#Dirt supplier

[nerissa01]

Transform your garden with the finest top soil in Alpharetta has to offer. Ideal for both professional landscapers and home gardeners. Their finest quality soil improves plant health and enhances growth. Get ready for greener, more vibrant plants today. Visit now to know more.

[nerdykeppie]

We will no longer be purchasing the feed corn for our heating pads from Tractor Supply Company.

We have purchased all of the corn that fills our heating pads from TSC since 2017, but given this... uh... statement... we will no longer be doing business with TSC in any way. The idea that "rural values" preclude the existence of our embracing of minorities and queer people is profoundly ridiculous.

Our company's rural roots are strong: Jake & Spider grew up in NE PA's coal country on a dirt road & in a house heated by a wood stove. We are the descendants of immigrant coal miners and farmers. Our great-great-grandfather put up a swing in the middle of the single room of their Northwest Territories home because it was too cold for our great-grandmother to go outside to play. Our grandfather was a breaker boy. Our cousins still raise corn and pigs in Iowa. And that's just Spider and Jake!

Painting "diversity" as alien to rural values is not only incorrect, it's insulting to everyone who lives in a rural area who isn't white, cishet and Christian - and there are an awful lot of us. This is, of course, the point. They've decided that it's fashionable to turn away from us, to make clear No Queers Allowed, and so it's only right that we return the favor.

Please bear with us as we shift suppliers. If you have an outstanding heating pad order with us, it may be slightly delayed.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: Leaving Twitter had no effect on NPR's traffic

I'm coming to Minneapolis! This Sunday (Oct 15): Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Monday (Oct 16): Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

Enshittification is the process by which a platform lures in and then captures end users (stage one), who serve as bait for business customers, who are also captured (stage two), whereupon the platform rug-pulls both groups and allocates all the value they generate and exchange to itself (stage three):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

Enshittification isn't merely a form of rent-seeking – it is a uniquely digital phenomenon, because it relies on the inherent flexibility of digital systems. There are lots of intermediaries that want to extract surpluses from customers and suppliers – everyone from grocers to oil companies – but these can't be reconfigured in an eyeblink the that that purely digital services can.

A sleazy boss can hide their wage-theft with a bunch of confusing deductions to your paycheck. But when your boss is an app, it can engage in algorithmic wage discrimination, where your pay declines minutely every time you accept a job, but if you start to decline jobs, the app can raise the offer:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

I call this process "twiddling": tech platforms are equipped with a million knobs on their back-ends, and platform operators can endlessly twiddle those knobs, altering the business logic from moment to moment, turning the system into an endlessly shifting quagmire where neither users nor business customers can ever be sure whether they're getting a fair deal:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

Social media platforms are compulsive twiddlers. They use endless variation to lure in – and then lock in – publishers, with the goal of converting these standalone businesses into commodity suppliers who are dependent on the platform, who can then be charged rent to reach the users who asked to hear from them.

Facebook designed this playbook. First, it lured in end-users by promising them a good deal: "Unlike Myspace, which spies on you from asshole to appetite, Facebook is a privacy-respecting site that will never, ever spy on you. Simply sign up, tell us everyone who matters to you, and we'll populate a feed with everything they post for public consumption":

https://lawcat.berkeley.edu/record/1128876

The users came, and locked themselves in: when people gather in social spaces, they inadvertently take one another hostage. You joined Facebook because you liked the people who were there, then others joined because they liked you. Facebook can now make life worse for all of you without losing your business. You might hate Facebook, but you like each other, and the collective action problem of deciding when and whether to go, and where you should go next, is so difficult to overcome, that you all stay in a place that's getting progressively worse.

Once its users were locked in, Facebook turned to advertisers and said, "Remember when we told these rubes we'd never spy on them? It was a lie. We spy on them with every hour that God sends, and we'll sell you access to that data in the form of dirt-cheap targeted ads."

Then Facebook went to the publishers and said, "Remember when we told these suckers that we'd only show them the things they asked to see? Total lie. Post short excerpts from your content and links back to your websites and we'll nonconsensually cram them into the eyeballs of people who never asked to see them. It's a free, high-value traffic funnel for your own site, bringing monetizable users right to your door."

Now, Facebook had to find a way to lock in those publishers. To do this, it had to twiddle. By tiny increments, Facebook deprioritized publishers' content, forcing them to make their excerpts grew progressively longer. As with gig workers, the digital flexibility of Facebook gave it lots of leeway here. Some publishers sensed the excerpts they were being asked to post were a substitute for visiting their sites – and not an enticement – and drew down their posting to Facebook.

When that happened, Facebook could twiddle in the publisher's favor, giving them broader distribution for shorter excerpts, then, once the publisher returned to the platform, Facebook drew down their traffic unless they started posting longer pieces. Twiddling lets platforms play users and business-customers like a fish on a line, giving them slack when they fight, then reeling them in when they tire.

Once Facebook converted a publisher to a commodity supplier to the platform, it reeled the publishers in. First, it deprioritized publishers' posts when they had links back to the publisher's site (under the pretext of policing "clickbait" and "malicious links"). Then, it stopped showing publishers' content to their own subscribers, extorting them to pay to "boost" their posts in order to reach people who had explicitly asked to hear from them.

For users, this meant that their feeds were increasingly populated with payola-boosted content from advertisers and pay-to-play publishers who paid Facebook's Danegeld to reach them. A user will only spend so much time on Facebook, and every post that Facebook feeds that user from someone they want to hear from is a missed opportunity to show them a post from someone who'll pay to reach them.

Here, too, twiddling lets Facebook fine-tune its approach. If a user starts to wean themself off Facebook, the algorithm (TM) can put more content the user has asked to see in the feed. When the user's participation returns to higher levels, Facebook can draw down the share of desirable content again, replacing it with monetizable content. This is done minutely, behind the scenes, automatically, and quickly. In any shell game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.

This is the final stage of enshittification: withdrawing surpluses from end-users and business customers, leaving behind the minimum homeopathic quantum of value for each needed to keep them locked to the platform, generating value that can be extracted and diverted to platform shareholders.

But this is a brittle equilibrium to maintain. The difference between "God, I hate this place but I just can't leave it" and "Holy shit, this sucks, I'm outta here" is razor-thin. All it takes is one privacy scandal, one livestreamed mass-shooting, one whistleblower dump, and people bolt for the exits. This kicks off a death-spiral: as users and business customers leave, the platform's shareholders demand that they squeeze the remaining population harder to make up for the loss.

One reason this gambit worked so well is that it was a long con. Platform operators and their investors have been willing to throw away billions convincing end-users and business customers to lock themselves in until it was time for the pig-butchering to begin. They financed expensive forays into additional features and complementary products meant to increase user lock-in, raising the switching costs for users who were tempted to leave.

For example, Facebook's product manager for its "photos" product wrote to Mark Zuckerberg to lay out a strategy of enticing users into uploading valuable family photos to the platform in order to "make switching costs very high for users," who would have to throw away their precious memories as the price for leaving Facebook:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

The platforms' patience paid off. Their slow ratchets operated so subtly that we barely noticed the squeeze, and when we did, they relaxed the pressure until we were lulled back into complacency. Long cons require a lot of prefrontal cortex, the executive function to exercise patience and restraint.

Which brings me to Elon Musk, a man who seems to have been born without a prefrontal cortex, who has repeatedly and publicly demonstrated that he lacks any restraint, patience or planning. Elon Musk's prefrontal cortical deficit resulted in his being forced to buy Twitter, and his every action since has betrayed an even graver inability to stop tripping over his own dick.

Where Zuckerberg played enshittification as a long game, Musk is bent on speedrunning it. He doesn't slice his users up with a subtle scalpel, he hacks away at them with a hatchet.

Musk inaugurated his reign by nonconsensually flipping every user to an algorithmic feed which was crammed with ads and posts from "verified" users whose blue ticks verified solely that they had $8 ($11 for iOS users). Where Facebook deployed substantial effort to enticing users who tired of eyeball-cramming feed decay by temporarily improving their feeds, Musk's Twitter actually overrode users' choice to switch back to a chronological feed by repeatedly flipping them back to more monetizable, algorithmic feeds.

Then came the squeeze on publishers. Musk's Twitter rolled out a bewildering array of "verification" ticks, each priced higher than the last, and publishers who refused to pay found their subscribers taken hostage, with Twitter downranking or shadowbanning their content unless they paid.

(Musk also squeezed advertisers, keeping the same high prices but reducing the quality of the offer by killing programs that kept advertisers' content from being published along Holocaust denial and open calls for genocide.)

Today, Musk continues to squeeze advertisers, publishers and users, and his hamfisted enticements to make up for these depredations are spectacularly bad, and even illegal, like offering advertisers a new kind of ad that isn't associated with any Twitter account, can't be blocked, and is not labeled as an ad:

https://www.wired.com/story/xs-sneaky-new-ads-might-be-illegal/

Of course, Musk has a compulsive bullshitter's contempt for the press, so he has far fewer enticements for them to stay. Quite the reverse: first, Musk removed headlines from link previews, rendering posts by publishers that went to their own sites into stock-art enigmas that generated no traffic:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/oct/05/x-twitter-strips-headlines-new-links-why-elon-musk

Then he jumped straight to the end-stage of enshittification by announcing that he would shadowban any newsmedia posts with links to sites other than Twitter, "because there is less time spent if people click away." Publishers were advised to "post content in long form on this platform":

https://mamot.fr/@pluralistic/111183068362793821

Where a canny enshittifier would have gestured at a gaslighting explanation ("we're shadowbanning posts with links because they might be malicious"), Musk busts out the motto of the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal, pray I don't alter it any further."

All this has the effect of highlighting just how little residual value there is on the platform for publishers, and tempts them to bolt for the exits. Six months ago, NPR lost all patience with Musk's shenanigans, and quit the service. Half a year later, they've revealed how low the switching cost for a major news outlet that leaves Twitter really are: NPR's traffic, post-Twitter, has declined by less than a single percentage point:

https://niemanreports.org/articles/npr-twitter-musk/

NPR's Twitter accounts had 8.7 million followers, but even six months ago, Musk's enshittification speedrun had drawn down NPR's ability to reach those users to a negligible level. The 8.7 million number was an illusion, a shell game Musk played on publishers like NPR in a bid to get them to buy a five-figure iridium checkmark or even a six-figure titanium one.

On Twitter, the true number of followers you have is effectively zero – not because Twitter users haven't explicitly instructed the service to show them your posts, but because every post in their feeds that they want to see is a post that no one can be charged to show them.

I've experienced this myself. Three and a half years ago, I left Boing Boing and started pluralistic.net, my cross-platform, open access, surveillance-free, daily newsletter and blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/drei-drei-drei/#now-we-are-three

Boing Boing had the good fortune to have attracted a sizable audience before the advent of siloed platforms, and a large portion of that audience came to the site directly, rather than following us on social media. I knew that, starting a new platform from scratch, I wouldn't have that luxury. My audience would come from social media, and it would be up to me to convert readers into people who followed me on platforms I controlled – where neither they nor I could be held to ransom.

I embraced a strategy called POSSE: Post Own Site, Syndicate Everywhere. With POSSE, the permalink and native habitat for your material is a site you control (in my case, a WordPress blog with all the telemetry, logging and surveillance disabled). Then you repost that content to other platforms – mostly social media – with links back to your own site:

https://indieweb.org/POSSE

There are a lot of automated tools to help you with this, but the platforms have gone to great lengths to break or neuter them. Musk's attack on Twitter's legendarily flexible and powerful API killed every automation tool that might help with this. I was lucky enough to have a reader – Loren Kohnfelder – who coded me some python scripts that automate much of the process, but POSSE remains a very labor-intensive and error-prone methodology:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/13/two-decades/#hfbd

And of all the feeds I produce – email, RSS, Discourse, Medium, Tumblr, Mastodon – none is as labor-intensive as Twitter's. It is an unforgiving medium to begin with, and Musk's drawdown of engineering support has made it wildly unreliable. Many's the time I've set up 20+ posts in a thread, only to have the browser tab reload itself and wipe out all my work.

But I stuck with Twitter, because I have a half-million followers, and to the extent that I reach them there, I can hope that they will follow the permalinks to Pluralistic proper and switch over to RSS, or email, or a daily visit to the blog.

But with each day, the case for using Twitter grows weaker. I get ten times as many replies and reposts on Mastodon, though my Mastodon follower count is a tenth the size of my (increasingly hypothetical) Twitter audience.

All this raises the question of what can or should be done about Twitter. One possible regulatory response would be to impose an "End-To-End" rule on the service, requiring that Twitter deliver posts from willing senders to willing receivers without interfering in them. End-To-end is the bedrock of the internet (one of its incarnations is Net Neutrality) and it's a proven counterenshittificatory force:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/06/save-news-we-need-end-end-web

Despite what you may have heard, "freedom of reach" is freedom of speech: when a platform interposes itself between willing speakers and their willing audiences, it arrogates to itself the power to control what we're allowed to say and who is allowed to hear us:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

We have a wide variety of tools to make a rule like this stick. For one thing, Musk's Twitter has violated innumerable laws and consent decrees in the US, Canada and the EU, which creates a space for regulators to impose "conduct remedies" on the company.

But there's also existing regulatory authorities, like the FTC's Section Five powers, which enable the agency to act against companies that engage in "unfair and deceptive" acts. When Twitter asks you who you want to hear from, then refuses to deliver their posts to you unless they pay a bribe, that's both "unfair and deceptive":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

But that's only a stopgap. The problem with Twitter isn't that this important service is run by the wrong mercurial, mediocre billionaire: it's that hundreds of millions of people are at the mercy of any foolish corporate leader. While there's a short-term case for improving the platforms, our long-term strategy should be evacuating them:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/18/urban-wildlife-interface/#combustible-walled-gardens

To make that a reality, we could also impose a "Right To Exit" on the platforms. This would be an interoperability rule that would require Twitter to adopt Mastodon's approach to server-hopping: click a link to export the list of everyone who follows you on one server, click another link to upload that file to another server, and all your followers and followees are relocated to your new digs:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

A Twitter with the Right To Exit would exert a powerful discipline even on the stunted self-regulatory centers of Elon Musk's brain. If he banned a reporter for publishing truthful coverage that cast him in a bad light, that reporter would have the legal right to move to another platform, and continue to reach the people who follow them on Twitter. Publishers aghast at having the headlines removed from their Twitter posts could go somewhere less slipshod and still reach the people who want to hear from them on Twitter.

And both Right To Exit and End-To-End satisfy the two prime tests for sound internet regulation: first, they are easy to administer. If you want to know whether Musk is permitting harassment on his platform, you have to agree on a definition of harassment, determine whether a given act meets that definition, and then investigate whether Twitter took reasonable steps to prevent it.

By contrast, administering End-To-End merely requires that you post something and see if your followers receive it. Administering Right To Exit is as simple as saying, "OK, Twitter, I know you say you gave Cory his follower and followee file, but he says he never got it. Just send him another copy, and this time, CC the regulator so we can verify that it arrived."

Beyond administration, there's the cost of compliance. Requiring Twitter to police its users' conduct also requires it to hire an army of moderators – something that Elon Musk might be able to afford, but community-supported, small federated servers couldn't. A tech regulation can easily become a barrier to entry, blocking better competitors who might replace the company whose conduct spurred the regulation in the first place.

End-to-End does not present this kind of barrier. The default state for a social media platform is to deliver posts from accounts to their followers. Interfering with End-To-End costs more than delivering the messages users want to have. Likewise, a Right To Exit is a solved problem, built into the open Mastodon protocol, itself built atop the open ActivityPub standard.

It's not just Twitter. Every platform is consuming itself in an orgy of enshittification. This is the Great Enshittening, a moment of universal, end-stage platform decay. As the platforms burn, calls to address the fires grow louder and harder for policymakers to resist. But not all solutions to platform decay are created equal. Some solutions will perversely enshrine the dominance of platforms, help make them both too big to fail and too big to jail.

Musk has flagrantly violated so many rules, laws and consent decrees that he has accidentally turned Twitter into the perfect starting point for a program of platform reform and platform evacuation.

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/2023/10/14/freedom-of-reach/#ex

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

Image: JD Lasica (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Elon_Musk_%283018710552%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[the-named-anon]

Dungeon meshi x Minecraft thoughts

(Assuming it’s a modern au and everyone knows how to use a computer…)

Laios

Laios would get the achievement for eating everything edible without even trying. Loves exploring caves, but often falls to his death because he forgets there’s fall damage.

Is trying to speedrun to the dragon, but dies so often it’s pointless… (dude. You’ve lost so much diamond armor Chilchuck isn’t going to give you any.)

He lives in a dirt hut until Marcille or Falin build him a better one

Wants everyone to live nearby, and eventually everyone does

Had a self-made skin, but it looked horrible so Falin made him one

HOARD of dogs. Used to be individually named, but then after the fourth (Name) fell to their death/burned in lava/shot by skeleton, he collectively calls them buddy

Tried to have hardcore worlds, died within the first hour on each.

Is part of a separate server with loads and loads of monster mods (run by someone called LordOfTheDungeon, who made most of the mods)

Gamer tag is xXMonsterSlayerXx

Falin

Is the dragon /j

Master of potion creation, figures them all out very easily.

Lives in a pretty build that her and Marcille built. (And they were roommates 😳)

Is the supplier of ores for the group, is decked out in pretty trimmed diamond armor (enchants courtesy of Chilchuck)

Practically made all the skins that the party uses, based on how they actually look

Has a big farm of animals (is trying to get two of each passive mob in there… tropical fish are the only thing she’s missing, and she has a in-game book to keep track of which ones she has)

Yes, she does have a strider, skeleton horse, and a sniffer.

Has named all her animals, and has a strict “no weapons on the hotbar” when people visit.

Has a separate hardcore world that she’s sunk hours into.

And is part of two other servers, a cosy animal filled cottage core server and another one she won’t tell anyone about

Gamer tag is FlowerFalin

Marcille

Tried desperately to learn potions, but also doesn’t want to step on Falin’s toes…

Is the builder of the group, grows the biggest trees she can. Master of bonemeal.

Went out of her way to grab two mooshrooms for Falin (one red, one brown) under the guise of “I needed mycelium anyways”

Wants to get all of the achievements, but also refuses to eat rotten flesh or poisonous potatoes

Named her sword “Ambrosia two” (and then “Ambrosia 3”, “Ambrosia 4”… she doesn’t loose/break Ambrosia four)

Uses potion tipped arrows. (Realized too late that she probably should’ve named her bow Ambrosia, since its usage with the potion tipped arrows is more similar to her real Ambrosia.)

Falin made her skin based on Uriale

Also plays on a server that has a mod for The Daltian Clan

Gamer tag is UrialeOfDaltian

Chilchuck

Under his quaint little house is a MASSIVE villager trading hall. Has every trade imaginable, at the lowest cost it can be. Lets “no one” in there (Laios has a bad habit of accidentally hitting villagers… and was banned before it was made)

Has the best enchants, and actually successfully speedran to the dragon. (First to have an elytra, and HOARDS shulker boxes. Wants the other party members to pay him for them.)

Has lots of beacons, and has unlocked all the end teleporters… (wither sounds are common on the server)

Most skilled at the game (dad of three girls… what did you expect? (Gamer girl-dad))

His girls made him his skin. (Big anime eyes, but everything else is akin to him) ((begrudgingly uses it))

Has a separate server with his girls, that they modded (custom biomes, more enchant options, fun tools and weapons)

Gamer tag is ChillsChuck

Senshi

Makes food. Only wants to make food… big farm of meat animals, and actual crops.

Is disappointed that there isn’t more monster-based food in the game. (What do you mean you can’t eat enderpearls? Why don’t more mobs drop meat?)

Ate rotten flesh once, and then decided against it. (It’s too bad you can’t use it to make food. This game is seriously lacking culinary options.)

Prefers to play modded, with loads and loads of food options. (The party server is straight vanilla, so he’s part of another one where he’s more active on… modded with food.)

Is confused why they’d think he’d be interested in mining… he makes food irl?? (Can’t differentiate any stones. Even though they’re different colors)

House was made by Marcille, skin by Fallin. (Previously default Steve skin)

Has a horse named Anne (really crappy… like, he tamed the first horse that looked like her so it’s only slightly faster than running and can barely clear a two block jump)

Gamer tag is ChefSenshi402

Izutsumi

Falin made her skin a cat girl (previously one of the default skins (can’t remember any of the other ones, but not Alex or Steve))

Doesn’t really understand Minecraft, or why people want to play it.

Has a hoard of cats, but only the tuxedo ones. (Because they look like her)

Master of the horse-stats trade, and has had luck with llamas.

(Sorry… I don’t have many ideas for her because I’m not at the part of the show where she’s at)

Gamer tag is Izutsumi1 (Izutsumi was taken for some reason)

Bonus:

Thistle

Moderator and owner of the monster-filled server.

Made 90% of the mods in the server, the only mods he didn’t make are the mods he uses to have his mods to work (like geckolib)

Has two accounts, LordOfTheDungeon, and ThistleThorn

Uses LordOfTheDungeon as his moderator one, and ThistleThorn is for the cosy cottagecore server he’s in.

Had a raffle for the players with the longest time in-server to come up with a monster for him to implement

Laios won, and it’s taken Thistle a while to make his “Ultimate Strongest Monster.” (Multiple heads and attacks are time consuming.)

Falin is also a moderator on his server, with a fake gamer tag of “Chimera” (Laios doesn’t know that, but she thinks it’s fun to watch the custom mobs roam around.) Has a custom game mode where the monsters don’t attack her, so she can make a little sanctuary for her favorites. (Also uses a different skin for the server, per the request of Thistle)

There’s an unknown person who’s a moderator that’s skin is lion-like, who’s gamer tag is “BeastWishes”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Sensei, I know you're into classic cars, how many do you own? I hear even Sam has a hard time fulfilling your orders of rare parts. Have you ever rewarded him with a free ride?

Sorry, I couldn’t not have Crewel talk about his car like he’s dating it/j

Sometimes you’re just so passionate about your interests that it comes off as weird to people who don’t Get It… I wanted to capture that feeling here.

If he doesn't scare you, no evil thing will.

Crewel held up a single finger. “I’ve tinkered with and stolen glances at other classic cars, but in my heart, I’m a committed man. There’s a favorite of mine, my one and only.”

“Oh, the red one?”

“The very same, yes.”

The image of it was almost automatic in your mind. Numerous times you had witnessed Crewel pulling onto campus in that iconic car. Deep crimson, like the skin of a fruit forbidden. For a vehicle so vintage, it was in mint condition, free of dirt and dents, shining like a brand new medal.

“It’s a real beauty,” Crewel continued proudly. “I’ve of course lavished it with plenty of TLC—tender love and care. Sam is my primary supplier of parts, though even he can find it a challenge to meet my demands.”

“Wow, you give him a real run for his money!”

Crewel gave a soft laugh. “I never find a bad thing to say about him though. The goods Sam procures are of the highest quality and he is always willing to work with me to find a compromise. He’s highly competent, and that’s something I can appreciate.”

“It sounds like you two have a strong relationship. That’s good, because I was beginning to think you had beef with all your colleagues!”

Trein and Crowley automatically came to your mind. Crewel often butted heads with them in the hallways—like a cat and dog, you thought, or a dog chasing down a bird.

“Sam is an exception. I don’t mind his company.” Crewel shook his head. “The other day, I happened to find him walking along the road in the direction of the town. He said he was taking ‘the scenic route’ to enjoy the springtime, pointing out the lily pads and the frogs.

“… I immediately ordered him into my car and drove him the rest of the way. Typically it’s just my dogs that ride with me, but I couldn’t let him make that steep trip on his lonesome. I consider the lift payback for his painstaking efforts to acquire rare parts for me.”

You chuckled to yourself, and Crewel noticed.

“What’s so funny, pup?” he demanded.

“Nothing, it’s just…” you swallowed your giggles, composed yourself. “It’s nice to see your soft side come out. Crewel-sensei can be as kind as he is cruel.”

He folded his arms, but he did not look displeased. Instead, he offered a sly smile. “Damn right.”

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 2, Mus Rusticus

After months of tense flirting and teasing with the mountain of a man she only knows an König, Mouse finds herself in a life-or-death situation while on patrol in the Alps. Maybe her new admiration isn't as one-sided as she thinks…

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Wow! The response to this fic has been incredible, heartwarming, and just baffling to me! I cannot express how happy I am to share this with you all!

Being completely objective, this chapter requires some suspension of disbelief, the circumstance is not totally likely but alas, I am here for fun.

My college classes are starting up soon, so expect slower updates moving forward. As always, please feel free to leave a comment/reblog with a message saying you want to be added to the taglist or just interact in general!

Cura ut Veleas❣️~ Caedis

PREV | Pt. 2, Mus Rusticus | 4.1k words | Mouse POV | NEXT

He’s a vision, he’s hard to miss on the horizon, he stands out like a mountain lion against his fellow men. He sways his hips wide, the trusty Glock Field knife he keeps on his belt shines like a beacon. It’s such an outrageously cocky move, to keep glinting metal on his person when she’s sure he’s supposed to be stealthy. He’s tall as a tree and broad as a train and always has some hood covering his face. He’s sniper candy, he’s so obviously right there it makes her dig blunt nails into her arm in frustration. He’s hard to miss, should be her straight shot. 

But he never is. 

She never gets the barked orders, the confirmation. She’s asked a hundred times. When it’s in the forest, it’s less warfare and more stakeout. She’s not paid enough to know what she’s looking for, but she always sees him. And she’s always been told not to shoot. She stops asking at some point, but like everything else with this man, she doesn’t quite remember when. Her life is a blur of missions and off time and him and nothing else.

It’s been months since the ravine and she’s seen him just about everywhere she’s been. When SpecGru was gathering intel on KorTacs drug affiliations, she saw him in the haunted deserts of Sonora, Mexico where she lies in the dirt redder than blood and coyotes sing her to sleep. She gazes down at him atop crumbling 16th-century Byzantine marble when she picks off the guards of a weapons supplier in Belgrade, Serbia. In the ancient and verdant bamboo forest of Yibin, China, hunting down spy affiliations, she camps across a creek from him for a night. 

It’s a small world, but not quite small enough for her to believe just how they keep running into each other. No matter where she ends up, their eyes always meet. 

The eyes of the apparition with bloody tears on top of an executioner's hood always flick right towards her, even when she’s under a ghillie or some camo or nothing particularly obtrusive at all. She’s even taken off her scope once or twice to reduce glare, to see if the monster still turns her way then. To see if the cat is following a laser pointer she’s unwittingly putting out. 

He does.

Always finds her.

No matter what. 

He would’ve been a good sniper, in another life. If he wasn’t built like the trees she climbs for her shots. 

Very few things are constant in her work. Very few people stay, very few people know. It’s awful, but she starts to hope to see him on the fields. Like he’s some coworker she’s been flirting with in the coffee lounge. 

But he’s not her coworker. Quite the opposite, he’s a soldier on the other side. The enemy. He breaks men’s spines on his knee like toothpicks. He hums with visceral energy, like mud, blood, and guts. He disembowels men like fish. He walks like a monster with three legs (and at some point about three months into their little game, she touches herself thinking about that third leg.) He swings wide, he keeps his knives sharper than cat eyes. 

His stare is constant, glacial, beautiful. 

She wonders what the rest of him looks like, with such a beautiful set of eyes. Beautiful thighs. Beautiful shoulders. He must have some reason for the mask, but she can’t help but think (or hope) he’s a good kisser under there. That his hands must be larger than life, that his skin must be warm. That his teeth must feel good if used in particular places with caution and moderation. 

She’s sure if he ever caught her, the cat would sink his teeth right in. 

She finds she wouldn’t quite mind getting chewed on by him when they accidentally pick up each other’s radio frequencies in the field. They should be encrypted. They shouldn’t be able to, but the cruel stars align and they make their pacts. 

It’s a game of cat and mouse.  They’ve got their own little rules, too. 

They don’t talk about work or positioning, he always knows where she is but never tells anyone on his team. Once she reaches out, he never gets any closer. Like it’s a game. Like they’re playing hide and seek and he knows he opened his eyes too early so he’s closing them again and pinky swearing not to tell. 

He must not tell, because SpecGru has yet to fall into an ambush. So has KorTac, though. If anyone knew they’d have their heads, but no one else does. The secret stays between them and their radios become the divining rods of close encounters. 

Mostly it’s just breathing on each line, mostly it’s just- 

“König?”

“Maus?” 

“Mhm.”

“Hmm.”

And that’s it. And they breathe at the same time, and he looks up at her in the trees or in her towers or wherever she is. And she hopes he’s thinking the same terrible things that she is, and she hopes that he keeps striking out at base camp and bars and wherever just like she has, and she hopes that he’s lonely like she is. That he has nothing else to focus on so she takes all the space in his head like he does hers. 

She knows she should get a shrink or a good fuck to stop fucking thinking about him like this, but sometimes he whispers a joke into his radio and she laughs, and sometimes she tells him about the book she’s been reading, and sometimes he shows her his favorite knife tricks, and sometimes she tells him stories of before she was in the military and he always laughs and asks questions to show he’s actually engaged and he cares and- 

She doesn’t know when she started missing shots. When she started covering his ass the three or so times he didn’t recognize some hostile getting a bit too close for comfort. 

When the fire is heavy and the mission is condensed into a 100th the size of their usual open field rendezvous, she’s seen him in action. He can handle himself, he can more than handle himself.  Some terrible part of her hopes, though, that he is thankful for her. Cover fire from a traitorous Angel in the trees, makes for a good romance novel but a terrible dynamic in war. And that’s what this is, right? It’s war? But what for? 

She doesn’t know. She’s not sure she wants to. So she keeps their little secret and she prays that he stays safe when she really can’t risk covering for him. To that point, though, he does himself no favors. He fights like he can’t get hit. 

When they’re alone he’s the perfect gentleman, he gets no closer than when she reaches out to contact him first. When they’re not, it's a whole different story. He runs into the middle field like if he can just reach her, he can keep her. If he can carry back his conquest, well… kings get their war spoils, don’t they? It’s a terrible secret she keeps alive only in her heart, but she hopes one day he finally will. 

She’d never shoot one of her own, to save his hide. But when it’s one of his own going after his neck, or when one of hers needs cover too, or one of some other guys on him, it’s easy. 

The Mouse saves the King. 

But a game is no fun with only one player. 

The King also saves the Mouse. 

It’s November, it’s somewhere in the Alps. She’s had quite the pleasure of seeing him so in his element, so proud, broad-chested, and covered in the swagger of a mountain as it walks with its own. The snowfall constricts her view but not his movement. He’s practically prancing around like a snow leopard and despite the temperature it’s warming her up a little to think about how happy he looks down there. 

“Are you gonna get me, kitty?” She hums into her radio, lips curling into a saccharine smile, when it’s just them alone in the cold. His eyes find her immediately after she’s made contact. Like always, they breathe in and out at exactly the same time once those terribly fantastic eyes of his meet hers. 

“Haha!” His whole body shakes like an earthquake when he laughs. “No. Just…” he stops for a moment like he’s catching his breath or remembering the right word, “-watching.” He says, hand reaching to his mask, lifting it up just enough so she can see a red, red, mouth and sharp, sharp teeth turning in a cruel, Cheshire Cat smile. He languishes on a stump, playing with his signature knife, downright admiring her from far away. He pulls his mask back down, but the outline of his exhales still turn into clouds in the snow. 

They breathe in tandem. Their hearts must sync. 

Today is unusual because he is actually working at something in his grasp. Usually, his beloved knife is his dancing partner, his muse of movement, the loyal companion of his oversized hands. 

Many times she’s been lost in the beautiful dance of his hands and his knife, as he flicks it up and catches it with ease. Every time he does so, her heart clenches in her all of a sudden seemingly too-small chest as she fears it’ll come down and slice him. She knows how sharp he keeps his many knives, she knows how terribly it would go for him should it ever fall out of its practiced battle dance. The knife, of course, never does. When he gets bored of tossing it, he starts doing little tricks. He balances it on his index finger, he spins it between the fingers on his massive hand, he can even juggle it between his hands without a moment's hesitation. What’s worse, is the whole time he does it, he is watching her with a relaxed posture. Like he’s showing off like he’s saying “Don’t you see how good I can be with my hands? Don’t you want to invite me over? Don’t you ache to know just what I’ll make them do for you?”

This surgical precision never ceases to amaze her because she’s seen him around his comrades. The steady hands she so admires (and yearns to touch her) disappear and shake like leaves the second he has to talk strategy or cover for others outside of immediate battle. He’s a capable soldier, he’s a great commander, he’s an excellent strategist, sure. But he’s never at ease enough to make his knife dance like this, never like he is with her. His hands shake without adrenaline and with the company. 

His hands never shake when the two exist like this, though. No, the shy soldier boy who won’t look anyone in the eye doesn’t exist to her. Like a fairytale, the second the two see each other, he disappears and instead, a man of ferocious devotion finds himself in her sights. He waits for her. He never once gets closer to her than the moment she reaches out to him first. 

It would almost be romantic. If it wasn’t war and she wasn’t herself and he wasn’t himself. 

Her comm line lights up, ripping her away from her inattentive, lovelorn adorations. Apparently, there’s an enemy scout that’s inching treacherously close to her position and slipped past someone further ahead of her. If he gets beneath her, she’s D.O.A in her tree. 

She sees König’s body tense a second after hers, the way she’s come to recognize he’s received a transmission. He stops his idle patrol and puts down the something he was working on in his hands. Quickly, he tucks it into his pocket. He’s ready to hunt all of a sudden, the relaxed air of his body falls away with all the quickness and ferocity of an avalanche. She knows to pity the poor soul on the receiving end of that look in his eyes and-

Is it her this time? Her heart stutters to a stop. 

The snow is picking up, she can’t see much of anything but she sees him blur into motion. Towards her spot. 

“Keep moving and I shoot,” she says to him. In warning. Begging him not to. She’d miss his comfort if he does make her. 

“It’s right under you, Liebling.” His voice rasps through static colder than the snow on the ground. 

She realizes she’s stranded on her branch, there’s a widow’s maker close enough to her perch to mean she’s screwed if she moves too quickly. She doesn’t have enough time to maneuver out of the tree safely and she’s a sitting duck for someone else’s shot, so long as all they’ve got is short range. If it were longer range she’d be dead already. She’s going to fall to her death or get shot at from below. It’s a shame, but she’s a little happy that it’ll be König, her cat, that’ll catch her corpse. 

She sees the would-be assailant on the horizon and she brings her gun to her cheek. He darts frantically between trees, careful to only go far enough that she’ll have to re-aim as he darts out again. He’s gaining a substantial amount of ground as she finally has a good enough line of sight to execute and-

Her gun jams. 

With all the futility of a mouse in a glue trap, she begins to shake and replace everything she can afford to in such little time to make her rifle usable. The man on the forest floor uses all of the seconds she cannot afford to waste as it becomes clear that he will reach her before she can either get down or get her gun unjammed. 

But by the time she’s gone to pray and say her goodbyes in her head while frantically looking around, she hears the footfalls of a desperate man crunching snow and she sees red spill out. 

König’s massive hands cradle one of his very own, dead. She sees the outline of hardwired explosive packs on the corpse’s chest, apparently a suicide bomber? Alone in the Alps? 

For his part, the giant doesn’t seem the least bit displeased with his kill. He wipes his bloody knife on his pant thigh and sheaths it like it’s nothing. He’s got another man’s blood all over his lower half, he sliced that poor bastard clean between his third and fourth ribs.

“Threat eliminated. My position is compromised, I’m moving.” She says to her comm. 

“Rog, Mouse.” Someone in command responds. 

She, very slowly, makes her way down to the carnage near the base of her tree, sniper rifle at her hip like a mother huddles an unruly toddler. When she’s only 12 feet in the air instead of 40, König spreads his arms out to her. It’s snowing. Hard. He doesn’t move, arms outstretched like a tree.

“Maus, I‘ll help you!” He says. 

It’s the first thing he says to her outside of the buzz of the radio. 

It’s her name. Or, the only one he knows her by. 

And the first thing he says is a promise. A promise of help. A promise of aid. 

She shouldn’t trust him. 

She tosses her gun to the pillowy snow, against all safety protocols and everything she’s ever known. He doesn’t move for it. He’s got a rifle of his own, well- not a sniper's rifle, on his back. Maybe he doesn’t need two?

She unhooks her cabling. 

It’s snowing hard. 

She kicks off the tree and into the air. 

It’s snowing really hard and dawn is breaking. 

He does, indeed, catch her. 

He audibly gasps when she lands in his arms. He doesn’t move, she’s much too small and light to move the man. He just holds her. For a moment- in the air. 

“… klein,” he all but whispers and puts her on the ground. His hands don’t start trembling as she expects them to.

She doesn’t know what that means and goes to pick up her gun and makes a quiet mental note to find a German Dictionary or self-teacher or something if this weird romance is gonna keep up. 

“What’s this guy's story?” She motions to the left. Where there’s the stump of a man who should’ve been her death. 

“Traitor, against both sides. Al Qatala. Made off with classified files.” He rolls his shoulders, completely unconcerned. 

It could be a lie. It could’ve been that this man just has a weird obsession with her and couldn’t stand to see her get taken out by someone that wasn’t him. 

Well, if that were the case, why’s she still around? He could just kill her. But then again, couldn’t she have killed him multiple times over? 

She doesn’t think he's lying. He’s affected by some things, not by others. He’s much too jittery and anxious of a man to lie so easily to her. She recognizes she’s putting a terrible amount of trust in the enemy, but if it’s gotta be anyone, she’d rather it be the man who sometimes radios her terrible jokes instead of some stranger. 

But now they’re as face to face as over a foot and a half of height difference will let them be. There’s still the hood on his face which is haunting, but this monster-  he’s scarcely made a move to her that hasn’t been some perverse version of love or care. 

She realizes she’s thankful for him. 

Stockholm syndrome, she decides. Even though this is the first time they’ve been within 80 yards of each other. 

“Thank you.” Is what she says instead, breathless and quiet, almost like she’s sorry she has to say the words out loud. Almost like they’re bad news like she’s telling the kids they have to put the family cat down. 

“Bitte schön,” he says, gentle and warm like a wool blanket. His hands are drumming on his thighs with nervous kinetic energy and he looks intently at where he grabbed her, maybe he’s worried he hurt her? But he’s not trembling. She tries not to think about it, that he’s not trembling. Her face is red and her heart is fast but for all the wrong reasons.

Before they part ways and go back to their little lives on opposite sides of some silly war she’s sure is not worth the human toll, he reaches into his pocket. 

He brings the little thing to his hood and places it right where she reckons his lips are. 

Their breaths puff into billows of smoke. 

They breathe in time. 

It’s bloody from his pant legs when he presents it to her, holding the tiny object in two forefingers and thumbs. She cups her hands in front of her like a child begging the family pet to drop an injured bird it found in the backyard. He drops it just like that pet, a few inches above her hands to avoid bloodying her hands directly. Like it would be a shame. Like he cares about tainting her. 

It’s a piece of light wood, whittled into the shape of a mouse. 

She holds the thing in the palms of her hands and they ache. It is so small, so hard for even her to hold. His field knife, the one he loves so much, is massive but she knows it was the one that he used to make it. She did research one day, trying to discover what sort of blade it was. It's a custom Glock Field Knife, with a near mirror-perfect patina and two whole inches larger than the standard issue. She also thinks he wrapped the handle himself because she cannot find that stark red chord on any seller’s website. It's a monster of a knife, for a monster of a man. It’s not made for woodworking, for whittling, for creation– it's a thing of utter annihilation and destruction. Yet, he changed its nature. He utilized his most favored possession to carve intricately into fallen birch wood. He’s given a second life in the shape of her name to what would rot without his attention. He has created, against all odds, something beautiful and delicate out of a brutal tool and doomed material. For her.

She is dumbstruck by this man. She has no words for him, for herself, she wouldn’t have any for anyone who asked either. Suddenly, the Alps aren’t so cold even though it is verifiably snowing. 

When he turns to go she thinks how much his hands must’ve hurt to make this little thing and she can’t just let him go, not empty-handed. 

“Wait!” She calls to him. 

He stops and looks back at her. She fishes around in her pockets and curses her nearly-frostbitten fingers until she finds it. 

She tosses it to him. 

He opens the little leather pouch and she sees his smile through his eyes as he recognizes what it is. It’s her pocket whetstone, with the crown she doodled onto the leather holder with charcoal. 

Her lucky charm. 

She shouldn’t trust him, she’s really got no reason to. But this man, he’s saved her life. He likes knives more than she does, hell, uses them more than she does. There’s really no reason for her to have it (just like there was no reason for her to put his symbol into the leather.) His glacial eyes melt while looking down at the object and she’s never known the winter wilderness to be so warm. She tries not to think about the way her heart speeds up when his eyes soften looking at the object. 

“I will only use this from now on, Maus.” He says, voice quiet and reverent. Like he holds the keys to his kingdom when he holds the cheap piece of rock. 

“Don’t. It’s- it’s not a great one. Just. My charm.” She shrugs. She wants to say ‘It’s a piece of shit and useless, just like I am. It’ll fuck up your knives. I know you love them. Don’t ruin useful things on my account.’ 

“All the more reason to treasure it.” He replies, simple and unburdened.

God. She wishes he wasn’t so charming. There’s no going back. 

She feels like she’s in his jaws already, totally caught. He seems not to realize that he could march off with her and go anywhere and she’d just let him. He walks away and it genuinely hurts when his form disappears into snow and trees and leaves no trace like he’s a fairy tale. Like he’s not real and never was and cannot be. 

And with that, the King had saved the Mouse. He turned and left and she moved her position before returning to base camp. 

The next time she sees him, about a week later, she sees him sharpening his massive field knife with the tiny whetstone on his comically large thigh, and in response, she thumbs at the wooden effigy in her pocket. They laughed into their radios to each other. Her cheeks flush red. Her thighs clench around nothing. She dreams about those big, big, hands, the ones that cradled her in the air, pinning her down and leaving black and blue bruises all over her hips and thighs. She thinks about that red, red mouth tracing said bruises with a gentle tongue. She thinks about the hands caressing her neck, the mouth kissing the top of her head. The hands, holding her at the hip snug to his massive frame throughout the night. The mouth, hushing her to sleep and promising to be there in the morning. 

She’s got nothing for him, though. Other than her body and the vain, ridiculous, impossible dream that’s enough for him. He doesn’t seem the romantic type. She doesn’t think he’d settle down. She doesn’t know him at all, not really.

But, she does have something for him. The answer to a question from what feels like lifetimes ago. 

“It’s because I’m quiet.” She whispers into her radio, half hoping he won’t pick up. 

“What?” He hums back. 

“Mouse. Because I’m short and quiet in the field.” 

“Really?” He asks back. “That’s it?”

“Yep.” A heartbeat too long of silence passes between them. She chews the inside of her lip to bits, waiting for a response. “Your turn,” she prods gently. 

“Because I am not.” Is his response. 

“Really, that’s it?” She chuckles into her radio. 

He just laughs on the other end. And now she’s really got nothing else to give him, save a rare book recommendation, a laugh in return for his bad jokes, and her sharp eyes always trained on his form in her scope. She’s got nothing to give him that she hasn’t already given him, and nothing he couldn’t just find elsewhere. 

But God, she wants him all the same. 

It’s dangerous to be at war. 

It’s dangerous to play cat and mouse. 

Even more dangerous to fall in love on top of those two. 

taglist!

@kneelingshadowsalomee @sprout-fics @bucca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar 

[unpredictable-probabilities]

At a Blade's End || Chapter 1: The New Target

Summary:

Hob declines an offer from enterprising noble Roderick Burgess to buy his land after finding out the man's selfish mindset about his ambitions.

However, Roderick Burgess is not one to take no for an answer.

Word Count: 2,671

Notes:

For Dreamling Week Day 7: Assassins

[Read on AO3]

---

He perched on the lowest branch deep within the tree’s leaves, allowing him a good view of the road below but keeping himself out of sight.

The moon was shining bright tonight, and he was confident that he would spot the target as soon as it arrived. This was the main road out of the village, and most merchants took it to transport their wares more conveniently.

He did not need to wait long, for merely a handful of minutes later, a familiar carriage turned the corner, pulled along by two horses driven by one man.

The carriage would pass by in front of his tree any moment now.

Three.

Two.

One.

He leapt out of the branch and tackled the man to the ground, sitting up and pinning him down.

The horses, feeling the reigns go slack, became restless and swerved in different directions as they dragged the carriage behind them.

“You…!” The man’s eyes widened in recognition and fear.

He lifted his dagger and sliced through the man’s throat.

The man didn’t say anything more, his eyes still wide and unblinking beneath the moonlight.

He would need to modify the look of that wound later. But for now, he had something else to attend to.

He stood up and turned smoothly on his heel, heading towards the carriage.

***

“Don’t you have that meeting with the Burgess fella?” Louise said as she walked over to Hob behind the bar. “Why’re you still here?”

“I’ve still got a bit of time left,” Hob looked at his pocketwatch. He liked to help out at the tavern even for a short while every day, especially during lunch hours like these when the place tended to be busy.

“You work too hard, boss,” Matthew said, bringing in a tray of empty mugs from the tables.

“Maybe he’s makin’ up for how you’re hardly workin’, Matt,” Louise called after him as he walked into the kitchens.

“Not taking that from you, Lou,” Matthew called back, the door closing behind him.

“Go ahead, boss,” Louise nodded towards the doorway of the tavern. “We can hold down the fort.”

“Alright,” Hob relented. “Wouldn’t do to keep a nobleman waiting.”

“Aren’t you a nobleman, too?” Louise raised an eyebrow.

“I’m much more patient compared to others,” Hob said, only half-joking.

He walked past the tables and went out to his carriage waiting outside the tavern.

“Good afternoon, Abel,” Hob greeted his coachman already waiting for him. “Have you eaten already?”

“Yes, sir,” Abel nodded from his seat behind the horses. “Louise got me a table and served me lunch about a half hour ago.”

Hob nodded. “Very well, then. We best be off to Fawney Rig.”

Abel urged the horses to move with a gentle motion of the reins, and the carriage rolled down the dirt road.

***

“I trust your journey has been peaceful, Sir Gadling?” Roderick Burgess asked after his servants had finished laying out their food on the table.

“Indeed, Sir Burgess. The roads were even, and it is not quite so hot out, which I am grateful for also because it allows us to have this meal in your beautiful garden,” Hob said pleasantly.

“My servants would hold umbrellas for us even if it does get too hot,” Burgess said indifferently. “Heaven knows I pay them enough for such a small task.”

Hob’s smile almost faltered, but he kept up his friendly tone. “So, Sir Burgess, the invitation I received mentioned your interest in my farm?”

“Yes,” Burgess nodded and took a sip of his tea. “Your land is along the main road leading to the church and residential areas. I would like to purchase it.”

Hob’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh. I see.” He was under the impression that Burgess wanted some sort of trade agreement, or perhaps to have Hob’s farm be his supplier for another business. “I’m afraid it’s not for sale, Sir Burgess. That land has been within my family for generations, and I am inclined to keep it that way. But perhaps I can recommend other properties? I know a few people who might be more willing to sell their lands.”

Burgess shook his head. “Properties along the main roads are the most profitable. I should like to build an inn or a tavern where your farm currently resides. Name your price, Sir Gadling.”

“I’m not too certain that the main roads would be as good for profit as they once were,” Hob began. “Have you heard of the wolf attack the other night?”

“Nasty business,” Burgess wrinkled his nose. “Not very good table conversation.”

“Yes, of course,” Hob tipped his head politely. “I just meant that perhaps we shouldn’t conduct any new ventures along the main roads until the authorities have set up some security measures.”

“Travellers know the risks. If they go to an inn and get attacked by wild beasts or some other along the way, that is not the responsibility of the inn’s owner, is it? I do not see why the other night’s events should concern me. Besides, only one merchant died, if the servants’ incessant gossip are to be believed. Merchants arrive here by the handful every week. Apparently the horses even got loose from the carriage and were unharmed. You, there!” he turned and roughly called out to one of the servants.

A young woman came rushing to their table with her head bowed.

“Bring us a basket of apples. And be quick about it.”

“Yes, Master Burgess,” the woman dipped her head even lower and scurried away.

“Where was I?” Burgess turned back to Hob. “Ah, yes, the main roads. If you sell me your land, you will not have to worry about any attacks on that area. Whatever happens there would be solely my responsibility.”

Based on the short time he had known him, Hob doubted that Burgess was the type of man who would ever take responsibility for anything. But he saw no use in mentioning that.

“I really am sorry, Sir Burgess, but my farm remains off the market,” Hob said politely. He would have reiterated his suggestion to introduce Burgess to his friends who might be willing to sell, but Hob didn’t actually hate any of his friends to inflict Burgess upon them. “I do wish you the best in your business endeavours, though I doubt you will need any luck or well-wishes given how consistently successful your properties are.”

Burgess snorted. “I did not take you for a flatterer, Sir Gadling. Though I will not contest the accuracy of your statement.”

The servant returned with a bowl of sliced apples, and placed it down carefully on the table before leaving again without a sound.

Burgess picked up an apple slice without so much as a glance to the person who brought the fruit. “Very well. Perhaps I can persuade you to some sort of bargain before this meal ends.”

***

Hob was not persuaded, in the end. Though he did do his best impression of someone who was very interested in what Burgess had to say about astrology and the occult and how it was unlucky to have a farm on such an inauspicious location relative to the sunrise, and how Hob should seriously consider selling to him while the land was still valuable.

Hob thanked him generously for his wisdom after the meal and politely declined Burgess’ offer to have a servant walk him to the gates. He had seen how often and how roughly Burgess ordered the servants around throughout their entire meeting, and he didn’t want any of them to walk with him under the sun which had grown significantly hotter now when he knew perfectly well how to find the exit himself.

He saw a few more servants tending to the garden as he walked; trimming the hedges, watering the plants, harvesting. He thought about his own workers back at his farm, how he had given specific instructions to his foreman for all of them to take more frequent breaks when it was particularly hot, and he wondered if Burgess ever considered things like that.

Lost in his own thoughts and with the sun partially blinding him, Hob didn’t notice the figure turning the corner until they had already collided and a basket of fruit fell at his feet.

“I'm very sorry, sir,” the servant muttered in a low voice and hurriedly crouched down to pick up the blueberries that had spilled on the grass.

“No, no,” Hob crouched down as well and helped, their fingers brushing together as they quickly gathered the fruits. “I wasn't looking where I was going, it was my fault.”

They stood up and returned the blueberries to the basket, Hob carefully letting them roll off his palms.

“Sorry about that, uh… what’s your name?” Hob asked politely.

“My… name, sir?” The servant kept his head down the entire time, and Hob could barely see his face. Christ, did Burgess order his workers to avert their eyes all the time? What sort of man would do that?

“Yes, if you’re comfortable enough to share it?” Hob said encouragingly, not wanting him to feel like he was obligated to give his name.

The servant raised his head and met Hob’s gaze.

And Hob felt his breath catch in his throat.

The man had a fair face and the bluest eyes that Hob had ever seen. The colour of the sea after a storm. Uncut sapphires framed by long dark lashes.

“Morpheus,” came a quiet rumble from rose-pink lips. Then those blue eyes glanced down again. “Sir.”

“Morpheus…” Hob repeated, blinking himself back to his senses.

The man—Morpheus—tipped his head politely. “Pardon me, sir. I must bring these inside.” He walked past Hob and headed into the house.

Hob straightened himself and smoothed down his waistcoat, feeling somewhat disarmed by that interaction, though not necessarily in an unpleasant way.

He walked out of the gates and went back to his carriage.

***

“Morpheus!” Paul appeared in the kitchen doorway just as Morpheus placed down the basket on the tabletop. “I’ll handle that. Thank you again,” the young man said sheepishly, taking the blueberries to wash them.

“You are fortunate that I am the one who saw you with Alex, and not his father,” Morpheus chided lightly. He had come across them in the garden and only just managed to push them behind a topiary as another servant walked by. He had grabbed the basket of blueberries in the process, and used it as an excuse to the older servant as to why he had been standing there.

“Master Burgess never walks outside if it’s hot out,” Paul said, his ears reddening.

“And none of the servants would dare do anything to us,” Alex arrived, standing beside Paul. “I’m still the son of their master.”

“Even so, word could reach your father,” Morpheus reminded him. “And I hope you do not have any delusions that he would react positively to hearing that you two were in each other’s embrace.”

Alex looked down, his cheeks dusted pink. “He only insists on me marrying a noble because he wants me out of this house. Ever since Randall died he has hated me more,” his voice had grown quiet, and Paul put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Alex,” Morpheus said, softening his voice. Alexander Burgess had been like a little brother to him, his only friend ever since arriving at Fawney Rig many years ago. It pained him to see the boy unhappy. “We are both aware that if your father really wanted you out of this house, you would already be on the streets. Regardless, you two must be cautious. Especially you, Paul.”

They both nodded, Alex taking Paul’s hand and squeezing it.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Alex looked at Morpheus. “Father wants to see you.”

Morpheus instinctively tensed up. A summons from Roderick Burgess shortly after a meeting with someone usually only meant one thing.

He nodded. “Thank you, Alex.”

He went out of the kitchen and took the shortest route along the corridors to reach the highest balcony at the back of the manor overlooking a river. Most of the servants gave him a wide berth; they were not aware of the exact nature of his job, apart from being Lord Burgess’ personal servant, but it was that very uncertainty that unnerved them.

Morpheus paid them no mind. He had no time for such trifles.

He reached the stairs that would lead to the balcony, climbing soundlessly as he had been trained.

“If I can hear you approach, you’ve already disappointed me,” Lord Burgess glared down at him disapprovingly.

“Lord Burgess,” he announced his presence to the man sitting on a high-backed chair facing the river below them. 

A hand motioned him forward, its many rings glittering in the sun.

Morpheus moved to stand in front of him, as he had every time he would be summoned here.

“I trust that no complications have arisen with your last assignment?”  Lord Burgess asked. “I heard the horses got loose. Why is that?”

Because they were merely doing what they were told, and have neither stakes nor involvement in petty human affairs, Morpheus thought, his facial features remaining impassive.

“They were making too much noise; I did not want to risk drawing the attention of passers-by. And killing both animals would have made it look like a huge pack of wolves had ventured so near residential areas, which could cause a panic and disturb the daily routines that we have so meticulously studied,” Morpheus delivered his prepared explanation.

“Everyone believes it is a wolf attack, then?” Lord Burgess took a sip of wine from his gilded goblet.

“Indeed,” Morpheus confirmed. “I made multiple cuts on the body to mimic the marks of claws and teeth, and damaged the carriage similarly. The patches of wolf fur I placed all over the area have been discovered. The merchant’s death remains unquestioned.”

Lord Burgess nodded, expecting nothing less. “You have a new target.”

Morpheus stood up straighter, already feeling the familiar grip of daggers in his hands.

“The guest I had hosted earlier today. Robert Gadling.”

Morpheus suddenly recalled a pair of brown eyes, warm as the first rays of sun on soft earth. Fingers too callused than what he would have expected of noblemen who never did a day’s labour in their lives.

“Immediately?” Morpheus asked, the phantom daggers in his hands somehow feeling cold and heavy.

Lord Burgess shook his head. “No. That merchant’s death is still too fresh in the people’s minds, and at least a few of them would be aware that he had come here shortly before attempting to leave the village. Another death by someone who had recently stepped foot in my home would be too suspect. First, I want you to find out who would inherit his lands so that I may make the necessary arrangements. Then you can dispose of him. Wolf attack, food that had unfortunately gone bad and poisonous, figure something out,” he waved his hand lazily. “It might take a while longer than your usual assignments, but completing it shouldn’t be a problem, correct?”

Morpheus could still hear Robert Gadling’s voice, the kindest one that had spoken to him in as long as he could remember. He had asked if Morpheus felt comfortable in speaking his name, and Morpheus was so taken aback in his comfort being considered that he had actually looked at the man, despite Lord Burgess’ rule that his servants should never look in the eye those who rank higher than them—Morpheus had earned being the exception when addressing Lord Burgess himself, but he was expected to act as a common servant in the presence of others.

Morpheus tilted his chin up and gripped his phantom daggers more securely. Things like kindness and comfort were not meant for people such as him; he had forfeited his right to them long ago.

“Yes, Lord Burgess. It would not be a problem.”

---

(Chapter 2) ->

(Dreamling Week Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

[mxstellatayte]

metal, nuts, bolts, and a hell of a lot of blaster residue (chapter 1.)

din djarin x female mechanic reader.

chapter 1 word count: 5.4k

warnings/tags: graphic depictions of violence, reader is a mechanic, found family, din djarin speaks mando'a, din and reader are both very touch starved, i don't know how fictional money works, din djarin is a bottom, smut written and proofread by an asexual, din and reader have ptsd, canon is dead and i killed it, no use of y/n

It was on the third time to Nevarro that he’d finally needed repairs. Greef Karga would always greet him and the kid with a smile on his face, referring to him as “Mando.” Friends, you’d realized after a short time. Tall, imposing, and covered from head to toe in gleaming plates of Beskar armor, the Mandalorian strode confidently through the airfield on the outskirts of town where you worked on Navarro. Of course, you’d only seen him around and heard the whispers passed from lips to ears, getting slightly more molded and misshapen every time, rinse and repeat, throughout cantinas, dining halls, and bars whenever his looming presence would enter, no one besides Magistrate Karga ever mustering up the courage to speak to him for any reasons other than what would soon occur: business. 

Apparently the group of Mandalorian radicals, as you’d heard them called, were a group of religious zealots, vowing to never remove their helmets (how they ate, drank, bathed, and slept, you could only guess,) work amongst themselves and interact in limited amounts with anyone not of their creed. Your knowledge about… anything, really, of the outside world before and immediately following your defection was limited, the weeks being a blur of being offered a job at a small bar just down the street from where you lived now and not far from your airfield, a family-owned establishment on the outskirts of the city, getting used to your new home and city, and attempting to pick up miscellaneous mechanic jobs here and there to build your reputation. You knew little about the time on Nevarro before your defection from the Empire, little news about anything reaching your mechanic job in the lowest levels of every landing port on any ship. You, quite literally, lived under a rock, several thick sheets of stone separating the repair bays from the higher-up landing pads in more Imperial cruisers than not. 

“What can I do for you?” you smile to the visor as you wipe off grease from your hands with a rag frequently slung over your shoulder. Some it remains, the dark amber liquid packed under your fingernails, sticking in the creases of your hands and in your cuticles mixing with the dirt and dust in the air and creating a persistent, unremovable black coating on your hands and wrists, coming to an end roughly a third of the way up your forearms. You've undone the top zipper of your mechanic's coveralls and now have the sleeves tied around your waist, a black shirt underneath neatly tucked into the pants of the coveralls. Your boots (a pair due for replacement at this point, but your supplier had been slacking recently and upping his prices for no reason, so they'd gone neglected for a while,) your second pair since defection, are well-worn and comfortable, the coveralls wrapped around them so as to protect your legs while welding. Your hair, previously hastily thrown into a twist and tucked under a cap to avoid any catching in gears while working on ships, now had strands falling down and tickling the back of your neck over your headphones. Quite frankly, you look like an unprofessional mess, and in an effort to minimize such an appearance, you pull your cap off and pull your hair down, then pull it back together into a ponytail and securing it with one of the few remaining hair elastics you’d kept from the Empire, then slide your cap back on and pull the ponytail through the adjustable loop on the back. 

“The Crest needs some repairs and a refuel. And no droids.” You nod and look down when you hear quiet cooing, seeing the small child you’ve heard so much about sitting in his egg-shaped pod and wide, black-as-night eyes staring up at you. From the gossip you've overheard in cantinas and whispered in alleyways, during one of the days you were doing an emergency out-of-town repair for your friend, this small child had caused something ranging from a small skirmish to a battle not unlike those occurring between the Empire and the Rebellion, depending on who you asked. 

“I can absolutely do that. And I never work with droids. Don’t trust ‘em. Never have,” you grin, looking back up at your customer. “Not to do the work, anyway- I’ve got a rewired mouse droid that holds my supplies and a downsized Gonk droid for light, if that’s alright with you.” You spare a glance at the Mandalorian, and all you receive for an answer is a silent nod. 

“The ship is over here,” the Mandalorian points, and the two of you turn, observing the ship. It’s old- you’re surprised she hasn’t been destroyed or impounded yet. Or kicked the bucket. A ship this old must be falling apart- it’s no doubt she needs repairs. 

“Let me guess. A Razor Crest. Pre-Empire.” Another silent nod, and you celebrate internally. The constant drilling you faced as a mechanic under the Empire paid off, being able to guess what ships landed in your airfield by a quick glance at them, some ships even so familiar you could recognize them by their engines’ sounds. “I’ve worked on one or two of these in the past, but don’t remember much. Care to educate me on what she needs?”

The two of you walk around the ship as he tells you, piece by piece, what needs repairs. It’s, putting it mildly, a lot, a mishmash of small and large repairs alike. You can only wonder what the Mandalorian was going for his ship to be in such a condition. Some small, non-essential wires are on the fritz, the hull needs a small patch near the starboard engine, the shield system needs a whole reboot, and the comm system is “out.” The Mandalorian didn’t elaborate on what kind of “out” it might be, but you fear that, in a ship as old as this, the repairs that may entail could be atrociously difficult. That's just the shorter, less time-consuming repairs; a wire connection that normally wouldn't take you longer than ten minutes to fix is in an annoyingly inconvenient and narrow opening- if you can find the right tools, it should only take you about ten minutes, but finding the tools is going to be a pain in your ass. Using a mechanic droid would make the job fifteen times easier, instances like these being the few times you actually trust droids to do the work, but your customer has requested no droids. Might as well give it a shot, you think. I’ve done smaller jobs before. Much smaller. Not without a droid, though. One of the engines’ connections to the light fuel was damaged, and needs to be reconnected, a job you're not excited for. Dealing with light fuel is incredibly tedious, a soldering iron a degree too hot, left in contact with the metal a second too long, or a stray spark flown a little too close to the fuel tank and “oh shit” would be your famous last words. The Maker only knows how long that would take you. The final repair necessary is in the radio- the comms systems are so old in the Crest that you suspect they've just crapped out at this point, requiring full replacement. You chew your inner cheek, eyebrows furrowing in thought. “So can you do it?” 

“I don’t know. The light fuel track is the only thing I’m not sure about. I’ll need a better look at it before I agree to it, but everything else I definitely can do. Come on, let’s just look at it now.” You lead the Mandalorian to the back of his ship, then press a button on your tablet that wheels your crane over to you. The bar raises, permitting you and your customer onto the platform, then lowers as the two of you ascend, settling close to the engine. You undo some of the bolts holding the panel to the framework of the ship and pull it away, propping it up on another panel of the engine. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it- a compartmentalized light fuel track rather than the more dangerous (albeit more efficient) fuel systems more common in newer ships. The words pre-Empire ring in your head and you internally curse yourself for not remembering- chambered light fuel systems were the only system in existence before the Empire came along and created the faster systems. 

You don’t realize you’re wearing your so-called thinking face, your eyebrows scrunched and tongue poking out between your lips as you fiddle with the bolts in your hand and you shake your head to clear the remaining brain fog. “I can do it. Do you need it done by any time specifically?”

“How fast can you have it done?”

“Depends. How much are you paying me?” you fire back, stifling a grin. Being your own boss and the best mechanic in town meant you could haggle prices as much as you needed to- within reason, of course. You weren’t heartless. And you needed customers. “And can I babysit the kid?”

The Mandalorian states at you in silence for what feels like an eternity, his arms crossed over his broad, beskar-covered chest. You can’t lie, it’s a pretty sight, but that might just be your raging daddy issues talking. “I pay you seven hundred fifty credits and provide parts and you have it done in two sunsets. The kid stays with me.” 

Shit, seven hundred fifty credits?  you think, the number striking an instinct inside of you that you first associate with a tough job and lots of money second. “Seven fifty, the parts and my electric fine. The Empire gets bitchy if I'm welding after curfew, which I'll be doing if it's going to be done in two sunsets, especially with the radio. I'm pretty sure it's crapped out and I'll need to find another one.” You notice out of the corner of your eye that the sun is already lowering in the sky, the sky slowly tinting brilliant reds and oranges thanks to the volcanic ash lingering in the air. You jut your thumb towards the horizon and bright colors in the sky, curious. “And do those two sunsets include this one? Because I’ll need two sunsets after this one to complete it all with the quality I intend to deliver.” The Mandalorian stares you down, the T-shaped visor an empty void of silent judgment, and you catch a slight glimpse of your reflection in the shiny black surface. Several strands of hair stick to your face with sweat and there's a smear of grease on your chin. Absolutely gorgeous. The Mandalorian’s arms are crossed over his broad chest, rising and falling with every breath he takes, time stretching longer and longer as he contemplates your offer.

“Deal. Two sunsets, not including today’s. No later.” You grin, shaking his hand. “The parts are inside, if you get started I'll bring the parts out. And about the radio- if you check it out soon and see it needs replacing, I can try to find one while you're working. The faster I can get to Tatooine, the better.”

“Sounds good!” You look at your watch, calculating how much time you'll need to spend on each specific repair for each day; the patch in the hull won't take you longer than an hour, the shield can reboot while you're working on that, and the glitchy wiring will likely only take you forty five minutes, including testing time. If you can find the right tools, the narrow wiring should be relatively easy. It's the light fuel that concerns you, tenacity and all. 

Once you get a good look at the fuel pump, though, you're not worried about it. Sometimes your anxiety jumps when someone mentions a light fuel track and this was one of those instances, but you forgot that the Crest is ancient- it uses pre-Empire fuel pumps, and the issue is in a small, isolated chamber as opposed to the large, risky, one piece systems. The isolated systems are slightly more unreliable, but much easier to fix. “Thank the Maker,” you whisper, pulling a small planning tablet out of your back pocket. 

“Where do you want the parts?” the Mandalorian calls, a small cart loaded with the parts you’ll need next to him. Your eyes light, an exciting feeling stirring in your stomach at the thought of the challenge of fixing this ship finally settling in.

“Right there is fine,” you respond, pressing a button on your elevating crane to take you back down to the ground from your level, roughly fifty feet in the air. When it’s close enough to the floor, you jump off, your feet hitting the metallic ground with an echoing clang. You inspect each of the pieces, thankful that an extra coil of welding wire is among them. Who knows how many yards of coil you'll go through fixing the fuel pump alone. “Thanks for the welding coil,” you say, continuing to poke through the pile. “These pieces will probably be enough to fix most everything, but the radio is still to be reckoned with. Here,” you say, pulling a pager out of your back pocket that you use for customers, checking the number briefly and connecting it to this job specifically on your tablet. “When this goes off, come back. I either need to talk to you about the radio or the job’s done. It beeps, but I can switch it to a silent alarm if that would work better for you.”

“Silent. I don't want it interrupting a meeting or a job.”

“Understandable.” You press a button on your tablet and the pager vibrates in your hand, the connection between it and your tablet secure. You hand it over to the Mandalorian and he takes it and hands it to the kid. 

“Hold onto that for me, okay?” The kid babbles something sounding like a “guh” in response, which you can only assume means yes. “I'll pay you half now and half when the job is done.”

“Great. That's normally what I do for all customers, so I'm glad you're cool with it, too.” He pulls out a sack of credits, counts out 375 credits’ worth of the heavy metal currency, and hands them to you. You hastily stuff them in your zippered pocket, planning to shove them in your safe in your office later. “See you in two sunsets?”

“See you then.” The Mandalorian turns and walks away, and you look giddily at the ship towering above you. 

“What to tackle first?” You ask yourself. Talking to yourself has been a habit of yours since you first started your mechanic’s training with the Empire. A verbal processor, they had called you. You had no idea what it meant at the time but rolled with it. You pull your headphones on, making sure that they're connected to your tablet before pressing play, enjoying some of the music that reminded you of home and was also just fun to work to. The Empire never canceled your security cards or logins to any of their software, so you may or may not have pirated some music from their streaming software, a program that had music from every corner of the galaxy. Including music from your home planet. Terra, the Empire called it. But you just knew it as Earth. Your music plays through your headphones and you make a to-do list: 

Hole in the hull

Glitchy wiring

Shield system reboot

Bitchy wiring in that tiny little vent

Radio (I’m going to have to replace the whole thing AA)

Aaaaaaaaaaa light fuel track aaaaaaaaaa

Sure, the list may not necessarily be what you'd see at any other mechanic in your system, but it wasn't killing anyone and it was funny. You smile as one of your favorite songs comes on- Telephone. The familiar beat of the piano makes you do a little dance as you walk towards your workbench, flipping the switch on your mouse droid (aptly named Squeaks,) and tapping the light on your wristband a few times, grinning when it boops affirmatively. “Get Gonk going, will ya?” Two more beeps, and it drives off, surprisingly fast, to press the pressure plate that activates your modified power droid. As you gather your tools into your large bag, setting some in certain pouches and some just in the open space of the bag, Squeaks bonks into your ankle to notify you of your droids’ readiness. 

You check that you have all your tools necessary, eyebrows furrowing in slight confusion when you realize you’re missing a specific wrench that you’ll need to loosen certain bolts in the light fuel track. You check in Squeaks’ compartments, in the drawers of your workbench, and even in your speeder’s saddlebags- nothing. You shove one ear of your headphones back with your wrist, careful to not soil them with the grease constantly stuck in the crevices of your hands and under your fingernails. “Squeaks, where’s my ⅜ wrench?” It runs into your ankle again, and you can feel a little bit of irritation slip into your voice, lips pursing in annoyance. “Squeaks, my ⅜ wrench. Where is it.” Another headbutt to your ankle. And another. You look down at the mouse droid, about to threaten a rewire, before you see it- your ⅜ wrench, slipped into the gear loop at your hip. “Thanks,” you smile, shaking your head at your idiocy and pulling your headphones back over your ears. A lock of hair falls out in the process, and your attempt to blow it out of the way, but after three failed attempts, you grab the incessant piece of hair and shove it behind your ear. Oh well. I need to shower when I get home, anyway. Right as you pull your headphones on, the chorus of Telephone begins, and you dance along as you jog back to your crane.

I know we only just met, 

So why do I feel invested? 

Do you feel it too? 

Do you feel it too?

I could be your best yet

Future favorite regret!

Do you feel it too? 

Your eyes are closed, there’s a bright smile on your face, and you’re jumping, spinning, and having the time of your life, as you always do when you start a new repair job, one you know for sure will be a challenge. You’re thrown from your mini party, however, when you see the Mandalorian staring at you from the bottom of the ramp to the Crest, yelping in shock and pulling your headphones off. “Did you notice anything else needed repairs?”

The Mandalorian hesitates before speaking, one foot on the ramp, the kid’s pod still at his hip. “No, just forgot something on the ship. I’ll be gone in two minutes.” He turns to climb the ramp, disappearing into the ship, and you stand in the dirt, just a few feet from where the metal starts to protect the rest of your shipyard from fuel residue and any sparks from your assorted welding projects that fall. Squeaks and Gonk are behind you on the small rickety metal path you’d added shortly after buying Squeaks- Gonk was somewhat reliable on dirt, but Squeaks, with being all of less than one foot tall with tiny wheels, couldn’t make it one foot without dirt jamming up its gears and exploding in a flurry of panicked beeps, lights, and boops. That was a task and half, but thankfully you didn’t have to spend any credits on metal sheeting, welding some of the scrap from previous projects together. 

You slide your headphones back on, the music continuing all throughout the encounter, standing there in shock for a few moments before steeling yourself and walking back to your lift, lowering the ramp for Squeaks and Gonk. You can feel yourself slipping into your little happy place, the combination of your music, the dry, arid, nearly-unbearable volcanic heat of Nevarro’s summer you know all too well and the metallic tang in the air making you feel a sense of familiarity, your daily routine coming back to you as you begin to run on autopilot. After removing the bolts from the engine so that you can inspect the broken fuel track in more depth, you quickly discover that you were correct in your initial assumptions of the isolated track- the pre-Imperial age of this ship’s fuel track is going to make these repairs a lot easier and much, much safer than they would’ve been if it had been one of the newer tracks. You silently thank the Maker as the last few notes of Telephone finish playing in your headphones and laugh at the stark contrast in between that song and the one following it- deep piano notes and an even deeper voice flood your ears, lyrics you know by heart from your heart coming to you like any welding project. “My lover’s got humor. She’s a giggle at a funeral. Knows everybody’s disapproval- should’ve worshiped her sooner…”

Little did you know, however, that your audience wasn’t just your two work droids. As you continued to pick through the engine, lost in your own little world of metal, nuts, bolts, and a hell of a lot of fuel residue, the Mandalorian had exited his ship and, having heard you… singing? No, that couldn’t be. The voice seemed too deep, too perfectly pitched to be your chipper and bright tone that he’d heard earlier. Maybe there was something wrong with the audio processors in his helmet? A short diagnostic proved this hypothesis false, so that left only one conclusion. He rounded the corner, catching sight of you on your crane with Squeaks and Gonk behind you, and your lips moving just in the way he expected them to: right with the song you were singing. He stands there in awe as your voice floats around the airfield, reverberating off of the metal walls containing the space and creating a church choir-like effect. Din is taken aback- your voice is beautiful, filled with passion unlike any he’s heard in his years traveling the galaxy. It can only be compared to the voices he would hear during ceremonies and rituals he would bear witness to on Aq Vetina before it was all destroyed by droids under Separatist command. No. he isn’t going to think about that. He isn’t going to think about Aq Vetina or you, despite how much his heart aches to remember the small things he’d noticed about you, even in the short time he’d interacted with you, heard your voice, seen your small mannerisms only visible if you’d grown to look for them in everyone you’d interacted with, knowing that looking for that could mean the difference between life and death as a bounty hunter.

He wasn’t going to think about that, that is, until the chorus hits, and you set down your tools and belt the song with everything in your soul. If he wasn’t stunned to his soul before, he is now. The fact that such a sound, so pure, clear and whole, could come out of your body, something he hadn’t expected capable of this, much less repairing his ship (that was until he got on your crane and you knew the difference between the pre-Empire compartmentalized fuel track that occupied his own ship and an Imperial fuel track, present in the more modernized and recent ships with just one glance at the exhaust vent. Then, he knew you could repair his beloved Crest.) His jaw drops below the helmet, watching you sing and hearing your voice bounce off the walls of the airfield, a sound only enhanced by the massive metal chamber. Your eyes are closed, your hands held in front of your chest, and you’re sitting on your stool and almost curling in on yourself, the music playing through your headphones capturing your soul, and, in Din’s case, your singing capturing his own, even if for just a moment. 

And then the chorus ends, and you’re smiling and picking up your tools again, cranking at the bolts in the engine to carefully pull it apart and pull it back together. Din’s pushed back into reality, the combination of the memories of Aq Vetina, your singing, and the incredibly annoying amount of emotions he was suddenly feeling taking him by surprise. No. Don’t think about her that way. She’s a mechanic on Nevarro. Nothing else, he chastises himself, hating the possibility that he could be developing feelings for someone whose name he doesn’t even know. No. The Creed would rather he remove his helmet and renounce his role as Mandalorian than admit he had developed an emotional attachment to someone not of the Creed. Still, he can’t help but feel the tightness in his chest when he walks away from you silently, his boots falling on the dirt of your chamber, remembering the brightness of your voice and the undeniable spark in your eyes when you laid eyes on the Crest for the first time. Oh, and the way your lips lifted into the brightest smile he’d seen since Aq Vetina when you saw Grogu- No! You don’t even know her name, for Maker’s sake, much less her personality. Keep it together, for fuck’s sake. 

You catch sight of your customer exiting your business, the doors hissing open and the wind from Nevarro’s bustling streets making his tattered, muted brown cape flutter ever so slightly. Finally, your hangar is empty and you can focus. Sure, you can focus with other people in your hangar, but not in the way you can when you’re the only person in the vast chamber. You can sing as loud as you want, weld as bright as you want, throw scrap metal and pieces of junk around to your heart’s content, and act in ways that would likely be socially unacceptable outside of your little safe haven of sheet metal, welding fumes and an incessant layer of grease coating your hands.

Once you’ve run a diagnostic of the fuel track, both manually and with your tablet to scan any potentially dangerous fractures in tubing, you start undoing the bolts and carefully pulling it apart, falling into your autopilot-the-repair mode. It’s a certain feeling you get, where you let a combination of your months-long training under the Empire and your following years of mechanical experience take control of your brain, your limbs, and your movements. You tend to not remember what occurs when you fall into that mode, only snapping out of it when you encounter a challenge, an occurrence happening fairly rarely in comparison to how many jobs you’ve worked. Your fingers nimbly fiddle with piping, file through crates full of extra pipes, tap rhythms against each other just to occupy themselves, and your mind works in tandem, processing the music just as your hands do with the rhythms, ticking off the steps for a certain repair, and reminding you- two sunsets. That’s the deadline for your job. 

You’re so deep in thought and focus, in fact, that before you know it, the sun has long dipped below the volcanic horizon, Squeaks having hit the light switch on your crane long ago as you had lugged your unnecessarily heavy work light up and angled it towards the intestines of the engine, the metal caging around the light bulb protecting it from any potential damage it could face. You’ve worked so late, in fact, that the Mandalorian returns to you hunched over the engine, your light switched off and sparks from your welding gun fly in every direction. Your heavy welding helmet covers your face, the dark screen the only non-metal material besides the headband, and your hair has been tied into a bun rather than its original ponytail and shoved back into your cap. Your arms are covered again, the coveralls zipped up to your neck both to protect you from the miniscule fires and from the chilly air- a cold breeze is sweeping off of the volcanic flats, slipping through the cracks in his flight suit. 

He looks up at you for a moment, simply watching you work, captured by some mysterious force. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring, captivated by your figure, but abruptly makes towards the ramp into the Crest when you lean back, setting your welding gun into the hook to your left and straightening your back on your stool, reaching back and pressing your palms into the small of your back, one on each side of your spine, groaning at the stiffness. Goosebumps rise on the back of his arms and up the back of his neck, cursing the way your sight makes him feel. He’s known you for less than a day, and it’s like he’s a horny teenager again, flustered without you even looking at him and flashing that smile that could outshine both of Tatooine’s suns on the brightest day of the cycle, much less speaking to you.

What the Mandalorian didn’t know, however, was that you had caught the flash of gleaming Beskar out of the corner of your eye under your welding mask when he first entered the hangar, smiling to yourself at the arrival of your customer. You were aware of him standing there, aware of how much time he had spent watching you work (approximately five minutes and thirty-seven seconds, but who was counting?) Aware of how, once he realized what he was doing, he snapped to attention and shuffled his way back into the ship, closing the ramp behind him. 

You finish the welding, replace the panel on the engine, fasten the bolts back in place, and lower your crane, the exhaustion from the long night finally hitting you like a ton of bricks. You smile victoriously as you delete the last note on your to-do list for the Crest’s repairs: the light fuel track. Relieved to have finished the most daunting task at hand, you set your tablet down on your workbench and pull your headphones off. Flyaway hairs disperse from where they were stuck to your cheeks with a mixture of sweat and grease, and you pull your cap off, letting a few stray hairs fall out of the twist but keeping as much possible still up. They tickle the back of your neck and you pull your blaster holster out of the locked safe in the bottom drawer of your workbench, slipping it through the belt loops on your coveralls, then stuffing the small pistol you keep for personal safety into it. Home time. Despite your exhaustion, you’re on high alert as you lock up, sealing drawers, covering scraps and other assorted projects in loose clothes and tarps, and locking the few drawers that hold your valuable tools. Squeaks and Gonk return to their docks, the small green lights indicating their refueling batteries. Once everything is set, you head out to your front entrance, locking the doors for the night and immediately whirling around. Sure, the recent governing from Magistrate Karga had improved Nevarro by light years from the shithole it had been before, but there were still shady pirates that visited the remaining bars and cantinas just looking for someone to pester. 

Your ears prick at every small sound, every cheer a tiny bit too loud, as you walk towards your house. Finally, after five minutes of walking, a walk you spend on edge every night despite your impeccable aim with your blaster, hyper-vigilance and quick reflexes, all skills learned due to shitty parents and only enhanced by the Empire’s control over you, you reach the door of your house, located on a street of identical homes squished into what was once the shadiest part of town. (Granted, it still is the shadiest part of town, but now you don’t have to worry that the sound of your steps falling on the cobbled road isn’t hiding the steps of someone behind you, whirling around every twenty paces to make sure you were alone.) After your fingers fumbling for your keycard and entering your pin, the pocket door slides open and you sigh, stepping over the threshold and into safety. You unlace and kick off your boots, pull your coveralls off (which took way too much effort, by the way,) and shimmy out of your sweat-soaked tank top, opting for a plain blue cotton tee, a remnant from the Empire, and flop into your bed, passing out less than one minute later. 

[homiesondaweb]

I WROTE SOME HOBIE BACKSTORY FLUFF

Been writing too much angst lately🥲

anyway this is based of my previous head cannon on Hobie's siblings. Quick recap (might make a OC post about em) Hudson and Hendricks(yea name change) are the eldest twins about 12 years older than Hobie and are 21. Henry is in the middle he is 9 years older than Hobie, he is 18. Harley is only 5 years older and she is 14 going on 15 (she helps run the community garden). Hobie is 9!

I am Black but also an American from the midwest. So if I fuck up some of the UK vernacular or whatnot y'all can correct me in the replies or reblogs. If you see this fic floating on AO3 that is also me!

______________________

1966 Chevy C10 aka the ugliest truck known to fucking man aka Harley bedroom away from home. Given to her by her old dirt and hay supplier before he moved to Wales, the dark green vehicle that lives parked in their ground floor garage was her escape from a house full of her lanky and, damn-right charlie brothers. She has the bed of the truck softened with a scrap fabric mattress and tens of thrifted comforters and pillows. Her portable record player crones with a Betty Davis record riding the groove with a whining guitar. Harley uses a chunk of mirror propped against her stage trunk to watch herself as she sections her hair into lazy cornrows for the night.

The sky slowly crumbles into a sunset, unfurling into a cool moon, shifting the world to a soft grayscale and sepia. Streetlights outside the garage flicker on and the human officers switch their patrol lights to a slow strobing blue and yellow. Harley gives a big yawn that pops her jaw and hums along to the guitar's riffs. The sound rests really low in her throat, it nearly drowns out the sound of steel door creaking and small steps that padding in. The 14 year old pauses her humming and stretches over to see the interruption of her night routine.

It's shaped lika palm tree, outlined in muted pink with their bare feet slapping around on the cement. Sleepy gray eyes met hers before they lighten to hazel for a moment, then back to sleep gray.

"Comin' ta bed?" Hobie whispers, voice all low and raspy. Harley helps the wire of a little boy clamor over the raised gate, he settles his head on her shoulder after. She chuckles and smears some leftover mango butter on his nose before her hands are back in her head.

"Inna bit. Thought I might sleep down 'ere though. Let my Baney Bart lil brother have the whole bed. You've got ta start wearin' yer socks to bed, ice foot." Harley teases and Hobie whines, then snuggles against her side. 

Harley thought that now with Henry moving in with Rembrandt to the Canal flats would have given her the incentive to claim his room for her own and finally stop sharing both room and mattress with her baby brother. It wasn't easy though, ever since she came on the scene when the twins 7 and Henry was 5 the Brown siblings instinctively cuddled. Like cubs or kittens of some kind. 

Hudson and Hendricks would sleep on their stomach, shoulders piled on top of each other or an arm around the other's back. Henry uses somebody's calf as a pillow and his foot always ends up in Hudson's face. Harley found her spot cuddled over Henry's stomach and when baby Hobie joined the mix she always woke to her shoulder being smothered in his drool and soft snores. They were like cats in that way, if one sibling saw the other napping, they were gonna share that sleep.

It has peter off some, Henry started sleeping over in the art alley with his mandem. Hendricks working overnight security with Pa. Hudson staying with Imani more days out the week(they all wait for the couple to announce the true reason why she was getting rounder). Harley sleeps in the truck when her band mates  sneaks over after the city curfew because their fam is off it or someone is sick with radio or the flu.

But even with growing apart. A cuddle wassa cuddle and baby Hobie was gonna get his full of them. Of course Harley was still gonna share a bed with her little Barty when requested. Hobie starts to fade down to their true colors as sleep wraps him up, 

"Oi! No sleep yet lil boy. Gotta put the 'fro up." She whispers tugging at the puff on the top of his head. Hobie grumbles, going cut yellow with crankiness. Harley counters it with a pink kiss to the top of his head and lets the stocking-band out that release his coils. Hobie blinks blearly in his slumped sit as Harley sloppily parts then flat twists them down into four rows. He gives a little sigh at the cool feeling of mango butter to his scalp but grumbles when she ties a scarf over them. Harley chuckles as she releases his ears from under it and scoots the front back. 

They both know that damn scarf will be half way across the room and on the floor with her bonnet by morning. He cuddles into the front of her, stuck lika kola instead of a boy, smushing his face to her shoulder. Harley rubs his back and hums out the Buddy Miles intro that is stuck in her head as she feels around for her phone. Hobie blinks again as he watches her raise the antenna on top of it then pop in the code for someone. It rings loudly and they both wince before she lowers the volume and tilts the antenna to the right. 

"Headin' ova?" She asks and a voice hums a soft no. Hobie sighs, that was Donovan.

"Dottie and Kirt's gots lead or radio. Feelin' weak me-self, keepa eye on ya water, yeah? Think OsCo is doin' flushes again." He warns softly.

Harley tenses at that. She sits back some and uses her free hand to inspect Hobie's face. She blinks hard and they both revert to true colors. All warm brown skin, black hair and steely eyes. She gives a sigh of relief at seeing that the whites of his eyes as fine, not any spots of yellow. No dryness to his pallor, just sleepy.

"Where you in the fountains today?" She asks and Hobie shakes his head.

"Wit Pa tuday." He mumbles to her, she lets him relax back and resumes petting his back.

"Thanks for the heads up Vonnie. I'll come by wit some bone soup and a filter from Hud in the mornin'. 

"You're a dove Harles. Oíche mhaith a chroí." 

Hobie gives a fakes gag as Harley blares pink then clovers sketches, Gaelic love poems and the expert of Romeo and Juliet having it off etch over her skin in cursive for a moment before she simmers back to sepia.

"Bon lannwit, Mon kè." She says back and hangs up. Harley stashes her phone back under the mattress before turning off her record player. With a practiced ease she carefully slides Betty Davis back into the paper sleeve, then lays the mirror chunk down on a quilt.

"Ann kouche, pinèz." Harley yawns and clamors out the truck bed with Hobie still clinging to her. They make their way up to the flat and to their room. Hobie is nothing but soft breath so it startles Harley when he speaks.

"You gonna live wit Donovan one day? Like Henry and Huddie?" Hobie asks. Harley kisses his cheek and lays them down in bed. She lights a lavender incense cone, then pops it in the holder.

"Maybe one day."

"Gonna marry 'em?"

"Can't get married. He's too Irish. Laws will bang us."

"You don't care." Hobie giggles and Harley smiles real big at that.

"Who said me and Van ain't gonna bang the laws back bruv? Don't worry bout it Barty Bug." She tells him when she lays down fully and loops an arm around his shoulders, Hobie puts his head over her heart.

"You gonna runaway? You two go off?"

Harley hums.

"Where imma go, bug?" 

"... Cuba or Panama, like uncle."

"Too much sun for Donovan. He'd cook."

"Uhm… Canada. Like Erika's family?"

"Too cold. I'd freeze to death."

Hobie pouts at this point, turning into her elbow so he doesn't have to see the sleeply mirth in his older sister's eyes. Her black nails gently grasps his jaw and turns his face back to her. The both flare into blue and black ink and mapwork.

"What's with the questions. You think imma leave, love?"

Hobie nods in embarrassment but softens as Harley kisses his forehead.

"Not without you buggy. Same things goes for Hudson, Hendricks, and Henry. Same thing for Ma and Pa. No way I'm leavin' you even if the Queen, her corgis and the PM demanded it. Even if Von proposed right here. Which is stupid I'm 14, he's 15 and we've had lead poisoning on and off since we was little. So don't worry about Cuba or Canada, hell even Wales. I'm your big sister, we are Browns and some right punks. Labels are nothing but when you put in the care and obligations that comes with the title. Well, you're pretty fulfilled by em. And that means we stick together always. And care for each other always. So don't you worry your head about my crush. Don't worry about seeing my back out the door." 

Hobie just snuggles her closer at that. Harley chuckles and cuddles back. 

If there's one thing Hobie believes in, without a question,  it is his sister.

-----

Oíche mhaith a chroí = Irish Gaelic - Goodnight, my dear

Bon lannwit, Mon kè = Haitian Creole - Goodnight, my heart

Ann kouche, pinèz = Haitian Creole - Let's go lie down, Bug.

[nerissa01]

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[novelist-hobbyist]

Mission Interrupted

Synopsis: Assigned together on a mission, you and your fellow Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi get into a rough situation. With a drunk patron of the bar you’re staking out hitting on you, Obi-Wan gets a tad defensive.

The surroundings of the bar were all muddled together. The brown, stained carpet-like seating blended into the darkness of the low-level light, and the dingy patrons that smelled of rotten meat and garbage made you uneasy. But you were here for a purpose, no matter how disgusting your surroundings made you feel. Draped around your shoulders and head like a cape was material that felt like a burlap sack. It made your skin itch, and you fought the urge to do so. Your face was smeared with dirt and grime, your fingernails black with dirt. Your mission? Intercept an illegal weapons trade. The plan? Your fellow Jedi Master would pose as someone interested in an “authentic” bounty hunter dual blaster, while you went to the truck of the supplier and emptied the storage. 

It was a simple plan, yet here you were, being held up by a drunk patron, who seemed to take a liking to you. “You’re cute, you should give me a kiss.” The man slurred. He was covered with dirt like a coal miner would be, his ginger beard practically dyed black with grime. His teeth were yellow and rotten, so the stench of alcoholic elixir and rotten teeth filled your senses. The man was tall, at least 6 feet and was heavier. He wore overalls, which were stained with dirt and what seemed to be some type of oil. You physically cringe at the man’s comment, looking over to Obi-Wan, who was trying his hardest to distract the seller. You could tell the seller began to become visibly agitated with your colleague, tapping his foot and rolling his eyes with a huff of annoyance. You turn back to the man in front of you and give an awkward smile. “Thanks, but I’m really not–” You try to say, before the brute man interrupts you. “Give me a chance! One night with me and you’ll never go back to that shag.” He says, smirking and pointing towards Obi-Wan. Your cheeks go flush and you giggle. Was the tavern suddenly hotter? “Again, I’m not–” You try to reply, but the man’s hand is suddenly on the swell of your bottom, making you jump. “C’mon, let’s get a room.” The man slurs, getting right in your face, breathing hotter than a Tatooine summer day, and smelled of strong whiskey. 

You're shocked to see the man suddenly move back as a hand pushed on his chest, and another wrapped around the small of your waist protectively. You look up to see Obi-Wan, teeth clenched, and blue eyes lit with…jealousy? Was that jealousy on Obi-Wan’s face? His hand tightens on the top of your hip as he feigns a polite smile. “I’m afraid my wife won’t be going anywhere, unless it’s with me.” Your heart began to pound. His wife?! Oh, how your body ached for it to be true, but in the moment you were shocked. This was so unlike Obi-Wan. He had never shown any interest in you before, why was he so protective now? You give a shy giggle and move to cuddle into Obi-Wan’s side. “Right, my love.” You say softly, and you see Obi-Wan’s cheeks flush. The large male blinks, before letting out a large belch, then he laughs, slapping Obi-Wan on the shoulder. “You got yourself a good one, mate! Let me know if you ever wanna share.” The large male winks before walking away and sitting on a bar stool. You try to move away from Obi-Wan, but his grip stays on your body. You look up to him with a shy smile. “We can cut the act, you know. He’s too preoccupied with a drink.” Obi-Wan met your gaze and raised an eyebrow, that classic, playful smirk adorning his lips. “Who said it was an act, darling?”

[bullet-prooflove]

Have You Ever Been In Love? - Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Tagging: @616wilsons@mysun-n-stars@xmoonknightlyx@nessamc@crazy4chickennuggets@annetje@mysoulisasunflower@littleone65@thesandbeneathmytoes@glorieux92@supersanelyromantic@mirabee1@kabloswrld@xoxabs88xox@nunita20 @jesuisvenus24 @sideeye123 @mydarkestsecretlol @evee87 @adesertdaydream

It was your eyes that Horacio fell in love with, and of course the way that beautiful carefree grin of yours that lit up his world even in the darkest of days. There was a bleakness in his life before you. He was divorced, married to his job, committed to Escobar. There hadn’t been space for anything else. Yet somehow you made space. He didn’t understand it, he couldn’t.

It was almost a seduction. One that you didn’t realise you were complicit in.

There was an attraction, there was no doubt about that. He had encountered beautiful women before, but you were different. He coveted your kindness, your ability to keep your compassion despite the horrors you saw. You were dogged in your pursuit of the Narcos, he admired your determination and feared for your life because for you this war was personal.

The two of you had discussed your brother, the one that had been back in Miami. The job was meant to be a short-term thing, moving cocaine from one place to another. They’d found him with a bullet in his head outside a bar called The Rabbit Hole. Your mother had passed a way soon after, from a broken heart they said. You kept a picture of the two of them in your desk drawer.

He knew of your reputation back in the states. You had torn the truth from Joshua’s friends, eviscerated their lies and left them bleeding in the dirt from their guilt. You were furious, tenacious. You had chased down suppliers and dismantled their operations, you had made yourself a problem.

Hence why you had been shipped off to Colombia. You wanted to wage a war on drugs, and you’d gotten that in abundance.

You sat across from him, your face highlighted by the glow from the lamp on his desk. You were smoking one of his cigarettes, a glass of his whiskey in your hand as the two of you sat in silence listening to the song on the vintage record player, that had been passed down by his father. He knew your grasp on the language was tenuous. You tried but you had no head for languages.

“It’s about falling in love.” He told you, leaning against the desk.

Your clothing brushed against his as you stood up. You leaned in close to stub out the cigarette in the black ashtray on his desk. He inhaled your perfume. The scent of frankincense and peonies, the undercurrent of night-time air as it gave way to the morning light.

“Have you ever been in love Colonel?” You asked him.

Horacio considered the question. His marriage had been one of convenience instead of passion. There had been a comfort in the domesticity. With you it was different, it was yearning and desire, the reckless surge of a wildfire erupting through his veins. He didn’t answer, instead he inclined his head towards you, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“Have you?”

There was a complicity in the silence, his gaze lowered to your lips before his arm wrapped around your waist drawing you close. The song changed to something softer, an acoustic guitar and the drawl of a man who had lost his heart. The two of you started to sway, a gentle motion as his palm came to rest upon your lower back, thumb trailing over the that sensitive spot that sent a thousand tiny sparks prickling across your skin.

“You asked if I had ever been in love?” he murmured, his lips brushing over yours with the tenderest of kisses. “The answer is no, not until I met you.”

Love Horacio Carrillo? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[bittersweetarts]

Little Lamb - Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Chapter 12)

Aemond Targaryen x You –  Chapter 1

Word count: 4943 words

Summary: As a maiden of a noble house, it is your duty to wed well. But how will you manage to, with a curious and possessive Prince in the picture?

WARNINGS: Sexual content, misogyny, dub-con (kind of)

Spotify Playlist – AO3 Page

Chapter 12: Tenderness

Unlike Aemond, who also spoke Valyrian, you were only fluent in apologies. So, when the Prince found you in the corner of the Keep’s Kitchens, where you hid amidst the many servants cleaning after the Feast, drinking yourself to obscurity, it was unsurprising that “I am sorry” is the first sentence you spoke. And the second, and the third, and so on.

After running away from the Great Hall, embarrassing yourself in front of so many, you could not bear to return to your chambers. You should have, but you had felt overwhelmed and restless. The idea of haunting your room, with only your embarrassing memories of the day keeping you company, scared you. It was illogical, you were aware, but you also had the privilege of knowing where plentiful of honey wine was stored, and of being in the good graces of the individuals who warded it. Hence, you found yourself drinking and being a quiet participant of the gossip between servants.

The matron of the Kitchens, Myna, was a gaunt woman who had served the Targaryens for decades, and the two of you had gotten along well. Though you were not friends per se, as such a relation would be frowned upon, you did get along well, and she used to be your previous supplier of your sleeping elixir, back when you relied upon it many moons ago. Like many at the Keep, she had a vague understanding of your circumstances and was empathetic. You reminded her of her daughter, a girl around your age, who now worked in a brothel, finding her mother’s servitude to be a worse fate. Likewise, you empathised with Myna and always went out of your way to show her kindness, something she had little experience with in her life.

After you had fled the Great Hall, there was many whispers about what had happened, but the drinking and revelry continued, for your presence was a mere moment of entertainment. Despite his Queen Alicent’s pleas, who had asked for her son to stay, Prince Aemond Targaryen left the Feast in search of you, meanwhile the Lord Cregan Stark stayed, for he did not know where even to look.

When you had left, the two men stared after you in silence. The Lord of Winterfell waited for the Prince to speak ill or hit him – anything to allow the Northman to retaliate, to chase after you, for his honour stopped him from being the aggressor. But the one-eyed Prince did no such thing, instead opting to pretend that the Stark Lord did not even exist, mere dirt under his boots.

No one in the Hall knew what Aemond Targaryen was thinking, but at that moment, all the Heads of Houses in the Seven Kingdoms understood that you, a nameless girl who happened to be Helaena’s Lady-in-Waiting. They understood that you were someone important to the unliked Targaryen Prince, and this was only affirmed after he chased after you, despite his Queen Mother’s pleas. So, for the rest of the night, fomenting conversations regarding how this revelation could be weaponised was whispered between some men and women in attendance.

Prince Aemond Targaryen searched the Keep in search for you for a second time that day, and this had irritated him greatly. Why was it always so bloody difficult for him to find you? When the one-eyed Prince finally spotted your loyal knight, who followed you everywhere, Aemond Targaryent let out a breath of relief. The blonde did not expect you to seek refuge at the Kitchens, though he should have, because upon seeing you drinking out of a wine jug, he realised that you had an unfortunate inclination towards drinking, not too dissimilar to that of his older brother.

It did not help that you didn’t even register the Targaryen Prince’s arrival, despite the sudden silence of the room, with all except you freezing. Upon entering, he found you quietly sat at one of the tables, with a hand on your face, as though you were about to fall asleep. It took being loudly called out by your name to rouse your wake.

“Aemond!” You jump to your feet and hug him affectionately.

Your lack of formal greeting was not missed, and the servants around quickly began retreating out of the room, fearing the Prince’s retaliation if they were to hear or view something he would prefer to keep private. This was as the Prince expected, so when a hunched frail servant greeted him, asking for you to be taken care of, this vexed Aemond, who dismissed the woman with an irritated tone.

Annoyed, the one-eyed Prince does not return your embrace. This confused you, and as you looked up to see silent anger in his expression, you suddenly start sobbing, your emotions as unstable as your balance. Pulling away, you begin apologising profusely, though you were not sure what for. You felt as though everything you had ever done in your life was wrong, and that you not only needed to apologise to Aemond, but to everyone else – your family, Lord Cregan, Queen Alicent, Jayse, Lord Wylde, Lord Baratheon, his daughter Flora, Queen Helaena, King Aegon, the children, everyone! You felt like your very existence has brought so much suffering, and that you were better off not existing.

This was your train of thought, and you were so intoxicated that you were not aware that you began rambling your thoughts through your sobs, which dampened Aemond’s fury. He was angry with you and wished to tell you this, yet he could not be when you were in this state. All he could do was to pull you back in and hold you as you cried, not saying anything, because there was no point, as you were not sober. Once your sobbing lessened, he wiped away the tears on your face with the back of his hand and began caressing your head, which seemed to help you calm down.

Taking care of drunk people has never been something Aemond Targaryen was fond of, but you were a better drunk than Aegon was. For one, you did not try to fuck every single person in sight, nor did you spew offensive bullshit. And once you were done crying, you were actually pleasant, in that you were simply quiet. Or at least you were pleasant, until you began chundering.

You felt depleted as the blonde held you, and though his actions were comforting, you felt wrong, or rather, something felt wrong in you. You had felt dizzy for some time, and now, a disagreeable sensation began to swim in your stomach. Feeling physically overwhelmed, you completely pushed yourself away from the Prince, only to turn around and lean over, heaving the contents of your stomach.

This was the first time drinking has brought you to this state, and perhaps it was the mixing of different wines, or the copious amount you had, but you could not stop yourself, nor feel anything other than nauseousness.

Though initially taken aback by the abrupt shift in your state, Aemond swiftly stepped towards you without second thought, collecting your long hair behind you whilst slowly rubbing your back in circular motions. This was the role he was used to taking with his family, the supportive brother who took care of his siblings and mother, the one that looked after them, protected them, even from themselves at times. Though initially annoyed, Aemond Targaryen realised that he did not mind looking after you.

You on the other hand, felt completely mortified, for having let yourself become reduced to this state, and in front of Prince Aemond no less. So, through brief lulls between your churning, you kept uttering apologies, to which Aemond now dismissed in acceptance, telling you that you have nothing to apologise for.

“I am sorry, Aemond.” You would have to stop to churn. “I really am. Please leave me be. Let me die like this, it’s the least I deserve.”

Your begging only serves to humour the Prince, who could not help but chuckle, as your reaction was funny, yet he still worried. Once you seemed to have emptied your stomach, the Prince helped you straighten, put one of your arms around his shoulders, and put a hand around your waist, steadying you.

“Come. We should get you to sleep.”

Without asking, the one-eyed Prince escorted you to his chambers. Though he was sure that you would have preferred your own, he wanted to be there to make sure you were safe, and his quarters lacked the presence of pestering lords and ladies. He could have asked Ser Landor to watch over you as you slept, but the notion of having another man taking care of you, made him want to knife said man.

Anyhow, if you had any objection, you were unable to voice it, as you were almost entirely reliant on Aemond for physical support. The hallways were empty, except for the knights on watch, and when the Prince silently slipped you into an unfamiliar room, you understood that it was his. You were more lucid now, having sobered up from throwing up so much alcohol, and you were too exhausted to protest when you realised that you were being escorted not to your chambers, but to his.

As the two of you entered, it was dark, yet you could still see that it was a room befit for a Targaryen Prince. Against the moonlight, you could see that the chambers was opulent, and what immediately caught your eye was the faint outline of massives shelves stocked with countless of volumes.

Upon entering the room, Aemond had set you down on a soft divan, and you immediately sank into it when he let you go. You silently watched him as he then proceeded to light the fireplace before you, as well as some candles around. He also entered a door near his wardrobe (which you presume is his bathing room), and returned with a metal bucket, which he placed near your feet.

It was odd watching the Prince complete such mundane tasks. The idea of it was humorous really, and it was amusing enough that you could not help but let out a quiet laugh when he handed you a glass of water. You expected the Prince to be find offence and get angry with you, but he did not, instead tucking a loose strand behind your ear and pressing the glass against your mouth when you did not take it from his hand.

“Drink.” Aemond demanded, and you obeyed, taking small sips while watching him.

As you stared at him, you could not help but feel affection towards him. You could not comprehend how this was the same person you met on the balcony at the Summer Solstice Festival almost a year ago. That person was a cruel Prince who had found joy in your agony, or so you thought. How could that be the same person standing before you now, looking after you?

You think about kissing him, or rather yearn for it. But you were lucid enough to know that it would be disgusting after your churning, so you restrain yourself, and pull back, wrapping an arm around yourself.

“Thank you.” You say in earnest. The Prince hums in approval, before seating himself down next to you. You watch attentively as begins removing the outer layer of his clothing, tossing it onto the table before you, as well his eye mask, which you see he does so apprehensively. When he faces you, you wonder whether he would find it repulsive if you touched him.

Against the auburn glow of the fireplace, Aemond’s sapphire glowed brilliantly, and you could not look away. Pressing your lips together, you remove your shoes and tuck your feet underneath you, so that you can turn and face him completely. Unconsciously, a hand moves slowly towards his face, and as it does, the Prince closes his eyes, which makes you frown. This reminds you of your night together at your family home, and you do what you did back then as well, and run your hands onto his hair, gently grasping the tie around his hair and softly pulling it away, letting blonde strands fall to his face. Aemond however does not open his eyes this time, which frustrates you.

“Are you angry with me?” You ask, your voice brim with apology. Aemond shakes his head, but keeps his eyes closed.

“… then why won’t you even look at me?”

Sighing, the Prince Aemond opens his eyes regretfully, and stands, facing away from you, towards the fire place. As you stare at him from behind, you cannot help but feel hurt. This was so much worse than his anger, because his reaction right now felt justifiable, like you deserve it. Desperate for reconciliation, you walk up to him, and grasp his hands together, begging him to look at you.

“Please, Aemond. Just say something. Please.”

Aemond Targaryen has never been able to refuse you before, no matter how much he wished otherwise, and pressed his lips before speaking your name, before speaking plainly.

“You have me, but I have never had you.”

Your eyes furrow in confusion, not understanding what he was saying, not understanding him. This makes you contemplate whether you were still drunk, as his words make no sense, and upon seeing your confusion, Aemond felt himself madden. Letting out a hysterical laugh, the one-eyed Prince continued.

“My love, you possessed me the very moment we met, and I have felt cursed by your existence since then. Worst of all, I am to you but a passing fancy, someone you think you may like. You have called me cruel so many times, yet it is you that is cruel, entertaining other men, letting me in with the intention to leave me.”

Your eyes begin to water as you shake your head vehemently, unaccepting of this. You did not want to leave him, not anymore. But his proclamation is convincing, and you feel as though you have been slapped, as his claims are not entirely untrue. Though you did not allow your sister’s plans to manifest, you did happily dance with Lord Cregan in front of the whole of court and Aemond, and you did not feel apologetic for it.

“Just tell me this. Do you even care for me?”

Aemond’s coarse voice cracks, and you feel your tears fall, your heart aching in pain. You did care for him, so deeply you realise now, so why could you not admit it? You did care for him and you did not want anyone else.

Unfortunately, the Prince misinterpreted your silence. Shaking his head, Aemond removed himself from you, his face consumed with sadness, and walked towards the doorway. Seeing him leave scared you, and this fear helped you finally find the words to express how you feel.

“I love you.”

Your soft voice echoed throughout the chamber, forcing the Prince to halt. He does not turn to face you though, remaining silent, and you wonder whether you had misjudged him, whether what you felt was unrequited. Your tears have stopped, but the pain in your chest did not, so you closed your eyes, begin praying to the Seven that you could just will this entire night away.

Because of the deafening beating of your heart, you do not hear the Prince approach you, and are taken by surprise when you feel warm lips briefly press against yours. Opening your eyes, you see Aemond staring at you, with a sincere smile on his face.

Wordlessly, Aemond pulled you by the waist to his washing room, and you let him do with you as he pleased. You knew that you were in a revolting state, sweaty and foul in scent. The fact that he made no complaints was astounding to you. Thus, when he untied the back of your modest dress, you said nothing, and as he pulled it over your head, you said nothing as well. If you were confessing to a septa, you would admit that you actually enjoyed being taken care of like this.

Your body had been completely covered by your pink gown, concealing the many bruises and marks on your body left by the one-eyed Prince. But in your undergarments, this was again visible to Aemond, and he found himself tighten at the sight of it. Stood before you, you watched as his gaze travelled across your body, his fingers tracing over each mark. As he is a man after all, you expect him to take you, to do what a man does to wife or whore, so when he pulls away and begins drawing water into the bath, you are surprised.

“I am sorry that the water is cold. The water was drawn this morning, but I can fetch a servant for hot water.”

“There is no need.” You respond, wrapping your arms around yourself shyly. You felt exposed in front of Aemond, who was entirely clothed. When Aemond sees you do this, he frowns and approaches you. Or so you think, until he walks past you towards the door.

“I will be just outside. There is a towel and a tunic for you.”

Not waiting for your response, he leaves you alone in the room, shocking you. This was not as you expected, and you are left speechless.

After relieving yourself and rubbing your teeth with a rough linen cloth the Prince had laid out for you, you stripped yourself completely and entered the freezing bath.

It was much colder than you had anticipated, and you wondered whether it was because you felt heated from drinking so much. Or perhaps you had simply become spoiled by the luxury of warm baths at King’s Landing, something not customary back home. Nevertheless, you found yourself shivering in the water, unable to even begin to wash your hair. Defeated, you call out the Prince’s name, hoping that he would be willing to help you.

When he does not enter, you contemplate whether he did not want to help you, or he simply did not hear you. Taking a deep breath, you call out his name again, this time more loudly. You watched the door nervously, hoping he would come.

And he does, painfully slowly and cautiously, with his eyes glued to the ground. As he approaches you, you call out his name again.

“Aemond. You can look at me.” You say, your teeth chattering. Realising that you were shivering, the Prince immediately looks at you with worry, kneeling over the bath.

“I will call for hot water right away.” You grasp his hand with your wet ones before he can move away.

“There is no need. I will be fine.” Aemond’s brows cross with worry, but you ignore this.

“I will be fine. But can you help me?”

In the bath, you were sat in a hunched position. Though you were nude, the Prince could not entirely see your most intimate parts. But you felt bashful, for you were still a maiden after all, and the silence only made you feel more conscious. You felt a lifetime pass before the Prince finally nodded. Taking a breath, you let go of his hand, and wrap your arms around your knees, looking away from him, still shivering.

“My hair. I cannot get myself to wet it.”

Again, the Prince nods, before taking a small bucket near the bath, filling it with water. As he lifts it over your head, you close your eyes and take a sharp breath, preparing yourself for the assault of coldness. But nothing comes, so you open your eyes and see the Prince staring at you with apprehension, as though he was afraid of hurting you, and this irritates you greatly, so naturally you yell at him.

“Just do it!”

Suddenly, all the water drops on your head, and you feel as though someone had resuscitated you. Through your shivering, you begin to laugh maniacally, and as does Aemond, finding your laugh contagious. The only sound that echoes through the room is laughter, endearingly melodic.

As you continue laughing, you feel more water poured onto your hair, more gently this time, and a hand softly runs through your tangled locks. Wordlessly, Aemond grasps the soap near him, and begins massaging your hair with it, his movements providing you some warmth. Your eyes flutter as his fingers knead into your scalp, and the musky scent that overwhelms the bathing room is comforting, the smell of him you realise.

Eventually, your laughing has dies down now. As Aemond finishes rinsing the soap out of your hair, he begins to do the same to your body, carefully running water and soapy hands across, causing your breath to hitch. You watch him in anticipation, waiting for his mood to shift, for him to make the first move, but he does not. Instead, he attentively observes your body, illuminated by candlelight. He moves away your arms, exposing your chest for the first time, running hands smoothly across the swell of your breasts, and you feel yourself boil, not feeling the coldness of the water whatsoever. Aemond meanwhile remains neutral, and continues cleaning you, only staring at your body in silence.

When he finishes, you let out a cry out his name in surprise as he swiftly lifts you by your feet, wetting his clothing. He says nothing though, setting you out the bath, and grabbing the towel nearby, gently drying your hair and body with it. You watch his face carefully, for any betrayal of lust or emotion, but there is none. As he pulls a cotton tunic over your head, you break the silence.

“Thank you. Truly.” Aemond hums in approval, but still says nothing. Your hands then move to his shirt, dampened by the bathwater, and you hold the fabric. You felt sure that the wet cloth was unpleasant to wear.

“Can I?” You ask, and he nods again.

You then lift it over his head, struggling due to his height, yet he does nothing to help, instead endearingly grinning at you. When you finally manage to, you feel victorious, and as you stare at his sculpted chest, your fingers trace the lines and scars present. As you do, the Prince watches your face carefully, waiting for you to be disgusted and pull away. But you do not, and pull him into his chambers, onto his bed, never straying from him.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen’s oath ceremony was a somber affair, the mood completely different from last night’s Feast.

At noon on the following day, the Great Hall was now devoid of life. The Prince Jaehaerys, King Aegon II, the Hand and Prince Aemond stood in front of the Iron Throne, with countless lords and ladies kneeling before them, unfortunately with the exception of a few.

As you stood on the stone balcony, watching them along with the Queens and Jaehaerys’s siblings, you could not help but feel uneasy, especially as your brother, now the Lord of your House (you found out only that morning), and Lord Cregan Stark were some of the few that stood in protest. The silence in the room was suffocating, and as you glanced at the Queen Alicent, you could see the worry in her face. It was Lady Merryweather of Longtable who spoke up first when the King demanded all to kneel.

“House Merryweather has not forgotten how House Hightower stole our wealth only a few years back. You steal from our lands, and then you demand loyalty? Is that the way of the Iron Throne now?”

“The Iron Throne has not forgotten how House Merryweather supported my whore sister’s illegitimate claim. Instead, our House has offered forgiveness.”

King Aegon quickly responded, vehemently, his words echoing through the hallway. You had expected protest or negotiation, but wondered why they had decided to voice it now during the ceremony, not earlier. Nevertheless, Lady Merryweather’s proclamation had opened doubt in the room, and as you watched Prince Jaehaerys, a boy of only ten that you deeply cared for, you felt an overwhelming amount of sympathy, as he struggled to conceal his nerves.

“Forgiveness does not absolve that the King has made oath breakers of most in this hall.”

The Lord of Winterfell’s deep voice thundered through the Hall. The Starks were renowned for their virtue, so his argument did not surprise anyone present. Yet, you desperately wished the Northman did not speak, and could not understand why he had travelled all the way to King’s Landing if he did not intend to pledge fealty towards the young Prince. Even if they did not possess dragons, it would not be safe for him to be at King’s Landing if not as a sworn ally. Whether you worried for him because of your sister was of House Stark now, or because it was Cregan you worried for, you were unsure.

Following Lord Stark’s declaration, the Hall was deathly silent, and you could see fury manifest in the King. What the Lord of Winterfell had said was an truth, which was easy to ignore during the chaos that followed the death of Rhyaenyra Targaryen and her children. But now, when the Seven Kingdoms were at peace, this was not something easy to ignore.

As all present were guests, they were offered safety and the promise of no bloodshed, but if this issue would not be resolved, another war could be on the horizon, and the prospect of this made you worry. You unconsciously begin picking on the hem of your dress, a modest gown similar to what you had worn the previous night, but black in colour, with gold-threaded embroidery. You are reminded of something that Aemond had told you once before.

“History is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again.” The one-eyed Prince had told you that war is never truly over. Did he know this would happen even then?

“Lord Cregan, you may correct me if I am wrong, but was it not your ancestor, Torren Stark, the last King of the North, that voluntarily swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity, in exchange for his life and the life of the Northman.”

The one-eyed Prince’s voice echoed throughout the Hall, as he stepped forward, to face the Lord of Winterfell. Every word was calculating and callous, and the tone in his speech was venomous. Even a blind person could see that there was bad blood between the two.

“Yes.” Lord Cregan gritted between his teeth, jaws tightly clenched. As you watched the scene, you could feel your heart beating outside of your chest.

“Hm. An oath is an oath, and this particular one being in perpetuity. What does perpetuity mean, Lord Stark?”

When the Lord of Winterfell does not answer, merely glaring back, Prince Aemond smiles in malice, continuing his monologue.

“Perpetuity means forever, Lord Stark. Meanwhile, the oath your father swore to my father, towards my half-sister, died with him. I am aware that you swore an oath to brotherhood towards my bastard nephew, but did that not die with him as well?”

The Lord of Winterfell still says nothing, and Aemond decides to press on. “So many oaths. I would think that if one is going choose which oath to uphold, the oaths to the living should be prioritised over those of the dead.”

Again, the Lord of Winterfell remained silent, seething in anger, and this only served to embolden the wayward Prince. Turning to face the rest of the lord and ladies, Prince Aemond addressed them now as well.

“My Lords and Ladies. Conflicting pledges have been made throughout the war, but your generous King is willing to forgive, for the peace of the realm. Like Torren Stark, all of your ancestors had sworn oaths of loyalty towards the Targaryens, and now the only legitimate claim to the Iron Throne stands before you. Your future King stands before you. The question now, without any conflict or confusion, is whether you will promise to be faithful to King Aegon, second in his name, and his named heir, the Prince Jaehaerys. Or will you choose to become craven oath breakers instead.”

As you watched Prince Aemond command the room, you are reminded who Aemond really was; a cunning, calculating man, guileful in nature. And as you watched Lord Stark, Tommen and other remaining Heads of Houses kneel, you felt your feat of the one-eyed Prince resurface. Because Aemond had shown you tenderness, you had mistaken him to be tender, when this was far from the truth.

One-by-one, every Lord and Lady present, young and old, swore their oaths of fealty towards the King and Prince Jaehaerys, some more enthusiastic than others. When you finally tore your eyes from the scene and looked at Queen Helaena, you saw her watching expressionless, which saddened you greatly. You did not expect her to enjoy the affair, but had hoped that perhaps if it went smoothly, she would at least smile. Walking up to her, you do not touch her, as you knew her aversion to physical contact, but smile at her when she looks at you, which she hesitantly returns, and this relieves you.

As you turn back to observe the ceremony, your eyes meet Aemond’s, and the two of you stare at each other for a moment, as some boy Lord from the Reach pledges fealty. Under his scrutiny, you feel your nerves overwhelm you, yet you still force a smile, which he returns triumphantly.

Author’s Note: My brain literally feels like mush, so please be patient with me if it takes some time for the next chapter to be drafted. As always, I hope that you enjoyed, and that you are having a lovely weekend!

– Chapter 13

Tags: girl-obsessed-with-things 404slayer404 moonmaiden1996 rosaryos  roseanimelover jovialfanatic wishfulwithwine missusnora maat-the-prescriptive  @let-love-bleeds-red​​ shnadaidas klutzyfreak mistalli pearlstiare nctma15 weepingfashionwritingplaid ihaveadogithink verycollectivecreator @thelibraperspective​ eddies-bat-tattoos marcs-luver kpopdistoyedmylife-blog solacestyles lonadane

[fillinforlater]

Blonde: Chapter II

Female Reader x Kim Gaeul

Length: 2938 words

Tags: terrible day, everything goes wrong, helpful friends, saving and helping, light hearted fun, slow burn, character building, mystery toxic relationship, curse filled fight, hatred, terrible mother

TW: toxic relationship

Credit: @midnightdancingsol for editing. The real MVP behind the scenes, thank you!

(A/N: @firagaarmor bcuz of course and @ifeelsounsure0 bcuz he got me to write something fluffy. Love you two and I hope y’all enjoy this second part)

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m, I’m sorry, sir.”

It’s not going well for you today. In fact, it’s been quite terrible. 

Your alarm didn’t go off as your phone didn’t charge overnight. For some reason the energy supplier cut off your electricity. Again. Is it because there was an issue with the powerline? Definitely possible, it wouldn’t be the first. It could also be because they haven't been paid last month.

A cold shower, dry noodles, and being late to school make you contemplate calling your mother and asking, no, begging for money. It's the worst form of humiliation and only has a fifty percent chance of succeeding. There is no painless way out of this, and this was only the beginning of the day.

After this disaster, you arrived at school. You are already in trouble for your bad grades and so it's a terrible look when you arrive five minutes before the lesson ends. It gets even worse when your explanation is a stuttering mess. Your teacher screamed at you for minutes straight. One more misstep and he'll let you fail.

And lastly, work. From the very first customer on, you made mistake after mistake: two items weren't scanned, three complaints with unsatisfying answers, and now, you drop a glass of jam. Luckily, the customer caught it. In his understandable anger he throws a tantrum, urging you to scan faster and faster.

"My God, is it really this hard to watch out? Every elementary school student can do this!

"S-sir, I'm sorry."

"This should not happen, I w—"

"Please, leave her alone, sir. She apologized enough already."

A soothing voice suddenly speaks up for you. Gaeul has a stern, confident glow on her features and can stand up for herself, for you, even if she's signifiantly smaller. The man backs off.

"I mean, she should just be more careful."

"I'm sure she will be."

"Okay, okay."

He scans his credit card and leaves with the usual clatter of the shopping cart.

It's just you and her now. Gaeul's blonde hair seems to glow silver-gray today, but it could just be the dirty white light above the store's shelves. She is once again carrying colorful cans, more than last time. Half a dozen.

"You, you two are more thirsty this time, huh?" you stutter your failed attempt at a joke.

"Hey, are you okay? You're crying."

"What, I'm not—"

Not yet. The tears in your eyes are like an avalanche about to break loose any second now. Gaeul can clearly see it as she softly inspects your face. No, don't cry now, you tell yourself and reach for the soda. 

Pepsi. Beep.

"Yes you are and that's okay."

Coke. Beep. 

"N-no, I'm not cryin'."

Mountain Dew. Beep.

"Hey."

It's too late. The can of green tea over the scanner is not only met with a beep, but also drops of rain. Your tears come down, nothing is able to stop them. Today is just too much.

Beep. Beep. 

"Hm, how do I do this?"

Gaeul's breath brings you back from this freezing in place. She’s right next to you, on the side of the scanner only employees are allowed to access. Cautiously, she tries to read the words on the panel and keys, but you are in the way. Her body heat and calm breath are so close, you gasp and back off and feel something hit your elbow. A decorative vase at the back of your carrel falls over. The sound of china bursting on the stone floor makes Gaeul jump. 

Gaeul scrambles awkwardly to quickly leave the carrel and walks to the pile of dirt and shards, while you try to balance yourself and look around. If your manager heard this, he will be here in less than a minute—

“What was that? Checkout three—”

“I’m sorry,” Gaeul interrupts the annoyed manager, “I must have accidentally touched it. It wasn’t on purpose and I—”

“N-no!” you interrupt Gaeul with a shocked stutter, “I, it was my fault. My e-elbow hit it when I turn—”

“She is just taking the blame for me,” Gaeul interrupts.

“Wh-what?” your manager says. He looks between the two of you.  

Instinctively, you shut up and stare at the ground. Confusion keeps you from crying and instead raises questions. What is happening? Why is Gaeul doing this? What if I have to pay—no, what if Gaeul has to pay for the vase? Would she do it for me?

“Trust me, sir, she is taking the blame out of kindness,” Gaeul argues calmly. She then bows her head. “It’s my fault. I will pay for the damages.”

“Ah, no. It’s fine,” the bewildered manager responds, scratching the back of his head, “Thank you for your honesty. It was an ugly vase anyways. Just… be more careful next time.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry sir.”

You stare at Gaeul bowing again. Her upper body is covered by a simple, white t-shirt with a black cat on its front, something you haven’t noticed in your self-centered sadness. As the manager walks away, you’re still staring at her. Your heart beats faster and a warm thought arises in your mind.

This is the first time someone made a sacrifice for me.

#

The final rays of sunlight beam over the roofs. This time of the year, it’s your usual sight when you leave the store after your shift. You step through the employee exit, a white plastic bag in hand, and trot towards the parking lot. At this time, no one is allowed to park on the property of the store and the manager made it your job to check every evening. You scan the concrete area and as usual, no one dares to park here. If so, you’d write down the license plate number and—

“G-Gaeul?”

“Oh, there you are. Hey.”

Gaeul sits atop a metal safety pillar next to the entrance, each of her six cans lined up in a row before her. She waves and points to the pillar next to her. The sunlight reflected from the glass front behind her makes her bright hair glow brighter and you fly towards her like a moth. 

“What are you d-doing here?”

“I was waiting for you. I wanted to apologize.”

“A-apologize? Why?”

Gaeul points at the pillar once more. Never not laying your eyes off of her face, you sit down on the metal surface. Through your thin skin-tight jeans you still feel its coldness. You want to jump back up and rather stand, but Gaeul reaches for your hands and you freeze on the spot. It’s not cold anymore.

“Because I had a stupid idea and made you feel uncomfortable in front of your boss? I think this warrants an apology.”

“B-but you actually helped me. I should th-thank you.”

Before you can fall back into your old habit of lowering your gaze, Gaeul brings you back with an assertive rebuttal.

“No, I made you trip and then the accident happened. It’s my fault and I am sorry. I should’ve used my brain back then.”

Gaeul chuckles. For the first time, you hear her voice as small and cute. You join her and a rare wave of warmth and appreciation overcomes all negative emotions. The rest of the day with all its burdens becomes irrelevant for at least this moment.

“Apology accepted. By the way, wh-what was your ‘stupid idea’?”

"Hm? What do you me—ah, yes! Well, uhm, I guess I wanted to help you by scanning the cans and finishing the transaction on my own. The scanning part was easy, but I had no clue how to, uhm, open the register. Hehe…”

Gaeul averts her gaze onto the cracked pavement. A faint blush turns her pastel pink cheeks rosy pink while her hand scratches the back of her head. 

After a second of silence, you begin to snicker. Your mind cannot fathom why she looks so irresistibly cute when she is embarrassed, but also why she would attempt something this unnecessary. It’s nice that she wanted to help, but it was meant to fail from the start. 

“I-I’m sorry, but I find this funny,” you say as your snicker continues.

“Is that why you’re laughing at me?” Gaeul asks, acting offended.

“No, no, I’m laughing because it was cute, but pointless.”

“Th-that’s why I apologized!”

Gaeul’s face jumps from the beautiful rosy pastel to the red of a ripe tomato. She buries it in her hand, making only her blonde bob—the light in the store betrayed you: it’s still as blonde as before—visible. Her body moves to the side away from you.

You stop your giggles and aim your hand at her shoulder. What was supposed to be an apologetic gesture to get back the beautiful girl's attention and explain yourself to her, turns to a shove. With too much momentum from standing up, you unwittingly push Gaeul, making her stagger and almost fall from the pillar. Luckily, she is able to put her leg down firmly and rescue the two of you from falling over.

She removes her hands to reveal her shocked orbs. They are so close to yours, a breath away. Somehow your hand is still on hers and once again, everything is silent for a second. Instead of giggling, you fall to your knees this time.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t want this to happen, really. I just wanted to—no, I’m sorry, I always do things wrong, there is always trouble and—”

“Hey. Hey! Everything is okay, nothing happened.”

“No, I’m such a klutz, an worthless idiot—”

“No, you’re not. A funny little mistake doesn’t make you worthless.”

Gaeul’s soothing voice and soft fingers on your hair guide you away from your self-loathing. The pain you so easily get lost in lingers only for seconds, but when you see her eyes, it's gone. 

"You mean it?"

You did not have to ask that as her genuinity was obvious in her gaze, her expression, her gesture. She doesn’t lie, her words are not just rootless. Although she might only act out of human decency, it feels like burning compassion.

Gaeul stretches out her hand and you take it. You get up swiftly and stand next to the beautiful woman, staring at her probably a second too long. She giggles and turns her head away.

"Yeah, I mean it. Don't define yourself over such a tiny mistake. Actually, it was kinda cute."

Turn away as well. She should not see the seemingly instantaneous, almost cartoonish blush taking over your face. There is no doubt that she once again was genuine and you scramble to come up with a response, with a rebuttal, but there is nothing. Your mind is so full, yet so void of words.

A ring from Gaeul's phone puts an end to the rising tension. 

"Hi," Gaeul greets after fishing out her phone. A second in and she freezes in place. Her lips lose a bit of their already light color, her knees buckle lightly.

You watch Gaeul from the corner of your eye. Throughout the call, she is reduced to repeating simple words or inconclusive phrases. A 'Yes' here, a 'Me' there, sometimes an 'I know', other than that she is just listening. Her free hand scratches her blonde hair or hides shortly in the pockets of her baby-blue jeans.

When your eyes meet, you quickly spin around. She is clearly uncomfortable and you don't want to make it worse by eavesdropping on her. In an attempt to look somewhat disinterested, you look into the plastic bag you brought along. Soda, two days past the expiration date, along with instant noodles, rice, and a mixture of vegetables that still looked edible. It'd be a waste to throw them away.

"I'm sorry, b—"

You raise your head and Gaeul lowers her hand. Little beads of sweat trickle down her distressed features. In a hurry she collects all the colorful cans splayed on the pavement and tries the impossible task of carrying them in her bare hands. They of course tumble down and you watch as Gaeul’s body trembles.

“Ah, damn,” Gaeul says in a dull voice, adding a clearly faked laugh, “I have to go now. I missed something important.” 

“Wait!” you shout as she tries to jog away with the unstable tower in her arms, “take this. O-otherwise, you won’t make it home without an accident.” 

Stretch your arm towards her. A light breeze makes the now empty white plastic bag in your hand sway in the wind. It’s like a flag and your arm is the pole. Gaeul hesitates.

“Are you sure? Don’t you need it too?”

“It’s not that much. Look, a couple of packets—I can easily carry those.”

“I don’t know…”

You try to make your eyes look more pleading to finally convince Gaeul to just take the bag. You definitely want to help her and although you understand and cherish her care for you, hearing the shift in her voice to sadness leaves you determined—you will not leave until she accepts your offer, even if it takes a lie.

“Gaeul, please. If I should struggle to carry this home, I can just grab another bag from inside the store. You need it a lot more right now.”

With a residue of hesitance Gaeul reaches for and fills the plastic bag with her cans. Although she whispers a grateful ‘Thank you’, her expression is trying to hide something dampening her mood. You can’t help but think that there is something seriously wrong. Some dread seems to linger above Gaeul like rain-filled clouds.

You wave after her, but she doesn’t turn around. Her walk is swift, her blonde hair bops at each step and you admire how incredible she looks in this casual outfit. Form-fitting jeans, short white T-shirt—Gaeul can wear literally anything and still look stunning. 

Who would want to cause any discomfort to someone this wonderful?

#

Scroll through your contacts. It’s certainly not a long list and you wish most of the names displayed on the screen were just non-existent, but you can still waste time by going down and back up. 

Avoid at all costs, waste as much time as possible, maybe she will call on her own. 

Naive thoughts to keep you occupied, but if you want your stove top to work or lamps to shine you need to call her. 

Even this late, she is still surely awake. Even after years of fighting, she will surely pick up. Even if you are formal and nice, she might make this go sideways quickly. Having to call her was always your least favorite chore since living alone, and when her receiver is lifted and the line is clear, you freeze on the spot, like you have every single time.

“What?” she groans into your ear, not hiding her annoyance. There is an obnoxiously loud TV running in the background, some soap opera characters are fighting. You always hated these shows. They were one of the most irritating parts about here, but not as irritating as the barking of a dog. Last time you called, she didn’t own one. Maybe she is at a friend’s house, maybe she is getting her life together and wants to care for a dog, but God forbid she has a boyfriend now.

There is no escaping it, you already pressed the green button. Suppress the urge to immediately tap on the red one and end the call. You have to engage in this. It's no use running away. 

"I need… there is no electricity," you say firmly, even through the little slip-up, trying not to sound too cold or desperate.

"Yeah, I know," she responds nonchalantly, interrupting her response to suck at her cigarette. Even after all this time, you can still smell the disgusting odor of the smoke she always exhales in a celebratory fashion.

"What?!"

"I couldn't afford it."

"Huh? And what am I supposed to do now?" you say resentfully, unable to keep yourself from shouting. Her attitude broke you faster than even your worst fears would have assumed. The barking gets louder and your mother half-heartedly speaks over it.

"Chill out! After my boss pays me, I'll be able to pay for your bill. That motherfucker is late again."

"And till then?"

"What do I know. Can't change it."

Your hand wrapped around your cell phone trembles. You grit your teeth and keep your rage-filled tears back. 

"You want me to starve? I can't cook anything. Noodles, rice—"

"Then eat something else."

"And how should I shower?"

Your voice cracks, almost crumbles as you press the speaker onto your sweaty cheek. 

"You'll survive without one."

"Can you fucking care for once?! I'm in trouble, again, and you don't give a shit, again!"

"I don't have to listen to you. You wanted to live alone."

"Because I can't stand smelling you and your fucking cigarettes all day."

"Shut the fuck up."

Her voice is cold, colder than ice, colder than a murderer’s heart, colder than the vaccum of space. It’s the coldest thing in the entire universe. If hatred was transferable through phone lines, she would wince and squirm on the ground right now. Instead, it’s you who is about to fall on your knees. The weight is getting too heavy.

The beeping of your phone after she hangs up just echoes through your empty mind.

One thought however resonates infinitely in this void.

I fucking hate you.

(A/N2: thanks for reading! Btw, why is she so damn beautiful??😳🥺)

[papaver-decervicatus]

Teaser... + house keeping!

Wow, I am just besides myself with how amazingly receptive and welcoming everyone has been to my silly little König story. Reading in storage closets at work, affirming bass player fetishes, offering translation help, love of environmental descriptions (ah yes, ecphrasis, my love!) asks, comments, just generally such sweet things, it's been an absolute honor to read everything everyone has been saying here! I did want to briefly explain that since this is a side-blog, I will not respond to comments/tags directly because tumblr would make me do that with my main blog (which is related to people I know irl, and I love them but I do not want my roommate reading my COD smut...) but everything is read and deeply appreciated. Please feel free to send asks (messages are more difficult for me to answer in depth...) As for other house keeping, please please please have an age in bio, or some descriptor that you're of age in some way, also blank blogs are terribly suspicious, changing pfp and descriptions go a long long way! If you wish to be added to a taglist for Cat/Mouse/Den, please comment/reblog/etc this post so I can round everyone up! Anyways, a minuscule little treat for being such wonderful people :) Cura ut valeas~ Caedis

He’s a vision, he’s hard to miss on the horizon, he stands out like a mountain lion against his fellow men. He sways his hips wide, the trusty Glock Field knife he keeps on his belt shines like a beacon. It’s such an outrageously cocky move, to keep glinting metal on his person when she’s sure he’s supposed to be stealthy. He’s tall as a tree and broad as a train and always has some hood covering his face. He’s sniper candy, he’s so obviously right there it makes her dig blunt nails into her arm in frustration. He’s hard to miss, should be her straight shot. 

But he never is. 

She never gets the barked orders, the confirmation. She’s asked a hundred times. When it’s in the forest, it’s less warfare and more stakeout. She’s not paid enough to know what she’s looking for, but she always sees him. And she’s always been told not to shoot. She stops asking at some point, but like everything else with this man, she doesn’t quite remember when. Her life is a blur of missions and off time and him and nothing else.

It’s been months since the ravine and she’s seen König just about everywhere she’s been. When SpecGru was gathering intel on KorTacs drug affiliations, she saw him in the haunted deserts of Sonora, Mexico where she lies in the dirt redder than blood and coyotes sing her to sleep. She gazes down at him atop crumbling 16th-century Byzantine marble when she picks off the guards of a weapons supplier in Belgrade, Serbia. In the ancient and verdant bamboo forest of Yibin, China, hunting down spy affiliations, she camps across a creek from him for a night. 

It’s a small world, but not quite small enough for her to believe just how they keep running into each other. No matter where she ends up, their eyes always meet. 

The eyes of the apparition with bloody tears on top of an executioner's hood always flick right towards her, even when she’s under a ghillie or some camo or nothing particularly obtrusive at all. She’s even taken off her scope once or twice to reduce glare, to see if the monster still turns her way then. To see if the cat is following a laser pointer she’s unwittingly putting out. 

He does.

He always finds her.

No matter what. 

[cafe-gato-official]

one of the suppliers where we get our cookies from changed their recipe and I dont know the original one and now it tastes really different this is the worst day ever theyre so much worse now im so sorry everyone who liked the heart shaped chocolate sugar cookies but they now taste like wet dirt!!

- Felice