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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Gig apps trap reverse centaurs in Skinner boxes

Enshittification is the process by which digital platforms devour themselves: first they dangle goodies in front of end users. Once users are locked in, the goodies are taken away and dangled before business customers who supply goods to the users. Once those business customers are stuck on the platform, the goodies are clawed away and showered on the platform’s shareholders:

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

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

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

Enshittification isn’t just another way of saying “fraud” or “price gouging” or “wage theft.” Enshittification is intrinsically digital, because moving all those goodies around requires the flexibility that only comes with a digital businesses. Jeff Bezos, grocer, can’t rapidly change the price of eggs at Whole Foods without an army of kids with pricing guns on roller-skates. Jeff Bezos, grocer, can change the price of eggs on Amazon Fresh just by twiddling a knob on the service’s back-end.

Twiddling is the key to enshittification: rapidly adjusting prices, conditions and offers. As with any shell game, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. Tech monopolists aren’t smarter than the Gilded Age sociopaths who monopolized rail or coal — they use the same tricks as those monsters of history, but they do them faster and with computers:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

If Rockefeller wanted to crush a freight company, he couldn’t just click a mouse and lay down a pipeline that ran on the same route, and then click another mouse to make it go away when he was done. When Bezos wants to bankrupt Diapers.com — a company that refused to sell itself to Amazon — he just moved a slider so that diapers on Amazon were being sold below cost. Amazon lost $100m over three months, diapers.com went bankrupt, and every investor learned that competing with Amazon was a losing bet:

https://slate.com/technology/2013/10/amazon-book-how-jeff-bezos-went-thermonuclear-on-diapers-com.html

That’s the power of twiddling — but twiddling cuts both ways. The same flexibility that digital businesses enjoy is hypothetically available to workers and users. The airlines pioneered twiddling ticket prices, and that naturally gave rise to countertwiddling, in the form of comparison shopping sites that scraped the airlines’ sites to predict when tickets would be cheapest:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/27/knob-jockeys/#bros-be-twiddlin

The airlines — like all abusive businesses — refused to tolerate this. They were allowed to touch their knobs as much as they wanted — indeed, they couldn’t stop touching those knobs — but when we tried to twiddle back, that was “felony contempt of business model,” and the airlines sued:

https://www.cnbc.com/2014/12/30/airline-sues-man-for-founding-a-cheap-flights-website.html

And sued:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/06/business/southwest-airlines-lawsuit-prices.html

Platforms don’t just hate it when end-users twiddle back — if anything they are even more aggressive when their business-users dare to twiddle. Take Para, an app that Doordash drivers used to get a peek at the wages offered for jobs before they accepted them — something that Doordash hid from its workers. Doordash ruthlessly attacked Para, saying that by letting drivers know how much they’d earn before they did the work, Para was violating the law:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/tech-rights-are-workers-rights-doordash-edition

Which law? Well, take your pick. The modern meaning of “IP” is “any law that lets me use the law to control my competitors, competition or customers.” Platforms use a mix of anticircumvention law, patent, copyright, contract, cybersecurity and other legal systems to weave together a thicket of rules that allow them to shut down rivals for their Felony Contempt of Business Model:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

Enshittification relies on unlimited twiddling (by platforms), and a general prohibition on countertwiddling (by platform users). Enshittification is a form of fishing, in which bait is dangled before different groups of users and then nimbly withdrawn when they lunge for it. Twiddling puts the suppleness into the enshittifier’s fishing-rod, and a ban on countertwiddling weighs down platform users so they’re always a bit too slow to catch the bait.

Nowhere do we see twiddling’s impact more than in the “gig economy,” where workers are misclassified as independent contractors and put to work for an app that scripts their every move to the finest degree. When an app is your boss, you work for an employer who docks your pay for violating rules that you aren’t allowed to know — and where your attempts to learn those rules are constantly frustrated by the endless back-end twiddling that changes the rules faster than you can learn them.

As with every question of technology, the issue isn’t twiddling per se — it’s who does the twiddling and who gets twiddled. A worker armed with digital tools can play gig work employers off each other and force them to bid up the price of their labor; they can form co-ops with other workers that auto-refuse jobs that don’t pay enough, and use digital tools to organize to shift power from bosses to workers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/02/not-what-it-does/#who-it-does-it-to

Take “reverse centaurs.” In AI research, a “centaur” is a human assisted by a machine that does more than either could do on their own. For example, a chess master and a chess program can play a better game together than either could play separately. A reverse centaur is a machine assisted by a human, where the machine is in charge and the human is a meat-puppet.

Think of Amazon warehouse workers wearing haptic location-aware wristbands that buzz at them continuously dictating where their hands must be; or Amazon drivers whose eye-movements are continuously tracked in order to penalize drivers who look in the “wrong” direction:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/17/reverse-centaur/#reverse-centaur

The difference between a centaur and a reverse centaur is the difference between a machine that makes your life better and a machine that makes your life worse so that your boss gets richer. Reverse centaurism is the 21st Century’s answer to Taylorism, the pseudoscience that saw white-coated “experts” subject workers to humiliating choreography down to the smallest movement of your fingertip:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

While reverse centaurism was born in warehouses and other company-owned facilities, gig work let it make the leap into workers’ homes and cars. The 21st century has seen a return to the cottage industry — a form of production that once saw workers labor far from their bosses and thus beyond their control — but shriven of the autonomy and dignity that working from home once afforded:

https://doctorow.medium.com/gig-work-is-the-opposite-of-steampunk-463e2730ef0d

The rise and rise of bossware — which allows for remote surveillance of workers in their homes and cars — has turned “work from home” into “live at work.” Reverse centaurs can now be chickenized — a term from labor economics that describes how poultry farmers, who sell their birds to one of three vast poultry processors who have divided up the country like the Pope dividing up the “New World,” are uniquely exploited:

https://onezero.medium.com/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs-b2e8d5cda826

A chickenized reverse centaur has it rough: they must pay for the machines they use to make money for their bosses, they must obey the orders of the app that controls their work, and they are denied any of the protections that a traditional worker might enjoy, even as they are prohibited from deploying digital self-help measures that let them twiddle back to bargain for a better wage.

All of this sets the stage for a phenomenon called algorithmic wage discrimination, in which two workers doing the same job under the same conditions will see radically different payouts for that work. These payouts are continuously tweaked in the background by an algorithm that tries to predict the minimum sum a worker will accept to remain available without payment, to ensure sufficient workers to pick up jobs as they arise.

This phenomenon — and proposed policy and labor solutions to it — is expertly analyzed in “On Algorithmic Wage Discrimination,” a superb paper by UC Law San Franciscos Veena Dubal:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4331080

Dubal uses empirical data and enthnographic accounts from Uber drivers and other gig workers to explain how endless, self-directed twiddling allows gig companies pay workers less and pay themselves more. As @[email protected] explains in his LA Times article on Dubal’s research, the goal of the payment algorithm is to guess how often a given driver needs to receive fair compensation in order to keep them driving when the payments are unfair:

https://www.latimes.com/business/technology/story/2023-04-11/algorithmic-wage-discrimination

The algorithm combines nonconsensual dossiers compiled on individual drivers with population-scale data to seek an equilibrium between keeping drivers waiting, unpaid, for a job; and how much a driver needs to be paid for an individual job, in order to keep that driver from clocking out and doing something else. @ Here’s how that works. Sergio Avedian, a writer for The Rideshare Guy, ran an experiment with two brothers who both drove for Uber; one drove a Tesla and drove intermittently, the other brother rented a hybrid sedan and drove frequently. Sitting side-by-side with the brothers, Avedian showed how the brother with the Tesla was offered more for every trip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UADTiL3S67I

Uber wants to lure intermittent drivers into becoming frequent drivers. Uber doesn’t pay for an oversupply of drivers, because it only pays drivers when they have a passenger in the car. Having drivers on call — but idle — is a way for Uber to shift the cost of maintaining a capacity cushion to its workers.

What’s more, what Uber charges customers is not based on how much it pays its workers. As Uber’s head of product explained: Uber uses “machine-learning techniques to estimate how much groups of customers are willing to shell out for a ride. Uber calculates riders’ propensity for paying a higher price for a particular route at a certain time of day. For instance, someone traveling from a wealthy neighborhood to another tony spot might be asked to pay more than another person heading to a poorer part of town, even if demand, traffic and distance are the same.”

https://qz.com/990131/uber-is-practicing-price-discrimination-economists-say-that-might-not-be-a-bad-thing/

Uber has historically described its business a pure supply-and-demand matching system, where a rush of demand for rides triggers surge pricing, which lures out drivers, which takes care of the demand. That’s not how it works today, and it’s unclear if it ever worked that way. Today, a driver who consults the rider version of the Uber app before accepting a job — to compare how much the rider is paying to how much they stand to earn — is booted off the app and denied further journeys.

Surging, instead, has become just another way to twiddle drivers. One of Dubal’s subjects, Derrick, describes how Uber uses fake surges to lure drivers to airports: “You go to the airport, once the lot get kind of full, then the surge go away.” Other drivers describe how they use groupchats to call out fake surges: “I’m in the Marina. It’s dead. Fake surge.”

That’s pure twiddling. Twiddling turns gamification into gamblification, where your labor buys you a spin on a roulette wheel in a rigged casino. As a driver called Melissa, who had doubled down on her availability to earn a $100 bonus awarded for clocking a certain number of rides, told Dubal, “When you get close to the bonus, the rides start trickling in more slowly…. And it makes sense. It’s really the type of shit that they can do when it’s okay to have a surplus labor force that is just sitting there that they don’t have to pay for.”

Wherever you find reverse-centaurs, you get this kind of gamblification, where the rules are twiddled continuously to make sure that the house always wins. As a contract driver Amazon reverse centaur told Lauren Gurley for Motherboard, “Amazon uses these cameras allegedly to make sure they have a safer driving workforce, but they’re actually using them not to pay delivery companies”:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/88npjv/amazons-ai-cameras-are-punishing-drivers-for-mistakes-they-didnt-make

Algorithmic wage discrimination is the robot overlord of our nightmares: its job is to relentlessly quest for vulnerabilities and exploit them. Drivers divide themselves into “ants” (drivers who take every job) and “pickers” (drivers who cherry-pick high-paying jobs). The algorithm’s job is ensuring that pickers get the plum assignments, not the ants, in the hopes of converting those pickers to app-dependent ants.

In my work on enshittification, I call this the “giant teddy bear” gambit. At every county fair, you’ll always spot some poor jerk carrying around a giant teddy-bear they “won” on the midway. But they didn’t win it — not by getting three balls in the peach-basket. Rather, the carny running the rigged game either chose not to operate the “scissor” that kicks balls out of the basket. Or, if the game is “honest” (that is, merely impossible to win, rather than gimmicked), the operator will make a too-good-to-refuse offer: “Get one ball in and I’ll give you this keychain. Win two keychains and I’ll let you trade them for this giant teddy bear.”

Carnies aren’t in the business of giving away giant teddy bears — rather, the gambit is an investment. Giving a mark a giant teddy bear to carry around the midway all day acts as a convincer, luring other marks to try to land three balls in the basket and win their own teddy bear.

In the same way, platforms like Uber distribute giant teddy bears to pickers, as a way of keeping the ants scurrying from job to job, and as a way of convincing the pickers to give up whatever work allows them to discriminate among Uber’s offers and hold out for the plum deals, whereupon then can be transmogrified into ants themselves.

Dubal describes the experience of Adil, a Syrian refugee who drives for Uber in the Bay Area. His colleagues are pickers, and showed him screenshots of how much they earned. Determined to get a share of that money, Adil became a model ant, driving two hours to San Francisco, driving three days straight, napping in his car, spending only one day per week with his family. The algorithm noticed that Adil needed the work, so it paid him less.

Adil responded the way the system predicted he would, by driving even more: “My friends they make it, so I keep going, maybe I can figure it out. It’s unsecure, and I don’t know how people they do it. I don’t know how I am doing it, but I have to. I mean, I don’t find another option. In a minute, if I find something else, oh man, I will be out immediately. I am a very patient person, that’s why I can continue.”

Another driver, Diego, told Dubal about how the winners of the giant teddy bears fell into the trap of thinking that they were “good at the app”: “Any time there’s some big shot getting high pay outs, they always shame everyone else and say you don’t know how to use the app. I think there’s secret PR campaigns going on that gives targeted payouts to select workers, and they just think it’s all them.”

That’s the power of twiddling: by hoarding all the flexibility offered by digital tools, the management at platforms can become centaurs, able to string along thousands of workers, while the workers are reverse-centaurs, puppeteered by the apps.

As the example of Adil shows, the algorithm doesn’t need to be very sophisticated in order to figure out which workers it can underpay. The system automates the kind of racial and gender discrimination that is formally illegal, but which is masked by the smokescreen of digitization. An employer who systematically paid women less than men, or Black people less than white people, would be liable to criminal and civil sanctions. But if an algorithm simply notices that people who have fewer job prospects drive more and will thus accept lower wages, that’s just “optimization,” not racism or sexism.

This is the key to understanding the AI hype bubble: when ghouls from multinational banks predict 13 trillion dollar markets for “AI,” what they mean is that digital tools will speed up the twiddling and other wage-suppression techniques to transfer $13T in value from workers and consumers to shareholders.

The American business lobby is relentlessly focused on the goal of reducing wages. That’s the force behind “free trade,” “right to work,” and other codewords for “paying workers less,” including “gig work.” Tech workers long saw themselves as above this fray, immune to labor exploitation because they worked for a noble profession that took care of its own.

But the epidemic of mass tech-worker layoffs, following on the heels of massive stock buybacks, has demonstrated that tech bosses are just like any other boss: willing to pay as little as they can get away with, and no more. Tech bosses are so comfortable with their market dominance and the lock-in of their customers that they are happy to turn out hundreds of thousands of skilled workers, convinced that the twiddling systems they’ve built are the kinds of self-licking ice-cream cones that are so simple even a manager can use them — no morlocks required.

The tech worker layoffs are best understood as an all-out war on tech worker morale, because that morale is the source of tech workers’ confidence and thus their demands for a larger share of the value generated by their labor. The current tech layoff template is very different from previous tech layoffs: today’s layoffs are taking place over a period of months, long after they are announced, and laid off tech worker is likely to be offered a months of paid post-layoff work, rather than severance. This means that tech workplaces are now haunted by the walking dead, workers who have been laid off but need to come into the office for months, even as the threat of layoffs looms over the heads of the workers who remain. As an old friend, recently laid off from Microsoft after decades of service, wrote to me, this is “a new arrow in the quiver of bringing tech workers to heel and ensuring that we’re properly thankful for the jobs we have (had?).”

Dubal is interested in more than analysis, she’s interested in action. She looks at the tactics already deployed by gig workers, who have not taken all this abuse lying down. Workers in the UK and EU organized through Worker Info Exchange and the App Drivers and Couriers Union have used the GDPR (the EU’s privacy law) to demand “algorithmic transparency,” as well as access to their data. In California, drivers hope to use similar provisions in the CCPA (a state privacy law) to do the same.

These efforts have borne fruit. When Cornell economists, led by Louis Hyman, published research (paid for by Uber) claiming that Uber drivers earned an average of $23/hour, it was data from these efforts that revealed the true average Uber driver’s wage was $9.74. Subsequent research in California found that Uber drivers’ wage fell to $6.22/hour after the passage of Prop 22, a worker misclassification law that gig companies spent $225m to pass, only to have the law struck down because of a careless drafting error:

https://www.latimes.com/california/newsletter/2021-08-23/proposition-22-lyft-uber-decision-essential-california

But Dubal is skeptical that data-coops and transparency will achieve transformative change and build real worker power. Knowing how the algorithm works is useful, but it doesn’t mean you can do anything about it, not least because the platform owners can keep touching their knobs, twiddling the payout schedule on their rigged slot-machines.

Data co-ops start from the proposition that “data extraction is an inevitable form of labor for which workers should be remunerated.” It makes on-the-job surveillance acceptable, provided that workers are compensated for the spying. But co-ops aren’t unions, and they don’t have the power to bargain for a fair price for that data, and coops themselves lack the vast resources — “to store, clean, and understand” — data.

Co-ops are also badly situated to understand the true value of the data that is extracted from their members: “Workers cannot know whether the data collected will, at the population level, violate the civil rights of others or amplifies their own social oppression.”

Instead, Dubal wants an outright, nonwaivable prohibition on algorithmic wage discrimination. Just make it illegal. If firms cannot use gambling mechanisms to control worker behavior through variable pay systems, they will have to find ways to maintain flexible workforces while paying their workforce predictable wages under an employment model. If a firm cannot manage wages through digitally-determined variable pay systems, then the firm is less likely to employ algorithmic management.”

In other words, rather than using market mechanisms too constrain platform twiddling, Dubal just wants to make certain kinds of twiddling illegal. This is a growing trend in legal scholarship. For example, the economist Ramsi Woodcock has proposed a ban on surge pricing as a per se violation of Section 1 of the Sherman Act:

https://ilr.law.uiowa.edu/print/volume-105-issue-4/the-efficient-queue-and-the-case-against-dynamic-pricing

Similarly, Dubal proposes that algorithmic wage discrimination violates another antitrust law: the Robinson-Patman Act, which “bans sellers from charging competing buyers different prices for the same commodity. Robinson-Patman enforcement was effectively halted under Reagan, kicking off a host of pathologies, like the rise of Walmart:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

I really liked Dubal’s legal reasoning and argument, and to it I would add a call to reinvigorate countertwiddling: reforming laws that get in the way of workers who want to reverse-engineer, spoof, and control the apps that currently control them. Adversarial interoperability (AKA competitive compatibility or comcom) is key tool for building worker power in an era of digital Taylorism:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

To see how that works, look to other jursidictions where workers have leapfrogged their European and American cousins, such as Indonesia, where gig workers and toolsmiths collaborate to make a whole suite of “tuyul apps,” which let them override the apps that gig companies expect them to use.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/08/tuyul-apps/#gojek

For example, ride-hailing companies won’t assign a train-station pickup to a driver unless they’re circling the station — which is incredibly dangerous during the congested moments after a train arrives. A tuyul app lets a driver park nearby and then spoof their phone’s GPS fix to the ridehailing company so that they appear to be right out front of the station.

In an ideal world, those workers would have a union, and be able to dictate the app’s functionality to their bosses. But workers shouldn’t have to wait for an ideal world: they don’t just need jam tomorrow — they need jam today. Tuyul apps, and apps like Para, which allow workers to extract more money under better working conditions, are a prelude to unionization and employer regulation, not a substitute for it.

Employers will not give workers one iota more power than they have to. Just look at the asymmetry between the regulation of union employees versus union busters. Under US law, employees of a union need to account for every single hour they work, every mile they drive, every location they visit, in public filings. Meanwhile, the union-busting industry — far larger and richer than unions — operate under a cloak of total secrecy, Workers aren’t even told which union busters their employers have hired — let alone get an accounting of how those union busters spend money, or how many of them are working undercover, pretending to be workers in order to sabotage the union.

Twiddling will only get an employer so far. Twiddling — like all “AI” — is based on analyzing the past to predict the future. The heuristics an algorithm creates to lure workers into their cars can’t account for rapid changes in the wider world, which is why companies who relied on “AI” scheduling apps (for example, to prevent their employees from logging enough hours to be entitled to benefits) were caught flatfooted by the Great Resignation.

Workers suddenly found themselves with bargaining power thanks to the departure of millions of workers — a mix of early retirees and workers who were killed or permanently disabled by covid — and they used that shortage to demand a larger share of the fruits of their labor. The outraged howls of the capital class at this development were telling: these companies are operated by the kinds of “capitalists” that MLK once identified, who want “socialism for the rich and rugged individualism for the poor.”

https://twitter.com/KaseyKlimes/status/821836823022354432/

There's only 5 days left in the Kickstarter campaign for the audiobook of my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller about Silicon Valley scams called Red Team Blues. Amazon's Audible refuses to carry my audiobooks because they're DRM free, but crowdfunding makes them possible.

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lesbiangummybearmafia · 1 year ago

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Love Peggy's gown so much 💕

Denée Benton as Peggy Scott in S2E07 of THE GILDED AGE

#the gilded age #peggy scott #denee benton #gif #the gilded age spoilers #she looked like a PRINCESS in this dress 🥰#the gilded age customs #love it

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fatehbaz · 1 month ago

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About the entanglement of "science" and Empire. About geographic imaginaries. About how Empire appeals to and encourages children to participate in these scripts.

Was checking out this recent thing, from scavengedluxury's beloved series of posts looking at the archive of the Budapest Municipal Photography Company.

The caption reads: "Toys and board games, 1940."

And I think the text on the game-box in the back says something like "the whole world is yours", maybe?

(The use of appeals to science/progress in imperial narratives probably already well-known to many, especially for those familiar with Victorian era, Edwardian era, Gilded Age, early twentieth century, etc., in US and Europe.)

And was struck, because I had also recently gone looking through nemfrog's posts about the often-strange imagery of children's material in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century US/Europe. And was disturbed/intrigued by this thing:

Caption here reads: "Game Board. Walter Mittelholzer's flight over Africa. [...] 1931. Commemorative game board map of Africa for a promotional game published for the N*stle Company, for tracking the trip of Walter Mittelholzer across Africa, the first pilot to fly a north-south route."

Hmm.

"Africa is for your consumption and pleasure! A special game celebrating German achievement, brought to you by the N*stle Company!"

1930s-era German national aspirations in Africa. A company which, in the preceding decade, had shifted focus to expand its cacao production (which would be dependent on tropical plantations). Adventure, excitement, knowledge, science, engineering prowess, etc. For kids!

Another, from a couple decades earlier, this time British.

Caption reads: "The "World's globe circler." A game board based on Nellie Bly's travels. 1890." At center, a trumpet, and a proclamation: "ALL RECORDS BROKEN".

Same year that the United States "closed the frontier" and conquered "the Wild West" (the massacre at Wounded Knee happened in December 1890). A couple years later, the US annexed Hawai'i; by decade's end, the US military was in both Cuba and the Philippines. The Scramble for Africa was taking place. At the time, Britain especially already had a culture of "travel writing" or "travel fiction" or whatever we want to call it, wherein domestic residents of the metropole back home could read about travel, tourism, expeditions, adventures, etc. on the peripheries of the Empire. Concurrent with the advent of popular novels, magazines, mass-market print media, etc. Intrepid explorers rescuing Indigenous peoples from their own backwardness. Many tales of exotic allure set in South Asia. Heroic white hunters taking down scary tigers. Elegant Englishwomen sipping tea in the shade of an umbrella, giggling at the elephants, the local customs, the strange sights. Orientalism, tropicality, othering.

I'd lately been looking at a lot of work on race/racism and imperative-of-empire in British scientific and pop-sci literature, especially involving South and Southeast Asia. (From scholars like Varun Sharma, Rohan Deb Roy, Ezra Rashkow, Jonathan Saha, Pratik Chakrabarti.) But I'd also lately been looking at Mashid Mayar's work, which I think closely suits this kinda thing with the board games. Some of her publications:

"From Tools to Toys: American Dissected Maps and Geographic Knowledge at the Turn of the Twentieth Century". In: Knowledge Landscapes North America, edited by Kloeckner et al., 2016.

"What on Earth! Slated Globes, School Geography and Imperial Pedagogy". European Journal of American Studies 16, number 3, Summer 2020.

Citizens and Rulers of the World: The American Child and the Cartographic Pedagogies of Empire, 2022.

Discussing her book, Mayar was interviewed by LA Review of Books in 2022. She says:

[Quote.] Growing up at the turn of the 20th century, for many American children, also meant learning to view the world through the lens of "home geography." [...] [T]hey inevitably responded to the transnational whims of an empire that had stretched its dominion across the globe [recent forays into Panama, Cuba, Hawai'i, the Philippines] [...]. [W]hite, well-to-do, literate American children [...] learned how to identify and imagine “homes” on the map of the world. [...] [T]he cognitive maps children developed, to which we have access through the scant archival records they left behind (i.e., geographical puzzles they designed and printed in juvenile periodicals) [...] mixed nativism and the logic of colonization with playful, appropriative scalar confusion, and an intimate, often unquestioned sense of belonging to the global expanse of an empire [...]. Dissected maps - that is, maps mounted on cardboard or wood and then cut into smaller pieces that children were to put back together - are a generative example of the ways imperial pedagogy [...] found its place outside formal education, in children's lives outside the classroom. [...] [W]ell before having been adopted as playthings in the United States, dissected maps had been designed to entertain and teach the children of King George III about the global spatial affairs of the British Empire. […] [J]uvenile periodicals of the time printed child-made geographical puzzles [...]. [I]t was their assumption that "(un)charted," non-American spaces (both inside and outside the national borders) sought legibility as potential homes, [...] and that, if they did not do so, they were bound to recede into ruin/"savagery," meaning that it would become the colonizers' responsibility/burden to "restore" them [...]. [E]mpires learn from and owe to childhood in their attempts at survival and growth over generations [...]. [These] "multigenerational power constellations" [...] survived, by making accessible pedagogical scripts that children of the white and wealthy could learn from and appropriate as times changed [...]. [End quote.] Source: Words of Mashid Mayar, as transcribed in an interviewed conducted and published by M. Buna. "Children's Maps of the American Empire: A Conversation with Mashid Mayar". LA Review of Books. 11 July 2022.

Some other stuff I was recently looking at, specifically about European (especially German) geographic imaginaries of globe-as-playground:

The Play World: Toys, Texts, and the Transatlantic German Childhood (Patricia Anne Simpson, 2020) /// "19th-Century Board Game Offers a Tour of the German Colonies" (Sarah Zabrodski, 2016) /// Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (David Ciarlo, 2011) /// Learning Empire: Globalization and the German Quest for World Status, 1875-1919 (Erik Grimmer-Solem, 2019) /// “Ruling Africa: Science as Sovereignty in the German Colonial Empire and Its Aftermath” (Andrew Zimmerman. In: German Colonialism in a Global Age, 2014) /// "Exotic Education: Writing Empire for German Boys and Girls, 1884-1914". (Jeffrey Bowersox. In: German Colonialism and National Identity, 2017) /// Raising Germans in the Age of Empire: Youth and Colonial Culture, 1871-1914 (Jeff Bowersox, 2013) /// "[Translation:] (Educating Modernism: A Trade-Specific Portrait of the German Toy Industry in the Developing Mass-Market Society)" (Heike Hoffmann, PhD dissertation, Tubingen, 2000) /// Home and Harem: Nature, Gender, Empire, and the Cultures of Travel (Inderpal Grewal, 1996) /// "'Le rix d'Indochine' at the French Table: Representation of Food, Race and the Vietnamese in a Colonial-Era Board Game" (Elizabeth Collins, 2021) /// "The Beast in a Box: Playing with Empire in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain" (Romita Ray, 2006) /// Playing Oppression: The Legacy of Conquest and Empire in Colonialist Board Games (Mary Flanagan and Mikael Jakobsson, 2023)

#mashid mayar book is useful also the Playing Oppression book is open access online if you want #in her article on slated globes mayar also mentions how european maps by 1890s provoked a sort of replete homogenous filling in of globe #where european metropole thought of itself as having sufficiently mapped the planet by now knit into neat web of interimperial trade #and so european apparent knowledge of globe provided apparently enlightened position of educating or subjugating the masses #whereas US at time was more interested in remapping at their discretion #a thing which relates to what we were talking about in posts earlier today where elizabeth deloughrey describes twentieth century US #and its aerial photographic and satellite perspectives especially of Oceania and Pacific as if it now understood the totality of the planet #ecologies #tidalectics #geographic imaginaries #mashid mayar

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robertreich · 1 year ago

Video

youtube

From Robber Barons to Bezos: Is History Repeating Itself?

Ultra-wealthy elites…Political corruption…Vast inequality…

These problems aren’t new — in the late 1800s they dominated the country during America’s first Gilded Age.

We overcame these abuses back then, and we can do it again.

Mark Twain coined the moniker “The Gilded Age” in his 1873 novel to describe the era in American history characterized by corruption and inequality that was masked by a thin layer of prosperity for a select few.

The end of the 19th century and start of the 20th marked a time of great invention — bustling railroads, telephones, motion pictures, electricity, automobiles — which changed American life forever.

But it was also an era of giant monopolies — oil, railroad, steel, finance — run by a small group of men who had grown rich beyond anything America had ever seen.

They were known as “robber barons” because they ran competitors out of business, exploited workers, charged customers exorbitant prices, and lived like royalty as a result.

Money consumed politics. Robber barons and their lackeys donated bundles of cash to any lawmaker willing to do bidding on their behalf. And when lobbying wasn’t enough, the powerful turned to bribery — resulting in some of the most infamous political scandals in American history.

The gap between the rich and poor in America reached astronomical levels. Large numbers of Americans lived in squalor.

Anti-immigrant sentiment raged, leading to the enactment of racist laws to restrict immigration. And voter suppression, largely aimed at Black men who had recently won the right to vote, was rampant.

The era was also marked by dangerous working conditions. Children often as young as 10, but sometimes younger, worked brutal hours in sweatshops. Workers trying to organize labor unions were attacked and killed.

It seemed as if American capitalism was out of control, and American democracy couldn’t do anything about it because it was bought and paid for by the rich.

But Americans were fed up, and they demanded reform. Many took to the streets in protest.

Investigative journalists, often called “muckrakers” then, helped amplify their cries by exposing what was occurring throughout the country.

And a new generation of political leaders rose to end the abuses.

Politicians like Teddy Roosevelt, who warned that, “a small class of enormously wealthy and economically powerful men, whose chief object is to hold and increase their power,” could destroy American democracy.

After becoming president in 1901, Roosevelt used the Sherman Antitrust Act to break up dozens of powerful corporations, including the giant Northern Securities Company which had come to dominate railroad transportation through a series of mergers.

Seeking to limit the vast fortunes that were creating a new American aristocracy, Congress enacted a progressive income tax through the 16th Amendment, as well as two wealth taxes.

The first wealth tax, in 1916, was the estate tax — a tax on the wealth someone accumulated during their lifetime, paid by the heirs who inherited it. The second tax on wealth, enacted in 1922, was a capital gains tax — a tax on the increased value of assets, paid when those assets were sold.

The reformers of the Gilded Age also stopped corporations from directly giving money to politicians or political candidates.

And then Teddy Roosevelt’s fifth cousin — you may have heard of him — continued the work through his New Deal programs — creating Social Security, unemployment insurance, a 40-hour workweek, and requiring that employers bargain in good faith with labor unions.

But following the death of FDR and the end of World War II, when America was building the largest middle class the world had ever seen — we seemed to forget about the abuses of the Gilded Age.

Now, more than a century later, America has entered a second Gilded Age.

It is also a time of extraordinary invention.

And a time when monopolies are taking over vast swathes of the economy, so we must renew antitrust enforcement to bust up powerful companies.

Now, another generation of robber barons is accumulating unprecedented money and power. So once again, we must tax these exorbitant fortunes.

Wealthy individuals and big corporations are once again paying off lawmakers, sending them billions to conduct their political campaigns, even giving luxurious gifts to Supreme Court justices. So we need to protect our democracy from Big Money, just as we did before.

Voter suppression runs rampant in the states as during the first Gilded Age, making it harder for people of color to participate in what’s left of our democracy. So it’s once again critical to defend and expand voting rights.

Working people are once again being exploited and abused, child labor is returning, unions are busted, the poor are again living in unhealthy conditions, homelessness is on the rise, and the gap between the ultra-rich and everyone else is nearly as large as in the first Gilded Age. So once again we need to protect the rights of workers to organize, invest in social safety nets, and revive guardrails to protect against the abuses of great wealth and power.

The question now is the same as it was at the start of the 20th century: Will we fight for an economy and a democracy that works for all rather than the few?

We’ve done it before. We can — and must — do it again.

#youtube #politics #video #videos #Gilded Age #Elon Musk #Jeff Bezos #economics #money

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joojconverts · 1 year ago

Photo

4t3 Conversion of Gilded-Ghosts’ Old Catalogue

A 4t3 conversion compilation of all of Gilded-Ghosts’ old catalogue of clothes and buy mode objects! Another big one, which I’m very happy to finally be releasing. Hope you like it as much as I do!!

The compilation has all standalone releases + mini-sets, and the New Woman Set (late 1890′s mix & match). I didn’t convert recolors or anything else!

This is part TWO of my 2000 followers’ gift. You can find part one here!

💖 💖 💖

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Known Problems:

The flapper dress (1920′s dress with sparkles) has a UV mapping issue where some body verts look disconnected. This happens sometimes when I convert body textured outfits like this one, and it doesn’t seem like there is a fix for that. I’m sorry, but it’s not really noticeable unless you zoom in closely.

The little stripes on the montague top (male renaissance top) are a bit brighter around the edges because of the mask texture. I fought with the textures so that this wouldn’t happen, and I did my best, but it’s still a bit noticeable. Hopefully it won’t bother you!

The borgia’s dress little golden stripes have some color banding. I did my best maximizing the texture on the UV and doing some mask work, but it’s still there, especially on the right golden stripe. Sorry about that, but again, you can only notice it very closely.

LIGHTING GLITCHES ONLY APPEAR ON CAS!

* Note that teens and elders have neck gaps. This is sadly the price for having them available! For teens, try using this and this slider by gruesim! I might convert these for those specific age groups someday, but for now, I just activated them!

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ALL OG CREDITS GO TO @gilded-ghosts! IT’S NOT MY MESHES, AND IT’S NOT MY TEXTURES, I JUST CONVERTED THEM TO THE SIMS 3!

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NOTES (PLEASE READ):

IMPORTANT: Most of these items have more than one preset! In fact, some of them have around 10 or more! All to achieve the customization of your dreams! I really hope you find them useful and that you enjoy the options given!

All of the items are low poly, and nothing is out of the ordinary for an usual historical gameplay!

There is an acc categorized as socks that give the option to add some recolorables flowers at the jubilee jacket (the one with the green checkered skirt)! It only works with this top, and there are plenty presets to choose from!

There is also an acc categorized as socks that recolors the belt on the stepford wife dress (1950′s big skirt one)! I wanted to make the entire dress recolorable, and this is the alternative I found! On the preview the sim has the acc on!

You can find the light bulb at lighting, and the tap at sculptures/decorations! They’re cheap!

The green checkered skirt ONLY works with that jacket that’s being used in the preview, it won’t work with other stuff! That’s not a problem, just a condition! The other skirts will work as usual!

Now, to the download!

SimFileShare | Dropbox

☕ buy me a coffee or become a patron!

————— —————

Credits and Special Thanks:

@gilded-ghosts for all the meshes and textures, you can find all of her old CC here!

@deniisu-sims for the necklace on sim 1; here!

hair on sim 2 is my own conversion, also by @gilded-ghosts; here!

ladesire for the necklace on sim 3; here!

@rollo-rolls and @ifcasims for hair on sims 4; here!

💖 @katsujiiccfinds @kpccfinds @xto3conversionsfinds @emilyccfinds

#ts3cc #s3cc #ts3 cc #4t3 #ts4 to ts3

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lesbiangummybearmafia · 1 year ago

Text

Their gowns are so pretty...

"Here's my other cousin, Mr. Oscar van Rhijn… May I introduce you to Miss Maud Beaton?"

2.02 ▹ Some Sort of Trick

THE GILDED AGE (2022–)

#the gilded age spoilers #the gilded age #the gilded age season 2 #the gilded age customs #1880s fashion #beautiful

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cheriden · 3 months ago

Text

「 yours to claim 」。。。

"A bond supposedly as thick as blood. Together, they shaped what would become of their dynasty out of rubble and poverty. A rite so sacred and ancient it brings out envy from outsiders who wish to share the same oath. A vow so sanctified, it rivaled that of marriage."

── synopsis 。Your presumably fated familiar is averse to your relationship dynamic, and makes an all-out effort to convey so.

pairing 。cat hybrid!taehyun × novice mage!reader

.ᐟ genre 。fantasy, (somewhat) angst, smut

.ᐟ tags 。forced proximity, enemies to lovers, dubcon kind of, forced proximity, (one-sided) enemies to lovers, hybrid au, master/servant dynamics, unintentional drugging, heat sex (kind of), dubcon (kind of), a bit of bloodplay (smearing, licking), use of leash, dirty talk, praising, sub!idol, handjob, orgasm denial, blowjob, cunnilingus, riding, missionary, pet names and etc (pretty, kitty, noona) au, master/servant dynamics

.ᐟ status & word count 。oneshot | 10.7k

.ᐟ warnings/notes 。i'm a stupid bitch who deleted the original again. reader is fem and uses she/her pronouns, sorry this took so long college started and i want to be in the dls :b !! this was actually done two weeks ago but i could not for the life of me write a smut scene so im just gonna post this now! sry its dumb and not proofread

You stand in the center of the colosseum, the moon round and at its peak with the wind howling violently. Taking a deep exhale, you stand up to the podium and dip the customary wand in a pot filled to the brim with some sort of luminescent concoction, chanting the rehearsed spell like a prayer in hopes that everything goes smoothly. Through squinted eyes, you take in the seats full of adults and youngins yet to commence in an identical rite—anticipation in their eyes as they watch the heir of the historic, most respectable coven known to man.

You gulp down a lump that expands in your throat, focusing on your low whispering and the chanting of the guardians around you. They position the orb you’ve brought, or rather, the orb your parents insist you choose. Deep inhales, and you move your staff to point at the sphere, remnants of a gilded soul swirling around within it. The wand shoots its beam, a path of pink glitter and dust hatched from pixies trailing it as it knocks the sphere into the air. It rattles, darting in all directions across the space. You shift to cast, but a palm on your shoulder forbids you from doing so.

Rays of white and amber escape through the cracks, blinding lights beaming through the arena. The creature breaks free from its holding, paws alight with a soft puff onto the rough concrete. It's more petite than the rest of the hatched familiars, about as big as your hand—large glossy eyes that mirror the hue of the sun. Its black fur reflects fragments of the moonlight, white sheen gracing its fluffy coat. You're awestruck, watching it circle you. Hesitantly, you reach out to it, inching your index closer to its snout. It stares at you momentarily, right before hissing sharply, scratching the back of your hand. You're thrown harshly onto the ground, flabbergasted as the rest of the audience watches in silence.

Your family has always been traditionalistic. For generations, the coven adhered to distinctly strict rules: The art and mannerisms in spellbinding and potion blending, the prerequisite liturgies for sacrifice, even the specificity of the bark and carvings on your staff. Though out of all of these customs, one shows itself more principal than the rest—one that must never change under any circumstance. A partnership that had begun since the dawn of your descendants’ upbringing, a sense of loyalty that is not to be broken.

The coven had strong ties with the Kang bloodline, stemming from an age-old friendship, a bond supposedly as thick as blood. A lineage full of feline anthropomorphic shifters that once are of age, devote themselves as companions, better known as familiars. Together, they shaped what would become of their dynasty out of rubble and poverty. A promise of knowledge, hunting, foraging, and camaraderie; in exchange for security. A rite so sacred and ancient it brings out envy from outsiders who wish to share the same oath. A vow so sanctified, it rivaled that of marriage.

You, on the other hand, beg to differ—grumbling as you watch your mother slap a healing rune onto your hand, a direct result from the earlier encounter with your own so-called familiar. The rest of your family sing you praises and congratulatory remarks, calling around to see if anyone has seen the black cat recently. Your father exclaims that you're lucky, rounding the corner of the sofa to face you. He takes a seat beside you; says that black cats are the purest and truest form for a familiar. If the orb you've chosen was an indicator, it must've been fate. You scorn and whine, and he all but dismisses your complaints when the doorbell rings, revealing his own “fated” companion. Once inside, he drags an infuriated boy into the room, nearly knocking him into the carpet as he’s forced to kneel at your feet.

"I apologize for him, he's been hard-headed and stubborn even before he got put in that globe." Instead of hiding himself from shame, he scowls, disdain painfully obvious on every surface in his body—he shakes from it. "This is Taehyun, he's a year younger than you. An expert at gathering, as well as cognitive thinking, especially in potion brewing." He scoffs, back straightening as he retorts, "I was 19 when you sealed me. I've been cramped in that stupid ball for nearly a decade." The older cat heeds no attention to his snark, continuing. "What's fascinating is he remembers the time he spent within the orb. Realistically, there is no drastic change in his body and mind; which is why he's being a pain right now. I do hope you excuse him." The older cat turns to the younger, “I do believe you owe the young master an apology. Fix the mess you’ve made.” Through no thanks of his own will, he takes your hand in his, bending over to lick a clean stripe over your wound. You jerk at the cold sensation, back strained off the seat. “Claimed familiars have healing properties,” The ginger hybrid clarifies, “blood, saliva, tears, anything.” The deathly glare the ravenette gives as he goes over the scratch with his tongue has you shivering, and you’re not really sure why.

He pulls away with his mouth pressed into a thin line, threatening demeanor faltering when a sound erupts from his stomach. It takes every muscle in you to stop yourself from smirking at his diminishing attitude, getting off the armchair. "I'll show you the kitchen. Have any cravings? Fish? Milk?" He’s left unamused. "Cake. Now."

Taehyun’s tail swishes in the air, paws submerged in frosting as he engorges down the slice of strawberry pound cake. “I like you better when you’re in cat form. You’re so adorable and small.” He attempts to claw your fingers when they reach out to stroke the underside of his chin; it lasts for less than a few seconds, but he purrs into your touch before jumping off the counter. You giggle at his obstinance, and out of spite, he morphs into his human state, telling you to shut up.

“Is this your way of thanking me? ‘Cause I learned how to bake a cake for this. Took me everything in the pantry for it.” He grumbles a small “not bad” and “thank you”, his ears and tail pop up—swaying silently as he finishes the cake with refined poise he lacked previously. “It’s also better because you can’t talk. But I also like it when you’re like this, you’re kind of anthropomorphic. You’re cute either way.” He flexes his biceps, trying to prove a point. “Is this cute?” With a small smile, you clear the table of crumbs and dishes. “Yeah. You still have icing on your face.” His confidence wavers, wiping the side of his mouth. “Get up, I’m gonna show you around the house, then we gotta head into town.”

He picks himself up, following behind. “To do what?” You feign innocence, shrugging; so sure he’d resist with all his might if you told him the specifics. “We have to meet with an elder. Mom said so. Probably gonna fit you for new clothes after.” In an attempt to divert his attention, you pull him into the second floor, dark purple wallpaper contrasting the whites and yellows of the old portraits and photos nailed against it. The dark oak creaks beneath your feet, and Taehyun is baffled by the state of the place.

It’s gloomy and old, hosting as little color as possible with run-down floorboards. You giggle at how little he does to hide how appalled he is, explaining. “Nobody really uses this floor but me,” You comment, nudging over to the door furthest from the hall, “That’s my room. Over there,” You point at the neighboring rooms, “Bathroom and potion den. The rest are just storage for books, inventory, or ritual stuff.” Reaching the end of the hallway, you open the door to your room and plop onto the bed. The disparity of your living quarters has the ravenette nearly blinded, bright pastel walls perpendicular to the equally bright, fuzzy carpet. The room is plastered with posters and knick knacks of all sorts, a few colorful vials with saturated flowers blossoming beside your window. Beside it is an uneven cabinet with chipped paint of stars and other squiggly shapes, a direct outcome of no doubt your own doing. He peeks to see it’s spacier on the inside, basically its own cubby with a sewing machine and rainbow-assorted frills and cloth. He counts puffy dresses, short skirts hemmed with lace, a few undergarments embellished with sheer tulle. You shut it hurriedly, “The family won’t let me wear all that outside the house—or outside my room. They think I’ve gotten rid of this hobby,” You sign with air quotes, “So it stays here. They’ll have my head if they find out.”

He shrugs, “I don’t really care.” Though his actions say otherwise, rifling through all the hangers. “Why don’t you just use magic on making these? More efficient.”

Lips pursed into a thin line, you answer. “It’s not as simple as waving a stick around, I don’t even have my own wand yet, not until I make something of myself. I haven’t really figured out what the elders mean by that.” You clasp your hands together, standing awkwardly near the doorframe. “So um, you can unpack and then we’ll head out.” He jumps out of the closet, facing you. “I’m staying here with you?” You eye him weirdly, “Yes. It is tradition for familiars and their masters to sleep in the same room.” He growls at the word “master”, picking his singular duffel bag off the floor. “No way. You have plenty of rooms you don’t use. Let me—” You cut him off by yanking the bag and tossing it onto the floor. “No. It’s essential for us to bond better.” He backs up slowly. “No way. I am not bonding with you.” You massage the bridge of your nose. “Our parents would throw a fit if they found out anyway.”

Taehyun contemplates his options, entering the room again with a defeated sigh. “Do we have to sleep on the same bed?”

Hoping the disgust on your face is evident, you reply. “Not willingly. The guardians wrongfully calculated the phase of the waxing gibbous, so we had to rush to have everything in time for the full moon. We’ll look for an old frame or buy a cat bed later in town, whichever you prefer.”

He stays silent, annoyance directed towards you as you shove past him aggressively. “My bed or a piece of cardboard on the floor. Your choice.”

Taehyun squirms in the robes you lent him, sensitive to the fabric as it clings onto his skin, hood high to avoid the light that shines directly into his eyes. His mother forced him to wear something of status, but he has no idea what that means when he’s just some rich girl’s pet. You're wearing the same robe but with the hood down, hair in pigtails as you skip through the streets greeting people. Despite his frustration, he peeks over your shopping scroll, scanning everything from top to bottom. “What are you making?” You hum, turning your head. “A bunch of orders from the neighboring city. Most of them don’t really have the mana to wield magic or bless potions.” He takes the list from you, inspecting it further. “We already shopped at the reptile place, did you forget to purchase snake venom?”

“It’s abhorrent that you believe I would forget buying such an integral part of our best-selling potion.” You reel at the assumption, walking faster. “Their supplier ran out, and I’d probably have to deal with a new merchant, if there are any left. It’s really scarce this season ‘round.” He’s annoyed at your annoyance, pacing beside you. “You should tell me these things. I’m supposed to aid in gathering.” You stop, mildly crossed at how he portrays it as if you were the one being unreasonable, the one at fault. “You don’t even want to be my familiar. Why are you here?”

“The promise of a comfortable new cat bed and clothing of my own.” He rolls his eyes, “Your snake venom can be substituted with burrowing lizard limbs marinated in regular spider venom.” You light up at his words, leaning into him. He chokes on air as your face nears. “Really?” The other places a finger on your chest, pushing you off slowly. “Yes, really. It’s one of the direct ancestors of proto-snakes.” You raise a fist into the air, giddily jeering in place as Taehyun lowers his head out of shame for you. “Thank you so much! Now I don’t have to call for the Chois’ overpriced bulk.”

“The Chois’?” He asks absentmindedly, examining the scroll once again. “Yeah, their shop has nearly everything—that’s why the markup is so high. Everything’s all in one store. My parents are trying to set me up with one of their sons, hoping we’d score some kind of deal if we get married.” The other notes the slight sulk on your face. “That’s a little…”

“Scummy? Old-fashioned? Utterly insane?” The other shakes his head, “I was gonna say too much information for me, but yeah.”

“Too much information? If anything you have too much information. Mixing ingredients and whatnot.”

“You have a funny way of calling me smart. I’m also good at math, fast arithmetics.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling you this, if the brag is to make you jealous or to get you to praise him. “Where’d you learn to do all that?”

He shrugs, “Figured if I learned enough, I wouldn’t need to serve a witch.” Your brows pinch in guilt while you clear your throat. “I’m sorry about that.” Taehyun mimics your expression for a second before putting on a blank face and turning away. “You don’t have to, it’s not like you forced me to be trapped in that stupid orb.” His statements do not help to quell your thoughts, “Yeah, but I picked you.”

“It’s better this way, now I don’t have to spend another year in there. It was like an amniotic sac but worse. You couldn't push around.”

“What was it like in there?” You ask, to which he makes a sharp exhale. “Hell, for the most part. I kind of just thought a lot. Kind of like being a conscious fetus. But the more I’m out the less I remember.” You beam at the sparkle of hope, a desire to make it up to him though not a fault of your own. “That’s good! Let’s make you forget then.” Grappling his hand in yours, you run with him past the sea of individuals, off to cross off the rest of your tasks.

Taehyun picks up two suits made of leather, adding a pair of boots from the same material. The cart is filled with various garments of black and white, no shade in between and no vibrance of any sort. You sigh when he adds yet another blazer onto the pile. “You need house clothes and pajamas too, you know.” Dismissing it with a grumble, he retreats his hand to cross it over his chest. “These are fine.” You yank the piece out of his hands, feeling up the fabric. “I’m not dealing with your whining when you find it too hot in this. You’re fussy enough already, and you’re wearing light silk straight out of a bombyx’s anus.” He attempts to get the jacket back, a childish back and forth between the two of you. “It’s made up of a bombyx’s cocoon, you idiot. I’ll be fine.” You raise your hands in defeat. “Don’t come crying to me when you get overstimulated by stuffy latex.”

The other pouts, sitting on one of the changing room benches. “I just wanted something nice. It’s my first ounce of freedom after years, after all.”

If he’s manipulating you by sharing a sob story and batting his long lashes at you—it’s working. However, you’re not that gullible. “Two of whatever you want, then two sets of casual clothing and pajamas.” His doe eyes turn sharp with a grunt, “I’m an adult. I don’t need sleepwear.” You counter, “I’m older than you, and I wear them.”

“I’m older than you!” You plop down the seat across from him, crossing your arms. “Mentally, sure. But physically? Not. You’re forgetting all that time now anyways.” He rolls his eyes, legs spreading as he sinks onto the chair. “Besides,” You add, trapping his figure in between your arms, “I’m your master. Not like that matters either, since I’m paying. You earn the right to choose when you start earning from our apprenticeship.” He snarls, breathing heavy. “So what do you say?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, staring at the space beside you. “Fine.”

Except he’s not fine with this predicament. You’re across from him, cooing at the boy in a pastel blue, wool pants and top decorated with stripes and stars. “No.”

You frown, tossing him the next set of your choice. “Well, you’re not giving any recommendations. I had to guess what you liked.” He shuts the curtain behind him, stomping as he unravels the guess that you’ve made. “So you thought I would enjoy pink shorts with cupcakes and caricature cats on them?”

“They’re satin!” You defend. “Just try it, I have the same at home~” Snickering at the audible disapproval, you’re surprised to see him actually shuffle to try it on. It’s quiet in the dressing room, until he pokes his little head out. “Does yours look exactly like this?” You trace its cut-out to him. “It’s kind of like a night-dress instead of a tank top and shorts. Same print I guess.” He steps out of the booth, dropping a mountain of clothes onto your lap. “I’ll take these—and this.” he mumbles it so low it’s almost inaudible, pointing at the pink shorts and loose top from earlier. You nod, trying your best not to laugh, or pout at his cuteness, or anything to get him to drag this on further.

Turns out, Taehyun wasn’t kidding about the cat bed. “You sure you want these? We can scrounge up allowance to buy you an actual bed.” He shakes his feline head as his paws mark onto the felt pillow, testing it by stomping on it profusely. He shifts back, standing next to you. “It’s fine, doesn’t really matter to me. It’ll save you space too.”

After transforming once again, his stomach plunks down on a pink fleece cushion, yellow paw prints and ribbons patterned across the cloth. It almost makes you melt, the image of his cute cat self playing around in your room. The illusion dissipates just as soon as it comes, as you remind yours;f of his personality. You’re not sure if time could change how hostile and unwelcoming he was to you, and that thought heightens your anxiety to newer levels. If you couldn’t even get along with your own familiar, a creature known to be so loyal and docile to its owner, how were you supposed to take your place in this world? Become the one to lead a new generation of young mages? Uphold the reputation of a family so well-regarded?

The shopkeep, or rather his son, comes by with a smile on his face, knocking you out of your deep thinking. “It’s my first time seeing you here. New pet?” You hum in agreement, pointing at Taehyun. “Sort of, my familiar wants a cat bed.” The boy follows your finger, giggling. The aforementioned rolls around on the soft fabric, face rubbing against the sides. “He seems like he loves it.”

He moves behind the displays to drag something. It’s a pet tree, scratch posts and dangling toys asymmetrically branching from the base. “That’s actually part of a new collection we just got,” he expounds, moving Taehyun to explore the collection—like a child’s first time on a playground. “We just got it, and I’d think your cat would love it.” He talks as if Taehyun can’t hear him. Nevertheless, the cat roams over the space, purring as he rubs his side against the post. “I don’t think I can afford it right now.” You say, keeping your hands pressed tightly behind your back. The other hushes you, hauling the set over to the register. “Don’t worry, it’s on me. I’ll ship it to your place some time next week. Besides, I kind of owe you for saving my life that one time.” You both smile sheepishly, looking away from each other. “You were gonna live anyway.”

“Still, I appreciated it. Your partner deserves something good to sleep in.” Smiling, you pull the other in for a tight hug, murmuring a plethora of “thank you”s.

The door chimes behind you with a ring. Taehyun asks “Who was that?” Eyes twinkling at the food vendors. In increments, he swerves your walking direction, gaze locked onto the pastry stall. “Kai, we used to go to preschool together. I saved him from drowning, but I’m certain he’d live even without my help.” Tapping the glass, he turns to narrow his eyes at you, “You know he fancies you right?” You raise a brow, “What? No way.” The other tugs at your purse, grunting. “He gave you a—whatever that was. I’m positive it would’ve been hundreds of gold.”

You hand him the chocolate-filled pastry, tail swishing at its aroma. “It was for saving him.” He takes a big bite out of it, voice muffled as he replies, “You said it yourself, he would have lived. He just wanted an excuse to flirt with you, be in your good graces.”

“He doesn’t need to do that, he’s good looking and kind. Anyone who’s anyone would like him.”

“Do you like him?” You pause, having never really regarded him in such a manner. “Not like that, no.” The other clicks his tongue, “You’re leading him on then.” You turn a deaf ear to his provocations, marking the familiar signboard. Grabbing his forearm, you shush him, “Shut up, we’re here.”

The tavern is filled with all kinds of books and crystals, you take in the way they shimmer against the dim string lights hastily nailed onto the wall. The shell door curtain clatters, revealing an old lady in a lilac tunic, cane hitting against the floor. Her smile turns her eyes into crescents, gesturing at you to come with her. You shadow her as she flops onto her chair, the two of you settling onto a floor seat.

“I’ve received your call from earlier. It is no issue, these happen all the time.” Taehyun looks around, confused yet too prideful to inquire. “For starters, we must draw blood from each of you; a drop will suffice.” The boy's skepticism grows, finding it odd when you stick your tongue out. He does the same, stopped by the elder almost immediately. “Only the young lady. Your arm will do.”

The lady brings out two incredibly thin needles, pricking you both at the same time. “To develop the bond pendant properly, you must stay within close proximity with each other. The next few weeks will be the most crucial to form it.”

Taehyun’s body shoots up, backing up against the wall. “You didn't tell me you were going to bond me!”

Cornering him, you stutter, trying to find the proper words. “You wouldn’t have agreed to come! We were never gonna bond naturally, you hate me!” He scoffs, “Obviously! You forcing me without my knowledge is not doing you any favors!” You hold him tighter as he thrashes against you. “With that bond, I’d be weak against your wishes. It’s as good as mind control!” He bellows, nails seeping into your shoulders. You hold back a yelp of pain, biting the inners of your cheek. “I would never do that! Do you have such little faith in me? That’s not even how bonding—”

“The pendant’s objective is to strengthen your forming bond. I’d advise against an unbonded pair.” The lady chimes in calmly, “It would only cause more pain in the long run than do you any good. Especially for you, hybrid. Your body would slowly deteriorate, seeing as its main purpose is to serve its master; that’s what the sealing rite did to you.” Taehyun's face contorts in horror, waving her warnings off. “I’m fine with those chances. My life wouldn’t be mine anyway. I’d rather spend whatever fleeting moments I’d have free than under the spell of some neophyte witch.” He spits, shoving you to the ground and racing out of the clinic.

The sun dips into the horizon, sky violet as you trudge back to your home. Searching for him would be a futile hunt, he’d just slip out of your hands again. What he needed was space, a clear mind; as a matter of fact, you needed it too. Your stomach lurches in anxiousness, telling yourself he’s part cat after all, he’ll find his way back without a scratch on him. Despite the cries of wolves wail in the night, you will yourself to go further.

You lock the gates, a subtle frown on your mothers face when she makes out your figure in the dark. The manor and its lawn are coated in pitch black, with the exception of the warm glow peeking from the windows. “We were waiting for you for hours.” She says, voice laced with worry. “I was out looking for Taehyun.” You respond, moving past her. “He was here hours ago.” Your dad adds, halting you in your tracks. “What?” The two nod, pointing up to your room. “It’s past supper, and he’s not had a bite to eat. Cook him whatever he likes, he seemed like he was in a sour mood.”

How ridiculous. Mayhaps it’s a reach, but you pick apart their words for hidden subtext. You’ve done your hardest to ensure a comfortable stay and treat him as an equal and your parents nag and undermine both those efforts. They treat him no better than a cat, or perhaps they treat you as if you were his maid.

You slip into house slippers, fuzzy and contrasting the stiff arch of your trekking boots. It’s a small comfort, yet it eases your mind the most. The tension returns just as it disappears, cautiously stepping your way up the flight of stairs. The floor is eerily silent, air dry and hall dark, aside from the small light emanating from your bedroom, door ajar. You inch closer and closer, rustling of wood and shuffling of feet making itself more coherent.

You try to peek through the gap, gasping and barreling inside once you see the ghastly sight in front of you. The carnage of all your hand-crafted pieces are torn to shreds and reduced to uneven textiles across the ground, sullied and unsalvageable—beyond repair.

Tears clump at your eyes, threatening to spill as your mind races at a million words per second—yet no sound comes out, lips tucked between your teeth. You hold yourself back, knuckles whitening as you clench them. “What have you done?” You curse at yourself, always the ugly crier when outraged. His conduct is firm and anchored, face of ice and stone as he strides over. “You took away my freedom, and I took away your only escape from your burdensome reality.” He leaves you to hunch over your discarded creations, hiccuped and hushed breaths filling the air.

You’ve sacrificed much, yet you’ve yet to hear of the rewards. Were you bound to end up without companionship? Or have you decided not to let all of your hardships wilt away in vain?

You’re tired, sluggish and lifeless as you drop onto your mattress, cries muffled through your pillow.

How do you scream at the top of your lungs a secret and a shame not even your parents are aware of? Would you still be punished, knowing the remnants of your art are now fuel to your fireplace, oxidizing into smoke, and then into nothing? What about the humiliation that you couldn’t even keep a conversation with your assumed life-long companion?

You decide that the best next thing is to arrange for company, not for one, but three of your friends—under the guise of them calling to court you outdoors. You rush out the door with hasty goodbyes, stopped at the front by your father. “Bring your familiar with you! He’ll tell you which brother is best to keep.”

Keep, he says. As if the others, your friends, are to be scrapped like pawns. He talks big, as if Taehyun could sniff out your best pair, as if he knows you well enough to gauge what you like. Truthfully, you have not spoken or even seen him in weeks, passing each other in common areas and during meal times without so much as shared eye-contact. Your mouth opens to protest, but he’s quick to shoulder the hybrid out the door, a loud clunk of the lock behind him.

Strolling into town, your movements are constrained and awkward, weary of the ravenette as he keeps his distance at all times. Ironically, this is when you’re most in sync with each other. You step forward, he follows, and when you step back, he does the same. You try to widen that interval, but he’s precise with his footing, setting his pace to match yours.

When you reach the cafe, you check twice for the address sent. It’s hidden from the square and difficult to navigate, but find it worth it as you ogle at the building. It’s a greenhouse made entirely out of glass, the whole layout in your view. A pair of outstretched arms wave at you, beckoning you to come in. You walk through the marble path surrounded by water, fountains dancing as the crashing of water and chirps of birds ring in your ear. Even with transparent walls, it does not do the interior justice, beholding the vision of fluttering insects, swimming koi, the blossoming array of seasonal flora, and overhead skyline.

You unbutton your cloak, dark and unseemly in such a wonderful setting. It reveals a pink sundress, one you spent sleepless nights repairing by hand. They smile as you drop the hood onto the tile, sitting on

“Who’s this?” You spare no glance at their inquiries, humming. “That? That’s Taehyun.” They greet an awkward “Hi Taehyun,” and he doesn’t reply or acknowledge them in any way. One of them poke their heads out to inspect him. “Are you not going to introduce us?”

You scoff. “Does it matter?” The siblings nod and look at you incredulously. “Fine.” Your face is stern and unmoving, gaze bored and unfocused. You don’t turn to address the ravenette, not even a contraction of muscle. “Yeonjun,” you start, pointing to the copper-haired boy. He sends a wink over you both, earning mutual disgust. “Soobin,” your index moves to the blonde, smiling meekly. “And Beomgyu.” The brunette tilts his head, tongue poking his cheek as he stares at Taehyun. “Sit with us.” He says, and the shorter shakes his head. He shakes off the rejection, “You’re affiliated how?”

“He’s my familiar.”

The three are rendered motionless, shocked. “You’ve bonded, and yet no say of mouth.”

“We are not bonded!” You say in unison. Clearing your throat, you continue. “We’ve not bonded. Now quiet; I’m here to gossip. I’m here to buy fabric and ribbon.” Soobin chuckles at your business posture, head high and hands draped on top of each other. “You just bought more than a crate-worth of them! The poor packhorse was put on probation afterwards.”

You sigh loudly “And I apologize. I run through material quickly.” The eldest picks up a strawberry danish, offering it to the boy standing guard. Taehyun is unsure of his intentions, but takes him up on it. “Your dad still hounding you about tying the knot?” You scoff, teeth gritting. “It’s all he talks about, now that I’ve got the familiar ordeal under my belt. Which one of you unlucky bastards am I going to end up with?” They cackle at your exasperated expression, brunette scooting closer to link his arms in yours. “I’d be lucky to have such a talented mage as my wife.” Soobin rolls his eyes, elbowing the younger. “I called dibs first, you imbecile!” You chuckle, taking a sip out of the raspberry chai. “Ladies, ladies. Plenty of me to go around.” The blond pouts, retreating to his seat. “I don’t want to get auctioned off for anyone else for the sake of business! I’d rather it be a friend I can tolerate.” It’s a half-lie, half-truth.

“You just want to wed me for my mana and free stuff. Plenty of sorcerers competent enough for that.” He whines in response. “It’s not the same, we would be roommates with tax benefits.”

The brunette shakes his head, stuffing his mouth full of chocolate. “How absurd. Have you given up on finding greater love?” He says it with conviction, as if he wasn’t just trying to get the other to stop courting you. “Greater love,” Soobin mocks, “such a thing is fickle and ever changing. Too difficult for me to comprehend” Beomgyu shrugs at his loss of lust for life. “Everything is difficult for you to comprehend, you dunce.”

“Just wait ‘til we get back home you—” Yeonjun sighs, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. “That’s enough. Just jot down what you need, and I’ll calculate them from you.” You smile, resting your head on the table. “No best friend discount?” He tuts, faking a punch. “We sell them to you without interest. That’s the discount.” You feign hurt, “How cheap of you.”

The rest of the noon rolls by seamlessly, the four of you indulging in child-like mannerisms and meaningless topics. By the second hour mark, Taehyun speaks up without prompting. “I don’t think you’re fit for any of them.” The three purse their lips and look away, busying themselves with food. You roll your eyes, “Who asked you, Kang?” He doesn’t even look at you, following the colorful wings of a butterfly, tail swishing in focus. “Your father told me to. If this is all, I would like to head back to the manor now.” So he listens to the irrational whims of your father, but not to you? “Go back home and do what? So you could lick yourself clean and lounge around the living room, being a waste of space?” He huffs in irritation, “A better way to spend my time than watching you galavant around town.” You stand, stomping over to him. “I’m rebuilding the closet you tore apart, asshole.”

Soobin lets out a strained laugh, “Okay, let’s just calm down–” You strike his arms away, “No. This blockhead ruined what I’ve worked so hard on for over a decade and a half. He has offered no condolences or apologies.” Taehyun laughs arrogantly, stepping forward. “I’m not your servant.”

“You’re right. You’re lower. You sleep in my house, eat my food, and shit in my bathroom without giving anything in return. You’re a leech.” His jaw clenches at your words, eyes boring into yours as your chests heave. You challenge him, brows raising as if to ask him what his next quips would be. Without another sound, he storms off, slamming the door with a force that almost cracks it.

Luckily, the cafe was nearly empty, saving yourself and your friends from embarrassment. You slump into your seat, eyebrows furling. Yeonjun breaks the silence, slowly reaching for a napkin. “You need to fix whatever’s going on between you two.”

“I know that, obviously.” You bite, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Everytime we talk to each other we end up fighting, I’m at a total loss.” Beomgyu reclines, suggestion in mind. “You should try Nepeta.” Your ears perk up, leaning inwardly. “As in… Catnip?” Soobin snaps his fingers, piling on. “Oh yeah! I think it has sedating properties that also induce oxytocin and serotonin, kind of like a get-along herb. It's used in pharmaceuticals for humans and especially on cats, so you might get him to relax around you.” Honestly, you never bothered to look into biomedicine, seeing as all your home remedies are holistic and passed down through families. “Where can I get some?”

The three point their heads over to the garden-patch, dragging you along with them.”

There’s no way this was going to work; you’re fairly confident you weren’t gonna go through with it anyway. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. On the counter sits an eighth ounce of Catnip, inelegantly situated in a plastic bag. You’re unpersuaded of what to do with it, ashamed that you had to resort to such methods. Not like anyone would see, since the adults have left home for one of their yearly conferences, and it wouldn’t be a week or so until they return. Everyone else, besides you and Taehyun. You have to get rid of it fast—unwilling to be at the receiving end of yet another one of his haughty expressions. You attempt to focus, exhausting all your options. It would dry up by tomorrow’s eve, and you wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Dashing over to the cupboards you take out an array of pans and bowls.

Your mind fails to register the sheer laughability of what you just spent two hours on, staring blankly at the fruit of your efforts. The pungent fumes waft into the air, brownies idle on the table as you poke into it. The chocolate all but oozes onto the plate, thin crust crunching against the utensil. They look… Really good. Good for a novice baker, good for someone who stuffed a bunch of inhibitors into the recipe haphazardly. You shouldn’t beat yourself over it, seeing as you only mixed half of what was in the bag. Why let such precious food go to waste? You recall the boys’ statements on how it’s as good as harmless for human consumption, hesitantly biting into one of them. You grin, nodding in approval as you scarf down on at least half of the pan. Your gluttony proves itself to be overboard, eyes growing heavier. They did say it had sedative properties. Yawning, you seal the rest of the baked goods into an air tight tupperware, scribbling your name onto the side with a sticky note and a marker.

The sound of clattering wakes you from your light slumber, along with thudding from the first floor. It’s probably the hybrid, but you could never be too certain, grasping for any heavy object to defend yourself with. Your tip-toes do nothing to muzzle the creek of the stair boards, dropping your makeshift weapon when you confirm that it’s just Taehyun. He’s panting on the sofa, legs sprawled over the cushions and floor. Inching closer, you observe his sickly state, sweat rolling down his face and ears downcast.

You're not really sure what to say, unknowing of what to offer to make him feel better. “Are you fine? Do you need anything?” His eyes are glossy and his words come out nearly in whimpers. “Fine! I’m fine, just need my bag.” The implication of him being so ill that he’s unable to grab a bag a few feet from him alarms you, and you hurry to feel his body temperature through his forehead. He swats your hand and snatches the satchel out of your hands, discarding it on the floor when he shakes the pops the cap of his pill bottle. You read the sides as he shoves a few into his mouth, sinking back into the sofa in an attempt to get comfortable. “You have heat cycles?!” The other covers his ears at your voice, curling up with a pillow. “It used to be bearable, I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.” He buries his head into the cushions, biting down hard. “Can you just get me water or something? I feel like I’m fucking dying.” Nodding frantically, you sprint through the room to get into the kitchen. You’re really not sure if it would help, but you collect ice, placing them into a cheesecloth as a compress. You pivot to open the tap, freezing in place as you see the dirty dishes in the sink. “Did you finish the brownies?!” You yell, receiving no answer from the other. Stomping over to the living room, you hand him the glass and compress, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table. You repeat it, looking into his eyes and emphasizing every word. “Did you eat my brownies?” He scoffs, and looks away, a clear indicator that he did. You roll your eyes and get up the seat, pacing around the room. “I’m on the brink of death and you want me to be sorry for your shitty brownies?”

“They had my name on it, Taehyun!” He groans, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Fine! I ate your stupid brownies. Now can you please stop talking? My head is spinning.” You rock back and forth, “This is bad, should I write to my parents? Should I write to your parents? Who the fuck should I get?” Confused, the other tilts his head at you. “Are we on the brownies or my thing?”

“My thing!” You exclaim, “Taehyun, those brownies were chock full of catnip.” He rises from his position, eyes wide and disturbed. “You drugged me?!” You blink, stunned. “I didn’t drug you! It wasn’t even for you!”

He hauls his feet to the bathroom, letting the faucet run as he grips the sides of the sink tightly. “The catnip wasn’t for the cat? Sure, whatever.” You stutter, keeping your distance by standing idle at the door. “I didn’t even know cat hybrids could digest chocolate.” He splashes his head with cold water, a half-witted attempt to get him to cool down. “I’m part human, you idiot!” Crossing your arms, you lean against the frame. “Am I supposed to guess? You have the stomach of a human and have the libido of a cat?” With a glare, he bumps past you, settling into the couch once again. “It’s in the family books—books you were supposed to read for your familiar!” He heaves a long breath, running his hands across his face. “What’s the point? You don’t take good care of me.” You laugh incredulously. “Eat shit. You don’t even let me around you.”

“You want to be around me?” He challenges, taking your hand and placing it on top of his slacks. He’s looking up at you from his seat, pulling you down to reach him. “Then help me out; it’s partially your fault anyway.” Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, eyes flickering between him and the tent pitched in his pants. “I don’t think—” He cuts you off. “You’re my master, right? You take care of me.” He tugs you once again for you to hang over him, grinding against the arm between his crotch.

The morality of these actions are blurry, but you’re at your wit’s end with this—with everything surrounding the hybrid. You chew on your lower lip, closing your eyes as you let him guide you, tugging at his bottoms and resting them an inch above his knee. When his cock springs free, he keeps his other hand on top of his mouth, unsuccessful at restraining the moans that pass it. You’re in awe, mouth agape as his left wraps tightly around your right hand, fingers a step short from interlocking. “Move, I’m doing all the work here.” Taehyun orders like he’s owed, like he’s entitled to getting off with your hand. “You seem to be mistaken,” You state sternly, separating your hold from his. “I am helping you. I am doing you a favor, not the other way around. So ask nicely.” You take your frustrations out on his dick, a rollercoaster of speed as you take the pace from dangerously fast to painfully slow when you feel him near his peak. His pleas lodge in his throat, hips bucking into your fist and grip on your shoulders firm, like he was afraid you were going to pull away. You do, huffing loudly as you dramatically yank yourself away. He mewls, grasping at your unmoving hands. “Wha–why did you–”

“Ask me nicely.” He makes a noise that’s in between a scoff and a whine, “Are you insane?” You straighten your posture, feigning intention of leaving. “You can get off by yourself then.” His mouth drops slightly, clawing your arms. “No–wait!” He turns your head to face him, eyes glistening with an emotion you can’t quite figure out. “Please.” Clearing your throat, you compose yourself. “Please what?”

He inches closer, breath fanning your face as he trembles. “Please let me come.”

You really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as you do, thighs clamped together as you desperately try to ignore the feeling that resonates in your core. Biting your lower lip, you watch the other basically salivate at nothing. A beat barely passes after you nod, jumping you with such vigor it knocks you back onto the armrest. Now he’s the one hovering over you, chest rising and falling so rapidly you almost fear for him.

The concern is overshadowed by your surprise when he crashes his lips onto yours, teeth grinding as he licks all over your mouth, forcing your hand onto his member. His eyes screw shut at the cool skin, precum coating the rest of his shaft. You can still taste the brownies on him, and it’s no doubt the reason he’s licking you all over, in search of more.

“A-ah I’m gonna–.” You don’t say anything, don’t look at him; eyes focused on his dick as you work it up and down with swift flicks of your wrists. Your other hand is situated in between your legs as you listen to all the different sounds in the room: The squelch of your hand, the whimpers from Taehyun, the heavy pants both you and him take. He yelps as he releases into your hand, white seed painting your bare stomach. You hadn’t even noticed your shirt was half up. You’re unmoving, unsure of what to do next. The ravenette inspects the mess he’s made, the mess he’s made out of you—backing away slowly before bolting out of the manor.

It’s been days since you’ve talked to Taehyun, and the tension between you has been replaced, from anger to something neither of you are entirely sure of, though you have an inkling as to what it may be. Shoving it at the back of your mind, you stir the cauldron with a long rod, asking the boy what step comes next.

This is what you’re both good at—what you should have stuck to doing all along. It’s not so suffocating, you could even say it was bearable. This is what you desired. You don’t require friendship or some bond, what you necessitated was a competent co-worker and assistant; that’s what he’s here for.

You may have spoken too soon, a furious burst of light and smog rippling through the room. The pot and its contents spill onto the floor, glass shards landing all over the place. You land flat on your back, eardrums ringing. The only thing you can make out is ash, bits of gray and black swirling in midair. "What the fuck! You could've gotten me killed!" Taehyun scoffs, dusting himself off, no attempt to help you up. "Big deal, you screwed up the solute to solvent ratio." The accusation is both baseless and wrong, you would never blindly estimate measurements for tasks such as this. "How dare you I would never make such a—"

All of a sudden, it clicks. You would never make such a rookie mistake, and neither would he. "You were trying to kill me on purpose!" He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. "If I wanted to, you would've been dead by now."

"Then what the fuck was that! Or are you such an airhead that you couldn't even do what you say you’re so good at properly?" An unamused laugh exits him, nostrils flaring at the implication that he would be so careless. "I just wanted a small explosion so that I could report you as unfit to hold a familiar in your care! Not my fault you overdid it."

"My fault?" You yell, grabbing the other by the chin to face you. "You ungrateful piece of shit. I feed you and nurse you to health and you've done not a damn thing but bitch about nothing of substance. You should thank the elders they gave you someone like me." He keeps his eyes shut, muttering profanities. In all his ineffectual attempts to break free, he never lays a finger on you.

It's odd, and as you watch his biceps flex as he tucks his arms in between his legs, you don't believe that he's too weak to overpower you. Cocking your head to the side, you kick his arms out of his front, prying his hands apart. He curses as you gape at the view, leather stretched to its capacity as a noticeable bulge plants itself beneath the cloth. Your gaze finds his, irises shimmering like molten gold. It fades just as soon as it shows; your heart booms through your chest, and suddenly you find it hard to breathe.

He has bonded you.

“You pervert.” Claws protruding, he pounces forward, causing you to fall onto cobbled ground. It digs the flesh of your throat, piercing skin yet carefully maneuvered to not hit anything vital. He doesn’t add pressure, nor decrease it. Blood splatters across your collarbone when you move to take hold of his wrists, no force needed as he submits without resistance. “Look at what you did to my neck, it’s all tattered and ugly!” You scold, fingers clenched at the root of his scalp as you tug him over. “Kiss it better.” Amidst his whimpers, he swiftly climbs onto your lap, wet pecks all over the crimson dripping down your nape. You click your tongue, untangling your fingers to stroke the back of his head. “You’re still sick, Kitty. You get off my violence, and act like a brat when you don’t get what you want.” His ears twitch at your comments, leveling with you. “Hands off me. Now.” You roll your eyes, discounting his empty threats. “You didn’t seem to hate my hand when you force-fucked yourself into it last time.” His snarl grew more venomous, replying, “I’ll kill you.” The corners of your lips raise, tracing his cheek with your fingers. “As if. You need me.”

“I need you?” He amuses, knee jabbing right in between your legs. “I can smell your cunt from here. It’s not exactly subtle. You reek.” A haughty sound makes its way through you, lightly grazing the fabric of his slacks. “And you’re practically leaking. I’m not taking shit from someone who can’t even stop themselves from humping someone they hate so much.” You palm him through the cloth, and he elevates his hips into your touch. “But I’m a kind owner, so who am I to take no notice of someone in need?” He grunts, “Not my owner.” You coo, “Sure. Now be good for me for a sec.” He murmurs curses, staying still regardless. He anticipates your hand, short-circuiting at the sudden heat from the tip of your tongue. It swirls the head of his dick, and you look up to find the other staring back down at you. You kiss at the sides before dipping your head, a sharp exhale leaving the other. You instruct him to keep his arms behind him, and he fights with himself as nothing actually binds him from keeping his hands to himself. He’s mewling and moaning and thrashing in your hold, high screeches and low moans sending waves straight to your mouth. “‘Can’t do it, ah—need it deeper.” He sighs, pressing a palm to the back of your head and forcing himself down on you. You hold back a gag and glare at him, dragging your mouth off his cock with a resounding pop.

He whines at the loss of you, head thumping onto the wooden floors. "Why—” Wiping the sides of your mouth, you sit up. “This is gross.” He scrambles upward, “But you started—” You’re easy to dismiss him, although your complaints were nothing but a farce. “I don’t care. This is gross, and I get nothing in return. If we’re keeping score, you’ve done nothing to please me.” He narrows his eyes at you, leaning forward. “Please you? I don’t need to do that.” Rolling your eyes, you match his challenge by leaning in too. “Don’t need to or can’t do it?” he gulps, eyes shifting to the side. “I’m not falling for your manipulative tactics.” You tilt your head innocently. “I’m not asking you to,” You feign offense, “but wouldn’t it be better if you came with my mouth, instead of something so pathetic like your own hand? Aren’t you sick of it yet?” The hybrid stays silent, thinking heavily as his tail rocks slowly.

“What do you want?” You smirk, pulling the other’s disheveled self through the hall as you make your way into your room. You slam it shut behind you and fiddle with all the locks, skipping over to the dresser.

“See, you’ve ruined all that’s important to me. It’ll take me months–no, a year to finish all this again.” You sigh, acting hurt. “It’s only fair that we do something about it, no?” The other’s mind goes to the worst of places, tail stiffening as he asks, “Are you gonna make me dress up?” The look on his face is priceless, he’s obviously scared and on high alert, gaze shifting in distraught. “I mean, as long as it’s not super degrading maybe I—” Your laughter cuts through his rambling, clutching your stomach.

“Aren’t you adorable?” Patting the empty space next to you, he settles down timidly, shuffling in his seat. “Thanks for your open mind, but your little temper tantrum cost me everything in my inventory. So no, I have nothing for you. Maybe next time?” Taehyun exhales a breath he didn’t know he kept, nodding. You play with the neckline of his blouse, “But since I have nothing, you shouldn’t have anything either.” You tilt your head with a smile that almost feels threatening as it looks innocent, “Strip.”

The hybrid shimmies out of his garments, shifting nervously on the bed. He feels cold and exposed, blush coating his porcelain body. “Now I just have one last thing for you.” You take out some sort of collar from behind, placing it onto your lap. It’s pink and frilly, no doubt a creation of your own. The sides are decorated with metal spikes and chains, seemingly sharp but dull and harmless to the touch. “Where did you even get this?” You shrug at his question, linking the accessory onto a chain. Taehyun’s tail tucks in between his thighs. “I know it doesn’t match you, but we’ve got to work with what we’ve got, no?” You reply, securing the piece on him. He’s patient and quiet as you fasten the collar, tugging between it and his neck for allowance. “You look so cute.”

The ravenette says nothing, but his tail sways at your words, pink flushing deeper through his ears and cheeks. For a while, the two of you are just staring at each other. You note his smooth skin and slender figure, caressing the sides of his arm. He shivers at your contact, some fingertips more calloused than others. He takes in the darkening red across your mouth and neck, skirt hiking up as your body shifts to kneel beside him. Call it impulse or passion—you both lean in at the same time, kissing soft and slow as his hands wander around your waist. He snakes them up your chest and unhooks your bra, heaving your shirt above your head. He cups your cheek, brushing it slowly. It’s almost chaste and virginal, void of any sexual intent and malice.

But you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place. You bite down on his bottom lip—metallic tang coating your tongue. You part from him with a trail of saliva, blood flowing in steady beats. You smudge it across his cheeks with a satisfied smirk. “You can’t tell yourself it’s because of your rut anymore.” He keeps his head down. “You're forcing me to.” You sigh in return, inching closer. “You have a lot of false notions on bonding, Taehyun.” Leaning over, you place soft pecks onto his face. “This is what you want. You can leave anytime you desire, have anything you desire.”

Taehyun blinks heavily, right before he takes your lips in his again. It’s carnal—it’s him; letting go of his inhibitions and the potential consequences of his actions. He accidentally nips the mound of your lip with his canine, a soft squeal sounding off your lips and into his. He thinks it the most delicious sound he’s ever heard.

He wants to hear more, see more, but all he can do is kiss you deeper. He licks the blood off your mouth, sucking on the cut until it stops streaming. That’s not how that works, you know he knows. He savors the taste of it, only relenting when you tug at the collar. “You’ve hurt me again, are you sure you’re not doing it on purpose?” You say it with an adequate amount of confidence, but your eyes are downcast—hands trembling. He shakes his head fervently, ears shooting up. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to say anything in fear that it makes him look pathetic and needy. Instead, he licks a long stripe along your inner thigh, stopping at your sopping cunt. He rests his head on your skin like a pillow, silently waiting for your next move. You pull at the leash and the other stumbles forward—nose pressed against your core. He plays with the lining of your panties, using nothing but his tongue to take them to the side. He tastes you like he’s been starved for days, lapping over your entrance like clockwork. Your grip around the chain and his hair, making him groan into you, hands reaching over to play with the plush of your breasts. You’re knocked onto the mattress, eyes screwed tightly as your orgasm builds up, barely suppressing yourself of moans. The way you chant Taehyun’s name pushes him forward, making out with your cunt like his life depended on it. When you come on his face, he drinks every drop that flows out of you, kissing and praising you through narrowly audible whispers.

You open your eyes to find him on top of you, waiting for you while the both of you catch your breaths. “You’re really good at that.”You mutter, playing with the gap on his garter belt. He smiles sheepishly, head ducked and pressing his fingers into your hips. “Does that mean I get a reward?” You scoff half-heartedly at his change in manner, drawing his face closer to yours. “What was it about forcing you again?” You tease, sitting up and pushing him down. “I’m just kidding, ‘course you do, Kitty.“ You swear he purrs when you caress his cheek, throwing a leg over his torso. “I’ll make you feel better.”

You line the tip of his cock near your entrance, eyeing the other with hunger. Taehyun ingrains the image of you over him in his memory—your parted lips and heaving form contracting when you sink down on him. His pre-cum and yours mix to make such filthy noises, spurring the both of you further. Grinding your hips, you throw your head back as he fondles your tits. You’re quiet, save for the few grunts when the other sneaks his pelvis to meet your ass.

Taehyun really wants to hear you again, wants to see your pretty face when you come on his dick, the pretty squirms you make when he bottoms out from above. So he takes matters into his own hands, shoving you on your back as he rams into you. You throw a hand over your eyes and mouth, and the other is quick to swat them away, pinning them down. “Wanna hear you, pretty.” He rolls his hips really slow, right before slamming them against you. “A-ah Taehyun, don’t—” He pays no attention to your cries, thrusting irregularly. “Don’t what?” You yelp, “Don’t stop—fuck!” His mouth latches onto your throat, littering the skin with love bites as your pussy clamps down on him. “Faster–‘m so close.” You sob, marking his back. Taehyun leaves no room for you to breathe as he pounds into you. “Me too,” he lets out, whining at the feeling erupting from him. His body shoots up in preparation to pull out—but you stop him, heels digging at the plush of his ass. “Don’t. Want you to cum in me.” He’s more than willing to respect your wishes, smirking down at you as your eyes roll in pleasure, drool trickling down your chin. Your back arches off the bed, chest meeting his. He fucks you through your high, pulling you in and letting you bite down on his lips. With one last plunge, he empties himself into you, white liquid displaced as it runs down the entrance of your cunt.

For a while, both of you just stare at the ceiling. Nothing but the sound of your own racing thoughts and the clock ticking are present, until Taehyun breaks the silence. “I’m not your sidekick.”

You sit up, clearing your throat. “I don’t expect you to be.” You reply, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. “We’re a partnership. We need each other.” You pause to look him in the eye, and your breath hitches at the full sight of him post-sex. “I need you.”

He smiles, teeth tugging at his lips to prevent such an action. “I’m still upset about the blood pendant you made without my permission.” You chuckle at his ignorance. “You’re not as knowledgeable as you regard yourself to be?” He’s confused and a bit offended, as indicated by the twitch of his mouth. “I’m sorry, I just meant—the pendant is supposed to help speed up the bonding process between pairs. The mind control thing is just a myth too.” He goes silent, twisting his head away from you. “So earlier, that was,” He trails off, and you finish his thoughts. “Yup, that was all you. If it was true, it would've been illegal, Tyun.” He’s quick to change the topic, watching you settle back down into the covers. “So we have nicknames now?”

“Oh,” You alarm yourself, “Sorry—I just—” He laughs, “It’s fine. Should I call you anything?” Before you’re able to say anything, he interrupts. “I’m not calling you master.” You giggle, nodding. I wasn’t gonna call you that anyway. Tilting his head, he narrows his focus on you. “Noona?” You stare at the ceiling, lips pursed and ignoring the incessant prodding at your sides. “You’re blushing. You like, Noona?”

“Shut up. I thought you said you were, albeit circumstantially, older than me?” Turning back to him, you take in his face as it glimmers in the warm, dim light that emits from the singular candle lamp. “I’m willing to admit I was wrong.” You let out a sound of amusement. “Huh, that’s new.” He rolls his eyes, boring his gaze into yours. It’s slight, but you feel the ravenette wriggle closer, inching his pinky around yours. With that, you intertwine your hand with his, and the both of you gape at one another in silence.

if you saw the original..u didnt

thank you for reading! feedback, reblogs and tags appreciated♡

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literaryvein-reblogs · 3 months ago

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More Art-Related Vocabulary

Abstract Expressionist: An artistic movement of the mid-20th century emphasizing an artist’s freedom to express attitudes and emotions, usually through nonrealistic means.

Age of Exploration (also, Age of Discovery): From the early 15th century to the early 17th century, European ships traveled around the world in search of new trading routes, lands, and partners to supply an ever-growing European market.

Albumen silver print: A photograph made using a process that was prevalent until the 1890s. The paper is coated with albumen (egg whites), and the image is created using a solution of silver salts.

Brayer: A hand roller used for applying ink to relief printing blocks or occasionally for the direct application of paint or ink to a surface.

Caricature: A representation in either literature or visual art that includes a ridiculous distortion or exaggeration of body parts or physical characteristics to create a comic or gross imitation.

Ceramics: Vessels of clay made by using a variety of shaping techniques and then hardening or firing the clay with heat at a high temperature.

Chasing: A term encompassing two processes in metalworking: (a) modeling decorative patterns on a hand-shaped sheet-metal surface using punches applied to the front, and (b) finishing and refining a cast sculpture.

Classical: Describes a prime example of quality or “ideal” beauty. It often refers to the culture, art, literature, or ideals of the ancient Greek or Roman world, especially that of Greece in the 4th and 5th centuries B.C.

Collage: An art form and technique in which pre-existing materials or objects are arranged and attached as part of a two-dimensional surface.

Color palette: (a) A set of colors that makes up an image or animation, and (b) the group of colors available to be used to create an image.

Composition: The process of arranging artistic elements into specific relationships to create an art object.

Daguerreotype: An early method of photography produced on a silver plate or a silver-covered copper plate made sensitive to light.

Exoticism: Fascination with and exploration and representation of unfamiliar cultures and customs through the lens of a European way of thinking, especially in the 19th century.

Expressionism: A style of art inspired by an artist’s subjective feelings rather than objective or realistic depictions based on observation. Expressionism as a movement is mainly associated with early 20th century German artists interested in exploring the spiritual and emotional aspects of human existence.

Gelatin silver print: A photograph made through a chemical process in which a negative is printed on a surface coated with an emulsion of gelatin (an animal protein) containing light-sensitive silver salts.

Illuminated manuscript: Comes from the Latin words illuminare (to throw light upon, lighten, or brighten), manus (hand), and scriptus from the verb scribere (to write). A handwritten book, usually made from specially prepared animal skins, in which richly colored and sometimes gilded decorations, such as borders and illustrations, accompany the text.

Illuminator: A craftsman or artist who specializes in the art of painting and adorning manuscripts with decorations.

Impressionist: Referring to the style or theories of Impressionism, a theory or practice in painting in which objects are depicted by applying dabs or strokes of primary unmixed colors in order to evoke reflected light. Impressionism was developed by French painters in the late 19th century.

Inking plate: A flat surface used for rolling ink out in preparation for applying ink to a plate or block.

Inscription: A historical, religious, or other kind of record that is cut, impressed, painted, or written on stone, brick, metal, or other hard surface.

Source Art Vocabulary pt. 1

More: Word Lists

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thesimcalledclem · 2 months ago

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FIRE AND BLOOD

Chapter Three

Warnings: Eventual Smut. Targcest. S!sterw!fe. Dubious consent (You know all the drills atp if you've gotten this far into the tag.) OC FIC, if that isn't what you are into, then kindly don't read.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO UPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO ANY OTHER SITES.

(Also just for the video above, I have aged up my OC so that is her as an adult and as she's written currently in the story. Also thanks for all the love and support.)

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The following days were a whirlwind of preparations for the impending nuptials. Fittings for the wedding gown, a suffocatingly elaborate creation of cream colored silk and intricate lace that I had no say in choosing. Endless discussions of menus and guest lists, a cacophony of voices that drowned out my own. And, most agonizing of all, the relentless instructions and lessons from my mother, a constant reminder of the role I was expected to play, the sacrifices I was expected to make.

Sleep evaded me, my nights filled with terrors, my days a relentless parade of duties. By the time the wedding day arrived, I was a hollow shell, my mind numb, my spirit broken. I moved through the ceremony in a daze, a puppet on strings, my body adorned in the suffocating gown, my lips mouthing the vows that felt like a betrayal of my very being.

The only moment that pierced the fog of my dissociation was the unexpected inclusion of Valyrian wedding customs, a concession Aegon had insisted upon. As he brought the ceremonial blade to my lips, slicing the delicate skin, I met his gaze unflinchingly. No wince, no hesitation. I watched as if a spectator, a crimson seal of our union.

Then it was my turn. I took the blade, its edge cool against my trembling fingers, and mirrored his actions, marking his brow with my own blood. Our eyes remained locked, a silent exchange of defiance and resignation.

He cut his palm, then mine, his grip surprisingly gentle as he guided the blade across my skin. Our hands were clasped together, our blood mingling, a visceral symbol of the bond we both abhorred.

"Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre, soul sir se forever," we repeated after the priest. Aegon stumbled over the words, his Valyrian pronunciation clumsy and uncertain. But his eyes never left mine, their intensity a stark contrast to his fumbling recitation.

The ceremony concluded, the final pronouncement echoing through the hall. We were wed, bound by blood and tradition, our fates irrevocably intertwined. As the applause erupted around us, I felt a hollow emptiness settle in my chest. The gilded cage had closed, its bars forged of duty and despair.

────── ☾ ──────

The feast that followed the ceremony was a grotesque spectacle, a nauseating display of excess and debauchery. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of roasted meats, spiced wines, and perfumed bodies, a cloying symphony of excess that assaulted my senses. The raucous laughter and drunken revelry grated on my nerves, each clink of goblets and boisterous cheer a jarring reminder of my gilded cage.

The gash on my hand throbbed with a dull ache, a constant reminder of the vows I'd just spoken, the blood pact that sealed my fate. My senses were overwhelmed – the flickering candlelight, the cacophony of voices, the oppressive heat of the crowded hall. I felt trapped, suffocated by the relentless gaiety, the forced smiles and empty congratulations.

As the evening wore on, Aegon's sobriety became increasingly evident. His laughter was absent, his movements calculated and controlled. His eyes, sharp and cold, scanned the room with a predatory intensity. He issued commands to the servants, his tone curt and demanding, his impatience barely concealed.

"Bring more wine," he barked at a passing server, his voice cutting through the revelry. "And see to it that the Princess's goblet is always full."

He placed a hand over his own goblet, refusing the wine with a shake of his head. “Not for me.”

His refusal was confusing. Aegon was always drunk, he refused to be sober. A chill ran down my spine. Was this a calculated move to assert control, to keep his mind sharp while I succumbed to the wine's influence? I raised my own goblet to my lips with a soft nod to the confused serving girl, my unease growing with each passing moment.

As the night progressed, I succumbed to the siren call of numbness. The wine, constantly replenished in my goblet, offered a seductive escape from the suffocating reality of my situation. Each sip brought a fleeting sense of lightness, a blurring of the edges of my despair. The world around me softened, the cacophony of voices receding to a distant hum, the oppressive weight of the room lifting momentarily.

But even in my wine-induced haze, I couldn't escape Aegon's presence. I watched him from the corner of my eye, his sobriety a stark contrast to the revelry around us. He whispered conspiratorially to a blonde serving girl, his grip on her waist possessive and unsettling. "You can come to my chambers after I've finished with the princess," he murmured, his voice low and suggestive.

Our eyes met, and a shiver ran down my spine. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing on the untouched food on my plate. The lavish gifts and effusive congratulations heaped upon us felt like a cruel mockery, a grotesque celebration of my impending doom. I sat in sullen silence, my resentment simmering beneath the surface.

Aegon, sensing my defiance, leaned towards me, his voice a harsh whisper. "If you are going to be a little brat the whole evening, then we might as well—"

He was interrupted by my mother's arrival, her presence casting a chilling shadow over our already tense exchange. She leaned in, her voice a venomous hiss. "You must make no mistakes tonight, the act—"

Aegon cut her off, his voice dripping with disdain. "I know how the act is done, Mother. I don't need instruction."

She ignored his outburst, her eyes boring into mine. "It must be done," she insisted, her voice cold and calculating. "No shortcuts, no secret agreements." She turned back to Aegon, her gaze unwavering. "Make sure it sticks."

I couldn't suppress a disgusted scoff. My mother's words, a stark reminder of the transactional nature of my marriage, sent a wave of nausea through me. She chuckled, a chilling sound that echoed the emptiness in my heart. With a final pat on my shoulder, she glided away, joining my grandfather on the dance floor.

I watched them, their movements a grotesque parody of joy, their smiles a mask for the darkness that festered beneath the surface. The wine in my goblet swirled, a crimson vortex mirroring the turmoil within me. I was trapped, a prisoner in my own life, my fate sealed by the machinations of those who claimed to love me. The night stretched before me, a grim prelude to the horrors that awaited me in the cage of my marriage bed.

The weight of impending doom, a suffocating presence that clung to me like a shroud, fueled a desperate flurry of activity. I threw myself into every conversation, accepted every dance invitation, and gushed over every lavish gift with a saccharine enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria. For a brief, intoxicating moment, I managed to forget the horrors that awaited me in the gilded cage of my marriage bed.

But the respite was fleeting. A cold, firm grip encircled my waist, pulling me into an unexpected dance. Aegon's voice, a seductive whisper, slithered into my ear. "Don't think I don't know what you are doing, sister," he murmured, his breath ghosting across my skin.

I feigned nonchalance, rolling my eyes as the dance separated us briefly, only to reunite us moments later. "I am enjoying the feast, Aegon," I lied, my voice a brittle imitation of cheerfulness.

He twirled me back into his arms, his grip tightening possessively. "I grow tired of the charade, Clemynsia," he said, his voice low and insistent.

"I grow tired of you," I muttered under my breath, the words a venomous whisper lost in the music.

As the dance ended, I attempted to extricate myself from his grasp, but his grip remained firm, unrelenting. He turned to the assembled crowd, his voice booming through the hall. "Enjoy the festivities," he announced, his eyes surveying the room with a predatory glint. "The Princess and I shall retire for the evening."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a smattering of nervous laughter. Tyland Lannister, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. "No bedding ceremony then, my Prince?" he called out, his voice laced with a salacious curiosity.

My stomach lurched, my hand instinctively digging into Aegon's arm. My nails bit into his flesh, a desperate plea for him to reconsider, to spare me this final humiliation. But Aegon merely laughed, his grip on me tightening painfully.

"There is no need to subject our Princess to such a thing, my lord," he replied, his voice dripping with false chivalry. He turned back to the crowd, his smile a cruel mask. "I bid you all good night."

He pulled me away, my grip on his arm now a desperate lifeline. I was dragged through the parting crowd, their eyes following us with a mix of envy and pity. I felt like a sacrificial lamb, led to the slaughter, my fate sealed by the cruel whims of those in power.

Once we were alone in the dimly lit corridors, Aegon shrugged off my grip, the facade of chivalry and concern crumbling like dust. His face hardened, etched with a grim determination and a simmering resentment that chilled me to the bone. I walked beside him, my footsteps echoing eerily in the vast emptiness, each sound a solemn knell, tolling the death of my innocence.

To my horror, he turned towards the east wing, his chambers, not mine. A wave of panic surged through me, but I knew any protest would be futile. He would ignore my pleas, or worse, mock my desperation.

He strode past the Kingsguard, who stood sentinel at his door, holding it open for him with practiced deference. I followed, feeling like a condemned prisoner, each step a heavy burden on my leaden feet.

Inside his chambers, Aegon began shedding the outer layers of his wedding finery, his movements brisk and efficient. He tossed his overcoat and cloak aside, ignoring me completely. I stood rooted in the center of the room, my eyes taking in the familiar yet unsettling surroundings. The furnishings remained unchanged, a testament to his stagnant existence, but the air hung heavy with the scent of stale wine and a palpable sense of neglect. The room, once a symbol of his privileged status, now felt like a prison, a reflection of his own trapped spirit.

He turned, his gaze sweeping over me, taking in every detail of my bridal attire. His eyes, usually filled with a predatory glint, held a flicker of something akin to pity. "You look like a man waiting to die," he observed, his voice devoid of any warmth.

He walked to a small table, where a decanter of wine sat, its aroma filling the air with a bittersweet tang. He poured a single goblet and held it out to me, a silent offering.

"I feel like one in a way," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. I took the goblet, the cool crystal a stark contrast to the warmth of the wine. I brought it to my lips, the liquid doing little to calm my racing heart. "I haven't seen you indulge at all today," I remarked, attempting to steer the conversation towards safer waters.

He paused in the act of unlacing his boot, his gaze meeting mine. "I needed a clear mind for today," he said, his voice low and deliberate. His eyes flicked over my still-clothed form, a flicker of something dark and primal passing across his features. "And for tonight."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. I felt a chill creep down my spine, the wine turning to acid in my stomach. The facade of normalcy shattered, replaced by a stark and terrifying reality.

I stared down into my goblet, the crimson liquid swirling and sloshing with the tremor of my hands. The mere thought of what awaited me in this room, with this man, sent a wave of nausea through me. I couldn't meet his gaze, couldn't bear to acknowledge the reality of my situation. But denial was a flimsy shield against the inevitable.

With a sigh of resignation, Aegon discarded his boots and advanced towards me. I instinctively retreated, my eyes widening in fear as he closed the distance between us. His expression soured, a flicker of annoyance marring his otherwise composed features.

"Don't be difficult," he said, his voice a low growl. "There is no way out of this. Better to accept it and not fight. Better for both of us." His words were a chilling reminder of my powerlessness, a stark contrast to the forced pleasantries of the feast.

"I can't," I choked out, my voice barely a whisper.

He paused, his eyebrows raised in expectation. "Why not?"

I grasped at the first excuse that came to mind, a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. "I haven't finished my wine."

A rueful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You are so childlike at times, it is shocking." There was a hint of genuine affection in his voice, a fleeting glimpse of the brother I once knew, buried beneath layers of bitterness and resentment.

He took another step forward, and I stumbled backward, the back of my knees hitting the edge of a small side table. I lost my balance, my goblet slipping from my grasp. Aegon caught it before it shattered, his hand closing around mine as he set it down.

"Aegon—" I began, my voice trembling.

He shook his head, his patience wearing thin. "Shh. There is nothing you can say. We have our duty. You know it as well as I do." His grip was firm, but his words were surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier coldness. For a fleeting moment, I saw a glimmer of humanity in his eyes, a hint of the boy he once was.

But the illusion shattered as quickly as it had appeared. "Do not be a wailing babe in the face of your responsibility," he admonished, his voice hardening once more.

I felt a surge of defiance, a desperate urge to fight back, to claw my way out of this gilded cage. But the reality of my situation was inescapable. I was trapped, surrounded by the trappings of his opulent chambers – the plush velvet drapes, the ornate tapestries, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air hung heavy with the scent of wine and a lingering sense of dread.

My heart hammered in my chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed the chaos within me. I was a prisoner of my own bloodline, a pawn in a game of power and succession.

Helpless, I watched as Aegon turned me around, his fingers moving with a practiced efficiency that sent a shiver of revulsion down my spine. The intricate lacing of my gown, a testament to the seamstress's skill, proved no match for his nimble touch. He worked quickly, the layers of lace and ribbon falling away, revealing the corset beneath. I held the gown against my chest, the heavy fabric a flimsy shield against the chilly air and the weight of his gaze.

But he wouldn't allow me even this small comfort. With a gentle but firm tug, he pulled the gown from my grasp, letting it pool at my feet like a discarded shroud. I stood before him in my chemise, the thin fabric offering little protection from the cool air or his scrutinizing eyes.

A tense silence descended upon the room. We stood frozen, our breaths the only sound in the stillness. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows, creating an eerie atmosphere of anticipation and dread.

"Perhaps I should've gotten drunk," Aegon murmured, his voice barely audible.

I heard his footsteps as he circled me, his presence a tangible force in the confined space. I squeezed my eyes shut, my body trembling, unable to bear the thought of his gaze upon my exposed skin.

The silence stretched, each passing second a torturous eternity. I felt like a trapped animal, awaiting the inevitable blow. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a palpable sense of violation hanging heavy in the room.

An eternity seemed to pass as I stood there, frozen in place, awaiting the inevitable brutality. I braced myself for a harsh grab, a forceful push, anything to break the agonizing silence. But instead, a feather-light touch grazed my back, guiding me towards the bed.

No words were exchanged, only the rustle of fabric and the soft padding of our footsteps on the plush rug. I kept my eyes tightly shut, a desperate attempt to block out the reality of my situation. I felt the yielding softness of the mattress beneath me as he gently pushed me onto it. He hovered above me, his weight a tangible presence, his warmth a stark contrast to the icy dread that coiled in my stomach.

The revulsion I felt towards his touch was visceral, a deep-seated aversion that made my skin crawl. I involuntarily flinched, my body tensing in anticipation of the violation to come.

His voice, a low rumble in my ear, broke the silence. "I will not draw this out," he said, his tone surprisingly devoid of malice. "It will hurt, try not to tense up."

His words, a stark acknowledgment of the impending pain, sent a fresh wave of panic through me. I wanted to scream, to fight, to beg for mercy.

The feeling of his hands bunching my chemise above my waist makes my eyes snap open, the cool air hitting my bare skin having a jarring effect on my determination to keep my eyes from him. His eyes are focused on my newly exposed skin, passing over every angle and curve he’s never been allowed to see before. Then those lilac irises find my own and stay there as his index finger slides along my slit once and then twice. The soft touch makes my body arch in a twisted mix of revulsion and a sick yearning for more. His other hand anchors itself on my hip, holding me captive, while his knee wedges between my thighs, preventing any escape. All the while those amethyst eyes stay glued to my face.

His finger pushed past my folds, dipping inside of my body. I let out an involuntary whine at the invasion and arch my hips away from his hand but again his left hand pushes my hips down, holding me in place. His eyes dip down, drinking in the sight below him, his mouth parting and his breath quickening. I watch the change in him as his eyes raised back up to mine, and he added another finger, pumping them slowly in and out.

In and out, in and out, in and out.

His gaze remains fixed on my face, capturing every gasp and flicker of emotion that crosses my features. I can't control the way my lips part or the involuntary arch of my neck against the pillow. I want to hide in shame, this is wrong, no this isn’t right, not after what’s happened. But I can’t help myself from pressing into his hand, nor the soft whines that leave my parted lips.

“So responsive.” He mumbles and my eyes find his face once more but he is no longer focused on mine, his eyes locked onto the sight below him as he pulls his fingers out and slides them along my slit. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing my cries, but my body betrayed me, arching involuntarily. His cruel smirk confirmed that he'd witnessed my surrender, despite my silent defiance.

He withdraws his fingers completely, and a wave of dread washes over me as I anticipate what comes next. With practiced efficiency, he sheds his breeches and tunic, leaving me exposed and shivering in the cool air. His lips curl into a cruel smirk as he observes my involuntary reaction, the way I instinctively wrap my arms around myself. "Shh, don't worry," he chuckles, his voice laced with a chilling mockery. "You'll be warm soon enough." The insinuation, a grotesque parody of intimacy, sends a wave of nausea through me.

“Remember what I said before about not tensing up.” He says against the shell of my ear as he slides himself against me once and then twice. I have only seconds to register what he means when I feel the first initial burning stretch as he slides past my opening. I realize now what his knee was there for, my first instinct was to clamp my legs closed but it kept me from doing so. I gasped aloud and arched away from the stinging stretch but his hands kept my hips in place.

“Do. Not. Tense. Up.” He hissed against my neck, his breath short and shallow as he struggled to restrain himself. I could feel the tension in his body as he hovered above me. I clamped my eyes shut, wincing as tears pricked at the corner of my eyes as he pushed past my maidenhead. The pain fades swiftly but the overwhelming reality of the situation crashes over me, a tidal wave of despair and revulsion. I close my eyes tightly, desperately seeking solace in memories of happier times. Images of childhood innocence flash before my eyes; playful afternoons with Helaena, the comforting rustle of my mother's skirts, the carefree days when my biggest worry was a bath or an early morning wake-up call. A bittersweet smile almost graces my lips.

But the idyllic reverie is shattered by a sharp sting on my cheek. Aegon's hand slaps my face repeatedly, a harsh reminder of the present., his voice thick with irritation. "Look at me, for fuck's sake."

I become acutely aware of his movements, the slow pressure increasing until it finally abated as he bottomed out deep within me. He holds himself there for a moment, his head lowered into the crook of my neck and I think I'll die from the overwhelming aching feeling of fullness within me and then he moves.

It’s as it was before with his long-curved fingers, in and out, in and out. His rhythmic thrusts are slow at first, too slow, I am restless and the pain is more noticeable with the slow deep ache this angle creates. His hands dig into the soft flesh of my thighs, and with a frustrated grunt, he forces my legs wider apart, seeking a more accommodating angle. The forceful adjustment sends a jolt of sensation through me, my eyes rolling back involuntarily as a mix of pained whimpers and breathless gasps escape my lips.

"Aegon, brother—" I gasped, my fingers digging into his bicep for support against the overwhelming sensations. His head snapped up, his pupils dilated, his expression hardening with a flash of irritation.

"Not brother any longer, husband," he growled, his jaw clenching. His gaze dropped to the point of our union, his focus narrowing on the raw intimacy of the act. In and out, in and out, in and out. The sickening sound of our skin slapping together filled the room, echoing grotesquely.

It continues for an agonizing eternity, my legs trembling and my hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Finally, he stutters, his body jerking violently as if a taut cord has been snapped. His fingers dig into my skin with such force that I'm certain I'll find blooming purple bruises in the morning. He rolled off, collapsing onto his back beside me, his chest heaving with exertion. I remained motionless, my fists finally unclenching, the cool air stinging the raw flesh of my palms.

Silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the sound of our ragged breathing. After a few agonizing moments, Aegon sat up, his back to me. He handed me a cloth, his voice a gruff murmur. "You bled."

I accepted the cloth, my movements robotic as I wiped away the physical evidence of our union. I lay on my side, facing away from him, a chasm of silence yawning between us. The aftermath hung heavy in the air, a suffocating pall over the opulent chamber.

I kept my back turned, refusing to acknowledge his presence. Shame and self-loathing coiled within me, a venomous serpent gnawing at my soul. The fleeting moments of pleasure, a betrayal of my own will, amplified the sense of violation. I fixed my gaze on a crack in the stone wall above the alcove where his writing desk stood. It was a jagged scar, a fissure that snaked its way through the meticulously crafted facade, a silent testament to the imperfections that lurked beneath the surface of this gilded world.

The alcove itself was a study in contrasts. The ornate desk, crafted from dark, polished wood, was cluttered with parchment, quills, and half-finished letters. A flickering candle cast long shadows across the scattered papers, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. A single, wilted rose lay forgotten in a silver vase, its petals a poignant reminder of beauty's fleeting nature.

I hardly noticed Aegon's movements as he rose from the bed and began to redress himself. My mind was adrift, my senses dulled by a numbing shock. The world around me seemed distant and unreal, the sounds and scents of the chamber fading into a hazy backdrop.

His voice, sharp and impatient, cut through the fog. "Clemynsia," he hissed, his tone laced with frustration.

I turned my head slowly, my gaze unfocused. He stood by the door, fully dressed, his expression a mask of cold indifference. He shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. "You can remain here until the morning," he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

With a final, lingering look, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding thud. I was alone once more, the silence pressing down on me with suffocating force. My eyes returned to the crack in the wall, its jagged edges a reflection of my own fractured spirit.

Sleep, when it finally came, was a fitful and tormented affair. I tossed and turned, haunted by the lingering sensation of Aegon's touch, the phantom ache between my thighs, the cruel smirk that played on his lips. Each time I drifted off, nightmares clawed their way into my consciousness, twisting the events of the night into grotesque parodies of intimacy. I would wake with a gasp, my heart pounding in my chest, the sheets tangled around my limbs.

Dawn was breaking when I finally succumbed to exhaustion, my eyelids heavy with unshed tears. But even then, sleep offered no respite. In my dreams, Aegon's face loomed over me, his eyes burning with a possessive hunger. His touch, once gentle, turned rough and demanding, his laughter a mocking echo in the darkness.

I was jolted awake by a violent shake, my body protesting the sudden intrusion into my tormented slumber. My hands instinctively flew up to protect myself, but my mother's voice, sharp and urgent, froze me in place.

"Where is Aegon?!" she hissed, her face inches from mine, her eyes wild with panic. The scent of lavender and desperation clung to her, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor.

"Not ... here," I mumbled, struggling to rouse myself from the deep recesses of sleep I had only a few moments before managed to find. My eyes slid past her, the candlelight throwing harsh shadows across my grandfather's face. He looked from his daughter to me, then turned and swept from the room without a word.

"Father," my mother called after him, but she remained in the room, her eyes returning to my face, still filled with that unsettling panic.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, swallowing to ease my dry throat. "What's happened?"

She sat down on the edge of the bed, beside my curled form, still nestled beneath the duvet. Her expression was choked with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. "Your father—" She swallowed thickly, unable to continue.

"Mother, I am tired and sore—" I protested, desperate to retreat back into the oblivion of sleep, to pretend, if only for a moment, that the horrors of the previous night hadn't happened.

"My dear—" She reached out to touch me, but I swatted her hand away with a recoiled scoff. The last thing I needed were her false reassurances and empty affection.

Before she could respond, footsteps echoed in the hallway, and then Helaena and Aemond entered the room. I sat up fully, my heart pounding. Something was terribly wrong. The air crackled with a tension that transcended the usual undercurrents of courtly intrigue. A sense of foreboding settled over me.

“Where is your brother?” She demanded, desperate and shaky. Neither had an answer for her, they stood with looks of confusion on their eerily similar faces.

My mother rose, her gaze fixed on Aemond, her voice laced with desperation, her hand reaching out for Helaena, who instinctively recoiled from her touch. Instead, Helaena walked towards me, her silent gestures urging me to rise from the bed.

"Why? Leave him to his whoring," Aemond spat, his voice laced with disgust. His eyes flicked towards me, a fleeting expression of apology crossing his face as I reluctantly obeyed Helaena's silent command.

My mother shook her head, a sound of frustration escaping her lips. "He needs to be found."

The weight of the unknown hung heavy in the air, suffocating me. "Whatever for?" I blurted out, my voice sharp with a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. "What use is he?"

My mother's gaze shifted between Helaena and me, her expression hardening. She hesitated, as if struggling to find the words to deliver the devastating blow. "Your father is dead," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. She inhaled deeply, her eyes filled with a profound sorrow. "He named Aegon his heir, just hours before his death."

The words struck me like a physical blow, my blood turning to ice in my veins. My hands, still gripping Helaena's arm, went numb. A wave of horror washed over me, my face contorting in a silent scream. Aegon would be king. They were usurping Rhaenyra's throne.

The implications of my mother's words reverberated through me, sending shockwaves of fear and despair. The fragile peace, so painstakingly constructed the night before, had crumbled into dust. A storm was brewing, a tempest of blood and fire that threatened to consume us all.

A chill settled over me, a premonition of the darkness that was about to engulf the realm. The dance had begun, and I feared the steps we were all destined to take. I peered over at my sister, her mouth tight and her eyes far away once again. She met my gaze with a chilling intensity.

“There is a beast beneath the boards.” She hissed as if she couldn’t control the words from flowing from her tightened lips.

────── ☾ ──────

The four of us remained cloistered in Aegon's chambers, the weight of the news pressing down on us with a suffocating intensity. My mother, her usual composure fractured, oscillated between moments of vulnerable grief and a steely resolve. The flickering fire cast long shadows across the room, amplifying the sense of unease that hung heavy in the air.

The creak of the door startled us all, breaking the oppressive silence. Sir Criston Cole strode into the room, his armor clinking with each step, his presence adding another layer of tension to the already fraught atmosphere. I inwardly groaned at the intrusion, longing for solitude to process the tumultuous events of the night.

"Prince Aegon's not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace," he reported to my mother, his voice low and grave. "Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him."

My mother straightened, her movements betraying a newfound sense of purpose. I couldn't help but notice the way Criston's eyes followed her, his gaze filled with a dark reverence. I looked away, focusing on the intricate embroidery that occupied Helaena's hands, a hauntingly beautiful spider weaving its silken web.

My mother and Criston engaged in a hushed conversation, their voices barely above a whisper. I strained to hear, catching snippets of their exchange - her reliance on his loyalty, her desperate plea to find Aegon and bring him to her, and no one else.

"The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it," she said, her voice rising slightly, before their heads bowed once more in conspiratorial whispers.

I sighed, burying my face in my hands, my fingers digging into my temples. The weight of the impending crisis, the knowledge that my father was dead and Aegon was now the rightful heir, threatened to crush me.

Aemond's voice cut through my despair. "I'll come with you," he declared, stepping forward to meet our mother.

She hesitated, her arms instinctively reaching for him. "That would not be my desire, Aemond," she said, her voice laced with concern.

I watched their interaction, a bittersweet pang of envy twisting in my gut. Their bond, forged in shared ambition and unwavering loyalty, was a stark contrast to the fractured relationships that plagued the rest of our family.

"If anything has happened—" Aemond began, his voice firm.

"Cole needs me, Mother," he insisted, his gaze unwavering. "Ser Erryk isn't the only one who knows Aegon's doings."

With a curt nod, he turned and strode from the room, Criston following closely behind. The door closed with a soft click, leaving the three of us alone once more.

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with unspoken fears and anxieties. My mother paced the room, her agitation palpable. Helaena remained absorbed in her embroidery, her delicate fingers moving with a methodical precision that belied the turmoil within.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind reeling. The world I knew had been irrevocably shattered. The future, once a distant and hazy horizon, now loomed large, its darkness threatening to consume us all.

────── ☾ ──────

The preparations for the coronation happened not even hours later, a macabre farce considering Aegon's absence, were a torturous ordeal. My ladies-in-waiting, their faces etched with grim determination, fussed over me, their hands tugging and pulling at my hair and body as they dressed me in the chosen finery.

The gown they forced upon me was a stark contrast to Helaena's ethereal silver and lilac creation. Mine was a deep, blood-red velvet, its hue so dark it bordered on black. The fabric clung to my curves, accentuating every contour, a silent mockery of the virginal purity I no longer possessed. My hair, normally a wild cascade of curls, was tamed into submission, a single braid woven with gold thread pulled taut on the crown of my head, leaving the rest to flow down my back.

I stood before the mirror, a regal and artificial image of a queen. My reflection stared back at me, her eyes haunted, her lips pressed into a thin line., a sick mirror of my mother. I felt like a stranger in my own skin, a puppet dressed for a performance I wanted no part in.

The door creaked open, and Aemond entered, his usual swagger replaced by a restless energy. His gaze met Helaena's, and a silent exchange passed between them, a subtle nod that spoke volumes. I looked down at my hands, my nails bitten to the quick, a testament to my anxiety.

"Where was he?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Aemond scoffed, crossing the room to stand beside Helaena. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle and reassuring. "The Sept," he replied, his voice heavy with disdain.

I let out a choked laugh. "The bloody Sept?"

"Drunk beyond sanity," he confirmed, disappearing behind a dressing screen. The sound of rustling fabric filled the silence as he shed his own garments and donned the ceremonial attire. He emerged moments later, a vision in black velvet and polished steel. His long hair, always immaculate, framed his face, his eyes cold and calculating.

I took a deep breath, my vision blurring around the edges. This was happening. Aegon would be king, and I, would be forced to stand beside him. A wave of nausea washed over me.

"Do not vomit," Aemond said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. "All will be well."

I scoffed, waving him off. "All will be well," I echoed, the words bitter on my tongue.

Before I could reply, Helaena gripped my arm, her eyes wide with terror. "There is a beast beneath the boards," she whispered, her voice trembling.

I reached for her, my own fear momentarily forgotten in the face of hers. "Sister, all is well," I lied, trying to soothe her. But the words felt hollow, even to my own ears.

The carriage ride to the Dragonpit was a silent, agonizing procession. Helaena and I sat side-by-side, our bodies rigid with tension, our minds reeling from the news of our father's death and Aegon's ascension. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones echoed my own racing heartbeat, each jolt of the carriage a physical manifestation of the dread that gnawed at my insides.

I was numb, my senses dulled by a combination of shock and exhaustion. The world outside the carriage windows blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, devoid of meaning or significance. My fingers, seeking an outlet for my anxiety, relentlessly picked at the already raw skin around my nail beds, the sting of pain a welcome distraction from the turmoil within.

We arrived at the Dragonpit, its cavernous interior echoing with the hushed whispers of the gathered crowd. I stood on the raised platform beside Helaena, my jaw clenched, my breath shallow. The sheer number of people, their faces a sea of expectant eyes, threatened to overwhelm me. The murmur of their voices, a low, ominous hum, amplified my sense of isolation.

My grandfather's voice boomed through the hall, shattering the uneasy silence. "People of King's Landing," he proclaimed, his tone grave and solemn. "Today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King Viserys the Peaceful is dead."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, the news of the king's demise sinking in. I tried to summon a sense of grief, a flicker of sadness for the man who had been my father. But all I felt was a numbing emptiness, a hollow ache that mirrored the vastness of the Dragonpit.

"But it is also the most joyous of days," Otto continued, his voice rising with a false enthusiasm. "For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him."

His words, a blatant lie, a calculated manipulation of truth, sent a wave of revulsion through me. I watched in stunned disbelief as the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers a testament to the effectiveness of Otto's propaganda.

Guards marched into the hall, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous space. "HALT!" a commanding voice barked. "TURN!" The guards formed two parallel lines, their swords raised in a menacing archway. A fanfare of trumpets pierced the air, and then, amidst the expectant hush, Aegon appeared.

He walked slowly, deliberately, his figure emerging from the shadows. He was clad in a regal black doublet, the Targaryen three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. As he passed beneath the arch of swords, the guards lowered their blades in unison, a chilling display of fealty.

Otto's voice boomed once more, his words echoing through the hall. "It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this: a new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king... to lead us."

Aegon's gaze lifted, meeting my mother's. She descended the steps, her face a mask of triumph. She cupped his face in her hands, pressing a kiss to his temple, then led him towards the waiting Septon.

A desperate hope flickered within me. Perhaps he would laugh, turn and flee, dragging me with him into the unknown. But the hope died as quickly as it had arisen. He knelt before the Septon, his expression resolute.

The anointing began. "May the Warrior give him courage," the Septon intoned, pouring fragrant oil onto Aegon's brow.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. I wanted to scream, to plead with him to run, to escape this charade before it was too late.

"May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield." Another anointment.

Aegon, run.

"May the Father defend him in his need."

Escape from here.

"May the Crone lift her lamp and light his way to freedom."

Take me with you.

The Septon handed the Conqueror's crown to Criston Cole.

My heart hammered in my chest. There was still time. I could speak, could break the spell, could shatter this illusion of consent.

Criston raised the crown, his voice ringing through the hall. "The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations."

He stepped forward, placing the heavy circlet upon Aegon's head.

It was too late.

"Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne."

My shoulders slumped, defeat washing over me like a tidal wave. Aegon rose, his gaze sweeping across the assembled council before him. One by one, they bowed before him, my mother included.

His eyes met mine, a silent challenge in their depths. I could have rebelled, could have screamed my defiance, could have thrown myself from the platform in a desperate act of protest.

But I didn't. I lowered my head and curtsied, my body betraying my spirit. Helaena and Aemond followed suit, their movements mirroring my own surrender.

"All hail His Grace Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

The words echoed through the Dragonpit, a chilling proclamation of a new era. I looked at my husband, my king, my captor. He looked drawn, ill, and hauntingly beautiful. Dark circles marred his pale skin, his eyes a deep, unsettling purple, almost black in the dim light. He wore the crown like a shroud, a symbol of the darkness that had descended upon us all.

The bells tolled, their somber peal a stark counterpoint to the forced celebration. "Aegon the King!" Criston's voice echoed, a grating reminder of the stolen throne, the shattered dreams. A brief silence hung in the air, pregnant with unease, before the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers. They chanted his name, their voices a deafening chorus of adulation.

Aegon, basking in the long-denied validation, reveled in the moment. He unsheathed his sword, thrusting it skyward in a triumphant arc. A prideful smile graced his lips, his eyes alight with a newfound confidence.

Then, without warning, chaos erupted. A deafening roar shattered the celebratory atmosphere, the very foundations of the Dragonpit trembling beneath our feet. Rubble rained down from the ceiling, screams pierced the air, and the crowd descended into a frenzied panic.

But it was the roar that followed, a primal sound that shook the very core of my being, that truly terrified me. At first, I couldn't see the source of the noise, the dragon obscured by a thick cloud of smoke and dust. Then, the distinctive spikes along its neck and back emerged from the haze. Meleys, my own dragon's mother, a colossal beast of crimson scales and unyielding fury, had arrived.

The crowd scattered, their cries of terror echoing through the hall. Meleys, her massive wings outstretched, knocked people aside like rag dolls, her fiery breath scorching the stone floor.

"Open the doors!" my grandfather shouted, his voice barely audible above the din. "Open the doors!" But the gold cloaks, their faces etched with fear, struggled to contain the panicked mob.

My mother, her eyes widening in recognition, pushed past Criston Cole, her voice a desperate command. "Get Clemynsia and Helaena!"

Helaena clutched my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. Her other hand found my waist, her grip a lifeline in the chaos. Criston shielded us with his body as Meleys advanced, her massive head now looming over the platform, her fiery breath singeing the air.

And then, with a heart-stopping suddenness, she turned and launched herself into the sky. The relief was instantaneous, my legs buckling beneath me. My gaze instinctively sought out Aegon, his face pale and etched with fear. Our eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, a shared understanding passed between us.

We should have run.

#aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen smut #aegon targaryen x oc #fire and blood*#hotd oc #aegon targaryen ii #Aegon Targaryen deserves better #oc fic

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lesbiangummybearmafia · 1 year ago

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I really love this gown omg 💕

Maud Beaton in Every Episode of The Gilded Age - 2x02 "Some Sort of Trick"

#the gilded age customs #the gilded age season 2 #the gilded age #maud beaton #love her gown #so pretty #gorgeous #1880s fashion

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dead-lights · 9 months ago

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household // 1910s caleb & lilith & lily [DOWNLOAD]

It's so much fun throwing the Vatores into random historical eras. This is what you'll get if you throw my late Edwardian Zhu-Vatore household into your game! I may have gone a bit overboard.

↓↓↓ tl;dr household download link & required cc below the cut ↓↓↓

There's absolutely gorgeous Edwardian cc out there, so I collected it for you 💖

The Edwardian era was marked by excess and conspicuous consumption. They liked big hair and big hats, and by the end of the period people had come to agree that the sexiest shape a woman can be is cylindrical.

Caleb, Lily, and Lilith really pull off the look. Neither lady is particularly cylindrical, but they look great in these dresses and absolutely rock the Gibson Girl updo and fancy hats.

I aged Lily down and changed her hair color, removed Lilith's tattoos, and gave Caleb a basic dark form, but no other changes. I tried to make them cousins? But when I loaded the household onto my laptop, they weren't cousins anymore :(

You'll need Vintage Glamour, in addition to Vampires and Werewolves. A few of Caleb's outfits and his hair are from VG and you CANNOT pair side bangs with Edwardian clothing. It's a fashion law.

In order to cut back on the amount of cc, there's less variety of hats, hair, gloves, and shoes than I'd like. I also didn't include jewelry. If people are interested, I can put together a list of supplementary cc that can be swapped in.

Please tag me @dead-lights if you use these for anything! I'd love to see my pixel buddies walking around in other people's saves.

Now buckle up, y'all. This gets long.

download household [SFS]

Extract that into your Tray folder (in the same folder as your Mods folder). You should see the household in CAS when you open your gallery.

required cc

@happylifesims

fedora shape no. 2

peaky blinders outfit

wilbur outfit

1920s coat

rose's boarding outfit

rose's dinner dress

rose's lunch dress

rose's flying dress

rose’s jump dress

rose's swim dress

1910s day dress 01

my recolor of day dress 01

1910s day dress 02

1920s nightgown

@historicalsimslife

men's casual edwardian suit

edwardian men's underwear + sleep wear

edwardian women's hat + coat

edwardian women's nightgown

@gilded-ghosts

the hartfield shoes

summer swells dress

flower accessory

gilded gibson hair

fanny's finery gown (dropbox)

perfectly plain skirt

clair de lune nightgown (dropbox)

promenade dress

demure day dress (dropbox)

astor dress (direct link)

coquette corset (dropbox)

@linzlu

picnic tops 2 & 3

bathing belle

florence outwear (direct link)

miss scarlet evening gown

hattie dress (direct link)

vintage swimwear by @eirflower

duchess of xviii hat by @rustys-cc

white garden gloves by rustys-cc

sunday hair by @saurusness

season's greetings hat by @nolan-sims

edwardian satin bow pumps by @waxesnostalgic

knickerbockers by waxesnostalgic

gibson curl updo by @the-melancholy-maiden

vintage glam hat by @madlensims

avery skirt by madlensims

scholar vest by @magnolianfarewell

edwardian huntress dress by @elfdor

tyrell by @clumsyalienn

bespoke corset by @dzifasims

my recolor of bespoke corset

fur hat by @lilis-palace

carla by @buzzardly28

hattie dress by @dancemachinetrait

"tea time" vintage edwardian hat by shawnthesimmer

lingerie dress by @javitrulovesims

If you're trying to replace the default in-game:

move this household into wolfsbane manor with the default vatores, then delete the defaults

use mods/cheats to make the new lily the vatores' cousin (i think mccc and ui cheats can both do it)

move custom lily in with the volkov household - use cheats/mods to copy her default relationships if you'd like - and then delete default lily. you will also need to mod/cheat lily back into the moonwood collective if you want her to keep her position. all three characters still have their occult rank and powers. she does NOT keep her special moonwood mill gossip dialogue - not sure why.

TOU

don't put my stuff behind a paywall

don't claim my stuff as your own

don't violate the TOUs of the cc makers i've included

Please let me know if there are any problems - this is my first time putting up a household and I'm only mostly sure I did it right 😅 I managed to get it to work on my laptop, so there's that.

If you're just here for the download, you're done now! If you're interested in learning more about Edwardian fashion, let me ramble at you for a bit :)

my notes

This isn't the most historically accurate set, but I'm calling it close enough - if you're interested in learning more about the era, Edwardian Promenade is a great place to start.

Edwardians had really weird, complicated rules about hat and glove wearing. For most of these outfits, people would don and remove their hats and gloves based on social context - they shouldn't be wearing gloves when they eat, for example, but should always wear gloves when they're dancing. It's hard to find consistent information about the specific rules, but I've read excerpts from the Edwardian equivalents of Miss Manners and Good Housekeeping and they are fascinating.

I found some great reference images for sportswear from Silhouettes Costumes. Caleb's athletic outfit is based on this contemporary illustration. The unfastened bottom button is a nice detail to have - it was fashionable for men to leave the last button undone, as a nod to King Edward.

The ladies have 3 sleep outfits - the first are nightgowns that they would wear to sleep, the second are corsets, with other undergarments still on underneath, and the third are chemises, which were worn under their corsets - the underest part of the underwear, essentially.

For an in-depth explanation of Edwardian lingerie, check out The Fashion Archaeologist's Blog. For information about Edwardian nighttime hair care, check out Sew Historically.

The girls are wearing lingerie dresses for their hot weather outfits - lacy dresses made with the same materials & techniques as lingerie. These were good casual afternoon dresses, and were sometimes worn without a corset. Learn more about them from The Dreamstress!

#caleb vatore #lilith vatore #lily zhu #ts4 historical #ts4 lookbook #ts4 download #ts4 cc #s4cc #townie makeover #ts4 townie makeover #ts4 townie #ts4 premades #ts4 edwardian #ts4 1910s #ts4 vampires #ts4 werewolves #sim dump #dead-lights cc

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penvisions · 9 months ago

Text

of beskar and kyber {chapter 15}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: Moff Gideon's troops close in on your position as you try to make an escape.

Word Count: 12.5k (!!)

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, fighting, fight scenes, conflict, emotional trauma, emotional manipulation, physical manipulation, coercion, manipulation, reader goes momentarily mute, emotional outbursts, argumentative language, din raises his voice, din yells at reader two times, loss of temper for both reader and din, moff gideon gets his own warning, description of injuries, blood, descriptions of nausea, concussions, minor character death, major character injury, angst, emotional rollercoaster, reader has a name that is sparingly used for plot points, if i forgot anything please let me know and i'll add it!

A/N: so, this happened nearly immediately after i posted the last one. had the general scenes of this chapter outlined for ages, but it took a darker turn than even i anticipated. this chapter is dedicated to @sawymredfox for allowing me to bounce ideas off of them! i don't know what to say other than, i'm sorry and please feel free to (kindly) yell at me if you need to

ao3 || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

“We need to move.”

“Who put you in charge?”

“I’m sorry, do you speak Mando’a? Do you know the customs and cultural presets for interacting with them on their own terms, in their own setting?” One last tear trailed down your cheek and you roughly wiped it away. Trying your best to keep the heated gaze you shared with the older man.

Neither person said anything as you walked past them to take the lead, ad’ika cooing after you with one of his small claws. He began to wriggle in Cara’s grip, unhappy with the woman holding him, a cry breaking the silence of the darkened tunnel. She tried her best to keep him secure against her chest, but he pushed at her, little fists thumping hard. He kept his gazed trained on you, another bellowing cry gaining volume the further you walked away.

“I think he wants you, cyar’ika.” Cara called out, unsure of what else to do. She followed after you, steps echoing all around. You turned with a blank face that quickly softened as you looked down at the child. Heart thudding as you reached out for him, he practically threw himself at you, jumping from Cara’s hold and toward you. You caught him with a small huff, trying to keep a solid hold on him as he buried his face into your neck and whimpered.

“I’ve got you, ad’ika.” You murmured, away of Karga watching you, something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite decipher. With quiet words, you secured him in the bag he had been handed to Kuiil in during your separation and adjusted it over your shoulder. You fixed it to rest along your left hip, his weight barely anything as he kept one hand wrapped around the hem of your tank top for comfort.

The tunnels were deserted, no sign of recent occupation or life, traveling further into them. You couldn’t have been making progress, the winding underground world expansive and deliberately set up to deter people from finding the pockets of life hidden within. With a frustrated sigh, you shined your vambrace’s flashlight on the walls around you. Trying to catch a glimpse of anything scribed along them, using the red of it to pick up on anything gilded in hidden ink.

You wished for the helmet Akiz had left to you, for the cover of it and the different visor settings to aid you in your search. But you had lost it, like you had everything else. It was hopefully still secured in the chest buried in the remnants of your hideaway deep in the desert of Tatooine.

Maybe…maybe it was time to return there, with ad’ika, if you ever managed to get off world. Place the pendant Din had gifted you along side it. Remnants of a life you had tried to start over twice now and unable to maintain. The sacrifice of two Mandalorians weighing you down and urging you to hide away once again. The threat after you, after you both too strong to fight and overcome.

An explosion overhead had you reaching for the child, hand firm on his small back as he fussed.

All three of you turned toward the direction you had just come from, wary of the tunnels beginning to cave in and trap you. Your breath hitched at the sound of twin steps, the unsteady light dancing o the wall as figures approached and rounded the corner you had just turned.

But it wasn’t soldiers or Mandalorians intent on protecting their space, nor civilians running from the fighting and occupation of the city overhead.

It was IG-11, leading and supporting a weak Din.

Your body wouldn’t move, mind going blank as Din’s amor glinted in the low light of the tunnels.

Cara rushed forward, a smile breaking out on her face. Karga right behind her as she reached out a tentative hand to his cuirass. His helmet bobbed, unsteady on his feet and balance shot as he swayed from the light pressure. He didn’t say anything as she curled an arm around his back and took the brunt of his weight. Light emanating from the side of his helmet swinging around as he jostled from the movements.

“Want to lend a hand here?” She looked toward you, frozen in your spot.

When you didn’t say anything, eyes avoiding looking directly at the armored figure and fingers twitching with the urge to reach out an ensure he was real, he was alive, he was right in front of you; Karga took point.

“Do you know which way to go?”

“No. I don’t know these tunnels.” His voice was still raspy, a scratchy quality that prickled the skin of your back as it fell on your ears. Secure in his pouch, ad’ika cooed in response, ears wiggling as he watching his guardian with wide eyes. When the helmet raised and focused on your completely, you couldn’t even find it in yourself to care that his light was shining directly on you. “I’ve only entered from the bazaar. Mesh’la, have you found any clues?”

You turned your back on him and began to walk, not trusting your voice. A grunt of pain displayed through the helmet, Cara murmuring quiet words to ensure he was okay enough to move. When he agreed, she adjusted his arm over her shoulder and began to follow after you.

“She’s been quiet since we left you behind.”

“Well, if we get the smell of sulfur and we follow it, it’ll lead us up to the plains where the river flows.

“The Imps will catch us before we make it to the ship. We need the Mandalorians to escort us to safety.

“Ugh, this place is a maze.

“Stop.” He sounded more clear than he had as of yet. Slowly pulling away from Cara, flanked by them both as they prepared to catch him should he fall. “I can stand.”

“The bacta infusion is working.” IG-11 assured and it eased your heart a bit, to know that the man had taken help from the droid, even if he hadn’t taken it from you. But bacta could only do so much, mentally making a note to pick up more the first chance you had. If not in the controlled city, then on the next world as soon as the ship was docked and you ensured he would be okay while in your absence.

“I’ll try to find tracks. Mesh’la have you found any up there?” Din tried to call out, rasp to his voice stirring concern in you, it swirled alongside the dark tendrils keeping their hold on you. Amalgamating into an uncomfortable weight carried inside of you as you continued to press on through the tunnels.

When you didn’t answer, only stepped out from the middle of the space, did he see what you had been faintly following without even knowing it. He slowly walked forward, still limping slightly, though he did seem a bit steadier on his feet now.

“We’re close.” He pointed towards your feet, his visor allowing him to see the highlighted trail of footprints from someone within the last few hours. You leaned away from his touch to brush your arm as he stood beside you, helmet watching your downcast face. He whispered your name, voice cracking on the feel of it through his sore throat. He reached out for you again, gloved hand barely brushing the side of your cheek before you were pulling away and moving behind the rest of the group.

He could only watch in concern when you removed the bag ad’ika was settled in from your shoulders and handed it to a willing IG-11 to hold. Words stuck in his own throat as he wanted desperately for a moment alone with you to talk things out and comfort you. But time was a luxury none of you had, if the sporadic explosions from up above were any more of an indication of the predicament.

With a sigh that crackled through the modulator, he began to move once again. A few winding tunnels and turns revealed pockets of life as furniture and barrels began to fill the underground space in pockets.

He came to a slow halt, flashlight making a pile of Mandalorian armor visible right in front of him. It took up most of the current tunnel, the visors of the helmets glinting in the direct light as he stared at them. You held back a gasp at the sight of them, keeping some of your focus on the empty, dark space behind you lest you had followers.

The click of Din turning off his light was loud in the tense silence, the air charged with the emotions he was feeling at such a hopeless and painful sight. He approached the pile slowly, steps stilted as the bacta worked to get him somewhat healed. He kneeled down in front of it, shoulders slumped, and head bowed.

Ad’ika cried out, picking up on the armored man’s emotions. Fussing in the hold IG-11 had on him though he didn’t try to detach.

A helmet was between his hands, lifted up for him to gauge it better. When he was still for longer than a few heartbeats, Cara inched forward and leaned down toward him.

“We should go.”

“You go. Take the ship. I can’t leave it this way.” Somber voice spoken through the modulator, it had you stepping forward but you thought better of it. Not sure if he would welcome your presence beside him at the moment, the memory of approaching a broad figure wearing blue armor replaying in your mind. It was the catalyst for the scene in front of you, Din hunched on the ground, the helmet of one of his fallen gripped in his hands. More evidence of fallen warriors piled in front of him. And it felt like an omen, that it wouldn’t be the last loss for the man to experience. It couldn’t be, not as long as you were with him. As long as ad’ika was with him. Targets marked on your backs, welcoming more conflict, more battles, more gunfire, more loss.

“Did you know about this? Is this the work of your bounty hunters?” Anger flared in his voice, words biting as he turned toward Karga. His legs were stable as he harnessed his anger and closed in on the surprised man. He didn’t move against the approaching man, completely taken off guard by the pile of armor just as everyone else. You felt that same pull of darkness thrum, the memory of Akiz passing too sharp in your mind, striking through you and leaving a chasm for the pull to fill. Dark energy flowed into the chasm, brimming over the edges of it, beginning to take more space in your psyche.

“No. When you left the system and took the prize, the fighting ended, and the hunters just melted away. You know how it is. They’re mercenaries. They’re not zealots.”

“Did you do this? Did you?” Surging up, the helmet clunked to the ground. Din was on Karga in a second, dominant hand coming out to push at the older man’s chest, words demanding and furious.

“No!” Was all the older man could shout back, knowing he was no match for even an injured Mandalorian in close combat. The hand not holding fast to a blaster came up to try and placate the approaching man, though he didn’t make an actual move to push back.

“It was not his fault.” A woman’s modulated voice broke the tension suddenly. Din turned around slowly, peering into the darkness that it came from. It was as if he recognized the voice, because he made no move to raise a weapon up. Cara startled, as did ad’ika. But you stood still, unwilling to make yourself a target lest the person be a threat.

“We revealed ourselves.” A tall woman appeared from the mouth of a tunnel that jutted off from this one. Her helmet glinted gold in the low light, small horns a decoration jutting along the top. She was dressed in a deep red, the armor painted over a dull brown outfit of leggings, a skirt, and a long-sleeved shirt. She had a shorter cape about her shoulders, though it was made of thick brown fur.

She was completely calm, voice controlled and the cadence in line with those who seldom used Basic.

She leaned down to retrieve some of the armor, motions precise and almost leisurely.

“We knew what could happen if we left the covert. We were made aware of your situation by that one there hiding among the shadows. The Imperials arrived shortly thereafter. This is what resulted.”

She explained easily, no remorse or malice in her tone. It simply became a part of what happened, something she would carry silently with her. A part of her history that would one day be a verse in her song, but for now it was something that she must take in stride and move forward.

But you weren’t so collected.

You felt nausea rise up from your stomach and into your chest, recalling the way you had tracked the blue armored man and approached him. You had only wanted to help, only wanted to ensure Din hadn’t walked into a death trap in his escape with ad’ika. You hadn’t meant for the chain of events to end like this. With so many dead and now lost to the never-ending fight against the Empire. The fault for it once again. Adding another regret to the long list you carried with inside yourself.

They had already lost so much, very life eradicated from their home world, an entire culture nearly wiped out. And you had played a part in it, once again proving those who manipulated you right. You were capable of dangerous, powerful things. Breathing shaky, you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the pile of armor. The beskar began to rattle, the tendrils that wrapped around your psyche tightened and pulled. Causing you to crash to your knees with a painful gasp.

“Did any survive?” As Din carefully asked, you untucked the pendant he had gifted you from your pocket, the cord he had used to keep it around his neck secured to your belt. You clenched your hand around it until the beskar it was made up bit into your palm, the pain centering you in a way that you both hated and were grateful for.

“I hope so. Some may have escaped off world.”

“Come with us.”

“No.” She continued to load pieces of the armor to the cart pulled up behind her, an inkling of the reason on the tip of your tongue. “I will not abandon this place until I have salved what remains.”

Din followed her, turning to enter the space that opened up to the left. Cara and Karga shared a look before they turned to you, moving to follow him when you didn’t look up from your spot on kneeled on the ground, hand still gripped tight around the pendant hanging from your belt.

The forge nestled in the middle of the space was quiet, the soft hush of the constant fires a small comfort to the man who followed behind the armorer of his people. He watched silently as she began to feed pieces into the forge and melt them down.

“Bring her to me, I wish to speak to her.”

Din obliged silently, walking back out into the main tunnel. He kneeled down in front of you with a few heavy pants of exertion, hands reaching out for you but he thought better of it and voiced a soft call of your name to garner your attention. Your head snapped up, eyes filled with tears and a shadow of regret in them. They glinted in the low light and he worried what it meant.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t-“ You took a deep breath in, voice cracking and filled with emotion. “I didn’t mean for anyone to die. I just- I just wanted to help. You were outnumbered beyond capability and I was too weak to fight.”

“You did help, mesh’la. You approached them for help, and they rallied to heed the call. This is the Way.”

He reached out for your hands when he noticed them clenched into tight fists, digging his fingers beneath your own and relieving the tension. The mythosaur pendant was revealed and he watched as it fell to rest against your thigh. “Please don’t hurt yourself, you don’t deserve it.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look directly into the visor, guilt rolling off of you in waves. He could feel the trembling of your arms as he gripped your hands, trying his best to gently pull you up with him as he stood. You probably helped him get back to his feet as much as he had done for you, sharing in the simple task that was too much at the moment. He dropped the contact as soon as you were both on your feet, not wanting to push you or make you uncomfortable. It was obvious you were still reeling from what happened in the cantina. From him not allowing you to heal him and urging you to save yourself. But it would have to wait, the discussion of the day, for you two. To occur between closed doors and with secured privacy for you both.

“She wants to talk with you, the Armorer.”

Following behind him, you watched the way he was moving gingerly, focusing on pulling up the weight of his legs to move forward, his arms nearly motionless at his sides. The woman was standing before the impressive forge, silhouette bold.

“Show me the one whose safety deemed such destruction.”

“This is the one.” Din motioned to the bad being carried by IG-11, ad’ika preened under the attention, glad that his guardian was back alongside him. Even if the young being could sense the pain and discomfort the armored man was in. That he was pushing through to continue to protect him, to shield him from those threats with which he had directly challenged all those days ago after first meeting him…

“This is the one that you hunted, then saved?”

“Yes. The one that saved me as well.” Din’s response was even, polite.

“From the mudhorn?"

“Yes.”

“It looks helpless.”

“Ad’ika is injured, but he is not helpless. His species can move objects with its mind.”

“Ad’ika? It is unusual that you’ve deemed it a nickname. Have you bonded?”

“….a little. But Mesh’la-“

“Another nickname, how…personal of you.” Her interest was piqued, the tone of her voice lightening a smidge. Almost as if her lips were quirked up in a knowing smile.

“I gave him the nickname, he will not communicate his given name with me and it’s made things easier as time moved on and we traveled with him in our charge. In…burc’ya’s charge.” You spoke up, hoping you weren’t overstepping any unspoken rules. You had never interacted with this woman, but your experience with previous Mandalorian Armorers had been different. They had held high, important positions in the culture but something about her seemed….more. She was the head of her faction, if you had to guess. A guiding member of her own covert, if her remaining behind to care for those in death as she had looked after them in life was any indication.

Children of the Watch, Akiz would describe them, had described them to you. He had been a part of that faction of Mandalorian culture as well, though his covert had been wiped out before his time on K’ath. Where your paths crossed and your time together was solidified in the stars. Their practice of the culture more in tune with the religious scripture. Stricter adherence to the mentality of concealing one’s identity, that they were all of one identity.

Tension existed between them and the general population of Mandalore, you had noticed even as a child, due to their beliefs. It wasn’t anything that caused conflict, thankfully, just a strained interaction or two depending on how individuals reacted to the knowledge. Mandalorian’s were accepting people, an accepting culture for the most part. But there were bad seeds and ill notions as with any large population.

But he had been nothing but loving and kind to you, giving you a chance at a life you wouldn’t have had without him responding to your distress call and rescuing you. The same for Din, despite having been his target of capture to return to your mother in a business transaction. The man had overlooked his responsibilities in order to allow you freedom, saved by a selfless Mandalorian once again. Gifted his intentions of personal pursuit, a connection that was proving to be so much more than either of you could have guessed back in that desert compound….

“I know of such things. And she is the one who did so when another appeared to defend its fallen mate?”

“Yes.” He nodded to you, signaling that it was indeed okay to respond to the woman’s rather direct and simple questions.

“Elek, vod.”

Yes, ma’am.

“Gar jorhaa’ir Mando’a.”

You speak Mando’a.

“Elek, ni kar’taylir jorcu be ner cabur. Akiz Noves.”

Yes, I know because of my guardian. Akiz Noves.

“Gar cuyir a evaar'la solus.”

You are a foundling.

She moved with an easy confidence, pulling more ladles of molten beskar from within the forge. Taking them to her work bench and pouring it into a set of molds she had laid out. Taking from the old to create new, a cycle that allowed for her culture to persevere.

“Nayc, ni cuy be a nuarra. A kaysh ogir par ni tion’tuur ni gaa’tayl.”

No, I am of a different Creed. But he was there for me when I needed help.

“Tion gar gal?”

What is your name?

“Noves, gifted to me from my guardian. San, is my given name.”

“And you hold the same power?”

“Yes.”

“The songs of eons past tell of battles between Mandalore the Great and an order of sorcerers called Jedi that fought with such powers.”

“He’s an enemy?” Din seemed surprised, while he may only know what he did of them through you, you hadn’t mentioned that those who followed his way of life and yours were sworn enemies. He looked over to you, the woman taking notice of the shared look between you both as you slightly shook your head to assure him that you hadn’t been deceiving him all this time. He wouldn’t have believed it of you, with how things had developed between you both, the connection you two shared. Surely you would’ve told him if the child was a being typically raised with a disposition toward his own.

“No. Its kind were enemies in the sense that battles took place throughout history when ideals did not align. But these two individuals are not. It is a foundling.” She turned her back on to the line your group made in front of her and began to move about the workspace. “By Creed, it is in your care. And she is your key to reuniting it with its own kind should she not want the responsibility herself.”

Items in her grip as she tilted her helmet toward you, another question sounding from her.

“You are sworn to the Jedi Creed, are you not?”

“I…I was. I no longer adhere to either side of the Force. I am sensitive to it, can wield it.” It was an honest half answer, the morality of the question too detailed to get into at the moment. Something you weren’t sure anyone who wasn’t Force sensitive would even begin to understand. But you wanted her to know that you weren’t trying to deceive her or her authority. You were simply being as plain as you could with her, knowing it would mean a great deal to Din for you to do so. That you didn’t want to anything other than show her the respect she deserved.

“You allowed her aboard your ship, share your wares with her as an equal. She can aid you in this mission. Your journeys are intertwined, it was almost as if the Maker knew and set your paths parallel. This is the Way.”

“I have stated my intention of courtship.” Din announced, completely honest with the woman leading the conversation. He respected her, deeply. It was obvious in the way that he stood, at attention despite his injuries no doubt making it hard for him to even concentrate and stand up at all. He should be resting, a luxury you knew all too well was something out of reach when the lives you led seldom allowed for it.

“And have you accepted?” The visor settled into the gold of her helmet was trained on you fully now, watching you with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You could sense the stillness of Din across the room, his breath baited as he waited for your answer. It would be so easy to lie, to cut the ties between you both that have developed in the wake of losing control. The connection intense enough to influence the balance that had taken you years to find within yourself, all-encompassing and completely terrifying. The confession he whispered to you as he lay injured echoed in your ear, the return of it on the forefront of your mind. Feeling heat blossom in your chest as you recalled the emotions he stirred in you, all the good, you nodded in affirmation. Knowing the importance of declaring such a thing to the woman before you. Of declaring it to Din plainly, even in the wake of the day’s events.

“Yes, he means a great deal to me.” You breathed out, conviction obvious, the sentiment behind the words not lost on you.

“Hey, not that this isn’t exciting information, but these tunnels will be lousy with Imps in a matter of minutes. We should at least discuss an escape plan.” Her lips quirked again, similar to how they had done when Din admitted to you knowing his name, that he had shared it with you and allowed you to use it.

“If you follow the descending tunnel, it will lead you to the underground river. It flows downstream toward the lava flats.” She turned her attention back to the forge, extending a long handled ladle into the depts of it and retrieving out the molten beskar of the armor she had carefully placed in it moments before.

“I think we should go.” Cara urged, not wanting to become trapped beneath the city as the troops above figured out a way into the tunnels. However winding and confusing they were, it was only a matter of time until they closed in on your position. Especially if you weren’t moving. You had a better chance out in the open landscape, could hide out somewhere and bid your time until nightfall. Get back to the Crest or manage to steal a ship from the city outskirts.

“I’m staying, I need to help her, and I need to heal. Mesh’la can take ad’ika and go with you, hide out until we can reconvene.”

“You must go. A foundling is in your care. By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father. This is the Way.”

The room stilled, it was obvious Din wanted to argue his point, but he remained quiet. His need to provide for his people an integral part of the man that he was and he was being instructed to leave the only known surviving one behind. You weren’t sure if you would be able to do so either.

“You have earned your signet.” She walked over to him, a metal plate in her hand and a small welding tool. She fastened it to his right pauldron with quick work. When she stepped back, it was revealed to be the skull of a mudhorn. While you and Din gazed at the addition to his beautiful armor, she moved about the space with admirable concentration and ease.

She walked back to her work bench, retrieving the molds she had filled earlier and removing the now cooler metal. She gathered them with a pair of tongs, moving to plunge them into the vat of water used to set pieces. After a few moments, she deemed them perfect and pulled them out. Wiping them down and taking the mallet to a few places, she revealed her work to be a pair of pauldrons.

She held the armor out to you.

“When a Mandalorian courts, that is a very important bond.” You stepped forward at her beckoning, allowing her to fasten the pieces of armor to your shoulders, her gloved fingers moving your cape out of the way with careful motions. Feeling the presence of Akiz watching over you as she did so. You closed your eyes, immersing yourself in the feeling of being accepted by the woman, by the leader of Din’s covert. Of being folded into Mandalorian culture once again. Thankful for the endless kindness and protection its people had provided to you throughout your life.

The weight of the armor was foreign, beskar being known as one of the strongest and most dense metals in the galaxy. But it was also comforting, akin to being wrapped up in the arms of someone you trusted.

“And though you are not to be riduurok just yet, that makes you a part of his clan. A clan of three.”

She fastened a twin signet into your right pauldron, mirroring the way she had done with Din.

“Thank you. I will wear this with honor.” Reverence coated his somber tone, aware of the importance of finally being given such a symbol from the leader of his covert. The importance of the Armorer gifting you the set of pauldrons, his signet. That it was not given lightly, nor without thought.

“I will as well, your craftmanship is inspiring.”

“While you still follow another Creed, you have been folded in our own, it is a great honor.”

An explosion sounded overhead, too close for comfort. The commotion broke the scene, calling everyone back to reality in a harsh way.

“IG, please guard the other hallway. A scouting party draws near.”

Heeding the woman’s command, the droid handed the bag in its hold to Cara.

“Hang on. I don’t do the baby thing.” Ad’ika squealed happily as he reached out to wave his claws in her face. She moved to hand the bag over to you, but you held your hands up in surrender.

“He likes you, accept it cyar’ika.”

“I have one more gift for your journey.” The Armorer announced. Moving behind Din and toward a chest that was up against the wall of the workspace.

“Have you trained in the Rising Phoenix?”

“When I was a boy, yes.”

“Then this will make you complete.” She turned around, revealing a purely silver beskar pack. It was beautiful, the details of it amazing as you looked over it. Din seemed to be taken aback by such an offering, his voice low when he thanked her.

“When you have healed, you will begin your drills. Until you know it, it will not listen to your commands.”

“I understand.”

“Ensure that he is completely healed before he begins, it is your responsibility to care for him until he is recovered. Do not allow him to harm himself with his notion of impatience. As I’m sure you’ve picked up on it in your time together.”

You felt a smile tug at your lips as you stepped forward, placing a hand atop Din’s left shoulder. You nodded an affirmation of the woman’s words, teasing quality to them as she displayed how well she knew the man standing between you.

Any remark you were about to make was lost as the sound of blaster fire echoed down the tunnels. Far too close for comfort. There was a loud thud, before the form of IG-11 appeared in the mouth of the workspace. Two blasters in its grip it turned to the group and assured that the threat had been taken care of.

“More will come. You must go.”

“Come with us.” Din breathed out, not a question but a silent plea of the woman before him.

“My place is here. Restock your munitions. Both of you.” When you didn’t follow the man’s steps toward the cache of weaponry, he turned to you with a tilt of his helmet.

“Mesh’la, take what you need.”

“I-I can’t. The armor is already-“ You stumbled over your worlds, overcome with meaning behind declaring your intentions with Din. With the pull toward the dark pit that had opened up inside of you that took conscious effort not to fall into its pull every second since it formed.

“You are a part of this, you’ve been accepted into the covert. You have a right to the supplies offered for battle.”

“IG, carry this for Din Djarin until he is well enough to wear it.”

“Now, go.” The Armorer held out the jet pack for the droid, ensuring it was secure before bidding you goodbye. “Down to the river and across the plains. Be safe on your journey.”

“Thank you.” Din followed after the others, allowing you a moment alone with the Armorer as you moved to stand in front of her beside the forge.

“Thank you, vod. I-I have no words to express my gratitude.”

“You are welcome, anyone who intends to become riduurok with one of our kind is accepted as one of our own. Though, I’m sure you know of such customs from your guardian. Do you still carry his armor with you?

“I have his helmet, he gifted it to me upon his death. The rest was lost in a plasma explosion. I’m sorry for not being able to deliver it to his home planet or another covert to recycle.” You bowed your head, sincere in your words.

“I hereby give you permission to alter it for yourself, should you wish to don it in battle. I will not enforce the rule of anonymity on you that the rest of us follow. Look out for him, he…means a great deal to our covert, what remains of it. He was the sole provider for many years while we stayed hidden in the shadows for our own protection.”

“I will, I swear to you.”

“Go, may our paths cross again, San Noves.” She reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder, nodding at you before turning her back on you.

After what felt like far too long, the tunnels finally opened up into a wide chasm. The space filled with a flowing river, lava making up the currents as it slowly moved to the east. It was a mesmerizing sight, beautiful in the way it glowed red and orange through the crust of volcanic rock that began to harden along the top.

The heat from the river was intense, making the air too dry to breath in without feeling a sting in your lungs. You worried for ad’ika in Cara’s hold. His smaller body struggling with the new environment.

Both men dashed forward, inspecting the abandoned vehicle hovering above the river at the bank. A motionless droid was covered in hardened lava, the rock encasing the entire figure save for a part of its front and the top of its head. It looked like it had been abandoned a long while ago, days, perhaps weeks at this point if the city had been overrun for as long as Karga described. The bottom and body of the vehicle seemed to be in good shape, but more hardened lava had bridged the space between it and the shore, locking it into place.

Both men began to push at the boat, trying their best to loosen the melding of it to the makeshift dock of the riverbank. You and Cara shared an exasperated look at their efforts, knowing there was no way one man at full strength and one at half would be able to shift it.

Din showed his growing frustration by surging up and kicking at the side of the speeder. He stumbled from the reverb of his action, and you rushed to wrap your arms around his shoulders and catch and prevent him from falling completely. There was no telling what it would’ve done to the partial recovery he had made. You didn’t want him to lose consciousness again or irritate the injuries he was fighting against. It didn’t matter how well the bacta was working, he could always make the problem worse. To the point beyond a general healing spray and that…that wouldn’t be good. You doubted he would allow you to take him to a med center, even if it was run primarily by droids. Especially if it was run primarily by droids.

“Come on! What’re you doing?”

Din pulled from your grip, nearly shrugging you off in his move to retrieve a broken piece of piping that was scattered on the bank.

“Let’s try this.” Thankfully Cara had the same train of thought as you did, that it was futile to try and force the vehicle to separate from the shoreline. She adjusted the large blaster in her hold, keeping one arm wrapped securely around ad’ika.

“You guys mind getting out of the way?”

When the bolts didn’t work to detach the speeder, you held your hands out and harnessed the power curled up inside of you, feeling it in full force as you controlled it to focus on the body of the vehicle. A low whine sounded from deep in your chest as it didn’t budge, urging you to shift your focus on the rock keeping it tethered in place. It was silent for a moment, Din stepping up beside you to assure you that it wasn’t necessary for you to do so. His words were cut off by the metallic groaning of the boat prying away from the shore to float freely in the river.

He curled a hand around your shoulder, silently praising you. As he stepped forward to board, his gloved fingers trailed down the beskar protection you had been adorned with, almost caressing the signet fastened proudly into the metal. He held out a hand to help you bridge the gap between it and the heightened shore. Your heart thudding with a few heavy beats as you took it and boarded alongside him.

Mechanical beeping and whirring had all four of you turning with blasters raised toward the ferry droid that had suddenly activated. The rock attached to it crumbled away as it activated and stood. It was tall, towering over even Din, moving to displace a metal oar from where it had been hidden among the rock.

“I don’t suppose anyone here speaks droid?”

“I believe he is asking where we would like to go.” IG-11 translated.

“Down river. To the lava flat.” Karga spoke strongly, his voice holding an air of command to it, ensuring that there was no confusion to be taken by the new droid.

Minutes passed, a lot of them, your anxiety humming as you kept your head on a swivel to catch any warning signs of an ambush, of any swarms of soldiers erupting from within the tunnels sparse openings and out into the underground one that the river flowed through.

The skittering of small rodent like creatures along the shoreline caught your attention, more than a few of them pausing in their activity to gaze at you as the speeder past by. They were cute and ad’ika seemed to agree as he raised his claws from within the bag and waved at them. They chittered at him before moving on, unsure of what to make of the odd sight of your group traveling downstream.

“That’s it! We’re free!”

“No, we’re not.” A gloved hand pressed to the side of his helmet, displaying a view for Din that he described for everyone else. “Stormtroopers. They’re flanking the mouth of the tunnel. It looks like an entire platoon. They must know we’re coming.”

“They were ordered there to prevent us from escaping, even if we didn’t take this route. Moff Gideon wouldn’t chance it.” It had to have been him ensuring he didn’t lose you to the wilds of the planet, the landscape endless and easy to secure a hideaway. With the sun setting in mere hours, you could be lost for the night, enough time for your group to figure out a way off world.

Commanding the droid to stop the speeder from traveling down river was fruitless. It merely chirped and beeped, not heeding the sudden flux of words aimed at it. When it didn’t seem to understand anything, Karga fired on it. But that didn’t seem to stop the momentum of the speeder, now floating of its own accord toward the mouth of the tunnel, toward the sunlight and waiting ambush.

“We’re still moving.”

“Looks like we fight.”

“There are too many.”

“Then what do you suggest? Cause I can’t surrender.” Cara hissed, setting the bag down atop a seat in the bed of the speeder. Ad’ika gurgled, hands reaching up for someone, anyone to pick him back up. You were about to reach for him when IG-11 stepped forward to take him in its arms again.

“They will not be satisfied with anything less than the child and the Sith.”

“Not a Sith.” You hissed out, pinning the droid with a glare, lava spouting up around the speeder. Some of it splattered up against the side of the vehicle, the metal steaming as it melted under the contact.

“Apologies, I was inferring from-“

“You inferred wrong.”

“Understood. This is unacceptable. I will eliminate the enemy and you will escape.”

“You don’t have that kind of firepower, pal. You wouldn’t even get to daylight.” Din was quick to put a pin in that idea, not willing to give up the extra set of hands.

“That is not my objective.”

“We’re getting close. Saddle up.” Karga pointed towards the entrance mere yards away now.

“I still have the security protocols from my manufacturer. If my designs are compromised, I must self-destruct.”

“What are you talking about?” Confusion in his tone, Din faced the droid head on, trying to understand exactly the point it was trying to make.

“I am not permitted to be captured. I must be destroyed.”

“Are we gonna keep talking, or get out of here?”

“I can no longer carry this for you. Nor can I watch over the child.” IG-11 reached down to hand ad’ika over to Din, the armored man taking the bag with steady arms. Quiet thuds of tiny hands against his cuirass displayed the child’s delight.

“Wait. You can’t self-destruct. Your base command is to watch the child. That supersedes your manufacturer’s protocol, right?”

A pause.

“That is correct.”

“Good. Now grab a blaster and help us shoot our way out.”

“Victory through combat is impossible. We will be captured. The child will be lost. The woman will be lost.” IG-11 began to cross the width of the speeders bay, toward the right side of the vehicle. “Sadly, there is no scenario where the child is saved, in which I survive.”

“Listen, you’re not going anywhere. We need you. Let’s just come up with a…” Din’s words trailed off, no other solution coming to mind for him to voice.

“Please tell me the child will be safe in your care.” Head turned toward the armored man, waiting for confirmation. “If you do so, I can default to my secondary command.”

“But you’ll be destroyed.”

“And you will live, and I will have served my purpose.”

“No,” He sounded almost…remorseful. You could feel the conflicting emotions wafting from him, read it in the stance he had, the way his shoulders were set. “We need you.”

“There’s nothing to be sad about. I have never been alive.”

“I’m not…sad.” Din argued weakly.

“Yes, you are. I’m a nurse droid. I’ve analyzed your voice.”

IG-11 reached out a hand and caressed the tip of ad’ika’s ear in a parting gesture.

“What’re you doing?” Karga demanded as you all watched the droid step out from the deck of the speeder and down into the slow-moving river. The metal of its legs hissing at the sudden barrage of temperature. The mechanics tried to hold out as it trudged forward, flames licking up the sides slowly.

A pulsating alarm began to beep, a chasm in the chest piece opening up the second IG-11 was outside the mouth of the tunnel. A blinding explosion erupting seconds later. The screams of the waiting soldiers hurt your ears, the flash bright even behind shielded eyes. The speeder continued on, moving through the cloud of smoke and ash that lingered in the air.

The bodies of the dead soldiers were scattered and you tamped down a flood of memories from the last time you had been at the sight of such a directed attack on them.

There was no time to revel in the defeat, the screeching of a TIE fighter hurtling through the air and right at your groups position. Moff Gideon not giving up even in the face of losing another faction under his command. Cara and Din raised their blasters, prepared to shoot his ship from the air. It was not a match for the focused fire he laid down as the ship swooped low, though no hits landed directly over you.

“He missed!” Cara shouted out, hope coloring her words.

“He won’t next time.” You spoke evenly, wanting them to understand the situation at hand. The only way this was going to end was with someone’s death. Be it one of yours, all of yours, or Gideon’s. The conflict would drone on until the threat was eradicated, you just hoped that your side was the one that came out victorious.

“Our blasters are useless against him.”

“Hey, let’s make the baby do the magic hand thing. Come on, baby! Do the magic hand thing.” Karga waved his hand frantically in the air, prompting ad’ika to follow his command. But all the child did was wave back at him, cooing all the while with a curious expression.

“He doesn’t have that type of control.” You reasoned, not wanting to rely on ad’ika’s powers when thwarting the flame thrower had taken so much from him.

“He did it back in the cantina!” Karga argued, brow furrowed at his lack of understanding the nuances of something that could really help in their favor.

“He was emulating me, he doesn’t really have an understanding of harnessing his powers like that.”

“Give him some credit, jeez.”

“He needs to rest, he’s overwhelmed!”

“Then I’m out of ideas. If you refuse to use it yourself.”

“I never said I refused, I need a clean line of sight.” You looked over your shoulder, worried for ad’ika as he cried out at the heightened emotions between all four of you. You leaned down to rub a hand over his small back, ensuring he was snug in the bag. You tried to push a good feeling through the connection, wanting to comfort him in any way. A strike of pain rained down from the crown of your head and ad’ika’s small claws dug into the front of your tank top.

“I’m not out of ideas.” Din interrupted your harmless bickering, something in his town making you turn to him fully.

“Here he comes!” Distant roaring signaled that the ship was maneuvering and about to return.

Din set his blaster back in the holster on his hip. Reaching down with a grunt of effort to lift up the jetpack that had just been gifted to him, confirming your suspicions. There was no way he was healed enough to maneuver through the air with it, that he could pick it up so quickly and focus with his head having been cracked open. The phantom feel of his blood thick on your hands making you shake them out.

“She said to wait until you were healed!” You rushed forward and cupped your hands over his shoulders, hoping a gentle touch would help to convince him not to go through with what he was thinking. Urging him to listen, to consider that it was too much of a risk that he didn’t need to take. “You’ll injure yourself further, it’s not the only option.”

“It’s what we’ve got right now.” He reasoned calmly, chest heaving with deep breaths as he tried to move about like normal. He was feeling the weight of his full armor, you suspected, the jet pack adding to the struggle to keep up and focus.

The ship swooped low, too close for comfort, firing out in a wide line around the river’s edge. With a shout you stretched your arms out, the ship pivoting heavily to the right. The unexpected movement caused the remaining blasts to hit along the mouth of the tunnel. Deep rumbling signaled the collapse of the tunnels inside, the support of the opening damaged, sheets of broken rock crumbling into the river as the natural structure dissolved.

While you had turned your attention from him, Din had successfully docked the jet pack into the back panel of his armor. Eyes roving over the sight of him completely pieced together, you felt your heart skip a beat. Admiring the image he created against the expansive landscape, armor glinting in the lowering sun in a beautiful way.

And you couldn’t lose him. You wouldn’t.

Recovering from the manipulation, the TIE fighter was soaring directly toward you. Din was standing at the front of the speeder, stepped up on the lip of the vehicle. The engines on the TIE fighter lit up, whirring as they settled on their target. Din’s broad silhouette backed by the incoming threat sent chills down your spine. You blinked rapidly, his figure morphing into the image of a taller man, adorned in a deep blue armor instead of his pure beskar. The explosion of the shots along the ground as the ship neared shook the ground, dirt and pieces of the volcanic rock rising up high into the air. At the last second, before the shot inevitably hit the vehicle, Din bent his knees.

Without a look back at you, he took off into the air.

A cable flew from his vambrace at clicked onto the top of the ship, whipping the man forward as it surged past. You cringed, worry for his head flooding you. If he were to lose consciousness that high up in the air, got tossed off the ship….

You could only watch with the breath stolen from your lungs as he was whipped around, unable to gather his bearings. But he did, finally, jetpack sparking to life, and he grappled a desperate hold onto the body of the ship.

It suddenly began to spiral, controlled surely by a concerned Gideon. You gasped out, hands coming up to your mouth as you watched the body of armor crash into the wings of the ship, scrabbling to keep hold and not get tossed off.

“He’ll be okay, cyar’ika. We have to have faith in him.”

She had spoken a moment too soon because his body was flung from the ship, hurling through the air without a tether.

“No!” Voice hoarse, you scrambled over the errant items inside the space of the speeder. You jumped from the bed of the vehicle, onto the rocky shore of the river and began to sprint. Halting a few yards into the vast landscape, you held both your arms out and focused on the sight of a falling Din. The speed of his fall slowed, allowing him to swivel his head to take in the sight of you so far down below trying to aid him.

His arms flailed as he tried to help align himself as he tumbled through the air, thankful you were doing what you could to slow his rapid descent. As the TIE fighter lost a wing to a sudden explosion, flames and black smoke billowing up, did Din finally manage to engage his jetpack. As soon as he landed clumsily on the ground beside you, grunting at the force of the landing on his body, the ship crashed to the ground just beyond the small crest of a ridge.

Not even a second passed before you were rushing off toward it. Passing by Din with a focus he had only seen when you were in battle. Brows furrowed and eyes alight. Your name being shouted behind you as your legs carried you as fast as you could. You could faintly hear the scuffle between Cara and Din, her catching him as he tried to follow after you, warning him to be careful and that you could take care of yourself. That he had to trust in you that you wouldn’t go too far.

You panted, feeling immeasurable power surge through you. But it wasn’t the pure side of the Force you typically harnessed.

“That was impressive, Mando. Very Impressive.” Karga praised as he approached them. Din had convinced Cara he wouldn’t run after you, allowing her to focus on the child in her grip. Small claws reaching out for the armored man. Extending a shaking hand out, Din allowed the child to grip his gloved fingers.

“It looks like your Guild rates have just gone up. And Sarad’s set at an exceptional rate for a newcomer should she be interested.”

“I can’t speak on her behalf.” He gazed out at the landscape, in the direction of the ridge. He could make out with the help of his helmet, that you had just scaled the top of it, disappearing on the other side. You were upon the crash of the ship.

“Let’s get this speeder running, we can pick her up on the way back to the city.” Cara suggested, not wanting to leave you out in the plains along for too long. Agreement rang out, and they all loaded back up into the vehicle, Din slumping into a seat.

“Let’s go get your girl, Mando.”

“She’s not a possession.” Din hissed out, annoyance flaring.

“Oh, you know what I mean. Don’t read into the phrasing.”

The speeder was slow, mechanics lagging from being exposed to the heat of the river for so long.

Silence tense as it trudged across the open land.

“Her saber turned red.”

Din remained silent, not wanting to delve into speculation over what it meant.

The others seemed to understand that it wasn’t their place, even if they were simply showing concern for your wellbeing.

“You have no control!” You swung your saber, the hum of it lowering in pitch as you cut into the shoulder of the man beginning to crawl through the broken glass of the ship’s viewpoint. The body of it was smoldering, flames licking over the expanse of it, the result of the charges Din had managed to fasten to it.

“You’re weak. You will always be weak. That’s why the pull to the dark side is so strong in you. It can sense that you need guidance, that you need control. And it will take everything from you as it transforms you in its image.” Gideon huffed out, surging forward despite the blood seeping into the fabric of his clothing.

“You’ll fall to it, you’ll give into it with no one to guide you. And you’ll turn that innocent, unsuspecting child in your image. You will experience nothing else, only darkness and destruction and the death of those around you.”

He tore himself out of the debris, standing to his full height and engaging a blade that hummed in much the same way as your lightsaber. It was lined like a true blade, black that gave way to bright white of a kyber crystal housed in the handle.

It stopped you in your tracks. The bright glow of it captivating you, whispers seeping from it and tickling your mind. So distracted as you were, you could only step back with each approaching one of his. Your own weapon hanging low at your side, crackling in a response to the enchanting blade in the man’s hand.

“Couldn’t save your beloved guardian and you’re not going to be able to save your delusional Mandalorian now. I will have his head if it’s the last thing I do. I will have the head of your precious child if it’s the last thing I do. They will die, they will both fall. You won’t be able to save the man you love. Again. It means more to me than anything to bring them down and take what I want from your lifeless bodies.”

You exhaled heavily as you plunged your saber out. The harsh crack of the blades connecting echoed across the plains. You merely blocked his attacks, gauging his style and still too enamored by the twin pulls of the dark tendrils wrapping around your ankles and that of the weapon in the man’s possession. When it glided across the armor you had been gifted, you snapped out of your defensive reverie, teeth gritting as you returned the gesture.

He grunted when you sliced into his shoulder a second time, arm going limp at his side as the blade cut into the space between his own armor that allowed for movement. His eyes widened as he realized you weren’t going to succumb to the energy wafting from you, that it wasn’t overpowering you in the way that he had anticipated, that he had seen before as you struggled against it. Unwilling to succumb to the pull of it, the almost sentient energy. You were harnessing it. And he allowed a smirk to pull at his lips.

“So predictable, dear San.” He pressed forward, holding his useless arm to his side. Taking the injury in stride if it meant that you were crumbling. “Falling into the same traps time and time again. So easily manipulated. When will you learn that there is nothing more for you than the title of a Sith?”

Your blade crackled, gaining intensity to its glow, white tinted at the base of it. The red seeping into the entire thing, casting your face in the light.

“There is no love for someone like you. Not of a parent, not of a guardian, not that of a partner. You were born to this, the rise to power with the dark side. Nothing else will come to you, your foolish Mandalorian will see your true nature soon enough and abandon you. His history suggests he only cares about his people, his Creed. What could he possibly want from you, so steeped in emotion and vulnerability.”

Swiping at his feet, he stumbled, cape fluttering as tried to catch himself on his knees. But you were throwing him toward the rubble of the ship with an outstretched hand. He could do nothing as he felt the energy wrap itself around him and command his body as if it was its own. He cried out as the broken metal of the frame bit into his back. The snap of his armor against it was loud. Gasping suddenly as he couldn’t breathe in, the air stolen from his very lungs.

Wide eyes turned to you, hand clenched in a fist as you constricted his airways. Watching with an unnerving calmness as the blood vessels in his eyes began to bleed, the veins in his neck began to bulge, his dark skin taking on a ruddy tone as he struggled.

With heaving breaths, you dismantled the TIE fighter down with your saber until it was nothing but a pile of smoldering metal and broken glass. Barricading the man inside.

Just as you began to distance yourself from the ship, the speeder from the river appeared over the ridge, moving toward you. Sighing, you waited for it to stop at the bottom before trudging on. Not risking it getting too close to the flames and smoke of the TIE fighters remains.

“You should get checked out, ad’ika too.” Your words were flat as you approached the group of them alongside the speeder. Din was leaning heavily against the side of it, helmet slumped, the bottom of it resting on his cuirass. Everyone perked up at the scuff of your approaching form.

“No.” Breathless, he could barely get the word out though it sounded strong to your ears through the modulator. The mechanics hiding the way his expression was pinched and his eyes were blinking rapidly against the pain reverberating through his entire body. You could sense his discomfort, the way his heart was beating irregularly, attuned to him in such a personal way enhanced through the pulse of dark energy flowing through you still.

You sighed, frustration building up at the recollection of how he could barely move mere hours ago and his refusal to let you try to heal him. Gideon’s confident words echoing in your head, incessantly.

“I’m not letting you fly without medical clearance.”

“Let me?” His helmet rounded on you, surprise through the modulator. The glint of the sun on the visor mirrored how his eyes did so underneath as he pushed away from the side of the vehicle. “I’m a grown man.”

“Yes.”

“All I need to do is get back to the ship.”

“Then you’ll go alone.”

“…you’re staying behind?” Hesitancy clear through the modulator. His back was to you, having turned to take in the smoking pile of what was once the TIE fighter in the distance.

“To help them free the city, yes. To ensure everyone is safe. To get supplies and more bacta for you. Whatever else we may need to combat your injuries.” You softened, features displaying the exhaustion weighing you down. Your hands were fiddling with the pendant he had given you, the shine of the beskar in the sunlight bright between your fingers. “I…I would really appreciate it if you humored me and got a scan done at the med center. Just…just so we know what’s wrong and how to heal it.”

“I’m fine.”

“But I’m not.” He whirled around quickly, too quickly, his footing unbalanced at the motion, and he stumbled. The question of what was wrong on the tip of his tongue when you trained your shining eyes on his visor. “Din, I- I need to know you’re okay. Truly okay. Please.”

He turned back around, unable to take in the sight of the earnest concerns falling from your lips, the tears threatening to fall.

He didn’t take his gaze from the distant crash sight, helmet overlooking the scene through different lenses, ensuring that the threat was truly eradicated.

“I can’t look after you if you don’t let me. And before you say it’s not my job, Din, it is. You made it so when you announced your intentions to court me with the Armorer.”

“You think I have regrets in doing so?” Timbre of his voice low, a warning in his tone that sent alarm bells ringing in your head. The first real conflict between you both, weighing heavily in the tense air.

“No.” Was your immediate answer, truth behind the word though it was spoken in a tight voice.

“Do you?”

“No! I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s it, I’m not…I’m not trying to do anything except for that but if you think I’m trying to get your kriffing helmet off so I can see you when you’ve explicitly told me you didn’t want to and I know the customs then then-“ You scrambled to remove the beskar fastened around your shoulders and thrust it into his chest. You hadn’t even wanted to say those things, furl the accusation at him along with the armor, but something compelled you to. Anger striking harshly and taking hold. Manipulating you into succumbing to it, the feeling of a pit opening inside your mind. Dark and beckoning. He swayed back with the force of it pressed to him, modulator crackling as he realized you were completely serious. “Maybe we were foolish to entertain the thought. Leave. Just go, Din.”

“Mesh’la-“ His knuckles popped as he held the armor in his hands, wound as tight as he could ever remember, a thrumming low in his head that was steadily gaining momentum and making it hard to focus. He could feel the energy flowing from you, see it in the twitching of your muscles and the lack of control you seemed to have over your words. It was unlike you, to raise your voice, to be so unwilling to hear him out, to take his words into account. He was trying his best to keep up but he wasn’t handling it well, he knew that. He…he felt so nauseas and dizzy and he just wanted to rest.

“I have a name.”

“San, I didn’t- I don’t think that. I did not say that, do not put words in my mouth.”

“Well, you’re not exactly saying anything now are you!”

“Because I don’t have anything to say! It’s been a long day and I just want to return to the ship.”

“I think maybe we should all just- not calm down!” Cara rushed to say at the heated looks her way. The intensity of them unnerving her. “Not calm down but put a pin in this and get back to the city.”

“Fine with me.”

“I’ll meet you back at the Crest.”

Din took a few steps away from the speeder, preparing to take off with the aid of his jetpack once again.

He paused as you gasped out, trembling hands causing you to lose your hold on the speeders edge as you tried to climb in. Clenching his eyes tight and taking a deep breath, he walked back toward you. His hands didn’t linger when he helped you board this time, taking a seat at the back bench and facing out toward the plains.

When you sat down on the other side of the bench, he slowly moved to fasten the armor back to your shoulders. He silently thanked the Maker that you allowed him to do it, allowed him to fasten his signet back onto you. He wasn’t one for outward expressions but it eased his heart that you still wanted to display in even in the wake of an argument. The gravity of you choosing to wear something that signified him was not lost on him, words of a time past where you had cried out that you would never submit to anyone again echoing in his mind as the speeder traveled on.

“Are you going to talk to me?” You knew you should give him some space, give him time to process the events of the day. To rest and feel more like himself. But you couldn’t help it, couldn’t fight the push to confront him, emotions a whirlwind inside your chest. Dark pit opened up right in the middle and tainting everything that you were. You watched on as if you weren’t in your own body, as you continued to push the man’s buttons until you both snapped.

The silence was heavy, his shoulders tight underneath his armor, hands busy searching for something within the panels making up the walls. For what, you weren’t sure. He had been silent the entire walk back to the ship, to where you had moved to closer to the entrance of the city while he underwent a general scan to ensure his injuries would heal completely. It had taken a lot of convincing, and he hadn’t been too happy with the way you begged him. Though he knew you hadn’t done so to intentionally manipulate him. You were just concerned.

It was just that he was accustomed to dealing with injuries on his own. Returning to the covert for serious things he needed help with. The migraine building in strength overwhelming him in the worst way paired with your insistence on sticking around for the rest of the day irking him. He knew it was unjustified, that he should find it endearing that you cared so much about the city and those within it, but he wanted nothing more than to retire to his personal space and put as much distance between the planet and himself as possible.

“Din, your skull was cracked open. You-your brain was exposed, and you wanted me to leave you there to die alone!”

“I didn’t want you to see it, to have to go through that, to carry that with you!” He turned sharply, voice a rumble as he realized there was no getting out of this conversation. He had hoped you wouldn’t bring it up so immediately, that you would approach him in a calmer manner when you could sense he was willing to talk.

This was unlike you. To yell and holler, to berate him with accusations. You were scared, he realized. And the dark pull of the Force was making you lash out. His actions had scared you beyond comprehension and control, you didn’t know how to cope with that chasm opened up in your psyche to allow for the tendrils to spark to life and the pit to open up. He didn’t fault you, though he did have an issue with the way you insisted on confrontation.

Emotions too bold overcoming him as he paired them with the words you had whispered to him as he lay dying in the rumble just hours ago.

“That’s not your choice to make!”

“I am not arguing about this!” He snapped, unable to quell the urge to match your volume.

“Too bad! You don’t get a say in that either!! You have to talk to me, please, just…help me understand.”

“You know the Creed, you know it’s an honor to die in battle. If I was willing to give up my life, it’s not your place to tell me otherwise.”

“Din, I could’ve healed you, I could’ve tried. I could’ve saved you.” You weren’t crying, body too worked up for even that, hurt and fear twisted into an ugly thing and making you something you weren’t.

They will die, they will both fall. You won’t be able to save the man you love. Again.

“I was ready to die.” He didn’t break the gaze he had on you, reading the emotions flitting across your face. “I was ready to die for you both to get to safety, for all of you to make an escape.”

“So you’re allowed to sacrifice yourself for me but I can’t do the same? That’s bullshit and you know it. Not allowing me to take on what I could’ve so you could live another day doesn’t warrant even a conversation?”

Anxiety was like a layer too tight skin over your entire body, making it hard to take in a full breath, to concentrate past the throbbing of your head.

“I could’ve saved you.” You repeated, lips pulled down in a frown, trying to keep the tears at bay, the trembling of your lips prone to give you away. “You-you said you loved me and then wanted to die. I could’ve saved you. I could’ve, I couldn’t, I-I-“

All of your breath left you in a sudden gasp and your words cut off as you snapped your mouth shut, teeth clacking with the motion. You tried to breathe in through your nose, but a wave of nausea overtook you and you clamped a hand over your mouth. The lingering scent of sulfur twisting your stomach. It was an ill-timed realization paired with how suddenly acutely aware of how intense you were being, how overwhelmed you were on already shot nerves. That it was the dark pit pulling you inward, inch by inch, dark temptations reaching out and wrapping around more and more of your legs while you could do nothing to fight it.

“Mesh’la…”

“I need a minute, please, just…give me a fucking minute!” You shouted, flinging out a hand toward the approaching shadow. Toward the rampage of memories plaguing you. Your voice raw as it tore through your throat. There was a sharp clang of metal on metal, but your mind was overrun by the barrage of screams and pleas overtaking your ears. The hum of your blade as it shown red all around you, reflecting in the dead eyes and on the metal walls of the ship you had destroyed in your grief. Of the wreckage caused by the crash, bathed in the sickly color.

Red, red, red. It was everywhere, all over the walls, all over your hands, your clothes, the warm feeling of it saturating you and seeping into your skin. The sight of it burned into the very synapses of your mind, pooled underneath the body of a man you loved, pooled underneath the body of a man you were in love with. Your ears began to ring, all sound muffled.

Nothing else will come to you, your foolish Mandalorian will see your true nature soon enough and abandon you. His history suggests he only cares about his people, his Creed.

Your chest hurt, heart stuttering as it tried to regulate itself in the wake of your hitching breath, unable to take a full one and calm down. The world tilted on its axis, and you went with it. Falling physically to the ground, mentally down into the void taking over more of your psyche until it was all you knew. Vision blacking out. As it did, the entire ship lurched. It took a moment for the mechanical software programmed into the ship to correct the trajectory.

All Din could do was watch as your unconscious form fell from where you had flung him across the hold, body pinned to the wall as your mind broke in a way he had been trying to prevent. Everything fastened to the walls and the panel covers had been vibrating with the force of your words and emotions, harnessing the Force unconsciously as you tried to confront him. As soon as your body hit the durasteel floor, muscles going loose did the hold you have on him diminish and everything went still.

He slumped down, backside hitting the ground, body aching all over.

It was only a moment until one of the engines began to spark then groaned. The ship lurched again, alarms beeping, lights flickering, spurring him into action. Din rushed up to the control room, remorse for having to leave you unconscious on the floor of the hold.

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