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mostlysignssomeportents · 11 months ago

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Sympathy for the spammer

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

In any scam, any con, any hustle, the big winners are the people who supply the scammers – not the scammers themselves. The kids selling dope on the corner are making less than minimum wage, while the respectable crime-bosses who own the labs clean up. Desperate "retail investors" who buy shitcoins from Superbowl ads get skinned, while the MBA bros who issue the coins make millions (in real dollars, not crypto).

It's ever been thus. The California gold rush was a con, and nearly everyone who went west went broke. Famously, the only reliable way to cash out on the gold rush was to sell "picks and shovels" to the credulous, doomed and desperate. That's how Leland Stanford made his fortune, which he funneled into eugenics programs (and founding a university):

https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/malcolm-harris/palo-alto/9780316592031/

That means that the people who try to con you are almost always getting conned themselves. Think of Multi-Level Marketing (MLM) scams. My forthcoming novel The Bezzle opens with a baroque and improbable fast-food Ponzi in the town of Avalon on the island of Catalina, founded by the chicle monopolist William Wrigley Jr:

http://thebezzle.org

Wrigley found fast food declasse and banned it from the island, a rule that persists to this day. In The Bezzle, the forensic detective Martin Hench uncovers The Fry Guys, an MLM that flash-freezes contraband burgers and fries smuggled on-island from the mainland and sells them to islanders though an "affiliate marketing" scheme that is really about recruiting other affiliate markets to sell under you. As with every MLM, the value of the burgers and fries sold is dwarfed by the gigantic edifice of finance fraud built around it, with "points" being bought and sold for real cash, which is snaffled up and sucked out of the island by a greedy mainlander who is behind the scheme.

A "bezzle" is John Kenneth Galbraith's term for "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." In every scam, there's a period where everyone feels richer – but only the scammers are actually cleaning up. The wealth of the marks is illusory, but the longer the scammer can preserve the illusion, the more real money the marks will pump into the system.

MLMs are particularly ugly, because they target people who are shut out of economic opportunity – women, people of color, working people. These people necessarily rely on social ties for survival, looking after each others' kids, loaning each other money they can't afford, sharing what little they have when others have nothing.

It's this social cohesion that MLMs weaponize. Crypto "entrepreneurs" are encouraged to suck in their friends and family by telling them that they're "building Black wealth." Working women are exhorted to suck in their bffs by appealing to their sisterhood and the chance for "women to lift each other up."

The "sales people" trying to get you to buy crypto or leggings or supplements are engaged in predatory conduct that will make you financially and socially worse off, wrecking their communities' finances and shattering the mutual aid survival networks they rely on. But they're not getting rich on this – they're also being scammed:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4686468

This really hit home for me in the mid-2000s, when I was still editing Boing Boing. We had a submission form where our readers could submit links for us to look at for inclusion on the blog, and it was overwhelmed by spam. We'd add all kinds of antispam to it, and still, we'd get floods of hundreds or even thousands of spam submissions to it.

One night, I was lying in my bed in London and watching these spams roll in. They were all for small businesses in the rustbelt, handyman services, lawn-care, odd jobs, that kind of thing. They were 10 million miles from the kind of thing we'd ever post about on Boing Boing. They were coming in so thickly that I literally couldn't finish downloading my email – the POP session was dropping before I could get all the mail in the spool. I had to ssh into my mail server and delete them by hand. It was maddening.

Frustrated and furious, I started calling the phone numbers associated with these small businesses, demanding an explanation. I assumed that they'd hired some kind of sleazy marketing service and I wanted to know who it was so I could give them a piece of my mind.

But what I discovered when I got through was much weirder. These people had all been laid off from factories that were shuttering due to globalization. As part of their termination packages, their bosses had offered them "retraining" via "courses" in founding their own businesses.

The "courses" were the precursors to the current era's rise-and-grind hustle-culture scams (again, the only people getting rich from that stuff are the people selling the courses – the "students" finish the course poorer). They promised these laid-off workers, who'd given their lives to their former employers before being discarded, that they just needed to pull themselves up by their own boostraps:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/10/declaration-of-interdependence/#solidarity-forever

After all, we had the internet now! There were so many new opportunities to be your own boss! The course came with a dreadful build-your-own-website service, complete with an overpriced domain sales portal, and a single form for submitting your new business to "thousands of search engines."

This was nearly 20 years ago, but even then, there was really only one search engine that mattered: Google. The "thousands of search engines" the scammers promised to submit these desperate peoples' websites to were just submission forms for directories, indexes, blogs, and mailing lists. The number of directories, indexes, blogs and mailing lists that would publish their submissions was either "zero" or "nearly zero." There was certainly no possibility that anyone at Boing Boing would ever press the wrong key and accidentally write a 500-word blog post about a leaf-raking service in a collapsing deindustrialized exurb in Kentucky or Ohio.

The people who were drowning me in spam weren't the scammers – they were the scammees.

But that's only half the story. Years later, I discovered how our submission form was getting included in this get-rich-quick's mass-submission system. It was a MLM! Coders in the former Soviet Union were getting work via darknet websites that promised them relative pittances for every submission form they reverse-engineered and submitted. The smart coders didn't crack the forms directly – they recruited other, less business-savvy coders to do that for them, and then often as not, ripped them off.

The scam economy runs on this kind of indirection, where scammees are turned into scammers, who flood useful and productive and nice spaces with useless dross that doesn't even make them any money. Take the submission queue at Clarkesworld, the great online science fiction magazine, which famously had to close after it was flooded with thousands of junk submission "written" by LLMs:

https://www.npr.org/2023/02/24/1159286436/ai-chatbot-chatgpt-magazine-clarkesworld-artificial-intelligence

There was a zero percent chance that Neil Clarke would accidentally accept one of these submissions. They were uniformly terrible. The people submitting these "stories" weren't frustrated sf writers who'd discovered a "life hack" that let them turn out more brilliant prose at scale.

They were scammers who'd been scammed into thinking that AIs were the key to a life of passive income, a 4-Hour Work-Week powered by an AI-based self-licking ice-cream cone:

https://pod.link/1651876897/episode/995c8a778ede17d2d7cff393e5203157

This is absolutely classic passive-income brainworms thinking. "I have a bot that can turn out plausible sentences. I will locate places where sentences can be exchanged for money, aim my bot at it, sit back, and count my winnings." It's MBA logic on meth: find a thing people pay for, then, without bothering to understand why they pay for that thing, find a way to generate something like it at scale and bombard them with it.

Con artists start by conning themselves, with the idea that "you can't con an honest man." But the factor that predicts whether someone is connable isn't their honesty – it's their desperation. The kid selling drugs on the corner, the mom desperately DMing her high-school friends to sell them leggings, the cousin who insists that you get in on their shitcoin – they're all doing it because the system is rigged against them, and getting worse every day.

These people reason – correctly – that all the people getting really rich are scamming. If Amazon can make $38b/year selling "ads" that push worse products that cost more to the top of their search results, why should the mere fact that an "opportunity" is obviously predatory and fraudulent disqualify it?

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/29/aethelred-the-unready/#not-one-penny-for-tribute

The quest for passive income is really the quest for a "greater fool," the economist's term for the person who relieves you of the useless crap you just overpaid for. It rots the mind, atomizes communities, shatters solidarity and breeds cynicism:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

The rise and rise of botshit cannot be separated from this phenomenon. The botshit in our search-results, our social media feeds, and our in-boxes isn't making money for the enshittifiers who send it – rather, they are being hustled by someone who's selling them the "picks and shovels" for the AI gold rush:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/jan/03/botshit-generative-ai-imminent-threat-democracy

That's the true cost of all the automation-driven unemployment criti-hype: while we're nowhere near a place where bots can steal your job, we're certainly at the point where your boss can be suckered into firing you and replacing you with a bot that fails at doing your job:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

The manic "entrepreneurs" who've been stampeded into panic by the (correct) perception that the economy is a game of musical chairs where the number of chairs is decreasing at breakneck speed are easy marks for the Leland Stanfords of AI, who are creating generational wealth for themselves by promising that their bots will automate away all the tedious work that goes into creating value. Expect a lot more Amazon Marketplace products called "I'm sorry, I cannot fulfil this request as it goes against OpenAI use policy":

https://www.theverge.com/2024/1/12/24036156/openai-policy-amazon-ai-listings

No one's going to buy these products, but the AI picks-and-shovels people will still reap a fortune from the attempt. And because history repeats itself, these newly minted billionaires are continuing Leland Stanford's love affair with eugenics:

https://www.truthdig.com/dig-series/eugenics/

The fact that AI spam doesn't pay is important to the fortunes of AI companies. Most high-value AI applications are very risk-intolerant (self-driving cars, radiology analysis, etc). An AI tool might help a human perform these tasks more accurately – by warning them of things that they've missed – but that's not how AI will turn a profit. There's no market for AI that makes your workers cost more but makes them better at their jobs:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Plenty of people think that spam might be the elusive high-value, low-risk AI application. But that's just not true. The point of AI spam is to get clicks from people who are looking for better content. It's SEO. No one reads 2000 words of algorithm-pleasing LLM garbage over an omelette recipe and then subscribes to that site's feed.

And the omelette recipe generates pennies for the spammer that posted it. They are doing massive volume in order to make those pennies into dollars. You don't make money by posting one spam. If every spammer had to pay the actual recovery costs (energy, chillers, capital amortization, wages) for their query, every AI spam would lose (lots of) money.

Hustle culture and passive income are about turning other peoples' dollars into your dimes. It is a negative-sum activity, a net drain on society. Behind every seemingly successful "passive income" is a con artist who's getting rich by promising – but not delivering – that elusive passive income, and then blaming the victims for not hustling hard enough:

https://www.ftc.gov/business-guidance/blog/2023/12/blueprint-trouble

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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homunculus-argument · 6 months ago

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Sometimes things benefit each other in such an indirect kind of network that you can't really predict it of plan on it, so not doing something just because it has no logical, direct benefit isn't a reason to not give it a try. For one, using dry shampoo doesn't have any direct benefit to my hair, but it's good for my hair nonetheless.

My hair needs washing far more often than I would otherwise normally need a shower. Dry shampoo doesn't make it clean as much as simply makes it look and feel clean, but nonetheless it enables me to just go with a partial wash instead. Being a lizard with no self-control, I like having my showers scalding hot, which dries out my skin. And having all the natural oils stripped off every day makes my skin overcomensate with producing more oil, which gives me acne. And the condition of my skin has a direct effect on how I feel about the way I look, and not liking the way I look increases the chances of me doing something impulsive and destructive to my hair.

Using dry shampoo enables me to take fewer showers with longer intervals, which is better for my skin, which is better for my mood, which makes me less prone to fuck with my hair.

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theemporium · 1 year ago

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witch!reader being drained from using too much of her powers and she just slumps over onto the back patio couch and passes out and wakes up to find two wolves nosing at her with worried whines and she’s like “hi Charles, Max” and then falls back asleep while the boys are sharing a look and going WHAT THE FUCK

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

You found it oddly endearing that the boys thought you were clueless to their secret.

You had known what they were the second you met them. You felt the shift in their auras, felt the rush of their true selves when you touched them for the first time. You knew. And you knew how protective wolves could get when it came to their kind, to their pack and the bonds they formed. You respected the fact they wouldn’t want to tell you instantly, but you knew.

The relationship grew stronger when you came clean about yourself (though you hadn’t done much to hide it), and both boys had accepted you instantly. There was no fear or hesitation or concern about the powers you harboured. If anything, it made them love you more but it wasn’t enough for them to come clean. And once again, you respected that.

But it was sweet how unbelievably unsubtle they were with their attempts to hide their secret. You don’t think they realised how bad they were, but it amused you nonetheless. It became pretty obvious to you who the two wolves at the bottom of your garden were, or the reason they were following you when you would head into the woods to collect some ingredients.

Yet, it still warmed your heart every time you saw the two large wolves—one dark brown and the other blond—always checking up on you.

And truthfully, you hadn’t meant to reveal your knowledge of their secret in such a way.

It had been a long week. With the moon in the perfect position, aligned with the planets and stronger than it ever could be on a full moon, you had been overworking yourself. Most other witches had covens, they had someone else to supply them and take off the stress of the magic. But that wasn’t the case for you, and it meant that every spell was quickly dwindling your reservoir to the point of exhaustion.

You tried to pace yourself, to give yourself enough time between spells to rest and rejuvenate. But the planets were shifting and you were losing time and you pushed yourself over the edge for one last spell.

You didn’t remember making it back to your house, not a second of the walk back from the woods in your memory. You didn’t remember crawling up the steps of the patio. And you certainly didn’t remember passing out on the couch outside, your body falling into some makeshift comatose state to try and reserve what little energy you had left.

Everything was bleary when you felt someone nudging your arm.

You waited for it to stop but it never did. The nudges became more insistent, and then you felt someone nudging your leg too. You made a noise of discontentment but your eyes remained shut, which didn’t seem to please whatever was nudging you.

You felt a little more awake when you heard a low whine. It sounded scared, like a plea for help rather than anything else. It sounded concerned. You tried your best to force your eyes open, to blink them open to see whatever was nudging you.

It took a few seconds for coloured splodges to become actual shapes but once your eyes focused on the two wolves in front of you, you couldn’t help but let a smile take over your face.

“My boys,” you murmured happily as you let out a deep sigh. “Just such caring puppies, hm?”

If it was possible for wolves to look comically confused, you would have thought you were seeing said expression right then.

You let out a small snort. “Of course I know it’s you.”

Both wolves stayed frozen in their spot as you reached out towards them, your fingers brushing against their fur before your hand fell limp at your side again. You blinked, a little slower and your eyes stayed closed for much longer intervals too. You could practically feel the concern radiating off them.

“M’fine,” you murmured as you nuzzled your face into the couch cushion with a sleepy smile. “Just a lil’ tired. Just…need a nap.”

Everything felt far too fuzzy and it didn’t take long before the exhaustion won over your body, pulling you back into a deep sleep before you could even realise the boys were shifting back into their human forms.

“Mon amour,” Charles whispered in a worried voice, kneeling beside the couch as he gently stroked his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “She’s out cold.”

“She needs to rest so she doesn’t burn herself out completely,” Max said with a frown on his face, shaking his head. “She was reckless. She could have hurt herself if she wasn’t careful.”

Charles hummed, nodding his head in agreement. “And she knows.”

“We were stupid for thinking we could hide it from her,” Max replied honestly before he grabbed a blanket, placing it over your body before you got too cold. “Let’s take her inside, help warm her up.”

Charles turned to the other boy, eyes wide and a little glossy. “Will she be okay?”

“We’ll take care of her,” Max reassured him, running a hand through the boy’s hair until he melted under the touch. “C’mon, I’ll make us some dinner for her to wake up to too.”

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twopoppies · 10 months ago

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Gina, have you seen the article about Hs workout routine for LOT? I mean, we all saw the results… but I find it almost even more impressive to learn how its been done! His dedication and work ethic is so inspiring and surely part of why I adore him so much 🫠🫶

Holy hell. No wonder he’s in such great shape. Just a note that Thibo David was his old trainer with Live On Tour. I assume Brad Gould was his new trainer for Love on Tour. But I doubt his regimen was any less insane.

[…]

If you include the one-mile run and bodyweight challenge, this is the hardest warm-up I’ve ever done, but, given the intensity required for the next two elements I’m promoting them to workout status.

[…]

David says Harry Styles can run a mile in an impressive 5min 13sec—a standard some of the professional athletes David coaches can’t match—but I was urged to run my own race.

[…]

This was far closer to my wheelhouse as a CrossFit fan. I chose to tackle it in alternating sets of 10, transitioning quickly between exercises to finish within the eight-minute limit. But even commando rolling from push-up to sit-up then springing into the squats left me little time to spare.

[…]

I took 7min 39sec, and, somewhat unexpectedly, given I can barbell squat more than 300lb, it was my quads that blew up the most. Whether this was the result of the one-mile run before it or heavy front squats the day before, I couldn’t say, but my thighs were on fire by the final rep.

“I like to say that I train very smart, but you also have to be very stupid sometimes, you know? Do this type of workout in the most stupid way; go hard at the task at hand, like when you throw a ball for a dog and it goes super crazy.

“This is a very good workout for that. Very good at building everything that needs to be added after the aerobic base; aggressiveness, speed, that go-hard mentality.”

[…]

Things did become particularly spicy during round three and four though, as my body began to tire with the sustained effort.

My posterior chain (the muscles running along the back side of the body) took a battering from the kettlebell swings and sandbag-over-shoulders, my already-fried legs felt heavy during the box jumps, and my shoulders grew tired from two minutes of straight clean and presses—it was a serious test of muscular endurance.

[…] I also did 12 total rounds—I wanted the full Styles experience, after all—but I’d live to regret this. The hill I chose grew progressively steeper as I worked my way up it, and by the eighth round I felt like death. My sprints turned to slogs, and the time it took me to complete the distance I established in the first interval grew longer.

[…] The prior running and box jumps didn’t help either, but I got it done eventually in less than 30 minutes.

[…]

This was a relaxing way to wrap up a far from relaxing morning of training, and gave me a second to catch my breath after a monumental effort which lasted a little over two hours.

I swapped his day of training for one of my usual CrossFit sessions and had a lot of fun doing it. Every part of my body felt like it had been put through the ringer thanks to the muscle-burning circuit and lung-taxing running elements. I was also very, very hungry.

Another thing that impressed me was Styles’ evident fitness levels and work ethic; how he has the energy to perform for two hours during a stadium tour is no longer a mystery.

Another thing I liked about my chat with David was his openness and honesty. I often see articles online saying celebrities do a few Pilates classes or HIIT workouts each week to stay in unbelievable shape, and he was keen to dispel this myth.

“Collaborating with Harry Styles was an absolute delight; his commitment is unparalleled,” says David.

“But it’s important to note that this level of training isn’t suitable for everyone. Harry was inherently fit, but achieving the level of fitness needed for this session still required time, work and effort. Rushing into such high-volume workouts can pose risks.”

David also stressed that sessions of this intensity weren’t done every day, and the nature of his workouts will often “depend on the day and the state of the athlete”.

“It’s crucial to emphasize the significance of proper periodization,” says David. “Not every day constituted an intense session. In fact, we strategically incorporated recovery sessions which often involved a light run combined with core exercises and mobility work. Every workout was thoughtfully placed within the overall training plan.”

Read, full article here

#exercise Harry #workout Harry #fitness Harry #thibo david

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visionsofmagic · 1 year ago

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leon s. kennedy [re 4: remake]

⋆ leon needs you.

wc: 2.7k ⋆ tags: nsfw, explicit, biting, kissing, licking, sub!leon, dom!leon (just a little bit), dom!reader, fem!reader, moaning, using pet names, positions, begging. ‘s all I guess. enjoy! [had so fun while writing but I wrote in long intervals, so, it can be a little bit low at coherence.] ⋆ masterlist.

"need u." leon says, sounding so low - from far away even though he is close. he is on his feet while you are writing new information about the lake in a notebook on a wooden, clean, and dry table.

when you hear him, you turn around with the chair you sitting on, opening him a place to get in, standing right in front of you - his legs touching your knees.

"what?" you question, curious if you heard it right. "what did you say pretty?" you encourage him to speak loudly for you to hear and comprehend.

leon's pale face lightens with a pink glow on the cheeks, tries to avoid any connection of eyes, looking at your little exposed breasts as he speaks again, louder this time but still so shy, "I need you."

taking a look at him, carefully this time, you see some dry blood on his clothes and glowed hands, probably from a few unconscious humans in the town. his shoulders look tense through his shirt, his hands shaking a little, and an unreadable but straight expression on his face. the world you live in was hard to endure and times like this happen to you all the time.

you always like to make him calmer, better, but now you had a serious job to do and you let a sigh, getting up to pat leon's shoulder, "I need to do this leon. can you wait a little longer for me, hm?" you see the hesitation on his blue icy eyes, so, you add, "please?" you raise on your tiptoes, kissing his cheek as your one hand stands on his chest. "my pretty boy."

the nickname hit him, he likes to be called your pretty boy and it always works on him to become more patient for some moment.

nodding, he sits down on the chair you left, his elbows resting on his thighs, hair flying lightly, eyes all on you, leaving a burning sensation on the skin he is looking at.

taking a few deep breaths, you smile to yourself and turn to the work on hand.

as you keep going on with the adjustments, leon's patience decreases each minute and finally, he can't help himself but to touch your left inner thigh gently, the closer one to him.

he wants to feel you, you can see it clearly from the way his eyes become wetter with each passing time, but he has to wait.

"leon!" you say, lowly, as a playful warning.

he doesn't look sorry, so, he keeps caressing your inner thigh, getting closer to your ass from there and you leave heavy breaths because you too want to feel him. now you are in a safe zone - a zone hard to get and you don't want to waste it, especially when you have just a few zones like this on the entire area.

"l-leon." this time, your voice is full of lust and affection; want to get more but still have the idea of turning back to work.

however, when leon's palm is positioned on your ass, squeezing it gently, your mind went from the job to him, only him.

he gave another squeeze before moving on to your waist, making your body turn to him, then pushing you to get close 'till you are between his thick thighs as they closed briefly, caging you inside.

his other hand joined. both of them began to move freely on your body, exploring it like a hundredth time, curious yet already knowing every detail as his hands work professionally. he gives you lots of low moans that you even don't try to hide, letting leon know that he was doing so good giving you pleasure only with his hands.

then, getting confidence, his lips join his hands after he helped you to remove your top including the bra under it, leaving you half naked before him.

smirking under you, leon looked up at your face full of heat, knowledge of his own power on you giving him a boost, making him begin to suck your right nipple which was hardened in the pleasure you were getting from neon.

his eyes never closed, never left yours, challenging you to keep your posture still. and you did - you stood there like a statue as he sucked each nipple, squeezing them, leaving red marks on them that will disappear soon enough only to be replaced with news by leon again.

you left low moans and growls as he continued but getting impatient, you held leon's hair, pulling it and letting leon know you needed more - you wanted more.

understanding your gesture, he begins to lower down, kissing every skin under his lips 'till he reaches to your pussy after kissing your exposed abdomen.

he looks at you for permission to remove your pants and underwear too and you only nod, biting your own lip, feeling impatience growing up inside.

leon is good at using his hands and fingers, not only in battle but in these moments too. it always amazed you how fast he can get rid of the clothes on his way, under 10 seconds and you let him do whatever he wants for a moment; looking at your exposed body from head to toe while leaving heavy breaths and a few growls, worshipping you.

smiling, you begin to play with his blonde hair, its softness tickles your skin and he closes his eyes as he begins to kiss your pussy, giving a few licks from here to there, earning a moan and praise from you. "oh, good boy."

leon is a man of action and your praising increase his eagerness to take further steps, so, he lowers his head down, opening your thighs wider, taking one of your legs to put it on his shoulder and having enough space to eat you.

the scene is sinful; the moment is similar to a picture from a nasty magazine yet it feels like euphoria.

leon's tongue keeps giving you pleasure at a high level - as always. it doesn't take long for you to reach your climax, especially after leon's fingers join his tongue.

leon's eyes find yours, nodding a little, saying a silent 'go on, cum to my mouth' with begging eyes. don't want to make him upset, you nod, cumming to his mouth and tongue in a second, letting your juice flow from you to his face and to the wooden floor from there.

closing your eyes, you throw your head back, staying in that position 'till you come to your senses, feeling piercing gazes of leon.

looking at his messy and wet face, you think his attractiveness grows bigger with your juices all over his sharp but cute face.

caressing his hair with your left hand, you use your forefinger to lift his chin. making him look so seductively as your thump play with his lower lip, you say, "you were so good leon. so - so good."

he smiles fondly at your praising, proud of himself.

realizing his hardened cock, you chuckle, reaching to his cock and giving a few squeezes through the fabric of his tight pants. earning a growl from him, lust washes over your entire body. the heat in the air is remarkable – giving hotness to the skin yet it is not a burning sensation, it is rather a tickle to make one go crazy with the need for touch and pleasure.

with the need of him – he is already in need of you as he keeps saying and looks at you with puppy eyes, trying to make you agree with his plan, you put a kiss on his lips, and say, “if you want me so bad, you should take them off.”

nodding in a fast motion, he firstly removes his tight top from his body, giving a full sight of his upper body which is built well. leon is like a soldier – he is already good at killing possessed people, monsters, and so on. to kill them, he needs to be strong both physically and mentally which gives him an intelligent mind with good physic. you like – even love nearly everything about him. however, it hits differently whenever you see him like this; the color of rose rushing into his cheeks, blonde-grey hair moving freely thanks to his movements, a body portion of lots of muscles that you begin to touch slowly.

then, he gets a little up, taking his pants, including his boxer, staying with his nudity in front of you – having no shame while doing it but when he looks up – to your eyes, he blushes – more than ever.

finding it cute yet entertaining, you giggle, one of your hands finds his shoulder, and the other one stays on his neck, holding it not so roughly. “thought about preparing you in the first place but look at you,” you mock him, teasingly, pointing out the fact that with only a few strokes on his cock, he becomes hard enough for you to take him. “already?” chuckling, you make him try to hide his face from you but he can’t escape, not when you are about to take his cock deep inside your walls, giving him what he needs. “you weren’t joking when you said you needed me, pretty boy, were you?”

holding your waist when he feels his tip touching your entrance, struggling so hard not to make a move, waiting for you to let him have his way with you – but it is hard though, he admits inside his own head, especially when you look at him with such love and lust that he can give everything he has to you. he needs to be inside you, and you know it well. the fact makes you smile innocently, yet, you talk devilishly, “how much you needed me, pretty,” you ask, caressing his hair, “say it.”

“so much!” he nearly screams but stops himself in the middle, “so much, y/n, I need you so much that it hurts!”

“but you have me now, right?” another teasing. it’s just a perfect view of him when he has madness because of the lust you’re giving him.

“more – “ he looks at your lower part, his cock can enter with only one move coming from either you or him. “I can’t wait anymore!” he says in a lower tone, sounding alert. having a mixture of pleasure and affection in your tummy, you smile, and nod to leon who is watching you as if you’re his own prey and hunter at the same time – you’re making him lose his mind, and when you sit down on his thick and long cock without waiting for his action, he loses all he has from mind to soul, from the heart to brain – all of it.

“pretty.” you say when he closes his eyes shut, throwing his head behind, hands positioned on your waist, holding you tight, and not wasting any more time, he moves – oh, he moves so good that you feel yourself jumping on his lap from up to down – rapidly. leon, being a former police officer and current agent, has a power that impresses you every time you witness it, especially in these times, when he becomes a little bit excited – more than a little bit though, using your body, making you feel each deep, rapid thrusts he is giving to you; it’s all because he wants to prove himself to you so that you can see how much he needs this – you, how much he can give you euphoria that is needed, and how he can receive all the things you let him have.

“ahhh – y/n,” he moans loudly the moment your right-hand grips his neck hair, pulling it to see his face closer. starting to move your hips in sync with his thrusts, a jolt flows into both of your bodies, heavy breath sounds mixing with moans coming from each of you, creating an erratic atmosphere. “please, fuck! uggghh! –“

“you look so pretty like this, leon,” you say, connecting your foreheads as you lean closer only to make his cock buries further into your walls; hotness rising upon you. your body moves up and down in a fast way that you nearly hit his forehead with yours; growls, moans, and curses fly in the air like the world around you stops, only a reality in which just the two of you live remains. “the prettiest boy I have ever seen.”

bouncing on his cock, leon looks at your breasts which are moving as well, sparkles in his ice blue eyes. if you look carefully enough, you can see your own vision inside his beautiful eyes; chest exposed, heat and redness visible on your face, cock going in and out your messy pussy which is already dripping wetness because of how good he makes you feel.

when leon gets enough of this position, he gets up, holding you from the back with his strong arms, and he puts your ass down on the table – papers on it are long forgotten as he finds a better position to get into the further deep side of your pussy.

he begins to like being the dominant side now – still having a look on his face that says you have all the ropes of him, you always do. “fuck –“ he curses, eyes traveling on you as he puts his palms on the sides of your head. you give him better access to kneel down closer by leaning behind, your back touches the cold surface of the table, closing your eyes, nerves receiving pleasure at the highest level.

his cock hit your g-spot again and again, earning loud moans from you. smirking – probably proud of himself for earning such things, he keeps his pace, and without a chance to say it aloud, alerting him, you cum undone within seconds, milking his cock as his balls hit your ass cheek, his cock doesn’t stop with the pace – sending vibrations into your sensitive core, and a low chuckle comes from leon.

looking up, a sight in which leon has a proud yet still lustful expression on his attractive face – tears in his eyes because of the pleasure he is taking, sweat dripping, redness, all blushing. you know what he needs, so, showing an exhausted smile, you nod, “cum inside me leon. I need it – need you.”

his eyes stay normal for a moment before turning white – nearly, hips moving faster, thrusting with a non-stop pace, he cages you with his body. forehead hits forehead, you reach another climax – milking him once again and giving him a wetness with which he can enter in and out easily, growling, even moaning your name, “y/n! shit, ‘s too much – aaaah!”

it doesn’t take him long before cuming deep inside you, moaning like a madman, putting his head on your chest.

as his hot semen drips from your core into the table, you feel a hotness you only have with leon. being the reason you’re so weak, having a blank mind, looking at him with half-closed eyes, he can’t help himself but show a smile – a wide one, all happy, yet so childish.

chuckling at his cuteness, you say as you caress his wet hair, “you did so well, leon,” he smiles wider as if he can. “my pretty boy.”

holding your wrist, he kisses your palm while still looking at your eyes. “anything for my favorite lady.”

“cute.”

staying like that for a while – breathing deeply and rapidly to turn back to normal, wetness traveling on bodies, feeling shy all of sudden because of the current states of you two, chuckling from time to time, you have a great moment away from the cruelty of the world. he is a man who turns your comprehension of reality into something different – something that gives you peace and love contrary to the one you have. he’s the meaning of your life and with the looks he gives, you know he feels the same.

“let’s get clean, and then, let me show you my other skills in the field as well,” he says, giving his hand to you.

holding his hand, you chuckle, “show off.”

the end.

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ineadhyn · 11 months ago

Text

Astarion's time in the tomb

And whilst I am at it, here is a more serious short drabble about Astarion's time in the tomb and the day he finally got out. It was probably not as euphoric as one would expect

Inspired by a post about Astarion and the effects of solitary confinement that I can't find anymore.

It's safe for work and not too graphic, but shows the mental damage quite drastically so continue if you feel safe with that. (Ha, I finally figured out how to make cuts)

Light fell onto the fragments of his consciousness. His mind was a disjointed swirl of thoughts and images that no longer made sense and hadn't found connection for a long time. A scraping of stone on stone accompanied the light and with it came voices. Astarion had heard them too many times. They were never real. Nothing was real. Not the faces in the darkness, not the voices, not the blood dripping from the walls - the blood he dreamt would moisten his tongue, but only drowned him in the end. None of it was real. Yet, the visions were better than hunger and silence. Deafness and blindness. Of course, he wasn't really blind. His eyes could pierce through the darkness. But when everything you saw was gray, you might as well be blind. Astarion had seen them all. Everyone who could possibly open this tomb. From his parents to unknown heroes to Cazador. And every time his fingers reached out with longing they only met rough stone. He knew that the images his brain conjured were not real. He didn't react to them anymore. What could he possibly do even if they were real? He had no voice anymore. Had lost it long ago, somewhere in the dusty darkness to his feet. It had rolled down, and since he couldn't turn around, he couldn't find it again. Of course he had screamed. The memory of himself crying his lungs out was still strangely fresh, like an open wound. He had given up quickly. Just a few months later. There was a pale spot of sunlight that wandered along the edge of his prison at regular intervals. Astarion guessed it happened once a day. Not bright enough to burn himself. (He had tried.) He scratched into the stone that locked him, marking how many times the spot appeared since he had been sealed in here. He made 249 strokes. Then he gave up counting. Gave it up like he had given up everything. The screaming, the scratching, the praying. It was endless. Astarion was dust and ash. Astarion was

Skeleton. A skeleton. Armor rattling, jaw gnawing. Godey... "Come on, get out of there!" Out? He didn't understand the meaning of these words. Didn't understand the feeling of bony fingers pulling at his body. Not … Cazador. Not real. Not - "Are you sucking on your own arm? Pathetic. Come now, boy. I don't have all day." A crypt in twilight. Dusty curtains, body parts too weak to bear his weight. Breaking. Collapsing. Dead rat! Blood - Blood - Blood Forgotten. Forgotten how it tastes. Old. Rancid. Wonderful. The first breath. Unnecessary. Freeing.

Seeing, thinking. Astarion looked down on himself. He was naked. The bite wounds on his arms began to close after he’d drunk the rat’s blood. Flesh and skin closed over the bare bones of his fingertips. "Dress up." It was his old shirt and pants. The clothes he always wore. The clothes that Astarion, the spawn, wore. Maybe he was still in there somewhere. Between the threadbare layers of fabric, embroidered into a line of poetry, as if Astarion had known he would need to store himself somewhere.

Godey pushed him forward, and he followed obediently. Back into the palace. Lamps, floors, paintings. His head began to spin, unable to process all the impressions after such a long time with nothing. "Come on, boy." He stumbled on until they reached a familiar room. Bunk beds and peeling wallpaper. Aurelia was there. When they entered, she gave them a glance. His sister wanted to say something, but the sight of Godey kept her silent. Better that way. Even after all the years Aurelia had been here she still feared the kennels.

"Clean him up." Godey pushed Astarion into the room, where he fell to his knees, unable to balance the shove. He sat there as the skeleton left and closed the door. Aurelia approached cautiously. "So, it's true. He let you come back." Silence. "Astarion?" He wanted to answer. He had to try at least. But his voice seemed to still be left in the tomb. Aurelia sighed, then grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up. "I really don't feel like it, but you heard Godey. I have to wash you." Astarion tried to speak again as he sat in the wooden tub that the spawn used for this purpose, and Aurelia poured water over his hair. He flinched away from her touch, trying to do as much as possible himself. "How long?" "Hm?" They probably were both surprised that he could speak. "How long was I gone?" Aurelia set the bucket aside. "A year." Astarion said nothing, only nodded. "I saw faces. And blood, dripping from the walls. It drowned me." Aurelia exhaled. "You were hallucinating. Pull yourself together, Astarion." He stared at her with wide eyes. "I don't mean it cruelly. But you have to pull yourself together. Cazador expects you to bring him a mark today." Astarion continued to stare at her, but the tiefling woman only handed him the soap. "Here, I think you can do this yourself." Then she rushed out of the room.

The gods truly showed no mercy to him.

#bg3 #astarion fanfic #astarion ancunin #solitary confinement #aurelia bg3 #bg3 godey #this one has no beta sorry if it shows #i am still conscious about my english

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neonlight2 · 1 year ago

Text

Jaehaera Targaryen (oc)

Masterlist

Part 1

How did everyone react to her growing up and becoming more… scandalous? (Part 2)

Warning: again, small intervals of smut, mentions of step-cest??, death and a dash homophobia (also some of these parts are just fucking long as hell, sorry?)

***

Aegon

He learned from the best.

It would be a lie to say the boy didn’t learn from Jaehaera’s actions. She was practically his idol, and when he got old enough to know better, he used her example.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out that Jaehaera’s magnetism was like no other, for it drew him in as well.

The prince would copy her mannerisms around women, studying the affects it would have on them. He noticed how they blushed at the way she spoke, how their thighs clenched by her lustful gaze, and how they shuttered whenever her body merely grazed their skin.

After weeks of watching and practicing his demeanor late at night in the mirror, Aegon tried it out on a beautiful lady. A married lady.

He’s cocky, but we knew that already, and the woman gladly falling into his embrace didn’t help anything.

A part of him thought that she was just desperate to fuck a Prince; he was very aware of his status. Normally, it wouldn’t bother him, but the easiness of it all wasn’t satisfying for him.

He’s greedy and vain. Again, he knows.

So one night he decided to sneak away from the palace— something else he can thank Jaehaera for. If she hadn’t taught him such good balance he would have never been able to run the wall as it thinned toward the outskirts of town. Aegon wanted a real challenge— or rather he wanted something real. He wanted someone to want him.

Everyone always wanted Jaehaera, him included. He badly wanted to know what that felt like, for he barely knew what it was to be admired in the first place.

This meant he’d have to go somewhere where women who did know who he was wouldn’t give a shit. Women that couldn’t care less if you were royalty because if you didn’t give them something in return, they couldn’t give a fuck. You might as well kill them cause you won’t get what you want if you don’t pay the price.

He went to a brothel… without any coin.

Prostitutes, or whores as most like to call them, were some of the most honest people in the land. They knew it was highly unlikely for a high standing man to marry one of them, and most were orphans, which meant no family money to take care of them. Their best chance was to do their job, save up their coin, and then live the rest of their lives out in peace.

He knew of a good, clean one that Jaehaera often went to. She always said it was to go see a friend of hers, which confused him because other than Edeline, Jaehaera didn’t have friends. You were either family, or you weren’t. At least that’s what she would tell him as they trained with wooden swords when he was a boy, reminding him that blood relation meant nothing but stains and harm.

When he arrived there, in a cloak two times the size of himself, he could see why she liked it so much. People gathered in groups, pleasuring one another as if it were to save them from damnation. Men ploughing into various women and other men, whilst bystanders touched each other intimately. He could only hear that of skin slapping and the wetness of sweat and slick. And smell… well let’s just say it made him hard enough to make him worry of soiling his trousers.

For a moment he was in a trance. He’d never seen such debauchery. Gods how he loved it.

It was only until he saw long flowing black hair that he snapped out of it. Aegon watch as it swayed freely, exposing its owners bare behind as she sauntered away from him. In a brief moment, the prince swore he saw her wink at him, and that her eyes were a deep amber.

He scurried through the crowds after her, not minding the limps touching him along the way. Once he’s made it to the other side, he could no longer see her. She had vanished, and that made his heart plummet.

“Is there something I can help you with sir?”

Aegon almost pissed himself.

“Seven hells!” He turns around to see the girl; her eyes were not amber, but a pretty blue. Swallowing back his embarrassment and ignoring the growing red of his cheeks from her naked frame, he replied.

“I was just browsing.”

Humming, the girl feigned belief, letting her hands wander the fabric of his cloak.

No matter how hard he tried, the Prince couldn’t help his eyes flickering to her breasts, noticing the way her nipples perked up at him and the chills that followed along the rest of her skin.

Peeling off his cloak, the boy placed it around her as if it were second instinct. What he didn’t expect was the action to shift his flushed state to her. As he tied the strings around her shoulders he watched as pink ran about her collar, up her neck, till finally meeting her face.

She was slightly taller than him as well, so when she looked toward the floor as if she were shy, he could still see most of her face. He found it desirable, and the more he let his mind drift, and the longer she had her eyes closed— Aegon could imagine her.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, leaning in to caress her face.

Scoffing, the girl shook her head. “There’s no need for compliments if you’re going to pay me to get your cock wet.”

Laughing genuinely against her hair, she can feel his smile. “You can’t pay for my flattery,” Aegon whispers, “And I don’t pay for a good fuck.”

That’s all it took for her to grab him and lock them in a private room together.

When Aegon thinks on this memory, he was both grateful and disappointed with the pace. He was filled with slight regret of the fact the interaction lasted half an hour at most, and after that night he never saw the girl again. He also felt a sense of sympathy over cumming so quickly. Even when the girl chuckled and said it was a compliment to her services.

He couldn’t bare to tell her that he was a virgin.

Yet everything he found embarrassing was only worsened by what he loved and treasured about that night.

It started simple, her bare cunt grinding on his clothed cock— making the wet spot of his pants even more noticeable. As she made work of his shirt, hoping to kiss down his happy trail, which made him quiver like a cold child. He rarely watched her during the process, preferring to keep his eyes closed with his head thrown back while she had her way with him. But he could help glancing down when he felt her sucking the tip of his cock through his soaked cotton.

Aegon could have came right there if he had no shame at all. The sight of her hollowed lips around his bulge, hair falling around her face and her eyes shut as she moaned around him— if he allowed himself to the Prince could envision—

“Quite eager are we sir?” She asked, looking up at him with a smirk as she palmed him.

Shutting his eyes quickly, he pleaded, “Don’t call me that, please.

Apparently she found his demeanor cute; she often chuckled at him.

“If you wish…what should I call you then?”

Aegon hesitated, scrunching up his face as she pulled down his pants, feeling his prick hit the bottom of his stomach.

“Call me— ah.”

Her lips wrapping around his cock broke Aegon’s words, along with any train of thought he had managed to muster.

Humming against him, Aegon had to push her away in fear of cumming in her mouth too quickly. His fingers crept to her hair, bunching it along her scalp before tugging up. A loud pop from the loss of connection practically made his legs shiver.

“If you do that, I’ll finish,” he panted, eyes still closed as he caressed her face, occasionally slipping his thumb into her mouth as his head dug into the mattress. His imagination was running wild, and her comments did nothing to help.

“I thought that was the idea?” She quipped, kitten licking whatever she could touch. “Now—,” she laced their hands together in order to free herself, shifting upwards— “what was it you wanted me to call you?”

Aegon could feel her weight, pushing on either side of him until her heat followed. She was burning, almost as much as he, and her skin was unbelievable soft. He could feel the push of her thigh, pressing against his own as she used him as a seat— one to relax upon and make whatever pleasure she could derive.

“Speak little Prince.”

In any other state, Aegon would have shot up, eyes wide, ready to ask her how she knew him. Then he’d probably ridicule himself for being naive enough to believe he could escape his identity. However, the boy was under a trance. Her bare cunt was resting on his leaking cock and the only thing the young Targaryen could do was moan.

At the title. At the demanding tone of which it was said. And how much it sounded like Jaehaera.

“That.” Aegon whispered.

“What was that, I need you to be a little louder for me—?”

“Call me that! ‘Little Prince’,” he mewled pitifully, “‘Spoiled Little Prince’.”

The whole night they spent fucking. She used him until her body grew tired, and Aegon had not yet gotten his fill. So he did what she asked, following her direction to perfections. And he kept his eyes closed the whole time, imagining another.

And the girl wasn’t clueless.

She knew the moment he refused to call out her name, even when she told him it twice within the same hour. But she couldn’t be bothered to care, nor would she take the time to ponder why the name ‘Jaehaera’ sounded so familiar when it fell from Aegon’s lips as he slipped inside of her. No, this was one of the rare times that she got to actually enjoy herself. So selfishly, she would enjoy it.

He’d never go to that brothel again. In fact he’d forbid himself from doing so, denying himself from the ultimate pleasure. Limiting and furthering him from his wishes, the deepest running from heart to mind every night. That girl gave him what he dared not even whisper when as he touched himself, for he trusted not the nosy walls within the castle.

Yet he could not control his impulses. No matter how hard he tried, nor how many light haired maidens threw themselves into his arms with fluttering lids and sensual touches— he ended the nights of his youth with a dark maned lady in his bed. Of course they’d always leave in the morning. Coincidentally, of their own accord. Aegon assumed they were ashamed or thought he’d banish them if he awoke first. However, despite his reputation, he found the mornings cold. His arms were left lonely, empty— a perfect parallel to his heart one may say.

But that’s nothing more wine could not fix… right?

Aegon’s “shameful” habits would cease anytime Jaehaera came home. And he always had a doorman tell him the moment she arrived on royal grounds, for the first and only time she had caught him in the act with a lady of well standing— he was horrified beyond believe.

He couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was shame? Even though he knew there not need be, she’d never judge him even given his despicable thoughts.

But perhaps it was guilt? For using her image? And withought her permission. Not to mention that night…

Aegon often saw Edeline and Jaehaera together. Frequently linked at the arms or touching on another in order to be aware of the others whereabouts. He grew up with it that way, and he thought nothing of it for that was the way Jaehaera lived. Forever passionate and unabashedly so.

She praised his mother, and he’d watch as the woman that had raised him smiled like she were his age.

She’d laugh and tease Rhaenyra, making the sister he barely knew somewhat familiar to him.

So Edeline was no exception. There was no questions when he noticed her touch the woman, whisper close to her ear, and constantly give her suggestive glances.

Which is one of the reasons he had no malice toward fluid sexuality because he had loved Jaehaera for far too long, and Otto hadn’t got to him fast enough to change his mind about that.

As for how he felt about Edeline… he neither liked nor disliked her. To be honest she barely interacted with him. He predicted that to be because of his mother and grandfather, neither being too fond of her for differing reasons. His mother green with envy and his grandfather all the same only mixed with a brown muck of hypocrisy and mutiny.

But when she had, she was kind and rather funny. She didn’t have a filter, much like Jaehaera. Instead of taking offense to her rashness, he found it refreshing and slightly amusing. Not to mention her youthfulness blended well with his own. She always looked so happy.

Aegon would laugh at her antics, picking up a few as habits along the way.

However, there was one memory of her he could never erase. Something he dreamt about while in the light of the sun or moon; he couldn’t escape it.

He was young. He knew that much, yet he could not remember the exact age. But he knew for certain he would always wonder about the castle, sneaking about, searching for mischief, for fun, maybe even trouble.

He remembers finding his way into a room, one yellow in light of thousands of candles, all dripping to the floor. No doubt giving the maids plenty of work to do in the morning.

His head would peak through and see a shadow— of her. Hair pulled up with loose strands of ringlets falling down toward her face and shoulders. She was a sight to be seen, beautiful simply. There was nothing particular about her. Anyone else within the court would have thought her plain, calling her matching brown hair and eyes dull, comparing the color to the muck and shit along the common streets.

But in that light they shined, a pool of gold matching that of Rhaenyra’s dragon— a likeness to his own in the short future. Aegon understood why Jaehaera took such interest in her, and he remembers wondering whether she were simply basking in the life bestowed upon her by Jaehaera, or if she were waiting for her. The ladder made him weary and scamper to a darker corner in which to hide.

He should have know better. If Jaehaera was to walk in, mere seconds would pass and he’d be caught. Maybe scolded, for Jaehaera had taught him that ‘one’s room is a sacred place of safety and should be respected’.

He was greeted with much worse.

He could tell by the sound; it was not Jaehaera. Certainly because he would have never heard hers, unless she were in a skipping mood— but she was always light-footed in the night. However, it was the clinking of armor that gave it away.

She thought it a waste of time to wear any.

So when the sound surged through the entryway, his eyes grew wide as he scampered away from the door, hoping to sneak under the bed before anyone saw.

He could only watch as Edeline’s scrunched up in confusion, trying to cover her bare bodice as they approached her figure. They had little politeness for her. One grabbed her arms while to other swept through her belongings, as if searching for something.

Finally, there was silence. No more of her yelling, demanding to know what they were doing, not her cries as the guard holding her grasped her jaw harshly in order to stop the noise. That’s when he noticed the green peaking in out from the back. And he dared to lean forward, catching sight of the man. He felt his lip tremble as he watch Sir Criston Cole holding Edeline without any care. And he almost gasped after seeing the earrings that the other had found in Edeline’s dresser. Green Emeralds in the shape of tear drops.

His mothers.

The last he saw of Edeline was her screaming profanities, squirming against hoping to break free of Sir Cole’s hold, before finally shrieking out what he’d never forget—

“Jaehaera! She will kill you all, I swear it! Jaehaera!”

He hid under that bed for what felt like hours, maybe it had been, but those last words remained loud in his words. And it was only until the door opened again, this time without footsteps, and booted feet coming into view. Not taking in the consequences, he started crying, wriggling from out under the bed until he jumped into Jaehaera’s arms. She had barely asked him what was wrong when he cried out,

“They took her!”

Jaehaera didn’t need to be told who was taken, nor who had taken. Her eyes grew a shade deadlier than the magma that rests beneath the earth. She was quick to grab him, hoisting him on her hip as she ran though the halls, caring very much to awake a maid to take Aegon from her.

“Take him to his mother, and tell the Queen that she is not allowed to leave her chambers by order of Princess Jaehaera.”

That was the last time Aegon had seen her for years. After that night it would seem everything would change.

Jaehaera would be gone more than she would be at Kings Landing.

His grandfather would be banished from castle grounds until he was well of age.

His father, Viserys would be cold to them all, for a long while.

And his mother would cry that night, upon hearing each decree of Jaehaera departure and Otto’s banishment— he could not tell which upset her more.

Aemond

Let’s not pretend that this man wouldn’t be a tad bit of a hypocrite. I mean… he would resent Lucerys but love Jaehaera. I think we all know who’s more “illegitimate” here. Anyway—

I strongly believe Aemond and Aegon both have abandonment issues, and not in a literal sense per say, but they definitely feel neglected. And while Aegon drifts away and acts out, Aemond definitely seeks approval. He is obsessed with it. Whether it be from his mother, his father, or Jaehaera.

*cough cough* explains the praise kink *cough*

Seriously though, he really is obsessed with being perfect.

And this gets worse every time Jaehaera leaves.

I just imagine him as a child at “peak perfectionist” in his studies and practices, especially because of his dragon fixation. He wants to make up for what he lacked at the time. So when he met Jaehaera for the first time his standards skyrocketed. Not just for himself, but for everyone else.

This is where the hypocrisy comes in.

I don’t think Aemond is homophobic or sexist, but I do think he believes in tradition. Which makes zero sense but let me explain.

He definitely believes in blood status, no shocking, but he also thinks that means each class has its own rules. Meaning anyone beneath his station has no right to sully their name without consequences. He has no respect for those who are found guilty of cheating, wedlock, or affairs. That’s their problem. It doesn’t affect his family.

They have no limits.

Unless of course you’re Rhaenyra’s kids. But hey, that’s where the flaw in his logic shines through.

Don’t worry, Jaehaera will call him out on it later.

Basically— if anyone ever thought of slut shaming Jaehaera, they die. In fact he’d be so disgusted by them it would be as if they had just admitted to the debauchery.

Jaehaera herself could have said the same thing, he wouldn’t blink an eye. Anyone else… they die. For they had no right to speak of her in such away, even if she had made it public information.

However, in all, he is a gentleman. It’s what he prizes himself on.

He’s a good academic, a talented knight, and a dutiful Prince.

And while he enjoys the affects of his behavior, he despises that half of it isn’t truly him. He revels in praise, but he cringes away at his reflection very evening before he sleeps. Not just because he can’t stand the sight of what he’s physically lost, but the will of what he had as a young boy.

The shitty part of it all is, he knows that he doesn’t need to be this way for her to be proud of him. But he takes that as a reason to continue, because he wants more. He wants to surprise her, impress her so much that she couldn’t leave him behind again.

She’d either have to stay and watch him grow even further, or take him with her.

Alright— now let’s address the obvious:

Aemond would act as if Jaehaera’s more “scandalous” behavior didn’t bother him, because he always says she is free to do as she wishes. And he does believe that, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it, or approve of her partners.

He’s a jealous bastard, and he knows it.

Aemond will take each interaction Jaehaera has with someone other than him personally. He’ll hold a grudge against the other person, and feel insecure that he’s not doing enough to keep her attention. And depending on who it is, Aemond will react differently.

If it’s anyone below his rank, it’s a easy fix. He’ll threaten them to never speak to her again, and it works like a charm because the few that had the balls to not do as he said were punished severely, either locked up for the rest of their days, executed, or sentenced to servitude.

You might ask, how does Jaehaera allow this?

Well— half the time she’s not in kings landing. When she leaves, Aemond makes his move, and the individual Jaehaera was interested in has suddenly disappeared.

However, Aemond is not a monster. Aemond would never harm someone simply because they have Jaehaera’s affection.

The only reason he ever does the number of things listed is because they’ve…

1. Bragged about having her favor or speaking crudely of her

2. Tried to use her affection for their own gain

3. Made her displeased

He also doesn’t discriminate so it doesn’t matter, lord or lady— just don’t make Jaehaera sad.

Now, time to discuss how Jaehaera’s behavior affected his own display of sexuality.

Aemond is demisexual. (It’s my headcanon, you can disagree, but it just makes sense to me.)

So while Aegon (personally I think he’s bi-sexual), is more overt with his sexual preferences, Aemond usually keeps those things to himself.

This is because he has trust issues, and he has always viewed sex as a transaction growing up.

He knew the system of social hierarchy, lords selling out their daughter for fortune or status, and the irony of the relationship between his own mother and father. Though he’d never say anything of the sort out loud. If he were honest, the thought made him sick, but it was all he’d ever known.

And he knew that pleasure existed, but for a cost as well.

Men would seek a carnal release, and women in the darker parts of the city would give them what they wanted for a fixed price.

Nothing had ever been free.

Until of course, Jaehaera spoke of pleasure.

“Byka zaldrīzes?” Little dragon

Aemond’s head snapped up quickly, having been stuck on the same word for the past hour or so while laying out in the library, studying while Jaehaera read whatever she hadn’t already. If he were truthful, he’d admit that his mind was clouded with what Jaehaera was wearing.

It was nothing out of the ordinary persay; she often wore clothing out of fashion or from another kingdom, gifts from her many travels. Yet, this time was different. This time she came back from Dorne.

She had come back from the kingdom before, always happier for it because she got to share her findings of her “favorite culture”. Always promising that she would be back there next voyage if the weather permits.

The weather always permits.

But this time was different. Aemond was in the midst of “becoming a man” as his mother and Otto would say. He prided himself with not acting rashly through all the changes, not wanting to be like his brother. Furthermore when he felt his whole body go flush at the sight of Jaehaera leaping off her dragon, barely covering her breasts with a beaded blouse and loose fabric around her exposed hips, straight into his father arms, he couldn’t help but few embarrassed. Even more so when she commented on it.

“Oh no! You poor thing— did you all stand out here for too long? My poor little dragon is burning to a crisp!”

Aemond wanted her dragon to eat him alive.

So here they were, as Jaehaera insisted to bring back his wellness, and he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. I could look up just once…

It was a battle he only won with her mercy of saying his name.

“Yes?” He responded in a high pitch than he meant to.

Smiling at him fondly, she tilted her head, leaning the bun atop her head against the leg of a chair— and he knew that her scalp was beginning to ache.

“Would you like me to help you take down your hair?” He asked, not even thinking of the rejection that may follow.

“Would you?” She asked, humming at the idea, “Braid it for me?”

His hands shook slightly at the thought of running his hands through the smooth strands. He had played with her hair before, knowing it was a privilege, for she found great pride in it. She hadn’t cut it in decades, claiming she liked the tradition of the Dothraki. The last he’d seen, her hair landed at the beginning of her calves. That was two years ago.

Apparently she knew his answer for she had begun to turn as his lips parted to speak. “Your brother sent me letters while I was away.”

Gulping down his nerves, he uttered a brief hum of recognition, before teasing the ties holding her hair. Aemond watched as it uncoiled and twirled until pooling at the ground. The sight filled him with joy, for her knee the braid would take time, but also made him weary…

He did not want to talk of Aegon, or anyone else for that matter. Not while he had her to himself, finally.

Shaking her head to even out her hair, Jaehaera continued, “Yes, and I was quite surprised.”

“That he can write?” Aemond quipped, allowing himself to slot both his hands underneath her hair before drawing it out towards him. He’d let the black wires drown his very being if she’d wish it.

Jaehaera her head back in a laugh, making Aemond freeze when her scalp brush against his fingers. “You’ve become quite quick my little dragon, but no, I was surprised he was the one to send me letters. Not you.”

He could hear the teasing smile creeping through her voice. “Too busy for me—?”

“No!”

Aemond voice made both of them stir, Jaehaera’s head quirking to the side in order to showcase her raised brow. All while Aemond’s hands dropped to the floor, softly brushing the hair fanned around his legs.

“I mean— I just haven’t had anything to write about.”

I don’t have anything I want you to know, he meant.

Nodding slightly, Jaehaera faces forward once again. “Alright.”

Sighing, disappointed at his choice of words, for how he came across, for the change of tone in her voice. It hated all of it.

“I only mean that nothing interesting happened,” he mumbled, moving closer to her and plopping her hair in his lap so he could gently part through it, “Everything is dull when you’re not home.”

It was a guilt trip, and Aemond wasn’t proud of his methods, but he’d do anything to convince her to stay.

Jaehaera hummed again, the way she had before but without a nod, feeling Aemond’s hands coiling her hair into three. She knew what he meant, and she knew it was true.

“Aegon told me something interesting,” she said, her voice turned gentle and comforting, “but now I think he shouldn’t have.”

Aemond’s brows creased together, trying to figure out what it could be. Aegon had done numerous of things since Jaehaera last left, he’d know, he had to hear every time their mother reprimanded him. But what he couldn’t figure out is why Jaehaera wouldn’t want to know. Not only did Aegon tell her everything, beyond what was appropriate, but Jaehaera was known to want to know everything.

“Why is that?” He asked meekly, starting the trend of the braid, making quick work from all the practice he had from helping his mother and sister.

Jaehaera didn’t say anything for a while. They both just sat there as Aemond braided her hair, listening to each others breathing, and sometimes Aemond believed that she could hear his heartbeat.

“He told me something that wasn’t his.”

“Oh? Did he gossip about mother?”

That would be a reasonable explanation, Aemond thought. Jaehaera’s demeanor always shifted when his mother was brought up, let alone if she entered the room.

“No.”

“Father?” That one was less likely, they barely spoke to their father.

“You,” she said instantly, “he told me about something about you, well I suppose the both of you.”

Aemond froze, and Jaehaera knew he couldn’t be finished already. Even with his agile fingers, the most skill maid couldn’t even do her hair that quickly.

“Aemond?”

He knew what it was. There was nothing else that the boys had done together, anything that Aegon would have felt Jaehaera should know.

All he could feel was shame.

“Whatever he said is a filthy lie.” He claimed, voice now dark, surprising Jaehaera enough to turn around. She was almost taken back by how his eyes mimicked such destain.

Staring for a moment, Jaehaera let her thumb swipe over the middle of his brow, trying to release its tension. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of—,”

“It is foul,” he spat, no longer able to keep eye contact with her.

“I’ve been gone too long,” she whispered with an air of guilt about her. “They’ve already taught you shame.”

She tilted her head one last time, hoping to catch his eye once again, but Aemond refused. He’d rather die than her see the tears welling up in his eyes. Jaehaera brushed his cheek before turning back around, inviting him to continue.

“Pleasure is only a sin when it comes from a place of cruelty Aemond.” This time her voice much more firm. “Remember that for me please.”

The boy bit the inside of his cheek hard, as to squeak out a sob, instead replacing it with a faint hum. It took the rest of the time to finish braiding her hair before either of them spoke again.

“It was not pleasurable,” he confessed, now allowing himself to peer up at her eyes. “Only wrong.”

“Did you not want to go to the brothel?” She’d ask, not falter of amusement or confusion.

Aemond shook his head. “Aegon won when we were sparring, and his prize was that he got to take me there. To “make me a man”, he said.”

There was anger festering in her eyes, and a part of it made Aemond terrified and happy all at once. He knew his brother was in for a rude awakening now. He just hoped he’d be there to witness it.

“Don’t ever bet on things like that again.” She demanded. “And promise me you’ll only ever do things that you wish, and if the other person wishes as well.”

“I promise.”

“And don’t go to anymore brothels.”

This time Aemond was curious. “Why?”

“They’re not made for souls such as yours.” She stated, as if it were to be a well renowned knowledge.

“What about yours?”

“Mine?”

“Your soul. Why is it fit for such a place?”

Jaehaera smile to herself, a new distance within her pupils as she looked beyond him. “It was born there and is a part of me.”

Aemond couldn’t help but be confused. He had only a brief understanding of her past, as much as anyone else, but he could not figure why she would be nostalgic. Of all the terrors and torture she was brought forth from, why does she harbor it so fondly?

“Is it because of Edeline.”

The woman he only had a glimpse of as boy.

Jaehaera’s eyes were sharp as they quickly returned to him, bringing a hand to his jaw. “Don’t ever speak of her,” she lightly warned, her touch soft yet there all the same.

Her voice grew acidic, like the words she uttered was a soured poison. “These walls have eyes, painted green, and I will not have you be a subject of one of there inquiries.”

Only a second passed before she arose to her feet, ready to leave.

“I’m sorry!” Aemond sputtered, terrible worry filling his stomach.

Jaehaera stopped, looking back at him with a glint of intrigue. “Whatever for?”

“For- for,” he stuttered over his tongue, even more confused by her behavior.

She smiled at him, “Thank you for braiding my hair my little dragon.”

And as she left he could hear her yell, “Tell your mother I said hello.”

Last thing—

While he acts like he’s better than his brother, Aemond has definitely fantasized about Jaehaera. But I don’t think he copes with it in the way Aegon does. In fact I think he finds the though disgusting and treacherous. Like he would be betraying he in a way.

So he keeps her in his mind, imagining her, and if ever he finds it to unbearable, he’d be left with his hand and the mere thought of her. For it was enough.

Heleana

The babe is precious.

Obviously, she knows what sex is. She has children.

But I don’t think she really knows, if you get what I mean. I think Heleana just thinks it’s a thing that happen, or has to happen, and at least she gets children that she adores out of it.

Sad, I know, but I think it’s true.

So, she knows that Jaehaera has sex as well, but as she gets older, she picks up signs that Jaehaera is getting something else out of it. Because she’s not checking any of the original boxes set when she was growing up.

For one, Jaehaera wasn’t married.

This fit of course for Jaehaera’s character and everyone else in the family being so on edge about her hand and all.

But still, it’s a big topic.

Secondly, Jaehaera never had any children, nor did she express a want for any of her own.

And finally, if she ever did in fact use sex for procreation, then why did she sleep with women?

Basically, Heleana knew something was up, she didn’t know what it was, and honestly she didn’t care.

And as much as I would love for someone to actually give this sweet girl true love and adoration in the bedroom… she doesn’t need it.

Heleana could live her whole life without having sex and be perfectly happy.

She found pleasure and delight in other things.

What I’m trying to get at is… she could care less what people say or think of Jaehaera. Heleana never doubts Jaehaera for a second, for she admires her honesty and free spirit.

Within her gift she also suspects that the gods hold favor for Jaehaera, proving even more that her trust is not misplaced.

Do I think Jaehaera gave Heleana the talk? Because Alicent sure as hell didn’t.

Yes. But in a way Heleana would understand.

Jaehaera would uses spiders and other animals as reference, casually making a joke about how she would even get away with ripping off her lovers head if they deserved it— Heleana would never think to do so, but she’d laugh anyway.

Jacaerys

Jaehaera didn’t have to give Jace the talk because Daemon ran his mouth enough for him to pick up on innuendos. But Rhaenyra envitably gave him the talk.

I imagine that Jace would get as mad when people called Jaehaera a whore as he did with his mother. In a sense, he can relate to Aegon and Aemond in that sense. However— Jace would rather not hear about that stuff.

Not because it bothers him that she is more… promiscuous, but because it’s like hearing his mother talk about having sex. It can just be uncomfortable, which is why he’d also keep those types of things more to himself.

Jace would definitely ask questions if he couldn’t find the answers from any other source. He’s not scared of Jaehaera or his mother teasing him or making a big deal over it. He just rather not have the two women who raised him know he’s having sex, and if they do— that’s all they should know. No details.

I also think Jace believes firmly in the sentiment that “what happens in the comfort of one’s own home is their business.”

Basically, he hates when the Lords and Ladies of court try to talk about his mother, of his conspicuous decent, and anything or anyone Jaehaera chooses to do.

He wishes everyone would mind their own damn business and shut up.

Speaking of shutting up— he hates crudeness.

A casual joke every now and then? Sure; it’s bound to happen when he’s serving in the royal army anyhow. But he dislikes excessive dirty humor and crass talking. He thinks it somewhat disrespectful and has a bad past with it.

This explains why he gets so mad at Aegon at the dinner, when he makes a comment about him “knowing where to put it”. Not to mention he disrespected his fiancé—

Oh, and this boy is head over heels for Baela. Holy shit this boy is whipped. I’m talking, he would have married her the day of their betrothal if he could have.

They have known each other since they were children, comforted one another in times of sorrow, and watched/helped each other grow. They share the same hobbies: dragon riding, sparring, and love for adventure. And even in their differences, Baela being more rash like her father, and Jace like his mother— they are able to overcome.

I can imagine the few times anyone did joke with him or tease him a bit about sex would have been after they got betrothed.

Anyone with at least one eye could see that Jace was putty in Baela’s hands, and because Baela takes after her father she’s more forthcoming with her advances— more bold.

She would have always been more physical— with anyone— than her sister. Constantly using her arms as she spoke, hugging, nudging, slapping someone’s shoulder as she laughs, etc.

So when they get engaged, she takes that as a sign that she can further her advances. It would start a little innocent, she’d hug Jace in every greeting and goodbye, then she’d kiss his cheek, take his hand… leading to eventually initiating their first kiss.

Daemon would be proud of his daughter, if we’re being honest; he’d totally say something like, “well…she is my child.”

Rhaenyra would be glowing with happiness because of how in love they are.

And Jaehaera would be all of the above but also would make comments like, “You mustn’t leave them alone now, or else you may have an urgent reason to speed along the wedding.”

Jace would be red as his houses color, while Baela would laugh and scream,

“There are other ways to prevent that!”

Everyone would have practically fallen to the floor with shock or laughter.

Lucerys

Too precious.

Jaehaera knows he’ll “do the deed” one day. Not only because it’s his duty to produce heirs, but he also adores Rhaena.

And by the way the boy peaks over at his betrothed when he believes no one is watching, she knows that even his shyness could not trump his longing to cherish her in any and every possible way.

However, I would describe their relationship more of a friendship lover type. Rhaena and Lucerys aren’t in love the way Jace and Baela are: passionate and adventurous. They’re soulmates in a way that they don’t have to profess their undying love for each other to understand.

They’re more affectionate in a softer sense. They listen to each other without having to be asked, step into each others habits, and link the others hand with their own to keep them safe from wandering.

They reason before they fight, and they prefer to read and speak of other things than politics, succession, and war.

Numerous topics varying from music and art to cultures and even agriculture.

Basically— they’re a perfect match.

I also think that Jaehaera would give Lucerys a book on anatomy— which she annotated because let’s be real, the men that wrote them didn’t bother to learn everything— instead of speaking to him about it, just to spare him an hour of flushed cheeks and anxiety. And while she’d make sure both him and his brother knew that pleasure was important and natural, she wouldn’t feel the need to go over all the bases with Lucerys. Jaehaera knew and trusted that he would be delicate and gentle with Rhaena. He never gave her a reason to believe any different.

That being said— Lucerys is similar to his brother in not wanting to hear of Jaehaera’s sexual conquests. Of course, growing up he had the firm knowledge that there was no shame in the act, but he couldn’t help that anytime the subject was brought up his ears turned red.

The family has an unsaid agreement to try to keep such talk to a minimum around him, for once his face stayed pink until the next day.

I do think that Lucerys is more intuitive or empathetic than his other family members though. He may not necessarily know the most, but he can tell by someone’s voice, expression, or body language how they feel about someone else (or just in general).

So no matter how many partners Jaehaera took, he could clearly feel and see the difference in how she spoke of them to… others.

He noticed Jaehaera and Daemon.

He noticed Jaehaera and his mother.

He even picked up on how his uncles felt about her, which made his stomach turn every now and then.

But above all he noticed Jaehaera shift in behavior when a woman named Edeline was mentioned.

Whittling away at a piece of wood he had been for hours, trying to create something that somewhat resembled a ship, Lucerys sighed deeply to himself. He was ready to throw the damn thing into the fire, never to look at its bumpy surface again. The heat of the fireplace was not helping his frustration, only making the young dragon grow hotter, but he knew he only had himself to blame. If he had simply chose to sit next to his mother, rather than at her feet, he would have been contented to the coolness of the leather bound chair.

However, as he felt her hands come down upon his head, petting it gently, he could find no solace in his complaints.

“What is the matter my darling,” Rhaenyra’s cooed, heart warm with the vision in front of her. Her second oldest, resting at her feet as if he were her youngest child, yet with a face more grown than she had remembered.

Twisting around the boy groaned lightly, hugging his mother’s leg as he propped his work onto her knee. “She made it look so easy,” he whispered, dismayed by his lack of progress.

Laughing, Rhaenyra picked up the wonky boat, brushing her fingers over the ridges. “Well… firstly, you know you shouldn’t place your standards on Jaehaera’s abilities for your own,” she mused, “None of us should.”

“Secondly,” she chuckled to herself once again, “Jaehaera’s first couple looked just like this.”

Lucerys’ eyes widened at the news, “Really?!”

“Yes,” she combed her fingers through his brown curls. “That’s why she practiced so often. She’s a perfectionist.”

Lucerys could see his mother’s mind wandering, her eyes looking at him yet seemingly finding a way to see something else. He noticed that happened quite a lot lately; this has been the longest Jaehaera had been away from them.

She had left kingslanding suddenly, angered by something Lord Hightower had done, or at least that’s what his mother deemed as an appropriate explanation for him to know. She wouldn’t exactly tell him or his brother what he had done to upset Jaehaera, and he supposed she never willingly would.

Jaehaera had only sent them a letter, promising to visit briefly in a couple months. Lucerys just hoped this month would be the final within her absence.

He wasn’t surprised to hear that there was rivalry between the two. Jaehaera openly held her disregard for the hand of the king, even whispering little snide remarks under her breath, allowing him and his brother to partake in the joke alongside her and Daemon.

What Lucerys couldn’t understand was why Jaehaera would leave… when Otto was the one to be banished in the end.

Which is what made him curious of this third party he had heard of by many gossiping whispers…

“Mother, who is Edeline?”

Rhaenyra practically flinched at the name. Her eyes finally resurfacing to acknowledge him. “Where did you hear that name?”

Lucerys straighten his posture, creating space as his mother leaned forward, hands ready to keep him in place. The size of her eyes frightened him. “I-I heard a few ladies say it and something about Jaehaera—,”

“Who my child?” She got closer, her voice more that of a queen now than his mother. “Who said such things?”

“I- I don’t know- I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if that’s why Jaehaera was sad.”

Rhaenyra stared at him, eyes empty with something Lucerys swore he’d never gaze upon again if he could help. “Alright,” she softened, hand caressing his cheek, “Such a sweet boy you are.”

She cooed at him like a new born babe, and he couldn’t help but melt at it. “Don’t worry so much my love, all will be well. Jaehaera just has business of her own to take care of.”

Smiling she hugged him to her chest, “When she’s done she’ll join us here. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Nodding, Lucerys blinked at the door, watching as Daemon walked through. And his body felt solid once more.

Rhaenyra broke her hold and kissed Lucerys head before standing, greeting her newly wedded husband. Lucerys watched at how tenderly Daemon peered down at her, letting his hands smooth over her arms, before settling on her stomach. He kissed her forehead, whispering something that Lucerys though inconceivable to hear.

That’s how he found out he was to be a brother again.

Rhaenyra was quick to work, giving Lucerys one last kiss, then walking out to attend to whatever was happening. She was practicing her royal affairs, and she never missed them.

“She’s someone Jaehaera loved very much.”

Snapping his gaze from the doorway to Daemon, Lucerys’ eyebrows perched. “What?”

“Edeline,” Daemon mused, “that’s who you asked about right?”

“Yes, but— Jaehaera never mentioned a lady that she—“

Daemon laugh loudly, “She was her hand maiden. But I suppose she was treated like a lady…”

“I don’t remember a—,”

“Boy,” Daemon stepped closer, towering over him with a cheeky smirk, “she hasn’t visited us in quite some time, and even if she was Edeline’s stomach cannot withstand the fly here. You have not been to kingslanding in a couple of moons. Of course you can’t remember her.”

“You barely met her,” he tilted his head at the thought, almost giggling to himself. “And now you never will.”

“Why- what do you mean?” Lucerys asked with beady eyes, mocking that of his mother’s Daemon thought.

Leaning down to his level, Daemon placed his hands gently on the boy’s shoulders, as if giving grave news. “Otto had her executed.”

Lucerys gasped, making Daemon laugh despite his effort in trying to keep composed. “And now Jaehaera has left kingslanding, no doubt to plot that cunt’s fate.”

“Which means,” Daemons tone lowered as he brushed off Lucerys clothes, “we must all be ready to aid her if and when she’s in need.”

His eyes bore into Lucerys’, “Do you understand boy?”

It took a fraction of a second for Lucerys to nod, and less time for Daemon to remove himself from the situation. Patting the boys head, he turned and marched out of the room with a happy tune about him.

It was then that Lucerys understood how dangerous Daemon was. That he fed on chaos, and that whole conversation wasn’t just to warn him of what to come, it was to threaten him as well. To not ruin his entertainment.

Lucerys could also feel his eyes begin to water. Not because he was scared of Daemon, or what was to come. No, the boy realized that Jaehaera was out there, not just plotting Otto’s demise, but weeping over a loved one.

His heart ached at the thought of hers broken.

Baela

Idolizes Jaehaera

That’s enough said really… but I’ll continue.

Baela admires Jaehaera’s strength and autonomy over everything. She adores the pride in the way Jaehaera stands, the confidence in her demeanor, and the assurance in her voice.

If someone was to ask who she wanted to be when she grew up, it’d be Jaehaera.

So basically, is super proud of how fluid Jaehaera is in her identity, sexuality or not. She loves how Jaehaera doesn’t allow herself to be constricted to standards of court, and it gives her hope that she does not have to follow that path either.

And don’t get me wrong, Baela doesn’t want to sleep around per say, as I said, she and Jace are smitten. But she doesn’t feel guilty when she does find herself attracted to other lords of court. Just like she doesn’t feel ashamed for her affinity for swordsmanship. She’s not afraid to be different, and she’s not afraid to be adventurous.

She would definitely openly talk about her attractions with everyone she trusts. She’s an open book about things like that, because she likes to share. She believes it makes her closer to those she loves. Of course she keeps specifics to herself if it’s her father or Rhaenyra— she knows that they wouldn’t exactly want to hear that she (when she’s older and closer to a marriage appropriate age) wants to ride Jace like he’s her personal dragon. Or that she dreams of kissing him against the edge of the walls of Driftmark.

But she’s a totally open book when around Jaehaera and Rhaena— even to Jace. She often thanks Jaehaera for her boldness when she whispers dirty secrets and ideas into Jace’s ear as they train.

And while the idea of having children doesn’t overwhelm her with joy, Baela cannot help but feel happy when thinking of Jace with a child of her own. Their heir, by ways of their choosing.

She feels most liberated like this, and she thanks Jaehaera every day for giving her the role model to look up to.

Rhaena

Rhaena knows everything. Let’s get this squared away. She knows about sex, not just anatomy but everything else that’s should come with it.

Why you may ask?

Cause she asked Jaehaera about all of it, and Jaehaera answered every single one until her heart was content.

She’s curious. More so than even her sister, the difference between the two being that she’s more kept to herself with things of that nature. She’s not outspoken like Baela, though she admires her sister for it, Rhaena likes having secrets of her own.

She find power in her elegant sensuality when she wishes to use it, taking after her mother in that regard.

Rarely does she discuss it as she gets older. Occasionally she may giggle and share with her sister or Jaehaera, but she’s much more reserved.

However, she would still discuss matters like these with Lucerys, claiming it’s important for their future. But secretly she also loves the blush that overcomes his voice.

She tells him what she likes to do on her own, she she likes him to do, guiding him gently— differing from Baela who all but orders Jace around (it’s okay he likes it).

She also confessed that she feel attracted to both lords and ladies, confiding in Jaehaera first before telling Lucerys.

She knows there’s nothing wrong with it, growing up watch Jaehaera and her mother, and any other women surrounding them. And since she’s watched her fathers acceptance of the behavior her whole life, she’s held a standard in her heart for the man she would be to marry. Luckily, she was overjoyed when it turned out to be Lucerys. She felt no fear around him.

She’s never forget the confusion on his cute face when she first told him.

“That’s fine. You know it’s fine right? You weren’t scared of telling me we’re you? I’d never—,”

She shut him up with a kiss and told him she loved him.

Lucerys smiled with pink cheeks for the rest of the day.

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lightandheatao3 · 7 months ago

Text

The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 8: The Story

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Chapter Summary: Spencer and Emily have a moment to talk.

Read chapter 8 on AO3 or under the cut. All comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated <3 I would love to know what you like about the story :)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

It was strange how rapidly time had lost all sense of meaning. Days ceased to exist. Hours, minutes, none of it meant anything.These words had been repeated devoid of context or reference so many times they had become completely divorced from the concepts they represented.

He had come to conceptualize of time in the form of bags of fruit.

All that existed in the world was the intervals between fruit deliveries. Those dire stretches of waiting to see if the next thing to come through that door would be doom, or just another bag with too much citrus and not enough apples.

He never thought he would miss fruit again. In fact, he strongly suspected that after leaving the bunker (if they ever did), none of them would ever eat another piece of fresh fruit as long as they lived.

Yet here he was, longing for it.

Since waking up in the stripped bare and scrubbed clean bunker, the clock had stopped.

There had been no more fruit.

Not a single delivery by which to set their metaphorical watches.

Time was transmogrifying once again, warping to fit the shape of this new reality.

It was stretching thin like a long piece of thread. The longer the thread pulled, the hungrier they all got. Once the thread pulled taught and snapped… Well, he didn’t want to think too much about it.

He knew all the theory behind starvation. He did not want to apply this knowledge in practice.

After a week (a week? 14 bags of fruit) in the bunker, they had given up the idea of sleeping in shifts. For the sake of their own sanity, they had decided it was necessary to maintain a routine. Some bastardized semblance of night and day under the endless fluorescent light.

How strange to yearn for the sense of safety they had back then, before the gas. He vowed to never again think ‘it couldn’t be worse,’ because it could be. It always could be.

They had once again taken to sleeping in shifts.

Each of them was desperate to be alerted the very moment food was delivered through that horrid, immovable door. If it ever was again.

They wanted someone awake at all times to look for the trickle or gas from the vent. If it happened again while they were all asleep, they wouldn't be able to cobble together their makeshift masks and protect themselves in some small way.

None of them wanted to have what happened to him, happen to them.

His throat didn't hurt much anymore, at least. He wished he could say the same for his stomach.

It was himself and Emily that were on watch this time. The others slept on the far side of the room, away from the door. He sat nearer the door while Emily paced back and forth. It took a while for the others to fall still and slip into a deeper sleep. They were, understandably, not particularly relaxed.

The cold concrete floor didn’t make for a comfortable bed. Thin, crappy mattresses: Another luxury of days gone by that he found himself dreaming of.

At last, Emily stilled her pacing and looked across at their companions. They had both kept as silent as they could for…. Hours? Minutes? The time it takes for a partially eaten apple to turn an unappetizing brown?

Whatever criteria she had been looking for to assure herself they were in a deep enough sleep, she apparently saw it.

She sat beside him, knees pulled up to her chest, and spoke softly. The room was big enough you could scarcely hear a whisper from the other side even when you were trying, so there wasn’t much danger of bothering them.

“I’m going out of my mind,” she said urgently. “It feels so stupid to say it, as it’s clearly the least of our problems, but I am so bored I could tear my hair out.”

“I understand,” he said. “There are only so many games of mental chess I can play before I start mentally flipping the board.”

She snorted, then hushed herself with a sheepish glance at the others. He smiled.

They were silent again for a moment. It was kind of nice to have some time with her without the others watching. She was the only one who never made him feel pitied.

Soon, though, in as little time as it would take to peel an orange, something in the silence shifted.

He glanced over and saw her her eyes fixed on him, looking as if she had something she wanted to say.

He was tempted to cut her off before she had a chance. He was so sick of everyone trying to make him talk.

He sighed.

He was too tired and too hungry and too bored and too lonely.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Her gaze softened. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He stared at her, deliberately blank. “About what?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she said, elbowing him in the ribs lightly.

He smirked. “No really, is there something specific on your mind? Something in particular about me that has you concerned? I wouldn't know.”

She punched him in the upper arm, this time not so lightly. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, do you know that?”

She shoved him and he shoved her back. He leaned his head against the wall with a soft laugh. For a moment they both just breathed.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about John Cooley?” asked Spencer. “He died a year and half ago and I didn’t even know.”

“Because I felt guilty and ashamed,” she admitted candidly. “And because you weren’t around for me to talk to. You haven’t been for a while now.”

He looked down at the floor. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said earnestly.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” she said. “Just… You know I’m not judging you, right? I’m worried about you, sure, but I don’t think any less of you. Even if you never get clean, I still love you.”

“I know,” he said softly. A beat. “Why? Why aren’t you judging? Everyone else is.”

She didn’t try to convince him otherwise. They both knew he was right. The others might love him, and a couple of them might try to convince him they weren't judging, but they couldn’t help it. It changed the way they saw him, and he understood why. It changed the way he saw himself.

After a while, Emily said, “I think you and I are alike in a lot of ways. I don’t have to tell you that I’ve made some self-destructive choices in my time. I think... I don’t know… I think I want people to know me? Really know me. But I only show them the parts I want them to see, never the full picture. Then, I feel hurt that they don’t really understand me even though I never gave them the chance. Sound familiar?”

He looked her up and down. He thought about all the times he resented them all for not understanding what he was struggling with. He thought about how much more he resented them when they tried to talk to him about it.

He nodded.

He asked: “What would you have done if I had come to you with this?”

“I would have tried to help you.”

“Help me stop using?”

She mused on that for a second. “Yes, but also helped you get whatever support you needed to address why you’re using in the first place,” she said evenly.

“And if I told you I didn’t want that?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. One of the others stirred for a moment but settled quickly. “I would have told you that you couldn’t work on cases anymore until you addressed the problem,” she admitted. “It’s not safe. You know that.”

He nodded again. “That's what I thought. That's also why I haven't come back to the BAU yet. I wasn't ready to choose. Being a profiler, or…” he left the other option unsaid.

“And now? Do you know what you want?”

“I want,” he said, “for all of us to get out of this bunker.”

“After that?”

He looked at her, wanting to reassure her. To give her some small ray of hope and promise her that he wanted to change. But she knew him too well and he respected her too much to pretend, so he said nothing.

The furrow of her brow informed him that she understood his silence all too well.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Spence, but… you know you’re not okay, right? I mean,” she gestured broadly at the room, “obviously none of us are okay. But aside from all this. Whether or not you choose to get help, you do recognize that this isn’t a good way to live?”

His stomach twisted. “I don’t know.” It's not as if his life had been better when he was clean. He didn’t want to think too much about it.

"Heroin, Spencer. You know the risks. I get it, it's more economical than medical grade pharmaceuticals. I bet a habit is hard to support while you're also paying for your mothers care, even on a salary like yours. It adds up." He wanted to yell at her to stop profiling him, to stop talking, but all he could do was look at his hands as he wound them together absently. She powered on, "It could be cut with anything. You can only be so careful."

"What do you want me to say?" he whispered.

“I don't know. I guess I just want to understand. Do you… do you want to die?”

He felt a jolt in his chest, as if he was falling. Her voice sounded small. Frightened. Desperately unlike the Emily Prentiss he knew.

“No,” he assured her. “I am not suicidal. I'm not John. You don't have to worry about that."

“Do you want to live?”

A beat.

Did he? Of course he did. Of course he wanted to live. “Yes,” he said, knowing immediately that it had taken him too long to say it.

She frowned. “One last one, and this might be the hard one,” she said. “Would you still want to live if you couldn’t get high anymore?”

A beat.

“I-” his breath hitched. “I don’t think this is really the time or the place for this conversation,” he said shortly, a lump forming in his throat.

A hand entangled itself in his and squeezed gently. He stared at the far wall, blinking back moisture that threatened to spill. After a few seconds, a head came to rest on his shoulder.

“Just promise me you won’t disappear on me when we get out of here. Let’s keep talking, even when neither of us have anything good to say,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. When we get out. Maybe he could believe it if he just tried hard enough. “I promise.”

They sat together in silence for... a minute? An hour? The time it takes to eat half a bag of fruit?

His head was lolling down, eyes heavy, when Emily’s hushed voice jolted him back into alertness.

“So,” she started with a conspiratorial whisper, “would you really fuck Luke? Because you did not have to think about that answer at all.”

“Shut up,” he snapped back, burying his face in his hands. “It was just a game.”

She smiled wryly. “Do you like like him?” she goaded.

He laughed just a little too loud. Emily hushed him and he rushed to stifle it. They looked over to their sleeping friends. A couple of them stirred briefly but did not wake.

Spencer replied in a careful whisper, “No. You’re being childish.”

She narrowed her eyes, assessing him coolly. “But you would sleep with him, wouldn’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

"Is it too late to go back to talking about my drug use?"

"Yep! We're talking about this now. Answer the question."

He didn’t know how to respond, so he just shrugged. Apparently, it was all the answer she needed. Her eyes widened.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed victoriously, followed instantly by slapping her hand over her mouth.

A series of groans emanated from across the room. Hotch was the fastest to his feet, followed by Derek, both looking at Emily questioningly, poised as if ready to fight.

“What do you know? What’s happening?” asked Derek, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” said Emily sheepishly while Spencer laughed at her. “I didn’t mean for that to be so loud. Everything is fine please go back to sleep,” she insisted.

“Too late for that,” said JJ, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

“Did something happen?” asked Rossi. “Any new deliveries?”

“No,” said Emily to a room full of discouraged, gaunt faces. “Just Spencer and I talking shit."

“Oh yeah?” said Derek with a slanted smirk, glancing between Emily and Spencer. “What were you talking about that’s got you so worked up?”

Emily met Spencer’s eyes for a fraction of a second. He hoped it was enough for her to understand. This was not the setting in which he wanted to have that conversation.

“We were talking about the most trouble we ever got in at school,” she said without missing a beat. “I always knew Spencer was more of a troublemaker than he lets on.”

“Why am I not surprised?” said Derek with a laugh.

“Well, let’s hear it then,” prompted Rossi, still bleary eyed.

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer said, glad that Emily had provided a deflection he could work with so easily. “I was suspended one time in an otherwise exceptional academic career.”

“What could you have possibly done that was bad enough to make them suspend you? The positive media attention you must have been bringing the school would have been invaluable. I would have thought you could get away with anything," said JJ, her old public relations training never too far below the surface.

It was true. Prodigious geniuses could bring a lot of additional funding and opportunities for schools. That didn’t necessarily mean his teachers liked him or felt particularly protective of him.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he prefaced. “It was right before I graduated, after I’d received early admission from Cal Tech. There were some older kids at school who had given me a hard time for the past few years,” to put it mildly, “and since I was going to be leaving, I decided I may as well…” he waved his hand in the air, trying to conjure the right words.

“Fuck up their shit?” Derek supplied.

Spencer smiled. “Pretty much. Most of them were preparing for their final exams and I found out that they had paid to access answer keys for some of the tests. My plan was to find out who they were getting the answer keys from and swap out the documents with incorrect keys,” he explained.

“That is a very you approach to vengeance,” said Rossi.

“Unfortunately, it didn’t quite go to plan. I found out their source was from the high school that a friend of mine attended. When I asked my friend for help, he, uh, had some other ideas about how I should be getting back at them. He’d had some similar problems with kids at his own school, but he wasn’t graduating quite as early as me, so I think he was trying to get some vicarious catharsis, maybe.”

Hotch cocked his head. “Ethan,” he said, and Spencer’s stomach twisted. “I remember you talking about him.”

The others nodded in recognition. Emily tilted her head at him curiously. He was sure they all remembered him talking about Ethan, as it was followed very quickly by him absconding from his duties to go visit his old friend during the Ripper case in New Orleans.

“Yeah. Ethan wasn’t as, how should I say this? Reserved, as I was. He thought I should take more extreme measures and I might have let him talk me into it,” he said sheepishly.

“What did you do?” asked Emily, leaning in, apparently forgetting that she was pretending that she’d already heard this story right before waking the others.

Nobody seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, but just didn’t care.

“We- well, the plan was we were going to break into school at night and put, um…” he didn’t want to say it. “This is so embarrassing. We were going to put marijuana in their lockers and then tip off the principal to do a search.”

JJ gasped. “That is devious,” she said with mock indignation.

"Man, with everything you've told me about those assholes, they probably deserved a lot worse than that," said Derek, shaking his head.

“Weren’t you 12 when you graduated high school? How did you even know where to get pot?” asked Emily.

“I didn’t,” he clarified. “I mean, it's Vegas, so it wouldn't have been difficult, but Ethan was the one driving the whole thing. All he had to do was steal it from his father.”

“So how is it that two geniuses with a perfect plan and a thirst for vengeance manage to screw up badly enough to get suspended?” asked Derek, eyes brighter than Spencer had seen them since they had woken up after the gas.

“It would have gone off without a hitch. I was picking the padlocks; Ethan was keeping lookout. I was terrified the entire time, but honestly? It was exciting to feel like I was finally able to fight back. Unfortunately, Ethan hadn’t accounted for just how much of a bastard his father was.”

The others seemed surprised at Spencer describing someone in that way, let alone his friend's father. They wouldn’t be surprised if they had met the man. Spencer didn’t think of himself as a judgemental person, but bastard was a mild description of Ethan’s father.

Hotch grimaced. “I suspect I know where this is going.”

Of course he did. Ethan would like Hotch, he thought. The two of them had a lot in common despite their contrasting personalities.

“His father reported us to the police. I still don't know what he told them, but they caught us trespassing on school grounds after hours. We got lucky and heard them coming just in time to run for the bathroom and flush the remaining evidence. They didn’t think to do a sweep of the lockers and the boys who we were trying to set up certainly weren't going to report drugs in their lockers."

The memories came to him as they always did; crisp and clean as if it had all happened yesterday. Ethan was wearing a thick blue jumper even though it was warm out. The taller police officer was named Michael Diaz and he laughed when Spencer begged him not to tell his mom, then called her anyway.

"Oh god,” he breathed. He was surprised by the pang of shame that shot through his heart. “I was so afraid of what my mom was going to think. They were going to tell her that we were there to get high and I was scared she wouldn't believe me when I told her the truth,” he said tightly, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t want her to think that I could be stupid enough to do something like that.”

The irony wasn’t lost on any of them. Suddenly, the story didn’t seem so funny.

It had seemed so obvious to him at that age. Right and wrong were as easy as asking himself, would this disappoint my mom?

He could tell them how the story ended.

Ethan willingly took the blame for everything before Spencer could say a word and got hit with a misdemeanor charge for trespassing. Thankfully, that was all they could prove. He was a juvenile first-time offender with a glowing academic record, so the case was dismissed, but that didn’t stop his father from beating the shit out of him for it.

Spencer’s mom didn’t pick up the phone when the police tried to call her, so officer Diaz drove him home. When the school sent a letter informing her that he was suspended, he tore it up and told her he was feeling too sick to go in. She never questioned it. She just seemed happy to have him home.

He could tell them all of that.

But he didn’t need to.

It was hard to look back at that 12 year old boy and imagine how he could become the kind of man who his mother would be ashamed of if she only knew the truth.

“Did you ever talk to your mom about what happened in Georgia? About everything that came after?” asked JJ gently.

“Of course not,” he answered quickly. “What good would that do?”

“It might make you feel better,” she offered. “I think she would understand.”

“She already worries about me so much. She’s not well. It wouldn’t help anything to worry her more.” She would probably forget it right after he told her, anyway. He sighed. “I hope someone’s checking in on her.”

“I’m sure Penelope is,” said Emily, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure the others are looking out for all of our families,” she said to the room. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we’re going to be okay. You're going to see them again. I promise you; we’re going to make it out of this.”

Hotch nodded at her, a gesture of support. “Emily is right. I know we’re all exhausted and scared and hungry, but we know that there are people on the outside who are looking for us. We have to trust them to do their jobs.”

"It's not gonna matter much if we starve in here," said Derek ruefully.

“The thing about hunger,” said Rossi, “is that sooner than later it’s going to fuck with your head in ways you don’t expect. But it won’t last forever. It doesn’t fit the profile for her to starve us and if we're right about either her or her accomplice having medical training, then they won't let it go too far. As hard as it sounds, we have to try to keep morale up, and the best way to deal with hunger is distraction. So let’s cut it with the melancholy and find a way to keep ourselves entertained. Reid,” he said. Spencer stared at him questioningly. “Have you ever considered narrating an audiobook?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No?”

Audiobooks were not his preferred medium. He found them unbearably slow.

“Too bad. Because I think a good book is just what the situation calls for and as the only one of us with an eidetic memory, you’ve drawn the short straw.”

Spencer couldn’t help but crack a small smile, doing his best impression of a man who wasn't hollow inside. “As long as I get to choose the book.”

“Naturally.”

The thread of time stretched longer, pulled taught, crept ever closer to breaking. He hungered. It gnashed and gnawed, making his stomach turn and his forearm itch and he couldn't say for sure which hunger he would satisfy first if he had the choice.

But he pushed it down. In his mind, he ran his finger along a row of books in a vast library, and thought about what story would best bring them all a little comfort.

#spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid hurt/comfort #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds evolution #criminal minds #bau team as family #bau team #spencer reid angst #emily prentiss #derek morgan #criminal minds fandom #aaron hotchner #dr spencer reid #spencer reid

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mostlydeadallday · 8 months ago

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Lost Kin | Chapter XXXIX | What Must Be Done

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: gore, body horror, panic attacks, dissociation, vomiting, flashbacks, referenced abuse, referenced self-harm, child death AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXIX | What Must Be Done First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Hornet and Quirrel address the remaining infection.

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Hornet held her sibling’s hand until they stopped trembling and the awful rasping in their throat died away. Until they could see her again, the void in their eyes no longer twisting frantically, loosening enough to follow as she moved.

Panicking them just before she began work on their wounds was the last thing she had wanted. But it had happened, regardless—the strain of being asked to use the new signs piling atop the stress of being moved, tied down, and anticipating what she was about to do. Quirrel’s proximity had likely not helped them admit something they likely would have struggled with even had she been alone with them.

She finished checking the anchors fastened to the floor along her sibling’s side, wider points of silk glowing bright where they met the stone at regular intervals like the cables of a bridge.

They would hold, she hoped. It was a precaution she wished she did not have to take, but despite Hollow stating that they would communicate with her, she refused to trust in that alone.

Her pulse was quick, quick, feathering in her throat, and she kept her gaze on her hands so that she would not have to look at them laid out flat on the floor, limbs stretched out and tied down, their every breath pulling the silk-lines taut.

She had to do this, she had to, she had to—

“Hornet?”

Without raising her gaze from where her hands had frozen beside Hollow’s hip, she answered. “Get the tools.”

He did as she asked, with a murmured “One moment,” to Hollow as he left their side. She heard him rearranging things on the tray he had found and cleaned, the soft clink of metal on metal doing nothing for her fraying nerves.

She had made this harder on herself.

She hadn’t meant to. She had intended, this morning, to bind herself firmly into that cold, distant mood she could put on like a second shell, piece by piece, like one of the Five readying for battle.

That had not happened. She’d crawled out of that nightmare already wounded, with her shell already pierced, and seeing Hollow safe, alive, craning their head to peer at her as she stepped into the room, had finished her. She hadn’t been able to stop herself going to them, touching them, holding them, to be sure that they were real. A hideous relief had taken hold of her—relief that they were unharmed, hideous because that would soon no longer be true.

She could not deny that it had felt like, if they could, they would have reached out to hold her, too.

Quirrel reappeared, setting down the tray and pushing back the mattresses so that they would have more room. His hands were wrapped in a thin layer of her silk, a precaution he’d requested after she mentioned that, being fully mortal, he would not share her resistance to the caustic effects of void and infection.

Hornet laid her hand on Hollow’s again. Her claws were dwarfed by theirs, and her heart lurched when they shifted their thumb to touch her fingertips, brushing her chitin with the cool roughness of the pads set into their shell.

She looked up into their face, into the eyes of someone she had denied the existence of for so long, and saw acceptance. The acceptance she could not give herself: that there were things that must be done, painful and inexplicable though those things might be, and that they would obey her in spite of it.

No, she wanted to hiss, and stop it, stop it, I don’t want this, I don’t deserve it.

But she would not—not if it brought them peace, not if it helped them endure what she needed to do.

Choked with her own refusal, she couldn’t say any of the thousand things that crowded her throat, things she’d already tried, in one way or another, to convince them of. I’m sorry had already been said, and she did not know how many more ways she could find to say it. Hold on passed between them, silently, in the grip of her hand over theirs. And hidden somewhere deep, in a recess of her heart she had almost forgotten, frail and small and afraid but unsilenced, was—

I love you.

Was it folly, to admit to loving someone she had only just met? That she had no tie to, other than the cursed blood that bound them as kin? Someone so damaged, so broken, that she did not even know who they were? Someone she did not know if she could save?

It did no good to deny it. If that was folly, then she was the kingdom’s greatest fool.

She stood.

Her legs were unsteady still. They had been since she stumbled out of the kitchen, half-convinced that she would find Hollow dead and gutted on the floor in front of her. There was a cruelty to the way they lay there now, as if in deliberate echo of her nightmare, but she held to the sound of their breathing, the faint motion beneath their mask, to tether herself to reality.

She’d placed them on their back, with cushions to prop up their torso and neck, keeping their horns at a low angle off the floor. The blankets would insulate from the chill of the flagstones, although she did not know if that needed to be done—would they prefer to feel the cold, if the infection was still keeping their body from returning to its normal temperature? At least it would protect their shell from scratches if they struggled.

This would not be comfortable, not for any of them, but she’d done what she could.

As an afterthought, she spun one last web between their horns, thinner than the rest, anchoring their head to the floor—though with enough slack that they could move if need be. This one, she did not trust to hold, but it might give her enough time to move if they attempted to bite.

With one hand still on their horn, she spoke again. They likely already knew this, but she could not help drawing the boundaries once more.

“This may take some time. Quirrel is here only to assist me; he will not touch your wounds himself. Unless you are moving to sign to me, please—lie very still. I know it will hurt, and I… I must ask you to endure it.” She tightened her grip on their mask, pressing her fingers round its curves. “Do you understand?”

Their claw lifted, tapped out two faint beats on the stone. Yes.

No more reason to delay. Nothing left to do but what she had been dreading.

She moved to kneel at their left side, on a folded towel that Quirrel had placed within reach of the basin of water, the stack of rags, the tray of shining tools. Her head was swimming. The words stuck in her throat felt almost literal; something was swelling there nearly large enough to stop her breath, and when she pulled out the pouch of herbs from beneath her cloak, her hands were shaking.

Quirrel moved to sit beside her. Somehow without looking at him she knew the expression he’d be making—all hunched shoulders and lowered antennae, interest and concern that she couldn’t take right now. She pinched a dose of herbs between her claws and tipped her head back, shredding the leaves with her fangs and teeth until the bitter-sharp taste filled her mouth.

Better. Slightly. It gave her another thing to focus on, at least. She passed the pouch back to Quirrel. “I may need you to give me more of that.”

He answered with a brief word that she didn’t hear. Her mask seemed full of a deadly hum, like the warning buzz of the Hive, making her voice too close and his too far away.

She beckoned the lantern over, and when he brought it to Hollow’s side and shone the harsh light on their shoulder, she bent down to inspect the work she had done so far.

It was, plainly speaking, an ugly mess. But not a mess she could solely blame herself for. A few sharp edges of shell plate on their back and chest still protruded out into nothing, left behind as muscle and bone dissolved away beneath them. The sunken pit between was a twisted knot of scarring—some of it swollen, perhaps inflamed, though it was difficult to tell with their flesh so dark and their blood the same color as their skin.

It was difficult to tell anything. Especially with the empty blister sacs hanging in clusters on their withered shoulder, deforming the outline of their body into something barely recognizable.

She lifted one to peel it away, working her fingers under the ragged edge and loosening it, trying to pull as little as she could on the still-living flesh beneath. Flesh that was soft and pliable, springing back when she pressed against it, deeply exposed and unprotected in a way she dearly hoped her own body never would be.

The empty pustule detached with only a little trouble, leaving her holding something that hung slack from her fingers like a limp, puckered seed-pod—something she did not look at too long before dropping it in the rusty bin procured for that purpose.

She breathed deeply for a moment, the tension still not abating, though her hands had steadied. Hollow hadn’t moved, shifting not an inch in their bonds, but then, she had not really hurt them. Not yet.

The second empty sac came away cleanly, and the third. With every one disposed of, she moved closer to the active infection, closer to the light-filled blisters crowding out through their skin.

Caught in the dread of it, fresh nausea roiling in her gut, she pulled too hard. The fourth tore free.

She felt it rip, felt the weak resistance of the still-healing scar give out. Her hands went cold. Void oozed up, welling from the ragged wound, tracking down through the snarled maze of their scars and onto the sheet. It spread as it fell, like blots of ink.

She forgot to breathe.

A warm, dripping rag was pressed into her hands. Her claws squeezed it automatically, wringing clean water down over her knees. Her own inhale sounded loud inside her mask.

Right. Right. Mustn’t fall apart yet. She had only just begun.

She took Quirrel’s unspoken suggestion, clamping the rag to the wound until it stopped seeping—surprisingly quickly. Their shoulder had bled very little the first time. The infection must have cut off the supply of void to the area, causing what remained to wither and shrink, acid and heat searing them down to the marrow.

“Sorry, sorry,” she heard herself whisper. Hollow did not respond. Didn’t even twitch as she patted the stump clean again, wincing every time she passed over a snarl of scar tissue or a hidden knob of bone.

Their strength was holding. That was good—it was, no matter that the lack of reaction made her want to ask if they were all right, if they could hear her at all.

She managed not to tear open any more wounds as she removed the rest, leaving their shoulder a slightly less horrific mess than it had been. Less misshapen, less grotesque, less like the dead husks she saw lying in the streets, corpses worn down and drained of life twice over.

And—more their own. All that remained was theirs, both what was still intact and the results of their body’s attempts to retake what belonged to it. With a muted sense of relief, she dropped the last deflated sac into the bucket, resisting the urge to wash her hands—the infection had not even touched her yet, and already her shell was crawling.

Quirrel cleared his throat as he took the void-stained rag from her. “I think you should remove the rest as we go. It may cause more bleeding than we want, but… the injuries will close with soul-healing, correct?” At her nod, he went on. “Then that would be best. It will save us having to return and finish later—and what’s left may be harder to reach once the infection recedes.”

“All right,” she breathed, and took a scalpel from the tray—fine, thin, with a sharp tip, weighing heavy in her fingers.

Exhaling shakily, she turned and picked up a hollow shell bowl, another thing Quirrel had discovered while raiding the cabinets, and set its edge beneath the rim of a half-filled blister. Then she pressed the tip of the scalpel in, just above the puckered flesh beneath.

The swollen surface dimpled slightly, then gave, spilling open all at once like the gut of a butchered animal, and a sludgy stream of rot gushed into her bowl.

Hornet tried not to breathe. The sweet, flowery reek of it surrounded her, pressing against her mask, into her lungs.

Hold the bowl steady. Hold the knife steady.

Widen the cut, deepen the gash. Watch the god-light seethe and steam.

Don’t think. Don’t think.

Quirrel was holding out a clean cloth when she turned to ask for one, taking the full bowl from her and emptying the contents into the waste. She kept pressure on the cut until he gave the bowl back. Then she set her hand on the sagging blister, resisting the urge to jerk back from the heat against her palm, and pushed.

It dislodged a fresh gush of yellow and two half-formed clots, one after the other, threatening to slosh over the side of the bowl. Hornet bit down on nothing, jaws aching, and pushed again, watching the stream of ichor wane. Until the blister was flattened under her hand, until the thin fluid that she pressed from the cut ran only black.

Quirrel had the scalpel in hand when she turned to reach for it.

Rather than pull at something that was not ready to come free, she felt along its base before she cut. Guessing at where the damage began, at the point where it became no longer their own. At where the light had forced its way out, swelling and stretching within their own skin until the damage was too great to heal and their body rejected it.

She guessed wrong.

Void welled freely beneath her knife. Dark, wet, shining; she shuddered, the inside of her mask still ringing with the screams of pain from her nightmares. She stripped the excised flesh away, fumbling for another rag to press to the wound, and held both hands against it, arms nearly weak enough to give way.

Hollow’s side shifted beneath the pressure, and she almost let go, resolve faltering, until she heard a long, deliberate scrape of air through their throat. They inhaled, deeply, and exhaled again, each measure precise, each respiration held and released beat for beat.

A pang of nausea twisted her gut. She recognized this. This was exactly what she remembered, exactly what they had done the first time under her knife, down to the very rhythm of each breath.

She did not look over toward Quirrel’s soft exclamation, did not look at her sibling’s face as they did their best to endure this. She looked at her hands again, black claws twisted into blackening cloth. At the movement, up and down, as her sibling took another long, intentional breath.

The feeling swirling in her chest was no longer dread, or anger, or anything in between—anything but hate. She hated that they had learned to do this, and she hated imagining why. She hated what the world had done to them—what the goddess and her father and she herself had taught them to expect.

That their life would never be their own. That they would always be suffering for someone else’s cause. That they would never have a choice. Always bound, by one chain or another, and always, always, hurting.

Dwelling on this would not help. It would not help. She had to go on.

She shook herself, roughly, ignoring Quirrel’s questioning look, and loosened her grip, peeling back the corner of the cloth to check the bleeding. The gash was not deep, but this lower point on their shoulder—past the worst of the scarring—was better supplied with void than the rest.

She would have given them soul to heal, but she did not wish to waste their strength unless it was necessary. Asking them to heal could break their concentration, sending them into a spiral that would be harder than ever to interrupt. Nor could she forget that giving them soul was tantamount to handing them a weapon. She had to take more care with Quirrel nearby; any one of the dozens of spells Hollow knew could easily kill him, if they panicked badly enough to try.

They had not done so yet. And it seemed unfair to assume the worst, when they were trying so hard, trying to do everything she asked of them. Even when they broke that pattern, it was only ever to protect, not to harm.

She did trust them, as much as she could. She did—but trust was as useless as geo, and she would give them all she had, but she did not have much.

Instead, she kept applying pressure to the wound, checking it occasionally as she waited for the bleeding to slow, and switched hands when the chill of the soaked bandage made her joints begin to ache. Quirrel offered her a second to place as a buffer over the first, though the flow had nearly clotted by then. She gave it an extra minute or so after lifting her hands away, watching to be sure the fragile scab would hold, before she moved on.

With the next, she took greater care. Watching, forcing herself closer, forcing her mind to focus on each detail. With every wary cut she made, with every halting press against the bloated thing, she imagined her own skin parting, her own blood welling, acid sizzling against her own shell, leaving pocks and craters even after she wiped it away.

The tools felt hot in her hands. Hollow’s breathing had changed the moment the knife touched them again—inhales becoming quick, shallow, as if they were barely holding their mask above water and any reckless motion would send them under.

She wished that they would stop. Every tiny sip of air, every crackle in their throat, was a reminder that they were hurting, that she was hurting them, and the measured, stifled movement making it easier for her to work only added to the pain.

She almost wanted to snarl at them, to snap them out of it—

Careful. Careful. The anger simmering in her was destructive, she knew; she could not let it boil over.

A long, careful slice, right at the seam where the blister emerged from their body. A press of her palm over a rag over the wound, to hold back the void that bubbled up. A tense silence while the wound clotted. This time she allowed Hollow three full breaths and half of a fourth, waiting until they had filled their lungs before she bent down to her work again.

The remaining sacs on their shoulder, the ones that had refilled after her first attempt, were easier. Less pressure—the infection had receded from this area—and once drained, they came away without much bleeding.

She handed the bowl back to Quirrel to be emptied, laying another bandage down to sop up a weak trickle of yellow from the last flattened blister.

He touched her. Just two fingers on her shoulder, brief, but she jumped, and before she’d fully turned to hiss at him he was already apologizing. “Sorry, I—sorry. Slipped my mind.” He laughed shakily, not meeting her eye. “I just—I need a moment to empty this.”

The waste bucket. It was nearly full already, sloshing unpleasantly as he lifted it, and she averted her eyes, unable to avoid the waft of metallic, putrid sweetness that followed as he moved. Like blood, like nectar, and at the same time like neither. Like the rot hidden at the core of a thing. Like corpses piled to burn, piling higher, higher, higher—

She swallowed a lump that burned all the way down her throat. Her whole body pulsed with remembered dread, with the constant live-wire terror running just under her shell. It had been an age since the height of the infection, since there were bodies still to burn, or anyone living left to burn them.

But that smell—it was inescapable. Like the dread. Like the slow-motion certainty that there was nothing she could do, that her entire world was dissolving, day by day, before her eyes.

Your mind is your own.

Her mind was, still, her own. By some miracle. By some protection from the divine in her heritage, some useless trick to ensure she remained sane to witness the chaos. Something her father had evidently been unable to extend to his so-called Pure Vessel, whose downfall he’d acknowledged only by disappearing, along with his entire court and the palace she had once wished she could tear down stone by stone.

Leaving her with a crumbling kingdom. Leaving Hollow to burn, and burn, and burn—

Breathe. She had to breathe, had to stay here, stay now. For them.

The air, when she took a tentative gulp of it, did not reek. It was cool and clean and still. Those terrible days were long behind her. She was—no longer as alone as she once was. Her sibling was here, freed from their bonds, far from unharmed but also far more alive than she ever expected. And Quirrel—

Quirrel was kneeling beside her again, murmuring something that sounded concerned. All her fingers were buzzing; when she looked back down at them, her claws were sunk in the cloth she’d been using, clenching hard enough to tear.

She opened her fists. Flexed them, coaxing the feeling back.

Over her shoulder, quiet and level, she said, “I think I need more of those herbs now.”

He obliged, passing her the pouch, and waited until she had bowed her head to swallow—painfully—before he said, “You’re doing very well.”

She scoffed.

“Truly,” he hastened to add, before she could argue. “And you too, my friend.”

Hollow did not reply—could not, with the options she’d given them—but, as she watched, their head tilted. Questioning. Barely enough to be noticeable, except that she had been waiting, breath held, for any sign from them. And this…

This was the first reaction they had truly shown since she began.

She reached to touch them, one shaking hand smoothing over the shell at the base of their shoulder, where no nail or burn wounds marred it. “You are,” she whispered, and meant it. “I’m sorry, I’m—it must hurt, but—”

She wished she could tell them it was almost over.

The void was swirling softly when she met their eye, in a pattern she did not know how to interpret. Perhaps if she had seen the signs, had listened to her buried instincts sooner, she would know what it meant. The best she could do now was offer them what she herself would want, if she were in their place.

“All of the cysts on your shoulder are removed,” she explained. “The bleeding has stopped. The next step is to drain the infection in your chest.”

That would be the truly delicate work. The first few single blisters were clearly visible, following the lower curve of their pectoral plate. But farther on, they were grouped in clusters, crowding together, protruding like a clutch of eggs from the fractured cavity carved out by their own nail.

Self-inflicted, she heard Quirrel’s words echoing, and shook the memory away before it could paralyze her.

Perhaps she was accomplishing what they could not. Perhaps, in some way, they had been trying to rid their body of this plague, by the only method allowed to them.

Gods. How deep would she need to go to remove them all?

She could do this. She could.

She had to.

Hornet slid her hand from their shell and clenched her jaw, holding onto the bitter taste in her mouth. “Syringe, please.”

Quirrel placed it in her hand, a heavy, shining thing with a thick barrel and a long, slender needle. He had tested it while she was readying her other supplies, ensuring that it did not leak. Rather than cutting into the difficult-to-reach cysts and risking the infection draining back into their body cavity, he’d suggested she use this to draw the fluid out, until the entire growth could be removed safely.

In theory, this had sounded simple.

In practice, the first time she pierced the skin of one of the bright, angry blisters in their chest, it sprayed molten light down her front, flinging an arc of infection across her mask and arm in a string of golden droplets that immediately began to burn.

She couldn’t help the sound that she made: a visceral, stuttering hiss. Hollow had not flinched at the sting of the needle but they did flinch now—a spasm jerked their chest tight as they attempted to lift their head, quickly halted by the silk round their horns.

Before they could panic and struggle, Hornet wrestled her voice and her own momentary panic under control, though the edge of a growl still crept through. “It’s fine, everything is—fine. Please lie still.”

It was not fine. Her heart was thumping hard, the heat of the infection seeping through the collar of her replacement cloak and dripping down her mask, pouring down Hollow’s side from where their motion had torn the opening wider. Dropping the syringe with a clatter, she snatched up a rag and pressed it close to soak up the fluid before it could reach their shoulder and scorch the exposed skin even further.

There was more, too much more. “Bowl,” she snapped, and then it was in her hand. She wedged it under a lip of warped shell, damming off the other routes for the infection to flow with her handful of cloth.

Hollow’s breathing pattern had broken for an instant, but they were back to it now, as rigid as if they’d never left it, though each breath warped and wavered like heat waves in the air. She couldn’t take the time to think about it, between emptying the bowl and sopping up the stray runnels as the flow dwindled.

This blister was in danger of collapsing into the space it had carved out between their chest-plates, and she very much did not want to have to dig it back out—but the only things in her hands were not helpful for this. She dropped the rag, then held out her hand to Quirrel. “Forceps.”

A pause. “Which kind?”

She whipped around and saw his hand hovering over the three options on the tray. “The kind that grab things,” she hissed, snatching up the closest one.

Snagging the blister with the tool, she fumbled for the scalpel until Quirrel pushed it wordlessly into her hand. She stretched out the soft, swollen thing as much as she could, reached into the gap and, holding her breath, sliced it free.

Packing a damp, folded rag into the space worked to slow the bleeding, but she could see that she’d need to ask them to heal soon. The farther she went, the deeper she’d have to reach to cut the drained cysts out, and soon there would be no easy way to apply pressure. And the sooner they did heal, the less she would have to worry about any of the previous injuries breaking open if they struggled.

They’d not given any indication that they would. In fact, they’d given very little indication of anything. Even with her observing more closely, almost nothing betrayed their pain, the occasional quick tremor in their throat muffled and subtle, easily missed. But—if she took time to notice—she could feel the tension in their body, each plate tightened and tucked close, corded muscle showing in their ruined shoulder and at the front of their neck, where their scales faded away into skin.

The lump pressed on the back of her throat again, the urge to gag taking her by surprise. The sickening stench of the infection was not helping, wafting up in hot, sweet waves and lingering on her mask from the cooling splatter.

She couldn’t release pressure on the wound yet, so she turned her face aside, tucking her chin over her shoulder and breathing air that was a touch cleaner. Enough—it was enough.

Quirrel made an offended noise when he saw her face. Before she could protest, he had dipped a clean cloth in the basin and was wiping the filth from her mask. His touch was brisk but gentle, the rag smelled of nothing but soap, and his sharp mandible-click of distaste brought her back to when her nursemaids would clean hemolymph from her jaws, while she’d still been growing into them and had been far messier about her meals.

He folded the rag over itself to dab at the spots on her arm, too, and she let him, still trying to breathe, to push away the dizziness.

“Perhaps it would work better at a different angle,” he suggested. “Or try drawing back slightly on the plunger when you breach the surface.”

She nodded, unable to speak yet. She tried letting Hollow’s steady breathing lull her, shifting with them as their chest rose and fell in the longer pattern they allowed themselves.

Had they learned this from undergoing their father’s experiments? He had made references to a laboratory, deeper in the Palace than she had ever gone. Had he made and remade them using the same process as the kingsmoulds and all his other inventions? How long had it taken to perfect them? How long?

She could imagine Hollow lying there, under the bright lights and the god-king’s scrutiny, while he wove seals through their shell with mind and soul and scalpel. She could imagine them trying to deaden the pain, draw their mind away, focus on something other than the welling void beneath his touch. Trying, in some way, to exert control over something, anything, of their own body, when every other impulse was caught and ground down to dust.

Anger simmered and steamed in her stomach again. No, no—she had to shove it back, push it down. She would not make Hollow think she was angry at them—she would not.

Exhaling faintly, she turned to face her task again, lifting the rag out away from the wound and checking that a clot had formed. She could move on to the next one, now—and then the next, and the next.

Quirrel’s advice worked, though it was still a demanding, messy process—a careful slide of the needle into the cyst, a measured pull of the plunger, a breathless wait as the glass tube filled with glistening yellow. Each one required multiple rounds to empty, and she had to switch between drawing out the fluid and stopping up the opening as she handed the syringe back to be drained into the waste bucket.

When the sac deflated enough that there was too little for the needle to draw, she pressed the remainder of it out with the back of the knife, then cut the entire thing free.

The horror of it dimmed in the repetition.

Pierce. Draw. Scrape. Cut.

Her back cramped from bending over her work. Her wrists and hands ached with tension, with the burning light that dripped from the soaked rags, with the void that beaded ice-cold on her claws.

Quirrel offered her another set of forceps, longer. Another dose of herbs that she gladly accepted.

Through it all, Hollow was motionless. Even as she worked inward, reaching deeper, cold metal sliding between the plates and into muscle and skin. They barely breathed while blade or needle touched them, seeming to sense when she needed their stillness the most. It was a horrible sort of synergy—an unspoken effort, born of long practice, to disturb her as little as possible, to maintain that iron grip on their control.

She shouldn’t wish for them to react. She shouldn’t want to see them wince, or feel them flinch away from her hands. She should not hope the pain would prove too much for them to hide.

But it was agony, not knowing whether they would stop her. Not knowing if they were approaching their limit. It was agony to keep going, to force the same motions from her hands again and again, imagining the pain mounting with each wound.

It was agony, and she could not do it for long.

Despite her best efforts, she came loose from herself again. She sensed it happen, sensed the cord tethering her presence snap. It felt almost as it did when she was dreaming, watching her hands move from above her own head. The same motions as before.

Pierce. Draw. Scrape.

But when she reached for the knife again, the cricket did not hand it to her.

Hornet blinked, shifting her jaw out of its tight clench to demand what she needed.

The look on his face stopped her. He shook his head, glanced across her outstretched arm.

At Hollow. At the way their claws had begun to scrape at the blanket. At the barest strain in their back, a struggle not to arch against the ropes.

One claw quivered above the floor, rigid, as if they were resisting the urge to use it.

“Oh.” The sound came out barely more than a whisper. She sat forward, lifting the pressure on the rag she was holding. The tension in their neck and shoulders had gone taut enough to snap. Even their heel-spurs were digging in and ripping ragged gaps in the blanket beneath them, leaving pale scratches on the stone.

She—she had missed it. She had been too far away to see.

Before she could speak, before she could even begin to reassure them, they moved, gasping one rattling breath that abruptly broke the pattern, and tapped the stone once.

Twice.

Three times.

“I hear you,” she said, removing her hands from them entirely. “I hear you.”

They gasped. Again. Faster. And again, sucking at the air through open mouth and vents both, beginning to tremble enough to set the silk across their body vibrating along with them. They were falling apart, and she—

It was all she could do to keep from following.

Her head was light, as knotted up and empty as her stomach. What should she do? What could she do? She had known—she had known that asking them to do this would terrify them, but any plans she might have made had escaped from her head like lumaflies from a shattered glass.

She clenched her fists on her knees and tried to breathe while Hollow spiraled farther and farther into panic, their throat closing far enough that each gasp shrilled, tight and harsh.

“It’s all right.”

Both of them jumped at the voice, soft as it was.

Quirrel. Intervening. Trying to soothe them, when she could not—and any defiant thought Hornet had had about doing this without him died in an instant.

He did not reach to touch them, either one of them, but his hands, too, were balled into fists. “Stay calm,” he said, just loud enough to be heard over Hollow’s distressed wheezing. “Please, stay calm, my friend. It’s all right. Breathe. It will pass.”

Hollow shuddered. Hot tears began to prick at Hornet’s eyes. She knew who this was for, which one of them he was calling friend, but it didn’t matter: some foolish, desperate part of her was clinging to his words as if they were for her.

Useless. Useless. She was just sitting there, doing nothing while they were sinking into terror in front of her. Afraid, in pain, having been forced to the point of asking for the one thing that frightened them the most.

Stop.

Any attempt she made at reassurance would be thin, shaky—but they deserved for her to at least try.

Her fangs felt horribly clumsy as she parted them to speak. “It’s all right, Hollow, it’s—” Tears choked her words back, and she had to swallow and try again. “I-I—you’ve done what I asked. I asked you to—to tell me, when it hurts too much. And you did. You did well.”

This prompted a broken cough, perhaps an attempt at bringing themselves back under control, an attempt that rapidly gave way to a soundless, fluttering whine, a not-cry so despairing that she had to shut her eyes on a flash of white, on an image of the Palace walls racing by as their screams set the halls ringing.

“Please,” she found herself whispering, claws pricking into her knees as she fought to make the world stop whirling. “It’s all right. Please. Please stop.”

She was begging, pleading with someone she was not even sure could hear her. Their eyes were wide open, but the void was moving in sickening twists and jerks, erratic and unfocused. She leaned back, inhaling deeply, though it felt like breathing through honey. Something greedy grasped at her, dragging all her limbs down—a helplessness and despair that wanted to suck her under and never let her up again—

The string of soul vessels tapped against her chest. No. No, she was not helpless. She had this. She had the means to make their pain stop. She could allow them to heal.

If they were able.

They flinched when she touched them, the thready hiss of their breath breaking in two. Murmuring something vaguely like reassurance, words she didn’t even hear leaving her own throat, she pressed her hand to the silk-rune on their other shoulder, opening the conduit slowly, only a trickle at first.

Hollow jerked again at the influx of soul into their reservoirs. She tried to meet their gaze, to appear steadier than she felt.

“It’s all right.” Repeating herself, repeating Quirrel’s words, too, but it was the only thing she could think of. “It’s all right. Breathe. Please just—breathe.”

Her sibling appeared to try, forcing a deeper breath into their lungs—wheezing all the same in spite of it, but she nodded encouragingly, acknowledging their effort. “There. Good. Keep—keep breathing. You haven’t—I am not upset, I just—”

No, she didn’t have an explanation, not one that they could hear now. She settled for repeating what she had said already, feeding them soul drop by drop, until she could feel that they would have enough to complete a healing spell. She did not miss the way the whistle in their lungs diminished and the shaking in their limbs steadied some; an effect of the soul, or of her attempts to ground them?

“Hollow.” It was an effort to coax her voice not to shake. “Can you heal?”

They twitched. Nothing more. No response, not even in sign—when she looked, their hand was bent stiffly under, straining against the silk at their wrist.

Still terrified. Still so afraid of the consequences of expressing their pain, of asking for the reprieve they had needed.

Cold dread crawled through her. If they were afraid enough to lose control… they could, perhaps, be afraid enough to lash out.

“Step back,” she whispered to Quirrel. She heard him rise and drop something on the tray, take two quick steps. Then, after a pause, a third.

It would have to be enough. There was not much farther he could go, unless she asked him to leave the room. He had enough distance now to give him an advantage—he was quick, and she still hoped that the precautions would not be necessary.

“Hollow, heal for me,” she said again, and watched their throat spasm as they choked back another sob. Watched their hand flex, claws scraping tighter, silk creaking as they pulled against it. Wanting to hide, as they’d done before? To curl their hand close, as if it hurt them—or even to scratch their own shell open, in remorse at having asked for mercy?

Nothing she said could fix this. She had already tried—she’d tried everything she knew. If they could not heal—

If they couldn’t, she’d have to go on anyway. With her sibling in pain, more every moment, mounting with every wound she lanced. Without knowing whether the next cut she made, or the next, or the next, would be what made them lose their grip entirely, striking out at her in mindless instinct.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t put them through that again. Not knowing what she knew now. Not knowing what might come after.

The gashes in their shell—the nail-wounds in their chest—

Self-inflicted—

A flicker in her vision. Bright white, sketching spell-lines in the air. Only for an instant—then gone again, leaving a prickling afterimage.

Hollow’s shoulders went slack on the cushions, their breathing falling back to that jagged double rhythm. Void still seeped from the last emptied sac, still shone slickly on the seams where she’d cut the others away.

That had been their healing spell. She’d recognized it—but they had let their focus slip before it could finish. Something she had never seen them do, something she herself had not done since childhood. It was a waste of soul, a waste of focus. Letting go of a spell before it completed—aside from aborting a casting for one’s own safety—was the first thing she had been taught to avoid.

It was the sort of thing a beginner might do. Someone untrained. Inexperienced.

Another spell blinked out in her memory.

I know what you are.

Soul shining, faint and desperate, interrupted by a slash of her needle.

I know what you’d try to do.

Hollow sobbed again, an ugly, ragged sound, and she came back to herself, all at once.

They were spiraling. The flash of memory had distracted her—and her stunned silence had gone on too long.

“No,” she whispered, fumbling for—for anything, any way to save this from disaster. “No, I—”

A pause, while she took hold of herself, dragged herself free, scraped up the last of her strength. The warmth and solace in her voice when she spoke again was not hers. It could not be, no matter how she tried; it was her mother’s, it was Midwife’s, it was every drop of comfort she could wring out of her faded memory. “It’s all right. I—I know. I know you can. Please… please try.”

Quirrel was silent, tense, behind her, as she reached forward again to transfer more soul.

This time, she kept her hand on them, touching lightly, speaking softly, offering the only comfort she could. Coaxing them to claw their way back, breath by breath, until they regained enough control to try again.

She felt tingling in her bones, the chill flash of spent soul, as they failed.

Little shoulders hunched, cloak trembling as they shook with effort.

Soul-runes dancing over soft shell—then a surge of savage triumph as the spell vanished, incomplete.

Her own voice, cold, distant.

“I can’t allow it.”

Shit.

Not now. Not now.

It was—

The other vessel. The one now trapped in the temple. They had done this—

In combat with her.

Combat. It was unjust to call it that. There was no honor there, no respect, no glory. Only blood. Only fear.

Only slaughter.

Nothing she hadn’t done before. Nothing she would not have to do again.

Or so she’d thought.

Her heart beat faster, thumping in her mask, her throat. She was beginning to shake again, a terrible cold swelling in her chest.

They could not know. She could not let them see, they needed—Hollow needed her—

She had nearly killed them—

Her own voice reached her hearing, distant and calm, as if it belonged to another.

“You can heal. You can.” She could not feel the sound leaving her throat. She could not feel the breath leaving her lungs. “Breathe. Try again.”

They were listening. They were, though their chest still heaved and their claws still clenched, though their eyes still writhed with fear.

Please, she begged, without knowing how to say it. Without knowing if she could.

When she opened the conduit and let her soul spill over, they seemed to steady. Seemed to pull together, again, somehow. They looked her in the eyes as she spoke praise she could not hear, as she stroked their shell with a hand too numb to feel it.

Please.

Pale sparks pricked the air. A low hum built beneath her skin, like a net of threads pulling taut. Light began to lick along the jagged edges of their wounds, tracing every cut in brilliant white.

Hollow stopped breathing. Their horns arched back. Plates bunched at their abdomen, muscle tensing beneath, knees coming up against the ropes at the shuddering strain. Hornet had just enough sense left to shut her eyes before the arc of the spell closed in around them, white light flashing murky blue-gray through her eyelids.

When they relaxed, they did so completely, only a small quiver still rattling through them as they fell fully back onto the cushions in relief.

They’d done it.

They’d healed.

She—she hadn’t thought—

Hornet blinked. Stared down at Hollow, at her hand on their stomach, rising and falling as their breathing slowed. Watched the shift of light across their shell, the subtle ripple of their scars.

She should be relieved.

Why wasn’t she?

She turned her hand over. It moved when she bade it to. So there was no reason for her to feel that she was not in control, that something foreign had hold of her. She had almost expected to see silk threading from her joints like strings.

Her throat ached all the way down to her guts. There was pressure building, building, in her lungs.

But she would not cry. She would not scream. It seemed like an easy decision, effortless. She would not buckle, grip her horns with her hands, wail and sob until she lost the voice to speak. She could not let it out now, and so she would not.

She knew this. She recognized it. It was worse than before. Bad enough that she could not stop it. Bad enough that the sharp twinge of her fangs grinding was as distant as a dying spark.

It was easy, too, to swallow down the ache in her throat. To force air into her lungs. To forget her fears, screaming in the back of her head. To bury them. She had done this, over and over, throughout the long years, until it became almost instinct, as practiced a motion as sheathing her needle or reeling in her silk.

Until she felt nothing, or as close to nothing as she could.

It seemed to take a long time, and yet only a moment.

Hollow was calm enough now to continue. She saw herself check her anchors, one by one, plucking the threads that bound her sibling down—and then check their wounds, methodically, testing each new scar to be sure that it had sealed over.

Nausea churned below her shell again, somehow easy to ignore. She did not ask for the herbs.

Quirrel had drawn closer, a quiet, motionless presence at her elbow. Perhaps he could feel it, too, the way that the world had withdrawn from her.

When she spoke, it was far-off, like a voice half-remembered.

“May I continue?”

The tap of their claw against the stone was clear, though.

Yes.

Without turning, without thinking, she spoke. “Lantern.”

He lifted it, high, shining it down on Hollow’s shell. The blister she had half-drained before stopping, larger than the others, was still blocking a large part of one opening, taking up the sunken space next to their sternum. These at the center were the only pocket left; she had drained and disposed of the rest.

The room was quiet, too quiet. Every sound she made seemed unnaturally sharp: the click of the forceps, the soft pop of punctured skin, the angry sizzle of the acid as it bubbled to the surface.

She drained and cut and staunched the bleeding, her motions nearly mechanical. This was the last surface blister to remove. The only light showing now was the glimmer at the center, partially obscured by the arc of their chest-plates, deep enough within their body that her shelling knife could never have reached it all.

She held out her hand for the syringe, and Quirrel supplied it with the hand not holding the lantern. He craned forward to see and an intake of air hissed between his jaws. “Hornet—”

“I know.” She did not need the distraction. The next blister was fully inside their body. She would have to reach into the hole in their chest, first with a needle, then with a blade.

“Be very still,” she murmured, and knew that Hollow heard her.

They were holding their breath as she lowered the needle and eased it in.

The first one went just like the others—painstaking and slow, drawing out the light from the places it shone through the cracks. Pressing a wad of fabric in against the bubbling gap, plugging it with a scrap of rag clamped between the tines of the forceps, as it was too deep for her fingers to reach. Waiting, hand outstretched, as Quirrel emptied and wiped down the syringe, until he handed it back to her.

One more draw, she thought. One more.

She discarded the fabric, reaching in with the forceps to hold the thing steady. Hollow held their breath again, and she could not stop to think about how still they were, how every sign of life went utterly out of them in an instant.

The syringe only filled halfway, sputtering, and she drew it back, trading it for the scalpel as she leaned over them, resting her wrist on their chest to keep it steady.

This cyst was anchored somewhere in the pectoral muscle, below the edge of their broadest plate, and she held her own breath as she reached in to cut it free.

Just another cut. Just another blister.

A tremor seized her hands as she lifted the thing out by its edge, dangling from the end of the forceps. Quirrel took the entire thing from her, his hand warm and steady around hers as he pried her fingers free of the looped handles. He was still holding the lantern, working one-handed to provide her with her tools when she needed them, and he took longer than usual to switch out for the other pair, so she leaned forward to inspect the wounds in the bluish, swaying light.

With the first interior sac removed, there were more visible beneath it, but she could count them, now—two, three, four, all clustered on the left side, around and above a dark, veiny mass as large as her doubled fists.

A thing that she stared at stupidly for a split second before she saw that it was moving.

Beating.

Slower than the pulse beneath her own skin, clenching and relaxing in a distinctive, unrelenting motion. Black on black in the murky cavern of their body, visible only by the hateful light cast in dawning golds and oranges around it.

Their—she was staring at—

Hornet went cold. All over, in an instant, sickening plunge. And then feverish heat rolled over her, too much, too fast, a wave of it closing over her shell.

That was their heart.

The air in the room fell away. Blood throbbed in her head, writhed in her throat, filling her whole world with her battering pulse.

She should have taken the herbs.

A convulsive retch lurched up her throat. She pressed her hands over her mouth, claws scraping against bone. Could not quite stifle what escaped: a hoarse, wrenching sound, half growl, half groan. Another followed it, a spasm that clenched her whole body tight. She was—she was going to—

She flung herself away, scrambling backward over the mattresses without a shred of her usual grace.

The blankets tangled with her legs, her knees, entrapping her. One hand caught her, slamming into the stone. The jolt rocked up her shoulder, and the pain made her retch again, venom beginning to drip and scald, hissing out onto the stone and scorching holes in the sheets she had dragged with her.

Clutching her mask, fingers wrapped around one horn in a death-grip, she heaved helplessly, eyes straining open, staring at the spots of light dancing between her and the room. Her fangs and jaws spread wide, cramping. Her claws ached where she dug scratches in the flagstone.

Screaming in her head. In the halls. In her head. In her dreams.

Dreams of waking up and feeling something wrong inside her.

Of pressing hand to shell and finding a pulse of heat not her own.

Dreams of breaking light in her reflection’s eyes, of standing helpless while molten gold ran down the cavern walls, pooling, pouring, suffocating, an endless sea of foreign rage.

And—

Dreams of black, black—liquid, shuddering black. Spilling from her veins in place of gleaming blue. Draining from her shell, her warmth drunk down by a sapping cold no life-heat could quench. Eyes opening in the dark, dozens of them, blazing white and pitiless.

Void pooling in her footsteps. Dripping from her elbows. Pulsing from each fracture of a crushed mask, from the stump of a severed limb, from a gaping, caved-in chest as she wrenched her needle free—

Killer.

Kinslayer.

One life. She had spared one and could not dare to think herself forgiven. As desperately as she grasped at it, as much as every action she took was an effort to absolve herself, she knew it would never be enough.

Every pulse of Hollow’s heart, each time it beat beneath their shell, was in mockery of all the others she had bled dry.

They lay so still, so lifeless, like every other body she had buried—like every other vessel she had killed—

She choked back a last, shuddering retch and loosened her grip on her horn, dropping her hand to the floor to brace herself. It took longer than it should have to fold her fangs back into place, her mouthparts fumbling as waves of nausea wracked her. Her eyes burned, burned, burned.

At least she had not had to bite herself to make it stop.

Black. Black ichor on her hands. Gushing down their shell as they lay there, bound, silent. Black blood, dripping down the knife in her dreams.

She had to look. She had to look back at them, to see the damage. But she couldn’t—not now. Not yet—

“Hornet?”

Something clattered on the floor. Quirrel—what was he doing? She hunched her shoulders, clamping down on her fangs to keep them from flashing out. A surge of anger—and the rasping wetness in her throat—lent a guttural hiss to her words, a sound her mother would have been proud to hear if Hornet had managed it as a spiderling. “Wait a moment.”

“You may not have a moment.”

What—

That fear in his voice was not fear of her.

She turned, cold dread already closing round her limbs, and saw Hollow—

Hollow. With a hole in their chest and void staining their shell, with an entire web’s worth of silk tying them down, was fighting to sit up. Their elbow was wedged halfway underneath them, tarsals braced into the gaps in the flagstones, horns hauled awkwardly back by the taut length of rope.

The rope’s anchor flickered. Dimmed. Down their side, along their arm, each soul-light wavered, one after another, the vessel’s strength taxing them to their limit.

A single string snapped. Then a second.

“Stop,” she gasped, and scrambled back toward them. “Stop!”

They did as she ordered. Instantly. Remaining in their contorted pose, though their arm was already beginning to quiver.

No. No, it was not only that. They were signing, frantically, hand twisted hard against the restraints to turn it palm-up, fingers opening and closing at their side.

The sign for hurt.

Something was wrong. Something—she’d hurt them, somehow, worse now, perhaps the ropes were hurting them, how—

It did not matter. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, and snatched the first tool within reach of her hand—a set of shears—to slice the cords. “I’m sorry, I—I’m so sorry—”

The first cord parted. Hollow’s head came up, silk streaming from their horns like ribbons, and—

Pushed against her. Urgently, yet carefully, firm presses of their muzzle to her shell, across her chest, her arms, her face, where she’d frozen with her mouth half open. They nosed at the shape of her under her cloak, quick whuffs of cold air stirring the fabric as they searched for something.

She gulped a breath, holding herself still, the shears half-forgotten in her hand. Again, another breath, not quite a sob, but entirely too close. Hollow was shaking, obviously in pain—their breath hitched with each inhale, their claws jerking every time they moved. But they did not stop until, having fulfilled some unseen objective, they leaned back, relaxing into their bonds, staring at her intently.

Not knowing what else to do, she cut more threads, releasing their hand, their elbow, their shoulder. Her breathing was still not under control, coming in quick gasps between spasms of tension that clamped round her throat like a vise. She checked their wounds, once, twice, skirting around the hole in their chest, refusing to even glance inside.

It was the same. Everything was the same, except that another scar had torn open in their shoulder, and then stopped bleeding almost immediately. She reached up to take their pulse, laying her hands along their throat to feel them breathe, to reassure herself that their black heart still beat.

Black, it was black, she knew now, and it shone in the light like a chunk of obsidian—

“What—” she breathed, then had to stop. Had to wrestle down the numb, senseless sobs that wanted to emerge, the instinct to shatter into pieces in relief, to let out everything that was hammering at her insides. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

They looked at her, again, with that whirling darkness in their gaze. The dense shadow that she had once thought unknowable, an enigma, a blackened night so absolute that dawn would never come to it.

But they had reached out to her. They had chosen her, chosen to make themselves known, though it defied everything they were.

In two motions, Hollow signed their answer.

Hornet. Hurt.

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