswered. The slight curl to her lips betrayed her confidence.

“What do you want?” Otto finally asked. He exhaled deeply as he sank into his chair, the wood creaking slightly at his weight, clearly annoyed by the day’s proceedings and the unexpected turn it had taken. 

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent cut in sharply, her tone thick with exasperation. Her footsteps echoed more pronouncedly as she moved away from the balcony, the folds of her skirts rustling softly over the smooth stone of the floor. Aemond listened to the rhythm of her steps; they halted abruptly, likely at the end of the table near the king’s chair. 

Despite this his gaze did not waver from Daenera. He scrutinized her with the intensity of a sharpened blade, his gaze cutting as if it could slice through her composure to expose the threads of her intentions and thoughts beneath. He desired to undo her, to understand the depths of her resolve and the strategies she harbored beneath her poised appearance–he wanted to unravel her in every way, wanted to find the thread that might lead him back to her heart. 

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera declared, her request clear and firm. The request revealed a thread for Aemond to tug at, only to discover it led to a knot with no discernible end–spawning further questions. Who among her men were so important to her that she would bargain her own compliance for their freedom? And to what end?

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his lips twisting into a frown as he forcibly tore his gaze from her for the first time since she entered. Her steadfast opposition to the marriage–a union he had fought to maintain, knowing it would secure her safety at his side–frustrated him to no end. Yet, had that frustration not burned so fiercely within his chest, he might have found pride in the bold gamble she made. 

“Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.” His mother scoffed, voice laced with incredulous disbelief. 

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera declared, her voice steady and challenging. Her face remained as impassive as porcelain, giving no hint of the emotions brewing beneath–the emotions he knew were there when it came to her men.

The cold decisiveness of her statement took Aemond by surprise, a pang of disquiet stabbing between his ribs as his gaze narrowed slightly. Yet, beneath he disquiet, a spark of excitement flickered–a recognition of the darkness he knew to be lurking within her. It was a ruthless streak he had seen before: the same bloodlust she had shown after killing her attacker, the same mercilessness that had led her to poison her husband from the very start of their marriage–and had later led to his murder. This darkness mirrored his own, a similarity that was both unsettling and exhilarating.

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera continued, her gaze deliberately avoiding Aemond as he searched her face, noting the subtle changes in her demeanor–the tightening grip on her hands, the way she held her head a bit higher, as if steeling herself against the weight of his gaze. The graceful curve of her neck stretched, revealing the faint, healing scar from the blade she had pressed against her own skin–a reminder of agony he had brought upon her. 

As Aemond stepped into the light, his movements seemed to shake her resolve, as if their souls were connected by an invisible thread. Each step he took sent ripples along this tether, subtly disturbing her composure and stirring the air between them. Her eyes stayed decisively fixed on the Lord Hand, deliberately ignoring Aemond, and yet her very act of avoidance served as its own form of acknowledgement. Yet, it was not the acknowledgement he longed for. He wanted her to look directly at him, to meet his gaze–even if her eyes held contempt, even if they were brimming with tears. He wanted her eyes, that cornflower blue that was to be found nowhere else. 

Positioning himself by the table, Aemond rested his hand on the back of the chair, fingers twitching as he watched her. The mask of composure he wore seemed to sharpen around the edges, his emotions kerning tumultuously beneath the surface. His heart pounded a wild, angry rhythm against his ribs, the agitation under his skin growing into something far more volatile.

“Should you decide not to release my men,” Daenera said, voice softly measured as she threatened them. “Then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

A cruel, humorless laugh almost broke free from Aemond’s throat, but he swallowed it back, stifling the harsh sound before it could spill into the world. Daenera’s words only served to aggravate the wounds she had already inflicted, each one jolting the arrowheads she had embedded earlier deeper, intensifying his agony and fueling his rage. Inside him, the beast of his darker instincts thrashed and clawed, straining against the confines of his self-control, eager to break free and unleash its fury.

Her refusal might have been almost laughable if it hadn’t stung so deeply. Under different circumstances, Aemond might have found humor in her defiance, but he had no such grace to offer her now.

She was his wife. She had willingly cut her palm, traced glyphs in her own blood upon his brow, and spoke the vows. They had tied their souls together, one flesh, one heart, one soul. And they had consummated the marriage–more than once. They were husband and wife. And yet now, she resisted the very notion of their union being recognized, of bringing their secret marriage into the unforgiving light of day. 

His fists clenched so tightly that the healing skin threatened to tear open once again, but he scarcely noticed the sting of it; his focus was on her. He wanted her so desperately, so pathetically–so monstrously. The yearning for the love they once shared felt like a path towards destruction, and yet he would have embraced even death if it meant being in her arms. But he knew that she would withhold herself from him–it only intensified the urge to grasp her tighter, to ensure she could not slip between his fingers like wisps of smoke. The cruel, primal instinct within him yearned to sink its claws into her, to hold her close against all reason.

He knew what she saw when she looked at him–a monster, a kinslayer. Had he been a better man, he might have found the strength to let her go. But he wasn’t a better man. He was a monster, and he loved her monstrously–she was his, and he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go. 

“Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā,” he muttered, softly, like a possessive prayer.

If only he had been a better man, he would have let her go–if only he had been more of a monster, he might have been able to eradicate the weakness she inspired in him.

“I’ve had your consent,” Aemond murmured softly. Her gaze finally met his–the act of betrayal bringing him the acknowledgement he so desired. The intimacy of the moment struck him deeply; only love could betray with such devastating impact. She already hated him, and like a sinner seeking absolution, he willingly exposed himself to her scorn, knowing it would never cleanse the stain on his soul. It wouldn’t change a thing–he would always be a sinner, and here he was, sinning against her once more. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Aemond drew in a measured breath, his gaze fixed intently on Daenera as her expression shifted to one of incredulity. Her brows furrowed, the corners of her lips twitching as a slight tremor ran through the plump flesh. A flush of red crept up her neck and into her cheeks, her breath growing shallow as a sheen of tears gleamed at the edge of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She looked achingly beautiful, even as she stared at him with such a profound sense of betrayal. 

For a moment, it felt as though they were the only two people in the room, bound by an invisible tether that trembled under the weight of his revelation. The connection between them was palpable, a mix of pain, anger, and undeniable intimacy.

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, indifferent to the chaos his confession might unleash. He could feel his mother’s shocked and disbelieving gaze on him, and Otto’s cold, glowering stare, but their thoughts and reactions were inconsequential. All that mattered was Daenera’s gaze, fixed intently on him.

Her lips curled into a sneer, teeth bared as if she were a beast ready to tear out his throat. Yet, she was not a beast–she was just a woman, and the woman he loved would prefer a blade at his neck instead of her teeth. 

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daenera sneered, voice dripping with venom.  

Another sharp arrowhead seemed to embed itself within Aemond’s flesh as Daenera’s denial twisted it deeper still. The word ‘kinslayer’ rang in his ears, echoing incessantly. 

Spitefulness burned in her gaze as she sought to deny him again, to drive the arrowhead deeper and deeper, aiming to embed it so profoundly that it would graze his heart with every beat–as though their love hadn’t already done that to his heart. “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

Her head tilted slightly as she delivered the final blow, seeking to drive the arrowhead straight into his heart. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Any restraint Aemond had left snapped as he surged forward, prowling towards her and seizing her wrist before she could think to move away. Her skin burned against his as he raised her hand between them, his grip tight but not bruising–he still retained that much control. His sudden touch seemed to startle her, her breath catching in her throat as she jerked back slightly, eyes widening in surprise. 

A sneer twisted his lips. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys? Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?”

Aemond's memories of that night were as vivid as the day he lost his eye—the tentative expression on her face as she indulged him, the cautious yet curious gaze she held as he retrieved the dragonglass arrowhead. He could still see her, marked by the glyph upon her brow and the line of blood on her lips, the taste of it hauntingly vivid. He remembered the vows they exchanged—one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever. He recalled how the flames had played across her skin, the sensation as he pressed into her again, tasting the salt of her skin and the copper of her lips, the feel of her body against his as they consummated their vows.

And now, she was denying it all–denying that it ever really happened.

His voice lowered, seeking her acknowledgement, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, her eyes burning with incredulity and her lips trembling slightly as she retorted, “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

He stepped back, regarding her with cool detachment. The scar on the palm of his hand burned with the memory of the dragonglass arrowhead, burned with the memory of her skin against his. He felt an overwhelming urge to grab her, to drag her to his room and prove just how much she belonged to him, but he restrained himself. He couldn’t–wouldn’t–force her.

Averting his gaze, Aemond forcibly tore his eye away from her and recomposed himself, sliding his cold, impassive mask back into place–he refused to yield more than he already had. Despite her denials, she was his wife; they both knew the truth of their union, and soon, the realm would recognize it too. He took another step back, feeling his heart pounding heavily within his chest. 

“Aemond… Tell me this isn’t true,” his mother’s voice broke through, rising in urgency as she approached from behind. She gripped his arms, her fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm as she forced him to look at her. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond glowered at his mother, his silence laden with admission. He recognized his folly–had been a fool, terribly and irrevocably, a fool who had fallen in love. If possible, he would extricate this weakness from his being, but she was so deeply intertwined within him that extracting her seemed impossible. What else did he truly possess? She was the one good thing that remained to him. 

Alicent’s grip on his arms tightened further as her voice escalated, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

Her words struck him like a slap to an already raw wound–the same scorn he had endured since his return from Storm’s End now intensified, crushing him with the weight of her disappointment. It had never been the same between them since then.

“Alicent,” Otto interjected, his tone reproachful. 

“Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to?” Alicent hissed at Aemond, her dark eyes ablaze with a mix of fury and fear. Her lips curled downward, her head shaking in exasperation as she spoke as though she possessed knowledge about Daenera that Aemond did not. “She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond answered, his voice sharp as he shrugged off her grasp. Her nails grazed the sleeves of his doublet as he forcefully removed her hands from him, freeing himself from her clutches, her face twisting in hurt and ire. He was acutely aware of what Daenera was–a poisoner on whose poison he had become dependent.

If bearing her resentment meant keeping her safe and close to him, he was prepared to endure it, despite the self-disgust he felt at the enormity of his desire for her, how it reduced him, yet he remained helpless against it. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent countered sharply, her lips tight, her gaze fixed on him with incredulity. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

It would be futile to deny it. Nothing could reverse the act–just as nothing could erase the blood that stained his hands. And he would not deny it. 

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded, his voice firm and imbued with reproach. His piercing gaze was enough to still Alicent as she glared back at him with her own reproach. His fingers tapped irritably against the aged leather of his ledger, assessing the scene. After a moment of weary resignation, he declared, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent repeated, her lips twisting into a frown of displeasure, her earring swaying as she shook her head and turned towards her fater. 

“The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture,” Otto stated, his gaze shifting reproachfully towards Aemond. �� Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” he continued, emphasizing his next words, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

Aemond responded with a measured–challenging–smirk, unapologetic about the Valyrian ceremony they had held. It was the tradition of their forebears after all, and Aemond found the ritual far more significant and interesting than those of the Faith. Although it lacked witnesses or a priest to consecrate their vows, it had bound them as surely as any formal vows could, as real as the cars on their palms. The forthcoming ceremony, in his view, was nothing more than a formality. 

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent accused, her voice laden with emotion as she advanced towards the table to confront her father, gripping the back of a chair as though to steady herself. 

“The wedding is set,” Otto declared flatly, brushing aside her concerns with a dismissive wave. His cold, calculating gaze shifted to Aemond. “How long have you kept this from us?”

Aemond caught her gaze, his eye locking with hers. Her eyes, large and brimming with angry tears, seemed to burn into him. How long had it been since their entanglement began?

Had it started when she first saw his scar and did not turn away? When she invited him into her chambers that night–the chamber where her husband slept? Or during those quiet nights, when she sought his touch to erase the memory of her husband? Perhaps it was when he took her to the Isle of Faces and laid with her before the Old Gods, or the day she had summoned him after she had been hurt, and together, had taken her husband’s life–was that the beginning?

Or had it started even earlier? That day, a year or so ago, when she had knelt before him with those scornful eyes and a warm mouth, or that moment he had traced his hand up her leg in the water, watching her reaction? Maybe it was after the tourney, when she had come to his chambers and boldly pressed a knife to his throat? That night when she had given her maidenhead to him? 

Or perhaps, the fall began the day she returned to King’s Landing.

Aemond knew she would have preferred that night to remain shrouded in the darkness of night–a secret cloaked in the protective shadows of denial and silence–where she could deny it. He refused to let her forget it.

“Four months.”

“Four months? Since her husband’s death?” His mother’s voice carried a note of disbelief as she echoed his answer, her body turned to face him again. Her arms crossed protectively over her chest, her fingers nervously tracing her lips–a gesture he knew all too well. It was an anxious habit that surfaced whenever she was deeply troubled, one he once would have sought to soothe, but he didn’t-

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, his voice steady, giving her the partial truth. It was a delicate omission, one that avoided the grim details of that day. 

Otto settled back into his chair, his gaze methodically shifting between Aemond and Daenera as he contemplated the situation. “This may be to our advantage.”

““How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent cut in sharply, her voice laden with incredulity and concern. ““Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now. He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that,” Otto reasoned, his voice steady and assured. “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach… We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay.” He continued, “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera interjected, her tone defiant as she advanced towards the table, her gaze moving past him to meet his mother’s eyes. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her focus then shifted back to Otto, effectively dismissing Aemond’s presence with her pointed gaze. She continued, her voice resolute, “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?”

The image of Daenera being forcibly led down the aisle, her struggle against the guard’s grip, her hair disheveled and tears streaking down her face, flashed through his mind–it twisted cruelly within him, his heart bludgeoning itself against his ribs. 

Her eyes briefly met Aemond’s, capturing the intensity of his frustration, before she quickly looked away, continuing her argument, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his gaze drifting upwards towards the ceiling, a dismissive gesture that belied his contempt for the opinions of others. He was indifferent to the realm’s view of his marriage, even less concerned about her mother’s reaction. As for Daemon, Aemond was unafraid; he was ready to face him, ready to spill as much blood as necessary for Daenera. His voice was sharp, edged with defiance as he retorted, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

““Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, her blue eyes narrowing in anger.

Aemond stared at her intently for a moment, his frustration burning within his chest and making its way into his response, the venom of his words palpable as he shot back, “Do you think they won’t?”

Her expression fell under the weight of his words, visibly shaken by the brutal implication. Aemond could see the poison of doubt seeping into her confidence. He  knew that her mother and Daemon’s suspicion about their relationship was likely the reason behind her summons to return home to Dragonstone–that it was the reason for her leaving him. The revelation of their prior marriage, especially before the usurpation, would undoubtedly be seen by Daemon as a betrayal. 

She abruptly tore her gaze away from him, a clear dismissal that stung him more than he expected. Retreating to the shadows, Aemond returned to standing by the column, his eye fixed on her as his frustration and anger burned within his chest.

“If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage,” Orro declared, his voice resonating with the authority of expectation rather than posing a question. 

“Yes.”

“From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife,” Otto continued, laying out the expectations clearly.

With a voice tight with scorn, Alicent interjected, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto quietly dismissed his daughter, disregarding her concerns as he remained focused on Daenera. “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

“The Sworn Shield. Fenrick,” Daenera responded without hesitation, stepping forward and gripping the back of a chair, her resolve clear. She pointedly avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze, even as he watched her intently, even as he knew she felt his gaze on her. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. 

Alicent’s brows shot up in both surprise and reproach, before her expression settled into something more judgmental. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

Amidst the swirl of anger and frustration that tormented him, a spark of dark curiosity flickered within him. His fingers twitched restlessly as he noticed the subtle shift in Daenera’s demeanor–a cold, dark ruthlessness that demanded his attention. Her decision to leave the boy in captivity, facing a likely grim fate, resonated with something deep within him. Aemond didn’t see her as heartless; rather, her choice was pragmatic. Still, her prioritization of her sworn shield over the boy twisted something inside of him. 

“Release Fenrick.”

Otto straightened in his seat and responded with a measured nod. “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Relief flickered in Daenera's eyes as she visibly relaxed, a slight ease returning to her breath—an expression that only served to agitate Aemond further. With a clear and measured voice, she asked, "When is the wedding to be held?"

"Seven days from now," Otto declared firmly, standing up to signal the conclusion of their discussion. His decisive stance left no room for further debate, marking the immediate future with an inevitability that hung heavily in the air.

The Council Chambers descended into silence as the Hand of the King meticulously collected the last pieces of his parchments from the table, stacking them atop the closed folder before scooping them up in a deliberate motion. With an expression of weary annoyance, Otto quietly issued a warning to his daughter. Their eyes met briefly, and Alicent, seeming to absorb the admonition, turned away to gaze out the windows, distancing herself from the conversation. Otto then lifted his gaze to Aemond, extending the same cautionary note–a warning to not further endanger their already fragile position. 

Aemond, however, dismissed his grandfather’s warning with a nonchalant curve of his lips, unswayed by the counsel. He wasn’t concerned with their position. His gaze returned to Daenera, watching how she shifted under his scrutiny, her head held high in defiance as she deliberately avoided meeting his gaze. He wanted to grasp her wrist, to lead her away to a secluded spot where they could speak freely, away from the formalities and pretenses. But he was keenly aware that such a gesture would not be welcomed. 

Before he could act on his impulse, his mother stepped in, positioning herself between them. She reached out to Daenera, her fingers brushing against Daenera’s hand. Before she could retract her hand, Alicent grasped it firmly.

“I will be going to the Sept. Join me,” she stated, making it more a directive than a suggestion, enduring that Daenera had little room to decline as she stole her away from Aemond and his intentions. 

As Aemond moved towards them, his mother sharply dismissed him with a pointed gesture. His jaw clenched tightly, and he gritted his teeth, feeling the agitation spread like wildfire from his chest through his body, creating an almost unbearable itch beneath his skin. He sought Daenera’s gaze, but she turned her face away, denying him even a brief connection.  

A low hum of frustration rumbled up from his chest to the back of his throat. Drawing in a measured breath, his gaze hardened. He walked out the room, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, each step echoing his growing turmoil. The dismissal–and deeper still, the rejection–twisted inside of him. He felt the surge of that wretched beast within, baring its teeth, as the need to unleash his pent-up frustration prickled relentlessly at his fingertips. 

Usually when he felt like this, Aemond sought solace in the tiltyard, pushing his body to its limits through grueling training sessions. He would continue until exhaustion claimed him, until his hands numbed from the impact of blows, his muscles quivered with fatigue, and his mind cleared of all distractions. At other times, he would escape to the skies on Vhagar, finding freedom above the clouds, far from the troubles that tethered him to the earth. 

This time, however, he chose neither of these releases. Instead, driven by a darker impulse, Aemond made his way to the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. He descended the stone steps into the underbelly of the fortress.

As Aemond entered the dungeon, the guards stationed at the doors quickly rose to their feet, abruptly abandoning their dice game. In their haste to assume a more formal posture, one guard's sword clanged loudly against a chair while the other's knee knocked against the makeshift table, almost knocking it over and spilling the dice and coins onto the floor. The guards shifted uneasily, faces paling slightly under Aemond's stern gaze. Without offering any explanation, Aemond strode past them, delving deeper into the dungeon's shadows. Behind him, the sound of the guards muttering to each other filled the air, accompanied by hurried footsteps and the jingling of keys as they scrambled to follow protocol.

The dungeons were enveloped in deep shadows, with only slivers of natural light managing to seep through the narrow windows set close to the ground–set at the very top of each cell wall–capturing mere glimpses of passing boots. These meager shafts of light did little to dispel the pervasive gloom. Along the walls, torches flickered erratically, their sputtering flames casting dancing shadows that played across the damp stone surface. 

The air in the dungeons was thick and oppressive, clinging unpleasantly to the back of the throat. The pungent smell of urine and excrement permeated the damp air, making each breath an assault on the senses. Intermittently, the rustle of chains or an echoed cough broke through the silence, and below that, rats squeaked in the dark corners. 

His footsteps echoed crisply against the stone as he bypassed the imposing, empty cage that dominated the center of the main room, his attention drawn instead to the smaller, more austere cells lining the walls. Behind him, the guard followed, the flickering torch in his hand casting only feeble light that were hardly able to light their way. The jiggle of keys accompanied each of his steps. 

Aemond paused in front of one of the cells, his gaze moving past the iron bars to survey its occupants. 

Inside, a small boy lay curled on a cot, tightly wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket as he slept. At the child’s feet sat a figure shrouded in shadows, his presence revealed only by a pair of narrowed eyes that glinted in the dim torchlight, fixed on Aemond. 

Fenrick’s voice broke the silence, low and cautious as if to avoid waking the boy, “Are you here to personally see to my execution?”

Aemond lingered, observing Fenrick’s worn features which the scant light of the dungeons seemed to prey upon, casting deep shadows that accentuated the gauntness etched into the man’s face. He looked older, almost fragile, and Aemond found himself wondering the value of this man’s life. What was so important about this pathetic old man that she would trade her compliance for the sake of his freedom? 

“Hmm,” Aemond hummed noncommittally, then took a measured breath before issuing a command, “Bring him.”

He turned sharply on his heels as he strode away, not sparing another glance in Fenrick’s direction. His steps were purposeful as he headed towards one of the interrogation cells. Behind him, the jangle of keys rang out, followed by the guard’s gruff voice ordering Fenrick to present his hands. The sound of metal clinking together briefly filled the air, punctuated by the grating creak of the cell door as it swung open. 

Aemond positioned himself against the wall of the interrogation room, leaning against the cold stone beneath the barred window from which light filtered, casting sharp rays across the sparse interior. In the center of the room stood a plain table flanked by two chairs–one of which was stained with dried blood. 

The door creaked open again as the guard ushered Fenrick inside, nudging him towards one of the chairs. Fenrick was forcefully seated, his shackled hands–marred with grime and dried blood–rested heavily on top of the table. Once Fenrick was in place, the guard looked up at Aemond expectantly. Aemond dismissed him with a slight turn of his head, and the guard withdrew to quietly stand outside the room, providing them a semblance of privacy, though it was clear that Aemond needed no protection against a feeble old man in chains. His knife rested at his hip, a silent promise that if Fenrick dared to make a move, he was more than ready to end it swiftly. 

Silence hung heavily in the air as Aemond took in the full extent of Fenrick injuries. Dark bruises pooled beneath his eyes, mirroring the shadows of the dungeons that seemed imprinted onto his very skin. A jagged cut marred the crook of his nose, healing crookedly–a testament to recent violence. It appeared there was still some fight left in the old man. 

Fenrick’s face was set in a grimace of simmering animosity, his eyes flickering with disdain as he met and held Aemond’s gaze. 

“You should be thankful we didn’t confine you to the black cells,” Aemond remarked, his voice taking on a conversational tone that belied the grim nature of his words. “I’m told there are rats down there as large as cats, with a particular taste for human flesh.”

“You didn’t bring me here to discuss my accommodations,” Fenrick retorted dryly, his voice stripped of any expectation of comfort or mercy, cutting through the superficiality of Aemond’s comment with weary resignation. 

Aemond looked at Fenrick with cold detachment, his gaze icy. “Perhaps you haven’t been informed here, in your cozy accommodations, but I am soon to wed Daenera. I suppose I should be grateful you’re such a poor sworn shield, otherwise you might have succeeded in stealing Daenera away.”

Genrick scoffed crudely, a sound of disbelief mingled with contempt. He shook his head slightly, his eyes locked onto Aemond with scorn. “You make it sound as though it wasn’t her choice to leave King’s Landing–to escape your clutches and the fate that awaited her should she remain. I suppose you wouldn’t see it that way, Kinslayer.”

The word ‘kinslayer’ was spat out with a sneer of palpable contempt, its echo bouncing off the stone walls of the dungeon cell. It was an indictment from which he would never escape, whispered among his allies and hurled at him by his enemies–a moniker that seeped through the cracks of the Red Keep, tainting the groundwater and poisoning the realm’s perception of him. 

Aemond bore this indictment with an expression of indifference, even as it gnawed at him like a splinter burrowing beneath his skin, a constant, nagging reminder of his actions and the blood that stained his hands. He felt that splinter fester within him each time he was called ‘kinslayer.’

“You’ve damned yourself,” Fenrick condemned with a harsh tone, his eyes hardening. “There’s no man so accursed as the one who slays his own kin. The gods will forsake you for this–”

“The gods abandoned me long before this. Your opinions of me are of no consequence,” Aemond answered flatly, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He had never cared for this man’s judgment–this man who had never seen him as anything but the enemy. Why should the opinions of such a man carry any weight?

“No,” Fenrick agreed, shiftling slightly in his seat, “It’s her opinion you’re really concerned about…”

Gritting his teeth, Aemond momentarily averted his gaze, feeling the sting as Fenrick prodded at that tender spot within him–the bruise that was his love for Daenera. Among the few opinions that mattered to him, hers were the most important. The extent to which she had managed to get under his skin continued to surprise him–continued to twist something inside of him. 

As Fenrick shifted to face Aemond more directly, the sound of his shackles scraping over the table hung in the air, punctuating the tense atmosphere. His brows were drawn together in an angry furrow as he challenged Aemond, “If you have any shred of mercy in you–if you truly care for her, you wouldn’t condemn her with this marriage.”

The sharpness of Fenrick's words seemed to wedge beneath the mask of cold indifference that Aemond wore. His remarks were crafted not merely to injure Aemond's pride but to provoke a sense of guilt—a sentiment Aemond adamantly refused to entertain. While the death of Lucerys had not been his intention, Aemond felt no sorrow or remorse for the incident. Any flicker of guilt that might have surfaced was swiftly disregarded, as he willfully turned a blind eye to such feelings.

Aemond’s heart pounded in the inferno of anger that burned within his chest, its pulse echoing not only in the cavity of it but also behind the sapphire that had replaced his eye. He could feel the contours of the gem pressing against his socket, a ceaseless that had remained with him since the death of Lucerys–a relentless reminder. With each word of condemnation, the throbbing intensified until he gritted his teeth in pain. 

“I am doing this to protect her,” Aemond stated, his voice as cold as he justified himself. “I’m doing this to keep her safe–”

“And how are you keeping her safe?” Fenrick countered sharply, his scowl deepening as he let out a scoff of exasperation. “Even as your wife, she still remains a hostage–merely a pawn in the Lord Hand’s machinations, a life to leverage against her mother. How will you protect her from the judgment and condemnation of being married to a kinslayer? How will you shield her from your own family–how will you protect her from your brother?”

Fenrick leaned forward slightly on the table, his dark eyes filled with judgment. “And when she no longer serves a purpose, what will become of her then? By forcing this marriage, you are condemning her to a life with the man who murdered her brother and seek to destroy the rest of her family.”

“What would you have me do?” Aemond sneered, pushing from the wall and striding towards Fenrick. He towered over him, asserting his presence as he continued, “Should I leave her to remain merely a hostage?” At least as his wife, she would be offered some semblance of security and comfort. “As my wife, I can protect her.”

“And if Aegon turns his eye on her?” 

Aemond stared back at Fenrick, the weight of implication sinking into him. “Aegon will not–”

“Your brother has never been one to restrain his desires,” Fenrick interrupted sharply–scornfully. “Aegon is a king now. What makes you think you could stop him if he decided he wanted Daenera for himself.”

Aemond closed the distance between himself and Fenrick, looming over him with a sneer on his lips. “I will stop him,” he growled, his voice low and threatening. “Aegon is many things, but he isn’t entirely stupid. He knows I control his greatest weapon, and he wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk it. I will protect her–I am protecting her.”

“And if it’s you she needs protection from? If you truly want to protect her, you’d get her out of the city–out of your brother’s reach.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You could.”

Aemond straightened to his full height, his lips curling into something more menacing than a smirk–a predator baring its teeth in anger. He circled the table to firmly grip the back of the chair opposite Fenrick. His reluctance to release her was not solely driven by his desire for her. His obligation to his family precluded any possibility of releasing her. Releasing her would mean sending her back to Dragonstone, potentially motivating her mother to launch an attack. Such a risk was unacceptable to him; he simply could not allow it. 

There was no refuge on Dragonstone, only the promise of a slow death as the war continued to grow. In such circumstances, she would be deemed the enemy. And Aemond was convinced that her mother and Daemon would use her to secure an marriage alliance; she was destined to be married regardless of the circumstances. They would be pulled further and further away from each other, until either she or he perished in the war. Only one side would prevail, and Aemond was resolute in ensuring it was his. He was determined to save her from the grim fate that awaited her family–and if that meant marrying her against her will, then so be it. 

At his side, Aemond believed he could offer her protection against his own family. Although Aegon was drunken fool who enjoyed making his life miserable, he knew the boundaries and would not cross them at the risk of losing his greatest asset. He would not lay a hand upon Daenera, Aemond was determined to ensure that–she would be safe and comfortable as his wife. 

Aemond’s lips twisted into a sneer as he retorted, “And have you protected her? Where were you when her husband laid his hands on her?”

Fenrick appeared momentarily taken aback, a shadow of shame flickering across his face before it settled back into a hardened scowl. “You’re the one who sealed her fate the moment you took her maidenhead–”

Aemond’s voice was dangerously calm, his fury simmering beneath the surface as he said,“You were the one who told Daemon about us.”

He had been the reason Daenera had been forced to marry Boris Baratheon. Had Fenrick refrained from disclosing their secret dalliance to Daemon and Rhaenyra, Daenera might have avoided the marriage. Had he not told them, she wouldn’t have had to suffer through the humiliation of her husband’s whoring and sireing of a bastard. She wouldn’t have had to suffer through the marriage bed. She wouldn’t have had to suffer through his temper and beatings. 

Aemond recalled the moment his heart had plummeted upon seeing her in such a state–the way she had clutched her robe, desperately trying to conceal the extent of her injuries that he would only come to fully understand later. The memory of how her hair clung to her bloodied skin and how she trembled under his touch, her eyes wide and filled with tears came back to him. The reminders of that day were still evident on her: a cleft in her ear where it had been split, and faint scars across her back, a legacy of the leather belt that had been used on her. 

Aemond’s gaze hardened. 

“I did it to protect her from you.”

A humorless laugh escaped Aemond, his smile cold and sharp as a blade, slicing through the tension. “It seems you don’t know her as well as you think.”

“Oh, I know her far better than you ever will,” Fenrick answered, his tone laced with disdain. He licked his chapped lips, then continued, “I’ve watched her grow from a child into a woman.  I know where her heart truly lies–where it will always lie, and it isn’t with you. Daenera would never forsake her family for you. Even if she once felt some affection for you, she would never have betrayed her family for you.”

Aemond released his grip on the back of the chair and prowled towards the table, where he placed both palms flat on its worn surface. Leaning forward, his voice dropped into a low, menacing drawl, "I didn’t take her maidenhead by force. She offered it willingly. She sought me out—she has always been the one to seek me out."

Across the table, Fenrick’s face tightened, the muscle of his jaw working as he gritted his teeth. His eyes, narrowed to slits, bore into Aemond with an intensity that was almost palpable. His body tensed as if he were on the brink of lunging across the table to seize Aemond by the throat, and it only made Aemond more determined to rectify any misconceptions Fenrick held about his and Daenera’s relationship–to sow the seed of doubt in his mind. 

This confrontation was not just incidental; Aemond was here with a purpose–to ensure that Fenrick understood the truth.

Aemond’s tone was sharp and calculated as he pressed on, “She turned to me when her husband left her wanting… It was she who initiated our affair, not I.” A flicker of amusement stirred within Aemond as he watched Fenrick avert his gaze, his fists tightening on the table, the shackles clinging together at the movement. “You knew of her husband’s temper, how could you not? You, who stood as her protector, her sworn shield, knew of her mistreatment, and yet you turned a blind eye to it simply because he was her husband.”

His accusation hit its mark as Fenrick’s jaw clenched tightly. The man’s eyebrows drew together, shadowed by guilt as he locked eyes with Aemond. With a scornful sneer, he retorted, “You would know about turning a blind eye, wouldn’t you, Kinslayer?”

A taunting smirk played across Aemond’s lips as he recognized the insult for what it was–a desperate jape at his vulnerability, coming from a man ensnared in his own shame, trying to claw back some semblance of control. Aemond was not inclined to grant him any reprieve. 

“She came to me,” Aemond declared, his voice a smooth drawl. “She sought solace in my arms–sought to remove her husband's touch with mine. It was her choice, and I willingly obliged her.”

Fenrick’s expression darkened further as Aemond leaned in closer, the intensity of his gaze forcing Fenrick to look away. A flush of anger rose to his cheeks, face reddening as he struggled to contain the anger at Aemond’s words. The air between them was thick with tension, as palpable as the stench of rat droppings.

“And then her husband bound her to their bed,” Aemond continued, drawing Fenrick’s attention back with a jolt, his eyes darkening with shock, shame, and guilt. Good. He should feel ashamed. He should feel guilty. And from the extent of his shock, Aemond came to understand that he had never fully known what transpired that day–which meant that she had sought to shield him from the brutal truth, sparing him the burden of guilt. Aemond, however, held no intention of offering such leniency. “Where he beat her with his belt so violently that she was bleeding. And it was me that she turned to–it was me who protected her.”

Aemond paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in before delivering the final blow with cold precision, “You did not protect her.”

His voice was cool and measured as he straightened from his lean against the table, rising to his full height again, bathed in the light pouring in from the window. “You presume to know her heart?” His head shook, tilting slightly as he hummed. “It is I who truly knows it. And deep down, you know my words to be true.”

His heart thrummed with a blend of amusement and gratification as he meticulously unravel Fenrick’s understanding of their relationship. Each word he spoke was calculated, aimed to thoroughly dismantle his perception of her. 

Fenrick thought he knew her heart but what did he truly know but what he wished to see?

While he thought her a princess in need of protection, a daughter yearning for a father’s care, Aemond recognized her true nature; She was the embodiment of fire–capable of both nurture and destruction. At times, she was a tender flame, offering warmth and solace, her presence a gentle, comforting embrace. She possessed a kindness that nourished those around her, her nurturing touch as soothing as the hearth’s glow. Yet within the same breath, she could be an inferno. Her fierceness was unyielding, and she reveled in the blood she had on her hands, felt the power in it. She could be as merciless as the fire consuming wood. She was formidable–she was a dragon.

And Aemond accepted this, embracing even the scorn she showed him. Fenrick presumed to know her heart, but what he really knew of it was blinded by what he thought her to be–a little girl. “You see her as a gentle-hearted girl in need of protection but you forget that she is of fire and blood. It was she who sought to rid herself of her husband. Her poison runs deep, you see, and I was merely the tool with which she sought to end him.”

Aemond’s tone shifted as he leaned in, his head tilting slightly, a smirk softening into an unsettling smile. “Daenera and I are wed.” 

Across from him, Fenrick’s face contorted with shock, gradually turning into a look of sheer incredulity. His head began to shake, almost imperceptibly at first, as if trying to dismiss the very words he heard. “No, that can’t be right–I refused to believe it. She would never–”

“She did,” Aemond said, his eye locked with Fenrick. “The blood of Old Valyria runs through her veins, it seemed only appropriate we first wed in the tradition of our house. We cut out palms, we shared our blood, and we recited the vows; one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.” He hummed, pursing his lips slightly.“And we consummate the marriage of course.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “It was a simple, private ceremony. This coming one in the Sept is just a formality” 

Fenrick’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Do you really expect me to believe that Daenera would marry you willingly and without a blessing?”

“She was wary of Daemon’s reproach,” Aemond answered, his voice carrying an eerie smoothness. He extended his hand to reveal his palm. The skin bore healing cuts, nestled alongside a scar still blushing pink, gradually fading into a pale whisper of its former self. “She bears the same scar.”

Fenrick’s dark eyes traced the display, following the movement of his hand as he closed it and laid it back to rest on the back of the chair. His gaze seemed to linger a beat longer–a spark of recognition flickering across his features, brows inching down in apprehension, and then, he lifted his gaze to meet Aemond’s. His expression hardened. "Daenera was on her way back to Dragonstone—she chose her family, and she always will. She may have held some affection for you, perhaps even entertained the thought of persuading her mother to approve your marriage... but those days are past,"

“We don’t need her mother’s permission to marry–and we didn’t then, either. She is my wife.”

“Her marrying you doesn’t change the fact that she would still choose her mother over you,” Fenrick said, his dark eyes narrowed. “You sealed that choice when you killed Lucerys. She will never choose you.”

A chill seemed to encase Aemond’s heart, creeping into his veins as he regarded Fenrick with an icy gaze. Though Daenera had sought to leave King’s Landing, it did not alter the truth; that she was his wife–bound to him not only by choice but by blood. Yet, she had sought to leave. She had chosen them over him. He should not fault her for it, but he did–the thought that she’d leave him twisted inside of him like some terrible blade. Had it not been for the death of Viserys and the subsequent usurpation, she would have left.

And she would have taken his heart with her. 

“Is this why you clutch her so tight? Because you know she’d leave if she had the choice,” Fenrick continued. The chains rattled as he leaned forward, resting heavily on his arms, eyes burning with disdain. “And after all you’ve done, do you think she could ever look upon you and not see the monster you are–not see her brother’s murderer? Do you think she could ever forgive you for the blood that stains your soul?”

“I do not seek her forgiveness,” Aemond growled.

Fenrick’s eyebrows furrowed, his tone sharpening as he countered, “Don’t you? Isn’t that why you are here? You want me to confirm what you already know to be true–that she’ll never forgive you, that she can never love you.”

Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger constricting, almost burning against his skin. “I brought you here so that you may know the truth, and so that if, by some miracle, you escape the city and reach Dragonstone, you may inform Daemon of it.” 

“I won’t sow the seeds of doubt for you.”

“You will,” Aemond hummed flatly. “That is, if you make it there alive.”

Aemond was well aware that the seeds of doubt had already been sown. Should Fenrick manage to make his way to Dragonstone, the information he carried would serve to nurture those growing uncertainties. The news of Daenera’s seemingly joyous wedding would raise questions about her loyalties–the statement she made with her entrance at the feast would be misconstrued as an act of support rather than the act of defiance it truly was. 

Furthermore, the revelation that Daenera had willingly married him in the tradition of their house, prior to the upheavals of the usurpation, was bound to stir unrest on Dragonstone. Such news, delivered under these circumstances, would undoubtedly sow discord among the Blacks. 

Drawing in a measured breath, Aemond clasped his hands behind his back and stepped out of the dim light pouring in from the window, circling the table as he made to leave. His part was played; his words had been delivered and had had the intended impact. He had achieved what he desired. 

Pausing just short of Fenrick, Aemond delivered one last piece of information. “You should know, you’ll be released the day after the wedding. The boy will remain.”

Aemond walked towards the door then, when Fenrick called out after him, his voice weary and pleading, “Don’t do this to her. If you ever held any love for her, spare her the curse of being married to a kinslayer.”

Pausing at the threshold of the cell, Aemond murmured, “I do this because I love her.”

“That is not love.”

What else could it be? What wretched thing could it be, if not love? 

“She will resent you for it,” Fenrick pressed on, voice like gravel beneath a heel. “You must see that.”

Without turning, Aemond let out a soft hum, “I will bear her resentment, as long as she is safe.”

“If this war ends with her family dead, what’s to prevent her from throwing herself from the cliffs into the bay? Or from slitting her wrists? Starving herself? Poison? What is to prevent her from killing your brother and condemning herself to death? She will never be safe with you, Kinslayer…”

Aemond paused and turned to face Fenrick, his frown deepening as a heavy, discordant beat thudded in his chest–an awful dread gnawing at his stomach. His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists. He could almost feel the blade again in his hand, the searing pain as its hilt pressed into the open wounds of his palm, embedding the glass deeper into his flesh, and Daenera’s fingers as they wrapped tightly around his, ensuring his grip remained firm as she guided the blade to her neck where the cold steel bit into her skin. The chilling recollection sent a shiver of ice through his veins. <

With those words echoing hauntingly in the air, Aemond pushed open the door and departed, their weight lingering long after he had left the room. The visit to the dungeons had failed to relieve the frustration that had driven him there; instead, he departed with a growing sense of apprehension that gnawed at him from within. As he moved through the bowels of the dungeons, a restless itch prickled beneath his skin. 

Climbing the steep, narrow steps, Aemond felt an urgent need to grasp his sword. Each step upward seemed to compound this desire for the familiar weight of the blade in his hand, a craving for some semblance of control amidst the turmoil churning inside of him. 

And, in spite of himself, all he truly wanted was to lay his head in Daenera’s lap and close his eye.

 I wanna know what YOU think of his thoughts in these scenes and why you think he went to Fenrick.

And a minor update; I've managed to go 4 years without getting covid despite working at a high risk job for 3 of those 4 years, and surviving sharing a home with someone who had covid. I had a 4 year streak and now it's ruined because my mom decided to bring covid home with her again. So yes, I have covid. It's not too bad, but it has affected my ability to write a bit, but I hope I'll manage to have enough to post Friday. What is worse yet, I think, is that covid AND my allergies has decided to collaborate and is kicking my ass.

[tozettastone]

re: naruto oc

I made a sketch of the character!

This is the nameless oc on a regular work day when she's not actively pretending to be anyone.

Some character notes:

She's 166cm (5'5") tall.

As a nod to the standards of the setting (which I have grudgingly accepted) she has puttees, bare toes (thanks, Kishimoto) and fishnet under her cropped shirt. She's got a waterfall hitae-ate because I decided she first learns about Kakuzu when she's growing up in their shared old village.

She will claim this look is entirely free from artifice because she's not using any illusions, but she's around fifty and the list of things she's doing to maintain this look ranges from preserving muscle tone past menopause (by using a mix of medical jutsu and the secretions of butchered animals), to checking her makeup every time she passes a reflective surface. She is also absolutely not a natural redhead, and although those long curls are naturally occurring, she has to catch them at a highly specific point in the greasy-clean cycle to have them look cute, and she has a very active job, so if you touch her hair (do not) it's so loaded with product that it's basically like touching cake frosting. Her array of insanely expensive floral bathing and body products mostly cover the smell of hair stuff. Don't worry, she didn't pay for them.

If you ask ask her about her complexion, she'll say it's bathing in milk and sugar scrubs. It isn't.

Looking how she wants is basically its own part time job, and half the time nobody even sees her because her hobby/job/primary occupation is that she's hiding under an illusion 30 paces away from some incredibly dangerous missing-nin.

She might look like she's unarmed. That's because she's carrying, like, three knives, and one of them is for eating. Basically, if she gets involved in some kind of protracted dramatic set piece fight, she's already fucked up beyond belief. She doesn't need heaps of weapons.

She does need bare hands and unadorned wrists. She has light fingers and she'd hate to make a noise by accident.

As a jounin-level ("level") missing-nin, her strengths are: her genjutsu, chakra control and precision, lying her black little heart out, overhearing fascinating information, never paying for anything, identifying and using useful plant and animal products in the field, slipping things into strangers' drinks, stealing shit and minor medical procedures (she doesn't really have the interest). Her chakra control and genjutsu speciality have some overlap with ninjutsu, so she's above average at that but she doesn't have a huge repository of techniques. She really does know an enormous number of illusory techniques, though, and she invents her own for fun and profit.

Her weaknesses are: her low physical strength (especially her upper body strength), her taijutsu, a comparatively limited chakra supply (no giant beast summons for her :'( ), her people and teamwork skills (she's been a transient missing-nin hiding from observers all alone for 35 years. it shows), she has no patience for any of the sealing stuff, and she suffers from a genuine emotional dependency on the state of her hair.

[beyondthebloodsugar]

Understanding Low Blood Sugar in Babies: Common Reasons to Know

Low blood sugar, or hypoglycemia, in babies can be concerning for parents. It’s vital to understand what causes it and how to recognize its signs. Here’s a breakdown of common reasons for low blood sugar in infants.

Feeding Issues: The Building Blocks of Baby’s Health

One of the most frequent reasons for low blood sugar in babies comes from feeding difficulties. Newborns have small stomachs, and they need frequent feedings. If a baby doesn’t eat enough or misses a feeding, their blood sugar can drop. It’s like trying to run a car on an empty tank; it just won’t work.

Breastfeeding challenges can also play a role. Some mothers may struggle with milk supply, making it hard for their infants to get the nutrition they need. In formula-fed babies, not getting the right amount can lead to low energy levels. Parents should keep an eye on their baby’s feeding schedule to ensure they’re getting enough nourishment.

Illness: The Unseen Enemy

Infections or illnesses can steal a baby’s energy, leading to lower blood sugar. When a baby is sick, their body is busy fighting off the infection. This process uses up energy and can cause blood sugar levels to drop. It’s like a car going uphill; it uses more fuel and may run out before it reaches the top.

Some common illnesses, such as gastroenteritis, can prevent proper absorption of nutrients. Babies losing fluids can also lead to dehydration, which further complicates their ability to maintain stable blood sugar levels. Parents need to stay alert for any signs of illness, like fussiness or lack of appetite.

Metabolic Disorders: Rare but Real

Though less common, certain metabolic disorders can cause low blood sugar in infants. Conditions like galactosemia or congenital adrenal hyperplasia disrupt how the body processes sugar. These disorders can be tricky to diagnose, so if parents notice unusual signs—like persistent lethargy or seizures—seeking immediate medical attention is crucial. It’s similar to a faulty engine light; it indicates something needs fixing fast.

Hormonal Issues: The Body’s Regulation System

The body relies on hormones to keep blood sugar levels stable. In some cases, hormonal imbalances can lead to hypoglycemia in babies. For instance, an underactive adrenal gland can affect how the body responds to stress and manages blood glucose.

Parents might not be able to see these changes, but they might notice their baby acting differently, like being more irritable or having difficulty waking up. If anything seems off, it’s always best to consult a pediatrician.

Overactivity: The Little Explorers

Believe it or not, active little ones can sometimes create dips in blood sugar, especially in toddlers. While it’s important for babies to be active and engage with their surroundings, excessive activity without adequate energy input can drain their blood sugar quickly.

For instance, if a toddler runs around for hours but hasn’t eaten enough, their body might struggle to keep up with their energy demands. It’s essential to provide ample snacks throughout the day to avoid any sudden drops.

Conclusion: Keeping a Watchful Eye

Understanding the common reasons for low blood sugar in babies can help parents take preventative steps. Feeding issues, illness, metabolic disorders, hormonal problems, and overactivity all play a role in a baby's blood sugar levels. Keeping a watchful eye on feeding routines and overall health can make a big difference. Parents are their baby's first line of defense, so knowing when to seek help is essential for a happy and healthy little one.

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

Does the world need more pre-Unknowing Jmart content? The answer is probably no, but have some anyway! You can read it on AO3, or check it out below:

Martin’s hands were shaking. He noticed that as he filled the kettle, heard the way the slight tremor made the water splash and slosh against the smooth metal.

He wished they weren’t. He wished for once he could maintain some sort of composure without his body betraying him with a tremor, or a stammer, or a blush. He wished it wasn’t so very obvious that he was terrified, but that was probably a lost cause. Jon was sitting just on the other side of the wall listening to the tape Martin had recorded, describing, at Jon’s insistence, all the things he thought and felt on the eve of the Unknowing, and there were quite a few things, really, that were probably far too obvious.

I need them to be safe. I need him to be okay.

Just don’t die, Jon. Or– or Tim, or Basira, or… Daisy, I guess.

He hadn’t meant to make the others sound like such an afterthought (or, not Tim and Basira, rather. Daisy he could take or leave; he’d never quite forgiven her for the whole attempted-murder thing) but, well, Jon had been on his mind recently. Jon, who was listening to that mortifying tape at this very moment. Jon, who had stayed in the Archives far too late on a night when he really ought to be getting some sleep. Jon, who Martin hadn’t said goodbye to, yet, because he didn’t know how. Jon, who Martin was making a cup of tea for, even though he hadn’t asked and probably didn’t want it, because he was desperate for an excuse to sit with him in the Archives for just a little while longer.

Jon, who might die tomorrow.

Martin’s hands were shaking again. He hardly noticed.

He took the tea bag out, tossed it into the bin, stirred in the sugar, added the milk. It was muscle memory by now. He didn’t have to think about it, which was usually a good thing, but today it just meant his thoughts were free to spiral.

There was nothing he could do. He knew that. The plans had all been made, the only thing left to do was wait for tomorrow, play his part, and hope for the best. That was all any of them could do. Fretting wasn’t going to help. But his mind kept turning, against his will, to the same fact: tomorrow, the last two friends he had in the world (or, if one were being very generous and assumed a level of amity from Melanie and Basira that he wasn’t sure he’d earned, three of the last four friends he had in the world) were going to drive to Great Yarmouth, and he didn’t know if they were ever coming back. In some ways, the end of the world was easier to think about.

He picked up the mug, but his hands were still shaking, and it slipped from his trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.

Martin felt something in him break as he stared down at the shards of ceramic – like tectonic plates shifting apart, leaving something yawning and empty and aching across the fault line of his chest. He’d thought he could do this one thing – this one tiny, pointless gesture – but he couldn’t even get that right.

He dropped to his knees without thinking and began picking the shards off the ground. There was a broom in the supply closet that he could have used if he'd stopped to consider his options, but that empty, cavernous space in his chest was quickly getting filled by panic, and his only thought was to clean up his mess as quickly as possible. He needed to fix this, needed to make things right, needed to at least hide the evidence of his failure.

“Martin? Are you alright?” Jon appeared in the doorway to the breakroom, eyes wide, looking as though he expected to be met with a supernatural horror and was prepared to fight it. His posture relaxed just slightly when he saw Martin, alone and unharmed, in the center of the room, though the alarm didn’t quite leave his face.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Martin said, and he hated the wobble in his voice, the high, tremulous note that made it sound like he was going to cry. “I, uh, I-I-I was going to bring you some tea, but well…”

“Here, let me help,” Jon started, taking a step toward Martin, and Martin scrambled to pick up the pieces.

“No, no, I’ve got it, I–” He caught his thumb on one of the sharp edges, and sucked in an involuntary breath. A bead of blood bloomed, small but startlingly red, across the cut.

Jon was on the floor beside him in an instant. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” he said, “it’s not that bad.” And it really wasn’t. It was a shallow thing that looked worse than it was, but Jon had taken Martin’s hand in both of his own and was looking over the cut with wide, dark, overserious eyes.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“You really don’t need–” Martin started, but Jon was already on his feet.

“It’ll only take a second.” When he saw that Martin had opened his mouth to protest further, he added, “Humour me.”

Then he was off, leaving Martin alone on the floor of the breakroom.

Martin sighed. He stood up, walked over to the bin, and carefully tipped the shards of mug he had picked up into it.

Jon returned a moment later holding a broom and dustpan, with the office’s first aid kit tucked under one arm. He carefully toed around the remaining splatter of spilled tea and broken ceramic on the floor to lean the broom against the counter and set the first aid kit down before leading Martin to the sink and turning on the tap.

Jon guided his hand under the cool water, which is something Martin definitely could have done himself, but he didn’t argue this time. He was too distracted by once again having his injured hand cupped by both of Jon’s, Jon’s thin, calloused fingertips pressing gently but firmly into his palm. When the cut had been cleaned, Jon shut off the water and began rummaging through the first aid kit for a plaster of the right size.

Martin could only watch helplessly as Jon peeled the plastic off and discarded it. When he gestured for Martin to hold out his hand, Martin offered it up. He should have been embarrassed. It was embarrassing, the fuss Jon was making over a tiny little cut, but Jon was still handling his injury with such care, and staring at him with such concentration, as though Martin was the most important thing in the world, and he couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

He pressed the gauze to the soft pad of Martin’s thumb and took care not to hinder the motion of his knuckle when he wrapped the sides around it. His fingers lingered for a moment longer, smoothing out the bandage, before he finally dropped Martin’s hand.

“There,” he whispered.

“Thanks.”

Jon cleared his throat. “I thought you might have gone home.” He scratched delicately at the back of his neck, then added in a quiet murmur, “I, um. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

There was a moment of silence, during which neither of them took the opportunity to say goodbye.

Martin was the one to break the silence. “I should, uh, I should really…” he stammered, grabbing the broom.

“R-Right.”

Martin swept up the remaining pieces of the mug and threw them away. When he turned around, Jon had grabbed a tea towel from beside the sink and was knelt on the floor mopping up the puddle of tea.

“You really don’t have to do that,” Martin said. He was beginning to feel like a broken record, but it was true. He didn’t want to spend these last precious moments before everything changed with Jon cleaning up his mess. 

“I don’t mind.” 

Martin thought about grabbing another towel and joining him, but he’d already gotten most of it. Jon gave the floor one last swipe, then looked down at the linoleum with a contemplative frown. “That’s probably good enough. I really should have mopped it up instead of just drying it, but, well… If tomorrow, the worst thing we can say is that there’s a sticky patch on the break room floor, I think we’ll consider ourselves lucky.” He huffed a quiet little laugh, but there was no real humour in it.

Martin hesitated. They were toeing dangerously close to the topic they’d been avoiding all night.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Probably best if we don’t,” Jon whispered. “I might lose my courage, and, well… there’s little enough of that to go around.” He flashed Martin a sad, brave, lopsided smile.

It was the smile that did it. Martin knelt down beside Jon, ignoring the way the damp patch on the floor soaked through the knees of his trousers, and pulled him into a tight hug. Jon stiffened for a moment, surprised, before melting into the contact. His shoulders began to shake. Martin wasn’t sure if he was crying or simply shaking, but he squeezed him tighter nonetheless. He stroked a soothing hand down Jon’s spine, and Jon’s breath caught in his throat. Martin wondered for a second if he’d overstepped, but then Jon shifted, burying his face in Martin’s neck and taking long, deep, shuddering breaths.

Martin wanted to say something, but his words died on his lips. What was there to say? “It’s alright?” “Everything’s going to be okay?” It would be a hollow sentiment, and they’d both know it. “I’m worried, too,” would be more honest, but Jon knew that already. He’d listened to the tape.

Eventually, they had to pull apart. It was a slow, awkward affair, but when they’d finally extricated themselves from the tight tangle of limbs, they once again found themselves sat across from each other on the cold break room floor. Jon looked a mess. His glasses were askew, his collar was rumpled, and his hair was falling in his face in tousled waves.

Martin couldn’t help himself. He reached out with both hands and tucked Jon’s hair back behind his ears. For just a fraction of a second, Jon flashed him another lopsided smile. Martin knew he ought to pull away, but he let his hands linger, gently cupping the corners of Jon’s face, for a few moments longer. Jon’s eyes slipped closed, and he sighed. His brow was furrowed, his expression cloudy, but the sigh was one of the most contented sounds Martin had ever heard.

When Martin dropped his hands, Jon opened his eyes and studied Martin’s face. He seemed to struggle with himself, opening and closing his mouth several times as though beginning to say something before thinking better of it. Finally, he whispered, “Why me?”

“What?”

“Why am I the one you… make tea for, and invite out to lunch, and…” he trailed off, before repeating, more insistently, “Why me? When I thought you might have killed Gertrude, I could make sense of it. Y-You were throwing suspicion off yourself, trying to get me to let my guard down so you could kill me,” he said. “But now, I’m fairly sure you aren’t going to murder me, so why?”

“I like making tea.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Martin said, because he did. “But… it sort of is, though. I like making you tea, and I like having lunch with you, I just– I like spending time with you! I care about you, Jon. You make it sound like I’m making some big sacrifice by loving you, but–” Martin realized what he said half a second after he said it. “Sorry, that’s not– I didn’t mean– that isn’t what I meant to–” he corrected, frantically, before giving up. He sighed, and dropped his gaze so he wouldn’t have to look Jon in the eye as he muttered, “I mean, I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now. Everyone else has.”

“I… suspected,” Jon admitted softly. “But I wasn’t sure. I thought it might have been wishful thinking on my part.”

Martin risked a glance at Jon. He expected to see embarrassment in his face, or pity, or even scorn. Instead, he saw only the satisfaction of someone who had just come to a decision.

Jon reached out and put a hand on Martin’s jaw, gently pulling him closer, and leaned forward, tilting his face up towards Martin’s. He moved slowly, as though waiting for Martin to pull away, or to lean in. Martin did neither.

“Don’t,” he whispered instead. Their faces were so close that his lips nearly brushed against Jon’s as he spoke. “Don’t do this just because the world might end.”

Jon pulled back slightly, and blinked at him. “Is that what you think?”

Martin didn’t respond. “Yes,” was the answer, but it would have sounded like an accusation. And Martin knew that Jon wasn’t trying to be cruel. He probably thought it was a kindness, to give Martin the one thing they both knew he wanted before everything went wrong, and to find some comfort himself in the process. 

“Martin, I… I care about you, too,” Jon whispered. “I’m not very good at showing it – well, no, I’m terrible at showing it – but I do care. I think about you all the time. Even when I was kidnapped. Even when I thought you were trying to kill me. I…” he swallowed, and his fingers moved to tangle in Martin’s hair. “I’ve wanted to do this for such a long time,” he whispered, face still so close to Martin’s, “but only if you want it, too.”

Martin leaned forward, and their lips met.

The kiss was chaste at first, cautious, but it didn’t take long before it grew heated. Jon’s lips were feverish, hungry, and fierce, and Martin could feel an answering hunger awaken in him. He brought his hands to the back of Jon’s head to give himself some leverage as he pressed deeper into the kiss, and Jon tightened his grip on Martin’s hair, tugging lightly on the shaggy locks that curled behind his ear. Jon nipped at his bottom lip, and Martin let out a noise that really should have been embarrassing. He couldn’t quite remember what embarrassment was meant to feel like, though.

For a moment, the Circus didn’t exist. The Unknowing didn’t exist. The damp patch on the knees of Martin’s trousers, and the shattered mug in the bin, and the cut on Martin’s hand didn’t exist. Nothing existed but Jon – Jon’s hand in his hair, Jon’s breath against his cheek, Jon’s lips, migrating from Martin’s mouth down to his jaw and then down further to press, eager and hot, against his throat.

“Jon,” he whispered, the only thing he could think to say, the only word in the universe at that moment.

And Jon whispered back, desperate and dear, “Martin.”

Martin wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Long enough that his knees began to grow sore from being pressed against the cold, hard floor. 

“I love you,” Jon murmured when they finally pulled apart.

“You don’t have to say that just because I said–”

“I know I don’t,” Jon said. “But it’s true.”

“Oh.” Martin didn’t know what to say to that. He pressed a kiss to Jon’s hairline in lieu of a response, and because he could. When he did find his voice, what he said was, “You have to come back tomorrow. You don’t get to say all this to me and then die.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, if you insist…”

“I mean it.”

Martin looked down at his hands, and found that they were shaking again. Jon followed his gaze, and wrapped Martin’s trembling hands in his own.

“I’ll try. I promise.”

And that was, as much as Martin wished it wasn’t, all either of them could do.

[niiwa-angel]

I'm going to say something wildly unpopular in the Radfem community, but IDC, because I think it needs saying.

This little fantasy a lot of Radfems women have about whipping up a group of women, buying a plot of land, and living off it in the name of separatism is a fairytale at best and a dangerous endeavour at worst. My family lives off grid in rural Canada, it's no fucking picnic. First of all, it costs thousands of dollars for solar panels and they don't collect as much power as you'd think, especially in wooded areas. We put them on top of buildings and in fields for a reason and it's because if there are shadows across them, they don't get as much power. Winters are also hard because the days are shorter and the sun is weaker, so in most places, you'll be reliant on a generator for power in the winter.

Now I hear what you're saying "but Angel! We'll have wind turbines too!" Fantastic, and how are you going to maintain them? Those massive white ones you see in fields are out of most people's price ranges and the smaller ones are at risk of being damaged by debris during rough winds or a storm. Which is fine, if it's not your only power supply, but if you're dependent on it, that's a problem.

Now let's move on to other things, because that's important. How are you going to live off the land? Farm it? Raise animals? Hunt? How are you going to pay for the equipment you'll need to farm crops or butcher livestock? How are you going to feed the livestock? My family has goats and chickens, those mother fuckers eat A LOT and it isn't cheap. How are you going to pasteurize the milk you get from animals? What's your plan if your crop fails, how do you feed your group?

How about buildings? First of all, how do you plan to get permits to build? Just because you own the land doesn't mean you can do whatever you want on it, you need to talk to Conservation, Zoning, and your municipality before you break ground and that can take months or even years. How do you plan on getting the buildings up? Do you know how much heavy machinery costs to rent? Do you know how much building supplies cost? What's your plan if something goes wrong, because it can. Do you have the skills needed to operate the type of heavy machinery used in construction? Do you have the safety training to minimize the likelihood of someone getting hurt or killed?

How are you going to take care of yourselves? Remember, you won't be going forever, what happens when you physically can't work the fields anymore? What happens when you need regular treatment for your ailments? Farming and construction are hard jobs, they take a toll on the body. Do you go to the doctors outside of your group, or do you hope that the medical knowledge any members of your group brought with them 5, 10, 15 years ago is still accurate? That they still remember how to perform those treatments? How will you get equipment if you need it brought home, can your power grid even support it?

What are you going to do about sewage? The septic tank will get full eventually, who do you call to empty it? Can you afford to get it emptied with all the other expenses you have? What if your septic tank needs replacing? Who do you call to do that, can you afford to do it yourself? If you can do it yourself, what do you do with the broken tank?

What about money, how are you going to fund this operation, because that'll be a big one. If you want farmable land, you're going to need to buy land with fertile soil, which can be insanely expensive, then in top of it, you'll need seeds, fertilizer, farming equipment, fencing, storage containers like silos, and labour, none of which is cheap. And all of which needs to be purchased repeatedly, such as seeds and fertilizer, or needs to be maintained, such as silos and farm equipment. How do you plan on upholding those costs?

How do you ensure that your farming community doesn't just die out after 1 generation? How will you recruit new members? How can you make people want to come work for you? Can you afford to make it worth their while?

Listen, I understand wanting to build your own community and I'm not necessarily knocking that. What I am saying is, let's be realistic here. Trying to remove yourself completely from society is not a solution, not a long term one at least. If you want to empower yourself and other women, you need to actually fight to make a better society.

Get a degree in something useful, like chemistry, biology, social work, nursing, teaching, etc, and then volunteer with educational programs for girl children and adolescents. Take on female apprentices and teach them what you know! If you have a degree in something like Early Childhood Education and are working at or run a daycare, reach out to your local women's shelter and offer to take in some of the young children there, free of charge, so their mothers don't have to worry about childcare while job/house hunting. If you get a medical doctorate, do research on female specific illnesses, apply for study grants and make yourself heard!

If you work in Social Work, focus on women! Make women's only addiction recovery, homeless services, housing services, and long term care services! If you want to get a job in agriculture, do it, and then take on female apprentices! If you're in a trade, volunteer some of your time to women's shelters teaching women the basics of home maintenance and repair, as well as servicing the shelter. They often struggle for funding and if you'll redo their roof for the cost of materials, or can fix some plumbing issues, that takes a load of their plate! If you're in an office setting, team up with your fellow women and push for more wages and promotions, build each other up!

You will have to fight for these, and that's okay! Do you think the first Suffragettes just gave up when it got hard, hopped on a boat, and found an uninhabited island to make a commune on? NO! They stayed and they fought, and it was hard, and they were ridiculed and judged but because of them, women can vote today, we can own property!

Being a woman in society is hard but the solution is not to run off and live like pioneers with no sustainability! The solution is to dig out heels in, and push for a better society so that women tomorrow don't have to.

[guilty-pleasures21]

Yooooooooouuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!! You SUCK!

As promised! New chapter!

0. The slow burn

Part 1 - the meet cute

Part 2 - the coffee mug

Part 3 - the spicy song

Part 4 - the absence

Part 5 - the watch/the sweet song

Part 6 - the backrub

Warnings: none. Just fluff.

----------------------------------------------------------

He sighed and reached for his cup of coffee, his hand grasping at the air above the desk. Where … He looked down, finding an empty space where his mug usually sat. He raised an eyebrow, confused, then remembered that X wasn’t here today. Not that he needed her to babysit him or anything. He hit the switch to lower the platform, then stepped off and began making his way over to the pantry. And that was where one of the Peter’s found him, banging around in the cupboards.

“Hey, boss,” he began cautiously, leaning over the other side of the island. “What’cha lookin’ for?” Miguel stopped what he was doing, straightening up and placing his hands on his hips. He stared at the cupboard for a minute longer. Then, when he still couldn’t find what he was looking for, he sighed and shut the doors before turning around to face Peter.

“Do you know where my cup is?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in thought. “The green one?” Peter raised an eyebrow, thinking about it. Then he snapped his fingers, eyes going wide with recognition.

“Oh! The one with the little dinosaurs that change colours?” he asked. Miguel stifled a groan, rolling his eyes and pursing his lips in annoyance instead.

“Yes,” he mumbled, avoiding Peter’s gaze. He didn’t have to have the cup, it wasn’t an absolute necessity … but he found himself getting more and more irritated at the thought of drinking coffee out of anything else. Especially one of those generic white mugs he’d had the cupboard filled with for the other Spiders. Peter considered the question.

“Uh, I think X took it. She usually keeps it with her in case anyone tries to use it,” Peter informed him. Miguel’s brows came together in a frown.

“What … Why would she care if someone else used it?” Peter raised an eyebrow, as if it should have been obvious.

“Because she bought it for you?” he revealed. That was a surprise. He hadn’t known that she’d bought it for him: that she’d seen it and thought of him and then brought it to him just so he could have something that belonged to him, something that was all his own.

“Oh.” He stood there for a second, a number of different emotions flooding through him; emotions that he wasn’t ready to confront right now. He shook the thoughts away, returning his attention to the coffee machine. He grabbed a random mug lying on the rack, then shoved it under the nozzle before punching in his usual order. He removed the cup once it was done, adding his usual amount of sugar and milk before raising it to his lips and taking a sip. He almost spit it out immediately, the hot liquid scalding his sensitive tongue and taking him by surprise. “¡Ay, coño! Why is it so hot?!”

“Uh, it’s always hot?” Peter replied, confused. Miguel frowned, getting more and more frustrated by the conversation.

“But this … this is boiling!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the cup as if it had intentionally offended him somehow. Peter thought about it for a moment, then snapped his fingers suddenly, remembering something.

“Oh! Yeah! X always adds an ice cube at the end. To cool it down? She said something about not wanting to shock your super senses or something?” he supplied. Miguel gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he tried to maintain his temper. Could he seriously not even make his own cup of coffee without X around to do it for him?! He huffed and grabbed the cup, retreating back to the control room without another word.

The next problem presented itself when people would not stop showing up in front of him, all of them complaining about some inconsequential problem they really didn’t need his help for. It was starting to prevent him from getting any actual work done, not to mention surpassing the quota of social interactions he was able to handle in one day.

“Why does everyone seem to be having a problem today of all days?!” he ground out, fingers clenching into fists on his desk. Lyla popped up next to him, studying her nails detachedly.

“Actually, I’ve run the numbers and we’re experiencing the average number of problems today.” Miguel raised his head immediately, turning to Lyla with a scowl on his face. Not possible. There was no way this many people encountered this many problems on a daily basis. He’d definitely have noticed if it was true.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Lyla confirmed, turning her attention to him now, “you just never notice because X takes care of it for you. I think she likes you …” He clenched his fists at that, at yet another reminder of how much he’d let himself come to depend on her. Never mind the fact that his heart fluttered at the very suggestion of her having feelings for him.

“Lyla,” he growled, his tone threatening - a warning to not bring the subject up again.

“Oh, no,” Jess agreed, coming up behind him. “She’s definitely got it bad for you. Have you seen the way she looks at you?” He should have locked the door to the control room. He stayed frozen in position, refusing to turn around and entertain either of them, what with their ridiculous ideas about him and X.

“Oh my god,” Lyla flickered over to Jess’s side, grinning with delight. “So. Cute. Literal hearts in her eyes.” He frowned, hating how his curiosity continued to rise with every mention of her.

“Especially when you guys have your nerd talk going on,” Jess continued, refusing to let the subject go. “It’s like you guys are speaking this whole other language, but I swear that’s the only time I’ve ever seen you smile.” Lyla placed her hands on her cheeks, her eyes widening as she let out a concurring gasp.

“Oh my gosh! You noticed it too?!” She turned back to Miguel then, a smirk plastered over her holographic features as she waited for his response. He gripped his hips, trying so hard to be irritated, to stop his scowl from twisting up into a smile - the very smile that took over his features every time they had one of their ‘nerd talks’. He cleared his throat and turned around to look at Jess.

“Is there an actual reason that you’re here right now?” She rolled her eyes at his tone.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I thought I’d give you a debriefing on our mission earlier, but if you’re not interested …” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. How did everything always turn into his fault? If only X had been here, then she’d- He stopped his thoughts in their tracks, his frustration building up again as he tried to get rid of the rapidly rising desire to have her back by his side. He looked up at Jess and waved a hand for her to continue, his tension easing slightly when she shared how successful the mission had been - another anomaly wrangled and another canon event proceeding as intended.

“Great,” he replied, his tone dismissive as he turned back around to his computers. “Thanks, Jess. Go get some rest.” He hesitated before saying the last part, unsure as to whether he was in any position to give her such advice. But he’d become softer recently, no guesses as to who had provoked such a change in him.

“Will do, boss,” Jess assured him, a teasing tone in her voice - she’d noticed his gradual change in demeanour as well, it would seem. “Call me if you need anything!” And with that, she left.

The final straw came not long after, when Ben strolled into the room asking where the cashews - the p*nche cashew nuts - were. As if he’d know where the hell the f*cking cashew nuts were. Who even ate cashews anyway? Why not peanuts or almonds or something remotely normal?! Why couldn’t one variant in the entire maldito multiverse be normal?! Just one! Was that too much to ask?!

“Has he been like this the whole day?” Peter murmured to the holograph taking cover behind his shoulder. She flickered to his other shoulder as Miguel switched to Spanish, continuing his rant without pausing to take a breath.

“He hasn’t even had lunch yet,” she confessed. Something shattered and another slew of what Peter could only guess were curses fell from Miguel’s lips. He clapped his hands together, determined to resolve the situation.

“Okay,” he began, webbing up to the platform and placing a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t we get some food, huh, Miguel?” Thankfully, the big man let himself be led away, his muttered curses tapering off as they neared the cafeteria. He pressed a button on his watch to activate his eye protectors, shielding his sensitive vision from the artificial lights around them. He took a seat at an empty table as Peter went to get some food, his threatening aura warning away anyone who might have been tempted to approach him. Peter slid the tray of food in front of him, then took the seat beside him.

“So,” he began cautiously, wondering how to broach the subject, “do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Miguel grunted, a little calmer now that he’d gotten some food into him. Peter shifted in his seat to face him fully.

“Well, it seems like something’s bothering you,” he pointed out gently. “Do you … want to get it off your chest?” Miguel paused his eating and began fiddling with his fork instead, his lips pursed in thought as he considered the question. How could he get it off his chest when he didn’t even know what ‘it’ was?

“I’m just …” he hesitated, looking around for an excuse. His eyes landed on his food. “I’m probably just hungry.” He dug into his meal, filling his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to talk anymore. But it wasn’t that, he knew. Food wouldn’t be enough to fill the uncomfortable ache currently throbbing in his chest. He hunched over, signalling an end to the conversation and Peter sat back in his seat, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get anything more out of him, but not wanting to leave his friend alone either - not in this state.

“Oh! Where’s X?” Peter asked suddenly. “I haven’t seen her around today.” It was a Saturday, so she should have arrived in the morning, then spent the day bouncing between the biology lab and wherever Miguel was in the building. It was pretty obvious to everyone that she liked him - and Peter was glad to find that Miguel seemed to enjoy her company too. He always seemed more … at ease whenever she was around. More relaxed and less … agitated.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of her name, his leg beginning to shake beneath the table as the knot in his chest tightened. “She’s busy. She’s not coming in today.”

His response was brusque, the words almost a growl as they came out of his mouth. He sounded defensive, unexpectedly so, and it only made Peter all the more desperate to push the topic. He leaned forward, trying to sneak a peek at his friend’s reaction. But Miguel turned his head away quickly, hiding his expression from view. “Well, when is she going to be back?”

“Wednesday.” He winced, hating how immediate his response had been - hating how it sounded like he’d just been counting down the days until she returned. Which he most definitely hadn’t been. It was only for a few days, after all, could he not survive just a handful of days without seeing her face? Her … cute little smile and her … pretty eyes … and the way she’d always listen to him, nodding in understanding even when he wasn’t making any sense at all. He held his head in his hands and groaned, frustrated with himself. Then he stiffened, suddenly remembering that Peter was still sitting right beside him. “Uh, I mean … That was a … completely unrelated … issue that I was … that’s bothering me.”

“Riiiiiight …” Peter nodded, completely unconvinced. But he let the subject drop anyway, the two of them settling into a comfortable silence as Miguel went back to his food.

“Hey, Miguel!” X began cheerfully, walking into the control room. “I got your coffee!” She set the mug down in front of him - his mug, the one she’d gotten just for him - and smiled up at him cheerfully. Like nothing had ever happened. Like it had had no effect on her, not seeing him for a whole five days. Like she didn’t even care enough to miss him. He huffed and turned away from her, the corners of his lips twisting down in irritation.

“I can get it myself,” he told her, his tone harsh. She froze, taken aback by his response. He’d never snapped at her like that before - he only ever pretended to get exasperated with her, that amused snort escaping his lips as he rolled his eyes and shook his head at something she’d said. She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to calm her racing thoughts. There must have been something else bothering him; something else that had him lashing out at her without him even realising it. She set her glass down on the desk, then curled herself up in the chair - her chair, the one he’d brought out just for her - and studied him carefully.

“I know,” she replied softly, still waiting for him to turn around and look at her. “But …” ‘I like getting it for you. I like making it for you. I like looking after you, like … like we mean something to each other.’ But that would only end up pushing him away, she knew, because he was afraid. He was afraid of letting someone else look after him - of letting someone else in enough to depend on them. Just like her.

“Wait!” she exclaimed suddenly, causing him to startle and finally turn to her. She untangled her limbs, sitting up straight and pointing a finger in the air. “I do that too!” His brows furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. He folded his arms across his chest and looked away, forcing the question out of his mouth.

“Do what?” he asked reluctantly. She smiled.

“Get mad at people for caring about me?” She paused, waiting for his reaction. She leaned back in her seat when he didn’t respond. “It’s terrifying right? Letting someone in enough to depend on them? ‘Cause people like to leave?” Her voice softened as she said the last part - like she knew exactly how it felt; to be left behind. He held her gaze, stunned by how easily she’d called him out, how quickly she’d understood the real reason behind his sudden hostility.

“But don’t worry!” she continued, brightening up again. “You’re stuck with me now. I’m kind of obsessive-possessive. I’m never going to leave you. Not by choice, anyway.” She added the last part as an afterthought, as if remembering that the choice might not always be hers. But when it was hers - when the decision was hers alone - she’d never choose to leave him; never choose to abandon him. His chest warmed at the thought.

“Uh, I …” He turned away again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Because what could he say? What could he say when she’d been so patient and understanding and he’d been so … so unkind? He cleared his throat and tried again. “Careful, arañita - you’re starting to veer into villain territory.”

He was joking - actually joking with her! She felt a delighted warmth spread through her body at his attempt at humour - at his apology. She grinned. “Is that my origin story? The path to evil is paved with good intentions?”

He snickered at her response, the sound escaping from his lips before he’d even realised. His eyes widened in embarrassment and he glanced over at her, pulling his gaze away again when he saw the pleased smile on her face. He cleared his throat, trying not to think about what it meant, her pride at having been able to put a smile on his face.

“No, don’t do that, arañita,” he told her gently. “I don’t want to have to hunt you down.” He slid his gaze over to her, his eyes narrowing in anticipation of her response. She tilted her head as she considered his argument.

“Mmm, that’s kind of sexy though.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she met his gaze and his stomach flipped at the sight. And then, Dios, then she bit her lip, and he could hear his heart pounding in his chest as she trailed her gaze over him, his body heating up wherever her eyes landed. She licked her lips and pulled her gaze back up to his, that devious expression still written all over her face. Sexy? She’d called him sexy? Or, well, she’d called the situation sexy. But the way she’d looked at him after saying it … He swallowed hard and turned away, trying to come up with an appropriate response, anything that would diffuse the sudden tension that had fallen over them.

“Uh, how’s your research, arañita?” he inquired, staunchly refusing to meet her gaze. “Any progress on the … the samples from Earth-742?” Her eyes lit up - as they always did when she started discussing her progress in the lab - and then everything was back to normal again. Everything except his heart, that is, which continued to flutter in chest everytime he glanced over at the smile on her face.

Tags: @leahnicole1219

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 6 February 1919, perhaps the most spectacular strike in US history took place: the Seattle general strike. Nearly 100,000 downed tools in support of striking shipyard workers but, more importantly, then elected a general strike committee and began running the city and essential services themselves. While the shipyard workers did not get their pay increase, the five-day general strike was a historic and successful experiment demonstrating that workers could run society ourselves. After the strike ended, the newspaper of the Central Labor Council, the Union Record, explained its importance: "We see but one way out. In place of two classes competing for the fruits of industry, there must be, eventually only one class sharing fairly the good things of the world. And this can only be done by the workers learning to manage. "When we saw in our General Strike: The Milk Wagon Drivers consulting late into the night over the task of supplying milk for the city’s babies; The Provision Trades working twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four on the question of feeding 30,000 workers; The Barbers planning a chain of co-operative barber shops; The steamfitters opening a profitless grocery store; The Labor Guards facing, under severe provocation, the task of maintaining order by a new and kinder method; When we saw union after union submitting its cherished desires to the will of the General Strike Committee: then we rejoiced. For we knew it was worth the four or five days pay apiece to get this education in the problems of management. Whatever strength we found in ourselves, and whatever weakness, we knew we were learning the thing which it is necessary for us to know. "Someday, when the workers have learned to manage, they will begin managing. And we, the workers of Seattle, have seen, in the midst of our General Strike, vaguely and across the storm, a glimpse of what the fellowship of that new day shall be." https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.296224173896073/2203657846486020/?type=3

[boyswanna-be-her]

I wish i could've camped for a couple days longer. We brought such good food and had everything we needed, if we'd only been able to afford to book the camp site for two more nights. (My friends bought the first nights for us all, but I didn't have the $70 + fees for more reservations.)

I made a shitload of food from scratch including tomato sauce, refried beans, sloppy joe lentils, a loaf of white sandwich bread, a loaf of seasoned Italian bread. Bfr made us corn and potato chowder and big oatmeal raisin cookies, both of which were phenomenal, as well as a batch of homemade cashew milk to bring along. On site we cooked scrambled eggs and leftover baked beans and corn grits, toasted pitas and tortillas, we shredded a big block of mild cheese and chopped the last of our cherry tomatoes from home to make burritos. I used my ancient aeropress to make us hot coffee each morning from a jar of fresh grounds from home. Everything we brought was so goddamn good, and everything we made on site was surprisingly good, except the grits which were undercooked.

We lounged around in hammocks and I read my trashy true crime paperback from the 90s, and the Junji Ito cat diary manga I got from an inter-library loan. None of us got drunk or trashed or felt like we needed to be on psychedelics in order to appreciate being outdoors. My friend asked me to be the best man in his November wedding and I was super surprised and said yes of course. I felt cherished by my friends and adored by my partner. Things were just so quiet and easy and pressure-free. Bfr and I had plenty of camping gear between us and didn't need to buy anything new. We were able to make most of what we brought to eat from what we already had on hand, and spent under $50 for the 3-day trip in terms of gasoline, firewood, and specially-bought food/entertainment/supplies.

It takes SO much planning to do things on an extreme budget, but it's also much easier to share the planning load between two people. I've been alone for long enough that I'd forgotten how much easier it is to set up a tent with help, how much easier it is to maintain a clean campsite, and break it down at the end without stress.

I'm trying to appreciate everything now that I think might be impossible later (due to climate change, my employment situation, my age and physical health etc). Idk what else my overall takeaway is--or if I even need to have a conclusion from this experience. It's all a part of the balance that is currently working for me and keeping me well, I guess.

[smoft-demons]

i think it's always fun to ask! what's in auva's fridge? or more specially what foods are in the HoL fridge that have their name on it haha

Auva is a bit of a foodie, but also has some sensory issues. Hates certain textures SO much. Won’t touch mushrooms, pickles, big chunks of onions, etc etc that sort of thing. So she’s vigilant about guarding HER food lol. She’ll share if someone asks, but will be very upset if food is stolen from her.

Of Devildom food, she has a favourite in common with Belphie. Not the quetzacoatlus brain, the sushi. She likes it exactly like he does: assorted, family size, no wasabi.

She has her sourdough starter in the fridge, and NO one is allowed to touch it, except Luke and Barbatos if they’re around. They can be trusted. In terms of actual food, she always makes sure to have a supply of her human world favourites. A block of low moisture mozzarella, a truly absurd amount of strawberry yogurt, this one specific brand of jam that’s made in her home region (the strawberry, blueberry, or peach! No substitutions!), etc etc. She’ll be very disappointed if she can’t get bread flour, chicken, eggs, whole milk, potatoes, the One Specific cereal she likes, cheesy crackers, peanut butter, that sort of thing.

She always has to have some sort of fruit available. Apples, green or a couple specific red varieties. Oranges. Blueberries, mangoes, strawberries. Even tomatoes and cucumbers count for her snacking purposes. Though she insists on having tajin with the cucumbers. It’s the best way!

She’s gotta have a specific collection of aromatics to make this blended green seasoning that goes in just about every savoury dish she makes. That lives right next to her sourdough starter. She likes to cook, but she’s a baker at heart. So she’s got shortcuts and speedrun strats for cooking.

She’s gotta have her familiar spices! The green seasoning, this one Caribbean seasoning mix, garlic powder, kosher salt (she Knows if someone puts table salt in one of her recipes instead. She won’t say anything, won’t really mind, but she Knows), chili powder, etc etc.

Also, she has a habit of processing her staple vegetables immediately upon getting home from the grocery store, portioning them off and freezing them. Because she is LAZY. Energy efficient, she maintains. So she always has her bags of green onions, spinach, cubed potatoes, chopped broccoli, etc etc. So she can cook faster! If anyone finishes up those freezer bags without telling her, she will be so sad.

(I’m sure you can tell that I’m a baker/foodie/cooking nerd from this lmao) (also that I have ADHD and have minmaxed my cooking skills to dodge the executive dysfunction as much as possible lol)

[decks-writing-blog]

Taming Houndeyes

Summary: Kleiner shows Eli and Alyx his tamed houndeye puppies.

[A/N] We were robbed of houndeye guard dogs so I wrote this. Also, big missed opportunity on how little Elisaac content there is with all the family fluff opportunities it brings with since Kleiner's her stepdad. Also, also, referring to Kleiner as Isaac, because that's most likely how he thinks of himself, felt weird. I'm sure I'll eventually get used to it though since if I want more content for this ship I have to do it myself so I will probably do more.

~

Having never owned a dog before Isaac couldn’t know for sure but if he had to make an educated hypothesis, he’d say training a houndeye was more difficult than even the most stubborn of dogs. It was certainly more difficult than taming Lamarr had been. Not impossible though, no matter what Barney said or how many times Eli said the same but in gentler words. Or how many times either them suggested he spend his time doing something important to help their budding resistance efforts. How Isaac had ended up becoming an important part of the team guiding those efforts, he still wasn’t sure, but he was helping.

Proper dogs were in rare supply these days. Not that houndeyes were particularly more plentiful but they were less conspicuous. Unsaddled by the precedent of humans using them as guard dogs, no one who didn’t know would easily suspect they were filling such a roll. … Mostly though Isaac just couldn’t bear to let the learning opportunities provided by having a small pack of houndeyes at his disposal go once he’d already acquired them. He was a scientist first and foremost after all. So he kept trying.

His efforts finally started to bear fruit once he successfully got a pair of them to mate. Turns out, like their Earthly namesakes, houndeyes gave birth to a live young and produced milk for them. Once weaned, getting them away from the pack for training was difficult but Isaac had long since discovered how to protect himself from the houndeyes’ shock waves and what foods could be used to distract them for a time. Once he had them alone, training still wasn’t easy but he did make good progress until finally…

“Eli,” he says as he burst into the room they’d decided would act as Eli’s lab and office. It still wasn’t much yet and they didn’t dare put too much into it until they were sure this place would be safe enough to allow them to stay for a while – unlike their last attempt at maintaining a safe base – and it was small but it was good enough for now.

Inside, Eli sat at his desk. Alyx sat in the other chair across from him. Between them were a strewn out mechanical parts that they both looked up from to turn towards Isaac instead. Considering how she’d responded to the robot Eli had finished building for her last year, that she’d affectionately named Dog, Alyx would likely enjoy this news too. And so before either of them could ask…

“Come with me. I have something to show you two.”

Alyx immediately hopped off her chair and rushed over to look up at him, excitement twinkling in her eyes. “What is it?” How much she took after Eli was endlessly heartening. How could humanity possibly be as doomed as it at times seemed when there were still young people like her so eager to learn everything there was to learn?

“Yes, Izzy, what is it?” Eli said as he stood much more slowly.

“Follow me.” Isaac turned and left, trusting them to follow. Which they did of course.

It took all of Isaac’s self control to hold in an explanation until the reached the young houndeyes’ kennel. Thankfully a short walk even with going at a slower pace to allow Eli to easily keep up. Alyx made a small, “Ooh,” sound as he opened the door and lead the way in. Normally she wasn’t allowed in here lest they hurt her but Isaac was pretty damn sure they were safe before deciding to do this. Eli, apparently trusting him, made no complaint as he stepped in next.

Once the door was shut, Isaac raised his fingers to his lips and let out a quick sharp whistle. Immediately the young eyehounds stopped what they were doing and rushed over. As trained, they stopped a foot or so away from him and sat, looking up at him, waiting for their treat. He obliged them of course, reaching into his lab coat’s pocket and tossing each on single small silver of meat. Luckily they liked rat meat best, the easiest animal to still come by.

“You really did it, huh? You tamed the beasts.” Eli said, putting his hands on his hips as they watched the houndeyes eat. “I suppose I never should’ve never doubted you.”

“No, you most certainly shouldn’t have. I forgive you though, it was difficult. And I still haven’t taught them to alert for Combine approaching but they can do simple tricks. So it’s only a matter of time before…”

“Can I pet one?” Alyx interrupted.

Isaac took a breath to say ‘yes’ but Eli interrupted him. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t. They’re not exactly domesticated even if they are tamed.”

“They’re Izzy’s pets though so he gets to decide.” She turned to look up at him, turning on her puppy dog eyes. “Please, Dr. Izzy, can I pet them? I will be good and gentle, I promise.”

The combination of that look and her calling him ‘Izzy’ – something she’d picked up from Eli and knew could be used to get him to do things – made it really hard to say ‘no’. Especially since Isaac hadn’t had a problem with the idea. But even if he was helping to raise her, did he have any right to call the shots on what she was allowed or not allowed to touch? He loved her but even he had to admit he wasn’t always the best at knowing what was safe for adults, let alone young children so… “How about you come in here to help me train them a few times to make sure they’re comfortable with your presence before you pet them?” He looked up at Eli for approval.

Alyx turned to look at him too. “Can I?”

Eli thought about it for several seconds before replying. “Sure but one of us has to keep a close eye on you whenever you’re in here with them, got it?”

“Got it!” And just like that it seems Isaac had a new houndeye training assistant. “Could we keep one as a pet once it’s all trained too?”

“Uh… let’s see how they’re training goes first, huh?” Eli said and was probably right with his caution as he often was. Isaac liked that idea though and would certainly be looking into having one ready to just hang out in the lab, as a pet and as another bonus line of protection should the Combine forces find their hideout. … Mostly, yes, as a pet though.