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allamericansbitch · 1 year

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Hi everyone! Here’s the newest addition to my Creator Shoutout Series (march 5 - march 12)! For info about the series, I explained it in the first post here, but generally, it’s to show appreciate to editors and their creations that i love from the past week. To track this series or look at previous shoutouts, please check out the tag on my blog *creatorshoutouts. Have a great week everyone!

the last of us: ellie and joel gifset by @rogerhealey

abbott elementary: janine and gregory gifset by @nessa007

taylor swift: speak now era headers by @cametotheshowinsd

the last of us: ellie in 1x08 gifset by @zen-coleman

stranger things x the last of us gifset by @ellie-joel

boygenius: not strong enough gifset by @phoebesbridgers

taylor swift gifset by @loversmore

the last of us: 1x08 + tags gifset by @buckley-robin

stranger things: steve and eddie gifset by @machine-slays-dragons

taylor swift: movie gifset by @missegyptiana

daisy jones & the six: daisy jones in 1x03 gifset by @riley-keoughs

the last of us gifset by @manny-jacinto

parasite gifset by @waymond-wang

the last of us gifset by @nick-nelson

halsey: ashley graphic by @h-f-k

taylor swift: last great american dynasty gifset by @cametotheshowinsd

the last of us: 1x08 gifset by @reputation

boygenius: not strong enough graphic by @wispygirl

the last of us: ellie in 1x08 gifset by @tayloralison

taylor swift: speak now graphic by @sadbeautifulttragic

parks and recreation: ben and leslie gifset by @trueloveistreacherous

taylor swift: lavender haze music video gifset by @ethelcainn

paramore: hayley and taylor gifset by @paramores

the last of us: 1x08 gifset by @daenerys-stormborn

daisy jones & the six: camila dunne gifset by @alicntsdnce

taylor swift: bejeweled gifset by @cametotheshowinsd

the last of us: ellie and riley gifset by @a-hologramgalaxy

sharp object edit by @cavarage

samia: sea lions gifset by @killherfreakout

the last of us: ellie gifset by @joelmillrr

taylor swift: seven edit by @bymine

stranger things: max mayfield gifset by @avacolemn

daisy jones & the six: soundtrack gifset by @madeline-kahn

taylor swift: champagne problems graphic by @superhell

lucy dacus: night shift gifset by @ethelcainn

brooklyn nine nine: rosa diaz gifset by @glendoll

taylor swift: ivy graphic by @h-f-k

taylor swift: the 1 graphic by @the-punk-panther

boygenius: not strong enough graphic by @cruellesummer

paramore: crave graphic by @nowicrave

taylor swift: illicit affairs graphic by @taylorswifts13

teen movies inspired by clssic literature gifset by @glendoll

the last of us: ellie and joel gifset by @joelmillrr

daisy jones & the six: daisy jones gifset by @kenshivrome

heartstopper: season one movie posters gifset by @jennsortegas

the last of us headers by @trashcora

scream 2022: tropes gifset by @justaleapoffaith

daisy jones & the six: outfits gifset by @gownegirl

taylor swift: red era gifset by @wylanvannecks

the last of us: pantone colors gifset by @maxbegone

daisy jones & the six gifset by @rileykeouhg

taylor swift: paris edit by @starsbythepcketful

the last of us: sam and henry gifset by @williamsmiller

taylor swift: midnights posters as 1970s ad edit by @indemne

gone girl gifset by @stydixa

the last of us: 1x02 gifset by @elliesjoels

phoebe bridgers graphic by @superhell

taylor swift: red era gifset by @antoniosvivaldi

song lyrics as monopoly cards edit by @carlytayjepsen

hayley williams art by @stargirl-lina

the last of us: 1x08 gifset by @julianavalds

daisy jones & the six: karen sirko gifset by @van-eck

yellowjackets: season one gifset by @chaoticevils

the last of us: ellie in 1x08 gifset by @userpedrito

abbott elementary: gregory gifset by @nessa007

taylor swift: paris gifset by @paintedtaygolden

10 things i hate about you: kat stratford gifset by @maya-hawke

scream 1996: trivia gifset by @misty-quigley

the last of us: 1x08 gifset by @userjoel

taylor swift: mirrorball edit by @ilostyou

#*creatorshoutouts

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madhyanas · 3 years

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the craft so long to learn ・ chapter two

[an earthquake underfoot]

➢ Introduce yourself. It’s only polite.

Pairing: Boba Fett/Reader, Fennec Shand & Reader — Gender Neutral.

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3.2k

Tags/Warnings: Implications of dictatorship/tyranny. Canon-typical references to slavery, Tatooine slave culture. Cruelty, apathy. Descriptions/references to chronic pain. Implicit references to past physical trauma. Arguments. Implicit reference to nightmares. Mild language.

GIF credit: @a-hologramgalaxy - [x]

Notes: retconned like. one and a half sentences from the last chapter to set up Important Things - i might be stupid but just go re-read it. you know you want to anyway <3

series masterlist ・ ao3

———

Not that you’d expected yesterday to be the end of it, but—

“Ah, shit.”

—Being summoned the very next morning hadn’t seemed likely.

You stare down at the holopad with a curdled, mounting sort of dread that would have you sweating even without today’s sweltering heat.

The Palace, the bulletin reads in blocky, uniform Aurebesh. Come alone.

It’s—

It’s quite early.

Barely an hour awake and you’ve already been reduced to a thin shirt and pants, lounging in a chair because you’ve learnt the hard way that sweat leached into your mattress is a nasty bedfellow.

Your lab coat has been abandoned to dangle off the edge of the narrow bed to spare it from being drenched. Something twinges in your left knee, and you straighten. On top of everything else, the weather’s decided to act up as well.

Going downstairs would be a good idea. Warm air rises, and all that. But you know there would be no point. Tatooine is a planet boiled by its core and seared by its suns. The heat is inescapable.

Against all odds, though, the memo grounds you to this moment. It’s almost reassuring, seeing the evidence that yesterday was real. Not only the text itself, but—

Fortuna had never quite embraced the technological approach to things. ‘Rustic’ is one word for it. You prefer ‘ham-fisted’.

In any case, his rule ensured that the Palace’s broadcast signal was seldom used. He preferred to send his people banging on your door in the middle of the night to toss in some poor, mangled body for you to patch up before they're whisked away once more.

Fortuna didn’t use the comms system. He operated on blunt, bludgeoning fear, still riding the coattails of Jabba’s legacy.

Your holopad lets out another shrill beep, reminding you of the memo. Fett’s tactics are clearly different. You’re not sure if you want to find out by how much.

But they haven’t given you a choice in the matter. You pluck at your shirt in a fruitless attempt at ventilation, wondering if you could get away with not showing up. Maybe they’d pity your helpless, melting state.

Then again, they’d probably just get rid of you and leave your body in the same pitiful form. Disgraceful.

The thought is enough to tug you to your feet, and step into the bathroom. A hand comes up to wipe away the thin sheen of sweat, and to push your hair out of your eyes.

New day, new regime. New lab coat, if you can find the spare.

The least you can do is look presentable.

———

The Palace being in walking distance from your home is a blessing and a curse, which cancel each other out to be mere coincidence. On one hand, no need to shell out the credits for a speeder. On the other, any visitors out here are in your best interest to be ignored.

You can’t ignore something — someone — like this, though.

The summons is for you alone this time, if the silence from the cave’s mouth is anything to go by. The gaping maw is dim, almost cosmically so against the shattering brightness of the suns behind you.

The churning in your gut is peculiar. With Fortuna, you had known who was waiting for you inside, and how much of your dignity you’d have to portion off as sacrifice to the altar. Or perhaps as the payment of rent.

Now you’re not sure what to expect.

Not death, most likely. But your profession lends a kind of insight to the broad range of unpleasantness that lies between life and death. Best to be cautious.

Beginning your descent down the steps, you feel the inexplicable urge to keep your footfalls light so as not to be heard. It doesn’t really work — the sandstone architecture is designed to make noise both literally and figuratively, and each step is accompanied by a chittering of echoes behind it. You go down, and down, leaving the light of day behind you.

After a night’s attempt at rest, you are much more aware of last meeting’s kill count. Impressed, you thought you were. Not necessarily a lie — that kind of marksmanship draws attention. Even praise. But the willingness to kill, just to make a point…

It makes you wonder if it’s worth packing a real blaster for once.

Many reasons you shouldn’t, obviously. One being that you don’t actually have one. Not to mention that you doubt Fett would give you the courtesy of a whole minute to fumble with the safety, draw and trigger.

The toe of your shoe scuffs a step; you almost trip. Your left shin flares with a familiar jolt of pain all the way down to the ankle, and you grit your teeth. Not the time to be reliving such things, though it may be the place.

Ignore it.

Would a scalpel have been the way to go? You’d have to get close. Not really your area of expertise, but it’s something you’re comfortable with. Something that would make you feel like you’ve got a chance at the end of it all.

All well and good to make this kind of speculation as you’re about to venture forth into the belly of the beast. It hardly matters now; you’re unarmed as you reach the throne room. There isn’t even that stupid stun gun stuffed into your waistband.

Maybe he’ll take it as a show of good faith, you muse. The thought makes you smile. It’s only a little bitter.

“Something funny?”

The voice makes you jump, with an antsy, jerked noise tugged from your throat. It takes you a beat to locate the speaker, who sits on a short set of steps opposite the empty throne, polishing her blaster.

The woman from yesterday.

She looks perfectly at ease, oiling the weapon’s barrel with practiced care, seemingly paying more attention to it than you. In the dim half-light, you resist squinting your eyes to see her better. Even just faintly outlined, she’s still scary-looking.

You worry, for a split-second, if she noticed your limp as you entered.

This place has never been a source of comfort. Your knees feel weaker with every second you have to stand here. Where Fortuna’s body lay dead just yesterday, there’s nothing but sandy, unblemished stone. The throne looks no different than it always does, barring the sudden absence of spotchka jars behind it.

You try not to think of the rooms behind this chamber. You try not to remember what you’ve seen, and how you have felt.

There is a difference between being invited and being welcome. This place does not lend itself to the latter.

Your clinic is your space, however small it may be. Sterile, organised. And known. Everything is exactly as you kept it, not so much as a mouse droid to track in mud or trouble or anything else. Just you, doing what you’re good at.

It’s not like that here. You don’t want to be good at anything here, this cesspit of rusty shackles and honeyed praises. Everything murky and dank, blurring into one oily, shaded portrait of suffering.

You’ve barely stepped through the entrance and you’ve half a mind to leave.

“I really hope you’re more talkative than this, doc,” the woman — mercenary — goes on, keeping the polishing cloth aside and snaps the blaster’s components together like clockwork. You hear a huff, something amused and a touch derisive. “Hope you’re not boring.”

“You might be disappointed,” you say, as softly as you dare without being asked to repeat. You don’t ask how she knows who you are.

That, of all things, is what makes her look up. It’s the same gaze from the day before, the one that pokes needles at your scalp. She observes you from head to toe, picking you apart in her mind like you’re the one seated on the dusty steps and she’s standing tall over you instead. You certainly don’t feel tall.

It is to be respected, the need to understand all the in’s and out’s of something. Of someone. Dissection, at its core, is done to learn.

The final blaster component slots into place with a sharp, harsh click. The grinding of teeth. She stands, keeping the blaster on her person. “Fennec Shand,” she states curtly, sticking her hand out. “You’ll call me Fennec.”

An instruction, not an offer. You shake, ignoring the twinge of your knuckles in her firm grip. “I’m—”

“We know who you are, doc.”

You smile thinly. “Of course you do.”

Her expression couldn’t be called pleased, but it’s something reminiscent. A ghost of humour passes across her face like smoke in the breeze.

Fennec seems content to let you sweat in silence, so you might as well ask. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me why I was summoned here.”

“I could.” She doesn’t sound particularly bothered. “But it would be better coming from him.”

Fennec nods her head to the side and—

You flinch. A familiar silhouette stands near the wall. Fuck, how long has he been lurking there?

The air in your lungs feels too dry. It crackles and itches as Boba Fett steps closer, the unshakeable rhythm of his spurs echoing throughout the hall. The deafening echoes of your feet from earlier now seem paltry, mere ghosts in the house of the man before you. Neither you nor Fennec speak, though you wish it could be for the same reason.

As he approaches, certain details are revealed to the light. Some kind of insignia on his right pauldron. A furrowed dent above the left side of the visor, strangely at odds with the smooth coat of paint adorning his armour. Swathes of dark cloth worn beneath. They billow just slightly to allow movement. They wouldn’t show bloodstains. He strikes you as someone who prefers to get his hands dirty, so his clothing of choice is practical. That’s all it is.

Yet an old, childish tale unfurls in the back of your mind. The wraith, shrouded in his inky black robes, knocking on doors to collect souls at their time.

An emissary of Death.

Fett doesn’t say anything till he’s close enough to touch; you’d rather not. The silence is stifling, to the point that you almost miss yesterday’s standoff. At least then you weren’t on either end.

A brusque nod is shared between Fett and Fennec. Then she casts you a narrow, calculating look — you want to squirm, against your better judgement — before securing her blaster in both hands and walking away.

Her braid swishes lightly on her way out. “Have fun,” she calls over her shoulder, ducking out of the west exit. You don’t know who it’s meant for.

Now it’s just you and Fett.

Neither of you introduce yourselves. Anything resembling normal conversation feels… inappropriate. At least with Fennec you could see her face.

“The doctor,” Fett rumbles, unenthused. “You work here. Or you used to.”

You wet your lips. “Not technically.”

“Did he not want you to?”

“Not that.” Your competency is not in question here. You will not allow it to be. “It’s just— I’m not hired privately, since there aren’t any other doctors within a four-klick radius.”

Which is the truth. Doctors are in scarce supply on Tatooine, just as most other above-board trades, so you try and work in as wide an area as you can. It builds goodwill, which is good. Even great. Probably the only reason you’re still alive.

The pay might be shit, but being relatively indispensable is your ticket to survival out here. Reminding him of that has to be a smart move. Your shoulders are on the verge of relaxing, when he asks—

“Are you Imperial?”

Cold — all over, freezing water through your veins. “What?”

“Answer the question,” Fett orders calmly. “Are you loyal to the Empire?”

He could be discussing the weather, for all the urgency in his voice. Like that kind of accusation is a passing icebreaker.

It is very, very difficult to keep the offence you feel off your face. So you don’t bother to try.

“No.” It comes out as stunted and frigid as you intend.

He’s not satisfied. “Were you ever?”

“No. What makes you think—”

“Information spreads fast. And you keep your hands too clean.”

Immediately, your lips twist in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You say you didn’t work for Fortuna. Yet you’re in close contact with what’s left of the Hutt syndicate.”

That, in his voice. You can hear the faintest tinge of scorn.

Fett goes on. “You have training, but you only arrived on this planet some years ago. Not a local, not with the Hutts, education beyond Tatooine…”

He trails off, and the helmet tilts as if to say the jig is up. Looking down on you like some lowlife Imp snivelling through Tatooine’s gutters. Like your anger, breathing smoke into your lungs and charring your ribs, is nothing.

The second you take to find your words only fans the flames.

“My hands are clean,” you spit quietly, baring your teeth, “Because I scrub them. I have to, to get elbow-deep in someone’s chest cavity and fix whatever damage you dealt there.”

The thought of appearing guilty never occurs to you, since you’re not guilty.

There’s a pause; you wet your lips again, resisting the foolhardy, furious impulse to get in his face and bellow. He just stands there — the nerve of him — and taunts you with a blank sheet of glass and metal. There is so much you could say, so much you could shred to tatters in your rage. How you have put more people together than he will ever take apart. How you’ve clawed past the Empire’s greedy clutches only to fall into another’s, pale and bloated. It doesn’t matter how he has the information, only that he’s wrong.

In the end, though, there is one, simple thing. As always.

“Don’t call me a coward, Fett, when you’re the one sitting on a throne built by slaves.”

A tremor wracks your jaw and you bite down on it viciously. Your sclerae are reflected in his visor, tremulous white and wavering. You do not blink, feeling in the pit of your gut that breaking his gaze would seal up the venom churning on your tongue, and you would like to douse him in it.

Having your character slandered by a less-than-reputable stranger, as part of a group; it’s different. At the time, it slid off your temper like water to oil, two materials that can fundamentally do nothing but ignore each other.

But this is a man looking you in the eye as if he knows you, and spitting on everything you have abandoned to stay good.

Fett doesn’t move. He stays quiet to unnerve you.

“How dare you?” you whisper incredulously. “I do my job and I do it well, without the Empire’s stupi—”

“Are you done?”

You falter.

The audacity this man has to sound bored. Not impatient, or anything even adjacent to the emotion frothing at the hollow of your throat. Fett is a mountain, unmoved by your righteous anger. And here you are chipping at its base, seeking to shake the earth.

You... don’t do this. Impetuous, emotional outbursts aren’t smart, and they certainly aren’t keeping your head down. You’ve been goaded into a corner just to see how far you’ll punch. Or how quickly you’ll play dead.

Think. You narrow your eyes. What could come from Fett asking? Either you’d say yes, in which case you’d be exiled as a best case scenario. Or you’d deny it with a lie, in which case you’d be killed as a best case scenario.

Or, as the truth, you do what you just did. Defend your integrity.

He knows that. Fett knew beforehand that in the outcome where you’re most likely to survive, you’d be driven to this; seething in his face.

This is when you realise that spending your anger on Boba Fett will accomplish nothing.

Your shoulders lower — not fall, or slump, because this is not defeat. This is conserving your resources. Your expression, contorted with insult, relaxes into a grimace. Trying to keep your breathing even is difficult.

“Obviously not,” you mutter, embarrassment pricking your cheeks. “But I think I’ve made my point.”

Fett nods approvingly. You don’t like it.

It’s the reminder of your proximity that makes you take a step back. Surprising, that he’s willing to drop it. But to take this at face value would be foolish. There are no tides here to wash away the lines drawn in the sand.

“That’s all,” he says, perfectly languid as he gestures to the exit behind you. “I’ll be seeing you, doctor.”

We’re done here.

“Is that a dismissal?” The mockery in your voice is subtle, just to be safe.

Fett hears it anyway. “It would be in your best interest to take it as one.”

You expect him to leave, walk away as you do the same. But he just stands there, waiting for you to move.

Your brow pinches in yet another frown. He can’t seriously be seeing you out.

A slow exhale leaves the helmet, grating through the vocoder onto your nerves. “Run along, now.” The tilt of his helmet is distinctly condescending.

Ah. If you can mock, so can he. Water and oil are still both liquid, you suppose.

You turn on your heel to leave. The way you favour your left leg feels obvious, with only one other person in the room, and you have to bite your tongue to cope with the crawling of your skin.

You make it to the exit before you halt, unsure. The hesitation in your footsteps is rather loud for silence. Curiosity pulls you around with a question.

“Is that all you called me here for? To find out whether I’m an Imp?”

You watch him carefully for any tics, not trusting him to answer truthfully. But you catch nothing. “I got what I wanted.”

Do you ever not, is a question you’d like to ask. What are you taking from me that I don’t know, is another.

Instead, feeling too closely observed, you walk up the rest of the stairs without a word. You go home, keeping your hands at your sides for once. What has been stolen from you cannot be found by checking your pockets.

———

There are no patients for the rest of the day. You start to wonder if they’ve all been driven out of town by the new management. The notion wrenches such a hysterical giggle out of you that it quiets just as fast, solemn and perturbed.

And as you sleep, Tatooine’s triplet moons gleam through your window. The dream that comes is a change from the usual — no remnants of the Palace, no orders or barked laughs, no tears in your eyes nor the butt of a blaster slamming down on your leg.

Instead, you’re in the clinic, watching the open doorway. Everything is cool, calm. Muffled, as if you’re underwater. You dream of the wraith drifting over your threshold.

There’s an unassuming clink. Confused, you glance down.

The wraith is wearing spurs.

———

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett #fennec shand #fennec shand & reader #the mandalorian #star wars #the mandalorian fic #star wars fic #my writing #sw #the craft so long to learn #madhyanas

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