#Gates Hawkes bay

[realfencinghawkesbay]

Real Fencing Hawkes bay

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CHAIN LINK FENCING One of the most versatile and cost-effective fencing options available is chain link fencing, which complements the durability and low maintenance benefits of aluminum fencing in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand. Chain link fencing is known for its strength and durability, making it a popular choice for residential, commercial, and industrial applications.

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POOL FENCING When it comes to pool fencing, we understand the importance of both safety and aesthetics. As experienced fence contractors in Hawkes Bay, we know that pool safety regulations are a top priority for homeowners. That's why we offer a wide range of pool fencing options that comply with these regulations while still enhancing the overall look of your pool area.

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At Real Fencing, we have the knowledge and expertise to help you select the perfect pool fencing solution for your needs. Our team will work closely with you to ensure that your pool fence meets all safety requirements while adding value and beauty to your property. Trust us to deliver exceptional results that prioritize both safety and aesthetics.

METAL FENCING Metal fencing provides a durable and stylish solution for securing and enhancing your property in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand. With a wide range of metal fence designs available, you can choose a style that complements the aesthetics of your property while providing the necessary security. One of the main benefits of metal fencing is its durability. Metal fences are built to withstand the elements and can last for many years with minimal maintenance. Additionally, metal fences offer a high level of security, as they are difficult to breach or tamper with. Whether you need a metal fence for residential or commercial purposes, it is a wise investment that will not only protect your property but also add value and curb appeal. Trust our experienced team at Real Fencing to provide you with top-quality metal fencing solutions that meet your specific needs.

PVC FENCING When considering fencing options in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand, one popular choice is PVC fencing. PVC, or polyvinyl chloride, fencing offers several advantages that make it a preferred option for many homeowners. One of the main advantages is its durability. PVC fences are resistant to rot, rust, and pests, making them a long-lasting investment. Additionally, PVC fencing is low maintenance, requiring minimal upkeep over time. Another advantage is the wide range of styles and designs available. Homeowners can choose from different types of PVC fencing materials, such as privacy fences, picket fences, or decorative fences, to suit their specific needs and preferences. Overall, PVC fencing provides a cost-effective and aesthetically pleasing solution for enhancing the security and appearance of any property in Hawkes Bay.

GARDEN FENCING As fence contractors in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand, we also specialize in garden fencing. Garden fencing offers numerous benefits for homeowners, making it an essential addition to any outdoor space. Firstly, garden fencing enhances the security of your property by creating a physical barrier that deters trespassers and protects your plants and belongings. Additionally, garden fencing provides privacy, allowing you to enjoy your outdoor area without worrying about prying eyes. When it comes to choosing the right garden fencing material, there are various options available. These include timber, which offers a classic and natural look, as well as aluminum and PVC, which are low-maintenance and durable choices. Each material has its own unique features and aesthetic appeal, ensuring that you can find the perfect garden fencing that suits your needs and complements your landscape.

FENCE REPAIRS We specialize in providing reliable and efficient fence repairs that address any damages or wear and tear to your existing fencing structure. At Real Fencing, we understand the importance of maintaining the integrity of your fences through regular fence maintenance. Over time, fences can encounter common problems such as rotting wood, loose or broken boards, rusted metal, or damaged gates. Our experienced team is equipped to handle all types of fence repairs, ensuring that your fences are restored to their optimal condition. We have the knowledge and expertise to assess the issues and provide effective solutions that will prolong the lifespan of your fences. Trust us to deliver exceptional fence repair services that will enhance the security and visual appeal of your property.

GATES FOR FENCES To continue our discussion on fence repairs, let's now delve into the topic of gates for fences, an essential component that ensures both security and accessibility to your property. At Real Fencing, we understand the importance of a well-designed and functional gate. That's why we offer a range of options to suit your specific needs. When it comes to gate materials, we provide various choices, including wood, aluminum, and steel, each with its own unique benefits in terms of durability and aesthetics. Additionally, for added convenience, we offer automatic gate openers, allowing you to easily control the access to your property. Whether you're looking for a sturdy steel gate or an elegant wooden gate, our team of experts can guide you through the selection process and install a gate that perfectly complements your fence.

Fencing Hawkes bay

[syndrossi]

Reverberate AU Concept #2

Part 1 here. We're growing a plot because I am not capable of not doing so, apparently. Takes place roughly 3 months after the last, as we near the twins' first name day.

Aka "what if Resonant!Daemon woke up in the Stepstones shortly after the twins' conception, resolved the first Stepstones conflict in record time, and flew back to Runestone to convince Rhea to announce the pregnancy as her own?"

x~x~x

“Mooaw!” the voice on his left shoulder demanded. It was soon echoed by the one on his right. “Moooaw!”

Fighting back a grin, Daemon angled Caraxes upward for one more loop around Runestone and its northern coast. Spring had ushered itself in with great haste, quickly melting the remaining snow, until it had retreated back to only the very peaks of the mountains to the far west. The air was colder up high, but it lacked the bite of winter, and the very first wildflower blooms were visible in the grasslands.

As they neared the coast, Caraxes descended lower, passing over the occasional ship in the small bay. Most of the time, ships sailed past Runestone, their destination either Gulltown and eventually the Saltpans to ferry goods inland, or south to King’s Landing. One larger ship that they had passed last time heading northward had turned east, Daemon noted with interest, toward Runestone. It was difficult to make out details from their current height, but its giant mast seemed to be carved into the shape of a dragon’s head.

He ignored the demanding chant for more on their final descent, and Caraxes landed just outside the enclosure. As they neared their first name day, the twins were dangerously close to outgrowing Daemon’s own saddle-sling. He would need adjustments made soon.

He set them both down carefully, and they clung to a leg apiece to balance themselves before taking off as one toward Caraxes, whose contentment flowed easily through their bond as they grabbed for the smaller horns on his great head—though even those were far too large for such tiny hands to grasp.

It should not surprise him that they had already mastered the art of walking. Their first wobbling steps had come at nine moons, within a day of one another. They were yet too slow for their newfound mobility to greatly worry Daemon, but he feared when the day came that they could disappear of their own accord.

That was what Ser Willam was for, however. The dark-haired knight had stood in vigil at the enclosure during their ride, and watched the boys with alert eyes as they babbled to Caraxes. Their speech was growing more intelligible by the day, and Daemon took care to speak High Valyrian exclusively when alone with them, determined that neither would be forced to rely upon tutors to speak the tongue of their ancestors.

Free of his own saddle, Daemon came up behind the twins, mimicking the roar of a dragon as he swooped to pick them up in either arm, to delighted shrieks. “Let us bid Caraxes farewell,” he said to them. “And I shall fly you back to the castle.”

And fly they did, Daemon sprinting to the best of his ability with each tucked in one arm, growing heavier by the month. It no longer drew the same stares as it had the first few moons, though it was a struggle to maintain the breakneck speed for the full distance.

“You must not grow anymore,” Daemon informed them between pants once they’d reached the castle gates. He glanced behind to find Ser Willam trotting more leisurely to catch up. And ahead of them, Rhea had emerged from the castle to greet their return. Doubtless she had been watching from her solar.

“My brave dragonriders,” she said with a smile, kissing the boys on the cheek, and then Daemon. “We shall see if your father is so amicable when I take you out hawking.”

Daemon clutched the boys tighter, uncertain how he felt about them setting out on horse. “There are outlaws and hill tribesmen.”

To say nothing of the Craynes of the world who might be lurking for the opportunity to ambush and steal his children. His sons were safe up on Caraxes’s back. The same was not true of the roads and wilds of the Vale, which had seen them kidnapped before.

“Then we shall need brave knights to protect us,” Rhea said, nodding at Ser Willam.

Allard Stone—Willam’s squire this time, rather than legitimized and installed as keeper of the Gates of the Moon to further the plot to keep his sons hidden from him—slunk out of the shadows to stand at the knight’s side, shoulders tense in Daemon’s presence.

Rhea had intended for him to be yet another of the twins’ protectors, until Daemon had voiced his vehement objection through gritted teeth. His excuse had been that having a bastard guard the twins might call their own legitimacy into question, and that he was yet too green.

Rhea had been adamant, however, insisting that he be allowed to prove himself as Ser Willam’s squire. Perhaps the knight might make something of him, but Daemon would be damned before he let that cold-blooded snake near his children.

“They are yet too young,” Daemon said finally.

Rhea took Jon from him, bouncing him lightly in her arms. “What do you say, Jon?” She angled him toward the stables. “Would you like to ride with your mama on horseback sometime?” At his silence, she pointed at one that was out in the yard. “Can you say horsie?”

“Awazhee,” Jon said, with a stubborn loyalty that made Daemon smile.

“You ride Caraxes every day,” she said with a sigh. Rhea turned to Rhaegar, smiling at him with encouragement. “How about you, Rhaegar? Horsie with mama?”

His other son regarded her with uncertain purple eyes that looked to Daemon first, then back at her, then back at Daemon. Then he burst into tears. Daemon bounced him gently, and Jon began fussing, as he often did when his brother was upset, so he reclaimed him from Rhea.

“I fear you cannot compete with a dragon,” Daemon said, without the smugness he might ordinarily feel, because Rhea looked genuinely defeated by their reaction. “Perhaps some horse toys for their name day might change their minds?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

Rhaegar’s crying had subsided to sniffles, at which point Ser Willam drew his sword with a dramatic flourish, drawing the eyes of both babes. They quieted, staring as the knight angled the Valyrian steel blade back and forth to catch the sun. Jon reached out a hand, his chubby fist clenching and unclenching as though he wanted to hold it.

“That blade weighs half as much as you,” Daemon said, planting a kiss on the short locks of hair that had started growing in for both twins two moons ago.

Jon’s was lighter than he recalled, a brown almost like Rhea’s. He wondered if, like his and Rhaegar’s eyes, it would darken over time. Rhaegar’s own hair was almost completely silver currently, earning him the nickname of “old man” from Ser Willam, which both children found hilarious. Its final shade had been very near to Daemon’s own, but it was more than a little disconcerting just how similar in coloring Rhaegar was to his uncle Aemon in his first year.

Emotional turmoil averted, he dismissed Ser Willam to supervise Allard in the yard so that he would not have to contend with the sullen teenager lurking outside the solar. Rhea joined them for mealtime, which had progressed to the twins stubbornly trying to feed themselves and making an absolute mess in the process.

Daemon had a standing order in the kitchens for carrots and blueberries, but Rhea ensured there was always something new for them to try in addition to their staples. Today, it was a boiled cabbage that Rhea said had been a favorite of her mother’s. Jon chewed enthusiastically on his, once Daemon had cut it down to appropriate size, while Rhaegar seemed less convinced of its merits.

Maester Forsethe then poked his head in to summon Rhea to attend to lordly matters, leaving Daemon alone to clean up the mess afterward. He made ample use of the warmed water in the washing basin, then settled with both of them into a chair by the fire to read from an old collection of legends from the long history of House Royce, written for children.

Each tale had a full-page illustration that he let the twins study before moving on to the words themselves, but they seemed to derive their greatest enjoyment from his approximations of a wolf’s howl or the impact of a hurled boulder against the walls of a keep or even the chirping of birds.

There are no collections of tales for children of our own house, he thought with regret. And certainly none in High Valyrian. Perhaps I can find a suitable writer to commission such a work in King’s Landing, and translate into Valyrian.

“Woaf,” Jon demanded, head turning up to look at him.

Daemon pointed to the word on the page, then spoke its High Valyrian equivalent. “Zokla.”

Jon’s face scrunched up in determination. “Zogaa.” And when Daemon glanced at Rhaegar, his other son repeated it. “Zogaa.”

Daemon howled then, to squeals of amusement before his sons joined in, attempting to mimic him.

“Has a pack of wolves invaded my solar?” Rhea had returned, and though there was a smile on her face, it was a distracted one.

Daemon ceased his howling, feeling a stir of unease. “What is it?”

“I just received a delegation from Volantis that arrived in our port this afternoon. They seek an audience with you.”

His arms tightened around the twins, stomach twisting with equal parts fear and fury. “What do they want?”

It was a pointless question. He held what they wanted in his arms, in his very heart. Daemon glanced past Rhea, through the open doorway, his concern only partly allayed by Ser Willam’s presence outside it.

“They bear gifts for the twins, and a message from the triarchs for you and you alone. I was not permitted to receive it,” Rhea said, eyes narrowing as she noted his reaction. “One of them claims to be your cousin, by your aunt Saera.”

Daemon stared at her for a moment, thrown. He had assumed that his bastard cousins by his aunt Saera in Essos had either proved useless for Volantis’s plans before, or been killed by a warlock’s test. He had not thought he would ever meet one, let alone acting on behalf of the triarchs.

She had claimed to have carved out a kingdom of her own in Volantis, he recalled, spurning the opportunity to send any of her bastard sons to the Great Council to press their own claims. One of them had been the son of a triarch, if memory served. Whoever had been sent, presumably.

The twins had gone quiet, as though sensing his mood, and he kissed the top of their heads, mind still racing. Gifts. A message. He did not think they would be brazen enough to send a delegation, only to openly kidnap his sons. Did they think to try diplomacy instead?

“Where are they now?” he asked, already steeling himself for at least one sleepless night.

“Your cousin is acting as official envoy for Volantis. I had chambers set aside for his delegation.” Her lip curled in distaste. “He is ferried by two slaves on a golden litter. Only the lowly move about on their own feet, apparently.” She tilted her head at Daemon. “Their presence worries you. Why? Volantis is an enemy of the Triarchy, is it not?”

That was the excuse he had chosen, to convince Rhea that the twins needed protection. Triarchy retaliation. Daemon had no logical explanation for why they should fear Volantis.

“I do not know why they have come here, to me, rather than my brother,” Daemon said.

“Perhaps your victory in the Stepstones earned you the favor of their triarchs—a victory that was yours, not your brother’s.” Spoken by anyone else, that might have been flattery. From Rhea, it was a simple statement of fact. “They may seek to court your favor in return.”

The notion felt preposterous. Under no circumstances would he agree to part with his children, for whatever promised price. “What did you tell them?”

“Your cousin and his advisors have been invited to sup with us in the great hall.” She shut the door behind her and crossed the room, pulling the other chair over to sit facing Daemon. “Is there a threat that I should know of, Daemon?”

“I do not know,” Daemon said tightly. “I—” He flailed for anything that would not sound like utter madness. “What do you know of my family’s history? Do you know of Daenys the Dreamer?”

“She was…a seer, yes?” Rhea said with a look of faint recognition.

“Yes,” Daemon said, relieved she was familiar with the tales. House Royce believed in its own magic, after all. “She foresaw Valyria’s Doom, and urged our family to flee. Some members of my family have had this gift. We call them dragon dreams.”

Rhea studied him with something that was not quite skepticism. “Do you mean to say that you have had these dragon dreams?”

“Did you never wonder how I knew to return from the Stepstones? Or how I knew that we would have twin sons? I have seen it before, in something like a dream.” Daemon took a deep breath. “Just as I have seen a threat in the east, one that seeks to steal our children. At first I thought that it must be the Triarchy, but my dreams of late have been of Volantis.”

Rhea’s gaze went to the children, lips compressing into a tight line. “You think they will attempt such a thing here, in Runestone?”

“I do not know.” That was the problem. Before, Volantis had worked from the shadows. This was as open a confrontation as possible, and Daemon could not deny that he desired to see the face of his enemy, to take their measure. “I do not intend to let them out of my sight for a moment.”

��Nor out of Ser Willam’s,” Rhea said. “He must be informed to be at his most vigilant.”

She extended a hand, stroking Jon’s cheek and then Rhaegar’s, both twins still unnaturally quiet. When Daemon glanced down at them, their eyes were wide and solemn, and he kissed them each with a reassurance he did not feel. They are so very small. It was something he thought a dozen times a day, usually with glee, grateful for this second chance with them. But now it came with an undercurrent of fear.

An eight-year-old could fight, shout, run. An infant was utterly helpless, his only recourse to wail in fear. Someone could pick them up in either arm as easily as he held them now, could sprint as he had from the enclosure—

“Daemon.” Rhea’s hand found his cheek next, and his gaze locked on hers, her brown eyes calm and steady. “I will not let anything happen to them. I can send the delegation away, if you fear the danger is too great.”

“No,” Daemon said, once he had gathered himself. “It is better to know what they want.” Or were openly willing to state that they wanted. Sending them away would alert them to the fact that they knew of the danger. “Perhaps I am wrong.”

He desperately hoped to be wrong. But he could think of no other explanation for Volantis to send men directly to Runestone to approach him. His brother was king, not Daemon. The only thing he could offer that his brother couldn’t was his dragonriding ability—and his children.

Jon’s hand grabbed for Daemon’s hair, closing around a fistful to tug for his attention, grey eyes peering into him as though he held the secrets of the world. Would that I did, Daemon thought with regret, kissing his tiny fist.

“My apologies, Jon.” At Rhea’s questioning look, he explained, “We have not yet finished storytime.”

It was another three hours until supper. Time enough to read, put the twins down for their nap, and ponder whatever awaited from his cousin and the rest of the delegation. Rhea stayed for the next two stories, coaxed to join in on the animal noises, but the twins’ joy was muted. They have always been so sensitive to our moods.

Even Jon seemed upset when Rhea left to make the appropriate preparations for supper, and Daemon had to sing the sniffles away, bouncing them both on his lap as he did so. They were equally clingy as he set them in their cradle, a chorus of heartbroken kepas summoning him back within seconds.

“I will be no further than the desk,” he assured them, following words with kisses for good measure.

Daemon sang again, one gentle lullaby after another, until they both finally fell asleep—Rhaegar, as ever, the stubborn straggler. Rather than return to the desk, he lingered in his chair by their cradle, visions of their cradle—bare, empty—tormenting him.

He did not care how he managed it, they were not leaving his arms until the Volantenes were gone.

[pricegouge]

very quick companion/prequel piece to this

cw: brief descriptions of sex, power imbalance i guess

Simon's not well enough adjusted for a job like this. 

It had been an easy enough position to lie his way into when he'd been on the lam and desperate for a place to lay low for a while, while still keeping his belly full. Tie a few knots and pen a few docile little creatures who've never even seen the south pasture, and everyone believes you're a trained stable hand. Free meals, free cot. Even a few house maids would warm his bed if he behaved himself long enough to pass as a good christian who'd make honest women out of them. Easy enough when the birds were barely even literate, harder when the employers themselves were the devout sort who took notice of each of the help's comings and goings because they were too proper to suffer a whore under their roof. They watched their flock like hawks, strictly enforcing curfews and dress codes and wing assignments. Simon couldn't even eat in the big house, let alone spend the night. And forget about luring the birds out, the owner of the place sat up in the parlor all night reading verses aloud and denouncing anyone who tried to sneak out for so much as a smoke.

But the young one - the son. He was worse yet.

Blue eyed and well built, covered in the kind of dense stubble that could lend him a sort of roguish charm if he could risk his place in heaven long enough to roll his sleeves up past his wrists, John MacTavish was a maid's fantasy in the flesh - and completely wasting it. Too devout, maybe. Too inexperienced to know when a bird fancies him, more like. Either way, Simon feels himself creeping closer to an edge he knows all too well every time he watches good ol' Johnny denies himself a night of proper relief.

He's two months into the job and one flustered employer incident away from stealing an heirloom rifle from the big house and putting Johnny out of his fucking misery when Simon decides he's had enough of listening to this ungrateful little git put down pretty serving girl after pretty serving girl in favor of a Lord that would never love him. Finding Johnny in one of the field houses berating a hand for sloth of all things, Simon sends the young boy scarpering with a particularly well aimed scowl and corners the little lordling with a subtle shuffle of feet designed to lure him into a sense of dominance until it was too late; until Simon had him on the stall wall, flustered and red and spitting mad.

He's not hard to subdue, all things told. All that Catholic rearing makes him eager to please. Simon calls him Johnny, like the head of the house does. Johnny's big eyes turn pleading when he asks what Simon wants, as if requesting guidance. 

Who is Simon to deny his employer?

"Just like that, Johnny," Simon encourages, cock rammed so far down the lad's throat he's not surprised when his pretty blue eyes start leaking tears. "Just like communion."

It's not, but that doesn't stop Johnny needing it anyway.

He seeks Simon out nearly every day, keeps him from his chores. Simon doesn't give a shit, keeps a bag packed under his cot just waiting on the day the head butler sends him off. He never does, kept in line by Johnny's sway, probably. Simon tests his limits, decides he's above reproach when he spends an entire day lounging on a large rock in a brook past the east gate and catches no flack.

"Cock that good, pup?" He asks Johnny later that night, the younger man bent over a bay of hay in the small barn like a loose little housemaid whore. He whines like one too, his hoarse voice carrying enough to keep even the most intrusive stablehands at bay. No one besides Johnny's ever enjoyed being part of Simon's sins, after all.

"You make me untouchable, did you?" He's referring to his position, how he's starting to believe he could posture himself as head butler come the morning and they'd just let him. But the way Johnny looks back over his shoulder at him is far too intense.

"Anyone else touches you, they'll never work again."

It's good until it's not. Novel, at least. Simon's never been the favorite pet. He entertains it for as long as he can bear, but he's had enough pets of his own to know it's not a position he can manage. Like the job itself, he's not well enough adjusted; and a misbehaving dog is a kept dog all the same.

Getting Johnny properly under his thumb is harder than he expects, the man too well suited for his position in life. Properly groomed for it by his father. The solution is so obvious it nearly draws a proper laugh from him when he sees you fawning over the boy one day through the kitchen window, servile and sweet - eyes lowered in submission. 

If Johnny needs to keep someone, who's Simon to discourage it? The good Lord knew he'd never been swatted on the nose for the same. Better just to give the boy something to chew on other than his own arm.

[jungle-angel]

The Animal Doctor Is In: Part 5 (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: You and Rhett definitely weren't counting on the new arrivals of the week, but despite the hardships, it's always a pleasure

Warnings: Animal birth, mentions of animal neglect etc.

Tagging: @floydsmuse @hederasgarden @attapullman @rhettabbotts @sebsxphia

Rhett leaned against the porch railing, drinking as much water out of his Yeti as he possibly could. God it was hot, way too hot for anybody's own good. Royal had told the hands that they absolutely had to take frequent breaks for a dive in the pond and to do what they could to keep cool. The Amelia County Steiner School where Amy and Rose Hawk attended farm camp, had called and emailed all the families of the students to let them know that camp had to be postponed until the heatwave had let up and it didn't look like it would be any time soon.

The baying of two hound dogs suddenly reached his ears along with the sight of a truck and trailer pulling up to the gate. "Napoleon! Shut the fuck up! Jeez you and Lafayette are menaces!"

Napoleon, the big bloodhound, trotted up to Rhett along with his partner in crime, a basset hound named Lafayette. He sat right at Rhett's feet, his big droopy features curling into a canine grin.

"Ya'll are more trouble than you're worth," Rhett laughed.

Lafayette started baying again a minute later as you shut the storm door behind you, the hinge hissing before it clicked. "The hell are ding and dong barking at?" you asked.

"I think Brian's back," Rhett answered as Napoleon tried to put his paws up on Rhett's shoulders. "Not sure with what but he's got the trailer."

You and Rhett squinted in the bright sunlight to find another pickup truck behind them, a dark green Ford f150 belonging to Pastor Jim. "Weird," Rhett thought aloud. "The hell's Pastor Jim doin up here?"

"Lets go find out," you said, slipping your sandals onto your feet.

You and Rhett headed down to the pasture where Brian and Pastor Jim were busy unloading three new dairy cows, all of them in terrible shape.

"S'happenin Jim?" Rhett asked the pastor.

"Ain't lookin too good Rhett," Jim answered, adjusting his Budweiser baseball cap on his head. "Not sure if they're gonna even make it to the barn tonight."

"Where'd they come from?" you asked.

"The fuckin Cranston farm up the road," Pastor Jim said with pure and utter disgust. "Roped to a post, standin in mud up to their knees and nothin in the trough for food. Water was greener than a turtle turd. Oldest one's pregnant too."

"Jeez!" Rhett exclaimed. "Please tell me Burl's goin to jail for this."

"Yep," Jim said. "Judge doesn't tolerate shit like this. He's a repeat offender too."

You and Rhett watched as the cows were unloaded, the first being a red and white hereford cow with obvious welts and marks all over her from neglect. Poor thing was so thin that her ribs were showing and her hooves a painful oozing mess.

You and Rhett immediately set to the barn to try and help them, especially the hereford. She looked at Rhett with her sad, dark eyes, her ears twitching and her sides large with the calf she was carrying. "Oh God honey," he sighed. "You're a mess, ya know that?"

You and Rhett gagged when you saw the terrible state her hooves were in. He liberally poured on the antiseptic liquid that Royal used when any of them had an infected hoof, the poor girl mooing in pain as you and Rhett cleaned away the greenish ooze.

"Should we name her?" you asked, running the flea brush over her fur.

"I dunno darlin," Rhett sighed. "She ain't lookin too good and I don't wanna get too attached to her."

You gave her a few scritches under her chin, her head coming to rest in your hand. "Maybe we should call her Muggy since it's so hot out," you chuckled.

"Nah," Rhett chuckled. "She kinda reminds me of Ma's older sister, Maggie."

All of a sudden, the heifer's head lifted, her eyes meeting yours for the briefest of seconds. "I know that look," Rhett said, smiling.

You laughed with him as you finished up with Maggie. The other two had chosen their own names as well, you and Rhett laughing at the fact that neither of you two would be able to escape naming your menagerie of critters after Disney characters.

That night, a thunderstorm had rolled into Wabang with you and Rhett sticking close to the barn just in case something came up. You were so deep in sleep, that you hardly noticed the pained mooing coming from Maggie's stall.

"Aw shit," you hissed. "Rhett! Rhett!! Wake up!"

Rhett jerked awake. "S'matter?"

"I think it's time."

Rhett hurried to the stall and sure enough, you were right. "Alright darlin, it's go time," he chuckled.

He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed in, just as he always did. You helped keep Maggie calm while Rhett worked his magic, reaching in to help turn the calf. "Aw jeez Maggie, you're really takin your time with this," Rhett mumbled, his words strained from trying to keep a good grip on her calf.

"C'mon baby, c'mon, ya gotta help me out and push," Rhett encouraged.

You kept stroking Maggie's fur, encouraging the heifer to push while Rhett helped her along. "God she's fuckin tight!" Rhett strained.

It was one long strain of sucking in breaths, f-bombs and pained moos before the calf finally emerged and fell into the hay. "Looks like we've got a girl darlin," Rhett proudly announced, drying her off with a shitty old towel.

"Oh my God she's adorable!" you squeaked.

Rhett dried her off and cleared away all the slimy fluids before she started breathing. Maggie helped take care of the rest, licking her baby before the calf stood on her knobby little legs and latched onto her mother's udder.

Once you and Rhett had cleaned up and put everything away, you kept a close eye on the two of them. "You think she'll do ok?" you asked.

"No doubt darlin, this one's one tough mother," Rhett joked.

You kissed your husband, the two of you laughing as you watched mother and baby and the storm finally clearing over Wabang.

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 1: The Coward

Chapter 1 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, fearful whumpee, war, suicide

---

Miranelis

On an ordinary day, the spare pantry at the very back of the palace kitchens smelled like subtle spices and gentle herbs. Each one was mild on its own, but transformed into a cacophony of scent when all stored in the same close space. The spice jars, packed together on the shelves along with blocks of salt and bags of dried beans, were sealed but not airtight, and the dried herbs that hung from the ceiling sent a constant stream of fragrance into the air.

When Miranelis and Havedrial had first run in here and barricaded the door with the heaviest sacks of grain they could find, Miranelis’s entire face had ached for hours with the effort of holding back a sneeze. Only the knowledge of what would happen if anyone heard them had made it possible.

Now, after days in the darkness—or maybe only hours, but it felt like days—Miranelis thought back with nostalgia on that pungent mix of odors. Now the pantry smelled of sweat and urine. And whenever they got too close to the door, they caught the faintest whiff of blood. The blood had smelled fresh at first. Now it was rancid, and the reek made Miranelis’s stomach flop like a gasping fish.

Which was for the best, because it kept hunger at bay. Miranelis knew they should have been hungry, but whether because of the smell or the knowledge of what was waiting outside the door, they had no appetite whatsoever. Havedrial must have been in a similar state, because they hadn’t said one word about their appetite, even though they had a habit of being forthright about such things to the point of impropriety. It was just as well, because nothing in here was edible in its current state. If they stayed in here much longer, they would both die of starvation surrounded by food.

As deaths went, it sounded more pleasant than their other options.

Miranelis was wedged into the far corner, their back against a hard jutting wooden shelf, their knees pulled up to their chest. Their muscles ached with the effort of holding the same position for so long, but they couldn’t move. They felt like a rabbit frozen under the gaze of a hawk—a Wolf, rather—although there was a solid door between them and the horrors outside, and even the most rabid Wolf couldn’t see through walls.

They hadn’t slept. Little tremors kept running through their hands, and they couldn’t tell whether it was terror or exhaustion. A little of both, most likely. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a feeling that was compatible with sleep, no matter how drained they felt.

Next to Miranelis, the palace’s head clerk Havedrial lay flat on their back, a bag of beans under their head serving as a makeshift pillow. They had taken off their outer shawl and draped it over their thin, wrinkled body as a blanket. Their eyes were closed, their breathing slow and rhythmic. They certainly looked comfortable.

That made one of them.

Jealous though Miranelis might have been at Havedrial’s preternatural ability to sleep, they didn’t begrudge their teacher the small moment of respite. If not for Havedrial, they would have frozen at the first panicked shouts when the Wolves breached the gate, and stood there blinking until a sword took their head off. Havedrial knew how to think fast under pressure. It had saved them—and the queen—in many a tense negotiation. And it had saved their life and Miranelis’s when they had sprinted down the back hallways to the kitchens and Miranelis had found just enough presence of mind to follow.

The rest of the clerks had planned to stay and fight. Havedrial had called them idiots, and praised Miranelis for being quick enough to see that running was the only way to survive. Yes, praised—Havedrial always has been agonizingly lavish with praise. Just one more way they cared nothing for propriety. And in this case, the praise hadn’t even been true. Havedrial had run because they were clever. Miranelis had followed because they were a coward.

The fighting had reached the kitchens soon enough, as Miranelis and Havedrial listened from behind the pantry door. It had been impossible to tell which of the dying screams belonged to people they knew. Their fellow clerks. The guards. The ambassadors who hadn’t fled in time. That hadn’t stopped Miranelis from worrying at the thought like a dog with a bone, trying to match voices to names, picturing familiar faces with dead staring eyes mere feet away on the other side of the door.

Of course the royal family would be dead by now. Of that, there was no question, although doubtless they had died far from the palace kitchens. Miranelis kept trying not to picture their bodies. But their mind was trained to stay active even when their body was exhausted to the point of collapse. And they had nothing else to keep their mind occupied here in the darkness.

Miranelis had liked the queen. They hadn’t ever seen much of the child prince, but they remembered his smile. He had approached them in the palace courtyard a few weeks ago and shyly handed them a bracelet woven from blades of grass.

While the queen and the prince and everyone else had died, Miranelis had huddled in the dark pantry, shivering and crying, snot dripping down their face. Even Havedrial hadn’t lost control so thoroughly and shamefully. They had sat cross-legged on the floor, looking as calm and wise as an old sage in a tapestry, as if this were nothing more than an exceptionally tricky diplomatic negotiation.

It was quiet now. There was no one left on the other side of the door to scream. The only sounds were the rhythmic rumble of Havedrial’s breathing, and Miranelis’s own ragged gasps.

Come to think of it, Havedrial’s breathing was a little too slow and even. Miranelis leaned down to peer into their face. A glint of reflected light under their eyelashes confirmed what Miranelis had already thought: Havedrial wasn’t really sleeping.

Havedrial let out a soft sigh, as if they knew Miranelis had found them out. They pushed themselves to a sitting position with a quiet groan. “This floor is too hard for my tastes,” they said, as if they were lecturing the maker of their bed. “I’ve always preferred a soft place to sleep.”

Miranelis couldn’t imagine ever being able to sleep again. “How long do you think we should wait?” they asked, with a nervous glance toward the door.

Havedrial, of course, answered with a raised eyebrow and a, “How long do you think we should wait?”

Echoes made the best teachers, after all—or at least that had always seemed to be Havedrial’s philosophy. Although it hardly seemed fair to stick to that philosophy when this had nothing to do with Havedrial’s training as a royal clerk—training that had ended years ago. Not to mention the fact that both their lives hung on the answer. Still, Miranelis took a deep breath and thought before answering, as Havedrial had taught them. Havedrial’s face creased in a smile.

Miranelis looked away out of reflex. Just because Havedrial didn’t care about propriety, that didn’t mean it didn’t fill Miranelis with hot, crawling discomfort to see childish emotion displayed so clearly on another’s face. “I don’t think it matters,” they answered, their voice steady but their thoughts miserable.

“And why is that?” asked Havedrial.

“Because they’re still here,” said Miranelis. “If the Naskori didn’t want to keep the palace for themselves, they would have burned it behind them, and we would already be dead. The fighting is over, and I know our side didn’t win. We had no chance. But the palace didn’t burn around us. That means they’ve claimed it for themselves. They’re not leaving.”

“You have a question, I believe,” Havedrial prompted.

Miranelis took another breath before answering, because they needed to be sure their voice didn’t break. Doomed or not, they would not let themselves act like a mewling child who hadn’t even mastered the basics of self-control. Their tears in those first hours had been humiliating enough.

“Why did you run here, if you knew you would die either way, whether they burned the palace or claimed it?” Miranelis asked.

“Because every other option led to immediate and certain death,” Havedrial answered. “Fleeing the palace would have run me directly onto their swords. Staying to fight would have ended the same way in short order. I chose uncertainty, because uncertainty was the best of all possible options.” And then came the echo: “Why did you run, when you were clever enough to have seen where it would lead?”

In that moment, Miranelis hadn’t seen much of anything. Just the blind panic at the feeling of a predator’s claws and teeth about to grab them. “Because I’m a coward,” they answered.

“Maybe,” said Havedrial placidly. “Maybe not. In my opinion, a coward is simply one who hasn’t found the right opportunity for bravery.”

Miranelis had had an opportunity, and the rest of the clerks had taken it. Miranelis had run instead. But they both knew that, and saying it wouldn’t change what they had done, so they stayed silent.

“If they’ve decided to claim the palace,” they said instead, after a moment, “they’ll probably search in here eventually. They’re known for being thorough. They don’t like to leave any potential enemies alive.”

“Yes,” Havedrial agreed, “that’s very likely. The only surprise is that they haven’t done it before now.”

Miranelis didn’t understand how they could be so calm about this. They had both heard the same stories of Vorhullin the Unmaker and his army of Wolves from the north. They both knew the brutal things they had done to their enemies as the countries to the south of the Unmaker’s barren mountainous lands fell one by one. They had sat in on the same meetings, and dutifully transcribed the same tense conversations between diplomats. They had seen the creases on the queen’s face, even though she had always thought she had less to worry about than her neighbors. Danelor was supposed to have been too small for the Unmaker to bother with, not worth crossing the mountains that had always kept them protected in the past. The most they had to worry about, the queen had assured them all, was that their major trade partners would fall. That would have been a catastrophe in itself, but it would not have meant death. At least, probably not.

They were supposed to have been safe.

But they should have taken into account that their mountains were nothing more than hills compared to Kyollen Naskor, where the Wolves came from.

And now they weren’t safe after all. The enemy had swept in with less than a day’s advance warning. Everyone Miranelis and Havedrial had known was likely dead; they had heard it happen. So how could Havedrial seem so unbothered?

At a faint, rhythmic sound, Miranelis tensed. Maybe their panic-soaked mind was playing tricks on them. But they could have sworn they heard footsteps.

Miranelis studied Havedrial’s placid face in the darkness. They weren’t simply good at keeping control of themselves, Miranelis knew; they barely even cared about control. They were perfectly fine with acting like an immature child when it suited them, laughing uproariously at a murmured joke or shedding unrestrained tears at a wedding. Was the facade for Miranelis’s benefit, then? Or was Havedrial really so at ease?

The rhythmic sound came again, closer this time.

“They’re out there,” Miranelis said in a whisper.

“Yes, I believe you’re right.”

Miranelis shook their head. “Don’t you care?” Despite their efforts, a hint of emotion came through in their own voice.

“It’s all right,” they said. “I have a plan.”

“Then why didn’t you say something before?”

As Havedrial sighed, the facade slipped away, and their eyes creased with sorrow. But their voice was as steady as ever. “Because I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“You can’t be planning to fight them. We don’t have weapons.” Miranelis felt their pockets, as if a knife could have slipped in there without them noticing, and came up only with a quill pen. They pictured trying to jam it into the throat of an enemy warrior a head taller than them and twice as broad. Then they imagined dangling in the Wolf’s grip as the Wolf closed a meaty hand around their neck. They gulped in a breath.

“We don’t have to. Every pantry has a knife or two lying around.” Havedrial reached behind him without looking and came up with a short, squat knife. It looked much too short for battle, like something the cook’s assistant might have used for opening a stubbornly sealed lid. Either Havedrial had eyes in the back of their head, or they had already gone looking and spotted it hours ago.

“You can’t be thinking we’ll fight off an army with that.”

Havedrial shook their head. “We can’t fight them off. We both know that. But we don’t have to.”

“Then what…” Miranelis’s voice trailed off at the hollow look in Havedrial’s eyes.

“I may not be able to save your life, Miranelis,” said Havedrial, “but I can ensure that your life does not end alone and in fear.” They patted the space next to them. “Come. I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can. We’ll go together. It won’t be so bad.” Their face was creased with the same affection Miranelis had seen when they had first begun their training, when Havedrial had told them—making Miranelis blush, aghast at the brazen breach of etiquette—that they were the best student that had ever seen. “I promise.”

Miranelis’s mouth dropped open in horror before they could think of controlling themselves.

“It’s a better fate than whatever the Wolves have in store for us.” Havedrial voice was gentle. “You know it as well as I. You were there in all the meetings. You’ve heard the stories.”

They were right, Miranelis knew they were right… but… Miranelis’s eyes landed on the blade, then skittered away. They imagined the blade parting flesh, and felt the sharp, fiery bite of pain as if it were already happening. They saw blood—their own blood—spilling out on the pantry floor. Their stomach flopped.

Miranelis shook their head. “I can’t.”

“We have no way out. I hoped circumstances would shift, that some other path would appear, but luck was not on our side this time.” They tilted their chin upward, where footsteps—unmistakable now—creaked above their heads. “We don’t have much time.”

Miranelis swallowed hard at the sound of the footsteps. But then they looked at the knife again, and almost vomited right there on the floor. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Let me save you in the only way I can.” The naked pain in Havedrial’s soft voice brought a blush to Miranelis’s face, even now. “Please”

“Maybe they won’t find us,” said Miranelis, even as the floor creaked again. “Maybe they won’t think to check in here.”

Harsh shouts reached Miranelis’s ears, faint in the distance but coming closer. They spoke in the harsh language of the Naskori. Miranelis was unpracticed enough with the language that the distortion created by the walls between them made it impossible to decipher the sounds into meaningful speech.

“Are you sure?” Havedrial asked, with a quiet plea in their voice. “This may be your only chance.”

Miranelis knew it was the best option. But they couldn’t move any closer to Havedrial, not knowing it would mean that knife biting into their flesh, and their blood spilling out over their skin. They had run because they were a coward, and they were a coward still.

“I’m sure.” Miranelis couldn’t stop their voice from shaking.

“Then I won’t force you.” Havedrial let out a long sigh. “You were always my favorite of my students,” said Havedrial, “and you have grown into my equal in both skill and knowledge, even if you don’t believe it yourself. If circumstances had been different, I’m certain you would have taken my place someday.”

Miranelis had far more important things to worry about than Havedrial’s insistence on talking to Miranelis as one child to another, praise naked and uncouched, affection plain in their voice. Even so, Miranelis’s face flamed scarlet, and they dropped their gaze to their feet.

“I’m sorry you have to see this,” said Havedrial. In their peripheral vision, Miranelis saw the knife flash down in the darkness.

Miranelis squeezed their eyes shut just in time. But there was nothing they could do to block out the small groan of pain as the knife pierced Havedrial’s flesh. The hiss of Havedrial’s labored breathing. The sharp tang of their blood on the air.

Miranelis tried to keep their eyes shut, because if they saw this horror, it would be with them for the rest of their life—however short that life might be. But huddling in the corner, eyes closed, was as good as leaving Havedrial to die, and Miranelis couldn’t do that. They forced their eyes open.

Blood poured from the deep slashes in Havedrial’s wrists. It bubbled up to spread through their layers of clothing, matting the fabric together like the time when Miranelis had spilled an entire jar of honey on themselves as a child. It spread onto the floor in a dark pool as Havedrial sagged against the shelves, eyes half-open.

Even now, Havedrial’s face was calm. If there was any time when it would be reasonable to show one’s feelings, it would be now.

Miranelis wanted nothing more than to look away from the parted skin that stretched wider and wider to let more blood escape, and the creases of pain on Havedrial’s wrinkled face. They wanted to wedge themselves as far into the corner as they could in the hope that the blood wouldn’t touch them. Instead, they forced themselves closer to Havedrial, grimacing as the hot blood soaked through their shawl and into their tunic. They pressed their body tightly against Havedrial and wrapped an arm around their shoulder.

Even Havedrial, who could be barely more than a child when it came to showing their feelings, was not so indecorous as to touch someone outside their family. In all the years they had known each other, they had never so much as brushed fingers. But Havedrial didn’t pull away. They let out a soft sigh as their head drifted heavily down onto Miranelis’s shoulder.

Miranelis didn’t try to hold back their sobs. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and onto Havedrial’s head as Havedrial’s breathing gradually slowed along with the flow of blood, then stopped entirely. Miranelis cradled their teacher’s limp body in their arms as they sat soaked in rapidly cooling blood, shivering and alone.

They were still shaking when the door flew open and a shout of triumph echoed through the blood-soaked kitchen beyond.

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @gala1981 @sunshiline-writes

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[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 3 - Post #4: Margin of Error

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 6.5K (of 45K total in Volume 3)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

__________________________________________

IV. You knew it was absurd for the Mandalorian to worry that you would draw unwanted attention.

Walking down the grimy streets of Daiyu City, everyone you pass either stares with terrified awe or performatively averts their gaze at the sight of him. And despite his professed desire for discretion, the bounty hunter doesn’t stick to the alleyways or sidestreets but steers you down a wide, busy thorofare lined with carts, stalls, and kiosks.

You have to step carefully to avoid tripping over vendors hawking their goods on the walkway.

As you pass, many of the merchants stop mid-sentence to nudge their nearest customer and nod in Mando’s direction. You can feel the news ripple through the crowd, shifting like a current as the night market patrons realize who’s among them. Because a Mandalorian in Daiyu City could only mean one thing—that serious shit was about to go down between powerful people with deep pockets. 

You’d like to reassure everyone that your presence isn’t a harbinger of some impending gang war if for no other reason than all the anxious whispering is setting your teeth on edge. But who would believe you? Look at him. Who in their right mind is gonna believe this man is anything other than a walking magnet for trouble?

“They give you combat training in the Medical Corps?” the Mandalorian asks, perhaps sensing your growing unease. His voice is barely audible over the droids weaving in and out of the crowd gathered in front of Daiyu’s transit terminal, announcing gates and berths, departure and arrival times. 

“Ten weeks of basic,” you manage over the din. 

“Better than nothing.” 

His Beskar reflects and amplifies the loud, lurid colors radiating from neon signs framing every shop window and marquee. Entire buildings are covered in bright flashing advertisements that, without your visor, would probably induce a stroke. The night sky looms over the city, but the stars are shrouded in an impenetrable haze of artificial light.

“Just stay close and keep your head down,” Mando adds in a low rumble, which seems like odd advice since no one is looking at you. 

Your long mane of moondust hair remains hidden under your hood, and the black bodysuit camouflages your silhouette in shadow. But, despite his criticism, your original outfit would not have been out of place given the elaborate fashions you see on the passing females. All of whom slow down to give Mando an appraising once over.

Hardly the jealous type, you’re grateful not to be the only poor fool to fall for him in that armor. One or two promise him the 'night of his life,' a quick fuck down a dark alley...but as usual, he doesn't even bother looking in their direction.

The port is much quieter as you near the private docking bays, isolated but not neglected. Your stomach does a terrified little somersault when you realize where you're headed. Mando strides confidently toward an elegant Nau'ur-class yacht so immense it could probably house the population of a small moon. 

Except there appears to be only one way in or out—which has got to be some kind of fire code violation—and it’s guarded by HK sentinel droids. 

You pause before crossing the gangway and turn to the Mandalorian. “So—um—how confident are we that Vos will let us off the ship once this is over?” 

“Not particularly,” he sighs, sounding resigned.

“Do you just navigate life expecting everything to be a trap?”

“That surprises you?” Mando asks incredulous. “You fought in the Rebellion.”

“On the battlefield, where our enemies were very straightforwardly trying to kill us. Plus, they all wore these super distinctive uniforms. Made it easy to know who to shoot at.” 

Somehow, you can hear his eyes rolling. 

“I’m sorry.” You stop yourself from reaching for him, knowing someone onboard Vos’s yacht must be watching your every move over the security feed. “I don’t mean to make everything a joke. I’m just nervous.”

He starts to raise a hand to your shoulder but thinks better of it.

“You’re right to be cautious. Even if Vos agrees to help, he’s always searching for leverage. Best not to give him any.”

“Okay,” you nod in understanding. 

“Just keep a low profile and do as I say. Please.”  

A voice inside your head urges you to make a run for it, but another voice reminds you to have some faith in the Mandalorian. Kriffing hell, there’s nothing left to do except roll the dice and step inside.

“State your business.” 

You jump a little when the sentinel droids activate. Mando’s helmet turns to glance in your direction, and you can only imagine his regret at bringing you with him.

“I’m here to see Ryun Vos. He’s expecting me.”

“You’ll need to check your weapons.” 

When you enter the foyer, more HK sentinels wait for you inside, guarding a second set of closed doors. Another smaller droid rolls forward, holding out a metal case and opening the lid for Mando. The bounty hunter begins disarming, and you realize he’s got several weapons hidden on his person that you swear you’ve never seen before, including a micro pistol (?) secured inside the lining of his utility belt.  

Another droid approaches, holding aloft an empty case for you.

Unlike the small armory the bounty hunter is packing, you only have the knife at your waist and his two blasters holstered over each thigh. Mando leans closer to look at the Westars, sighing roughly through his nostrils when he sees that you’ve set them both to stun.

“You’re not the only one sworn to live by a creed,” you mutter under your breath.

Your words are lost in the soft whoosh of the interior doors sliding open. A woman clad in black leather armor and a gleaming cybernetic jaw steps into the foyer. 

“Not just yet,” she raises a hand and purses her black-stained lips. “I believe there’s a knife in your boot, Mandalorian.”

Wordlessly, he crouches down to remove the vibro-blade tucked into his left boot. In an added gesture of contrition, Mando shakes loose the whistling birds from his vambrace—but not the whipcord you notice. Which is a clever bit of misdirection. 

“Since when do you work with a partner?” the guard asks, finally acknowledging your presence with a disgusted sneer. 

While she scrutinizes your inexplicable appearance at the Mandalorian’s side, you think back to the toughest, most badass bitch you knew from infantry and try to remember her posture and the way she would stand with her knees straight, hips tilted. 

“Since now,” is the extent of Mando's explanation.

Some silent test of wills plays out between the two warriors before the guard relents. “I’ll let Vos know you’ve arrived," she drolls. "He’s busy at the moment. Not sure when he’ll find the time to meet with you, but you’re welcome to wait for him on level seventeen with the rest of the miscreants.” 

She—the Anzati woman—is absolutely terrifying. With skin so pale it looked ashen gray. The intricate facial markings carved into her cheeks are blood red. Her yellow eyes had slit-like, reptilian pupils. Jet black hair fell in heavy waves over her shoulders and down her bare muscular back. A portrait of lethal beauty. 

It's scary and arousing at the same time. Also distracting. What was the significance of that look she shared with the Mandalorian?

“Does this mean we’re officially partners now?” Alone inside the lift, you can’t stop yourself from saying something—anything—to shake the tension. The nerves bubbling up in your stomach have gotten the better of you already. 

“Why?” Mando looks at you askance. “You hoping I’ll introduce you to Vos?”

Wow. Okay. Guess you’re not sharing the elevator with the tenderhearted Mandalorian who'd stolen your heart. At some point, that man had transformed into this callous bounty hunter who did not appreciate collegial banter.

But as Mando so astutely observed, you’re no longer afraid of his cranky stoicism. Someone’s got to lighten the mood. “We did sort of team up for that job on Danvar,” you shrug. 

He clears his throat, “You think so?”

“Do you know what happens when bone marrow enters the bloodstream? If I didn’t amputate, that guy would have died of an embolism, rendering him literally worthless.”

“I believe you were compensated for your services.” 

“Would you be more comfortable if I used the term 'subcontractor' instead of partner?”

“I'd be more comfortable if you stopped talking so much,” the Mandalorian snaps. "But as I doubt that’s possible, can you at least keep your voice down?”

Good thing he wears that helmet cause otherwise, you might be tempted to break his nose.

“And I hope I don’t have to remind you that we’re not here to make friends,” he adds sternly. “These are Vos’s paid assassins and enforcers. They’re not your friends, and they never will be, so don’t talk to them.”

Oh yeah, you’d love to wind back a real sucker punch. Instead, you say, “Aye-aye, captain,” and give him a little mock two-finger salute. 

When the lift arrives on level seventeen, you step out into a pretty unremarkable mess hall, given the yacht’s extravagance. Lounge would be a more generous description since there are some gaming tables where people gather to play cards or dejarick. But the scene is closer to a military barrack, with a heated contest of arm wrestling drawing most of the room’s attention.

There are about twenty of them in all, a mix of species and genders, with a few droids amongst their ranks. Most pretend not to notice your arrival, but a few glare in the Mandalorian’s direction or exchange meaningful looks.

If Mando knew any of them, he didn’t seem to care. He stalks over to an empty corner of the room and takes root with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. 

Is this what he's like on the job? All business? Not that it's a huge departure from his normally standoffish behavior, but...what? Did you expect drinking buddies?

No, he saved his warmth and humor for the kids. With maybe a little left over for you, too.

Unfortunately, you aren't as skilled in compartmentalizing your emotions. There’s no way you’ll be able to sit still waiting on Vos indefinitely, not with this much tension circulating, so you take a seat at a nearby table and activate the holo-board. Nadu Chaal, a Huttese game testing memory and calculation, is an ideal pastime to divert your attention.

Keep your head down and eyes on the board. Maybe you’ll leave without humiliating yourself. Or the Mandalorian.

“Hello, there.”

Ugh, kriffing ... You look up from your discard pile to see one of the mercenaries, a male Togruta, approaching your table. He walks over with a tankard but without a shirt, his well-muscled body glistening with sweat. Perhaps he’d been sparring with the group over by the bar. 

“Don’t think I’ve met you before,” he says, handing you a drink. You take it because it seems rude not to, and you don’t know what merits retaliation around here. “My name’s Talsala. And you?”

You twist your head reflexively to look at the Mandalorian standing still as a statue behind you.

“Ha!” Talsala barks with laughter. “Well done, Mando. She’s very obedient.”

It chafes your pride hearing him say that, but ‘very obedient’ has got to count for something with the Mandalorian.  

The Togruta leans one of his powerful shoulders against the wall next to him, “I’d offer you one, too, Mando, but then you might loosen up a little, and I know how you hate that.”

“Talsala,” the bounty hunter says in an irritated tone. “This is Thulani Vildar.” 

Fortunately, your visor hides the look of shock sweeping over your eyes. What did he mean by giving you Tigran Vildar’s name, especially given how much he seemed to hate the man?

“Always thought you worked alone,” the Togruta says, speaking to Mando. “Certain advantages to bringing in a partner, eh?” He shoots you a lewd glance, making it clear what these perceived benefits might be. “She looks…eager to prove herself.” 

And then, to your horror, Talsala takes the seat opposite you. “I’m trying to get a game of Bako going. You know it?”

Your nod is more wary than eager. “I’ve seen it played.”

He waves over two others—a Rattataki female and a human male—to join you around the table. You sense Mando’s looming presence behind you, but you don’t dare to look back at him and reveal your misgivings. There’s nothing hostile or threatening about their behavior, yet you can’t help feeling outnumbered. 

“Valine,” the Togruta smiles as she takes the empty seat on your right. “This is Thulani. And this brute is Kasper.” On your left is a stout, round fellow with short blonde hair, a bushy beard, and thick eyebrows, whose nose had been broken in several places. He grunts by way of greeting.

Talsala leans across the table. “Do not mind Kasper. He is not much of a talker.”

“No, we save all the talking for you,” Valine says dryly, motioning a droid over to refill her tankard. She slaps the Togruta’s arms off the table so she can reset the game. “I’ll take red.”

“Green,” you say evenly. 

When the game commences, they’re careful not to pepper you with too many questions, curbing their curiosity to match the flow of gameplay.

“Where are you from Thulani?” Talsala asks with a politeness that doesn’t match his arrogant swagger. “Can’t quite place your accent.”

The Togruta is committed to sending you a flirtatious smile every time he looks up from his hand, performatively biting his lower lip in concentration.

Years ago, you might have blushed, but thankfully, you're too well-seasoned for that now. “I’ve called many places home,” you reply impassively. “I’m sure it’s a mix of them all.”

“How do you know the Mandalorian?” Valine inquires moments later.

“Mutual acquaintance,” you tell her. 

All the while, Mando keeps his silent watch. Was he furious with you for letting yourself be drawn into their net? For certain, this was a fishing expedition. But whether one motivated by malice or boredom, you can’t be sure. 

“You two making the jump with us to Coruscant?" asks Talsala. "Or are you looking for work after your business with Vos?” 

“Not really my place to say,” you insist, nodding towards the Mandalorian. 

Valine snorts, stretching her legs under the table, “She is well-trained.” 

Then, Kapser calls out, “What you paying her for, Mando?”

It’s the first he’s spoken since sitting down at the table an hour ago. The question is weighted with some significance you can sense but not fully discern.

Ultimately, the Mandalorian is saved from having to answer when Vos’s personal guard steps into view. “Lord Vos is ready to see you now.” She turns on her heels, leaving you to follow in her wake, her presence deeply unsettling.

As you pull away from your seat, Talsala places a chip card in your hand. “Come find me when you tire of this old monk. I’ll put you to work.” 

Arching an eyebrow, you point at the guy and mouth “I told you so,” to Mando.

While the bounty hunter was right to make you change out of your clubwear, you are fairly sure you could be brain dead, wearing a gunnysack, and Talsala would still have offered to poach you out from under the Mandalorian just for sport.

You expect him to make some sarcastic reply, but instead, he exits the room in silence. Shit! Is he really that pissed at you?

Vos’s guard waits in front of the lift. She steps aside, letting you enter the elevator car, before leaning inside the cabin to enter a code into the operating panel. “There’ll be someone to escort you upstairs,” she says, ducking back out. “Always a pleasure to see you, Mando.” 

You don’t have time to read something more into her words or the predatory look she throws the Mandalorian. The jolt of the ascending elevator forces you to take a step back to avoid falling into him.

Traveling up the ship's spine, you look out onto an aerial view of Daiyu City, choked in smog and radiant light. There’s a grim splendor to it. In the silence, Mando steps toward the glass to get a better look.  

Is it a seething silence? You can’t be sure.

Maybe he’s waiting until you’re both off Vos’s yacht to start yelling at you, afraid to open his mouth lest he fly off the handle. It was foolish to let yourself be caught in their game. If they had wanted to overpower you, they easily could have with only the Mandalorian there to save you. Yet nothing so dire had happened, and you were cautious not to give anything away. 

Curse that fucking helmet. You have no idea what he’s thinking. The job on Berchest had been a trial run, but this felt like the real test. 

"Why did you tell Talsala my name is Vildar?"

The question escapes your lips before you can swallow it back. It isn't the time or place to have this conversation.

He shakes his head absentmindedly. "It ... it's the first thing that came to mind."

Your stomach lurches. "Mando, I know you think there's—"

Erenada! The credits you’ve been fidgeting with fall to the floor, and you crouch down hurriedly to stuff them back into the pocket of your belt.

“You made that much on a hologame?”

“What?” The casualness of his tone catches you by surprise. He didn’t sound angry. “Oh, yeah. Well, they never catch on,” you smirk. 

“Catch on to what?”

“Bako is all about betting against the draw. It's pure probability.” 

When he says nothing in response, you clarify. “I can count cards, Mando,” you say before adding in an even lower voice, “Plus, it helps that I can tell if someone’s bluffing. Or excited about a good hand.”

“Don’t you need skin contact?” he asks. “Isn’t that why you wear the gloves?”

“It’s more about proximity. Touch makes for a stronger connection. But I can pick up on a lot just sitting next to someone. You ordinarily don’t sense it because the Beskar shields you from my influence.” 

“And this is what you use your abilities for? Gambling.” 

Ugh, there’s just no winning with him. “Did you never wonder where I get the money? You don’t pay me enough to afford these boots.”

While not as glamorous as your thigh-high red lace ups, the dragon leather boots you're wearing are both practical and spectacular. 

“Is that what you meant when you said we could get the money for repairs ‘another way’?”

“It would have taken me a few days, but yes.”

He pauses, once again dumbstruck by the revelation that you don’t simply go into stasis every time he leaves the ship. “Do you bring the kids with you?”

“No, I do not bring children with me to gamble!” You say immediately, which is not a lie since you never go looking for gambling tables. They just happen to be a common occurrence in most Outer Rim taverns. “Nito takes a turn watching the baby. Just like he is right now.”

If Mando has further concerns about your childcare responsibilities, they’ll have to wait. The elevator doors open onto a waiting circle of uniformed guards. Every one of them, except the Cathar standing in the middle, are HK droids. 

Or, at least, Cathar is what he started out as—he was more machine now than organic.

The HKs scan you for any remaining weapons, and once again, Mando’s whipcord goes unremarked.

Nevertheless, the Cathar steps directly in front of Mando, barring his path inside Vos’s private rooms. He's built like a brick wall and is at least a foot taller than the Mandalorian.

“You know the rules,” he growls between feline teeth. “No one sees Vos without showing their face.”

You can almost feel Mando’s hackles rising. Clearly, this was a frequent point of tension between them.

“I have worked for Ryun Vos many times, and he has never seen my face.” 

A tense silence unfurls. Then, like the coiled strike of a snake, the bodyguard’s metallic hand shoots forward, reaching for the Mandalorian’s helmet.

Mando catches him by the forearm, stopping his hand mere inches from the Beskar helm. The bodyguard snarls, bearing his teeth before striking out with the heel of his other hand. Mando ducks his blows—once, twice—an elbow catches him in the ribs, but he uses the proximity to hook an arm around the Cathar's shoulder and throw him bodily down the hallway. 

Both men turn to face each other, planting their feet and taking up fighting stances.

“Chirgar!” Vos shouts into the hallway. “I admire your loyalty, but must you harass the Mandalorian every time we conduct business?” 

The bodyguard reluctantly stands down. “No point in rules if you don’t enforce them,” he snarls, running his tongue over a row of pointed teeth and tilting his shaggy chin at a belligerent angle.

The shadowy figure of Ryun Vos had preyed upon your mind like a specter. Mando was never forthcoming about what happened on the job, but with Vos, he didn't have to. The work for Vos always left him visibly shaken. He's so wary of the man that he refused to dock the Razor Crest on the same fucking planet. You'd taken a ship from a nearby moon to Daiyu City.

Which is all to say that it felt incongruous to see an elegant, effete man smiling at you in a well-tailored suit.

“Come, Chirgar,” Vos says from behind his lacquered desk. “You know Mando and I are old friends.” 

With a wave, he motions you inside the handsomely appointed offices, supplying a panoramic view of the city below. Ryun Vos was quite an avid collector with an evident penchant for ancient weaponry. Displays of swords, daggers, and armor feature prominently on every wall of his study.

“Mando,” the crimelord calls out in greeting. “I can never seem to find you when I need you. Yet, I never doubt you'll show up at my door again like a stray dog.”

Vos chuckles genially, but the hairs along the back of your neck tingle. You sneak a glance at the bounty hunter to see how he reacts to being called a mongrel, but his posture gives nothing away.

“Are you in need of sanctuary? As I've said before, if you came to work for me exclusively, I could smooth over all this unpleasantness with the Guild.” 

“I’m honored by your offer, Lord Vos, but I've no need of your generosity.” 

Mando’s words are carefully spoken, his tone firm but respectful. Yet something dark crosses your host’s face, replaced so quickly by a jocular grin that you can’t be sure whether you imagined it.

“Then what, pray tell, brings you all the way to Daiyu just to meet with me?” Vos asks, pulling a hand over his cleanly shaven jaw.

“I hoped to redeem the favor you owe me.”

The word hope is doing a lot of work to demonstrate Mando’s deference.

“Oho! A dog in search of food then…” Vos nods his head smugly and shifts his gaze in your direction. “And what about your lovely companion? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Thulani Vildar, this is Ry—

“She knows who I am,” Vos says, waving a hand airily and leaning back in his sumptuous chair. “This favor. Name it, and it’s yours. Within reason, obviously.”

Mando pauses for a breath before launching into the pitch you devised. “While working a recent job—”

“Ah, working as a hunter? Warrior? ... Assassin?”

Has Mando worked as an assassin?

Alright, there's no need to be quite so naive. What else could the threat of bringing them in 'cold' mean? He's not referring to the carbon freezer, Thuli.

“My business is my own.” And the challenge in the Mandalorian’s voice is unmistakable.

Vos’s face tightens. “Careful,” he says softly. "I would hate to have to teach you manners, especially in front of the girl.”

At his words, Chirgar eases a hand down over one of the knives at his belt. In the tense silence that follows, you wonder if Mando really means to take down Vos and his bodyguard, armed only with his whipcord. He was a skilled fighter, but how would he withstand the Cathar’s cybernetic limbs, which could pulverize his bones to dust.

Finally, Vos breaks the quiet with a hearty stream of laughter. “I’ve forgotten that Mandalorians are not known for their decorum. My mistake. Please continue.”

The bounty hunter lets his gaze fall back to Vos. “I’ve come into possession of a wanted man whose contract I cannot collect on.”

“Being a wanted man yourself must make it difficult to navigate official, legal channels, I imagine.” 

“It’s not the Guild or New Republic I’m trying to avoid. But he was taken by mistake, and I would like to return him.”

“And you want me to arrange for his delivery?” 

Mando nods.

“Seems to me it would be easier for everyone involved to kill this man and be done with it.”

“It would,” the Mandalorian agrees. “But I think his safe return might be of value to you.”

Vos’s steepled fingers point toward the bounty hunter. “Now you have my attention.”

“This man is an engineer for House Galantis, one of the Nine Houses now ruling the Berchest system. With New Republic bureaucracy, it’ll be years before they obtain permission to sell their hyperfuel through official, legal channels.”

“I see. So, you are handing me a gift, which I may use to make an advantageous introduction. Very thoughtful of you. And what do you gain from this, Mando? My gratitude?”

“I need money.”

“Shocking how it always comes back to that. How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

“Anything else? Perhaps you’d like my ship?”

Vos's tone is so egregious it's a struggle to keep from laughing. The sale of this yacht could finance a star fleet. Hell, he probably owned this yacht and a star fleet.

“You have the money,” Mando persists. “You have money and power because I freed you from prison where you were left to die.”

“Then you should have negotiated back in that cell. I’m not a bank, Mandalorian. And even if I were, given your current situation, I’d say your credit is a risky investment.”

“I’m not asking for a loan.”

“You want me to give you—" Vos paused. "Seventy thousand credits for some nameless nobody who might open a door for me?”

Mando looks at you questioningly. You shake your head. “A hundred thousand is the deal,” the bounty hunter says again.

It’s the first time since you walked into his office that you have Ryun Vos’s full attention. “And what makes you think you deserve anything more than what I dain to offer?”

“My Lord Vos,” you say, trying to match the reverence he so clearly felt entitled to. “We can sell this man only once. The political connections he provides will reward you many times over.”

“A brilliant assessment but, as I said, one that weighs connections he might provide.”

“House Galantis is offering a bounty of one hundred fifty thousand for his safe return. If his delivery doesn’t yield any business opportunities, there's still a profit to be made.”

Vos’s eyes darken as he considers his options.

“I will give you the one hundred thousand credits. But in exchange for my generosity, I would like a favor. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

Mando shifts his stance. “What favor do you ask?”

“I would like to borrow the services of your Miralukan crew member here—with the offer of an additional fifty thousand for you, my dear. Your talents are so rare; I would not wish to take them for granted.”

A lump the size of your fist lodges in your throat. 

Sure, you’re disguised as Miraluka. And here was confirmation that the disguise had worked. Because if Ryun Vos knew that you’re a wanted fugitive facing a death sentence back on Hapes, he’d have no reason to ask for your help.

No, it’s the creeping feeling that this entire encounter has been orchestrated to catch you in this moment that fills you with dread. 

Mando steps closer to you in a few quick strides, shielding you from Chirgar’s view. “She’s not part—”

“She can speak for herself,” Vos asserts, raising a hand to silence the Mandalorian. “The man whose life you saved on Danvar II has since made some accusations that I must verify.” 

“How would I—?”

“Don’t be coy,” Ryun Vos drolls. “The Mandalorian may rely on your services as a healer, but we both know the Miraluka can do much more than that.” 

Fuck! Fuck, shit, fuck. Hadn’t you just told Mando that you could sense when the other players were bluffing? Is that why Vos had left you to sit there for hours until a spot at the card table conveniently freed up? Had it all been a trap just to test you?

“I’m not asking you to tell me how you know…but you would know if someone was lying?”

“Yes,” you say in barely more than a whisper. Beside you, Mando’s body stiffens.

This is why he cautioned you against using your powers unless it was absolutely necessary. The quarry Mando captured on Danvar II had told Ryun Vos about his crimes and conspirators...but also about the young woman who'd healed him.

“Good,” Vos says cheerfully, clapping both hands together. “There are a few associates I’d like you to question.”

That he has them ready and waiting in the next room is confirmation of your worst fears, that this plan was set in motion the minute you stepped on board. 

“And what happens once I’ve found the person who’s been lying to you?”

Mando stands even closer, his broad shoulders enveloping you like a cloak. He was readying himself to defend you from attack. 

“I thought questioning a client’s intentions went against your professional code?”

You stare up into the Mandalorian’s viewplate, hoping that he understands—that he might be the only man in the galaxy to understand your conviction. “I’m not a hunter,” you tell Vos. “I’m a healer. And I took an oath to do no harm.”

Vos laughs with delighted surprise, smiling at you like the adorable idiot he believes you to be. “Very well. You have my word; I will not kill them.”

You scoff, “I’m sure it’s been some time since you bothered with wet work, Lord Vos.”

Next to you, Mando lets out a hushed curse in warning.

“Do no harm,” you repeat. “I need you to promise that this person will not be harmed. Evidence of their betrayal is what’s valuable.” A little taken aback at your own courage, you add, “These are my terms.”

Ryun Vos’s smile grows wider but doesn’t reach his eyes. “All right,” he says jovially. “Why not?” And he turns to a bristling Chirgar, “Bring in Pia'vak.”

The woman wears a tattered nightdress, a fine layer of grime, and several ugly burn scars. You shoot Vos a reproachful look. She'd obviously been snatched from her bed in the middle of the night to be tortured.

When she sits down at the table opposite you, your instincts have you reaching out for her. "Pia, give me your hand."

Pia’vak's spirit had been broken. You might have asked her to jump up and down on one leg, and she would have leapt onto the table to oblige. Subservient, she gives you both her hands so you quickly remove your gloves and hold them together between your bare palms. You can't remove the filth from her skin, but you do manage to clear up all the cuts and bruises.

She reaches up a hand to feel her mended nose. "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Pia sobs. "Does...does this mean I get to leave?"

"Perhaps," Vos rests his chin on his knuckles. "You claim to have overheard Ivan say his information came directly from one of my lieutenants?"

Tears run down Pia's face as she nods frantically.

"Do you know who?"

"No! I swear! I never met him or saw his face or heard his voice or knew his name or —"

"She's telling the truth." You decide to save the woman from her helpless babbling. "Pia," you ask, staring into her wide amber eyes wet with tears. "You said you've never met him...if you didn't hear their voice, why do you think this person is a man?"

"That's what he said! Ivan said," she pleads hysterically. "That he knew where to find the weapons."

"Does Ivan know who this man is?"

"I don't know..." Pia'vak chokes, hiccuping as more tears spilled down her face, cutting trails through the grime on her cheeks. "I don't know...Ivan didn't tell me anything! I was out on the balcony, and I...he didn't know I could still hear him."

At that, she collapses into a fit of sobs.

You turn to glare at Vos. "Can we get Pia some clothes and a meal before she's on her way?"

He throws back his head to laugh. "You are a condolatory influence, my dear. I'll give you that. I can see why the Mandalorian is so...protective of you."

Mando's deep voice rumbles from over your shoulder, "Let's get on with it."

Chirgar hissed, but Ryun Vos merely gestured impatiently, "Bring in Ivan."

Ivan's appearance confirms your suspicion that these two were taken in some sort of pre-dawn raid. He wore a thin, ratty tunic over his briefs, and that was it. They hadn't even let him put shoes on.

Ivan also showed signs of torture. His face was a mess, with one eye completely swollen shut, his zygomatic bone likely floating around in several pieces.

"I need your hand, Ivan," you say calmly, reaching across the table.

"Stay away from me, witch!"

He draws himself back, looking both terrified and disgusted. The Miraluka were primarily known as healers and diplomats, but being able to see the world without eyes can make some folks superstitious. He was probably imagining grotesque, empty eye sockets behind your visor.

"Hold him down," Vos commands.

Chirgar shoves Ivan forward, pinning his chest against the table's edge. When you grip his wrist, the man tosses his head with a hateful sneer. Should you attempt to heal his wounds, or would he prefer not to be tainted by your witchcraft?

"Pia's safe now," you say, trying to garner some goodwill.

"What?" his brows furrow.

You don't pick up on any sense of relief, and no remorse either for endangering her life. Ivan could give a shit about what happened to Pia'vak.

Well, that made you feel less conflicted about incriminating him. You might have saved Pia, but you doubt Ivan will get out of this alive, whatever promises Ryun Vos had given.

"I know you've been stealing from me, Ivan. That much we've established," the crimelord drones. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I need to know how deep this rot reaches. Who gave you the stockpile locations?"

"I don't know! I never knew who he was. He didn't reveal anything about his identity!" Ivan yells desperately.

"So you say..."

You close your eyes to avoid watching Ivan's hysteric meltdown. The tangle of his emotions is a frustrating knot to unravel. His skill—like all good liars—was to weave in certain truths, along with things he told himself were true, to create the falsehoods.

"Is he lying?" Ryun Vos asks.

"No. He's telling the truth that his source never revealed themselves," you explain, and Ivan's shoulders sag with reprieve. "But he does know who it is."

"Fuck you, witch!" The man howls, but the shocked horror on his face is another kind of truth. One he can't hide.

"Give me a name," Vos demands, slamming a fist onto his desk, shaking loose his perfectly coiffed hair.

"He'll kill me," Ivan splutters, his one good eye darting around the room. "I'm fucking dead. I'm a dead man."

"Tell me his name, and I just might let you live," Vos growls. You throw him another glaring look. Could he not wait until you left the room to make a mockery of your principles?

Ivan turns his head back and forth, over both shoulders, hissing, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" and dissolves into unbridled weeping.

"Tell me his name," Vos roars, his voice full of cold fury.

The man raises his head, taking a deep breath. Then, a look of astonishment flashes across his face. Ivan gurgles, choking down the blood spilling from the knife protruding from his throat.

You sense, rather than see the second knife—the one that's meant for you.

It plunges down in a shining arc, ready to tear open your chest. You turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut in terror, but as you do, you glimpse the Mandalorian, his arm slashing through the air. There's a twang of colliding metal, and then…nothing.

Until you're knocked from your seat, landing with your face buried in the soft carpet, Mando's body shielding you.

“Stay down!” he yells.

You twist your head and open an eye to see the bounty hunter reaching for a gilded axe mounted onto the wall behind you. His fingers barely close over the handle before Chirgar upends the table and lunges forward.

Mando blocks the first swing of claws with the axe, but the next catches him in the ribs. Chirgar's bionic hand closes over the ancient weapon, and the wooden shaft splinters into pieces.

Grunting, Mando drops his elbow to launch a solid uppercut at the organic underside of the Cathar’s jaw. But Chirgar sees the blow coming and throws his head back to lessen the impact, blindly gripping the Mandalorian by both shoulders.

Mando’s body shoots upward to the ceiling, slamming into the crystal chandelier and crashing back to the floor with bone-rattling force. Chirgar lands kick after kick over the Mandalorian's prone body until he raises his knee high, intending to stomp the life out of the bounty hunter.

But at the last second before impact, Mando rolls between the Cathar's legs, launching to his feet with surprising speed.

Chirgar lets out a loud oof as Mando wraps his arms around him, pinning the Cathar’s cybernetic limbs to his side to neutralize their advantage.  He snarls, muscles straining, teeth bared as he tries to break Mando’s hold.

In answer, the Mandalorian drove his helmet into Chirgar’s nose with a nauseating crunch. Before you can blink, he releases the Cathar and lands a solid, well aimed punch to the solar plexus.

Chirgar hunches over, struggling for breath as blood gushes over his open mouth. Mando pivots on the balls of his feet to deliver a brutal kick to the back of the Cathar’s legs. Chirgar falls to his knees, swaying but somehow still upright. Mando lashes the whipcord around Chirgar's throat and dives for the floor, using his body as an anchor to drag the Cathar to the ground.

Chirgar makes a series of frantic choking sounds, slashing at the Mandalorian’s fists. But the Beskar gauntlets safeguard his relentless grip. Steadily, the grunting fades, and the flailing limbs still, until finally, the Cathar's body goes limp.

Staggering to your feet, the Mandalorian's arms surround you, holding you to his chest in a crushing grip. He looks down at you, raising a gloved hand to cup your face. You feel his gaze searching for yours to make sure you're okay. When you nod in answer, you can tell he doesn't believe you.

Despite the blood splattered across your face, you're unhurt. The shock of violence had turned your guts into jelly, but rugburn is the extent of your physical injuries. As long as you don't faint.

With Mando’s gasping breaths and your thundering heartbeat, it takes a moment to register the sound of clapping behind you.

You whirl around to find Ryun Vos leaning back in his chair, applauding. The Mandalorian had said the man would search for any source of leverage, and the look in Vos’s eyes, broadcast in his steadfast gaze, affirms what you know to be true. That Mando had betrayed his weakness with a single gesture, that comforting hand holding your face.

It had all been a trap. Or a series of traps that Vos had laid just to see what he could catch. Now he understood that a Miraluka and Mandalorian were within his grasp, and he only needed to catch one to get at the other.

Heeding none of this, Mando furiously demands an answer. “Why let him in here—armed—if you suspected him?” 

Vos shrugs. “Something’s different about you, Mando. I needed to see if you’d lost your edge or just gone soft,” he shoots you another glance. “Now I know.”

The crimelord looked bemused. “This prisoner of yours, how will I find him?”

Mando places a communicator down on the desk. “Once we’re off the ship, I’ll let him know it's safe to contact you.”

“Mando! This paranoia of yours is unfounded. Can’t you see, if you simply worked for me, there would be no need for all this worry? You’d both be highly rewarded for your talents as members of an organization that could protect you. And as you can see,” he nodded toward Chirgar’s lifeless body. “I have an unexpected vacancy.”

“My 'prisoner' will be in touch. Send Morrigan to collect him.”

Vos looks between you and the Mandalorian in surprise. “I’ll let her know she has your endorsement.” Sensing that there would be no further discussion of employment, Vos stands and places a hand over his heart. “You have my word, that I will return him safely to Berchest.”

With that, the office doors open.

“Is he really going to let us leave?” You mumble once you're back on the gangway. By the time you step onto the dock, your entire body is drenched in nervous sweat.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

***********************

Continue reading Volume 3- Post #5: What did the wall ever do to you?

Back to Volume 3 - all posts

[spiritflux]

@skyheld

Six weeks.

Six weeks, and Fenris’s heart still felt as raw as the day that he had received Varric’s letter.

He didn’t remember reading it, although the words were burned into his mind. It had ended up in the fire. Yet still the words haunted him:

Hawke is gone.

Hours had turned into days turned into weeks turned into a month, and even the slog through rain and snow and mud to reach Skyhold had not numbed the pain. He did not remember any of it: there must have been companions on the road, the occasional bed in some tavern, but it was just… a blur of numbness. Of tears and anger and a keen sense of loss unlike anything he’d known before.

Hawke was dead. Hawke was dead, and Fenris did not know how to live without him.

He recalled the words he had once told him: I cannot bear the thought of living without you. A simple sentiment at the time, spoken in the spur of the moment on the eve of battle, but only now did he realise the true meaning of his words. He could not bear this. Hawke was gone, and—… without him, there was no purpose anymore.

No purpose, but he did want answers. Wanted to know what cause Hawke had deemed so important to die for. Wanted to know what form of a person could be so incompetent that they had been responsible for the death of the greatest man Fenris had ever known.

And so he had gone to Skyhold. Dragged his way through Nevarra and the Waking Sea and the Frostback mountains to demand an account of what had happened from the person who had done it.

Oh, he was aware of the buzz that his appearance caused. The road-dirtied elf, armoured and armed, grief-wild and ready to fight the guards who tried to stop him at the gates. He was aware of the mutters that followed him. Of the way that Varric appeared (always the master of timing, weren’t you, you bastard) to command others to give him passage.

There was a woman - Montilyet, he thought he remembered her saying, who tried to keep him at bay. The Inquisitor is busy. The Inquisitor is in a meeting—

The Inquisitor.

Fenris wondered if this enigmatic leader knew what they’d done. What they had taken from the world.

Montilyet couldn’t stop him. Varric knew better than to try. Fenris could deduce where to find this Inquisitor only by the increasingly frantic way in which his mad progression was blocked, and with no regard for those who tried to stop him, he shoved open the doors to the Inquisitor’s study. They bounced off of the walls - loud, startling - and he revelled in the sound of it. It gave him the moment to take in the sight of the person who had taken his heart from him.

He must have been a sight: filthy from the road, the shaved sides of his hair unkempt and unmaintained. Lyrium-burned skin flaring furiously, one hand reaching for the hilt of the huge blade slung across his back.

He didn’t care how he looked.

He hoped it was terrifying.

“You—!”

[soranihimawari]

Shaken not Stirred

7. We always used to have sleepovers as children, why would it be weird now?"

Pairing: teen->adulthood friendships||nanami x yn

Warning: 🔞nsfw! bc sexual awakenings and teasing may affect those who’s first choice was hawk girl or j.depp (specifically Cry Baby era)// nanami & reader realize their friendship was built on lustful attraction versus friendly ones as they grew up. 👀 also, implied that reader’s family has yakuza or mafia ties…

Rating: adult!relationship with nanami kento [adult as in a good fucking means someone tried to test reader’s patience and they are not one to stand by and let nanami be insulted…]

You are writhing beneath him; a man twice your size is above you, giving into his earthly desires. His voice is gruff and demanding as he pulls another pitiful moan out of you. He mocks you, lustfully licking a stripe from your neck to where your ear connects—it’s hot. The heat in the autumnal day is now cooling, but the bed creaks. Something ancient is awake and angry, his broken growl of your name hangs in the air. He fucks you to his rhythm as you cry out you can take one more fleeting orgasm. And the jackal of a man laughs muttering how brave you must be.

Rewind yourself to 72-hours ago when you arrived back on your home neighborhood in Sendai. You’re reuniting with some old friends after you found out your last remaining uncle had passed. Being in your mid to late twenties and working for a moderately ran start-up company for blue light lenses, you thankfully had merciful bosses who believed in putting family first. Though rare, they did make you file a leave of absence as you finalize your travel arrangements in the office before the end of the week.

You fly out on cold February morning, kind of overrated but if you’re able to get to Sendai Ciry by dinner tomorrow, your folks would have said it was worth the red eye fees. Honestly, once you traverse through bay check and the security points, you’re at your gate, eyes heavy as sleep is something you lacked.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours (and if you count the other twenty four you were up for, you’re sure you’d put your body through some sort of cardiac issued stress), however you were able to picked up by an old neighbor—Nanami Kento. Sure, the two of you grew up and apart, but considering the other options of your contacts, you went with the most reliable one. He bows as he greets you, his driver acknowledges you and you introduce yourself to the man and apologize for the delay.

“Snow this time of year is brutal,” the driver chuckles.

You nod as Nanami opens the passenger door for you. You give him your thanks as you sit down and strap on the seatbelt.

Looking back as both the driver and Nanami get in after you close your door, you fidget on your seat and nervously crack your knuckles, chuckling here and there as you listen to their banter until you speak up at an upcoming red light.

“Umm… I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask if I could spend the first few nights with you, Nanami-kun? If not, I know you’re busy with work, but if it truly is a problem, I could find a hotel to stay in…”

You’re stifling a yawn and he notices the slight wrinkles at the sides of your eyes. Surely you’re not still suffering from insomnia before trips, he thinks. Then, after he ponders for a light or two, he agrees.

“Bless you, my parents just texted me that my room was part of their remodeling phase and it’s getting a fresh coat of paint right now. I don’t mind taking the train from Tokyo back,” you explain with a soft smile.

You don’t remember much after the turn to his apartment high rise. You figured you knocked out and the driver, Mr Iji, had taken your things up for Nanami because well, for lack of better words, Nanami would have been carrying you. At the thought, your cheeks flush and you swat away all the raunchy things that could have happened, but it didn’t.

Nearly six in the morning and you are awakened again this time by an alarm and a half dressed adult blonde best friend. There’s several bandages on his arm and ribs from what you used to consider an awful part time job. He worked in an office from 9-5, but he did clock in some hours since he went back to being an adjunct teacher. Apparently even in this relic of a neighborhood, something keeps killing his colleagues. He told you all this before when you were nineteen and he had just turned twenty a season prior:

“You ought to be careful next time,” you hum as you help him place gauze over his cut brow. “I won’t be here to patch you like Shoko-chan can.”

“You can stay,” he hums, sort of pleading to you when the alcohol seeps and stings between the stitches there. “Mm…was that necessary?!”

Shows him the message from Shoko.

“Doc said so,” you mirthfully laugh as you see him frown. You put away the first aid kit and sigh. “I worry about you. This job, can’t you quit it before you die?”

“What? Why would I?!”

You realize he hasn’t loosened his grip on your hand; the alcohol must still be stinging a bit you reason.

“Because I can’t lose my best friend right after we had just gotten back on better terms,” you’re gentle tone makes him look you in the eyes and it dawns on him just how right you must be. “Besides, who’s gonna come bother me in the U.S. when I get my doctorate degree in medicine over there? Don’t send Gojo, I’d kill him with whatever fad he’s on now…”

Nanami chuckles.

“My girl is a clever one,” he says.

“If I really was yours, you wouldn’t be talking,” you tease. “Remember what happened when you told me you loved Hawk Girl and I still loved that crybaby movie?”

“‘Get wings or I think you’re a square?’ Oh get over yourself, we were seven and eight.”

You laugh and slip your hand out his… “I know! Isn’t that wild? Anyways, I better get home now.”

You grab your bag and wave over your shoulder, “See you at the airport. Thanks for offering to take me!”

The conversation plays in a loop in your mind and he’s in the middle of greeting you when you walk up to him and study his face, then his body…he has so many knicks and scars and even bruises. Some deeply rich in color you think he has internal bleeding. Then coffee maker begins whirring for both of you and you force his face to glance at you. You hold his chin firmly and move his face to see the same scar from the conversation still prominent with his bangs swept back.

“You told me you quit,” you half smile.

Nanami turns, wincing as he holds his bandages on his ribs to hand you a mug, but your hand presses against his side first and his breathing stutters. It isn’t the close proximity that causes him to do so? It’s just…he hadn’t seen how bright your eyes are in the dawn.

“What’s wrong? How did you…?”

You’re adjusting the gauze and your breath ignites his skin in the most subtle of ways and you adjust the pressure on his side. You gauge how he reacts and you know how he gets when you fret over him and you’re afraid you might have angered your host.

“Not important,” Nanami stubbornly stated, but he saw how the wrinkle in between your brows becomes prominent before walking away.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” you whisper and straighten up to walk away from the kitchen.

Silence ruled over you both as you fall into line with helping him make some rolled eggs and rice. He glances over every once in while, keeping his hard pressed lips together, he focuses on how delicate you’re chopping the chives. Your hands, he’s noticed, are calloused over from your trade in the medical field.

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” you say to him. “I found a hotel near the memorial services building.”

You take your plate once your dish is finished and sit on the table waiting for him. You eat together, he didn’t try to make much small talk, but you say some hurtful words.

“I never backed away, so why?”

Your voice cracked a bit when the plates were placed in the sink.

“Because you don’t deserve to use your talents on people like me,” he stands behind you, wrapping an injured arm around your waist, you’re pulled into his chest. “Can’t lose you too.”

Your hearts hammer like a forger beats the metal into a fine shield. You can feel his pulse practically race through this veins in his forearm around your waist. He whispers he’ll be back no later than six-thirty.

You think nothing of it as the day progresses even going so far as to cancel the hotel reservations. The services are day after next, so you don’t have much time left with Nanami before your life would be filled with aunts and would be retired uncles from your father’s side who’s ask awkward questions. Your cousins though? They’re immature and annoying, but the worse part? Everyone would ask you if you’re married yet, expecting, or trying to out you as many believe you’re not as you define yourself. Surely, family can be invasive, but yours is a whole other level. Hence why you being Nanami to these functions growing up or at least steal away to ditch the gatherings and hang out with him at his dorm room halfway across the prefecture.

Even now, as you don your ceremonial robes for the hybrid family traditions, he leans against the door way connecting his room to yours. The bathroom light backlights your frame as he hums in approving. Communicating with Nanami has improved, but you are reminded by him to move one stone at a time before moving a whole beam. He said that old saying of your grandmother to you when you introduced him to her in her flower shop. Nanami offered to help with the chores one afternoon and you, you decided it would be a good trial run before introducing your new friend from the middle school you started would be worked into your everyday life. Things did go well, or at least you thought they did until graduation day. His parents were a no-show, and your parents thought it was a bit awkward having him stand next to you for photos until the family matriarch decided to show up and pose for photos with him claiming how much she loved her future grandchild-in-law. The embarrassing situation was swept under the rug for the later half of the next fifteen years: in that time, you two grew up and apart especially with your residency being in the United States and he would continue his studies here in Japan. Only now, after a death in the family has returned you to your home soil do you stand before the boy you liked-maybe even dared to love-and he adjusts his spectacles to see you clearly.

"Think this is too much?" you tilt your head this way and that as he notices the bronze glitters of your neutral makeup.

"You look beautiful, even for a mourner," Nanami tells you as he takes your hand in his as he is to escort you per the request of the elders.

"Must you come with me?"

"Mr Iji is bringing the car around the corner," Nanami checks his phone. "And yes, if I don't, then your family might have its curse clinging to you."

Last night, after his shift on your second night with him, he walks into the kitchen to see you reading a few debriefings. Some were inscribed with the year of your second year and you meet his eyes when you finish reading about the Haibara-case.

"You're crying," Nanami states this easily as he dries your cheeks with a kerchief.

"Why didn't you tell me? Is this what you didn't want me to see?" You hold his wrist. "Min, please answer me."

He sighs, nodding with a head bowed in some form of shame. You move to the bedroom where he chooses to open up to you and tell you what you need to know.

"Just the facts?" you try to plead, but even your pout is enough to make anyone cave, but he doesn't budge although he did think about how your line of work in the medical examiner's office at the morgue could use some of the details to be familiarized.

Both of you stay up all night, crying together, laughing at Gojo's antics and how it had affected Nanami's ways as a sorcerer, but you stay true. You're not afraid of him nor his talents. To the outside world, he is Nanami Kento, director of sales from 9am-5pm, but only after six on the weekends, does he dabble in sorcery.

"Your family is experiencing tremendous amounts of grief," Nanami is pragmatic for sticking close to you. "Curses feed on raw negative human emotions. I'm going with you to the service tomorrow night."

Currently, Mr Iji's car is seen around the curb as you step in like before. Your family has no idea you were going to bring Nanami with you, yet when you are dropped off by him at the memorial service hall, he extends his arm to you. You greet your elders together and you bow to your godmother who's freshly widowed. As you console her, Nanami waves a hand in the air with such finesse you think he was a tea servant trainer in another life. Regardless, you chalk it up to his spectacles that help with seeing the other wordly parasites.

"...and you brought Nanami?" your godmother asks.

You nod. "He wanted to come. Mentioned he stopped by uncle's tie shop before the incident with the break in."

You motion for Nanami to come over and your godmother hugs him after he gives her a slight bow and condolence greeting.

"You were the only person who loved that pattern," she states, chuckling. "My husband fought very hard to keep that least selling item in stock because of you, and for that, I thank you."

She bows to him and cups your face.

“You remind me of us: a worrier and a warrior, praying for the the other to be kept safe.”

“Auntie, it’s—”

Nanami kisses your hairline and your words escape you.

“Exactly as you say, ma’am. C’mon, your mom’s looking over here…”

It’s unbelievably effortless as she hugs you and him. Her brother’s photo is on the offering table, lookin at you three. Your father is outside smoking with a few work friends from his gallery.

“How is dad? He was close to uncle Rob, wasn’t he?” You ask.

Nanami stands a little off to the side between you and your mother as he eyes your father’s boys club. Some of them make obscene hand signs admiring your curves as you had filled in while abroad. You’re not paying attention until Nanami snakes his arms around your back to whisper a, “behave. I’ll be right back.”

“Huh? Oh,” your eyes follow his and see your father and uncle’s shared friend group eying you disrespectfully. “Thank you.”

Nanami walks outside and he has a stern face while your mom nudges your arm.

“He’s a good one, I can tell ever since you told me about him,” she laughs.

“Mother,” you rolls your eyes and she ushers you to the offering table where you pick a plum & leave it at the alter for your uncle.

Meanwhile, Nanami puts the respect back on your name as the fools your father would have allowed to fuck you if you so wish were getting an earful from your friend.

“What makes you think you could ‘ave a go, huh?” Your father’s cigarette hangs low. “Y’know that kid of mine stems from a Yakuza-driven family on both sides.”

“And I hunt devils for a living, curses black an smoky,” Nanami coughs before covering his nostrils with his handkerchief. He smirks, your father can tell before insulting the young man further. You nearly drop your plate of food you were going to being over to Nanami as you heard your father call him a derogatory nickname for a half-blood person.

“Nanami, call Mr Iji. We’re leaving," you reach out to hold his hand. Your father chuckles as he hurls one more insulting dig in your direction and you pause your steps.

Marching up to your father, you rudely withdraw the cigarette from his lips, and put it out on his eye. He yells at you bellowing a hit order and banning summons, standing tall, you are so close to punching him in the jaw, but you did get his henchmen in the nose.

"Do not dare insult him again," you are filled with iron and vinegar. "Lest you forget who is the true seat holder to your puppet king. Nanami, let's go. We're done here."

In the heat of the moment, Nanami kisses you with finality, murming a, "Yes ma'am."

So here you were, hours later, three orgasms deep with the blonde man. You're breathing unevenly, panting, praises in feeling full and satisfied. Nanami's hips matches yours, you feel him tensing as he shyly hides in the crook of your neck and he tells you the story of his latest injuries.

"It's ok," you whisper, hotly into his mouth. "You're with me now, we're here...balls deep in this cavernous pussy which was always going to be here...ngh!~that's the spot, baby."

Nanami glistens in the sunlight peeking through his blinds. It's dawn and he cums with a little more encouragement; he slumps forward, clutching you to his chest. You too are a dewy mess, your ear turns to his bare chest and you listen to his heartbeat.

Hours later, you yawn before climbing into his bed again with the new sheets spread out, Nanami finishes his pre-sleep routine. He took the initiative to change the soiled sheets while you were in the shower, washing yourself clean from the rousing bedroom activities. You were joined a few minutes later with a bare Nanami. He remains a silent protector, a man of few words, but he is gentle and caring like you were made of fine porcelain- his hands were lightly scrubbing you, kneeling down to wash your front clean, both with his tongue and loofa. He made you believe heaven can be found within the tiles with him worshipping you like a slave moth to its sacred fire. Impossible to even try to focus to return the favor, he forgives you because you did the most basic of things to warrant this type of love: "You gave your father an order and made an example of his asshole crew."

Nanami Kento emerges from the shower room, steam rising from his nude body. Your eyes rake his body low to high, head to toe, as he dresses himself in his pajamas post dragging the boxer briefs over his thighs higher to his waist.

"I can hear you undressing me again," he muses when he pulls an undershirt over his body.

"You caught me," you chuckle back.

"Are we going to talk about this?"

The blonde lays in a relaxed position before you leaned into him, starting the ministrations of tracing his scars with your fingertips lightly. Nanami hums prompting you to answer.

"We always used to have sleepovers as children, why would it be weird now?"

"Because," Nanami tilts your head up to look at him. "You've had my heart packed in your suitcase since you left almost a decade ago. "

"You finally caught up to me, huh?"

You smile when Nanami leans forward to kiss you-it's simple and passionate. The curtains block this part of the universe where a humble doctor and a sorcerer melt into each other creating another realm of possibilities as their relationship blooms fresh.

Months later, you arrive to your new flat a few minutes away from the hospital that hired you. You sit down with a new case file handed in to you by a colleague. Nanami has yet to come home from a surveillance mission with one of Gojo’s students, yet you spoke too soon into the air when Nanami knocks on your door. You open it as he slumps forward saying his days might be numbered because of a patch-faced curse.

“Mahito’s alive?”

You escort him to your couch right away to administer first aid as necessary. A stitch or three were needed when you peeled his bloodied shirt off him.

“You knew him?” Nanami winces when he breathes between your hands sewing him shut. Again for the second time in four days.

“Mahito was one of the old hit men my great grandparents hired. They didn’t know he was a curse at all, maybe a misguided youth, but yeah…he’s clearly had work done and had become stronger.”

You nod saying you’re done with the stitching as Nanami holds your hand delicately in his.

“You should have told me,” he half smiles, weak from the day’s battle.

“I have a case file that you might be interested in reading with me. This body was exhumed around the turn of the century. Look familiar?”

The corpse on the slab from back then looked eerily similar to Mahito’s playfully long nose and long silvery hair.

“He died with a smile on his face after razing his town to the ground…” Nanami reads the report. “He was sealed and then unsealed?”

Nodding you out the first aid kit aside and sit on Nanami’s lap for a few moments, putting the sealing cream on a gauze strip and taping over the stitches.

“He was, yes. But this is why,” you pause to cup his face when you were done. “I tell you to be careful.”

Nanami kisses your inner palms.

“I’ll come home to you a little shaken.”

“Not stirred?”

“You’re so quick witted…,” he nips your jaw playfully flirtatious.

“I’m the sitting leader of a branch of the mafia thanks to my uncle passing who, by the way, left me in charge because I knew a sorcerer…”

My uncle’s will is next to his photo. Right next to it? There is a small vase of forget-me-nots that Nanami gifted me with. We stay on the couch for a little longer, talking about the future, the present, and a little about the past: we feel invincible when we’re this close to each other. What we do not know is how long we have left especially when there are plenty of curses who have their eyes on us around this part of the city.

[acourtofthought]

This entire scene really is such a shit show 😂

Lucien is trying to connect with his mate through their bond for the first time ever, something he's never done and an event that usually doesn't come with an audience of 4. Mor, Feyre, and Nesta are all acting like they're minding their business when it's not fooling anyone (Amren is probably the only one uninterested).

Mor and I sipped chilled mint tea by the bay window, the replies of the three High Lords piled on the little table between our twin chairs, pretending to be watching the summer-kissed street beyond us

In the dining room across the hall, I knew Nesta was craning her neck to look. Knew, because Amren snapped at my sister to pay attention.

we found Rhys and Cassian strolling in through the low front gate

Don’t come in, I warned him through the bond. Lucien is trying to sense what’s wrong with Elain. Through the bond.

When can I return without fearing for my life? I gave him a vulgar gesture through the window. Such a big, strong Illyrian warrior. Illyrian warriors know when to pick their battles. And with Nesta watching everything like a hawk and you two circling like vultures … I know who will walk away from that fight.

Enjoy your tea, you overbearing chaperone.

Amren hissed from the other room, “Focus.” The dining table rattled.

The sound seemed to startle Elain, who swiftly set down her teacup. She rose to her feet, and Lucien shot to his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “What—what was that?” Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too. “It—it was a tug. On the bond.” Amren snapped, “Don’t you—wicked girl.” Then Nesta was standing in the threshold. “What did you do.” The words were as sharp as a blade.

I don't think that's the scenario Majda had in mind when she recommended Lucien sitting down with Elain. 🤦😂

[randomvarious]

1998 San Francisco Playlist (YouTube)

Really ain't nothin' like the city of San Francisco when it comes to the music. The hippie-psychedelic Haight-Ashbury vibes of the 60s ended up getting baked into the cyber-psychonautic underground rave scene of the 90s; there's been a whole bunch of house music; a rich folk tradition; Bay Area hip hop developed into its own oft-overlooked entity; a pretty deep pocket of turntablism; and, of course, plenty of indie rock too. Quite a mix of scenes, and I'm obviously missing a bunch too!

So this week I'm giving you all something that feels like a long-forgotten CD that some college kid who was attending school in San Francisco may have burnt back in 1998. It's an eclectic, completely underground mix of electronic, hip hop, and a little bit of indie too; and it's been collecting dust at the bottom of a drawer now for over 25 years!

We kick off with a dubby deep house remix of Paris' A Reminiscent Drive's "Two Sides to Every Story" by SF native Charles Webster—14.4K plays on YouTube across a handful of uploads—and then we follow that up with a mix of UK group Globo's "Breakdown" by legendary breakbeat/trip hop pioneer Jack Dangers of Meat Beat Manifesto, who started calling the Golden Gate City his home in 1993—under 500 plays on that one as of right now. A little after that we get more breakbeat from a *very* obscure duo called Astralabe, whose cinematic, tribal-psychedelic masterpiece, "Guimbri Dub (Self-Cremating Fire of Passion Remix)," appears to be the only song that they ever released, and is included exclusively on an uncredited DJ mix called The Vertical Iris; currently sitting at a measly 92 plays.

Then on the hip hop side of things, we have some lo-fi dustiness from Double Life and Raw B called "Cycles of the Mind," as well as a 7-plus-minute medley by Sacred Hoop, DJ Marz, and Z-Man called "Not Our House," which I think can only be best described as Tony Hawk Pro Skater soundtrack vibe. Those songs have 28.8K and 6.6K plays, respectively. And then for some killer turntablism, we've got a few tunes, including something from DJ Badrok called "1-800-Coming Correct," which has a little under 400 plays.

There's also a fat, buzzy bassline drum n bass remix by a guy named DJ Abstract of "Dukes Up," the original version of which is by someone who simply went by the name of W, that has a little over 6.5K plays (sorry about the super annoying part at the end of it 😕); and a couple tunes that show the versatility of a dude named Cole Marquis, whose solo indie folk tune, "48's," only has a little over 140 plays, and his much peppier, college/indie rock, keyboard-aided bop, "Dirt Bike Rider," by his band The Snowmen, has a little over 170 plays.

This playlist is ordered as chronologically as possible.

Reminiscent Drive - "Two Sides To Every Story (Love From San Francisco Remix)" Globo - "Breakdown (mixed by Jack Dangers of Meat Beat Manifesto)" Daisy Glow - "Right On! (User Friendly mix)" Astralabe - "Guimbri Dub (Self-Cremating Fire of Passion Remix)" Rasco - "Cordless Mics" Cole Marquis - "48's" Double Life feat. Raw B - "Cycles of the Mind" Live Human - "Almost Live" Sacred Hoop feat. DJ Marz & Z-Man - "Not Our House" DJ Badrok - "1-800-Coming Correct" Apollo, Vinroc, Shortkut & Richness - "Live at Cue's" W - "Dukes Up (DJ Abstract's One A.M. mix)" Snowmen - "Dirt Bike Rider"

And here's a list of the compilations and mixes that were used to put this thing together:

Club H Vol. 2 by Harry the Bastard (2000, Statra Recordings) The Chemistry Set (1998, Hypnotic Records) The Vertical Iris (1998, ZoëMagik Records) Observation of Ruins (1998, Baraka Foundation) Cleaning House: A Devil in the Woods Compilation (1999, Devil in the Woods) Cue's Hip Hop Shop Volume One (1998, Dogday Records) Eclectic Electric (2000, eMusic)

And this playlist is also on YouTube Music.

So you've got about 66 minutes of some pretty obscure 1998 San Francisco underground music here, the likes of which I don't think anyone else besides that hypothetical college kid that I made up before would ever put together 😁.

Going back to the 70s next week with an update to a genre playlist that I haven't touched in a *very* long time 👀.

Enjoy!

More to come, eventually. Stay tuned!

Like what you hear? Follow me on Spotify and YouTube for more cool playlists and uploads!

[kittynomsdeplume]

First Lines

I was tagged by the lovely @alyssalenko to share the first line of my last ten published works or as many as I'm able and to see if there are any patterns!

Now, I've hopefully written ten new fics since the last time I did this tag game 😅.

Shelter From The Storm - Cullen Rutherford/Arhea Lavellan, G: They pressed on in the early twilight of dusk; climbing the pitted, winding path into the mountains.

2. Captured - Rylen/Farie Lavellan, Explicit: They splash from the river, buoyant in each other’s arms.

(Eeesh, already seeing a pattern here. Do not perceive me! 🫣)

3. The Inquisitor's Gift - Dorian Pavus/Jonathan Trevelyan, Mature: Dorian collapses with a heavy whoosh into the plush leather chair in his father’s office — the solid, old wood creaking in protest at such disrespect. 

4. Ding Dong Desk Dick Down - Cullen Rutherford/Warden!Alistair/Kiara Trevelyan, Explicit: “Who’s ready for round two?” Alistair asks with a mischievous grin and Cullen lets out an exhausted groan.

5. I'll crawl home to her - Anders/Kiara Hawke, Teen+: Anders thumbs through the loose pages of his manifesto, the light of a single candle dancing across the parchment.

6. Nobody's Fool - Dorian Pavus/Arthur Trevelyan, Teen+: The sunlight begins to slant low and amber through the library window, and Dorian rests his book in his lap, blinking his weary eyes.

7. Excuse me, Archdemon - Warden!Alistair/Elissa Cousland, G: Alistair wakes in a cold sweat, heart hammering in his chest as remnants of his nightmare slither through his mind.

8. Working Out The Kinks - Garrus Vakarian/Nihlus Kryik/f!Shepard, Explicit: “I don't mind the recoil on the M-29 so much, I’d only ever use it at mid-range anyway,” Shepard shrugs as she leads them out of the shuttle bay, wiping the sweat from her flushed face with the end of the towel that hangs around her neck. 

9. Templar Vows - Cullen Rutherford/Warden!Alistair, Teen+: Cullen leaps up the steps leading to the novitiate quarters.

10. Wounded Pride - Cullen Rutherford/Solona Amell, Explicit: Cullen steered his trusted steed, Kilead, away from the city gates of Kirkwall, and the stallion traversed the pitted earth with a smooth and steady gait.

Tagging: @charlatron | @pikapeppa | @knuttydraws | @blackwallmancer | @cleverblackcat | @kemvee | @rosella-writes | @dreadfutures | @inquisitoracorn and anyone else that would like to participate

[imaginarianisms]

full name :  sansa i stark. other names :   little dove, little bird, sansa lannister, lady lannister, lady stark, the girl in the lion's den, the dragon's betrothed, weirwood maiden, wolf girl, jonquil, & alayne stone. age : 13-14 (a game of thrones), 15-16 (a clash of kings), 16-17 (a storm of swords), 18-19 (a feast for crows-a dance with dragons-the winds of winter), 20 (a dream of spring). species : human; seeress, greenseer, skinchanger & warg (main). gender : high femme presenting cis woman. sexuality : indigiqueer biromantic bisexual.

origin : winterfell, the north. (main; verse varies); canada (modern). current location : the gates of the moon in the vale of arryn. (verse varies); canada (modern). nationality : northerner (main; canon); indigenous "canadian" (modern). ethnicity : first men & andal with distant children of the forest ancestry (main); white seeming mixed indigenous first nations & irish "canadian". spoken languages : the common tongue & the old tongue (main; canon); english, anishinaabemowin, michif, inuktitut, mi'kmawi'simk, french, gaelic, latin, asl & pisl. (modern). family : eddard stark (father), catelyn tully (mother), lyanna stark (aunt), robb stark (older brother), jon snow (older cousin), arya stark (younger sister), brandon stark (younger brother), rickon stark (younger brother); catelyn stark-velaryon (daughter; aurane velaryon); mariyam stark-velaryon (daughter; aurane velaryon), lady (her direwolf), courtesy (her gyrfalcon) kitty (her shadowcat) & her flock of little birds of different species in her aviary, all of whom she skinchanges into for espionage. partner(s) : joffrey baratheon (betrothed; former), willas tyrell (betrothed; failed), had conflicting feelings for margaery tyrell & daenerys targaryen, tyrion lannister (first husband, unconsummated), harry hardyying (second husband; unconsummated, died shortly after due to a fatal tourney accident the next day), aegon vi targaryen-martell/blackfyre (third husband; assassinated shortly after by queen daenerys targaryen by dragonfire), aurane velaryon nee waters ♥ (childhood best friend turned lover turned fourth & final husband & consort; main; exclusive).

occupation : princess, lady of winterfell turned queen of the north (main; canon). student, rising pop star, influencer & spoiled girlfriend as she technically doesn't have to work as a wealthy indigenous woman but likes doing so anyway. (modern). religion :  syncretic view of the old gods and the faith of the seven; agnostic. height :   5'6-5'8" body type :  slender, hourglass; tall; freckled. disabilities & neurodivergencies : she begins to develop the beginning of alcoholism due to heightened levels of stress; she naturally has ADHD & dyscalculia but later develops a form of median plurality, C-PTSD & hypersexuality due to her trauma. hair : auburn; kissed by fire (natural); dyes her hair black as alayne stone. eyes :   bright eyes; ocean blue eyes. tattoos : obtains a traditional chin tattoo consisting of three lines on her chin to represent her first moontime before the battle of blackwater bay & later a double "v" on her forehead upon returning to winterfell to represent becoming a woman. piercings :  n/a (main; canon); heart shaped beaded & indigicoquette style (modern). scars : her upper body has scars from the years of abuse from the blades of the kingsguard on joffrey baratheon's command (main; canon).

educational background : a noblewoman's education, (main; canon); college. (modern). social media : n/a (canon); most general social media (modern). smoking :   n/a. drinking :   begins to struggle with alcoholism; doesn't develop further. drugs :   n/a.  athletics : a wonderful dancer in both the northern & southern styles & rider. hobbies :   singing, dancing, flirting, gossiping, music, poetry, embroidery, etiquette, literature, reading, history, equestrianism, hawking, sailing, sweet things, practicing her culture & skinchanging into lady & courtesy. favorite drink :   strawberry milk, strawberry juice, milk & honey, & lemonade. favorite food :   lemon cakes. favorite music :   classical (canon); indie, folk, pop, classical, rock (modern). clothing style :   classical gowns of the age, wears mostly southern gowns of silks, satins, velvets, furs and jewels but upon returning to the north, she begins to wear more of her traditional northern cultural clothing, particularly her regalia with direwolf amulets in her hair (main; canon); casual, business casual, indigicoquette, indigigoth, hyperfeminine, academia & preppy fashion.

Tagged by: stole it from ourselves& !! Tagging: @velcryons @zcldrizes @becomelions @asoulunbound @sevynhells @gutsing @helbroth @unsnare @inmydrcams @goldenngore & anyone who wants to do this, steal it & just say we& tagged ya !! :'D

[yourfellowhuman07]

Where Do We Go Now?

A She-ra: Princess of Power 2018 fanfiction

The war is finally over. Prime is dead, the hive mind is broken, and everyone is reunited with their loved ones. However, there are some questions left unanswered. What will be the fate of Catra and Hordak? What are these new memories Wrong Hordak has? What is Etheria's place in the wider universe? Where do we go now?

___________________

Chapter 19. I finally get to write some self-indulgent angst. Suffering is afoot.

TW: Child abuse, blood

___________________

Chapter 19: Welcome Home

Hordak, Entrapta, and Emily stood outside the gates of the Crypto Castle waiting for the Alliance to pick them up. Imp was being watched by Lonnie, Kyle, and Rohelio, and TD and the rest of Hordak’s brothers were spending the day with each other. Hordak wished he could be with his brothers. He felt bad for leaving them so abruptly last night and then leaving them the next day, but Entrapta may not have another opportunity to enter The Velvet Glove.

Entrapta was talking with Emily and going over the supplies they were bringing while Hordak watched. That day Hordak had decided to wear the overalls Entrapta had given him and a black turtle neck he found stuffed in a closet. Hordak found he quite liked the overalls. They were more secure than what he wore as a warlord and less restricting than the attire Prime issued. Sure, it was slightly tight around his hips and thighs, but Entrapta’s were like that, so he did not think much of it.

The trio then heard the humming of Darla. When the ship landed Entrapta hugged her as the doors opened to Bow and Adora there to meet them.

“Hey, you too. Glad you guys came, we needed more tech experts.” Bow shouted as he waved.

“Thanks for letting us come. I never had a chance to study their technology in-depth so this will be the perfect opportunity. Just think of all the fascinating this we could learn!” Entrapta, Bow, and Emily walked further into the ship.

“How have you been holding up?”

“As good as I can.”

“Me too. Where did you get the overalls?”

“Entrapta gave them to me. She thought I would need them.”

“That’s nice of her. Come on, we better catch up with the others.”

The two entered the cockpit of Darla to meet up with the rest of the Alliance, or some of them at least.

“Where are the others?”

“They elected to stay behind in case anything happened, and Catra didn’t wanna come for… reasons. ”

“Ah.”

When the two sat with their respective groups Glimmer rose from her seat.

“Alright everyone, now that we are all here I’d like to go over all of our objectives. Adora, Frosta, and I will search the lower parts of the ship for clones while Mermista, Perfuma, and Sea Hawk search the upper parts. Bow, Hordak, and Entrapta will search through Prime’s database for info about the wider universe. Any questions?”

Frosta raised her hand.

“Yes, Frosta.”

“Can we keep whatever we find?”

“You know what, sure. Bow take us up!”

Darla lifted off from the ground toward the ship. When Hordak sat down his anxiety started to set in. He had tried to ignore the dread he felt by burying it deep within his subconscious, but it is determined to intrude upon his day. He did not know why it bothered him so much since he lived there for 68% of his life.

It will be fine. Entrapta deserves time to see the ship. Just suck it up. He thought, balling his fists.

____________________________________

Darla landed in the docking bay of The Velvet Glove as the airtight doors closed behind them. Entrapta was the first to exit Darla rushing over to the door. The only problem was that she couldn’t open it.

“Hordak, can you help me with this?”

“Certainly, princess.”

Hordak held out his hand to the door causing the lime-green barrier to dissolve. The door opened to a hall covered in foliage from the tree She-Ra grew.

“It seems the tree can’t get past the green barriers so unless the doors were opened to begin with, the other rooms should be completely intact,”

“Wait,” Bow stepped forward, “what about the other doors, Hordak can’t be everywhere to open them.”

“Why not bypass the mainframe of the ship’s code and disable all of the doors.”

“Great idea Hordak, but I tried that last time and it didn’t work.”

“May I try?”

“Sure.”

Hordak cracked his knuckles and took the pad from Entrapta. Since he had much more experience with how the Galactic Horde coded their tech it was no problem for him to quickly disable all the doors.

“Thank you Hordak.” Glimmer stepped in front of the group. “Alright everybody, we all know what to do and where to go. If there is any trouble just call someone and they will help. Let’s go.”

Everyone began to file into their respective groups, and before Bow could join his group he was stopped.

“Bow, keep an eye on Hordak for me in case he tries anything, ok.”

“Don’t worry, Glimmer. I’ll make sure he’s in line.”

_______________________________________________

Hordak walked down the hallway he had been down hundreds of times, but this time was different. He was not a servant of Prime anymore, nor was the hall as sterile. The familiar smell of bleach had been replaced by the scent of blooming flowers and pollen. Leaves and sticks littered the floor when only a week ago any sort of dust was hunted down and swiftly disposed of.

Hordak then walked by Prime’s throne room, a familiar place to Hordak. If it weren’t for his near impeccable memory, he would have lost count of the times he had been in there. Mostly for… unpleasant reasons.

_____________________________________________

As the green barrier dissolved, HK1324778 entered the throne room of his Lord Horde Prime. The god sat on his throne with his trademark air of regality with a wine glass in hand. Behind him on his monitors were visuals of HK1324778’s most recent battle.

Ah, he must have called me to congratulate me.

“Lord Prime, sir.” HK1324778 gave a bow.

“Little brother, am I a joke to you?”

“Never sir!”

“Then why have you blatantly disregarded my authority?” He began to descend the stairs. “You have disregarded my direct orders to use the battle tactics I have given you. Instead of winning the battle for me, you have won it for yourself.”

“If I were to use your tactics half of the battalion would have died.”

“So you say my tactics are inferior?”

“No, my lord. I am only saying it was not the right time for-” HK1324778 was stopped by a backhanded slap causing him to fall onto one knee. The edges of Prime’s jewelry made cuts on his face; lime-green blood oozed from HK1324778’s face.

“Excuses! I should have you reconditioned for this flagrant breach of conduct, but” Prime knelt to HK1324778 and cradled his face in one palm, wiping away the blood on his cheek “ I am nothing but a merciful god. I will let you off with a warning.” Prime grabbed HK1324778’s face, “Just remember the last person who disregarded my authority, boy.”

[mossyscavern]

What’s beyond the gate.

____________________

Sam is a borrower.

Him, Duncan and Travis are tiny people who are 10cm tall and they all live under the floorboards of a consular cabin.

For 3 years they’ve been living under the same floorboards ever since and they’ve never had any trouble at all... well, except when it reaches October.

He heard it every night. Growling, hushed screams, the screams of pain, even child like laughter. He’s heard it all. And it all starts at exactly 12am till 6am.

Those same noises kept waking Sam up.. and it’s not just that either, he’s even seen things he could’ve sworn wasn’t there when he went to bed, Travis and Duncan experienced this as well... just not as much.

After he finished sewing his new sweatshirt, Travis came back with something behind his back. “Hi Sam, I brought you a little present.” He told Sam bringing out two different coloured leaves from behind him.

“Bay leaf!” Sam shouts, putting the newly sewn clothes to the side and went towards Travis. “Where did you find’em? I thought they stopped growing.”

Sam asked, examining the bay leaf Travis handed him. “Found it beyond the gate.” Travis said, placing his bag down. “The gate?!” Sam shouted, dropping the bay leaf.

“Yeah, and there’s a bay tree too.” Travis said, preparing the food he’s gathered for supper. “I can even get more tonight.” Travis explained. “Is Duncan back yet?” He asked.

“He’s still exploring the other cabins.” Sam said, after he put the leaf he picked up away and went to help Travis with the cooking. “Why tonight?”

“Because that’s the time Edwards isn’t watching that area like a hawk.” Travis answered. “But what about those creepy noises-?!” “I’ll be fine.” Travis interrupted. “I’ve done it before.. and I’ll do it again.”

Sam hesitated at Travis’ answer.. but eventually reluctantly agreed. “Alright... but if you’re not back, I’m looking for you.” Sam told him, making Travis chuckle. “Sure thing... just don’t tell Duncan where I went.”

“No promises.” Sam said with a smirk, before flinching at the sound of a door being opened. “Hi guys.” Duncan greeted, putting away his belongings. “I see Travis hasn’t burnt anything for once.” “Hey!!” Travis shouted.

Both Duncan and Sam laughed at Travis’ outburst. Sam then stopped laughing and started to think about Travis’ plan to get some bay leaves...

Sam got worried and he has a bad feeling about Travis’ plan, but sam can’t really change his mind...

He just hopes it’s only in his imagination and Travis will be fine...

____________________

I did it!!!

I finally found a way to do that ‘keep reading’ thing! Nothing else matters anymore!!

... oh yeah, right.. *cough* Uh... I hope you all enjoy this au and have a wonderful day/night

[dcyllom]

Tag game! thanks for tagging me @506thpir :)

favourite: movie, hobby, animal, character, color, place, season, album, food (this is so long bear with me)

movie: Roman Holiday!! the second audrey hepburn film i ever saw, and my favourite :). it's so so good and is really one of the hallmarks of old hollywood movies (alongside other films obviously). it's so whimsical and carefree, the aesthetic is wonderful, and i love the ending as i feel it works perfectly for the characters.

hobby: tramping (or hiking as everyone who's not from nz calls it). i don't do this regularly as it's a huge effort to organise, but the walks in new-zealand are just incredible, the photo is one i took on the kepler track in the South Island <3. being able to have time with your thoughts with a great view and a walk is something i enjoy a lot.

animal: i don't really have a favourite animal, but lately i've loved borzois. they're just so.. noodly, haha. and very shy and silly.

character: goneril from king lear. my favourite shakespeare play, and my favourite character. she's so interesting and complex and so genuinely evil. the best ever to be honest. i think she's the black haired one judging from clothing? there's so many layers to her and so many possible ways to interpret her actions/words. a very evil gal who girl-bosses, gaslights, AND gate-keeps (literally).

colour: british racing green, especially on cars/bikes, it just looks so nice and i associate it with going for a ride/drive in the countryside. i love vintage cars in this colour.

place: taupō (toe-paw), new-zealand. a holiday spot for my family in both summer and winter, i spent a lot of my childhood here and it was always wonderful. skiing (three mountains), bush walks, fishing, boating, etc. lake taupō is actually the crater of an extinct super volcano!! it last exploded in 250 CE and the eruption was so large the ash fell in China.

season: autumn, especially in hawkes-bay where i grew up -- a lot of the region looks like tuscany, as it's mostly countryside and vineyards unless you're right by the sea, loads of poplar trees and sheep (+ horses!!). the river in the picture is called the Tutaekuri and was flooded recently in Cyclone Gabrielle.

album: Americana by Neil Young and Crazy Horse. Been a favourite for years, i love nearly every song with Clementine and Wayfarin' Stranger at the top. Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana del Rey was a very close second.

food: it's impossible for me to pick a favourite food, so i'm going with a comfort food, which is scones with jam and cream. there are other foods better than this, but you will never ever catch me refusing a scone.

this was so so long it's basically an infodump on me, lol. props to you if you read it all but i really wouldn't blame you if you just looked at the pictures.

tagging (no pressure &lt;3): @rosesthistlesandclovers, @hxad-ovxr-hxart :)

[gravelish]

Marin Headlands

15 February 2023

I suppose I could have parked on the Marin side, but I really wanted to include the bridge, so I parked at the west end of Chrissy Field near Fort Point. The ride ended up covering 25 miles and and involved 3000’ of climbing. The contrast between the tourist-filled sidewalk on the Golden Gate and the almost empty dirt roads high up in the hills was part of what made this ride so cool.

The big climb from the north end of the bridge to the old gun battery at Hawk Hill was made easier by good bike lanes, smooth pavement, and plenty of excuses to stop and enjoy the view of the Golden Gate and the city behind it.

The descent from Hawk Hill was spectacular, on a one-lane, one-way road with perfect pavement. There were almost no cars, but it didn’t really matter, since they wouldn’t have been going any faster than me. The first part was awfully steep and a little scary.

My ride returned to sea level at Rodeo Beach, but then went back up the hill for a pleasant loop on old pavement above Fort Cronkite. Cars aren’t allowed and pedestrians are on a different trail.

This ride was all highlights, but one of the best was the 5-mile loop up around the top of Gerbode Valley. I climbed about 1000’ on the Bobcat Trail circled the aircraft radio beacon on the ridge, then came back down on the Miwok Trail. This was all on narrow dirt and gravel roads that are off limits to vehicles. I saw just a few hikers and maybe a dozen cyclists (a couple on gravel bikes like me, but most on mountain bikes). Miwok was steep near the top and badly rutted in places from January’s rains. It might have been better to reverse this loop, climbing on Miwok and descending on the smoother, gentler grade of Bobcat.

The views from the ridge were incredible, from Mount Tamalpais (2021 Ride) to Mount Diablo (a future ride), including the towns of Marin County, downtown San Francisco, and south over the Sunset and farther down the coast. To the east, I could make out the open, green ridge above Berkeley and Richmond where I rode just two? days ago.

Once I got back to pavement, the final leg was pretty easy. I had the outbound (and downhill) tunnel on Bunker Road to myself. Then it was back across the bridge and the views of San Francisco and the Bay.

The last time I pedaled across this bridge, I was on my way to Seattle. (LINK)