Fics like you say you're no good (but you're good to me)

It was rarely good when Phil got called into the overseer’s office, but it was usually fewer people to handle, at least. Easier to have to please his owner and the man’s guests than to be passed around the guardhouse again, or to be used as entertainment for whatever group of miners had pleased their bosses best this week. If he navigated things carefully and was lucky, sometimes after he had done his job he got fed tidbits of fancy food—dishes made with spices, or vegetables that hadn’t been cooked to an indistinguishable pulp, or real meat—or got to sit on a cushion in a corner. When he limped into the room, it was with what passed for hope, nowadays, glowing in Phil’s chest. There was a piglin hybrid there, a tall and muscled man with an enchanted greataxe on his back. He had scars that spoke of a life of violence across his face, and his hands on his weapons were large and blunt. He looked angry already. “—we don’t have the funds to pay you this week,” the overseer was saying, tone unconcerned. “But we’ve come up with an alternative. The bird’s market value is worth about what we owed you, so we’ll just give it to you and call it even.” OR: Phil is given to a new owner. He doesn't expect it to go well.

Fics like you say you're no good (but you're good to me)

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